My Angel (4 page)

If only he'd remember.

She found a soft spot of moss to sit on and, tucking her knees beneath her chin, she watched the stream go by. Just like her life, the water followed the path set before it.

She meant to control her destiny.

Finishing school back east was her father's dream, not hers. She wanted adventure and travel and a man who would cherish her for herself, not for the way he wanted her to be. Perhaps not in that order, but she yearned with all her heart for all three.

Devil touched her as no other man had.

Sheet lightning suddenly lit up the sky.

The mountain storm hit hard and fast. The deluge began after the awful rolling of thunder and then more lightning. Angela took cover beneath a canopy of solid granite to wait out the storm.

Chapter Two

Devil Blackmoor watched her ride away. He struggled for the indifference he usually felt with women, apathy inbred through decades. The woman he had just encountered stirred unwanted feelings deep in his heart.

She was a study in contrasts, sultry tawny skin coupled with shining hair the color of golden desert sand and the bluest eyes he'd ever seen, eyes that seemed to probe his darkest secrets and search for the man beneath the facade he'd carefully constructed.

Leaning back against the soft bed of grass, he cursed himself in three different languages. He'd lost control and that was unthinkable. He'd almost made love to her here in the wide open, where anyone could have come along and watched. Where his friend, cousin and self-proclaimed bodyguard would show up in a few seconds. Misha was always close by, too close at times. The thought made him groan.

Her silken hair running through his fingers, the satin feel of her flesh against his fingertips, the light in her eyes, darkening to the deepest blue of the ocean were images that remained vivid in his mind. More than he'd ever believed possible he wanted her, desired her with an intensity that surprised him.

When he made love to her, and he knew he would, he wanted everything perfect. Soft pillows, the scent of jasmine hanging in the air, muted light--he would make sure she had all of that and more. He wanted her to dance for him, in the way of his
father's people, with Turkish music and the soft, billowing garments of the harem women. Without closing his eyes, he could see her in the transparent clothes, enticing him with the subtle sway of her breasts, the provocative flare of her hips and her smile. Hers was a smile he couldn't resist, one that made him lose all perspective. When she looked at him the way she had only moments before, he wanted to possess her so thoroughly she'd never glance at another man.

It was not in his nature to be possessive or jealous, but with this lady he felt both emotions. They were strong and insistent, encompassing every part of him.

She was courageous--she had fought him despite his great size. He admired courage, yet he'd never encountered bravery in a woman. She had been honest in her response to him, and he respected honesty and integrity. Her kisses were innocent yet wildly passionate.

He might not ever see her again.

His maternal grandmother had sent word over a year ago that he must return home. She'd handpicked a wellborn bride for him. All that remained was his approval of the lady in question. He'd received the letter but two days past. He didn't want to leave
America
, but duty to his people and his land prevailed.

He was a second son, and the duty should not rest in his hands. With his stepbrother's death, his life had changed. He could no longer do as he pleased. He didn't need a wife, yet once again the dictates of society mandated he wed and bear a legitimate heir.

In his mother's homeland he was a prince. In his father's he held great riches. In
America
he felt free.

He had come to
America
seeking adventure and had fallen in love with the wild, untamed land--wild and untamed, just like the wanton angel he'd encountered seconds ago.

A friend had called him Devil because he looked so fierce, and Blackmoor because he seldom wore anything but black. The Americanized name had become as much a part of him as the land itself. Advertising as a hired gun had put excitement
in his life, yet he'd stayed on the right side of the law. Now his reputation preceded him.

He felt that Lawrence Stevens, his latest employer and powerful U.S. Senator, had taken advantage of him. Devil believed Stevens had lied to him about Emma and Dakota Barringer when he hired him to find the pair and bring them to
Denver
. He meant to find out the truth before he handed Emma over to Stevens, meant to discover who committed the crime, who really murdered Emma's mother. He wanted to know why Stevens was willing to put up a small fortune to have Emma in his hands and at his mercy.

And then he meant to find his angel.

What would it take to convince the angel to follow him to Europe, where he would assume his duties, or to
Constantinople
, where his father lived and where he'd grown up? He'd spent the first fifteen years of his life under the influence of the
Ottoman Empire
. His father had abducted his mother, enslaved her--until his mother had managed to capture his father's heart. Then she had received a promise from Father at her deathbed that their son, if he choose to live in
Russia
, would go by the Popov name to continue her family's dynasty. If he still lived in the East, Devil would not have to ask to have this angel. She would be his for the taking.

In
America
he would have to ask.

All he could offer was the promise of adventure and for most ladies that was not enough to lure them away from their home and their family, entice them across the
Atlantic
to foreign places they might have only read about. Allah, but if she craved adventure, he could give her that and much more. He would give to his wanton angel her heart's desire.

Determined to find her, he headed back to town. The sooner he finished with the job he'd accepted the sooner he could search for this woman who'd touched something deep inside and take her home with him.

But would she go?

As if on cue, Misha appeared on the horizon, his approach cautious and slow.

"Your timing is perfect." Devil lay back, his hands tucked behind his head, eyes closed.

"But of course, Alexi," Misha Petrovich said, using Devil's given name. He gave a chuckle then doffed his hat. "How was your wild ride?"

"Enlightening,'' Devil said, still wondering what enticement he could give the angel of his dreams to convince her to travel with him.

"And did you win the fair lady?"

"Not yet, but I will."

"I'm sure that is the truth. Tell me, Alexi, have you ever been denied anything in your entire life?"

"Ah, Misha, in truth, I cannot think of a single time."

~ * ~

"Hello, Papa."

Hours later, a bedraggled Angela Chamberlain closed the door to her father's office. Sam had rented a suite of rooms at the hotel for their short stay in
Denver
before resuming their travels and had turned one of the rooms into a private sanctuary where he could work. They would spend some time here then her father would take her to the train she would ride to boarding school.

She brushed the dripping strands of hair from her eyes and tried to smooth the wrinkles from her skirts. Sam sat at his desk, sifting through an array of papers.

He grunted. To Angela, his preoccupation with the notes in front of him was a good sign he might not notice her state of dishabille.

Without looking up or glancing her way, her father said, "Sit down."

The message came through loud and clear: /'//
deal with you as soon as I finish what I'm doing.
Waiting was torture, and her father knew just how impatient Angela was. He knew she wanted life to happen to her now, not later.

She meant to find a way out of the questions that were sure to start when her father got around to them. "Papa?"

"What?"

He didn't look up. She didn't like the tone of his voice.

"I'm cold and wet. Could we talk later?"

Silence hung in the room. She heard the steady tread of footsteps outside the door, and smelled the leftover of the roast beef her father had had for an earlier meal. The shuffling of papers sent a little shiver of apprehension up then down her spine. The unstoppable ticking of the grandfather clock paralyzed her.

Everyone else controlled her life. Time ruled each precious second, and it was slipping past her right now. She would not let that happen. At eighteen she meant to live rife to the fullest.

"I'm finished." He looked at her, really looked at her. "What happened to you?" Sam pushed back from the desk, his arms crossed stiffly over his chest. He held the position then relaxed everything but his critical gaze.

"A mountain storm." She hesitated to go on. The intense look in her father's eye flashed like nothing she'd seen before.

"Not the first storm you've weathered by yourself. But this one got the best of you."

"It hit fast and hard."