He shot a look Jonah’s way. He and Rose were kissing, exploring each other’s faces and hair, almost as if they were testing the fact that they were still there.
Sam figured he oughtta tell Jonah the news about Leon, but he didn’t have the heart. Not tonight. This was one time when bad news could wait.
Chapter Forty-Eight
While the two lovebirds leaned against the ambulance’s rear tire, hugging and kissing and telling each other how lonely they’ve been, yadda, yadda, yadda, Geneva eyed the old courthouse’s tower clock.
Eleven forty-five. Ah-cha-cha-cha.
Mission accomplished with fifteen minutes to spare!
“Hey, Teach!” she called from her perch on the front seat of the biggest fire truck—she always had had a thing for firemen—“I did my job, now what about those wings you promised?”
Teach popped onto the seat beside her, turning up his nose at the smell of sweat-stained upholstery and smoke. “Honestly, Geneva, doesn’t this town have any classier places in which we might conduct our final round of business?”
She shrugged, glanced at the two brawny studs just outside the window rolling up hose. “Looks all right around here to me.”
He sighed. “As usual, I can see I’m getting nowhere, so I might as well commence with what needs to be said.”
“Goody,” Geneva said with an animated clap of her hands. “Is this where I get winged?”
Teach gritted his teeth. “I’m afraid not.”
Geneva caught her breath. “What do you mean? Look at those two.” She pointed across the square to where Jonah, Blondie and Katie were well on their way to establishing a permanent bond. “I did everything you and Mr. Big requested.”
“True,” he said with a solemn nod. “It’s not so much that you didn’t accomplish your mission that’s displeased Mr. Big, it’s more the way you went about it.”
“Oh, so I get it. I’m disqualified for breaking a few rules?”
He squashed his already reedy lips even tighter than usual. “In a manner of speaking. Good luck, Geneva… Although with any luck on my part, it’ll be a long time before we meet again.”
“Wait!” she called out, but it was no use, he was gone.
So, great. What did this mean? Was she headed for Heaven or hell or someplace in between?
Scowling, she tried floating her way out of the truck to spend a little quality time spying on Sam, but when she tried her usual think-it mode of transportation, she got nowhere quick.
And, whew, was it hot in the truck’s cab.
Had to have been like a hundred degrees.
She hadn’t felt heat like this since that summer before she’d had Katie and Jonah had taken her on that week-long vacation in Pensacola. Man, it’d been hot. She’d tried daintily glowing like good southern women were supposed to, but seeing how Geneva had never placed too high a priority on being good, she’d just gone ahead and sweat like a stuck hog.
Back sticky with perspiration, she rubbed against the seat, reached for a tissue from a box on the dash to dab at her forehead. Who’d have thought Blue Moon’s downtown barbeque would’ve beat Florida in a heat war?
She’d just taken a final dab at her forehead when she froze.
Wait just a doggone minute…
Teach might not have thought she’d learned much in Heaven, but one thing she had learned was that angels don’t sweat.
She pinched her arm and yelped.
Chomped on the tip of her pinkie finger and felt tears spring to her eyes.
“I’m alive!”
“Lady, what the hell are you doing up there?” The cutest of the firemen waved her out of the truck.
“You can see me?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah. Mind getting out?”
“Sure.” She flashed her flirtiest grin. “Just one more thing.” She angled the rearview mirror her way and gasped.
She was alive all right, but not in her body!
Her black and fuchsia hair had been swapped for a profusion of strawberry blond curls framing a prettily freckled face. The Puke & Die concert T-shirt and jeans she’d croaked in had been replaced by the denim shorts and leather halter number she’d sported during her dream night with Sam.
Tearing at not only her second chance but at Teach’s awesome taste in clothes, Geneva sent up a silent prayer of thanks. Looking back on it, she might’ve thought she only imagined it, but as she climbed out of the truck and looked to the sky, she could’ve sworn she’d caught a star twinkling just for her. Of course, it could’ve just been a spark from the fire, but hey, she hadn’t lost all her selfish tendencies, so she preferred to think of it as all hers.
“Lady?” Frowning, the biggest of the two fire hunks strolled her way. “You ever gonna get down from there? As you can see, we’ve got a lot going on.”
Sam pulled up. Not in his boring old squad car, but in a hot red ’68 Mustang convertible—top down. The car looked familiar. Could it—no. No way this was the same car Kent Holloway traded Moody Roach for doing all that work on his Caddy?
Left hand on the wheel, Sam said, “You guys having trouble?”
“Yeah,” the fire hunk called out. “We can’t seem to get this chick down from there.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” Geneva said, casting him a glare before scooting down from the truck and over to Sam. Dizzy from the brief yet exhilarating walk on legs grown accustomed to floating, she said, “Hey. Long time no see.”
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“No, but you should.” Bold as brass, she sashayed right on over to his passenger-side door and climbed in. “Hi.” She thrust out her hand for him to shake. “I’m, ah, Bernadette Sparks.”
“New to town, Bernadette?”
“You might say that. Got any coffee around here?”
“Closest place just burned down, but we do have a few all-night establishments out by the highway.”
“Sounds good to me,” she said. “If you’d give me a lift, I’d be most appreciative.”
Hmm… Had she really once thought small town life dull?
Grinning, Sam shot her an indecipherable look before slipping the car into gear and easing down the street. He flipped on the radio, and what should be playing but Geneva’s sixth and final Elvis song, Earth Angel…
Bonus Material
Dear Reader—
I so hope you enjoyed Jonah and Angel’s story! Geneva’s tale—or, I guess that would be Bernadette Sparks’ tale—will be available in Spring 2015. As a personal favor, please consider leaving a review for Angel Baby at Amazon or the online retailer of your choice.
Until then, here’s a peek of the debut book of my Frog Kingdom series—Smooch! It’s a play on the classic Frog Prince fairy tale and features plenty of sexy fun!
Thank you and Happy Reading!
Laura Marie Altom
Feel-good romance featuring bad boys and the women who love them . . .
Once upon a time in the not-too-distant future…
A maiden who believed herself quite plain went in search of her very own species of frog—not to kiss—but to make her father proud. For in this time of increased planetary awareness, man has been forced by past environmental sins to focus on the well-being not of himself, but of frogs. In short, if frogs with their permeable skin are healthy, so are we.
In this state of frog consciousness, a new breed of superstar has been born. Biologists now grace the covers of major magazines. As popular as the Academy Awards once were, the World Biological Conference held annually in London is now the hot ticket. For it is here humans receive their annual report card. Is the world better or worse off? And what are we supposed to do about it?
Mobs crush the doors of this event, but only a select few are allowed inside. The pinnacle of the weeklong affair is the time when new species of frogs are presented. A very rare thing indeed. Most years, this moment passes with somber respect. But this year—oh, this year, Lucy Gordon, daughter of the most revered biologist
of all, plans to set the conference—maybe even the whole world—on fire!
Prologue
“In conclusion…” Hand trembling, Lucy Gordon lifted the glass of ice water sweating alongside her on the podium. Somehow, she managed a sip. So much—literally, her whole life—depended on this presentation. Freeze-framing the moment to forever carry in her heart, she breathed deeply of the sweet gardenias gracing the tables. Outside, a crowd chanted—Lucy! Lucy! Inside, all was quiet save for dignified punctuations of clearing throats, rustling papers and coughs.
This was it.
She’d arrived.
After ten years’ thankless trekking through steamy New Guinea jungles, here she was—star speaker of this year’s London World Biological Conference. Living proof that dreams really do come true.
She forced a deep breath. “In conclusion, I’m sure you all agree that the specimen I’ve presented today—the one I’ve taken the liberty of naming Helena’s Dream in honor of my deceased mother—is an entirely new species of frog that must be studied further, not only to prevent extinction but to learn of its importance to our world.” She cleared her throat before adding, “Um, thank you.”
There, she thought, straightening her inch-thick pile of supporting documents. That hadn’t been so bad. Now, all she had to do was sit back and wait for thunderous applause. Already ripples of low conversation rose and fell in animated waves.
Leaning toward the microphone in anticipation of wrapping this up—not to mention gathering all of her congratulations—she added, “Are there, um, any questions?”
Just past the stage lights’ glare, she made out her father’s imposing form. Was he frowning? Could the great man be a tad jealous of the fact that for once she was the one hogging the limelight?
For a split second, she closed her eyes—just long enough to catch a mind’s-eye glimpse of Slate Gordon’s Roman nose, high forehead and piercing grayish-green gaze that’d earned him his name. Time had on more than one occasion called him the most brilliant scientific mind of his time. Women loved what People dubbed his brainy sex appeal. Men loved him for his kamikaze field tactics that rode the thin line between scientific study and science fiction. Lucy loved him because he was everything she’d ever admired and hoped to be. Slate Gordon was the Indiana Jones of the biological world, having discovered dozens of new species and one entirely new subspecies.
Back when Slate earned his first million, folks still hadn’t thought biology was sexy, but then drug companies caught on and began seeing dollar signs in Slate’s studies as opposed to just slimy new creatures. For as long as Lucy could remember, she’d looked up to him, had never dreamt for anything more than to earn his respect and, just think, here, tonight—right now—that dream was finally coming true.
After tonight, she’d be exactly like him.
Well, maybe not exactly.
He was not only highly intelligent, but charismatic and good-looking. Tall, lean and tan. In place of good old Dad’s rock-hard bod, she’d gotten curves—which wouldn’t have been bad, if only they’d been in proportionately attractive places.
As it was, her boobs, butt and belly were a little too big, her legs a little too short and stubby, and her hair a cruel shade of red corkscrew that at Brennan’s Private Academy had earned her the nickname, Pubic Hair Patty.
Of course, on more than one occasion, she’d reminded the popular crowd that her name was Lucy—not, Patty—but did they care? Noooo. All they’d cared about were their footballs and basketballs and parties and—
“Miss Gordon?” The moderator beside her tapped her shoulder. “I believe the gentleman at table thirteen has a question.”
“Oh—oh, sorry.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Would you mind repeating?”
An impeccably dressed Asian man straightened his tie before standing. “Miss Gordon, while your presentation was intriguing, I feel I’d be remiss in failing to point out the fact that the species you claim to have discovered was actually found well over three decades ago by—”
“Excuse me?” Lucy grasped the front of her white blouse, tugging on it in a search for air. Poor guy. He’d probably eaten too much tofu lasagna for dinner. Must’ve addled his mind for him to make such a ludicrous suggestion.
A titter of laughter started in the vast ballroom’s back corner, rising into a tsunami of chuckles and chortles and downright brazen belly laughs. Even her father had gotten in on the act, leaning closer than necessary to the leggy blonde seated beside him who was evidently sharing his mirth.
Still, Lucy’s poor food-poisoned accuser stood his ground. Honestly, couldn’t he take a hint? He was lucky security hadn’t escorted him outside.
The moderator gently urged Lucy from the mic, then gave it a good hard tap that produced squealing feedback. “Ladies and gentleman,” he said with a wince, “might I suggest decorum.”
“I’ll second that,” Lucy mumbled under her breath. What was the matter with these people? How could they be so callus as to practically laugh that poor guy right out of the room? Granted, his suggestion was ridiculous, but still, they were all professionals.
Once the crowd calmed, Lucy returned to the mic. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’re mistaken. I assure you, while there have been similar subspecies documented, this one is entirely new. As I’m sure you’re aware, my father is one of the most respected biologists on the planet. Believe me, out of respect for him, I’ve crossed all my Ts and dotted my Is. My research is impeccable.”
The laughter started anew.
Boy, was this a rough crowd. The poor guy would never be able to set foot at another conference.
Her father stood and held up his hands. As if he were a scientific messiah, the audience hushed. Eyebrows furrowed, he strode onto the stage. Covering the mic with his hand, he said, “Luce, I think you’d better go.”
“What do you mean?” she asked her father. “Shouldn’t you be asking him to go?” She pointed toward her accuser.
He shook his head. Releasing the mic, he put his arm about her shoulders. “Loosey Goosey, really, trust me on this. Go back up to your room and wait for me. Let me spin this. You know, formulate some kind of damage control.”
“Why?” Lucy shook her head. “I don’t understand. Helena’s Dream is my discovery. I have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Yes, baby, you do.” The same way he had back when she’d been a kid on vacation from school, living with him in the field, her father patted her head. “What you don’t understand, is that your so-called discovery was mine. Aw, Luce…” He sighed, eyeing the terrarium housing her former pride and joy. “How could you not have known I found the first of these thirty years ago?”
While the crowd burst into still more chortles and chuckles, Lucy closed her eyes and swallowed hard.
Too close to the mic, he broadcasted to over five hundred of the world’s most respected scientists, “Face it, sweetie, you don’t have what it takes to become a carbon copy of your old man. Never have. Never will. Now, once and for all, please…” He planted a patronizing kiss to her forehead. “Be a good girl. Give up on this scientist fantasy and go make me some pretty grandbabies.”
Chapter One
A few years later…
“I hate him.” Lucy tightened her grip on the electric Mini’s wheel, recalling that afternoon’s meeting with the headmaster of the exclusive school on the English-Welsh border where she taught primary-level biology. “I hate his stupid tweedy clothes. The way he doesn’t laugh, but wheezes. I even hate the way he smells.” A cross between cabbage, liverwurst and kidney beans.
Aiming the tiny car down the ivy-draped, stonewalled lane leading to Sinclaire Castle, Lucy took deep breaths, trying awfully hard to talk herself down from the headmaster-induced bad mood and into her normal happy state.
Okay, so maybe she wasn’t usually deliriously, happily-ever-after happy. And certainly not soul-deep fulfilled happy. But overall—aside from her run-ins with crusty old Festus Grumsworth who disapp
roved of everything, from her teaching style to her hair to the way she dressed and how she preferred coffee over tea—she was usually content.
And for a woman who’d learned the hard way to take whatever hand life dealt, plain old contentment was a good thing.
Lucy took her eyes off the deserted lane to fiddle with the radio, but static alerted her to the difficulty of her task. Cotswold County only had one radio station, and that was run by Mrs. Greenstreet high in the fourth-floor attic of the Hoof and Toe Inn in the village. Lucy found the station and replaced static with yodeling, which led her to a decision to blow her next paycheck on satellite radio.
She looked up just in time to swerve clear of a barreling Smythe’s Furniture truck. Judging by the rage with which the driver operated his vehicle, she guessed Fortescue, the duke’s butler, had forgotten to tip again.
“The butler,” she said along with her best imitation of one of the duke’s mellow laughs, following that up with one of her own Alabama giggles. Who’d have thought that Lucy Gordon from Springdale, Alabama, would actually be dating a duke?
Even better, word around the castle was that William might even be on the verge of proposing. And why not? He often enough said he thought her quaint. And her hair, far from offending him, reminded him of that portrait of the first Queen Elizabeth hanging in Sinclaire Castle’s great hall gallery.
Lucy tightened her grip on the wheel.
Would hearing news of his little girl becoming a duchess finally make her father proud?
What the—she swerved again, only this time for a bouncing green blob.
Pop!
Crash!
Her Mini’s left front tire blew, which threw the tiny car into an out-of-control slide into the passenger-side rock wall—the American passenger side, seeing as how she never could keep her lanes straight under pressure.
Angel Baby (Heaven Can Wait) Page 30