“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 into 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.
“I’m not going to take advantage of my situation here to lead you into something that wouldn’t be right for either one of us,” he said. “Go back to bed now, and put this out of your mind.” He turned abruptly and walked out of the room. She heard his door close seconds later.
Angela choked back a sob. She had finally let him see how much she wanted him, and he had rejected her. Her humiliation was complete. She stumbled into the living room and sank onto the couch.
Had it really happened? Had she imagined it? No, she could still taste his mouth on her lips, feel the imprint of his hands upon her body. But why had he stopped, why had he left her alone after loving her, in those quicksilver moments, so fiercely, so tenderly?
She brushed her hair away from her face with trembling fingers.
How could she go back to Philip after this?
* * * *
First thing in the morning Devlin called his superior for a transfer. But he could hardly tell the man the truth, and his manufactured reasons availed Devlin little in achieving the desired result. After wrangling with the G-21 for thirty minutes, Devlin slammed the receiver into the cradle in disgust. He was stuck in this assignment for the duration.
Which meant that he was going to have to exercise extreme caution at all times. Angela had penetrated his defenses, and that put him at a tremendous disadvantage. He would have to be more distant than ever.
Two weeks of unbearable tension passed. They went through the motions of normal activity, but beneath the veneer of civilization beat the steady pulse of their true relationship and they both knew it.
Devlin no longer suspected Angela of involvement in her uncle’s activities. She was what she appeared to be, a law student unaware of her relative’s shady dealings. Devlin had watched her too closely to believe anything else. But he needed to be absolutely sure she wouldn’t interrupt his nocturnal searches, so he took to slipping knockout drops into her after dinner coffee. They were harmless, with a delayed action of about six hours, so that she went out cold around midnight, and he could be sure that she would sleep through until morning. But when she complained of headaches a couple of times at breakfast he stopped doing it. He was getting nowhere anyway.
He couldn’t find the safe in Patria’s study. He’d managed to get inside, but the room was as plain and innocuous as a monastic cell. Metal filing cabinets contained folders of invoices and bills of lading that indicated nothing more than the operation of a legitimate business. He pored over their contents several times, until he knew the documents almost by heart, and could detect nothing wrong. On the basis of what he’d found so far, Patria could run for Congress, and possibly for President, without a whisper of scandal attached to his name.
Harold Simmons was no help. Devlin contacted him twice, and discovered that the lawyer knew less than he did. Simmons had no knowledge of a safe in the house and couldn’t tell him where to look.
That left Angela as a source, a reality that didn’t sit well with Devlin. He felt bad enough to be duping her this way, but pumping her for information would be worse. He knew he had to do it, but the idea wasn’t putting him in the best of moods. It had to be done carefully, very subtly. She was innocent, but not stupid. Devlin felt trapped—by his duty, his conscience, his growing feelings for Angela. He went through each day like a man living in a pressure cooker.
Angela wasn’t happy either. She continued with her regular routine because she didn’t know what else to do, but her estrangement from Devlin made her miserable. He hardly spoke to her and kept his distance from her physically as if she were surrounded by a ring of fire.
At night, in bed, she remembered his kiss and relived the moment over and over in her mind.
Philip left town again two days before her birthday. She had almost forgotten it herself, but arrived in the kitchen that morning to find that Josie had deposited a gift wrapped box and a card on her plate. Devlin watched as she opened the present and crowed delightedly over a handmade scarf that Josie had crocheted for her. He dropped his eyes, looking away.
For a girl who’d been raised with everything money could buy it took very little to please her.
“I suppose you’ll be seeing Cronin tonight?” he asked neutrally.
At the stove Josie stopped stirring the oatmeal. Angela met his gaze candidly.
“No. Philip is out of town again.”
“Not around much, is he?” Devlin observed acidly.
“He’s very busy,” Angela answered, trying on her scarf.
“He must be,” Devlin replied.
Josie turned to look at him; he became absorbed in drinking his coffee.
“I’ll leave a plate for you in the oven for dinner,” Josie said to Angela. “I have that meeting tonight at Maria’s school.”
>
“Okay,” Angela said, rubbing the soft wool against her cheek.
Devlin absorbed that information in silence. He associated birthdays with parties and gifts, cakes with glowing candles and boisterous meals full of sibling hilarity. Angela’s solitary dinner left by the housekeeper struck him as a rather lonely birthday.
“Have you had any more of those letters or calls?” Josie asked out of the blue.
Angela glanced at Devlin. “No.”
“So I guess maybe we won’t be needing you around here much longer, right?” Josie asked, directing her comment to Devlin.
“Maybe not,” he replied evenly, standing and dumping the rest of his coffee down the sink. He set the empty cup on the sideboard and left the room.
“Why did you say that to him?” Angela demanded fiercely of Josie as soon as he was out of earshot.
Josie shrugged. “I can’t see that he’s serving any purpose around here except making you miserable.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Hasn’t it occurred to you that nothing has happened to me precisely because he’s here? Should I fire him and prove my point by getting killed the next day?”
Josie dropped the wooden spoon she was holding and took Angela by the shoulders. “Hey, hey, take it easy. I didn’t mean to upset you, honey. It’s just that I see what’s going on here, and I can’t help thinking that you’d be better off if he took himself back where he came from and left you alone. I like him, Angela, but so do you. Too much.”
Angela pretended that she didn’t know what Josie meant. “I’m just worried about those threats,” she replied.
“Uh-huh,” Josie said, unconvinced.
Angela glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got to go,” she announced. “Thanks for my present.”
“You’re welcome,” Josie replied, watching Angela walk out.
She stood looking after her, shaking her head.
* * * *
Angela asked Devlin to stop off at a florist’s with her on the way home from school. Holly’s anniversary was on the weekend, and she wanted to arrange for something to be sent to Holly’s apartment.
Devlin waited while she examined a booklet of floral displays, and a potted arrangement of three tall varicolored blossoms caught his eye. He walked over to it and stroked the dewy petals with a rough fingertip, “Amaryllis,” the sign beneath it said. He glanced over at Angela, who was preoccupied with her choice and not watching him. He motioned to one of the clerks and asked to have it delivered to the brownstone that night. He hastily scribbled a card and was standing with his arms folded when she turned back from the counter to go.
He waited for the doorbell to ring with restless anticipation. Angela received a phone call from her uncle, and Devlin was afraid she wouldn’t be available to answer the door. He listened to her end of the conversation, gathering that it was just a birthday message. He hung around the kitchen, fidgeting while she warmed up the food Josie had left for both of them.
When the bell rang he followed her into the hall.
She was delighted with the bouquet. She folded back the cellophane covering and sniffed the heady aroma.
“Look,” she said, “it’s the color of peaches and cream. And the feel of the petals, like peau de soie. Isn’t it lovely?”
He watched her, his pleasure more than equal to hers.
“And such a beautiful name,” she added. “Amaryllis,” she recited, reading from the plastic spike implanted in the dirt. She moved to set the pot on the entry hall table. “Wasn’t it thoughtful of Philip to send them?”
When she turned back to the room it was empty. Devlin had gone.
Puzzled, she removed the cone of cellophane from the flowers. As she did so the card that had been folded inside the wrapping fell to the floor.
Angela picked it up. “Happy birthday,” she read. It was signed “Devlin.”
Angela stood with the card in her hands, her throat tightening with unshed tears. She waited until she was under control and then walked down the hall to Devlin’s room. She knocked tentatively and there was no answer.
She rapped harder. “Come on, Brett. Open the door. Please. I want to talk to you.”
The door swung inward slowly, and Devlin stepped back, watching her as she entered the room. Angela held up the card and he looked away.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry I thought the flowers were from Philip,” she said. “It didn’t occur to me that you would get me a gift.”
He turned away from her.
Angela caught his arm. “Brett, listen to me. I would never deliberately hurt you, don’t you know that? But how could I have guessed you would do this? You’ve hardly spoken to me for weeks. I naturally thought that Philip would remember my birthday.”
“Oh, he’ll remember it,” Devlin replied sarcastically. “With a diamond tiara, or a mink coat, or a castle on the Rhine. I don’t think potted plants are exactly his style.”
“They’re exactly my style,” she said gently. “What made you think of it?” Her fingers closed around his wrist.
He gestured vaguely with his free hand. “I saw it, and it reminded me of you. Tall, slender, and exotic. And the color of the blooms, the way the crimson bleeds into pale peach at the tip of the petal. That’s the shade your hair is in the sunlight.”
Angela couldn’t speak.
He reached out and pulled her hair free of her collar, running the strands through his fingers.
“Such beautiful hair,” he murmured. “I never saw such beautiful hair.” In one convulsive movement he pulled her to him and buried his face in the auburn mass against her neck.
Angela wound her arms around his waist, almost sobbing with relief. He did care about her. He did!
When he raised his head she touched his cheek tenderly. He seized her hand and kissed it, pressing his lips into her palm.
“Why?” she began, and he shook his head, putting his finger to her mouth.
“Don’t ask me questions I can’t answer,” he said hoarsely. He bent swiftly and picked her up, carrying her to his bed.
Angela lay quietly, her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed. His heart beat rapidly beneath her ear, and she snuggled against his chest as he knelt to slip her onto the quilt. He dropped down next to her and gathered her into his arms.
Devlin’s kisses fell wildly on her face and hair, and Angela had to hold him still to kiss him back on the mouth. He made a sound of satisfaction deep in his throat and nudged her lips to open them, finding her tongue with his. Angela gasped as his hands moved beneath her sweater, seeking the hook of her bra. His touch burned, it seemed to scald her as he released the catch and pushed her down on the bed, pulling both garments over her head in one smooth movement.
He had a pebble hard nipple in his mouth before her back touched the mattress. Angela moaned with the exquisite sensation, caressing his hair, the knotted muscles of his back and shoulders.
“Take this off,” she whispered. “I want to feel us together.” She tugged impatiently at the cloth of his shirt.
He half sat and unbuttoned it rapidly, tossing it on the floor. Then he enveloped her, covering her completely, holding himself up slightly on his hands. It wasn’t enough; Angela encircled his neck with her arms and tugged until he was lying on top of her. When she felt his full weight she sighed blissfully and arched to meet him.
His skin was delicious, warm and fragrant, smelling of soap. Angela ran her tongue across his upper arm, watching the tendons flex, noting the heavy blue veins and solid tone of his well conditioned body. He slid his fingers along the curve of her neck, and her head fell back; he pressed his lips into the hollow at the base of her throat.
“I can’t take this anymore,” he muttered thickly. “I have to have you now, tonight.”
“I want you too,” Angela replied, and he shifted off her, unsnapping the waistband of her jeans, pulling them off quickly a
nd pausing to look at her, clad only in her bikini briefs. His breath hissed between his teeth and he bent forward, pressing his cheek to the satiny surface of her belly. He closed his eyes and she watched the long dark lashes sweep downward to touch his cheek.
“Angela,” he said huskily. “So sweet, so fine. You live up to your name, my lovely angel.” He sat up, his hands going to his belt, but she held out her arms and he was lost. He leaned over and crushed her to him, smoothing her hair, running a hard palm down the silken plane of her back. Angela clung to him. He was a foundation of rock in a world that was tumbling recklessly out of control.
“Are you sure?” he asked softly.
“Yes, I’m sure,” she replied. “I trust you.”
Devlin’s arms relaxed, and he averted his head. When Angela tried to search his face he wouldn’t look at her.
“You trust me?” he repeated dully.
“Of course,” she answered, bewildered. “Shouldn’t I?”
He reared up off the bed so violently that Angela was thrown aside. She stared as he kicked the bottom of the dresser, splintering the wood.
“Oh, God, Angela, get out of here,” he said painfully. “Get away from me.”
“But why?” she demanded. “What is wrong?”
“Just go,” he answered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Will you please just go?”
Angela shivered, trying to gather her clothes with hands that wouldn’t move. When he saw her difficulty he picked up her things and handed them to her.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Angela whispered, forcing back the tears that gathered in her throat. “Are you trying to humiliate me?”
“No,” he ground out, still unable to meet her eyes.
“Then what?” she cried, her voice louder. “You lead me on like this, twice, and then . . . nothing. Don’t you know what this means to me? Do you think I do this all the time?”
He looked at her then. “I never thought that, Angela.”
But she wasn’t listening. “No one, no one, has ever touched me, kissed me, that way. Not even Philip. He wants to . . . but. . .”
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