Falling Angel (3 page)

Ben reached over and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.

His touch sent a thrill of heat down her spine. Between the food, the wine, the arguments about life and art, the gorgeous green eyes and hard body and soft touch, the evening had taken on a surreal quality. Ben
was
trying to seduce her. And she was falling for his charming ways. Just like she always did.

She straightened, forcing herself to pull away from his touch. “And what’s so wrong with settling down, Mr. Free Spirit?” she asked, defensively.

Ben shrugged. “Nothing’s wrong with it. To each his or her own, I say. But for me, it’s a matter of holding on to my freedom. Too often, when a woman says she wants you to commit, what she really wants is for you to become domesticated and diminished, half of a unit as opposed to an autonomous individual who happens to be in love with another, equally autonomous soul. I’m too independent to find that appealing.”

“So you think it’s impossible to keep your own identity in a committed relationship?” Cara could not keep the scorn from her voice.

“In my experience, yes.” Ben pushed his plate away and leaned back, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I needed that,” he said.

“It’s delicious,” Cara replied, though her appetite was gone. She also pushed back her plate.

They appraised each other, he with that small smile on his face, she trying her hardest to appear cool and detached. In reality, she was fuming. This guy had some nerve, thinking that all women were out to tie down and emasculate their men. What an outdated notion. These days, women were just as likely to be reluctant to settle down. Everyone had their own dreams and aspirations. Couples in a strong relationship were just as likely to help each other reach their goals as to try to hinder and diminish each other. Cara had to physically bite her tongue to prevent herself from blurting this out. After all, what was the point? Ben clearly had made up his mind, and besides, she barely knew him. Why should she even care that his ideas were so radically different from her own?

Ben’s smile faded. “I’ve offended you.”

“Not at all,” Cara replied woodenly.

“Forgive me. I can’t help playing devil’s advocate sometimes.”

“I guess I’m an easy target.”

“I wouldn’t say that. But you sure look cute when your feathers are ruffled.”

Cara glared at him, and then realized he was teasing her again. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Nope.” Ben stood up. “Excuse me a minute.” He walked into the dining room and through a door to the left.

It was as though a spell had broken.

As soon as he was out of sight, Cara jumped up from her barstool, almost knocking it over in her haste. Her only thought was to extricate herself from the situation as quickly as possible.

First, she had literally fallen into his apartment. Then, after he brought her in and fed her like a stray dog, she had proceeded to insult him and his profession, and engage in a heated debate about the virtues of committed relationships. Not to mention that in spite of her resolve, she found him incredibly attractive, and their conversation seemed to have moved with disturbing speed from casual small talk to something much more intimate. The last thing she needed was to get involved with another struggling, unreliable and unfaithful artist, no matter how charming and talented. For her sake and his, she had to leave now.

She picked up her shoes and made her way down the hall as fast as she could, grabbing her jacket from the hook by the door. The front door opened and shut noiselessly behind her.

The smoker’s huddle by the window looked on curiously as she struggled into her coat and shoes on the landing. What must they think, seeing her run out of Ben’s apartment half-dressed? It didn’t matter. She’d never see any of them again. Or Ben.

Cara clattered down the stairs, almost tripping in her haste, and burst through the doors of the old stone building. She began to run down the street; skinny legs pumping, her coat tails billowing sideways like black wings.

As she plunged off the curb to cross the street, the heel of her shoe caught in a crack between the cobblestones and snapped off. Her ankle twisted awkwardly. For the second time that evening, Cara fell.

Chapter Two

A sudden crash from the kitchen woke Cara with a start. Still half-asleep, she opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. For a moment, she thought she was back home in Littleton, Illinois, in the old-fashioned sleigh bed she’d had since childhood. Then she remembered. She, Cara Louise Walker, was six months into her new life in Seattle. Although the Alaska gold rush that had first given it notoriety was long past, the city still retained a vestige of that old frontier spirit. The sea air, salt-stung and wind-whipped, seemed to whisper that with a little luck and an entrepreneurial spirit, Cara might just manage to turn her own life from disaster to success.

Her thoughts went back to the night before, to the way Ben looked at her as though he knew her, perhaps better than she knew herself. She thought of the graceful way his body moved under his clothes, so powerful and sure. She thought of how she felt while he was making dinner, more relaxed and at home than she had been in months. She thought of the heat of his hand on her face, and her own hand went up to touch the place where he had touched her.

Thank God she’d left Ben’s apartment when she did. The old Cara, insecure and needy, an easy target, would have been instantly won over by Ben’s charm and charisma. She wouldn’t have given a second thought to issues of responsibility and practicality. The old Cara would very likely have woken up this morning in the arms of Ben Kilpatrick.

Well, thank goodness you’ve changed, she told herself, trying for a conviction she did not feel. To be honest, waking up in the arms of Ben Kilpatrick didn’t sound as horrible as it should have.

She sat up and winced as her ankle touched the floor. It was definitely sprained. She limped down the hall to the bathroom and splashed her face with icy tap water. Teal blue eyes looked back at her from the mirror over the small pedestal sink. Her hair was a tangled thicket of blonde curls.

Angel Face, her father used to call her when she was little. With her rosebud lips, snub nose, and peaches-and-cream complexion, he thought she resembled one of those chubby-cheeked cherubs seen floating on clouds in antique greeting cards. Cara had hoped to lose the baby-faced look with age, but even now, a week from her 24
^th
birthday, she was regularly mistaken for a teenager.  

Cara sometimes got a panicky feeling that she was running out of time. When her mother had turned 24, Cara was already three years old.

She stepped into the shower. As the spray hit her face, she imagined herself being washed clean of the past. Things are going to be different in Seattle, she told herself firmly. You’re here to make a new start. And you have your new resolutions to help keep you on track.

Ten minutes later was dressed and in the kitchen. Ann stood at the counter, nibbling on a piece of toast, dressed for work at Madison Mavens Espresso in her signature red plaid kilt and platform Mary Janes. She had topped off the ensemble with a cable-knit fisherman’s sweater in navy blue.

“Isn’t that my sweater?” Cara asked.

Ann stroked the thick weave of the sweater. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all.” As an only child, Cara had always wanted a sister to share clothes and secrets with. But she did wish that Ann would remember to return the things she borrowed.

 “What happened to you last night?” Ann asked. “We looked for you for half an hour. Then Craig got mad and split, and I told Joseph I had to go too, to see if you’d come home. He wasn’t happy about it.” She opened her mouth to say more, then noticed Cara’s limping gait as she crossed the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee. “What did you do?”

“I slipped on the cobblestones and twisted my ankle. I’m sorry Ann, I should have told you I was leaving. I felt so uncomfortable in there, with Craig breathing down my neck.”

“I thought you liked him,” Ann said, but the anger had drained from her voice. She pulled a pack of Camels from her bag.

Despite their agreement that Ann would only smoke on her bedroom balcony, Cara felt too guilty to complain as Ann lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“I guess you can afford to be picky,” she said, blowing a stream of smoke through her red-painted lips. “You always seem to have guys falling all over you. Some of us aren’t so lucky, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on.” Ann pointed at her. “Look at you. Like Botticelli’s Venus come to life. Me, I’m just a trailer trash girl from Aberdeen.”

“That’s not true,” Cara protested weakly. “What about Joseph?”

“Ah, forget him. Where did you go when you left?”

“I accidentally backed into the apartment of this guy who lives right across from the gallery. He was really sweet, actually. He made me dinner. We started talking, and he told me that he was an artist. That’s when the alarm bells started ringing”

Ann’s eyes sparkled. “What did you do?”

“I left.”

“Just like that?”

“Yup.”

“Didn’t say goodbye, or anything?”

Cara shook her head. “He left the room for a minute, and I took off.”

“That’s funny,” said Ann, with the smirk she reserved for other people’s misfortune.

Cara was glad that at least she was no longer angry. “I know, I acted like a complete moron,” she said. “At least he gave me his card. I think it’s in my coat pocket. I’ll call him later and apologize.”

Ann lit a second cigarette from the smoldering butt of the first and leaned forward, eyes bright. “So, do you think he liked you?”

“I doubt it, after all the stupid things I said. And the fact that our views on relationships are as diametrically opposed as they can get. He values his freedom over everything else; the freedom to take off and create a masterpiece on a mountaintop whenever the spirit moves him.

Ann yawned and stretched, catlike. “Well, it’s probably a good thing that you took off.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Cara, draining her coffee. “The last thing I want to do is get involved with another self-absorbed artist.”

Ann picked up her satchel from the kitchen chair. She opened the hall closet and rummaged around in it before pulling out her beat-up black leather jacket.

“Gotta go, my shift starts in ten.”

As soon as she was gone, Cara limped over to the windows to let in some fresh air.

The phone rang. Cara checked her watch and decided to let the machine answer. She had to leave now if she wanted to be on time for work.

Moments later, the voicemail clicked on and her mother’s stentorian voice filled the apartment.

“Cara? Are you there? Pick up, dear . . .”

Cara groaned. It was too early for her to deal with Louise Walker. But if she didn’t talk to her now, she would keep calling, getting increasingly anxious, until she’d convinced herself that her only child had been run over by a bus or kidnapped by a serial killer.

Cara lifted the receiver. “Hi, mom. I’m just heading out to work.”