by Cassie Miles
A Real Angel
By
Cassie Miles
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Escape was impossible…
From the bathroom Rafe heard the shower start and his mind was filled with images of Jenna's graceful-body and shapely legs.
He had to see her. Too soon, he would be an angel again and the moment would have passed. Jenna would no longer be available to him. He was well aware he was playing with fire. How could he see her naked and not make love to her?
"Jenna, may I come in?" he asked while pushing open the door.
She peered out at him, her body a tantalizing outline. "Rafe…?"
His throat constricted. He couldn't speak. Instead, he untied his silk pajama bottoms. They slid from him, puddling at his feet.
"Can we do this?" Jenna asked through trembling lips. "What will happen?"
"I don't care," Rafe replied huskily. Never in his existence had he wanted anything more. It was love that burned within him. Love for Jenna.
"Are you sure we should make love?" she whispered.
In his heart he was sure it was what he wanted; in his mind he was sure it was a mistake. He closed his eyes, unable to think when they feasted on Jenna's beauty. But right now he didn't want to think. Instead, he took a step closer…
Dear Reader,
Last year we brought you a quartet of AVENGING ANGELS—the sexiest angels this side of heaven, to be exact. And you loved them so much that we're bringing you two more of these very special heroes.
Whenever there is injustice, the Avenging Angels are on the case, ready to right the wrong, but often not ready to deal with the pleasures of the flesh.
Here, Cassie Miles, who was one of the originating authors of the quartet, is back with Rafe's story. This Real Angel is about to learn a thing or two about life ana love.
We're delighted we could bring you more AVENGING ANGELS!
Regards,
Debra Matteucci
Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator
Harlequin Books
300 East 42nd Street
New York, NY 10017
ISBN 0-373-22443-5
A REAL ANGEL
Copyright © 1997 by Kay Bergstrom
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
Printed in U.S.A.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Jenna Denardo—As an animal wrangler she'd always been more comfortable with tigers than with men.
Rafael Santini—In his work as an Avenging Angel, he had lived for centuries without finding love.
Eddy Benson—At first, it seemed that the stunt coordinator died from a heart attack.
Hugh Montclair—His world travels allowed him to indulge in producing motion pictures and experimenting with livestock.
Nick Vincenzo—Hugh's assistant worked hard to keep the estate and the business on track.
Alex Hill—The British director considered himself an artist and despised anyone who got in his way.
Taylor Wannamaker—He knew nothing about the animals it was his job to protect.
Dinah Aaron—The leading lady disguised her ferocious ambition behind a veil of innuendo.
Sean Hill—The stuntman, brother of Alex, lost the use of his legs in an accident while Eddy Benson was in charge.
Chapter One
Jenna Denardo peered into the tiny freezer of the half-sized refrigerator and contemplated ice cream. Devil's food chocolate chunk or low-fat heavenly hash? The hash was less caloric, more saintly. But it wasn't strictly necessary for Jenna to maintain the sleek body of a high-fashion model. Though she worked in the motion-picture business, her career as an animal handler kept her on the sidelines. She didn't need to worry about being front and center, where a camera would add ten pounds to her short, muscular frame and cause her long curly, dark blond hair to look like a mass of sandy frizz.
With sinful abandon, she grabbed the pint of devil's food. Humming along with the classical music on the late-night radio, she sat yoga-style in the middle of the lumpy sofa bed in the tiny dressing room at the rear of Soundstage 7. For the past three days and nights, this room had been her living quarters at Roybal International Productions—referred to as RIP, Rest in Peace, because the movie studio hadn't had a hit in such a long time.
The large room adjoining her dressing room had been modified to house the animals being used on this production: two llamas, five little pigs, six monkeys, lots of birds, one ancient tiger and an eight-foot reticulated python.
She spooned into her ice cream and took a huge, delectable bite. There was nothing better than chocolate! Not even sex, if she remembered correctly. It had been a long time.
Unfortunately, not even a mountain of chocolate could rescue this movie project. Soundstage 7 was not a happy set. Tempers were flaring. The director wanted to kill the stars. The stars wanted to kill the stuntmen. And everybody wanted to kill the artistic director, who was taking forever to set up the scenario for a Garden-of-Eden sequence that used all of the animals Jenna had brought from the ranch she owned with her mother.
Three whole days, and only four scenes had been filmed. Everything seemed to be going wrong.
She swallowed, savoring the cold, sweet ice cream. Mid-slurp, she paused. A noise? A thud? Like the warehouse doors on the soundstage slamming shut.
Strange. It was after eleven o'clock, and production had shut down at six. Nobody should be here.
An intruder? Even though the movie lot was situated in a run-down part of Hollywood, access was limited and watchmen patrolled on a regular basis.
She turned off the radio and listened hard. Quiet cloaked the atmosphere. She shrugged. Nothing to worry about.
As she dipped into her ice cream again, Darius the tiger let loose with a booming roar. In the menagerie room, the monkeys made a sudden chatter. The pigs squealed. Several varieties of birds joined in with loud whistles and screeches.
Jenna knew her animals well enough to know that these were not wails of hunger or discomfort. These sounds signaled a warning. Their world had been invaded.
Her protective instincts activated, she leapt off the bed and whipped open the door to the adjoining menagerie room. Though she saw no one in the semidarkness, her animals continued their cries. In the center of the room, the birdcages rattled beneath their covers like angry ghosts. The monkeys scolded. Three of them, the capuchins, swung toward her. They bared their teeth. Their tiny fingers clenched the bars. The hair on the backs of their necks stood up.
She picked up her cell phone and called the front office. A tired voice answered, "Pete here."
"This is Jenna Denardo on Soundstage 7."
"The animal woman," Pete said. "What's up?"
"I think somebody's in here."
Her animals continued their racket. The noise echoed, magnified like a jungle movie being played at high volume.
"Can't hear you," Pete
said.
"I might need your help. Can you come over here?"
"I'm not going in there with your snakes and tigers, young lady. Get your critters under control and—"
"Fine." There wasn't time to argue with him. The reaction from her animals told her that something was wrong. "I'll call back."
Jenna tucked the flip phone into the pocket of her pink sweatpants. With her matching sweatshirt and fuzzy slippers and a trace of chocolate on her lips, she wasn't exactly dressed for intimidation. But the right accessory made all the difference. She took a few careful steps backward, reached under her pillow, grabbed her snub-nosed automatic and expertly checked the ammunition clip. After a moment's hesitation, she removed the safety.
In the menagerie room, she turned on the overhead fluorescents, causing an even more hysterical response from her animals. First, she went to the box where Selena was coiled within a bag. The python appeared to be safe and quiet. Then she circled the birdcages to the large enclosure where five piglets huddled together on a bed of straw. Beside them were the llamas.
There was no intruder in this room.
She stared at the door that led onto the soundstage. From outside, the tiger roared. The danger was out there.
Her fingers closed around the doorknob. She yanked it open and slipped outside. The cavernous interior of Soundstage 7, huge as an airplane hangar, was dimly illuminated by work lights. There was a clutter of technical equipment and a complete set for the Garden of Eden. The outer walls were lined with other dressing rooms, offices and a kitchen. There could be a dozen bogeymen hiding in here, and she'd never see them until they were right next to her.
Moving swiftly across the concrete floor, Jenna went to the heavy iron cage that held the tiger. Darius was an old beast, declawed by the carnival that had once owned him, but his coat was lustrous and handsome. In the care of Jenna and her mother, he had regained his vitality.
As she approached his cage, he slapped the bars with his huge paw. Nothing should frighten a Siberian tiger, the largest of felines, yet Darius stalked back and forth, distinctly tense. His long tail snapped like a whip.
In her peripheral vision, Jenna caught sight of movement, and she whirled to face the threat. Among the shadows, she saw no clearly defined form, but she sensed a presence. A shiver went through her. Someone was there, hiding amid a forest of props, lighting equipment and cameras.
A loud groan distracted her. She pivoted in time to see a man staggering toward the door to the room where her animals were kept.
"Hold it!" she yelled.
Stumbling, he turned to face her, and she recognized him. Eddy Benson, the stunt coordinator. "Eddy? Are you okay?"
As she watched, he crumpled to the floor. His watery blue eyes looked up at her, pleading for help.
"My God, Eddy. What's wrong?"
Though she saw no wound or injury, he was obviously in pain. She redialed the office on the cell phone and shouted into it, "Pete, call an ambulance."
"What?"
"It's Eddy Benson. It looks like he's having some kind of fit. He needs medical attention."
"That's bad news. Eddy's got heart problems."
From somewhere in the vast building, she heard a scraping noise. She dropped the phone with a clatter.
"Who's there?" She braced her gun in both hands.
Standing lights, props and shadows surrounded her. So many shapes in the dim light. They ranged across the concrete floor like a dark army.
Eddy groaned again, and she was torn. Should she let down her guard to help him?
Still holding her gun, she got behind Eddy, hooked her arms beneath his shoulders and pulled him inside the menagerie room where the light was better. She slammed the door and knelt beside him.
His entire body spasmed. A harsh, guttural cry issued from his lips. He grabbed her arm, pulled her close.
His teeth chattered violently, as if he were trying to speak. His wiry body shuddered against her. He was burning up with fever, sweating. His gray hair was plastered in damp strands across his forehead. Was he having a heart attack?
When she attempted to move away, trying frantically to remember basic CPR procedures, he tightened his grip. His jaw clenched. A thin dribble of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"It's okay, Eddy. I'm here."
He stared into her eyes, somehow disbelieving. His breathing steadied to a painful rasp. Not knowing what else to do, she held him, rocked him as if he were a child. For several minutes, they stayed in that position, with the animals screaming and Eddy trembling.
Where was the damn ambulance? She could feel him losing strength, dying in her arms. The animals knew. They seemed to sense the approach of death—a chill shadowy presence.
"Hang on, Eddy," she urged him. "It'll only be a few minutes more."
Please don't die. She prayed intensely. It wasn't the first time Jenna had cradled death in her arms. Three years ago, her father had died in a car accident. He'd lost control on a winding, hillside road. Crashed into a tree trunk. Jenna had been following in the truck. She'd witnessed the whole hellish spectacle, had heard her mother's screams from the passenger seat…and then the terrible silence as her mother, Kate Denardo, passed from consciousness. Though she'd survived the crash and her physical injuries had healed, Kate had never regained her vivacity and wit. Nowadays, she hardly ever left the ranch.
Sometimes, death was harder on those who were left behind.
"Please, Eddy. Don't die."
Finally, Jenna heard the soundstage door crash open. Help was on the way. Someone would save Eddy Benson.
He stiffened, then a stillness came over him. His arms and legs went limp as a rag doll. He exhaled a thin gasp.
"Stay with me, Eddy. Don't give up."
But it was too late. She could feel him slipping away. The cries of Jenna's animals modulated. The sounds were less frenzied and more mournful.
As the paramedics appeared at the door, she heard a rattle in Eddy's chest. A single word escaped his lips, "Francis."
At eleven O'clock in the morning, Rafael strolled into the Brentwood Smoking Club. Although women were allowed as members, there was a strong flavor of masculinity at this private club in Beverly Hills. The resonance of primarily male voices created a low murmur. Lustrous oak wainscoting lined the walls. The carpeting was billiard table green. Furniture was solid, heavy and man-sized, precisely comfortable for Rafe's broad-shouldered, six-foot-three-inch frame.
In the temperature-controlled cedar room with floor-to-ceiling humidified lockers, he trailed his fingertips across the brass plate etched with the name, "Rafael Santini." It was one of his many aliases. Rafael Santini. Rafe Sabat. Ralph Sanders. Ron Sukahara.
He unlocked the humidor and removed a wooden box filled with handmade Havana cigars. The redolence of pure tobacco, rolled firm on the thigh of a young señorita, assailed his senses. His tongue whetted in anticipation of the first draw as he removed two cigars from the box. There were some sensual delights that surpassed celestial ecstasy.
Rafe found a leather armchair in a private corner near the picture window, offering a panoramic view of milky smog, rooftops and royal palms. In a subtle gesture, he signaled to one of the white-coated waiters. Rafe was ready for his double espresso.
After he had clipped the end of his cigar, he crossed his long legs and adjusted the trouser crease of his charcoal gray Armani suit, subtly striped with midnight black as dark as Rafe's long, thick hair tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He reached into his inner suit coat pocket and removed a small book that he usually carried with him. The Bible.
As the waiter delivered the espresso and turned away, Rafe was left completely alone. He snapped his fingers to spark a small, blue flame, which he used to light his cigar. Such small miracles were among the privileges of being an angel.
The first taste of his cigar was ambrosia, deeply satisfying. The thick coffee added to his contentment. Rafe settled back to read the Book of Psalms,
poetry for the soul.
After only a few moments, a muscular gentleman in tennis whites settled into the leather chair beside him. Without looking up, Rafe acknowledged the presence of the other. "Good morning, Mike."
"That's Saint Mike to you, my boy."
"Then this is an official visit."
"Yes, it is."
Mike was usually more casual, not like some of the saints who were tiresome with their insistence on titles and entitlements. Ironic, Rafe thought. The righteousness of souls derived from the few short years of actual human life, rather than from the ages of angelic existence.
As a mortal man, Rafe had been less than exemplary. In an ancient land that no longer existed, he'd been a thief and blackguard, living by his wits and his physical strength, which was, without exaggeration, formidable. Ultimately, he was apprehended for his crimes and incarcerated in a stinking hole of a jail, where he witnessed the suffering of innocents and underwent an epiphany. He'd repented and received divine forgiveness.
At the moment of his execution, Rafe had been recruited by Saint Michael himself into the ranks of the Avenging Angels. Saint Michael of the flaming sword. Saint Michael, the patron of policemen.
Rafe owed this virile saint a debt of gratitude that could not be repaid in one hundred lifetimes. Turning his head, Rafe gazed upon his mentor. "Cigar?"
"Don't mind if I do. Cuban?"
"Of course."
Mike accepted the cigar, rolled it between his fingers and savored the fragrance before he neatly clipped the end. "I like this place. Some of our friends in high places—literally in high places—don't approve of such creature comforts."
"I have no choice," Rafe said. "In my work with the International Department of Avenging Angels, I frequently deal with men of wealth and power. I need to look like one of them."
"By the way, I'm mightily impressed with your work in Latin America and the Pacific Rim," Mike said. "Your vengeance has been exact and proper."