Lost Angel

by Louisa Trent

  "Vid-video cam?"

  "You heard me. Every slut intent on blackmail needs a few compromising, digitally enhanced porn shots. Where's your equipment? And I'm not talking your female gear either, cuz honey, from what I can see of what you got, it ain't no kind of special."

  "Calm down, Ron." Steve adroitly placed himself between the two women. A risky place because fat chance his partner was calming down, not when her finger was moving back and forth like a windshield wiper during a flash-flood downpour.

  "Look at her!" His partner's blood-red fingernail air-stabbed at Emily. "Miss Shameless, spilling out of that coverall!"

  "Ronnie! Stop! You don't understand. Let's go outside and I'll explain."

  "Oh, I understand. And I'm not stopping! You're the one who needs to stop, being such a bleeding heart nice guy. Fire that conniving bitch before I make war on her gold-digger's ass!"

  Emily backed up to the bed, the back of her knees hitting the frame.

  "This has nothing to do with you, Miss Thomas," she said quietly. "This is between Steve and myself. I suggest you leave."

  "Who do you think you are, telling me to leave? You're the one who's leaving."

  When Ronnie made to move past him, he grabbed her. "That's enough. This isn't how it looks."

  Except, it was how it looked...

  Ronnie was wrong about this being a gold-digger's setup for blackmail sex, but his partner was right-on about this being a staged scene. He had caught Emily breaking into his computer files, and, to distract him, she had issued him a clear sexual invitation. The gutsy way Emily handled herself in a tight situation left him both impressed and exasperated. Would she have gone through with it, slept with him, to get what she was after?

  He wanted her, but not that way. When all was said and done, she was still only a kid trying to play with the big boys. But man, this drama was just too much to take. His wife's death had put his heart through the wringer, squeezed every emotion out of that organ and then hung his tears out to dry. He needed Emily like he needed his veins ripped open. Dammit! She was not his problem!

  Then Steve looked at Emily's face, really looked at it, and he understood.

  She had felt cornered. That was the reason she had offered him her body. Sex is the last resort of a woman with nothing left to lose. How could Emily think so little of herself?

  "It's okay, sweetheart," Steve said, giving her a way out. Again. "Our little secret is out in the open now and we'll just have to make the best of it."

  Ronnie put her hands on her hips. "What little secret?"

  Steve ignored his partner. When he lowered his head, all his attention was fixed on Emily.

  The kiss started off as a brief slide of his lips over hers, a way to get his partner to lay off Emily so he could deal with the little snoop his own way, but when his mouth brushed her mouth, the kiss turned wet and hot and wild. Very, very, private. This, despite their audience, this despite his real concern over Emily's age. His tongue was in Emily's mouth, and his cock was wanting out of his jeans and into her too. The kiss was sublimated sex, a substitution for the real deal.

  And, apart from the kiss, he wasn't touching her.

  Too afraid to. His control was pretty nearly shot, and if he touched Emily, he would rip off that ugly overall and throw her on the bed, take her in whatever position she happened to land, regardless that they weren't alone in the room, regardless that she might very well be eighteen. Or, Christ help him, even younger. To feel her tight wetness clasp around him, his cock driving into her heat, was all he could think about, because man, the lady wasn't faking the kiss. The seduction was staged, but hell, the kiss was the genuine article. After Jen's death, he had gone to bed with too many women not to know when a female's response was an act. This was no performance. This was no act. The woman kissing him back meant business. He could taste the rawness of her passion, her unbridled sexuality. She was liking his mouth on her mouth. Liking it so much, she cradled his cock against her belly, making sweet needful murmurings deep in her throat. She was as lost in the moment as was he; she was not tempering her response, not holding anything back, not keeping something for herself. She was his for the asking.

  Wasn't this just a fine fucking kettle of fish?

  Steve broke it off. "No, angel," he whispered, breathing rough but not frantic, still in control. Barely.

  Eyes closed, she reached for him again.

  He restrained her wrists. "I said, no."

  "No?" she said weakly, longingly, her hunger matching his own.

  "We can't," he said gently, no stranger to frustration himself. "We have company."

  He motioned to Ronnie.

  "Ice water, anyone?" Their audience asked, fanning herself. "I could use a pitcher, myself."

  Steve wrapped an arm around Emily's shoulders-she was shaking.

  He wasn't any too steady himself. What had just happened? "Uh ... in case you haven't caught on yet, Lee and I are ... uh ... dating." He said pointedly, "That's why, Ron, I specifically asked you to wait downstairs!"

  "Don't go all angry on me, sugar," Ron coaxed. "How was I to know you two were an item? Please forgive me, Lee, for barging in on you lovebirds and for those hateful things I said. Can we be friends?"

  "I ... I'd like that," Emily answered. "You're a very loyal person, Ronnie, and I know you were just trying to protect Steve's interests."

  "Thank you, Lee." Class all the way, his partner held out her hand.

  After the two females shook on it, Ronnie turned to him. "The reason I dropped by today was to tell you Greg asked me over to your folk's house for a barbecue. And I ... well I've ... decided to accept his invitation."

  "We'll be there too." Steve squeezed Emily's shoulder, and then propelled his partner out the door before Emily collapsed.

  Outside, on the back porch, Steve got right to the point. "What's up? This isn't really a social call..."

  A much-subdued Ronnie said, "No, it's not. I found out some information on Emily Parker. I thought you should take a look at it..."

  Steve snapped to full alert. "Oh, yeah? What'd'ya dig up?"

  "According to my sources, that waif's got no relatives. She's been in and out of state care half her life. The other half she's been on the streets, most likely hustling to make ends meet."

  Ron took a folder out of the satchel slung over her shoulder and passed it to him. "Here. Read it for yourself. It's all there. The whole bad-girl tale."

  First thing, Steve checked Emily's DOB.

  Twenty-two. Young, but not a kid. No need to feel twisted and depraved for having the hots over a teenager.

  He skimmed the rest of the report.

  It was bad. Worse than he had expected. Father unknown. Young Emily had cared for her alcoholic mother, not the other way around, until her only parent's early death of cirrhosis. No relatives to take her in. A history of foster home placements that didn't work out ... runaway at thirteen years old. And Ronnie was right: Emily had most likely prostituted to survive. She hadn't been placed in a residential treatment school until she turned fifteen, which meant she had been on the streets for two years. What other way did a young girl have to make money but to sell her body?

  Ronnie continued: "You'll see if you skim my report that Emily Parker has a juvie record for breaking and entering. She's an expert at busting out and breaking in. No placement could keep her, not until that last school, which was a secure facility. I'm talking keyed-in residential treatment. My opinion is that she could've slipped out of there too, despite the lock-up, if she had wanted to, but there was a reason for her to stay. If that waif is on the run now, Steve, nobody will find her."

  With a sigh, Steve closed the folder. Everything in the dossier pointed to Emily's involvement in the theft of The Cuzin.

  What was he supposed to do now, think now? He couldn't condemn her. What the hell did he know about her life, about what she'd been through, what drove her to steal? He'd been fortunate in his parents. The Gallaghers were one bi
g loud and loving family. He'd done a man's work at a young age, but he knew nothing about surviving on the mean streets. He had no clue how she made it from one day to the next. But despite all the shit going down in her life, she had gone to community college on a full scholarship, supporting herself with a variety of odd jobs, graduating with honors in what else but Art History. Then, Fritz had hired her.

  She must have succumbed to the allure of easy money, and that's why she returned to stealing. There was no other explanation. She had been doing so well, getting herself straight.

  He wanted to help get her back on the right path. "Ronnie, I want you to drop your investigation into Emily Parker. Here on out, The Cuzin case is all mine."

  "May I ask why?"

  Steve carefully weighed his words. "I've decided to work the case from a new angle. Emily Parker will never come up for air if too many people start asking questions about her. Henceforth, this is strictly a one-man operation. Don't worry the percentage. You'll get your cut of the finder's fee when the painting is found."

  And with that, Steve left a slack-jawed Ronnie standing on the porch, and walked back inside the house.

  He wanted Emily. Knowing she was a thief, he wanted her anyway. But he wasn't about to let himself be used.

  Steve went to the sink, splashed some cold water on his hot face. Once he was cooler, he went over once the precautions he had in place against discovery.

  His business was protected. In anticipation of Emily making a move, he had removed all relevant information about himself, the nature of his work, and The Cuzin from his computer files. Nor would she find out what he did for a living through normal means, as Gallagher Investigative Services wasn't exactly listed in the Yellow Pages or, for that matter, anywhere else; all his jobs came through very private referrals.

  Easy to protect his business, harder to protect his heart.

  Steve climbed the stairs and knocked on the door to his bedroom. At Emily's soft "Come in," he crossed the room to where she stood in front of his bed.

  Her coverall was still undone to the waist, revealing small white breasts that lifted and fell too rapidly. She didn't try to cover up. Lord, was she still trying to seduce him?

  Ignoring the need in his loins, he lifted her pretty chin with a finger, forcing her to make eye contact. "You okay?"

  "I'm fine," she answered, her gaze going to the condoms on the bed.

  "We're not using those today." He zipped her up to the chin, and then fingered a strand of ragged black hair that feathered her high-cheekbone.

  Emily had to be in some kind of trouble to butcher her beautiful long hair, to dye it shoe-polish black, and the trouble had to be damned serious. The life or death kind of serious. What the hell had she done?

  Suddenly, he was glad she had altered her appearance. Hair would grow back. Dye would wash out. Those changes were cosmetic and temporary. Death was permanent, and that's what she faced if Emily thought she could double-deal Fritz's art ring. There was not a doubt in his mind that if the other thieves caught her, the results would be deadly.

  But why come to him?

  It had to have something to do with his ten o'clock meeting with Fritz, the one that she had arranged over the phone. Did she think he knew something about the location of The Cuzin? Is that what this was all about? Did she think he was in on the theft?

  When his knuckles accidentally brushed against Emily's soft skin, Steve felt his dick tighten. He was not unaffected by her closeness, not nearly as in control as he would like to believe. For a dark period in his life, he had slept with a different woman every day of the week, sometimes more than one a day, sometimes more than one at the same time. He wasn't proud of it. He had had some stuff to work through after his wife's death, and sex had been part of that stuff. Jen's death had done a number on his head. Young and angry, he had taken women indiscriminately, heedlessly. Sex had been his self-medication and his addiction; no different than how some suffering bastards turn to the bottle or dope...

  He wished there hadn't been so many women, so many meaningless encounters. But he couldn't change his past, any more than Emily could change hers.

  "I'm sorry about that scene with Ronnie," he said quietly. "She dropped by while I was out on the porch. I told her you were inside making ice tea, and that I would go see what was taking you so long. She followed me up the stairs. I apologize for having unwittingly caused you embarrassment."

  "It wasn't supposed to happen like this, you know?" she asked, staring at his mouth, leaning towards his mouth. "Not now. Now when I... "

  The flow of words dried up. "This is not working out the way I planned," she finished.

  "Can you tell me what those plans are, angel?"

  She looked away. "No I ... I can't."

  Drawing her close, he gathered her to his chest. She felt so small and fragile in his arms. Vulnerable, but not innocent; Emily wasn't innocent by a long shot. Not sexually, not legally. He had to face the facts-Emily was a prostitute and a thief. What was worse, he couldn't trust her. She would use him, and then she would take off into the night after getting what she wanted. Emily would break his heart.

  "It's all right," he soothed. "Maybe you'll tell me some other time."

  Needing to get away from the bed with the condoms littering the top, needing to get away from the seduction of her soft body, Steve put Emily away from him. "Let's go downstairs now. I'll make us that ice tea."

  An easy quiet fell between them while they drank their tea, gliding back and forth on the swing, looking at the ocean like neither of them had a care in the world.

  "Ronnie likes you," Emily finally tossed out for discussion.

  Not exactly a subject he had expected to chat about this late summer afternoon, not what he would have liked to talk about, but hey, he worked with whatever was at hand. Chuckling, he played along. "Likes me? What's this? High school?"

  "I'm just curious about you two, is all."

  Steve sighed. He had met Ronnie in an FBI unit dedicated to the investigation of fraudulent art. When he became disenchanted with the Bureau and walked away, Ronnie came with him. Happily, art investigation is art investigation, and the techniques were fully translatable to the private sector. In short order, he founded Gallagher Investigation Agency. Ronnie and he worked strictly on contract. With a solid reputation established, and with a lot of phony and stolen artwork out there, they now had the freedom to pick and choose their cases, both in Europe and in the States.

  He couldn't tell Emily any of that...

  "Okay. Here's the deal. I ... uh ... like Ron too. As a friend. Now my brother, Greg, that's a different scene altogether. He has it bad for Ronnie. But up until today, she wouldn't give him the time of day. It was only after she saw you in my bedroom that she decided to go with him to my folks' place."

  "Aha!" She nodded, wisely. "You're playing matchmaker. Do you think it will work?"

  "I hope so. Ronnie is a great lady, with a great big huge heart. But sometimes, she gets fixated on things she can't have. I'm one of those things. I want to see her happy. And Greg could make her happy-if I removed myself from the equation. Does that sound like I'm being a cocky as ... uh ... butt?"

  "No. Honest."

  He wanted more than anything to be honest with her.

  He couldn't, and so instead, Steve placed Emily's legs up on the swing seat beside him, drew off her unlaced boots, and began absently massaging her feet. He used to do the same thing for his wife.

  "I kissed you in front of Ronnie for several reasons. One, so there wouldn't be any gossip about us getting back to my family. They would start in with a million questions and that would spoil our time together this summer. Two, I wanted to make it clear to my partner that you hadn't schemed to get me alone in my bedroom so she would stop stalking me like a lion after raw meat. Okay with that so far?"

  Her lashes dropped. "I'm okay with that. As long as you understand, Steve, that I'm not after your money."

  "I know you aren't,
angel." That would be too easy.

  He took a deep breath. "Number three: I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you."

  Her eyes went wide. "You did?"

  "Yep. And you know something else? My family will love you. When I take you to that barbecue with me as my date, they'll eat you up like cotton candy."

  "But Steve, we're not dating. That was just a story, something you told Ronnie to save my ... well ... I guess my reputation. I don't want to hurt your parents by pretending to be someone I'm not, someone you would actually see socially."

  "Who says we would be pretending? Who says I'm not interested in seeing you socially?"

  "You're rich and I'm only a ... uh ... a mechanic. That speaks for itself."

  He had to hand it to her; she was good. Emily's face was so serious, so earnest, it was hard to believe that she was putting him on.

  "I wasn't born wealthy."

  Far from it. And inside he was the same hungry dock tough who had hauled lobster traps in the morning for his family's business, taken tourists out deep-sea fishing in the afternoon, and tended bar at night in swanky restaurants he couldn't afford to frequent. Yeah, he owned a big house in Falmouth now, a condo in Boston and one in New York, too, and he dined out at any ritzy restaurant he so desired. These days, he fished for pleasure-or maybe because it was in his blood-from his own cabin cruiser.

  In a twisted and bizarre way, he owed the tragedy of his wife' death for his success. After Jen died, he had used work as an anesthesia to dull the pain. But no amount of financial gain could make up for the loss of the girl he had loved since he had been old enough to get a hard-on. He still saw nothing but blackness when he thought about his wife's illness. Every time he thought of the unfairness, the injustice of her dying so young, he still got angry. He had yet to work through the rage, and come out on the other side. He was in the dead zone when it came to the loss of his only love...

  When a boy does a man's work from an early age, when he works the docks, he grows up fast. He was a man at sixteen. But it wasn't until his wedding night that he gave his virginity to his equally virginal bride. Childhood sweethearts, they had made a pact to save themselves for each other. Both of them so damned innocent! And dirt-poor. And young. He had had no prospects beyond fishing off his family's boat. Looking back on it, the poverty hadn't mattered, but leaving Jen alone for weeks at a time while he tried to make a living had mattered a lot. Not that she ever complained. Still, she must have been so lonely...