Men of Intrgue A Trilogy

by Doreen Owens Malek

  But first, there was a call to make. He had delayed as long as he could. As soon as Angela was occupied he would do his duty.

  His expression grim, he went into the hall and waited for Angela to return. She descended the staircase and faced him.

  “Three thousand two hundred dollars,” she announced flatly.

  “Three thousand two hundred dollars?” Devlin repeated, incredulous.

  “That’s correct,” Angela said.

  Devlin extended his arm. “You’d better take the first pint right now,” he said darkly.

  Angela almost forgot she was mad at him and came close to smiling. But she controlled herself, refusing to relax at all. She kept her face impassive, waiting.

  “I’ll have to pay it in installments,” Devlin added.

  “I’m sure that will be fine with my uncle,” Angela replied. “I’ll tell him about it next time I speak to him.” She turned on her heel and left.

  When Devlin was sure she had settled in to study, he went to the basement and detached the phone cable to the extension in Angela’s room. Then he positioned himself at the hall phone, where he could see her if she left her bedroom to come downstairs. As always when he had to steel himself to perform an odious task, he lit a cigarette. He dialed quickly.

  “They’re beginning to wonder if my presence here is necessary,” he said tersely into the receiver. “Make another call to convince them.”

  He took a long drag during the response from the other end.

  “That’s right,” he replied. “At eight o’clock.” He dropped the phone into its cradle as if it had become hot in his hand, and headed back to the basement to reconnect Angela’s extension.

  * * * *

  Angela threw her notebook on the floor and chewed the tip of her pen. She couldn’t think about holographic wills. Devlin was downstairs and she couldn’t concentrate on anything but him.

  What was going to happen now? He wanted her but had rebuffed her twice. Why? Now the tension between them was like a tightly strung connecting wire, sure to snap. Angela was so preoccupied with her relationship, or lack of it, with Devlin, that everything else in her life was relegated to the background.

  She rolled over and stared unseeingly at the collection of framed film posters that covered her bedroom walls. What had Devlin’s previous life been like? What was Devlin’s life away from her? This assignment mandated that he be with Angela all the time, but she knew that he must have a social circle away from his work. She tortured herself with visions of girlfriends and lovers, gorgeous and seductive, until her nails were imprinting little half moons on the flesh of her palms.

  The phone on her bedside table rang shrilly. Glad of the interruption, Angela answered on the second ring.

  She listened for a few seconds and then, swallowing hard, she replaced the receiver carefully. Moving woodenly, she left her room and paused on the upper landing.

  “Devlin,” she said. It came out as a croak.

  She tried again, louder. It still wasn’t forceful enough to summon him, but he appeared anyway, as if by magic, looking up at her from the hall.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She tried to answer but couldn’t. Instead, she leaned against the wall and bent forward, her arms folded across her stomach. Devlin took the stairs two at a time. When he touched her shoulder she turned blindly into his arms.

  “Another call,” she whispered. “Oh, Brett, another call. I thought, I hoped, that they had stopped.”

  Devlin held her silently, hating himself so much that it was a tremendous effort of will not to tell her the whole story then and there. He stroked her hair as she recovered slowly, and sensed the exact moment that she became aware of the way she was clinging to him. She stiffened suddenly and stepped back.

  “I’m all right,” she said firmly. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Tell me exactly what was said,” Devlin demanded, playing his role through to the finish.

  Angela’s face closed as she relived the recent experience, going over what she had heard when she answered the phone. Devlin listened patiently, careful not to betray any of his own feelings.

  “It was just a scare tactic,” he said soothingly when she was done. “They haven’t done anything so far, and they won’t do anything now. I know that it’s upsetting for you, but try not to worry about it.”

  Angela nodded, and he walked with her as she moved back toward her room. He glanced inside when she opened the door and noted the decor. He had never seen the room in the light before, and examined the film posters with interest. The one on the wall facing Angela’s bed caught his eye. It showed James Dean, dressed in jeans and a red windbreaker for his role in Rebel without a Cause, a cigarette burning away unnoticed between his fingers.

  Devlin examined the young woman at his side. “You like that film?” he said, nodding at the wall.

  Angela smiled deprecatingly. “I like beautiful boys in battle jackets,” she replied lightly, starting to close the door.

  Devlin inserted his foot to halt its progress. He wasn’t going to let her evade him with a joke.

  “That movie is about rebellion,” he said, “about someone who is dissatisfied with his life. Is that the way you feel?”

  She tilted her chin up and met his gaze. “Do you care how I feel?” she demanded. “Or is my state of mind just a matter of curiosity?”

  Devlin sighed. He was often very sorry that she was going to law school. She had a wonderful facility for turning the tables that would undoubtedly serve her well in court.

  “I’m sorry I asked,” he replied. “Good night. I’ll be right downstairs if you need me. And if the phone rings again, let me answer it.” He was turning away when her soft voice called him back.

  “Brett?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you’re here.” Her door closed as the sound of the words faded from the air.

  Devlin stood still for a long while, his face expressionless. Then he started back to his room but made it only as far as the top step of the staircase, where he sat and lit a cigarette with shaking hands, filled with self loathing.

  * * * *

  Angela emerged from her room several hours later, pulling on a jacket. Devlin looked up from his perch on the window seat in the living room.

  “What are you doing sitting there in the dark?” Angela asked.

  “Going somewhere?” Devlin replied, ignoring her question.

  “I have to go to the library,” Angela announced.

  “It’s quarter to one in the morning,” Devlin said, amazed.

  “The law library is open all night,” Angela stated, “and I just realized that I missed an entire issue in the presentation I’m giving tomorrow. I have to research it or I’m going to get blown out of the water. I’m sorry about this but it’s necessary. I guess you’ll have to go with me.” Her words were apologetic but her tone was neutral.

  “I guess so,” Devlin answered. He stood obediently.

  “Do you think I should call for the car?” Angela asked. “Taxis aren’t too reliable this time of night.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  Devlin changed his mind when he saw the car. A Lincoln stretch limo, it made him feel as if he were an Oscar nominee arriving at the Awards ceremony. Patria had some setup, with this kind of transportation available twenty-four hours a day. And his niece took it for granted too.

  He was astonished to see how many people were at the law school. These kids really burned the midnight oil. Angela dismissed the driver and Devlin followed her to the library, where she dropped her purse and notebook on a table not far from the one she’d occupied on the first day he’d seen her.

  “I have to get the books together and it will take a while. There are newspapers and magazines in the lobby if you want something to read.”

  Devlin watched as she wandered through the stacks, consulting a list she had in her hand, and assembled a stack of volumes indexed like an encyclop
edia. Finally she sank into the chair across from him with a sigh and began to read.

  Silence reigned for about forty minutes. He noticed that she was methodically consulting each book, making notes, and then moving on to the next one. It was obviously a time consuming and tedious process.

  “Can I help you?” Devlin asked at last.

  She glanced up briefly. “That’s not necessary,” she replied stiffly.

  “I know that. I’d like to help you.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.” She looked down again to write.

  “Why not? I can read.”

  “It’s very dull stuff.”

  “It can’t be any worse than”—he consulted the title of the newspaper he’d found on the table and had been reading—“The Litigator’s Quarterly.” Devlin held up another paper. “Unless it’s Volume fourteen, Number four of Lex Brevis, also a fascinating piece of journalism.”

  Angela grinned. Lex Brevis was the student newspaper and featured a lot of articles about things like moot court competitions and taxation conferences. It was better than an overdose of sleeping pills for inducing an instant coma.

  “All right,” she agreed. “You can help me by reading the headnotes in these reporters and selecting the ones that deal with the issue I have under examination.”

  Devlin blinked. “Would you give me that in English, please?”

  Angela showed him how to skim the opening paragraphs of each reported court decision and determine if it would be helpful. For someone who didn’t understand a word of what he was reading, Devlin proved to be very adept at isolating the sections that would be worth further study and eliminating the rest. They worked together, talking little, until Angela sat back with a satisfied sigh.

  “Okay. I have enough to go on. All I have to do now is put it together into some sort of outline, and I can do that in an hour or so. Do you want to take a break? There’s a lounge that’s open downstairs with vending machines, and we can get some coffee.”

  Devlin nodded, getting up to pull out Angela’s chair. “Lead the way. Walk slowly though, my left foot’s asleep.”

  He limped at Angela’s side, pausing for a moment to shake out his leg. Angela watched his bent head, the way he frowned at his foot as if scolding it for failing him, and knew again that she was hopelessly in love with him.

  He glanced up and caught her eye. “Something wrong?” he asked, raising his brows.

  Angela shook her head. “It’s right at the foot of the stairs,” she said, and moved ahead of him so he couldn’t see her face.

  Inside the lounge neon lighting bathed the few occupants in a soft bluish glow. Vending machines for soft drinks and snacks were lined up against one wall, and a pinball machine and several video games faced them on the opposite side of the room. Two students, looking hung over with too much studying, sipped coffee at one of the folding tables. A girl was asleep on one of the vinyl covered couches, her jacket pulled up around her chin like a blanket.

  “This place looks like a bus station at four in the morning,” Devlin commented.

  “You should see it at exam time,” Angela answered. “This is nothing. The first week in May you’d swear we were running a brothel here from the amount of nighttime traffic.”

  “I never realized before how much work it takes to become a lawyer,” Devlin commented, taking out change for the coffee machine. “You really have to study a lot.”

  Angela watched him as he added cream to her cup and handed it to her. “Didn’t you study when you were in school?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Not like you. I was an economics major. I spent a lot of time drawing up flow charts.”

  “Where did you go to school?”

  “Georgetown,” he said shortly. “Would you like some cookies, or a candy bar to go with that coffee?”

  “No, thanks,” Angela replied. He’d done it again. Any time she brought up his past he cut all inquiries off before she got any real information. Was he hiding something?

  Devlin wandered over to a card table and waited for Angela to sit, joining her when she did so. He stretched his long legs into the aisle, looking around at the posters and notices tacked to the walls.

  “Brett?” Angela said.

  His amber eyes came to rest on hers. “Yes?”

  “You helped me a lot tonight. You cut my time in half with the work you did.” She looked away. “Thank you.”

  Devlin took a swallow of his coffee, gazing at her over the rim of the paper cup. “You’re welcome.”

  Angela fidgeted, playing with the plastic spoon she held and with the tiny packets of sugar heaped in the middle of the table. She looked up to find his gaze still on her, fixed and intent.

  “I’m sorry about what I said in your room last night,” she blurted out suddenly. “I didn’t mean it.”

  He set his cup down. “I know that,” he replied quietly.

  “You do?” she asked, puzzled. Then she attempted a smile. “I suppose it’s obvious. I said I’d kill you if you touched me again. Then you did, earlier this evening after the phone call. Yet here you are, still alive.”

  “Here I am,” he agreed, his voice so soft that she could barely hear him.

  Angela dropped her gaze. “I was angry, Brett. You had hurt me and I wanted to hurt you back.”

  “You did.”

  Her eyes flashed to his face, but before she could say anything further another voice interrupted their conversation.

  “Angela Patria, just the person I wanted to see,” announced their visitor.

  Virginia Davenport, alumna of Miss Finch’s and Mount Holyoke, fully prepped out in a tweed blazer, carefully faded jeans, and cordovan penny loafers, was standing at Angela’s elbow. With her flowing dark hair, almond eyes, and New England uniform, she resembled an updated version of Ali MacGraw in Love Story.

  “Angela,” Virginia said chidingly, “I didn’t think I’d have to run you to earth in the middle of the night in order to meet your cousin. I’ve been waiting for you to introduce him to me.”

  Since Virginia had spoken to Angela only once previously, asking to borrow an eraser, Angela found this opening statement somewhat surprising. But she waved her hand at Devlin and said, “Virginia Davenport, Brett Devlin.”

  As Devlin stood up Virginia beamed, displaying the results of the fortune her parents had spent on orthodontia. She grasped his big hand in both of hers.

  “Brett. What an unusual name. Is that Scotch?”

  “Scots. Scotch is whiskey.”

  “Ah. I see. Where are you from, Brett?”

  “Kansas.”

  “So far! And what do you do there?”

  Brett glanced at Angela, and she thought she detected a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

  “I grow corn,” he replied flatly.

  “You’re a farmer?” Virginia said, clearly appalled.

  “Yes, ma’am. Corn, soybeans, spring wheat. Some alfalfa.”

  “Alfalfa?” Virginia repeated faintly. Then she smiled again. Devlin’s obvious physical charms clearly outweighed the prospect of continuing a conversation with an alfalfa grower, and so she blundered onward with false cheer.

  “Tell me, Brett, what do you do in Kansas for fun?”

  Brett hooked his thumbs in his belt like the hillbilly Virginia thought he was. “Oh, let’s see. Church socials, community sings, barn dances. Quilting bees.”

  Angela choked on her last sip of tepid coffee. The other two looked at her as she tried to convert her strangled laughter into a coughing fit.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Frog in my throat.”

  “Hmm,” Virginia said, turning her attention to Devlin once more. “Quilting bees. How interesting. Well, you two, I really must run along. No time to chat. I have to Shepardize ten cases for my first class, too busy to do it before this, so I’ll wind up spending the night in this place. Take care of yourselves.” Virginia exited, stage left, trailing clouds of sporty scent.

  Devlin looked at Ange
la and they both dissolved in helpless laughter.

  “I can’t believe she didn’t know you were pulling her leg,” Angela gasped, wiping her eyes.

  “What’s a quilting bee?” Devlin asked, and they cracked up again.

  “Why did you say that?” Angela asked.

  “What? About the quilting bee?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes twinkled. “She obviously thinks that Kansas is on the dark side of the moon, and quilting bees sounded sort of, I don’t know . . . frontiersy. Didn’t they used to have them in colonial times or something?”

  “You’ve got me. Are you sure you aren’t thinking of Betsy Ross stitching up the American flag?”

  He grinned. “In Kansas?” he said, and they laughed once more.

  “Why did you tease her like that?” Angela asked, still giggling.

  Devlin sobered, lifting one shoulder. “I could see that she wasn’t a friend of yours. She was just . . .” His voice trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.

  “She was just using me to get to you,” Angela stated, supplying what he didn’t want to say.

  He made no reply, watching her face.

  “That happens to you a lot, doesn’t it? Women pursuing you, I mean.”

  “The women I want to pursue me never do,” Devlin answered, looking at her directly.

  Angela flushed, standing and crumpling her cup in her hand. “We’d better get back. I want to finish what I’m working on in time to get home for a couple of hours sleep.”

  Devlin went with her back to the library.

  * * * *

  Angela finished her work at four in the morning. Devlin’s eyelids were at half mast, making him look sexy and somehow boyish at the same time. His elbow was propped on the table and his chin was propped in his hand as he watched her pack up her things, getting ready to go.

  “Do you want me to carry that?” he asked, gesturing to her book bag.

  Angela examined his sleepy face. “It looks to me like you’ll have enough trouble carrying yourself. You know, I’ve been noticing that you look tired lately. Have you been getting enough rest?”

  Devlin sat up straighter, alert. Were the effects of his nightly prowling about the house becoming apparent? “I didn’t get any rest tonight, but that’s all you see. Shall we go?”