I'm No Angel (11 page)

Angel elbowed Tom in the ribs. A slow smile touched his face and slowly, far too slowly, he tilted his head away from the stripper, focused his
silly-assed and mesmerized grin on Angel, and winked. “Pretty nice, huh?”

“Her boobs are fake. She's got rouge on her nipples—”

Tom spun Angel around and into his embrace. His fingers slid to her derriere and he tugged her hard against his hips. “Don't worry, sweetheart.” His words fell against her lips. “She's not my type.”

His breath was warm against her mouth, his hold strong, tight. On instinct alone, Angel's eyes drifted closed and she waited for his kiss. But it didn't come.

Damn it!

Suddenly Tom took control, weaving his fingers through hers tightly—protectively—and Angel's eyes flashed open as he led her through the mass of perspiring men and found a table and a couple of chairs amid the hubbub.

“Stay here while I get us something to drink.”

Angel regained her composure, and latched on to Tom's belt buckle before he skirted away. “Here's another one of those handy dandy P.I. tricks,” Angel said. “Keep your hands to yourself. Keep focused on your objective—which is looking for Frederike. And don't forget that you're with me.”

Tom leaned down, cradled Angel's face in his hands, and moved in really close and personal. “There's only one naked lady I'm interested in being with tonight, and that's you.”

“But I'm not naked.”

His lips touched hers. His blessedly sweet
tongue teased her mouth. His eyes glittered. “Not yet, sweetheart. But the night's still young.”

Tom straightened, winked, then walked away like a man with a purpose, and all Angel could do was admire the view of his magnificent behind as he strolled through the crowd, looking all-powerful and far too virile.

He'd charmed her. Fighting it had become impossible. She'd tried; she'd failed miserably. Hell, before the night was over he might have her rolling over and allowing him to stroke her soft, sleek skin, just like his blasted snakes.

Get a grip, she told herself. She was becoming so fixated on Tom that she was forgetting why she'd come to the Tropical Lei. She'd been paid to concentrate on Frederike LeVien. Of course, Tom had paid her, too, and from all out ward appearances, he was getting pretty damn close to what he'd probably wanted from her right from the get-go.

The red accent lights scattered about the club suddenly turned several shades of lavender. The wicker daybeds began to twirl around and around as the leopard-thonged babes stalked each other atop the mattresses. But it was the stage that took on new life. Crisscrossing pink spotlights shot down center stage, Jimi Hendrix's “Purple Haze” blared through the speakers, and a man and woman painted in swirls of glittering pink and lavender slithered from the darkness into the light, and started a nearly naked dance that was on the verge of leaving nothing to the imagination.

“Like what you see?”

Tom set a martini on the table in front of her, scraped a chair across the black concrete floor until it touched Angel's, and sat down. He took a swallow of beer, grinning at Angel over the top of the bottle.

“I really didn't expect to see anything this graphic.”

“They don't go all the way, if that's got you worried.”

Angel sipped at her martini. “I take it you've watched this kind of action before?”

“I'm no more of an angel than you are, sweetheart.”

Angel forced herself to look away from Tom's mesmerizing eyes, and did a quick scan of the club, looking again for a little woman of great girth wearing a gigantic, raspberry-colored hat trimmed with some kid of white fur—which was probably real.

“You didn't by any chance see Frederike when you went to the bar, did you?” Angel asked.

Tom shook his head. “I thought about looking into one of the private rooms to see if she might be involved in her own personal fantasy, but figured it wouldn't be polite to interrupt.”

“Afraid you might be embarrassed?”

“There's not much that embarrasses me.”

“Does that mean you'd get up on that stage and do a few nearly naked bumps and grinds for the right price?”

Tom tilted his beer to his lips, took a swallow, then set the bottle back on the table. He wove the fingers of one strong hand around the back of Angel's neck and leaned in close. “I do my bumping
and grinding in private—just me and the woman I'm with. And I wouldn't charge her to watch.”

It was all too easy to imagine Tom bumping and grinding. Angel pictured him sweaty, with his shirt off, and all of that gorgeous bronze skin sliding over satin sheets. Better yet, she pictured all of that bronze and beautiful and oh-so-hot flesh sliding over her. It wasn't something she thought she should be thinking about right now, but it was hard not to when he kept his eyes focused on her face.

He wanted her. There was nothing more to that want than a roll in the sack. Uninhibited sex. Down-and-dirty sex. Unquestionably the best sex she'd ever had in her life. The kind of sex she and Emma had talked about late into the night at Portia Alexander's Academy.

But she'd freeze if Tom got too close. She'd get scared. And then she'd run.

Dagger had done that to her. Dagger had ruined her fantasy of what love should be.

Angel touched the cool martini glass to her throat and wondered if Tom could make even one small portion of that fantasy come true for her. She wasn't in love with him. God, no! They knew next to nothing about each other and she'd made the horrid mistake with Dagger of thinking lust was the same thing as love. Four days after meeting the jerk she'd married him.

And he'd never even cared for her; he'd simply been using her.

The warm touch of Tom's hand on her face jerked Angel back to reality. “Are you okay?” he asked, his fingers gently caressing her cheek.

“I'm fine. Why?”

“Your eyes are red, and you had a faraway look that made it seem like you'd retreated to some dark corner of the world, where no one could get to you.”

“It's smoky in here, that's all,” she tossed back, peeling his fingers from her cheek even though they felt damn good. She couldn't let him see her vulnerability. “And I suppose I was thinking that I've been a bit remiss in my duties the past few hours. Frederike is my main concern tonight. Not the nearly naked dancers on the stage. Not the ladies frolicking on the beds. And…not you, Tom.”

Tom stroked her lips with the tip of his thumb, and she tried to stifle the tingling ripples of desire that zipped through her body.

“Why do you work so hard at fighting me?” Tom asked, his eyes narrowed, filled with questions. Concern.

“Because no matter how much I'd like to trust you, I don't. Because I'm sure you've got some underlying motive for being with me and because I'm sure that something has to do with Holt Hudson.”

“Yet in spite of all that, you're here with me now.”

“On the contrary. You're here with me.” Angel grinned, refusing to give in to what she was feeling for Tom. “You paid to be here and having you close by makes it easier for me to keep an eye on you, just to make sure you don't do something that will in any way harm Holt Hudson or jeopardize the relationship I've worked hard to form with him.”

“You could have asked one of your minions to keep an eye on me.”

“I don't have minions working for me.”

“How interesting.” Tom took a swallow of beer. “Last night you led me to believe that you had an army of P.I.s working for you, and that you could have any number of them watching me at any given time of the day or night.”

“I lied.”

He curled his fingers around her cheek. “You don't have to lie to me, you know. And you don't have to hide anything, either.” Slowly, and ever so lightly, he again caressed her sensitive lips with a rough but tender thumb. “You might be surprised how good a listener I am.”

“This isn't exactly the kind of place where one pours out their heart.”

Tom grinned as he looked around the room. “Okay, so maybe the time isn't right for you to pour out your heart, but maybe you have some deep, dark secrets you'd like to share.”

Angel tugged Tom's hand from her cheek and took a sip of the already warm martini. “I'm afraid I don't have any deep, dark secrets.”

“You're not being very cooperative,” Tom said. “I'm trying to make light, civil conversation. Trying to get to know you better.”

“Deep, dark secrets are things you share with someone you already know quite well. If you want to ask a question, why not make it a little less personal?”

“All right,” he said, smiling softly, as if he were slowly, and easily, drawing her under his spell, making it nearly impossible to resist his charm or
unburden her soul. “Why don't you tell me why you work alone?”

“Easy enough,” she answered. “I had an assistant-slash-quasi-partner once, but I fired him for being interested in no one but himself. After that I divorced him and by the time our attorneys got through, I'd given my ex our home, our boat, and our measly savings, just so I could hang on to the P.I. business my dad gave me when he retired.”

Angel took a cool sip of her martini to wash the foul taste of Dagger out of her mouth. “My poor excuse of a marriage lasted seven years, I've been divorced for five, and nowadays I prefer to work all by myself.”

“So let me guess,” Tom said, elbows on the table, his bottle of beer poised close to his mouth. “It's not just me you distrust, it's men in general.”

“Not all men. I do know a few good ones—my dad and my three brothers are prime examples.”

“But you're not willing to lump me into that quote-unquote
good
category?”

“I don't know you well enough.”

“That could be changed, if you'd just loosen up.”

“I've already let my guard down too much tonight.” Angel took another sip of her drink. “And now I'm going to tell you just one more thing—another handy-dandy P.I. secret.”

“Which is?”

“A good P.I. is always professional—and I've been anything but professional tonight. That's changing—beginning now.”

A slow, challenging smile touched Tom's face. He raised his beer and clicked Angel's martini
glass. “Here's to professionalism.” He hit her with another one of his damnable winks. “For now.”

Ignoring the comment, and realizing that it was far too easy for Tom to mesmerize her, Angel pushed back her chair and stood.

“Going somewhere?” Tom asked, then took a swallow of beer.

“Not until I find Frederike,” Angel offered. “She's got to be here somewhere.”

“We could check out the back rooms, give you a bird's-eye view of what goes on behind closed doors.”

Angel hit Tom with her own wink, deciding playfulness with Tom was far safer than heart-to-heart talks. “In your dreams.”

“Trust me, Angel, the things that go on in my dreams are a hell of a lot more exciting than what's going on in those back rooms. Be nice,” he said, “and I might share one or two of those dreams with you.”

She shook her head, but couldn't help but smile. Tom Donovan had an uncanny way of turning every single subject into something sexual, something highly sensual and erotic. And, damn it all, she was beginning to enjoy it.

Standing over six feet tall in her five-inch stilettos made looking over the heads of most of the lascivious jerks swaggering around Tropical Lei a piece of cake. Unfortunately, Frederike was nowhere around.

Angel checked her watch. She'd give this on-the-verge-of-becoming-ridiculous escapade another half hour, and then she figured it would be
time to call it quits for the night. Tomorrow she could call the Countess and come up with an excuse to see her. They could talk about her precious dogs and Angel could dig for information. Frederike was always forthcoming with gossip about herself and others—whether she knew what she was talking about or not.

Angel swallowed the last of her martini, keeping her gaze focused on the partiers and off of Tom, who was too much of a distraction.

The front entrance door opened and closed over and over again, with far more men coming in than were going out. The noise level was almost unbearable. Lights flashed everywhere—and then one spotlight landed on the face of the man she despised.

Dagger Zane.

T
he room began to spin. A raw, burning pain twisted in Angel's stomach. And suddenly it was her wedding night all over again.

God, she'd been so excited, ready to give her new husband anything. They were in a seedy motel, all they could afford after their justice-of-the-peace wedding. Dagger had smoked a joint. He'd drunk a few bottles of beer, and then he'd stripped off her clothes, threw her on the bed, and straddled her hips.

He'd kissed her and she'd closed her eyes, waiting for that special moment—a special moment that never came. Opening her eyes slowly, wondering why he'd stopped kissing her, wondering why he didn't touch her, she saw Dagger staring at the knife he'd produced from out of nowhere.

When he kissed the twelve-inch blade, she'd turned cold. Numb. Scared out of her mind. The man smiling down at her, the man holding the knife, was her husband. A man she'd sworn she would love, honor, cherish, and even obey—
forever. She refused to believe she'd made a mistake. Refused to believe what he was doing would be more than a onetime game.

God, she'd been so wrong.

He'd reached out with the knife that night. She'd shuddered; he'd laughed. And then he sliced off a lock of her hair, told her he'd carry it with him forever, then clenched the knife between his teeth as he plunged into her.

She might have screamed when she felt the pain, but something told her that would give him too much pleasure. So she endured everything that night, just praying it would soon be over.

For seven long years she'd put up with his games. For seven long years they'd worked together, she'd taught him everything her dad and brothers had taught her, and she'd hoped and prayed that he'd change. But when night rolled around, he'd pull out his trusty knife. That's when she knew just how much she abhorred him, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of showing her fear.

And damn it all, she wasn't going to let him interfere with her life or her career. She wasn't about to let horrid memories and Dagger's presence ruin her evening, not now, when—after so many years—she'd finally come
this
close to wanting a man with every fiber of her being.

Shaking off the nightmare of her past, Angel became suddenly aware that the spotlight had circled the room and settled on her. That's when she saw Dagger's nasty lopsided grin.

She spun around. With any luck he hadn't recognized her through the disguise because she
knew damn good and well that if he had, he'd come over to the table and make her life pure misery.

That's what he thrived on. He'd never beat her. Never drawn blood with his knife, but the threat was always there. Menacing. Ominous, especially when he'd told her again and again to remember that he owned her, that he could do anything he wanted to her.

And not for the first time, she wondered why on earth she hadn't filed charges the one and only time she'd found the courage to call the police on Dagger. Why she'd felt so bad after the cops hauled him off to jail that she'd told the district attorney's office that she'd lied when she'd said he hurt her, that she'd merely been angry because he'd cheated on her.

God forbid that he should now be treating another woman the way he'd treated her.

“Something wrong?” Tom asked, standing in front of her, gripping her shoulders.

She drew in a deep breath. Forced herself to relax. She offered him a tremulous smile.

“The devil just walked into the room.”

“The devil?” Tom asked, his eyes narrowed.

“My ex. And the last thing on earth I want to do is bump into him or have him bump into me.”

“Tell you what.” Tom's fingers tightened on her arms, offering her comfort. “Why don't you sit down and I'll go have a little talk with him?”

“No. Please.” Angel shook her head. “I despise him. I don't want to talk to him. And—”

“Then let's get the hell out of here. Sneak out the back door.”

“We've got to stay here and keep an eye out for Frederike.”

“Can't you just forget about your work for a little while? Maybe think about your safety?”

“I'm not afraid of my ex and I'm not going to run from him. I'd just rather not be seen.”

An I've-got-a-devious-idea grin sparkled in Tom's eyes. “Then give me a lap dance.”

“Excuse me?”

Tom collapsed in his chair and grasped Angel's hands. “Straddle me, wrap your arms around me, and…well, we can play the rest by ear.”

Angel's frown deepened. “And the reason behind this would be?”

“If your ex walks by all he'll see is the gorgeous back of a working girl taking care of my needs.”

“You are out of your mind.”

“No, I'm fulfilling your fondest desire.”

“Which is?”

“Not being seen by your ex.”

Angel sighed heavily. “I'm not crazy about this idea, but I don't see any other options in sight.” She straddled Tom's lap, hitting him with a no-nonsense glare. “Just don't try anything funny. Which means, one hand on my shoulder at all times so Dagger doesn't recognize my tattoo, and while you're at it, you might as well keep the other hand on my other shoulder. Understood?”

Tom's callused fingers slid over her bare arms. They curved warmly over her shoulder blade where the crimson angel wings fluttered. And then he tugged her close. “Tell you what, sweetheart. I'll protect you from the devil, I'll keep an
eye out for Frederike, and all you have to do is concentrate on me.”

“This wasn't part of our bargain, you know.”

“This is called improvisation. I would have thought that would be one of your handy-dandy P.I. tricks.”

“I don't recall lap dancing or kissing ever falling into the improvisation category.”

“There's always a first for everything.”

Tom kissed her. Softly—and all thoughts of fighting him off went poof inside her brain. When it happened she wasn't sure, but suddenly this wasn't just a kiss. It was need. Strong, desperate need.

Angel could barely breathe but she had to, and when she did she inhaled the spiciness of his aftershave. It wafted through her senses, making her need him even more. Her fingers dug into his neck and her lips parted. She drank in his heat, his scent. His masculinity and his charm overpowered her, took away any possible desire to even think about pulling away from him.

Her breasts brushed against his T-shirt. They seemed to swell, to ache, wanting more but knowing there'd be nothing more than this for now. More than ready to take the chance with him, ready to see if she deserved to once again feel all that a woman should feel when she was alone with a man.

Intimately.

Tangled in sheets.

In an Italian Renaissance bed that was all made up and ready to go.

Without reservation, without fear, she slipped
her tongue over his lips and into the dark, inner recesses of his mouth. He tasted of beer. Delicious. Intoxicating. She explored his teeth—smooth and hard—and felt them nip her tongue teasingly, then she went back to exploring, savoring, memorizing every contour, every ridge.

And this was just the beginning.

Music, laughter, and cheers echoed around her. Her heart beat harder than the pulsing bass and drum in the stripper songs.

Her fingers tightened around his neck. She scooted closer to Tom's hips, felt his left hand slide down her side, his fingers skimming sensitive flesh, curving over her waist and then to her thigh. He settled his hand over the stiletto that must have been sticking out for all the world to see. He was protecting her—and making her feel damn good while he was at it.

And then she felt his erection between her legs. Hard as steel. Thick and long, trapped beneath his zipper yet bursting to be let loose.

Unconsciously she moved against him, her hips circling slowly, losing all focus, all thought of what she was supposed to be doing other than being turned on by the feel of him against her satin thong.

“Keep that up, sweetheart,” he whispered against her mouth, “and we're going to be in serious trouble here.”

She froze. Every muscle in her body tensed.

What the hell was she doing?

A lump settled hard in her throat, but somehow she fought for speech. “That wasn't supposed to happen.”

Tom smiled warmly. “I'm glad it did. Hell, I'd like it to happen again.”

“Maybe we should just leave. And I don't mean go back to your place, or maybe I do mean that. I'm just not sure right now but—”

“We can't leave. First off, you're hiding from your ex. Second…Frederike LeVien has just popped into view and I do believe the little lady is walking toward us, with some tall, dark-haired guy with a scar across his cheek.”

“Shit.”

“Excuse me?” Tom's warm breath fluttered across her lips. “Is that any kind of word for a sweet young thing like you to utter?”

“It's cleaner than the one I could have used, because if I'm not mistaken, the guy with the scar is my ex.”

“Then don't move, sweetheart,” Tom said, “just keep your hot little mouth pressed to my neck and I'll do all the talking while you remain invisible straddling my hips.”

This evening was not going well at all, Angel decided. Stakeouts were usually boring. They never involved kissing or lap dances and…and…the second she heard Dagger's familiar, reprehensible laugh, she pressed her lips against Tom's warm neck and kissed him.

With her head tilted down, Angel caught sight of Frederike's raspberry-colored pumps, studded with Swarovski crystals, striding by. Then she saw a pair of spit-polished-and-shined brown loafers. More than likely they belonged to Dagger, but she wasn't about to look up and see.

“Why, what a pleasant surprise!” The excite
ment in Frederike's voice rang through the room. “I can't believe I've found another Palm Beacher haunting the Tropical Lei.”

Angel couldn't see a blasted thing. All she could do was feel Tom's warm, taut skin beneath her lips, feel his heart beat against her chest, and the palms of his hands on her shoulders, holding her tight and hiding her tattoo.

“We haven't had the pleasure of meeting,” she heard Frederike twitter, “but I've seen you about town a time or two, Mr. Donovan. I'm Frederike LeVien.”

“Nice to meet you,” Tom said, and Angel could easily imagine the way Frederike's always beringed fingers clasped Tom's hand and held on tight, rather than giving him a proper shake.

“And this is my friend Dagger Zane.”

Beneath her lips, Angel could feel Tom's muscles tighten.

“I do believe, Mr. Donovan,” Frederike chirped, “that Dagger and I have caught you at a most inopportune moment.”

“Five minutes later and it would have been completely inopportune, Countess.” Tom's words vibrated against Angel's lips. Another part of his anatomy seemed to be vibrating between her thighs. “You don't mind me calling you Countess, do you?” he said in his oh-so-charming voice.

“Of course not, dahling. I paid good money for the title just so my friends could call me something other than Frederike or Mrs. LeVien.”

“Well, Countess”—both of Tom's hands were once again on Angel's shoulder blades, his thumbs swirling over her flesh, making her dizzy
as she kissed him—“as you must know, a man doesn't come to a place like Tropical Lei if he expects privacy.”

“Privacy is quite overrated,” Frederike said. “Don't you agree, Dagger?”

“Wholeheartedly.”

Dagger-the-devil must be the guy who had Frederike's butler all in a tizzy, Angel surmised. Either he'd changed his ways and was no longer using a knife, or Frederike and Dagger weren't having sex. Absently drawing her tongue over Tom's neck, she hoped and prayed both were true.

“Of course, there's a limit to everything,” Frederike said, her voice sounding a bit miffed as she tapped cold fingers on Angel's shoulder. “Young lady.”

Obviously that was a demand for Angel to stop what she was doing and pay attention to the Countess. But Angel wasn't about to turn around and be recognized by her ex.

“Yes, Countess?” Angel said, her nose still buried in the warm spiciness of Tom's neck.

“Why don't you be a good girl and leave us alone now? Take your money and run off to some other fellow.”

“That's not possible,” Tom said. “I've bought and paid for this charming lady—and she's mine all night.”

Angel sat up ramrod straight. How dare Tom say she'd been bought and paid for. Dagger might have considered her personal property, but no other man ever would.

Never.

Fire had rushed from her toes to her cheeks and she had a damn good idea Tom could feel it flaming out of her eyes and slapping him a time or two for that insensitive comment—whether it was a joke or not.

Of course, the blasted man who'd made that blasted, offhand remark that irritated the hell out of her had the audacity to wink. Obviously he thought it was funny.

She spun around, no longer caring who saw her. She wanted to give Tom a tongue-lashing for that comment about buying her. She wanted to lay into Frederike for treating her like a second-class citizen. And she wanted to put a knee in Dagger's groin.

Instead, she kept her wits about her and plastered a phony smile on her face. “You do know why Tom has to pay a woman for
this
, don't you?”

Frederike's eyes narrowed. “I hadn't given it any thought, my dear.”

“Well, I'll tell you, Countess. It's his affliction.”

Frederike's hand flew to her chest in utter dismay. “Affliction? Oh, dear. Whatever is the problem?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Tom said, laughter in his voice. “Tell the Countess about my affliction.”

“I'm dying to hear this myself,” Dagger said, sliding his fingers possessively around Frederike's arm, but keeping his eyes planted on Angel's face. They'd worked together and lived together for so many years and from the gleam in his sinister eyes, she knew Dagger had recognized her. He knew she was playing a game. The only question now: Would he spill the beans?