He accepted it without comment.
“I’m skipping my first class this morning,” she added. “Philip is coming in on an early plane and he plans to stop by.”
He turned and headed for his room.
Angela stepped into his path.
“Aren’t you even going to talk to me?” she burst out.
He shrugged. “What is there to say? I think you covered it all last night.”
“Look, about that—”
Devlin held up his hand, interrupting her. “You don’t have to go into anything else. I got the picture.” He walked on down the hall, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll be in here if you need me.” His door closed.
Angela grabbed a balled pair of socks from the clothes she was holding and threw the cotton missile after him. It hit his door soundlessly and bounced back onto the floor.
Then she set the laundry on the bottom stair to take up later, and went into the kitchen to help Josie with the dishes.
* * * *
Philip arrived an hour later, laden with gifts and full of news about his trip. Angela listened, asking the appropriate questions, and even managed some innocuous chatter about her activities while he’d been gone. She glossed over the subject of Devlin, and Philip seemed too absorbed in his own accomplishments to quiz her about him, which was fortunate.
That did not last long, however. They were sitting in the living room, and Philip was describing his negotiations with some Japanese wholesaler, when Devlin’s door opened and he emerged. He’d changed into tan slacks and a navy and violet checked shirt that enhanced his dark good looks. He walked into the living room and stood waiting for Angela to perform the introductions.
The expression on Philip’s face changed. His eyes narrowed as he took in their visitor, and then he looked inquiringly at Angela.
Angela took a deep breath and cleared her throat. “Philip, this is Brett Devlin, the private detective Frank hired for me. Devlin, this is Philip Cronin.”
Devlin stepped forward to shake hands. Philip examined him, his mouth thinning with distaste.
“I was against the idea of bringing you in,” Philip said, clasping Devlin’s hand as briefly as possible.
“Oh?” Devlin said mildly.
“Yes. If someone wants to get to Angela, he will. Your presence won’t prevent that any more than mine would.”
“I’m glad to hear you have such confidence in me,” Devlin answered neutrally. He glanced at Angela. “You have a cross examination to do in Trial Methods at eleven-thirty,” he told her. “I don’t think you should skip the class.” He turned on his heel and walked out.
Philip stared after him. “Who the hell is he?” he demanded. “Your mother?”
Angela’s fingers laced with tension. It was obvious that Philip’s first glimpse of Devlin had altered his tolerant attitude about her bodyguard. “He’s right,” she said. “I should go to school. If I miss the cross all the rest of the students who are doing the mock trial will be held up. I’ll see you at dinner tonight, all right?”
Philip brightened. “Great. I made a reservation for eight o’clock at Lutece.”
Angela rubbed her forehead. “Philip, I can’t go out. Devlin wants me to stay in except when I’m with him.”
Philip’s mouth fell open. “Oh, that’s what Devlin wants, is it? He’s not God Almighty, Angela. You don’t have to do what he says.”
Angela made an impatient gesture. “Philip, it defeats the purpose of having him here if I don’t follow his advice. Uncle Frank is probably forking over a mint for his services. The least I can do is obey him.”
Philip watched her, his expression obdurate.
“I’m afraid without him,” Angela finally admitted in a low tone. “He makes me feel safe.”
“How nice,” Philip responded in clipped tones.
Angela looked stricken. “I thought you would be happy that I’m not so frightened anymore.”
Philip relented. “All right, sweetheart. I have an idea. Why don’t we take him with us? If he has to be with you he can come along. I’ll call Henri and ask him to hold a table next to ours for him.”
Angela blinked. “But don’t you think he’ll be uncomfortable?”
Philip threw up his hands in exasperation. “I don’t care if he’s uncomfortable. I want to take you to dinner to celebrate my return, and if that’s the only way I can do it, I’m willing to put up with him. Now what do you say?”
“Okay, if he agrees,” Angela replied reluctantly. She wasn’t crazy about the idea but Philip’s patience was wearing thin.
“He doesn’t have a choice, Angela,” Philip reminded her gently. “Frank is paying his salary.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Angela conceded. The thought of this proposed threesome struck her as ludicrous, but Philip was accustomed to having his own way. She could see that fighting him would only convince him that she was trying to spare Devlin’s feelings.
“That’s my girl,” Philip said, pleasant in victory, as always. He picked up his coat and headed for the door. “Remember to tell Josie that she can take the night off.” He paused in the hall, glancing toward Devlin’s door. “I don’t mind telling you, I don’t care for the looks of that guy. He isn’t bothering you, is he?”
Bothering was the appropriate word. “Philip, don’t be ridiculous. He’s just been doing his job.”
“I don’t like having him here in the house with you.”
“How else is he supposed to protect me, by taking a suite at the Hotel Pierre?” Angela retorted in annoyance.
Philip raised his eyebrows. “Okay, okay. I’ll be back for you at seven-thirty. Tell what’s his `name so he’ll be ready on time.”
His name is Devlin, Angela thought. Brett Devlin, and it’s a very nice name. “Goodbye,” she said, shutting the door after Philip a little harder than she intended.
* * * *
Devlin took the news of the dinner arrangements with equanimity. He asked Angela what he was supposed to wear, and she said that a jacket and tie would be acceptable if he didn’t have a suit. He appeared at seven-thirty dressed in the same slacks and shirt he’d worn earlier, with his gray corduroy jacket and a dark tie. He looked good, but Angela thought he looked good in everything.
Angela had taken extra care with her appearance, trying to tell herself that her detailed toilette was for Philip and not for Devlin. She selected a black cocktail dress of a clinging knit appliquéd with silver sequins. It left one shoulder bare. She coiled her hair into a chignon at the nape of her neck and got her mother’s diamond pendant earrings from the safe in her uncle’s study. She surveyed herself in the pier glass in her room, smoothing the silk jersey material over her breasts and hips. The dress was cut almost to the waist in back, exposing her ivory skin, which was free of a redhead’s usual freckles. She patted Joy on her wrists and behind her ears, noting that her hands were blocks of ice. She was a nervous wreck and couldn’t escape the feeling that she was going out with Devlin. When she couldn’t delay any longer, she took her blue fox jacket from the bed and joined Devlin in the hall.
He looked up to see her approaching, and his eyes moved over her from head to foot.
“You look lovely,” he said stiffly, and turned away.
“Thank you,” Angela replied, wanting to take his face between her hands and kiss him on the lips. He remained standing at the window, looking out, until Philip arrived.
The two men nodded to each other without speaking and Angela knew she was in for a wonderful time.
Angela rode in the front of the Mercedes with Philip, and Devlin sat in back, again staring out the window. What is he thinking? she wondered despairingly. She knew, she felt, that he was hurting, and regretted going along with Philip’s idea. Angela suspected that Philip had known this dinner would make Devlin feel like a fifth wheel, like an outcast being dragged along to a party where he didn’t belong, and she was sorry she’d agreed to it. The idea had seemed unwise but the reality was far
worse.
At the restaurant Philip and Angela were seated at their usual table and Devlin sat by himself across the aisle. Philip ignored him, but Angela noticed that he ate little and smoked a lot, playing with his food between drinks. He never looked her way once; his still, set profile seemed carved in stone.
“Don’t you like the veal?” Philip asked. “It’s usually your favorite.”
Angela looked down at the exquisite dish, rognons de veau au vin rouge, and cut a piece of the meat. “It’s wonderful, as always,” she replied. “I don’t seem to be very hungry.”
“Neither is your friend,” Philip said sarcastically, nodding to Devlin. “He seems to be thirsty, though. I think he’s getting drunk.”
So he had been keeping track of Devlin. “I’m not surprised. This can’t be too much fun for him,” Angela replied.
“Yeah, well, he won’t be very effective as a bodyguard if he gets plastered,” Philip observed. “He’s fired tonight if that happens.”
Angela’s mouth tightened. “Not everyone passes out after two drinks the way you do, Philip,” she observed sweetly. “It’s just possible that he can handle his liquor.”
Philip’s fork hit the plate with a clink. “What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
“Nothing, nothing,” Angela muttered, blotting her lips with her napkin. She took a sip of her wine, not meeting Philip’s eyes.
“You’re really acting weird tonight, you know?” he said.
“Well, how do you expect me to act? My life has been threatened, I can’t even go to a restaurant without a keeper in tow. You’ll have to forgive me if I seem a little edgy.”
Philip sighed. “All right. I know this must be hard for you.” He glanced at her tolerantly. “Do you want anything else? Coffee, dessert?”
“No. I’d just like to go, if that’s okay with you.”
Philip nodded with resignation and signaled for the check. Angela experienced a twinge of sympathy for him; he had wanted this to be a special evening and she had ruined it. But she couldn’t help the way she felt.
It seemed an eternity before they were all back at the town house. Devlin went immediately to his room and Philip turned to Angela with a relieved smile.
“Thank God we’re rid of him,” he said. “Would you like a brandy?”
Angela nodded. He got the drinks from the bar in the corner while she calculated how long she would have to entertain him before she could get him to leave.
* * * *
Devlin yanked his tie loose from his neck and threw it angrily on the floor. What a night! He was soaked with perspiration from the effort of controlling himself. One punch, he had thought in the restaurant, one punch would have put that Cronin’s lights out. Four scotches and several hours later he still hadn’t thrown that punch. Sometimes this job demanded more than a man could give.
No more social evenings with the Greek god sneering at him, Devlin vowed. He would tell Angela that it was too difficult to protect her in a public place; he would tell her something. But the thought of having to sit through another dinner watching that smooth blond—gigolo—making love to her, holding her hand, touching her face, made Devlin want to kick in the walls.
He stripped quickly, tossing his clothes on a chair. He caught sight of himself in the mirror above the dresser and stopped to look. Not much by comparison with Philip Cronin, he thought. Cronin looked like a model in an advertisement for tanning lotion: slim, golden, perfect. Devlin studied his own dark features and snorted derisively. No way. If a pretty boy like Cronin was what she liked, he hadn’t a chance in the world.
Then he realized what he was thinking and cursed out loud.
He had to concentrate on the task at hand. There was a safe someplace in this house, and Angela had access to it. She’d mentioned it when he broke the figurine, and tonight she’d been wearing jewelry that she’d obviously retrieved from a careful hiding place. But how to find it, and how to get into it? He was skilled in many diverse areas but he was no safecracker. He would have to think about this one.
Devlin went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, stepping under the gushing water and letting it run over his body.
When he was finished, he would draw up a plan for getting Angela to open the safe for him.
Maybe that would keep his mind off her playing footsie with Cronin in the living room.
* * * *
Angela got rid of Philip as soon as she possibly could. She pleaded an early class, which was true, and a headache, which wasn’t. Fortunately Philip ascribed her funk to her unsettled situation and left gracefully after about a half hour, without the strenuous wrestling match that generally preceded his departures.
Angela took off her shoes and wondered why she didn’t just give in to him. He was handsome, charming, and had a wonderful career. Hundreds of women would probably fall at his feet.
Angela wasn’t one of them.
She had never been able to figure out what held her back exactly. Her one and only lover, a college boyfriend who’d ditched her when Uncle Frank made his presence known, had hardly provided a magnificent introduction to physical passion, but that wasn’t the whole problem.
She didn’t love Philip. She probably should, but she didn’t. She’d been going along with the relationship because he was pursuing her and because Uncle Frank wanted her to do it. But she was realizing that she couldn’t let herself be bulldozed by the two men, forced into a liaison, a marriage, that she didn’t really want.
And she knew why she had come to this conclusion. The reason was just down the hall—a man with soot black hair and smoky topaz eyes.
Carrying her shoes in one hand and her fur in the other, Angela went upstairs to read three hundred pages on the revised copyright laws.
* * * *
Devlin opened his door a crack and peered into the hall. The lower floor was dark. Angela had gone to her room.
Barefoot, dressed only in a pair of jeans, he padded into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The booze was taking its toll; he was viciously thirsty. He filled a tall glass with orange juice and ice and was turning to take it back to his room when Angela appeared in the doorway, dressed in a floor length terry robe.
Devlin groaned inwardly. Didn’t this woman ever sleep? She was always wandering around in the wee hours like Lady Macbeth.
“I thought you had gone to bed,” he said.
“I had a lot of studying to do,” she replied. “How about you?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he answered shortly.
Angela tried not to stare at him but it was difficult. She had never seen him without a shirt, and his body was beautiful, neatly formed and hard, his dusky skin flowing over the sculptured muscles like fine, strong silk. Hair the same color as that on his head, but curling, matted his chest and grew in a line down to his belly. His jeans rode low on his hips, and she could see the faint line of his summer tan ending below his waist.
“I’ll just get a glass of milk and go,” she said awkwardly.
“No rush. I was leaving,” he answered. He moved to let her pass by him, and Angela caught sight of a jagged, angry scar just under his left ribs, marring the spare symmetry of his torso. She halted, staring at it.
“You were hurt,” she said softly. “What happened to you?”
“I was cut,” he answered gruffly, forcing himself to keep walking.
“But this must have been serious,” she said, reaching out to touch him. He stopped cold. Angela traced the line of scar tissue with her hand, her fingers leaving a trail of sensation on his skin.
Devlin’s chest heaved and he pulled back convulsively.
“Jesus, Angela, don’t,” he ground out, agonized. The juice he was holding splashed onto his hand as he shoved the glass into the sink.
Angela’s eyes flashed to his face. It was the first time he had used her name.
His gaze held hers intently for a long moment before he muttered something under his breath and pulled her int
o his arms.
Angela clung to him tightly, rubbing her face on the satiny expanse of his shoulder, kissing him with abandon wherever she could. She felt his lips moving in her hair.
“I was going crazy in that damned restaurant,” he said huskily in her ear. “I wanted you to be with me.
“I was,” Angela whispered. “Oh, Brett, I was.” She ran her hands down his back, loving the feel of his powerful body, and he pulled on her hair to raise her head. Her lips were parting eagerly as he crushed them with his.
This was unlike most first kisses. There was nothing tentative or searching about it. It was as if they had both thought about the moment for so long that when it arrived they fell into it headlong, without hesitation, fused in a sudden burst of mutual passion. Angela’s mouth opened under Devlin’s, and her fingers crept up and over his shoulders, sinking languidly into his soft, thick hair.
Devlin wasn’t content for long just to kiss her; his lips moved to her throat, inside the opening of her robe, and his tongue trailed along her collarbone, making her shiver with delight. He held her to him with one arm clasped about her waist and undid the tie belt of her robe with his other hand. Angela felt the searing brand of his touch through her thin batiste nightgown, the probing of his thumb against a hardened nipple, the sweet weight of his palm as he cupped her breast. She leaned back into the curve of his shoulder and let him caress her, her eyes closed, scarcely able to breathe.
“I didn’t want to sit there and watch you with him,” Devlin rasped, moving his head to kiss her again.
“It’s all right,” Angela murmured against his lips. “I know you have your job to do.”
Devlin stiffened suddenly, pulling away from her. Stunned, still drugged with sensation, Angela straightened, blinking.
“What?” she said. “What is it?”
Devlin thrust shaking hands through his disordered hair. His job. Yes, indeed, he had his job to do, and he mustn’t lose sight of that.
“Angela, I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “This shouldn’t have happened. We have to forget it.”
Angela’s gaze fell. Forget it? She wanted to remember it for the rest of her life.
Men of Intrgue A Trilogy Page 52