He's No Angel (Heaven Can Wait Book 1) Read online

  I indulged in the view for several minutes then focused my attention on Miss Heely who was fanning herself with an ugly yellow pad, no doubt to relieve the heat of those ghastly red blotches staining her skin. I shook my head. In spite of the countless remarkable and fascinating technological advances I’d observed and read about in the Humanity Updates over the last two centuries, obviously a giant step backwards had been taken in the realm of women’s fans. Why, in my heyday, they were a thing of beauty, elaborate and as much a fashion statement for a lady as her jewels. Ah, the good old days.

  Miss Heely set down the pad then rose and began pacing the length of her office-- not a long way to go as the room was barely large enough to house her desk, several file cabinets, and an extra chair. If I weren’t invisible and didn’t take up any space, I’d never have squeezed in. How the bloody hell did these modern-day people function in such cramped quarters? Not one chamber in Ryland Manor’s one hundred and fourteen rooms, not even the servant’s quarters, had been as small as this office.

  My gaze narrowed as I observed Miss Heely. With her severe hairstyle, nondescript clothes, and mannish spectacles, one’s attention would definitely tend to pass over her. But upon closer inspection, I realized she was really quite pretty, especially now that the red blotches had subsided. Her eyes glowed with intelligence and reminded me of the fine brandy I’d once so lavishly and recklessly enjoyed. High cheekbones, lovely bone structure, nice straight nose, and a deliciously plump mouth. Her chin appeared to possess a stubborn tilt, but as most women were obstinate creatures, I didn’t find that particular feature unattractive. That tight chignon wasn’t the most flattering of coiffures and I found myself wondering what she’d look like with her hair down. And wearing an ensemble that flattered the curves hinted at by her current unattractive attire. I’d have to make certain she wore something more feminine and enticing this evening.

  Her dark hair, severe hairstyle, shapeless clothing, and business-like air rang a bell of familiarity in my brain, and I realized with a jolt that Miss Heely reminded me of Alessandra Foscari. My upper lip curled in distaste at the mere thought of that uptight termagant. But then I brightened. No need for any distress-- the success of my assignment was assured. Indeed, I couldn’t wait to see my Task Director’s face when I reported my triumph to her. I even awarded her a grudging mental high five for pairing them up. I smiled in anticipation of our next meeting, which I hoped would be soon.

  Too bad she wasn’t here right now.

  ~~~

  Alessandra Foscari hovered outside the library window and watched a smile curve Lord Ryland’s lips, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes which remained trained on the scenery beyond the glass panes. Her heart pinched at the wistfulness reflected in his dark blue gaze. Although she was sorely tempted to read his thoughts, she forced herself not to. She’d succumbed to that very temptation far too many times over the last two centuries, a fact that shamed her deeply. While it technically wasn’t against the Rules for her to employ her special mind-reading gift as she saw fit, it was implied that that such powers were to be utilized only on an “as needed” basis. In the deepest recesses of her secret soul she knew she’d abused her power when it came to Lord Ryland, yet she couldn’t seem to help herself. Just as she couldn’t help herself from watching him now.

  How many hours had she spent covertly observing him? More than she could ever admit. If the Council ever found out… but no, they had no reason to suspect her interest in Lord Ryland ventured beyond that of Task Director to Angel-in-Waiting. Any more than Lord Ryland himself suspected it. And thank goodness for that. If she weren’t already dead, she’d absolutely die if he knew of her fascination with him. Only the protection of Invisibility awarded to all Task Directors afforded her protection against him seeing her when she wished to remain unseen. And just like her mind reading, she’d misused her Invisibility gift with regards to Lord Ryland countless times.

  But those times would soon end. As soon as he became Full-Fledged, he’d be lost to her forever. She squeezed her eyes shut in a vain effort to block out the pain that seared her at the thought. She’d have an eternity to forget Tristan Barrington.

  Despair filled her at the certainty that it wouldn’t be long enough.

  Chapter Five

  At precisely seven o’clock Liam rang the doorbell to Emma’s apartment. He then forced himself to remain still and not give in to the urge to pace. He couldn’t recall ever feeling this nervous before a date. His damn hands actually felt unsteady. His knees, too. Good thing she lived on the ground floor rather than the upper level because he questioned his ability to climb the stairs without tripping.

  Get a grip, his inner coach pep-talked him. No need to be nervous She’s just a woman. This is just dinner. You know plenty about females and you certainly know how to eat. So relax. You could do this in your sleep.

  A quick laugh escaped him. Of course he could. He was being ridiculous and--

  The door opened and his musing chopped off as if whacked with an ax. No need to wonder any longer what Emma looked like with her hair down. She looked… wow. Shiny, tousled mahogany curls flowed to her shoulders. She’d rimmed her whiskey-colored eyes with some sort of smoky shade that made them appear huge and luminous behind the lenses of her glasses. A delicate blush stained her cheeks and her full lips were glossy with just a hint of pale pink.

  He somehow managed to lower his gaze from that amazing mouth and nearly swallowed his tongue. It wasn’t that she was showing a lot of skin. In fact, she wasn’t showing any. But it was the way she wasn’t showing it that was so… wow. Her long-sleeved, dark brown dress hugged her from her neck to her hips, then flared into a full skirt whose hem flirted just above her knees. He’d suspected those librarian outfits hid a nice figure, but “nice” was a damn lukewarm word to describe the curves that clingy material revealed. She looked like she’d been dipped in chocolate, a comparison that made him want to snatch her into his arms and take a nice big bite. His gaze skimmed lower, taking in shapely legs that ended in a pair of shiny high heels that made her limbs look endless.

  “Well?”

  Her voice yanked him from his stupor and he jerked his gaze up to hers. Clearly she’d asked him something. He had absolutely no clue what. Probably he should ask her. Yeah. He’d do that as soon as he remembered how to speak English. Which he’d better do before she decided he was a bug-eyed, gawking mute and slammed the door in his face.

  He cleared his throat. “Hi.” Not brilliant, but at least it was a start.

  “Hi. So… do you want to?”

  Most likely he did, but since he wasn’t sure what the question had been and it could have involved her suggesting he take his gawking self home and never darken her doorstep again, he figured he’d better clarify. “Do I want to what?”

  “Come in while I get my purse. Or would you prefer to wait out there?”

  “I’d rather come in.” He smiled. “Sorry. I took one look at you and kinda forgot how to speak. You look… ” He couldn’t stop himself from taking another downward sweeping glance. “Amazing.” He was actually glad at that moment to be struck uncharacteristically tongue tied. Otherwise he probably would have babbled, Seriously amazing. Classy. Gorgeous. Sexy as hell. And I can’t wait to touch you.

  “Thank you. You, um… ” She took in his black V-neck cashmere sweater and black trousers. “You look pretty good yourself.”

  “This old thing?” he said with an exaggerated shrug. Yeah, like he hadn’t changed his clothes four times like a damn teenager before settling on what to wear.

  Her lips twitched and she stepped back so he could enter. Liam crossed the threshold into the small ceramic-tiled foyer and stifled a groan as he caught a whiff of her fragrance. She smelled delicious. Like flowers and… cookies? He leaned toward her and took a couple subtle sniffs while she closed the door. Yeah, chocolate chip cookies. So not only did she look good enough to eat, she smelled like his favorite food on the entire planet.
It was enough to make a guy woozy with hunger.

  “Are you okay, Liam? You look a little... woozy.”

  Holy crap. Could she read minds, too? “I’m fine. Just hungry.” For you. Jesus, it required a real effort not to sift his fingers through that mass of gorgeous hair, back her against the wall, and kiss her until neither of them could breathe.

  “Me, too. The library was so busy today, I skipped lunch. C’mon in and have a seat,” she said, indicating a comfy-looking sofa in the family room. “I just need another minute. Be right back.”

  “Take your time.”

  Instead of sitting, Liam glanced around the room. In addition to the mocha-colored sofa, there was an overstuffed chair, and a cherry wood entertainment console topped with a flat screen tv. Bookcases covered the entire far wall. He’d seen plenty of bookcases in people’s homes, but most of them were for decorative purposes and held an assortment of photos and knick knacks along with a few books. Not Emma’s. This was ninety-nine percent books, the precision of the neatly arranged spines interspersed with only a few picture frames and plaques.

  He perused the titles and quickly realized her collection ran the gamut from textbooks to thrillers, poetry to philosophy, biographies to romance, photography to fairy tales, mysteries to suspense, Shakespeare to Harry Potter. A silver picture frame caught his eye and he picked it up to study the photo. It showed a smiling Emma wearing a black graduation cap and gown, the latter’s sleeves looped with numerous colorful braided ropes. Flanking Emma were a quartet of unsmiling people, two older-- her parents, Liam guessed, and a young man and woman who looked close to Emma’s age. A very serious looking group, Liam thought, returning the photo to the shelf. Emma was the only one who looked happy to be there.

  “All set,” came her voice from behind him.

  He turned and for the second time in minutes felt as if he’d been whacked in the head. This time, however, he was determined not to turn into Mute Gawker. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many books outside a library.”

  “I’ve collected them for years. I ran out of space before I ran out of books. The spare closet is stacked with them still packed away in boxes.”

  “And here I thought women liked jewelry and shoes.”

  “Jewelry’s not really my thing, but shoes? Definitely. Shoes and books.” She shot the shelves behind Liam a pointed look. “Guess the book part isn’t a big shocker.”

  Liam chuckled. “Not really. I bet it took a lot of time to pack them all up when you moved.”

  “God, yes. In my next life I’m going to collect something small and lightweight.”

  “I’d go with Q-tips if I were you.”

  She laughed. “Or toothpicks. Good idea.”

  Liam nodded toward the silver-framed photo. “Your family?”

  She crossed the room to stand next to him. Liam inhaled a lungful of chocolate-chip cookie scent and had to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her. “Yes. Mom, Dad, and my older brother and sister, who are twins.”

  “College graduation?”

  “Grad school, actually.”

  Grad school. She really was a brainiac. In fact her entire family looked smart. Like college professor smart. Probably this woman was used to dating genius types. Don’t forget her last boyfriend was a fireman, his inner voice reminded him. Yeah. And that ass was the reason she hated guys in his profession. She probably couldn’t wait to find herself a nice chemical engineer or rocket scientist or brain surgeon or something like that. The fact that he couldn’t seem to string two intelligent sentences together probably wasn’t helping his cause.

  He was saved from thinking up something clever to say by a loud meow. Shifting his attention away from Emma-- no easy task-- he looked at the huge black and white cat glaring at him through squinty eyes from the foyer.

  “Don’t mind Fluffy. He doesn’t like strangers.”

  Liam shot her a reproachful look. “He? A boy? You named a boy cat Fluffy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  She appeared genuinely perplexed by the question. “Well, look at him. You can’t deny he’s fluffy.”

  “But he’s a dude. Fluffy is not a dude name. And even though he’s glaring at me, he’s plotting your murder. I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you.” He hunkered down and held out his hand. “How ya doin’ big guy?” he asked softly.

  “It won’t do any good,” Emma said. “Fluffy doesn’t… ”

  Her words trailed off as the cat, tail sticking up and undulating with each step, approached Liam. After a brief finger sniff, Fluffy bumped his head against Liam’s leg then let out another meow. Liam scratched the cat’s neck and was rewarded by a motor-boat purr. He looked up at Emma. “He doesn’t what?”

  “Like strangers. He doesn’t like strangers.”

  Fluffy rubbed the length of his body against Liam’s knee then nudged his hand, clearly looking for some rubbing. Liam laughed. “Yeah, that’s obvious.”

  Emma shook her head and looked at Liam with a puzzled expression. “No, really. He’s never done that before. With anyone. Ever.”

  “It’s probably because I called him Big Guy instead of the “F” word you named him.” Liam gave the cat a final head scratch then stood. Fluffy immediately regained his feet and twined himself between Liam’s legs.

  “What are you, a Cat Whisperer?” Emma asked with a chuckle.

  “Nah. But cats like me. Dogs, too. And even the occasional hamster. You should listen to your animal. He’s very smart. And, if I may say so myself, an excellent judge of character. Tell me-- did the Big Guy here like the fireman you used to date?”

  A frown whispered across her features. “Actually, no. Fluffy hissed every time he came over.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “Fine. You’ve managed to impress my cat. I’ll give you that. But I won’t be as easy.”

  “Considering it practically took an act of Congress to get you to agree to eat a meal with me, I wasn’t really planning on it being easy. You ready to go?”

  “Yes, but… ” her gaze shifted to his trousers. “I’m afraid that all that love Fluffy uncharacteristically bestowed on you gave you some hairy pant legs. Would you like to borrow a clothes brush?”

  Liam looked down at the cat hair clinging to his pants. “Might be a good idea. I’d hate to shed that all over the restaurant. I should wash my hands, too.”

  She tossed her purse and coat onto the sofa. “Follow me.”

  Anywhere you want to take me. Anywhere turned out to be a cozy, immaculate kitchen with cheery lemon yellow walls and cherry wood cabinets. She opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a lint brush.

  “Thanks.” Liam reached for the brush and his fingers wrapped around hers. He went perfectly still, immobilized by the electric sizzle that zoomed through him. His gaze riveted on the sight of her hand beneath his. How was it possible that a mere touching of fingers could affect him this way? For God’s sake, he was hard as a brick.

  He sucked in a quick breath, but damn it, that didn’t help at all to relieve the desire choking him. Instead it just filled his head with that intoxicating combo of flowers and chocolate chip cookies. The sight of her, the feel of her fingers against his, the delicious smell of her-- it was just about more than he could take. He wanted to impress this woman-- not fall on her like a starved mongrel on a pork chop.

  Before he gave in to the craving to run his tongue along her neck-- for starters-- he quickly backed up several paces, hopefully enough to put him out of the cookie aroma zone, and applied himself to his pants. He bent over and scrubbed at his pant legs as if his life depended on it.

  “The idea is to brush off the cat hair, not rub a hole in your pants,” she said, sounding amused.

  No, the idea is not to give in to the temptation to press you up against the countertop. “Right,” he mumbled. He gentled his movements but brushed longer than necessary, needing the extra time for his har
d-on to subside. When he felt reasonably certain the front of his pants no longer resembled a pitched tent, he straightened. After handing her back the brush, he washed his hands. When he was done, he said, “All set.”

  She led the way back into the family room. Even though Liam sternly told his eyeballs to look only at the back of her head, his stupid eyeballs didn’t listen at all and zeroed in on the curve of her ass. What was she wearing under that chocolate-dipped dress? And speaking of chocolate… he smelled those friggin’ cookies again.

  He paused in the archway leading to the family room, keeping his distance while she entered the room to get her purse and coat. Fearing he’d end up with another hard-on-- seriously, it was embarrassing and she was going to think he was a pervert-- he forced his gaze toward the bookshelves. A plaque on the second shelf caught his eye.

  “Facta non verba,” he read. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s Latin. The literal translation is: deeds, not words.”

  His gaze shot to her. She stood next to the sofa, her big brown eyes studying him behind her glasses.

  “Deeds, not words,” he repeated. A dozen images collided in his brain. All of them deeds. Carnal deeds. Carnal deeds he wanted to share with her. Wanted so much he couldn’t think straight.

  Which meant he should move toward the door so they could leave. You’re trying to impress her, as opposed to that whole starving mongrel/pork chop thing. Right. So getting them out of the house was a must. Yeah, that’s what he needed to do. Instead he took a step toward her.

  Her eyes widened slightly and she backed up a pace. He advanced another step, and she retreated two. No doubt she would have backed up farther, but her shoulders hit the bookcases, halting her. “Um, of course, most people use the popular translation ‘actions speak louder than words,’” she said, sounding breathless. Good. Why should he be the only one who felt like there wasn’t enough air in here? “The actual origin of the phrase predates modern American culture and is attributed to the sixteenth century French writer Michel de Montaigne.”