My Special Angel (20 page)

Owen gave them a minute to digest the facts before turning to the mayor. “Ellis, I’ve known you my entire life. You didn’t come here looking for your daughter; you came here to exert your power over people. There was no law broken. Your daughter is old enough to make her own decisions. Did it ever occur to you that maybe the Kandrataviches are worried about their son? He’s only been in this country for six months. Maybe they’re wondering what kind of daughter you raised who would lure their baby away from them and out into a world he knows nothing about.” Owen shook his head with sadness. “Maybe if you had come as a father and talked to them as parents, you could have figured out where the young lovers had gone. As it is, precious hours have been wasted.”

He started to pull Nadia away from the silent crowd. “As much as I love your family, I don’t want to handle any more of their problems tonight.”

Nadia glanced at her family, the sheriff, and the mayor. Owen had done a superb job of handling the latest Kandratavich crisis. “I think it’s safe for us to leave.”

He walked over to where he had parked his car an hour ago and opened the passenger door for her. “What are the chances that we won’t be disturbed again?”

She glanced at the dispersing crowd and saw the mayor shake hands with her father. The other men from town were talking to some members of her family, and the deputies were placing Wyatt in the backseat of a patrol car. One of her little cousins climbed into the front seat of the patrol car and hit the siren switch. A smile teased her mouth. “I think the odds are in our favor.”

“Great!” Owen shut her door and hurried around to the driver’s side. “We’re going back to my place.”

“Can we please go to my house, Owen?” She glanced across the seat at him. “There’s something very important I have to show you.”

He started the car. “Don’t tell me you have portraits of your ancestors too.”

“No, something more revealing.” She glanced down at her hands trembling in her lap. “I want you to see my past.”

* * *

Nadia cracked an ice-cube tray and placed a couple of cubes in a clean dish towel. She walked over to Owen and positioned the makeshift ice pack over his right hand. “I don’t think anything’s broken. It’s just swollen.”

He wiggled his fingers. They were a little sore, but he had full movement. “I’m sorry, Nadia. I don’t usually go around punching people.” He flexed his fingers again. “In fact that was the first rime I ever hit someone that wasn’t in self-defense.”

She started to pull the fixings for sandwiches out of the refrigerator and placed them on the table. “He was asking for it.” She took down a couple of plates and began cutting thick slices of ham. “I hope sandwiches are okay.” She glanced at the digital clock on the stove. It was after eight. “It’s too late now to start anything.”

“I was planning on feeding you at my house.”

She grinned at him as she smeared mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “What were we going to have?”

“Muffins, strawberry preserves, and chilled champagne.” He reached out and swiped a slice of ham. “I was planning on celebrating.”

“Yeah, well, about that...” She slapped the meat on the bread, and with a vicious blow of the knife cut the sandwich in half.

Owen watched the sharp blade of the knife she was wielding slice through the second sandwich. He swallowed around the knot forming in his throat. “You haven’t given me your answer yet.” As far as he knew, he had never heard of a man being stabbed for asking a woman to marry him.

She frowned at the sandwiches and dumped a handful of potato chips onto each plate. “Do you have any deep, dark secrets in your past?”

He felt every muscle in his body tighten. “My past is an open book, Nadia. Crow’s Head is a very small community. It would be impossible to hide any deep, dark secrets in my closet.” He reached out and tenderly stroked the back of her hand with his fingertips. “Does it matter that I don’t?”

“No.” She turned her hand over and captured his fingers. “But I happen to have a whole closetful.” Her lips formed a semi smile. “And believe me, it’s a real doozie.”

“If you share it with me, it will only be half its size.”

“It still might be too big for you to handle.” Her gaze studied his handsome face. It lovingly caressed his stubborn jaw and seductive lower hp. Her fingers trembled as they clutched his hand harder.

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” He squeezed her quivering fingers. “I love you, Nadia, and I will still want you to be my wife, no matter what.”

She tried to smile. “Gallant words for a man who doesn’t know the facts.”

“Give me the facts, love, and let me prove to you they are the truth.”

She lowered her gaze to the sandwich in front of her. “Eat your dinner first.” She removed her hand from his and nervously played with her pile of potato chips.

Owen grinned and took a huge bite out of his sandwich. The last hurdle to Nadia’s heart was about to be breached. She would no longer hide behind her secrets. He had earned her trust. Now all he had to do was earn her love.

* * *

Twenty minutes later Owen was in the spare bedroom standing in front of the closet door with a crowbar in his hand. “When you said you had a closetful, you weren’t kidding.” He jammed the bar in between the door and the jamb and pushed his weight against the crowbar. “Want to tell me again why you nailed the door shut?”

Nadia chewed on her lower hp. “I didn’t want anyone accidentally discovering what’s behind the door.” She grimaced as Owen groaned and attempted to apply more pressure.

“Was there any reason why you had to use so many nails? And why did they have to be so big?”

He wrestled the door open another quarter of an inch. “Were you trying to keep people out, or is there something inside that you are trying to keep in?”

Her teeth sank into her lip as the door groaned and finally gave way to his strength. The door popped open and threw Owen off balance. He landed on his butt in front of the closet, clutching the crowbar. There was no turning back now. Her secrets were finally out in the open.

Owen glanced inside the closet. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and looked again. His vision did not change. “Most people have skeletons in their closets, love. But not you.” He reached out and lightly fingered the hem of a red sequined gown. “You have clothes in yours.” He glanced over his shoulder and up at her. “How original.”

“Owen J. Prescott.” She reached out and gave him a hand up. “I would like for you to meet my past.” She swept her hand toward the packed closet.

Owen glanced between Nadia and the crammed closet. Not receiving any help from Nadia, he took a step closer to the closet and idly shuffled through the hangers. There was enough silk and sequins stuffed into the small closet to keep Elizabeth Taylor happy for a year. Not one gown, lounging outfit, or peignoir set seemed suitable for Nadia. It looked like someone had a relative working in the shipping department of Fredrick’s of Hollywood. He glanced at the back of the closet door where a vinyl shoe holder hung. The twenty pockets were jammed with at least thirty-five pairs of spiked heels as tasteless and as gaudy as the clothes. A lone cardboard box sat on the floor buried beneath the long gowns and plastic cleaners’ bags protecting most of the clothes. He stroked a cream-colored gown, looked at the tag, and frowned. It was a designer original and pure silk. Nadia had a fortune’s worth of clothes nailed shut in a closet. “Do I get an explanation, or am I supposed to guess?”

“It’s all in the cardboard box.” She reached down and hauled the box out of the closet. “I saved everything I could get my hands on.” She picked up the box and handed it to him.

Owen shifted the box and tested its weight. “It’s all about you?” he asked in astonishment.

“Not all of it, but I’m one of the key players.”

He glanced down at the box and frowned. “Why don’t you just tell me about it? That way I can bypass all of this and get the truth at the same time.”

“But the public doesn’t perceive me in a truthful light, Owen. They only know what they have read or seen on television. For the rest of my life I will be judged by what’s in the box.”

“So Paul did recognize you from television.”

“If he was in New York anytime last summer and there was a television nearby, it would have been impossible for him not to have seen me.”

Owen whistled softly. “Now I’m really curious.” He tested the box again. “What did you do, commit murder?”

“No, nobody died.”

“Am I going to get the truth?”

“After you go through my scrapbooks, and if you’re still interested in hearing my side, yes, Owen, I will tell you the truth.” She walked to the door. “Why don’t you find a comfortable spot to discover what kind of woman you have asked to become your wife? I’ll be in the kitchen when you are done.”

Owen stood in the silent, empty room clutching the box and listening to her slow footsteps as she went down the stairs. Then he sat down on the carpet, leaned against the wall, opened the box, and confronted Nadia’s past.

Nadia poured herself another cup of coffee, took a sip, and dumped the entire cup down the drain. Her stomach couldn’t handle another cup of caffeine. Two hours had gone by, and still Owen hadn’t left the spare bedroom. And she should have known. She had been sitting in total silence counting the minutes and listening for his footsteps.

She knew what every article in the box said. She had read them all at least a dozen times, most of them more. Every picture was engraved in her memory as if it were yesterday.

Five years ago when she first set foot on American soil, she had one goal set in her mind: to make enough money to bring her family to America. She had arrived with dreams in her head, stars in her eyes, and gold in her heart. America was supposed to be the land of opportunity. A place where dreams came true. After one year of waiting on tables all day and singing in nightclubs all night, she had barely enough money to bring three of her brothers out of Russia. Her family refused her offer—either they were all coming or no one was. She had felt her hopes and dreams slip farther and farther away. Her scrapbook contained a couple of local announcements of her singing, a few publicity photos, but none of her dreams.

The next articles showed her rapid climb to the top. Within months she was singing at one of the top nightclubs in Manhattan and receiving an astronomical salary. She was also linked to one of New York’s most notorious mobsters, Anthony Ciotti, better known as Big C. She shared a luxury apartment overlooking Central Park with him and acted as his hostess on numerous occasions. The FBI was trying to build a case against Big C for racketeering, but they could never get enough evidence. The climax came when the IRS finally nailed him on income-tax evasion. The trial made front-page news every evening, and she was labeled the Manhattan Mistress who wouldn’t talk. Big C got five to seven in the state pen, and the Manhattan Mistress dropped out of sight.

Nadia paced over to the screen door and stared off into the night. There was nothing in that box to explain her actions. Owen would have no reason to doubt those articles. For all appearances she had been Anthony Ciotti’s lover and confidante.

She sighed and leaned her cheek against the cool metal of the screen door. Two hungry mosquitoes, sensing a warm victim, buzzed against the screen. It would have been easier to have told Owen the truth first and then let him see the articles, but she had to know. Did he trust her enough to realize she could never be that woman in those articles? Did he love her enough to want to know the truth? A third mosquito joined the first two.

The creaking of the ceiling joists told her the wait was over. Owen was heading for the stairs.

Owen entered the kitchen and glanced at the back of the woman staring out into the night. Then, placing a couple of photos on the kitchen table, he headed for the coffeepot. He could go for something stronger, such as a bottle of Wyatt Marshall’s twenty-year-old Scotch, but he settled for a cup of Nadia’s coffee instead. He leaned against the counter and softly said, “That was some of the best fiction I’ve ever read.”

Nadia slowly turned around. “Fiction?”

“You didn’t honestly think that I would believe any of that.”

“The part about Big C going to jail for income-tax evasion is true.” She moved away from the door and glanced at the photos lying on the kitchen table. They were all photos of her.

“The man was guilty of a lot more than that.” He watched as she shuffled through the pictures.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Probably.” She picked up a black-and-white photo of herself taken four years ago when she’d first arrived in America. She looked so young and naive, full of hopes and dreams. “Tony had one sterling quality; he loved his wife and children.”

“Wife? There was no mention of any wife or children.”

She dropped the picture back onto the pile. “I know.” She glanced at Owen. “How come you don’t believe what’s written in black-and-white?”

He placed the cup on the table. “I know you, Nadia. You could no more be some mobster’s plaything than I could be a rock-and-roll star.”

Nadia looked at him deadpan. “I’ve heard you sing in the shower, Owen.”

He reached out and tenderly cupped her cheek. “Then you know I can’t carry a tune. You’d better hope our children get their singing from you and their patience from me.” He brushed her lips with a soft kiss.

“Children?” whispered Nadia. “Then you still want to marry me without even knowing the truth?”

“How could you doubt it?” He covered her mouth with a deep, hungry kiss that would leave her without any doubts about his desire. He ended the kiss and pulled back slightly. “I have to admit that I’m mighty curious as to why you were living with a married man, and a famed mobster to boot.”

“Two boots?”

Owen chuckled and sat on one of the kitchen chairs, pulling her down onto his lap. “Forget the boots, it’s only a saying. You have five minutes to explain about Big C.”