I'm No Angel (22 page)

T
om sat in the Jag's driver's seat, watching the sway of Angel's hips as she strolled across the drive, wearing the same sexy white suit she'd worn the first and last time he'd been here at Palazzo Paradiso. God, she was gorgeous, but she had a hell of a lot more going for her than beauty.

She had brains and guts. She refused to let anyone walk over her. And she refused to bend her principles.

When he'd fallen in love he wasn't quite sure, but there was no denying that that's what he felt. And every time he said those words to her, they came from his heart.

If only she could say the same words to him.

The front door opened and an elegant butler let Angel inside. He wished he were with her. He'd give anything to talk with Holt, anything to find out if there was more to the story about that night when his dad was killed.

Of course, he
was
on the grounds. He could get through that front door without any effort at all,
follow the sound of Angel's voice, and confront Holt tonight. He could even bypass all thoughts of confronting Holt and just search the mansion for
The Embrace
.

And if it was in the mansion, in the safe, he'd know Holt had been lying.

Of course, he had no idea how to open a safe.

He'd also promised Angel he wouldn't break in.

He'd be damned if he broke that promise. Because if he did, he'd never hear her whisper, “I love you.”

His gaze shot to the royal Poinciana he'd climbed before. He'd been crazy to try and break in. Insane.

But as he sat in the car staring at that tree, he realized just how easy it would be to do it again. Right now. He could scale the tree, push open the window, and sneak into Palazzo Paradiso. He could wander through the rooms to see if
The Embrace
was anywhere in sight. He could attempt to find the safe room where Holt apparently kept his most precious valuables.

But he could be caught. He could get hauled off to jail and get thrown in a tiny cell more stifling than the inside of Angel's Jag.

Then Holt would cancel the gala.

And Angel would walk away from him and never look back.

He couldn't do anything to hurt her. He couldn't bear to be hurt himself.

Still, he kept his eyes on the tree, wondering what would have happened if he'd managed to get inside that night. Wondering what he would have found.

He might have found the answers he sought, but he sure as hell wouldn't have found Angel.

As much as he wanted to prove his father's innocence, as much as he wanted Pop to believe in Chase again, he couldn't bear to lose the woman he'd fallen completely in love with.

Leaning back in the driver's seat, he closed his eyes and thought about silken thighs and sweet lips and the tightness of Angel's body when he sank into her. His groin ached just thinking about her. His heart beat fiercely. Blood rushed, hot and pulsing, through every vein, every artery, and centered in the one place he didn't need it to be centering right now.

His eyes flashed open in a hopeless attempt to get thoughts of no-holds-barred sex with Angel out of his head.

It was stuffy in the car even with the windows rolled down. Opening the door, he climbed out into the nighttime air, letting a hint of ocean breeze roll over him.

His body cooled. Calmed. He leaned a hip against the hood of the car and looked out across the grounds. Too perfect for his tastes. Everything sculpted and orderly, while Mere Belle was wild, like the Everglades that he'd first hated with a passion, had been afraid of, and at last had grown to love.

Strains of Mozart whispered through the mansion's open doors and windows, just as they had the night he'd met Angel, the night he'd attempted to break into Holt's home. But unlike the last time, he realized it wasn't an orchestra playing, it was simply a piano.

His mother's piano.

Tom frowned as he listened intently to the light, airy melody, to the unique play of chords, and to the short, not more than a two-second-long trill that his mother had always added to each song she played.

Did Holt have the tapes Chase had made of Amélie's masterful playing? Had he made his own? Had Amélie and Holt shared a relationship that was more than friendship?

Tom's fists tightened. He'd spent the past week trying not to think about Holt or the past. He'd sunk himself into his work around Mere Belle. He'd sunk himself into Angel, making love to her when the nightmares overwhelmed him, when he wanted to forget the past, when he just wanted to have a good time, wanted to please her and take her away from her own past.

But as much as he wanted to forget all that had happened years ago, he couldn't. That night would live on in his mind until he knew the truth.

Mozart became Gershwin. “Rhapsody in Blue” rippled through the night. So did the unmistakable sound of a splintering limb.

Tom's gaze shot to the royal Poinciana. Squinting, he saw the long, lean shape of a man leaping from a tree branch to a window ledge—the same window ledge he'd stood upon two weeks before.

The man was dressed in black just as Tom had been, but this man didn't hesitate to open the window. Unlike Tom, he placed his hands on the glass and pushed up.

An instant later, Dagger Zane disappeared through the window.

Tom sprinted across the drive, trying not to give too much thought to his actions or else he might stop, think things through carefully, and maybe do nothing.

But he had to do something. There was no telling what Dagger was up to and there was no doubt in Tom's mind Dagger's ultimate goal spelled trouble.

Tom could care less if Dagger stole all of Holt's prized possessions and got away with them. He could care less if Dagger vandalized the place.

But he did care about the ultimate results. If Holt suspected any kind of trouble at all, he'd tell Angel to forget about holding the gala at Palazzo Paradiso. He'd withdraw the jewels he was donating to the auction.

And Angel's world would come crumbling down.

Tom was running full speed by the time he neared the tree. He took a flying leap for the lowest branch, grasped on to it, and swung himself up. He tried his damnedest not to make noise. He didn't want to send up any alarms. He only wanted to stop Dagger from screwing things up for Angel. He needed to get Dagger out of the place before anyone got wise to the break-in.

He moved cautiously but quickly, every foot placed squarely on branches without twigs that could snap beneath his boots and send up an alarm. Breathing easily, trying to stay as relaxed as possible under the circumstances, he scaled the tree faster than he had weeks before, in spite of wearing crocodile boots that lacked any kind of tread.

When he reached the limb that stretched toward the open window, he slowed, moving across it inch by inch. Water again puddled on the ledge, very little of it wiped away by Dagger's entry into the mansion.

Tom's heart beat heavily now, as he looked into a near-dark room, the only light entering it seeping under the door from the hallway or room on the other side. Tom stood silently, listening for the sound of footsteps, the cast of a shadow. But all was still.

Dagger was nowhere around.

One more step. Another. He took a deep breath and leapt. His boots hit the water and limestone and he slid, his feet gliding over the edge, his hands losing their hold on the molding.

His legs, his chest plummeted. The mansion's rough stone walls scraped his fingers as he fought for something—anything—to hold on to. Just when he thought he was going to end up in the prickly bougainvillea below, he caught hold of the molding, which stopped his immediate fall, and he wedged the toe of his boot between the stone blocks.

Slowly he worked his way back up to the window. He looked around the grounds to be sure no one had seen him, then slipped into the darkened room.

Tom crept toward the light slipping under a far door. He turned the knob slowly, inched open the door, then peered out into a wide landing that looked down on the mansion's massive ballroom, where Angel's gala would be held—
if
something didn't get screwed up tonight.

He stepped out onto the landing, keeping his back close to the wall. All he had to do now was make a choice—go right or left.

Downstairs in the ballroom he could hear Angel and Holt. He heard laughter and cautiously moved to the marble railing.

“This was one of my wife's favorite pieces,” Holt said. “Or, I should say, the real necklace was one of her favorites, but these faux jewels are almost exact replicas.”

“It's beautiful, Mr. Hudson.”

“I believe the bidding should start at somewhere close to thirty thousand for the necklace and earrings, but I would hope that you'll be able to get forty or more.”

“I've been getting calls almost constantly from people coming to the gala, asking if we will be providing a catalog in advance so they can see what's going to be auctioned off.”

“Better that they come and see everything in person,” Holt said. “And speaking of people who will or will not be coming, I understand you are still seeing Tom Donovan.”

“Yes. Have you had second thoughts about—”

“No, Miss Devlin. As I have told you, I do not want him on my estate. The only reason I mentioned his name is to once again reiterate my feelings and to remind you that if he does show up here, I will close the estate immediately.”

Tom's muscles tightened. Not even the sound of Chopin—his mother's piano again—floating through the house could ease the fury he was feeling now. Anger over Holt's refusal to allow his godson into his home. Anger over the conde
scending way he'd just talked with Angel. Anger over his threat to renege on his promise to let her use the mansion for her gala.

Holt Hudson did not sound like a man who could have cried at Chase's funeral. Didn't sound like a man who could be tortured at all by the past.

He sounded like nothing more than a rich bastard who cared nothing about anyone but himself.

Damn it all. Tom wanted to find Holt's safe himself, take out every piece of Carlotta Hudson's precious jewelry and dump it in the middle of the ocean. He wanted to take something away from Holt to make him suffer.

But all he could do now was keep quiet, find Dagger, and get him—and himself—out of Palazzo Paradiso before trouble rained down on Angel's head.

From where he stood, Tom could see all the doors leading to rooms off the landing. Only two were open, and Tom held out hope that he'd find Dagger in one of them.

Walking softly, moving again along the edge of the wall, Tom slipped through the first open doorway. It was a bedroom of massive proportions. The walls were papered with gold brocade. The fireplace was floor-to-ceiling marble, and antique chairs and tables littered the room.

Two other doors led off of this one. Tom mentally flipped a coin and moved to the door on the right. He peered inside. A bed canopied with dark red velvet stood on the far side of the room. An elaborate cherry wood and gilt desk was on another side. And gathered in front of the open
windows looking out onto the ocean was a grouping of comfortable chairs.

Just like the first room he'd looked in, the walls were papered with gold brocade, but there was something different about the wall to the right of the bed. A door had been cut into it. A seemingly secret door—and it was slightly ajar.

It was, no doubt, the room that Frederike had mentioned; the room where Holt had sat for hours on end staring at his jewels, and that blasted statue called
The Embrace
. And Dagger was probably behind that door. He probably had another knife with him. And he was probably on full alert.

Tom took a long, deep breath, then moved silently toward the opening in the wall.

Careful. Wary.

His throat tightened.

Every nerve ending was on edge.

And the door creaked open.

Tom stopped. He couldn't hide. Couldn't run. All he could do was stand in place and hope, pray, that he'd be able to surprise the person on the other side.

Long fingers wrapped around the edge of the door. A head of dark hair peered around the edge.

Dagger.

Tom ripped the door open, lunged for the man he abhorred, slapped a hand around his mouth to keep him from crying out and disturbing the peace inside the mansion.

But it was too late for peace. Dagger kicked out of Tom's grasp, stumbled across the inner sanctum filled with jewels and art a museum would
have paid top dollar for. He hit a marble bust with full force and it toppled, landing with an almost deafening thud on the floor.

Tom knew he was screwed.

 

“What was that?”

Angel saw the fear shoot into Holt's eyes as they stood before a mirror in the library. His fingers stilled at the back of her neck, all thoughts about securing the faux emerald necklace coming to a screeching halt.

“Someone's upstairs.” Holt dragged the necklace from Angel's chest. “In my bedroom.”

“Your butler?” Angel asked, hoping she was right. Praying that Tom hadn't broken in. “A housekeeper?”

“An intruder.” Holt spun Angel around. “It's Mr. Donovan, isn't it?”

Angel shook her head. “It couldn't be. He said he'd wait in the car.”

“Someone is in my bedroom without my permission.” Holt stalked across the room, ripped open a drawer in one of the many desks scattered around the house, and pulled out a gun.

“You don't need that, Mr. Hudson. Please.”

Anger raged in his eyes as he raced from the room.

Damn you, Tom. Damn you.

Angel followed Holt out of the library, racing through the massive entry hall and up the stairs, keeping up with his long, angered strides. But when she heard the glass break and something hard and heavy slam into a wall, she cut around Holt.

She had to get there first.