Lost Angel

by Louisa Trent

  No one but state social workers had ever come looking for her. No one, who wasn't paid to, had ever cared if she went missing. If she dropped off the edge of the earth tomorrow, no one would miss her. That was some sad commentary.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The night before, Steve had tossed and turned in the sack. Finally, hours before dawn, he gave up on trying to sleep, got out of bed and paced the floor, enumerating the sickening possibilities of what could happen to a young woman, alone and desperate and on the run.

  When he caught sight of Emily making her way up the drive this morning, relief had poured over him.

  That relief was short-lived. Emily might take off again. Over a goddamned stupid coverall.

  His reason for wanting her to wear the idiotic thing had nothing to do with Ronnie's catty observations or with him wanting to save her coins washing her ragbag clothes. He had made the suggestion in hopes that by covering her up from chin to ankles Emily would somehow look less beautiful. He needed her to look less beautiful. For the sake of his sanity, she needed to look like a grease-monkey kid.

  For years, he had lived as a monk, and now a possible teenaged thief was testing his self-control. Where did she get off pulling an outrageous stunt like that? Taking off her tee-shirt in front of him! Asking him if she should drop her pants or drop to her knees! What the hell kind of bratty crap was that? What if he had taken her up on her offer? What would she have done then?

  Steve blanched. Christ! Suppose ... suppose ... she had let him? Suppose he had let her?

  That couldn't happen! She was a baby.

  And he wanted her anyway.

  Here he was lusting over a young woman he was investigating. Here he was harboring a young woman he might soon be giving up for legal prosecution. He should be jailed. He would be jailed if she were underage.

  "I took off the cap and the coverall fits," Emily called down to him as she descended the stairs.

  Steve looked up.

  No, the coverall did not fit. The hideous thing hung huge on her.

  And she looked beautiful anyway, especially now that he could see her face. His scheme hadn't worked. Nothing he did seemed to work

  His throat tightening, his balls hurting, Steve raced for the car; the Dusenberg would play chaperone between Emily and his erection. "Let's get to work," he said over the raised hood.

  "I can't wait! I thought about this car all night."

  Finally, a statement falling from her lush mouth he could actually believe!

  Everything inside him wanted to call her on her previous lack of honesty, to have it out with her, there and then. And he couldn't, because though Emily looked beautiful, it was a transparent, fragile beauty. She was so thin a sea breeze could blow her away.

  She was not falling sick! He had already stood by helplessly while one young woman sickened and died, and he was fucking not doing it again!

  He cleared the gruffness from his throat. "We're ready to put the new engine in today. My younger brother, Greg, is stopping by to give us a hand."

  Emily angled her chin at him. "What the frig! Giving you a hand is what you're paying me to do!"

  What part of her routine was an act and what part was the real Emily Parker?

  Steve wished he knew. It would help clarify a lot. "You're doing a real fine job in the garage, but that engine is too heavy for just the two of us to lift."

  She dug in her heels. "I don't want you making allowances for me."

  "I'm not. I expect you to do the same work I do, get smeared with grit and oil, and not complain. You'll get the same two coffee breaks and thirty minutes for lunch, and you'll take the same safety precautions I take. That includes three sets of hands on a motor installation. Now if we understand each other, toss me over that socket wrench."

  She tossed.

  He caught. "Thanks."

  "I was wondering ... uh ... about the Dusenberg ... why the interest?"

  Uh-oh. Here we go. Emily was getting chummy, nosing around for information. "Cars are a hobby of mine. I drive a re-conditioned 'Vette, and I've always wanted an antique. The price on the Dusenberg was right, and I figured, what the hell? Go for it."

  Emily's expressive eyes showed such a keen interest that Steve threw her a bone. "As I already told you, I was a guest at Fritz's birthday masquerade party the night he committed suicide. That's where I first saw the car. I was there to locate a hood ornament. An angel..."

  Emily dropped the screwdriver in her hand.

  "Sorry," she whispered.

  Steve bent and retrieved the tool. Returning it to Emily's palm, he continued. "Turned out, Fritz didn't have the angel. He was an interesting guy, and ordinarily, I would've stayed and talked with him about cars during our appointment but there was someone I was anxious to meet afterwards. A blonde in a black cocktail dress. I saw her hurrying out of Fritz's garage looking real upset."

  Emily swayed.

  He reached for her elbow, held her upright. "You okay?"

  "I'm fine," she said, eyes closing.

  She leaned into him. Not sexually, not as a come-on; like a scared and tired kid in need of support. Emily had rock-bottomed, her weariness taking the bite out of her brittleness. Not even her essential toughness could stiffen her spine now. What was he going to do with her?

  He thought about Emily all last night. Lustfully. Tenderly. Protectively. To hell with The Cuzin. He was telling her he knew who she really was, so she could just drop the punk act. She was a baby involved in adult criminology, and she was accepting his help to extricate herself from this jam she was in whether she wanted to or not.

  As naturally as the sun comes up over Falmouth Harbor in the morning, Steve put his arms around her. "Listen, about the..."

  "Hey, bro! Who's the hot babe in the grease monkey suit?"

  Damn! Why did every person in his life have a lousy sense of timing?

  Moving away from Emily, Steve made the introductions. "Lee Packet, this is my kid brother, Gregory Gallagher."

  "How do you do?" Emily said.

  Greg flashed her his puppy dog grin, the one that made all the sweet young things swoon. "I do fine."

  Steve growled at his too-good-looking-for-his-own-good brother, "About time you got your worthless butt over here."

  "What the dick! I'm here, ain't I? I wouldn't miss out on working on this fine set of wheels."

  Steve cast a disapproving frown at his kid brother; Gallagher men were not crude in front of ladies.

  Greg's expression turned confused. "Huh? Why the look? All I'm saying is that car is one dope-ass sight, bro. You get cool points for buying it."

  Emily gave Greg a palm-pounding high-five.

  Greg's face split in a boyish grin. "I'm glad you too can appreciate how fuckin' awesome this car is, Lee-girl."

  "Enough with the language," older brother warned younger.

  "Oops." Greg's face turned red. "I apologize, Lee."

  Emily tilted her head at the two men. "Are you guys ... like from this century?"

  Greg laughed. "Our parents are kinda strict, and big brother Steve here is a real stickler for gentlemanly decorum." He winked at Emily. "But honestly, gorgeous," he drawled, "had I known you were here, I would've been on time."

  Though their bodies no longer touched, they stood close enough for Steve to know the exact moment when Emily's muscles went rigid. Strange her tenseness, when less than ten minutes before she had brazenly strutted her stuff. Any experienced woman could see his younger brother was no wolf; Greg had chivalry stamped on his forehead. So why was Emily on guard? Couldn't she tell Greg was all charm, no harm?

  When Emily moved closer to his side-did she even realize that she had?-Steve stepped in. "Hey, Greg, no flirting with my employee..."

  "Who's flirting?" Greg said innocently.

  "You."

  "Okay, I'm busted. Sorry, Lee," he said, voice sincere. Then, good-naturedly, "Tell your boss to go easy on me today. I've been up since dawn pulling lobster traps. He's luck
y to have my help, regardless of what time I poke my pretty face inside his garage."

  With a toss of her head, Emily snorted, "Tell this hard-ass anything? I don't think so."

  Greg's smile broadened. "Hullo! Here's a girl who can make herself understood. Bro, keep this one around."

  "Oh, I plan to," Steve replied.

  * * * *

  Two hours later, the new engine was installed in the Dusenberg, and his brother and his mechanic had become fast friends, tight in a way that excluded him. Theirs was the kind of instant rapport that comes of being the same age. Greg and Emily talked the current music scene, with references to pop culture Steve just didn't get.

  Feeling as old as the Dusenberg, Steve stepped back and admired their joint effort. "That engine is a work of art. A mechanical sculpture. It belongs atop a pedestal in the Guggenheim."

  "Gugen-whogen?" asked Greg, thumbing the grease from his chin.

  "It's a contemporary art museum in New York City," Emily supplied off-handedly. "Although I prefer the Impressionist period myself. I practically live at the Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum. It was a tragedy when those five Degas were stolen..." Her animated expression going flat, Emily stopped mid-sentence.

  Greg's face registered astonishment; Steve hoped his own mug didn't reflect similar surprise. His mechanic sounded curiously mature, not at all like an eighteen year-old kid.

  "Hey, Miss Righteous Mechanic, how come you know all this high-brow stuff?" Greg asked.

  After working with Fritz in the art field, and Steve used the word 'working' euphemistically, naturally Emily knew her way around museums, as did he. In 1990, the tall brick walls of the Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum had been scaled, the security breach leading to the disappearance of twelve art pieces, a loss totaling 200 million dollars. Three Rembrandts, a Vermeer, a Manet, and five Degas were snatched. It had been his honor to do some consulting on the frustrating case...

  Steve said, more to himself than to Emily or Greg, "When a thief steals the work of the Masters all of us are diminished in some way."

  Emily frowned. "You're interested in art, Steve?"

  After sending Greg a covert brotherly message, he replied evasively, "I know what I like."

  "Speaking of which-how's about I bust us up some jams?" Greg asked, turning on the CD player. "I'm in the mood for some ambient grooves."

  As the craggy voice of Bono filled the garage, Greg swept Emily into his arms.

  His kid brother had always been outgoing. High School class president. Valedictorian. He had what it took to succeed in any career. But all Greg had ever wanted to be was a fisherman, just like their old man.

  Making a living from the sea was a thing of the past! And besides, his brother was as smart as a whip! So Steve had forced college down his brother's throat, financing the tuition, just as he had with his other, less resistant siblings. His folks were proud, but they wanted the best for their kids, and knowing there was no way they could bankroll a college degree, they accepted Steve's help.

  Greg hadn't seen things quite the same way. For a time, tension had ruined their close bond. Not a major rift, but hurtful all the same. Greg put his big brother on notice that he was a man, not a boy, and once he graduated college, Steve's interference in his life ended.

  While the happy-go-lucky Greg twirled Emily around the garage floor, Steve realized that, yeah, his baby brother really was a man. And yeah, he was entitled to his own life, entitled to make his own mistakes, entitled to find his own road to happiness...

  ...so long as that happy road didn't include his current dance partner.

  Steve tapped his younger sibling on the shoulder. "I'm cutting in."

  When Greg stepped away, Steve pulled Emily gently into his arms, U2 now crooning a slow romantic ballad in the background. It was tough resisting the urge to crush Emily to him, to hold her loosely while he glided her across the garage's cement floor.

  "You move like a ballerina." He dropped his jaw to whisper in her ear. "You must've taken years of dance lessons as a kid."

  "Doesn't every spoiled little princess?"

  Despite her snappy comeback, Emily looked upset and trying hard not to show it. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place with a clunk, only Steve didn't like the picture those pieces were making. Emily Parker was no spoiled little princess; her background was far from indulged.

  When the song ended, Steve reluctantly loosened his hold on her. "Thank you for the dance," he said formally, and switched off the CD player. "Let's break for lunch, guys. There's plenty to eat up at the house."

  Steve turned to his brother. "You're sticking around for a sandwich, right Greg?"

  "Don't mind if I do. I'm so hungry, even lobster would look good."

  The two men laughed.

  "What's so funny?" Emily asked.

  Steve explained: "Fishermen and their families don't eat lobster unless times are tough and there's nothing else. Since times are always tough, lobster quickly loses its appeal. Personally, peanut butter and jelly gets my vote over lobster any day."

  Greg grinned. "How about it, Lee? Can you join us for lunch up at the house?"

  "No thanks," she said, primly. "I ... I'm watching my figure."

  "Allow me to do that for you," Greg parlayed.

  Emily rolled her eyes. "Another time. Okay?"

  She was sweeping the garage floor when they left.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  With the first of many five-percent commissions on re-claimed artwork, Steve had purchased the rambling circa-1875 sea captain's house set on an acre of sandy waterfront. He paid cash, and never once regretted it. His condo in a trendy New York building overlooking Central Park was where he lived, the Boston condo was strictly for entertainment purposes, but the cottage on the Cape owned his heart.

  The elder Gallagher opened the screen door for the younger. "I'm glad you could stay," Steve said, clapping Greg on the shoulder. "And by the way, thanks for all the help today. We couldn't have managed without you."

  "As to the thanks-don't mention it. But what's up with hiring the girl mechanic?"

  "Nothing's up. The girl mechanic happens to be damned good."

  Greg's dark eyes twinkled. "I just bet she is."

  Steve threw his younger brother a friendly punch.

  "Man, I'm not blind. I saw the way you looked at Lee. And she was in your arms when I arrived."

  Steve ignored the taunt and went to the fridge to hunt down sandwich building material. "Ham and cheese okay?"

  "Straight up, dog."

  "I'll take that as an affirmative," Steve said dryly, shutting one side of the double hung door.

  Greg leaned his elbows back on the granite counter and crossed his high tops at the ankles. "Lee-girl sure is a looker."

  Steve stepped over the pair of monster-feet on his way to the loaf of bread. "Her looks are not why I hired her." Untwisting the tie on the plastic bag, he threw eight slices of bread on the board, covering four of them with a quarter inch of ham and Swiss cheese. "Mayo or mustard?"

  "Mustard. C'mon, man. This is your brother talking. You gotta agree she's fine."

  "I'm not discussing this, Greg."

  Steve lathered the tops with mustard, slapped the waiting ham and cheese onto the bottoms and sliced the construction into halves. "Pickles?"

  "Sweet or sour?"

  "Sour."

  "Hold 'em. Sour pickles taste like ass."

  "You certainly have a way with words..."

  Chuckling, Greg stroked his Gallagher-lean jaw. "See, now that sort of old-world snobbery is why you don't have a chance in hell of getting to first base with your new employee, not with a young, silver-tongued stud like me around. Lee and me, we're what you call simpatico, being that we're contemps and all."

  Steve flopped the four sandwiches onto plates. Stepping over his brother's big feet again, he stopped at the fridge for cans of cola. These he tossed to Greg before juggling their lunch and a bag of chips to the table where he took a seat
. "Would you cut it out?"

  "Cut what out, man?" Greg hunkered down on his chair and flipped chips from the bag into his mouth.

  "You know what."

  "No, I don't. What? Spell it for me."

  "Cut the wise-ass posturing, for one. And enough with razzing me about my age, already. I'm not all that old. And for your information, I hired Lee Packet because she knows her stuff, not because I was thinking homeruns. Did you notice how she took charge when we were fumbling around under the hood for the alternator?"

  "Yeah, I noticed," Greg said around a mouthful of sandwich. "Only I'm not buying you hired her due solely to her mechanical genius. What gives?"

  "Nothing."

  "Guess I'll have to charm the real deal out of the lady..."

  "You keep your charm away from her! Understand?"

  "I don't know. She's awfully sweet. Nice chassis. A rear end that could compete with J-Lo. The headlights are right up front and high where they should be too. Mmm-mmm-mmm..."

  "Gregory, don't make me tell Ma on you."

  "No! No! Not that!" Greg hid his grin inside his raised can of soda. "I'll behave. Promise. Just don't tell Ma!" He took a long swallow, then crushed the can in his fist. "Speaking of Ma-you're to come to supper next weekend. 'Bring a date', Mrs. G says."

  Steve grimaced. "Mrs. G always says that."

  "It's a barbecue. With Ma's famous Buffalo wings. Ribs too. They're my favorite, so you better not screw up. Bring a damned date."

  "Who you bringing?"

  "Ronnie," Greg mumbled.

  Steve peeled the surprise from his voice. "Ronnie." He nodded. "Good. Ma likes Ron. She'll be glad to see her again."

  "I invited her because you keep saying Ron and you are just friends." Greg's tone was defensive.

  "We are."

  "And you don't sleep with her, right?"

  Steve pointed an oil-stained finger at his brother's nose. "Don't go there."

  For an outgoing guy, Greg's look was awfully bashful. "I need to know, Steven."