Lost Angel

by Louisa Trent

  "Steve!" she said, squirming, her pelvis lifting to accept deeper strokes. "Steve!"

  "Shh," he crooned. "It's all right, angel. I'm here. You're safe. I swear, I'll never hurt you or let anyone else hurt you. You can trust me."

  Emily was a screamer, which was the kind of standing 'O' a man could definitely appreciate. Afterwards, all embarrassed by her outburst, she hid her face in his shoulder.

  "No one heard," he reassured her. "We're out on the water."

  He cuddled his lost angel in his arms, her body all soft and sweet, tears of release puddling his chest as her tension gave way. But when he picked up the scent of her musk clinging to his wet fingertips, liking that perfume just a little too much for his peace of mind, he put her away from him. Scooping her fallen bikini from the deck, he handed both tiny pieces to her.

  "Better put this back on," he said, turning his back, busying himself with the lobster traps while she got herself together, his eyes on the water, manfully resisting the urge to swim for shore.

  He had it bad and this was not good.

  * * * *

  With two weeks worth of pay burning a hole in the back pocket of her faded black jeans, Emily walked to town, a good forty-five minute trip on foot along a narrow and winding two-lane road. No sidewalks. But plenty of speeding tourists searching for the perfect Cape Cod 'ye olde gift shoppe.'

  Steve, a native Cape Codder, shook his head over those vacationers, telling her that real Cape people-year-'rounders like his parents-didn't venture out on the weekend, even to go food shopping, because of the traffic congestion.

  As Emily kept well to the side, it did seem to her that cars drove awfully fast, considering the sharp twists and curves in the road. According to Steve, the same vacationers who drove so recklessly were also responsible for jacking up the cost of rental units, to the degree that folks who worked on the Cape, especially in service industries, could no longer afford to live on the Cape.

  Emily was one of those unfortunates. Steve paid her an excellent wage, but after looking at real estate ads in the local paper, she had given up on the idea of finding affordable housing. Even a room in a boardinghouse was well beyond her means, what with a security deposit and one-month's rent in advance. That's if she could even find a place at all; summer was peak tourist season and accommodations were scarce to non-existent.

  So ... rather than hope for a housing miracle, she decided to spend a little money she had saved for housing she most likely wouldn't find or afford and treat herself to a new outfit for Steve's family barbecue. Something nice, but not so nice that it would wreck her budget; there was still a locket in a Boston pawnshop waiting for her to rescue. The antique piece of jewelry was her last connection to Mr. Fritz, and she was determined to get it back. Even a present from a man out to use her had sentimental meaning for her. There it was, pathetic, but true. After deducting the cost of a round-trip bus fare to Boston, food and miscellaneous necessities, by her calculations she had enough money to claim the pawn ticket with an extra forty dollars left over to spend-if she gave up on the idea of housing. A fortune!

  In a small consignment store on Main Street, Emily smiled at the elderly lady at the register as she headed for the rack of dresses along the back wall, flipping through the hangers for something pretty and affordable. In no time at all, she had selected a summery cotton sundress in a lovely shave of lavender, just right for a family barbecue. Steve wore lots of pastel colors-would he like her in this soft shade of purple?

  She rarely wore dresses, but she sensed that Steve liked feminine women, and she wanted to please him...

  He had certainly pleased her. Strange, that he hadn't pressured her for sex on the lobster boat. Sex was all a man wanted from a woman, and Steve had been clear that sex was all he wanted from her. And she had shown she was willing. More than willing. She had whipped off her bikini quickly enough. She had come fast enough too. She had wanted to reciprocate, but he wouldn't let her...

  After purchasing the dress she hoped would please Steve, she headed for the Cape Cod Bargaineer where she soon discovered, after sifting through the half-price lingerie bins, that on her tight budget she couldn't afford even the marked down bargains.

  She needed a slip, a bra, panties, and shoes, but couldn't afford all four items. Providing she didn't jump around a lot, she supposed she could go braless a little while longer; the lavender dress was one of those gauzy, flowing numbers in fashion a few summers back and not at all clingy. If she didn't stand with the sun at her back, no one should see through it, so she supposed she could nix the slip too. And she still had her faded rose panties; she would just to continue to wash them out every night. Shoes, however, were an absolute necessity; her old work boots would look clunky with the dress. But regular shoes were not an option, not even the cheap ones.

  In the bathing suit department, she found a pair of rubber beach flip-flops-purple to go with the dress. Overjoyed with her discovery, she paid for them, and with shopping bag under her arm, started the long walk back to the garage. She was scheduled to work at noon that day.

  Her back to the traffic flow, daydreaming about the pretty lavender dress ... and Steve ... she didn't hear the oncoming car until it was right on top of her. As the tires squealed, her reflexes kicked in, and she dove, headfirst, onto the soft sandy shoulder, rolling down the slope into an off-road ditch. Facedown in a puddle off run-off water, she never even caught a glimpse of the speeding car that had come within inches of hitting her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Scowling, Steve paced the white clamshell drive out in front of the garage.

  Emily was late for work, and she was never late for work. Had she taken off? Decided to split after what had happened on the lobster boat?

  She had been real quiet on their return to shore. He didn't push. Without her having to tell him, he understood the reason for her silence; Emily had never gotten off before. A thing like that meant something to a woman.

  To a man too. At least, it did to him.

  He had never made it happen for Jen. Shy about sex, fragile too, and with him an inexperienced lover gone from home much of the time, there hadn't been much experimentation to find out what would do it for her. He had never made his wife scream as he had made Emily scream.

  No! He wouldn't think about his wife now. Not in the same context with a thief and a liar and a woman who liked sex.

  Emily had liked it. He knew damned well that she had. But maybe liking it with him was not part of her plans. It wasn't exactly on his itinerary either.

  Yesterday just sort of happened. He didn't set out to get Emily naked. His intention had never been to use sex to get inside her brain about The Cuzin. But as Steve paced his driveway, he admitted to himself that he had hoped good sex might get Emily to stick around, to tie her to him. And pleasuring her was no chore. Emily was one lusty lady. Receptive. Responsive. Adventurous.

  Steve grinned in memory.

  Emily, naked under the sky, out on the water, had been a major turn on. Her spontaneity, her lack of guile and inhibitions had excited him. Fucking her would be something else. And his anticipation had nothing to do with it being too long for him.

  When Steve finally spied Emily walking up the lane, he pulled on his laid-back posturing and stayed put right where he was. He would not race to her, not indicate in any way just how frantic he had been over her. Nothing would drive her away faster.

  "What's up?" he asked easily.

  "Pardon?" she asked in return, her clamshell-crunching work boots eating up the distance between them.

  He didn't touch her. Too tense. Too scared. Too worried she would bolt. "You always beat me to the garage," he explained. "Today, you're late. I thought maybe you were playing hooky."

  "I'm sorry. Something came up."

  " 'Something came up' is not an excuse!" The stress was getting to him and he was losing it. "I told you, work starts at noon today and it's after one o'clock."

  "And I told you, somethi
ng came up!"

  "It isn't like you to be late."

  "So dock my pay if you're pissed." She dropped the bag she was holding. "Listen, having your hand on my twat doesn't give you any rights over me."

  His mouth opened, snapped closed, opened again. "You keep up the dirty street talk and I'll haul you over my knee and spank some manners into you."

  "Yeah, and you would like that, wouldn't you?"

  "Yes, I would. And so would you. You could use some discipline, and guaranteed, you would enjoy mine."

  Waves of molten arousal rolled over him, unspeakably primitive S&M fantasies setting his teeth on edge. After his wife's death, he got into the BDSM scene and quickly discovered that sexual domination came naturally to him; mastery was part of his temperament. It was just the way it was. He never insisted on D/S sex, unless the woman needed dominance to come. Some women did. Then, he would happily oblige. Sure as hell, this succulent piece needed someone to take charge of her, someone to master her, someone to keep her from her larcenous ways. Better he keep Emily in line than the state's judicial system...

  "Now on, I pick you up at your place."

  "No!"

  At her defiance, the frown he had kept at bay broke across Steve's face. He was at the end of his patience with her.

  "Listen..." he began. Then stopped.

  Emily's black jeans, the same ones she wore everyday, were wet and mud splattered. A rip slashed the pant leg. "What the hell happened to you?" he roared, his laid-back posturing a thing of the past.

  "I went shopping in town and I ... I fell on the walk back."

  "You fell?" Anchoring his hands on her shoulders, he turned her around. "You've got mud all over you, shoulders to ankles, and it's not from any fall! What really happened to you?"

  "I tripped over my own two feet. When I fell, I rolled in some mud. Clumsy, huh?"

  "You're never clumsy. You're the most graceful woman I've ever seen."

  "Well, thanks for the compliment but that's what happened." She patted some dried mud from her rear end, her fingers brushing her back pocket, brushing her pocket again, wildly brushing her pocket. What was up with her pocket? Suddenly, Emily clutched at her middle.

  Steve grabbed her before she toppled. "Are you hurt?"

  "J-just a l-little s-s-shaken." Her perfect white teeth violently chattered. "I c-could use a bath." She plucked at the ripped denim over her knee. "And a needle and thread. My jeans need to be s-sewn."

  "I can scrounge one up. I'll throw your things in the washer while you're in the tub up at the house. How's that?"

  "Thank you," she said weakly.

  "Don't mention it." He tucked her into his side. "C'mon. You'll feel better after you soak."

  One step, and Emily covered her mouth. Pushing away from him, she raced for the back of the garage.

  Steve went after her, finding her doubled over the bushes.

  "Dry heaves are the worst," he said, coming up behind her and supporting her once more. "It's always better to have something in your belly to upchuck than to vomit nothing but fear."

  When she was done gagging, he wiped her mouth with the corner of his loose shirt. "Feeling better now?"

  Moaning, she shook her head; a tear rolled down her face.

  Without saying another word, Steve picked Emily up in his arms and carried her up the clamshell driveway to the house, to his second-floor bedroom.

  Guessing his destination, she lifted her lolled head. "I'm filthy, Steve. Don't put me in the bed-the clean sheets."

  "Fu-get the sheets." He kept walking to the bed.

  This brought on another siege of weepiness. Giving in, he took her to the connecting bath, dropped the toilet lid and sat her down on top. "After your bath, it's the bed for you. No arguments."

  Swearing under his breath because he felt so damned useless, he turned on the faucet in the tub. While that ran hot, he went to the sink, turned on the cold tap and wet a washcloth. "Still nauseous?" he asked, wiping her pale face.

  "A little. It comes and goes."

  "Need help getting undressed?"

  Another dejected head shake. "I can manage on my own."

  "Call if you can't," he said, and left her there slouched on the commode.

  He gave Emily thirty minutes to soak her muscles in the hot tub before knocking on the door. "I'm coming in," he called.

  "Oh, no, you're not! I'm taking a bath!"

  "So?"

  "So? So I'm n-n-naked," she sputtered.

  "Figured as much," he said, happy to hear the fight back in her voice, and turned the knob.

  The door was unlocked, which meant she trusted him-at least enough not to lock herself inside.

  Ignoring her scowl, Steve ambled to the medicine cabinet and removed the First-Aid Kit. Giving her time to adjust to having her privacy invaded, he delayed the inevitable confrontation. When he eventually walked back to the tub, he smiled into her flushed face. "My, isn't this cozy?"

  Knees bent up, Emily held a washcloth modestly to her chest. Her rigid posture told him she was hurting.

  "Any difficulty breathing?" he asked, getting down to business straightaway.

  "No. Now get the hell out."

  "Any sharp pain anywhere?"

  "Yeah, my ass," she grumbled. "As soon as the door slams behind yours, it'll be gone. Now if you'll excuse me..."

  "Why? You going somewhere?" He moved in for a closer look. "There's a lot of bruising on your back." He dropped to his knees next to the tub. "Is it just your left arm and knee, or are your ribs aching too?"

  "How did you know about my arm?" she snapped.

  "You're favoring it. Also, you winced just now when you crooked your elbow to pitch the bar of soap at me. When you thought better of it, that told me your ribs might be involved."

  "It's only a bruise on my arm and a cut on my knee. There's nothing wrong with my ribs. I didn't throw the soap because on second thought it seemed rather juvenile."

  "Glad to hear we're being mature about this."

  He reached for her. "I'll help you stand."

  "I'm not standing up, naked, in this tub while you're here!"

  He had a feeling she would say that, so he had his argument already prepared. "I saw you naked on the boat," he said reasonably, patiently, thinking she looked real cute when her temper was spiking, but knowing enough to keep his mouth shut about that.

  "This is different. I looked hot on the boat. I'm not looking so hot now."

  "Angel, you're so hot the bath water is sending up steam."

  She glared at him.

  He tried to trick her out. "How's this? I'll shut my eyes and just feel around for injuries."

  "No fuckin' way!"

  "Stop with the language," he warned and leaned forward, his intention to lift her under the arms.

  She squealed, wet body squirming, face turning bright pink.

  The blush stunned him-who knew tough-cookie Emily could blush?

  He shifted into bluff mode. "Fine. I'll take you to the hospital for x-rays."

  "No hospital! I can't go to an emergency room! I told you, I'm a little bruised, that's all."

  Emily didn't want any record-keeping done on her.

  "All I want to do is make sure your ribs are okay, angel. You're yelling at me like a fishwife, so you're obviously not having any difficulty breathing. That's an excellent sign, but I need to make sure you don't need a doctor."

  He backed off. Emily was wearing that cornered look again. If he rushed her, and she fought him, an abrupt move might make her injuries worse. "Can you stand up by yourself?"

  Her bottom lip trembled. "No." A tear rolled down her face. "I tried before you barged in on me but I was too stiff."

  "What was your game plan? Staying in the tub 'till you pruned?" he asked as he picked her up in his arms.

  After setting her feet on the bathroom's tile floor, he checked her out.

  "It looks worse than it is," she told him.

  "I sure hope so." She had to be
sore as hell. Purple and yellow ribbons decorated her back like the grandstands at a high school pep rally. But he couldn't see any breaks in the skin, except at her knee.

  He placed the ice pack he'd brought with him around her arm to reduce the swelling and fastened the velcro to keep it in place. Then, hunkering down in front of her, he examined the cut on her knee.

  It wasn't too bad. Not serious, anyway.

  After painting the abrasion with a little antiseptic, he straightened up. Keeping it matter-of-fact, he felt her ribs. "No ballroom dancing for a while."

  "Do not make me laugh, dickhead."

  Chuckling, he probed for give in the bones. "Any discomfort?"

  "N-no." She paused. "How do you know how to do this? What to look for?"

  "I was in the service."

  And because of additional medical training received while in the FBI, he could tell her injuries weren't from any simple fall. Emily wasn't coming clean with him. So, what else was new?

  "Is there anything else you need to tell me about your fall?" he coaxed.

  "There's nothing more to tell. I tripped over my own two feet."

  Yeah, right.

  Defeated, Steve reached for his robe kept behind the door, put it around her, then stooped to pick up her clothes.

  The jeans and jersey were ripped and filthy. The thought of her wearing them again was almost unbearable. He wanted to buy her pretty clothes, keep her safe, take care of her, and if he opened his mouth and told her so, she would be off and running.

  He helped her to his bed. "I need to go out. While I'm gone, take a nap."

  "What about work?"

  He gave her the evil eye.

  "Fine," she snipped, and faced away. "No work. I'll make up the time tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow is Sunday. I don't work on Sunday."

  "They're only bruises, Steve. I'll be up to it."

  "No work 'till Monday. You need bed rest."

  "When you suggested us having summer fun, bet you didn't mean playing doctor, did you?"

  "Actually, apart from your bumps and bruises, I haven't had this much fun in years." Turning on his heel, he left his bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.