I'm No Angel

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Authors: Patti Berg

BOOK: I'm No Angel
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Patti Berg
I'm No Angel

As always…
for Bob

Dangerous men are my business. And I love my job.

A
NGEL
D
EVLIN

Contents

1
He hadn't aspired to be a cat burglar.

2
Angel Devlin wasn't used to being followed, and she sure…

3
“What on earth do you think you're doing?”

4
It was half past midnight when Tom climbed down the…

5
The dressing room inside Morganna's on Worth Avenue was cooled…

6
Tom tugged his sweat-drenched T-shirt over his head, tossed it…

7
Sparks of light glinted off Emma's emerald-studded hoop earrings as…

8
He liked her. He hadn't wanted to. Hell, Angel Devlin…

9
Of all the places in all the world Frederike could…

10
The room began to spin. A raw, burning pain twisted…

11
Angel ripped the wig off her head as she stalked…

12
Moonlight poured through the open French doors and danced across…

13
“You look like hell,” Jed Devlin said to his daughter…

14
Tom stood in the center of the nursery, remembering the…

15
Tom sucked Angel's big toe between his lips, and over…

16
“So…” Jed Devlin said, sitting in an over-stuffed easy chair…

17
“Mr. Hudson will be with you in a few minutes…

18
Tom wanted to get the hell out of Frederike's freakish…

19
“I'm sorry, Tom,” Angel said, sitting on top of a…

20
Tom sat in the Jag's driver's seat, watching the sway…

21
He was dead, a six-inch blade embedded in the word…

22
They sat almost side by side on the drive to…

23
Tom tore off his sling and sat down at the…

24
Not one cloud marred the sky the night of the…

Epilogue

“Yoo-hoo! Tommy! Yoo-hoo! Angel!”

H
e hadn't aspired to be a cat burglar.

He'd wrestled alligators in the Everglades. He'd charmed water moccasins to entertain tourists, and spent long nights in the swamps, gazing through cypress, palm, and mangrove branches at the distant stars, with not much more than mosquitoes and frogs for company.

But tonight Tom Donovan faced his most treacherous challenge—breaking into the home of the man he despised. And he was going to be up to his ass in trouble if he got caught.

He climbed cautiously from one branch to the next, each foothold steady, precise. The fernlike leaves of the tall and spreading royal Poinciana shimmered in the moonlight, camouflaging his black-clad body as he made his way toward the mansion's second-story window.

Breaking and entering wasn't his forte. Hell, he had no clue what he was doing, but Holt Hudson had allowed Tom little choice.

The reclusive billionaire had refused to see him
in spite of a dozen polite and maybe-not-so-polite requests. Didn't the bastard realize that all Tom wanted was for Holt to tell him face to face, man to man, why he'd emptied a .25 automatic into Chase Donovan—Tom's dad—twenty-six years before?

It seemed a damn simple request, yet Holt had sealed his lips on the subject the moment the Palm Beach police had closed their investigation all those years ago. No one but Tom believed there was more to the story. No one but Tom believed that Chase had been shot in cold blood.

Money could buy a hell of a lot, Tom realized. It could buy the police; it could buy isolation from the world; it could buy respectability. Money had bought an end to the tragedy for Holt Hudson, and he'd come out of the nightmare completely unscathed.

Chase Donovan had ended up dead.

Tom Donovan had come out of it scarred inside. And angry as hell.

But Tom had his own money now. A ton of it. He'd hoped his recent inheritance could buy him information. Answers to what had truly happened that night so he could put his bitterness aside and move on with his life. But damn it all, his newfound riches were buying him nothing but frustration.

His only course of action now was to go out on a limb—literally and figuratively—to find what he wanted. What he needed. Since Holt Hudson wouldn't talk to him or even allow him into his inner sanctum, Tom Donovan hoped and even prayed that somewhere within the gilded walls of
Palazzo Paradiso he'd find the truth that would make his endless nightmares go away.

He had to know that his dad, the man who had been shot inside the palatial mansion and then escaped to the Everglades, where he'd bled to death in his son's scrawny, four-year-old arms, had been framed not only for robbery, but for assaulting Holt Hudson's wife.

Ducking under a branch of feathery leaves, Tom placed one foot in front of the other, cautiously negotiating limbs that fought him every step of the way. The foliage rustled. Twigs splintered.

He wiped his brow with leather-gloved fingers, wishing the night wasn't so damn hot and humid, so calm and quiet. The only sounds around him were the gentle lap of salt water on the beach and the sweet strains of Mozart coming from somewhere inside the mansion.

A man could make all the noise he wanted wading through the towering mangroves and the endless sawgrass in the Glades. But silence was imperative now.

Take your time, he told himself. Don't get caught.

The window ledge jutted out of the mansion's limestone façade. At least two feet deep and four feet wide, it was the perfect platform for a six-foot-three-inch man to balance on while figuring out the best way to get inside. Unfortunately the glistening remnants of late afternoon rain that had puddled up on the ledge glared at him. If he took a flying leap, he could easily hit the water, slide right off the window edge, and end up on his butt in the prickly bougainvillea below.

That would surely set off an alarm or two; then the cops would come; then he'd be dead meat.

He needed to move a few more feet out on the tapering limb and then, if his luck held out, he could latch on to the ornamental arch and swing onto the windowsill.

His heart thudded as he took another step. It hadn't beat this hard since the teeth of a gator got too close to his balls.

A bead of perspiration coursed down his temple, slipped over his jaw. The tension in his body was palpable, and his eyes and ears were on such high alert for even the smallest unwanted noise around the estate that he could almost hear the drop of sweat hit the ground.

And then he made his move.

Tearing one hand from its hold on the branch above him, Trace reached across the void for the intricately carved limestone archway, but it was still too far away.

The limb beneath his feet wobbled. One foot slipped and he knew damn good and well he was going to fall if he didn't move fast. Without giving his next action a second thought, he ripped his other hand from the branch above, used the limb he stood on as a springboard, and propelled himself through the air toward the window.

His gloved hands slapped against the wall and he grabbed hold of the jutting limestone, digging his fingers into the crevices. The toes of his shoes landed on the very brink of the ledge, all the hold he needed to keep from careening down the side of the mansion. A moment later, after careful ma
neuvering, he managed to gain a firm foothold within the alcove.

His chest swelled as he took a deep, calming breath.

He'd made it—at least to the window.

He was safe—so far.

Tom looked around for any signs of an alarm. God knows Holt Hudson probably had something far more sophisticated than the pretty damn cheap mail-order security system he and his grandfather had installed at their gator farm in the Glades. Of course, they'd had alligators and water moccasins for extra protection, and there weren't all that many crooks anxious to tangle with reptiles that could poison, mutilate, or kill with one snapping bite.

Seeing nothing that looked remotely like wires or even laser lights protecting the window, Tom touched the glass gently. He peeked inside but saw little more than darkness and a faint light shining under a door on the far side of the room.

He ran his fingers around the sill, wondering if he should try to slide the window open or use the glass cutters tucked into his back pocket.

His dad would have known what to do,
if
the stories were true about Chase being a cat burglar. Tom didn't want to believe it but, hell, his grandfather had served time for jewelry theft. So had his great-grandfather. Larceny ran in the family.

But it sure as hell seemed that he'd missed out on some of the villainous genes that made breaking and entering more instinct than out-and-out hard work.

Dragging in another deep breath of muggy salt air, he opted for what he hoped would be the easiest way to open the window. He pressed his hands against the sash and was on the verge of pushing upward when a woman's whispery voice broke through the nearly silent night.

“I've had a wonderful evening, Mr. Hudson. The dinner was extraordinary, and once again, I have to tell you how thankful I am that you're allowing me to throw the gala here in your lovely home.”

“You're quite welcome.”

Tom craned his neck to peer around the limestone arch. The mansion was cast with shadows, but he was used to wandering through the mangroves at night, his eyes were attuned to the dark, and it took no time at all to find where the voices were coming from.

Staring past Grecian urns overflowing with flowers and through the tall neoclassical columns standing like sentries in front of the massive entry, he set eyes on Holt Hudson, a man he hadn't seen in twenty-six years. The man who was supposed to be his godfather, who'd promised to take care of Tom if anything happened to his parents.

The man who had killed Tom's dad.

It was all Tom could do not to jump from the window ledge, sprint up the circular entrance stairs, and, when he reached the doorway where Holt was framed by the light, slam his fist into the man's face. Then he'd drag Holt into the mansion, tie him into a chair, and force him to talk.

After that bit of lunacy, it was a damn safe bet he'd get hauled off to jail.

To a minuscule cell.

His nightmarish and baffling dread of being imprisoned in a small space was the only thing that held him back. The one thing that gave him second thoughts about breaking in.

He stayed frozen on the window ledge, watching Holt and listening to the woman's sultry voice.

“I know how much you value your privacy but I assure you, Mr. Hudson, every step will be taken to make sure the evening goes as both you and I envision it.”

“You're right, Miss Devlin, I do value my privacy. But the gala is just one night,” Holt said, facing Miss Devlin, who stood within earshot but completely out of sight. “You know as well as I do the heartbreak Alzheimer's can wreak. It's too late for my wife—God rest her soul—and, sadly, it's probably too late for your mother. But if there's anything I can do to help raise money for research, I'll do it.”

“That means a lot to me and my family, Mr. Hudson,” Miss Devlin said, a hint of sadness touching her voice. “Thank you again.”

Holt extended his hand as if he were bringing the evening and their conversation to an end. In turn, the woman slipped her long, slim fingers into Holt's outstretched hand, and at last she stepped into view.

A burst of lust almost overpowered Tom's need for answers. Damn, she was beautiful. Almost ethereal, with the cloud of light surrounding her.

Tall. Built to thrill. The platinum highlights in her honey-blond hair shimmered. It was twisted into some elegant and sophisticated style on the back of her head and showed off a slender and lovely neck.

A neck ripe for tasting.

She withdrew her hand after a short, almost perfunctory shake, and held her head high and proud as she floated down the steps and across the drive to the red Jaguar parked beside a bubbling fountain. She walked with a regal gait, her slim hips swaying only slightly beneath her tight white skirt. Tom couldn't help but notice the way it was cut up the front of her right leg, revealing a hell of a lot of nicely tanned and very bare skin.

He liked bare skin.

He liked women.

He particularly liked this woman. It wasn't just her beauty. It wasn't the way he wanted to investigate her subtle curves or to slowly unbutton her tailored white jacket to see if she wore an industrial-strength cotton bra or something lacy, something provocative, something that would let the tanned flesh of her breasts jiggle as she strolled across a room.

No, it was more than that.

She had access to Holt Hudson.

Tom smiled in the dark. If he could get close to Miss Devlin, if he could get into her good graces, mesmerize her as he did snakes and gators, she just might help him get into Holt Hudson's private world.

Getting into the lovely Miss Devlin's good graces—as well as getting up close and personal
with the stunning lady—sounded a hell of a lot better, as well as easier and safer, than breaking into Palazzo Paradiso.

He could get his face slapped if she learned he was using her. But an open-handed wallop or even a fist smashed into his nose was a far sight better than a jail cell. And if good fortune were smiling down on him, she might never learn the truth.

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