Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (69 page)

Devlin beat Angela back to the kitchen and decided to start breakfast to make amends for his earlier behavior. He found the necessary pots and pans, and had managed to burn the toast and mangle the eggs by the time he looked up to see her standing in the doorway.

“I tried to make breakfast,” he said. “I failed.”

She managed not to laugh. “I see.”

“I can’t cook,” he said unnecessarily.

“You won’t have to in future,” Angela said reassuringly. “Josie is usually here by now, but she’s late today because of her daughter. She generally makes breakfast.”

“I’m very relieved to hear it,” Devlin said grimly, handing Angela the plastic spatula, which was coated with the remains of several eggs.

Angela lifted the fried mass he’d been cooking onto a plate. They stared at it in thoughtful silence.

“It looks like the State of New Jersey,” Devlin finally said.

Angela giggled. It did.

“What do you say we toss it and get something on the way?” he suggested.

Angela fed the mess to the garbage disposal.

Devlin poured himself some coffee and they sipped companionably. He eyed her over the rim of his mug and asked, “How are you explaining my presence in class to your professors?”

She shrugged. “I just told them I would be bringing a visitor for a while. As long as you aren’t trying to get credit for the courses without paying tuition, they don’t care much who shows up, provided no one creates a disturbance.” She smiled slightly. “You were planning on being unobtrusive?”

“Invisible,” he corrected her, stacking the dishes he’d used in the sink.

Angela glanced at the fit of his tight chinos, the sharpness of his profile, the way his dark hair caught and reflected the overhead light. That would be a good trick.

While Angela gathered her books Devlin’s eyes traveled up the staircase, measuring the distance from his room to the second floor. He was itching to get up there and look around, but he knew he had to wait for several nights, until she was accustomed to having him in the house, before he could undertake a search. She wouldn’t sleep easily, deeply, until she was comfortable with his presence. In the meantime, he would have to be patient and derive whatever he could from her conversation without actually asking her any questions.

“I’m ready,” she announced, catching his pensive glance at the upper hall.

“Is there a third floor?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ll show you around later. I guess you should be familiar with the layout of the whole house. My uncle uses the top floor as a study; it’s really sort of a loft with a skylight.”

Bingo. Devlin turned away so she couldn’t see his face and led the way through the door.

They took a cab to the law school, which was Angela’s custom. Devlin was always amazed that New Yorkers rarely drove; in the Midwest kids were driving tractors at thirteen and had licenses before they had cars. Angela mentioned casually that her uncle had a limo garaged nearby if Devlin ever wanted to use it. Devlin stared out the window and observed to himself that crime did pay.

Angela’s first class was Trusts and Estates, which met at nine. They got a quick bite in the cafeteria and then Devlin followed her down the same hall he’d traveled the day he’d seen her crying in the library. She took a seat in the back so that Devlin could be as inconspicuous as possible, but Angela didn’t miss the once-over he received from her female classmates when he entered the room behind her. She had no friends in this group. It was a second year class that she’d missed taking because of a scheduling problem, but she knew that she would have to explain him when she encountered some of her closer acquaintances later in the day.

As soon as the professor started in, Devlin pulled a paperback from his pocket and began to read. Angela tried to ignore him and concentrate on what the student giving the brief was saying, but this proved to be a difficult task. It was fortunate she listened well enough to keep her head above water, because her name came up in the lottery to give the class the facts of the second case.

Angela looked down at her notebook and groaned. The case was a nightmare, horribly complicated and impossible to explain, concerning a botched will that wound up giving the testator’s money to all the wrong people. To make matters worse, when Devlin heard her name called, he set aside his book and looked at her with interest, waiting for her to speak.

Angela did the best she could, ignoring the knowing grins of her classmates. Professor Walensky was in one of his “cannibals roasting the missionary” moods, and she knew she had just jumped into the pot. Everyone else in the room wore a better-you-than-me look, and a dead silence fell as she drew to a conclusion.

“So, Miss Patria,” Professor Walensky said, “what, in your opinion, was the main problem with this will?”

“The lawyer who drew it up violated the rule against perpetuities, and so the man’s wife inherited everything, even though he had tried to leave his estate to his son and his niece.”

Walensky nodded slowly, and then went on to tear apart everything she’d said, line by line, questioning each conclusion she’d drawn from the facts. Angela waited; this was typical. She knew that she was right, but Walensky had a way of making everything you’d said sound so outrageous that he convinced you the most reasonably thought out premise was a bunch of garbage by the time he finished.

“And so,” Walensky concluded, “don’t you think, Miss Patria, that the client in this case should have made a different will?”

“No.”

Walensky’s eyebrows shot up into his white hair. “No?”

“I think he should have hired a different lawyer. The attorney screwed it up; there was nothing wrong with the testator’s idea.”

“And how do you propose to avoid making such a mistake yourself when you are in practice?” Walensky baited her.

Angela’s patience snapped. This old curmudgeon had had her on the rack for ten minutes now, Devlin was listening to every word, and her classmates were breathing prayers of thanksgiving that this godawful case had not fallen to them.

“By doing nothing but divorces,” Angela fired back, and waited for the bomb to fall.

Walensky’s face went blank with surprise, and the group held its collective breath. Then he started to laugh, and, relieved, the class joined in with him.

“Touché, Miss Patria, touché,” Walensky said. “I suppose I have tormented you long enough today. If you will give your attention to the blackboard, ladies and gentlemen, I will demonstrate how to avoid the pitfalls of the rule in a case such as this.”

Angela waited until Walensky was writing and then risked a glance at Devlin.

He was smiling. Slowly, carefully, he formed a circle with his thumb and forefinger, and then went back to his book.

* * * *

Angela and Devlin returned to the brownstone in late afternoon to find Josie making dinner in the kitchen. Angela felt that the day had not been a triumph; she had introduced Devlin to her friends as a visiting “cousin,” a ploy that had met with a conspicuous lack of success. He looked like nobody’s cousin, and nobody believed it. Angela told the truth to only one person, her friend Holly, who knew all about the threats on Angela’s life and the plan to hire a bodyguard. Holly had eyed Devlin warily, her gaze traveling to the strap of the shoulder holster just visible beneath his jacket and then back to Angela’s face.

“Aren’t you afraid of him?” Holly had whispered when Devlin was out of earshot, walking a few paces behind them.

“Why? Do you think I should be?”

“I don’t know. He looks . . . mean.”

Angela sighed. “Holly, I don’t care if he looks like Vlad the Impaler as long as he keeps me from getting killed.”

Holly, who was very happily married, glanced over her shoulder. “He’s kind of attractive though, isn’t he, if you like the type.”

“What type?”

“Rough and ready, you know what I’m getting at. Great body, too.”

Angela had to laugh. “I thought you just said I should be afraid of him.”

“Exactly,” Holly replied with satisfaction, shooting her a triumphant glance.

Angela let it pass, understanding perfectly.

The conversation had done nothing to improve her spirits, and now she was tired from a long day as well.

Josie greeted Angela with a hug, and then surveyed her companion.

“Josie, this is Mr. Devlin, the private detective Harold hired to . . . take care of me. Devlin, my housekeeper and friend, Josie Clinton.”

Devlin stepped forward to shake hands, and then excused himself, going off toward the guest room. Angela waited for Josie’s reaction, but none came. The older woman continued to baste the roast she was browning and then shut the oven door.

“Well?” Angela prompted.

Josie looked at her.

“What do you think of him?”

Josie removed the potholder she was wearing and dropped it on the counter.

“I think he’s not exactly what your uncle Frank had in mind.”

Josie was a woman of few words. “Yes, I know,” Angela said unhappily.

“But he looks perfectly capable of taking care of you, himself, and the entire population of Cleveland, Ohio,” Josie added. “I have to give him that.”

“I wonder how Harold Simmons came up with him,” Angela mused, almost to herself.

Josie snorted. No love was lost between the housekeeper and Patria’s attorney.

“I can’t imagine,” Josie said sourly. “The workings of that shyster’s mind are a mystery to me.”

“How’s Maria?” Angela asked.

Maria was Josie’s daughter. “She has the flu, but she’ll live,” Josie replied shortly. She glanced at her watch. “Dinner’s in ten minutes.” She jerked her head in the direction of the corridor. “Is he eating with you?”

“I guess so, if he wants to,” Angela answered. “Harold said room and board would be part of the arrangement.”

“I’ll have to go shopping tomorrow then,” Josie said. “We’ll be needing more food. With that size, he must have an appetite on him.”

Angela looked at the floor dejectedly.

Josie saw her expression and put a hand comfortingly on Angela’s shoulder.

“Don’t look like that, baby,” she said. “They’ll get whoever is causing this trouble, and it will all be over soon.”

Angela nodded and went up to her room to change.

* * * *

Devlin waited a week before he started to search the house. Every day he accompanied Angela during her activities, and every night he planned the most efficient method of casing her home. He’d made careful note of the floor plan when she’d shown him around, and saw that the door to her uncle’s study was locked and bolted. He’d expected nothing less, and had come prepared with a supply of burglary tools to break into the room.

But he wanted to check out the library on the second floor first. It was down the hall from Angela’s room, and had several desks and cubbyholes where documents might be stored.

It was two in the morning on a Thursday night when he crept up the carpeted staircase and paused outside Angela’s door. He turned the knob soundlessly, and pushed inward. A shaft of moonlight from the window revealed Angela sleeping in the bed, her hair spread upon the pillow, her hands clutching at the bedspread as if it were her security blanket. The filmy nightgown she wore revealed her creamy shoulders and the shadow of her breasts beneath the cloth. Devlin looked for long moments, drinking in the sight. Then he shut the door, leaning against the wall in the corridor, closing his eyes.

The wave of desire passed and he swallowed, taking a breath. He would have to avoid such glimpses in the time ahead of him; they did not help to strengthen his resolve.

He moved on to the library and entered the book- lined room, turning on the desk lamp and shutting the door. Quietly, methodically, he examined the shelves along the walls with his practiced eye. Time passed and became meaningless; he was deep into his task and unaware of the minutes slipping by.

He was standing with a book in his hands, flipping through the pages, when the door opened behind him. The overhead light switched on, suddenly blinding him.

“What are you doing in here?” Angela’s voice said.

Chapter 2

Devlin started violently, and his arm slammed into a delicate glass figurine standing on the desk at his elbow. It landed on the hardwood floor with a splintering crash, smashing into pieces.

Angela gave a cry of dismay and rushed to pick up the shards lying at the edge of the rug. “I said, what are you doing in here?” she asked again, curiously.

“I couldn’t sleep and came up here to get something to read,” Devlin answered, indicating the book he held. He moved to assist her and Angela drew back, slicing her hand on the fragment clasped in her fingers. Blood seeped from the wound.

Devlin dropped the book and grabbed her hand, lifting it to his lips. He sucked gently, his mouth warm and soothing on the abraded flesh.

Angela swayed toward him, mesmerized by the sensuous feel of his lips on her skin. Then she suddenly snatched her hand away, holding it behind her back.