Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (74 page)

“Okay. I have enough to go on. All I have to do now is put it together into some sort of outline, and I can do that in an hour or so. Do you want to take a break? There’s a lounge that’s open downstairs with vending machines, and we can get some coffee.”

Devlin nodded, getting up to pull out Angela’s chair. “Lead the way. Walk slowly though, my left foot’s asleep.”

He limped at Angela’s side, pausing for a moment to shake out his leg. Angela watched his bent head, the way he frowned at his foot as if scolding it for failing him, and knew again that she was hopelessly in love with him.

He glanced up and caught her eye. “Something wrong?” he asked, raising his brows.

Angela shook her head. “It’s right at the foot of the stairs,” she said, and moved ahead of him so he couldn’t see her face.

Inside the lounge neon lighting bathed the few occupants in a soft bluish glow. Vending machines for soft drinks and snacks were lined up against one wall, and a pinball machine and several video games faced them on the opposite side of the room. Two students, looking hung over with too much studying, sipped coffee at one of the folding tables. A girl was asleep on one of the vinyl covered couches, her jacket pulled up around her chin like a blanket.

“This place looks like a bus station at four in the morning,” Devlin commented.

“You should see it at exam time,” Angela answered. “This is nothing. The first week in May you’d swear we were running a brothel here from the amount of nighttime traffic.”

“I never realized before how much work it takes to become a lawyer,” Devlin commented, taking out change for the coffee machine. “You really have to study a lot.”

Angela watched him as he added cream to her cup and handed it to her. “Didn’t you study when you were in school?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not like you. I was an economics major. I spent a lot of time drawing up flow charts.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Georgetown,” he said shortly. “Would you like some cookies, or a candy bar to go with that coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Angela replied. He’d done it again. Any time she brought up his past he cut all inquiries off before she got any real information. Was he hiding something?

Devlin wandered over to a card table and waited for Angela to sit, joining her when she did so. He stretched his long legs into the aisle, looking around at the posters and notices tacked to the walls.

“Brett?” Angela said.

His amber eyes came to rest on hers. “Yes?”

“You helped me a lot tonight. You cut my time in half with the work you did.” She looked away. “Thank you.”

Devlin took a swallow of his coffee, gazing at her over the rim of the paper cup. “You’re welcome.”

Angela fidgeted, playing with the plastic spoon she held and with the tiny packets of sugar heaped in the middle of the table. She looked up to find his gaze still on her, fixed and intent.

“I’m sorry about what I said in your room last night,” she blurted out suddenly. “I didn’t mean it.”

He set his cup down. “I know that,” he replied quietly.

“You do?” she asked, puzzled. Then she attempted a smile. “I suppose it’s obvious. I said I’d kill you if you touched me again. Then you did, earlier this evening after the phone call. Yet here you are, still alive.”

“Here I am,” he agreed, his voice so soft that she could barely hear him.

Angela dropped her gaze. “I was angry, Brett. You had hurt me and I wanted to hurt you back.”

“You did.”

Her eyes flashed to his face, but before she could say anything further another voice interrupted their conversation.

“Angela Patria, just the person I wanted to see,” announced their visitor.

Virginia Davenport, alumna of Miss Finch’s and Mount Holyoke, fully prepped out in a tweed blazer, carefully faded jeans, and cordovan penny loafers, was standing at Angela’s elbow. With her flowing dark hair, almond eyes, and New England uniform, she resembled an updated version of Ali MacGraw in
Love Story
.

“Angela,” Virginia said chidingly, “I didn’t think I’d have to run you to earth in the middle of the night in order to meet your cousin. I’ve been waiting for you to introduce him to me.”

Since Virginia had spoken to Angela only once previously, asking to borrow an eraser, Angela found this opening statement somewhat surprising. But she waved her hand at Devlin and said, “Virginia Davenport, Brett Devlin.”

As Devlin stood up Virginia beamed, displaying the results of the fortune her parents had spent on orthodontia. She grasped his big hand in both of hers.

“Brett. What an unusual name. Is that Scotch?”

“Scots. Scotch is whiskey.”

“Ah. I see. Where are you from, Brett?”

“Kansas.”

“So far! And what do you do there?”

Brett glanced at Angela, and she thought she detected a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

“I grow corn,” he replied flatly.

“You’re a farmer?” Virginia said, clearly appalled.

“Yes, ma’am. Corn, soybeans, spring wheat. Some alfalfa.”

“Alfalfa?” Virginia repeated faintly. Then she smiled again. Devlin’s obvious physical charms clearly outweighed the prospect of continuing a conversation with an alfalfa grower, and so she blundered onward with false cheer.

“Tell me, Brett, what do you do in Kansas for fun?”

Brett hooked his thumbs in his belt like the hillbilly Virginia thought he was. “Oh, let’s see. Church socials, community sings, barn dances. Quilting bees.”

Angela choked on her last sip of tepid coffee. The other two looked at her as she tried to convert her strangled laughter into a coughing fit.

“Sorry,” she said. “Frog in my throat.”

“Hmm,” Virginia said, turning her attention to Devlin once more. “Quilting bees. How interesting. Well, you two, I really must run along. No time to chat. I have to Shepardize ten cases for my first class, too busy to do it before this, so I’ll wind up spending the night in this place. Take care of yourselves.” Virginia exited, stage left, trailing clouds of sporty scent.

Devlin looked at Angela and they both dissolved in helpless laughter.

“I can’t believe she didn’t know you were pulling her leg,” Angela gasped, wiping her eyes.

“What’s a quilting bee?” Devlin asked, and they cracked up again.

“Why did you say that?” Angela asked.

“What? About the quilting bee?”
 

“Yes.”

His eyes twinkled. “She obviously thinks that Kansas is on the dark side of the moon, and quilting bees sounded sort of, I don’t know . . . frontiersy. Didn’t they used to have them in colonial times or something?”

“You’ve got me. Are you sure you aren’t thinking of Betsy Ross stitching up the American flag?”

He grinned. “In Kansas?” he said, and they laughed once more.

“Why did you tease her like that?” Angela asked, still giggling.

Devlin sobered, lifting one shoulder. “I could see that she wasn’t a friend of yours. She was just . . .” His voice trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.

“She was just using me to get to you,” Angela stated, supplying what he didn’t want to say.

He made no reply, watching her face.

“That happens to you a lot, doesn’t it? Women pursuing you, I mean.”

“The women I want to pursue me never do,” Devlin answered, looking at her directly.

Angela flushed, standing and crumpling her cup in her hand. “We’d better get back. I want to finish what I’m working on in time to get home for a couple of hours sleep.”

Devlin went with her back to the library.

* * * *

Angela finished her work at four in the morning. Devlin’s eyelids were at half mast, making him look sexy and somehow boyish at the same time. His elbow was propped on the table and his chin was propped in his hand as he watched her pack up her things, getting ready to go.

“Do you want me to carry that?” he asked, gesturing to her book bag.

Angela examined his sleepy face. “It looks to me like you’ll have enough trouble carrying yourself. You know, I’ve been noticing that you look tired lately. Have you been getting enough rest?”

Devlin sat up straighter, alert. Were the effects of his nightly prowling about the house becoming apparent? “I didn’t get any rest tonight, but that’s all you see. Shall we go?”

“Okay.”

As they made their way outside Angela said, “I’m hungry. There’s a Greek diner across the street where Holly and I sometimes go. The food is good and they’re open around the clock. Can we stop?”

Devlin stretched his hands out as if he were sleepwalking. “Just point me in the right direction,” he said.

Angela shivered in the early morning chill. “It’s getting cold. October is half gone, winter will be here soon.”

“Do you want my jacket?” he asked, putting his arm around her shoulders to steer her toward the curb.

“No, thanks, we’ll be inside soon.” He was always offering her items of his clothing; what she wanted was a piece of himself, which was much harder to obtain.

The diner was shaped like a railroad car, and the interior was pungent with the aroma of fried food. A hostess with hair a color that never existed in nature showed them to a rear booth.

“Nice place,” Devlin commented. “I think this was printed in 1927,” he added, indicating the stained, ragged menu.

Angela kicked him under the table. “You have no taste. This room is loaded with atmosphere.”

He sniffed. “Is that what you call it? I thought it was garlic.”

“You’re a snob.”
 

“Nope. I just have a distinct aversion to ptomaine poisoning.”

“I’ve eaten here many times and survive to this day.”

Devlin played with the tassel dangling from the top of the menu. “I wouldn’t have expected to find somebody like you here.”

“Somebody like me?”

“Rich. Privileged.
Lutece
is more your type of place.”

“Lutece is Philip’s type of place.”

Devlin’s eyes narrowed. “Have you ever brought him here?”

“No. Philip would turn to stone on the threshold.”

Devlin relaxed. “Good.”

Angela looked at him sitting across from her and tried to keep what she was feeling from showing in her face. His hair tumbled over his forehead, shiny and black as a raven’s wing, a glossy counterpart to brows and lashes just as thick and dark. His cheeks were deeply shadowed with stubble, and blue smudges of fatigue stained the skin below his eyes. He looked exhausted and beautiful, stretched to the limit and incredibly dear.

“You examine me, Miss Patria,” he said softly.

“Yes.”

“What do you see?”

Angela turned her head, afraid to speak.

He held up a hand. “You’re right. Don’t answer that. I know what I look like at five in the morning. Strong men run screaming out of my path. I could be the ‘before’ picture in a commercial for shaving cream.” He started to shrug out of his jacket and then realized that his gun holster would be visible. He pulled the coat back on quickly.

“Do you like being a private detective?” Angela asked suddenly.

His eyes roamed away from hers. “It has its moments.”

“Didn’t you ever think about doing anything else?”

He was saved from a reply by the arrival of the waitress, whose hair was as startling a shade as the hostess’. She snapped gum and tapped her rubber soled shoe while taking their order. Devlin gazed after her as she walked to the service stand behind them.

“There’s no shortage of hair dye among the staff here.”

Angela covered her mouth with her hand. “Not everyone is as lucky as you are.”

“What?”

“Not everyone is lucky enough to have naturally beautiful hair.”

Devlin reached out and lifted a tendril of auburn hair from Angela’s neck with a blunt forefinger.

“How would you know?” he asked quietly.

The waitress reached over his arm to plunk two water glasses on the table between them. Devlin withdrew his hand, throwing the woman a black look.

“Could you bring us some coffee when you get a chance?” he inquired of her.

She didn’t reply, but set off at a brisk pace on her squeaky shoes.

“I think she’s a mute,” he muttered.

“You’re just mad because she isn’t responding to your considerable charm,” Angela said, smiling impishly.

He was startled.

Angela chuckled. “Don’t look at me with those innocent eyes. I’ve seen you use that strong silent routine on more than one female. You can accomplish more with one intent glance than others can with extravagant compliments.”

He looked down, turning red.

“Isn’t that cute? Now he’s embarrassed.”

He raised his eyes to hers. “Maybe I don’t talk much because I can’t think of the right things to say. Would you like it better if I were like your buddy Cronin? He’s never at a loss for words.”