Losing Angeline: London Calling Book Two (3 page)

And her legs. Her long, glorious, show-stopping legs.

She’d been a student of ballet growing up, she once told him. She’d stopped when she grew too tall, but she retained the leanness of a dancer, and she carried herself with regal poise and unfailing grace. She would inevitably turn heads, he thought. When they were eighty, he had little doubt he’d still be watching her draw other men’s admiring glances.

He was also certain he’d be among them.

As he pressed the button to take them to the rooftop terrace where the event was being held, he raised two fingers to ward off an approaching couple.
 

“Sorry, we’re taking this one.”

Angeline whipped her head around, mouth opened in shock as the other two people stepped back to indicate their acceptance of his statement.

“John,” she whispered. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I’m going to ravish you as soon as I get you in this elevator. As I recall, it’s known for a slow trip to the top.” He put a finger under her chin, tipping it up to close her mouth. “You don’t want observers, do you?”

Warmth stole into her cheeks. “You are incorrigible, John Sinclair.”

“I know.” They stepped into the paneled lift with its amber and russet marble flooring. Turning, Angeline waved half-heartedly at the other couple, smiling ruefully. Before the doors slid closed, the unknown pair caught a split second of seeing John spin Angeline into a heated embrace.

Several long moments later, she emerged from his arms, breathless and a little mussed. John grinned as she struggled between outrage and pleasure.

Finally, she relented and huffed out a sultry laugh. “Damn you, John. You know I have no control where you’re concerned. What if those people are coming to the same event?”

“I’m sure they are,” he answered. As she turned bright red, he joined her in laughter. “They had their invitations in hand.”

“You are a libertine, determined to corrupt me to your wicked ways.”

“Oh honey, I hope so. Truly.” He lewdly winked and pinched her bottom. “Later, I’ll let you punish me. How’s that?”

Getting into their game, she stepped close, pressing her breasts against his chest while running her hand down his back. She smacked him smartly on his ass.

“Oh, I don’t know. I much prefer it when you’re the disciplinarian, John.”

He was instantly hard, painfully throbbing against her body where she continued to push against him.

“Stop it. Or I’ll spank you right here and now before you meet with your artsy friends.”

“Oh, I think I’ve made my point.” She reached down to lightly cup him, fanning her fingers over his engorged length.

“Yes. And I’ll make mine later, you vixen.” He softened the threat by pressing a brief but devastating kiss to her lips. “Now behave. And lead the way—you know I’m never comfortable at these functions. Tell me if I’m using the wrong fork or some such nonsense.”

She didn’t laugh as he expected her to. Reaching up, she smoothed an unruly lock of hair back from his forehead. “You’re perfect to me—in every single way. I don’t need you to be one thing more or less than you already are, John.”

She weakened him. Even knowing his past offenses, she wholly accepted him with an open and generous heart. He cherished her faith in him and vowed to spend his days making sure he was deserving of it. As the doors silently glided open to the rooftop bar and its elegant mass of people, he stepped behind her with a hand loosely clasped around her elbow. This was her show and he felt her straighten with reined in excitement.
 

He could wait until later for her undivided attention. She was his—and always would be.

***

Angeline watched as John wandered away from her, professing a desire to give her space to do her work. She smiled. She knew him well enough to know he’d be watching from a distance, never too far in case she wanted him by her side.

Taking a glass of champagne from the waiter, she sipped delicately while scanning the crowd around her. The best and brightest were here from Savannah’s art scene, eager to shop for vintage rarities for both themselves and their clientele. In addition, a newer artist was being featured. He specialized in unique pieces made from hammered gold and silver. For the museum and her work, she was interested in the antiques.
 

Personally, she eagerly anticipated seeing more of the young artist’s offerings, particularly those featuring semi-precious stones. Angeline bored of sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. God knew there were enough of those adorning the various body parts around her.

For a crowd obsessed with class and prestige, she found it vaguely vulgar.

Glancing down, she admired the wide gold band gracing her left hand. Its only unique quality was its square shape. Smiling, she recalled John’s excuse for forgoing the customary engagement—along with its accompanying ring.

“When I put a ring on your finger, it will be one that binds us for the rest of our lives,” he’d said. “I promise I’ll spoil you with all the jewelry you want in the coming years. But first, you’ll marry me.”
 

He’d been so commanding and confident. It was one of the many things about him that attracted her, but she’d also seen the slight tremor in his hand when he’d placed the band on her finger just two months later. It was for that, and a thousand other vulnerabilities, that she loved him. Despite all his bravado and domineering tendencies, he was an absolute marshmallow when it came to her and their daughter, Devon.
 

The curator for her museum walked up, interrupting her thoughts. He was an older gentleman with a receding hairline and general air of nervousness about him.
 

“Angeline! So good to see you. I worried something had come up and you wouldn’t make it tonight.”
 

“No, just a later start than we anticipated.” She caught sight of John across the room, chatting up an elderly woman known for her tastes in younger men.

Angling his body toward Angeline, he winked.

She pressed her lips together, swallowing a laugh.
Incorrigible.
She focused on her boss. “So, catch me up. How is our rising young star doing? Holding his own among the classics?” They’d worried the young artist might not show well among the antique and vintage pieces. His tastes were refined but with a distinctly modern elegance.

“Very well, Angeline. Better than we could have hoped, in fact. Shall we?” He gestured toward the artist, who stood behind a rounded display table with his work arranged among folds of pale blush velveteen. A small group of people crowded the area, eager to speak with him about his gorgeous creations. As Angeline and her employer approached, the group gave way so they could better observe the jewelry chosen for the evening’s viewing.

Rich 18-karat white- and yellow-gold pieces comprised the collection with stones of varying shades from luminous pink to muted greens. Angeline was captivated by the craftsmanship, unconsciously running her hand over the fabric-draped table. She knew some of the patrons here would never have imagined the young baby-faced man with his smattering of facial hair capable of such elegance. But Angeline had suspected as much after meeting with him one day when he’d wandered into the museum, fresh and excited about his work and a possible showing.

She hadn’t been able to accommodate him at her gallery. Her museum showcased paintings, photography, and sculpture. But it had been her pleasure to assist him in gaining this venue. She enjoyed helping those with talent, intelligence, and a penchant for being underestimated.

After all, she was fully aware how deceiving appearances could be.

Waving her hand to encompass the display, she met the artist’s appreciative gaze. “They’re beautiful. You’re doing amazing work.” Her eye lingered on a tourmaline cabochon pendant swinging from a web-like white gold chain. It was shamelessly formal and had a price to match. She’d contrast its glamour by wearing it with a white silk shirt and floor-length black organza skirt.
 

Sighing, she looked away. If John caught her admiring anything, he’d be over in a shot to purchase it. He spoiled her outrageously and had a fine eye for what pleased her most. She suspected there was more to it, though. Although he never mentioned it, he’d been uncomfortable in the beginning with the perceived differences in their backgrounds. He was from a solid working-class family. Never having much, he’d been smart and creative in his pursuit of success. But thinking she was born into wealth and social standing, he’d worried about not keeping up to an unspoken standard or boring her with his simpler tastes.

If he only knew. She’d led him to believe in a fantasy about her background, rather than tell him the stark, disturbing truth of it.

The exquisite beauty around Angeline retreated as a memory emerged. Not quite ten years of age, she was standing in secondhand shoes on an asphalt playground with a tall chain-link fence. It had been raining and the sky still hung dark and heavy in damp misery. Trying to disappear from anyone’s notice, she huddled near a corner, desolately looking outward toward the beckoning sidewalk. She’d run away before but they found her. They always seemed to, no matter how or where she ran. Because of that history, adults kept a close eye on her. They were constantly watching, making sure she stayed within the boundaries of the cages they built for her. Shifting on her feet, she’d stepped into a dip in the pavement, and her white socks soaked up the dirty water where it seeped through her shoes.

A hand touched her on the arm, interrupting her dark reverie. Startling, she turned to face her husband.
 

“See something you like?”
 

John’s deep voice brought her back into the warmth and light. She absently chafed her arms. Running her eyes over him, she smiled crookedly. “Why yes, sir. I think I do.” She stepped nearer to his bulk, craving the security and stability he represented.

“I’d suggest we leave and go see about some real food.” He raised the small china plate he carried for emphasis. It contained a bite-sized mini quiche, a crab wonton, and a lone meatball. “But I can see you’re in your element here. I’ll try to bribe that waiter over there,” he tilted his chin in the direction of a young man carrying a silver tray of filled champagne flutes, “to get us some shrimp cocktail from downstairs.”

John was the best thing to ever come into her lonely and damaged life. And he’d given her Devon, the daughter that lit each day with her sunny smile and gurgling laughter. She would never do or say anything to change how John saw her. He’d given her everything. She’d make sure he always saw her as shining and whole, a source of pride to him.
 

“Mm. Sounds delicious,” she answered. “And later, we’ll sneak downstairs for some prime filet and dauphinoise potatoes.” She patted John on the chest before reaching up to briefly kiss the corner of his mouth. She darted her tongue out to lightly taste but danced away before he could press her closer. “After all, I want you to keep your strength up for later.”

He laughed, as she intended. “Oh, you can count on that, sweetheart. Now go do your duty so I can whisk you away.” He patted her lightly on the bottom.
 

Angeline mingled back into the crowd, drifting through the people with effortless grace. Her gaze touched on a well-known local politician who was currently running for governor of Georgia. A frown creased her forehead and she took an automatic step backward, stopping herself before she bumped into a table of displayed jewelry.

She hadn’t expected to see someone like that at a small, private gathering like this. She was very careful around high-profile personalities, as the press was usually close at hand. Although it had been years, more than a decade, since she’d rebuilt her life, she still exercised strict caution over her privacy. Especially since her daughter was born and she’d embraced the terror of what that responsibility meant for her.

A flash burst, and she looked over to see the man shaking hands with her curator. She started to turn, but her employer caught her eye.

He waved her to join them while walking in her direction. The cameraman and journalist closely followed. There was no way around it; she would have to formally meet the man. She scanned the crowd, instinctively searching John out. Something in her expression must have alerted him because he excused himself from the group he was standing with and started making his way toward her.

Fixing a smile to her face, she stepped forward to meet the politician. She carefully angled her body so only her profile would appear in any shot taken from where the photographer was standing. As his hand closed around hers, the camera flashed once and then once again. None of the panic ricocheting inside showed on her face; she kept her expression as serenely blank as possible.

Seconds later, John joined the group. He greeted the curator, simultaneously making their apologies. “Unfortunately, we’ll have to leave you to it. The sitter just called and our daughter is missing us.”
 

Angeline caught John’s gaze and realized he was making the story up in an effort to rescue her. Her shoulders relaxed from where she’d been holding herself rigidly upright.

“Yes, we apologize. She’s at a stage, as I’m sure you’re both familiar.” Both men had children of their own; she was confident they’d accept her excuse. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you,” she addressed the politician before turning to her employer. “And I’ll see you on Monday, bright and early. Enjoy the rest of the evening, gentlemen.”

John lightly cupped her elbow, leading her through the thinning crowd. Angeline angled her head slightly to look up at him. “How did you know?”

“I saw the vaguely suppressed panic of your expression.” Humor creased the corners of his eyes. “Besides, it’s no secret how you feel about politicians. And as always, I enjoy charging to your rescue.”

It wasn’t the politicians themselves, but the publicity they represented. Of course, John wouldn’t know that.

He stepped to the wall of elevators and casually pressed the call button. As he turned back to face her, Angeline dropped a cheeky curtsy. She batted her eyes and exaggerated her accent. “Sir, I am ever in your debt. How could I possibly repay you?”