Holding Out For A Hero: SEALs, Soldiers, Spies, Cops, FBI Agents and Rangers (136 page)

"Carlos wants to pay for our wedding," Angel informed him.

Frank stopped stirring his coffee and tapped his spoon on the side of the mug before putting it down. "Why?"

"He knows I don't have any family and," she shrugged, "you know us Italians. We like big weddings with lots of food and friends."

"So Vendetti is just going to hand us a huge sum of money to pay for it?"

"You've got to realize, Frank, that Carlos really does consider his people a big family."

Was this one way he kept his people loyal? Draw them into a feeling of community by having them attend the wedding. Make displays of generosity by treating his administrative assistant like a daughter?

Frank shook his head. "He doesn't exactly represent my idea of family values."

She put down her dessert fork and clenched her fist. "I'm not going to defend him, Frank. I'm merely telling you what he's offered. I told him we want to get married soon and he called a friend of his who owns a restaurant. They've set up the reception for a week from Saturday. He wanted to set up the church, too, but I told him you wanted the ceremony at city hall." She tapped her fingers on the table distractedly. "He kind of insisted."

"Do we have any say in this at all?"

She smoothed the napkin on her lap. "You can invite anyone you want—but I told him you're new in town and you don't have any family."

Why fight it? He didn't want to jeopardize his chances of working himself into Vendetti's operation. Turning down an offer like this would not endear him to the man. Frank shrugged. "As long as I'm invited—and you're the bride—that's all I care about. Anything else?"

She glanced down at the table and rolled her spoon over several times. "He…arranged for our honeymoon. He knows we're short of cash, with you out of work and all, so he asked a friend who has a resort to give us a good price. A week on St. Lucia in the West Indies."

"Really?" Frank raised his eyebrows. "Sounds romantic. I can just picture it—walks along the beach, midnight swims in a warm ocean, you in that red bikini I remember so well." Or less. He felt his breath lock inside his lungs and had to purposefully exhale. Slowly, trying to release the tightness that had gripped his body at the erotic images that shimmered through his mind. He tilted his head and grinned. "You do remember that bikini, don't you, Angel?"

She blushed so prettily he wondered why he didn't tease her more often.

"Yes, I remember," she grumbled. "Frank, about the honeymoon and—well, what happened last night—I don't want you to get the idea… I mean, I know what you probably thought…"

He shook his head and laughed. "Angel, what are you trying to say?" Was she going to deny her attraction to him?

"It's just that… I still don't think it's a good idea for us to… become involved."

"Involved?" He loved her euphemism. She didn't want him to drag her off to bed and make hot, passionate love to her, then leave her breathless and sated.
Involved.
"You mean other than the fact we're getting married?"

She glared at him, clearly knowing he was goading her. "You know what I mean. All the reasons I said we shouldn't start up a relationship still hold. I just forgot that last night—for a little while."

He rested his hand on her clenched fist and slowly unwrapped it, tenderly stroking with his fingers, trying to release her tension. "That's all right, Angel. You're only human." All too human. Unfortunately.

She slid her hand out from under his and picked up her fork. Frank watched her in silence as she ate her apple pie and wondered at the fact that he really knew very little about her. He finished his own pie and wiped his mouth with a napkin, deciding it was time to break the long silence between them—a silence that had lasted longer than the last few minutes—a silence that had been filled with empty words that told him nothing about her.

"So, Angel Tortina has no family. What about Cindy?"

She glanced up at him. "My parents died when I was a teenager." Ignoring the remains of her pie, she grabbed the napkin from her lap and crumpled it in her fist. "My dad was a member of the mob—for real."

"What?" Frank stared at her, as much in disbelief at what she'd said as the fact that she would tell him. If she were the informant, it wouldn't make sense to reveal such a thing—unless she thought he was on to her and had decided this would throw him off the trail.

"He decided to pull out—but found it wasn't that easy. He fell in with the FBI and agreed to give them enough information to put away some of the big names—in exchange for keeping him and his family safe."

When she didn't continue, he prodded. "And what happened?"

"It didn't work. The mob found out and killed him, and my mother. I was fifteen at the time."

She scrunched her eyelids together then opened them again, slowly. Her eyes glistened and he thought either she was an excellent actress—a thought that had occurred to him many times before—or she was fighting back tears.

"I'm sorry, Angel. I didn't know."

Before he could offer any more, she laughed, a hollow sound. "Sorry, Frank. I didn't mean to get maudlin." She pushed away her half finished pie. "I think I'd like to go home now."

He walked her home, intertwining his fingers with hers, swinging her hand to the rhythm of their steps. The magic of the night, clear and crisp, the stars twinkling in the black sky above, drew him into the role. Of loving Angel. When they got to the door, reluctant to give up the fantasy so soon, he gave her a single, lingering kiss.

* * *

The day of the wedding arrived and Angel woke up to a sense of unreality. She couldn't believe how quickly the weeks had gone by. She knew she'd picked out the invitations one lunch hour and printed them on the laser printer in her office, but the memory was vague at best. She clearly remembered the evenings she and Frank had spent together addressing and stuffing envelopes, then hand delivering them. She found it disconcerting to realize how much she'd enjoyed spending that domestic time with him. Then last Saturday, Frank had picked her up for lunch and gone with her to choose her wedding dress, though he'd spent more time trying to talk her into modeling the sheer, white lace body suit displayed on a mannequin than paying attention to the dresses.

She had picked a simple style with a full skirt and a sweetheart neckline. She pulled it on now, then smoothed it over her hips. Settling the veil in place, she eyed herself critically in the mirror.

She looked like a bride.

Oh, God. She was a bride!

No, that wasn't really true. She would be walking down the aisle today. And she would be saying wedding vows. But not for a forever-after marriage. It would end when the case did.

The doorbell rang. That would be Carlos—he'd insisted on coming to pick her up in his long, black, limousine. She reached for the flowers and saw her hand shaking. She clutched her fingers around the bouquet and hurried to the door, her dress rustling in the silence. How would she get through this day?

She entered the church on Carlos' arm and walked up the aisle to the tempo of the organ music. As she stared at all the faces of the people she worked with each day, but barely knew, she felt a hollowness inside.

Good heavens, this is really happening. I'm marrying a man I barely know in front of a crowd of people I barely know. What has my life become?

Carlos handed her arm to Frank, squeezing her hand before he stepped to the vacant spot awaiting him in the first pew.

"You look beautiful, Angel," Frank whispered to her.

"Thank you," she murmured.

She met his gaze for only a moment, but the impact of that look crushed her fragile hold on reality. Was the love she saw shining from his eyes real? Or just a figment of her imagination? Did she want it to be real?

She stared at the stained glass behind the priest for the duration of the ceremony, and withdrew her mind from the proceedings, responding to the words automatically.

When the time came for their kiss, Frank swept back her veil and pulled her into his arms. The heat of his lips on hers started to melt the deep freeze that had claimed her. Frank was real, even if their marriage wasn't, in truth. She could cling to him through this ordeal. And cling to him she did, prolonging their kiss when he would have pulled back. He was her shield. In his arms she could deny the emptiness of her life. In his arms she could make believe this marriage was real and that it would last beyond the end of this case.

The sound of the priest clearing his throat, along with the odd twitter from the guests, made Angel release her death grip on Frank's neck.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as her lips parted from his.

His eyes held amusement. "Any time, Angel."

She marched down the aisle on Frank's arm and the guests followed eagerly. After that, she was inundated with congratulations, then the photographer herded them over to the garden for picture-taking. Lots of picture-taking. Angel's face began to feel frozen in a smile.

At the reception, after dinner, people filled Angel's champagne glass continuously and made toast after toast. Frank kept close to her side all evening. When he swept her into his arms to dance, she couldn't help thinking about the night to come. Their honeymoon. Not that anything would happen between them—but she found herself wishing it could.

"Angel, it's time to go change. We'll be leaving soon."

She and Frank went up to the courtesy room the hotel had supplied. She sat on the bed for a few moments to steady her spinning head.

He slipped his jacket off and hung it up, then started unbuttoning his shirt. She couldn't help watching as each button released and more and more of his broad chest was revealed. The white silk provided a delightful contrast to the bronze of his skin. He seemed to move in slow motion, the V of his shirt deepening, the rate of her pulse increasing. She licked her lips and tried to catch her breath.

"Need help with your zipper, Angel?"

Her gaze darted to his face. "I, uh…"

His grin told her clearly that he'd seen her ogling him. He undid the last button with a flourish and slid the shirt off his shoulders. Slowly. Muscle rippled enticingly under satin flesh. Naked from the waist up, he stepped toward her. He pulled her to her feet, then turned her around by the shoulders. The zipper slid down the length of her back, cool air caressing her exposed skin. When she felt his warm fingers play along the side of the zipper, pulling the opening wider, her heart fluttered. The dress slid down her arms and onto the floor, the whispering rustle of taffeta its farewell address. Frank drew her back against him and the feel of his naked flesh pressed against hers sent a jolt of desire through her. A tiny voice inside screamed at her to move away, but she didn't want to. Along with her dress, he seemed to have divested her of rational thought. At least, so the voice insisted. She glanced nervously to the mirror over the dresser and was met with an erotic sight: she in a strapless, white lace basque and panties, pressed against the length of his half nude body.

She lurched forward, grabbing her overnight bag and dashing into the bathroom. She glared at herself in the mirror, noting the flush on her cheeks. What kind of fool was she? She had to keep him at a distance. Lord, how was she ever going to get through this evening? Especially now that he knew flashing a bit of naked skin could send her spiraling out of control. He'd take full advantage of that knowledge, she felt sure.

She splashed water on her face and repaired her makeup, taking time to compose herself before facing him again. When she came out dressed in her white fitted suit, Frank whistled. To her relief, he was fully dressed now.

"Why don't we take a few minutes before we go back to the throng." He held out a glass of champagne. "The hotel had a complimentary bottle waiting for us," he said, by way of explanation.

She sat down in the armchair beside him, sipping the bubbly liquid. It tingled on the way down her throat. She liked the feeling so she took another sip. Slumping back in the chair, she ran the tip of her finger around the rim of the flute. The smooth, hard glass beneath her skin felt deliciously sensual. She licked her finger then brought it back to the glass, deciding to make it sing.

"Angel…"

The warning note in Frank's voice snapped her attention to his face. A look of hunger simmered in his eyes.

Her fingers clenched around the crystal stem. Why did the sight of Frank looking at her like that alarm her? They'd just gotten married, hadn't they? Her thoughts stumbled through the foggy haze that clouded her brain. No. This marriage was a lie.

She focused on his intense expression. Frank had told her he loved her, and she wanted to believe that. But was it really true? Could he really have forgiven her for her betrayal when she hadn't even forgiven herself? And if he had, would he have asked her to marry him for real, if she hadn't held him off? The thought occurred to her that if the wedding had been genuine, she'd have met his family and friends by now. Would they have liked her?

"Frank, are you sorry your parents couldn't be here?"

He looked at her with raised eyebrows. "No, of course not. It would be pretty difficult to maintain my cover with my real folks here, wouldn't it?"

"Of course, I…" What did she want to say? She couldn't tell him that she wished his parents and friends were here because she wished they had really gotten married.

She put a hand to her forehead. Where were these thoughts coming from? She'd been undercover her whole adult life. She was used to living a lie. Why was she suddenly finding it so hard to separate fantasy from reality?

This was just part of her job. She had to remember that.

But Frank said he loved her… and if she were honest with herself—

She felt Frank's hand on her shoulder. "What is it, Angel? Headache?"

She dropped her hand away from her face. "Just bridal nerves, I guess."

He didn't laugh as she'd expected. Instead, he looked at her with sympathy. "I know this evening's been rough on you."

The warmth in those understanding blue eyes threatened to melt what was left of her composure. She took a gulp of her champagne before answering. "I can manage, Frank." Why did her voice sound so shaky?