Losing Angeline: London Calling Book Two (6 page)

Pressing his thumb and forefinger together, Patrick sealed his lips. Then he immediately broke into a wide smile, motioning out the door with a crooked thumb.

John checked his watch. It was barely eleven, but the sultry heat creeping into their downtown offices through the drafty windows was making the sweat bead at his temples.
 

There were a few truths man must accept. Nothing broke a heat wave better than a storm. And nothing cooled a person off like a frosty Guinness.

They stepped out onto the brick sidewalk, laughing as they walked to their favorite pub, owned and operated by a British couple.
 

Neither saw the slightly built man watching them from across the cobbled street. And neither felt the vitriolic hate burning from the man’s dead brown eyes.

***

Angeline scooped out a mussel using the empty shell of another as a pincer. She lifted the plump flesh to her lips, savoring the saffron scented broth clinging to it before sinking her teeth into the chewy meat.

John groaned.

Her eyes shot up from where they’d been contemplating which seafood morsel she’d next sample from her exquisite bouillabaisse. “John? What is it?”

He shifted in his seat, and she felt his knees crowd hers beneath the white linen draped table. He looked around the dimly lit bistro with its red brick, zinc-topped bar and dark wood panels before turning back to her. Leaning toward her, he whispered across the small high-walled booth they shared. “I’m hard as a rock.”

Angeline brought one hand to her mouth, manicured fingers pressing back the giggle he provoked. “John,” she hissed. The grin tugging the corners of her mouth betrayed her scandalized protest.
 

His eyes crinkled with shared humor. “Well, you know what watching you eat does to me.”

Angeline daintily dabbed her mouth with her napkin before raising slumberous eyes to meet his. “I’m not sure,” she batted her eyes. “Why don’t you remind me?”

He waved his index finger, tutting. “Uh-uh. You transformed me into a man of culture, able to restrain his baser appetites.” He winked. “At least until later when I have you naked and desperate under me.”

A wave of heat engulfed Angeline and she felt an accompanying blush warm her cheeks. “Honestly, you have no shame.”

“And aren’t you glad I don’t? Otherwise, I might be too shy to take full advantage when I have you splayed out—”
 

His words were cut off as Angeline connected her stiletto with the arch of his foot. She smiled, supremely uncaring in the face of his wincing pain. “Will you be having dessert?”
 

“Oh yes, Lean. But you surely know that.” Wicked devilry danced in his misty eyes. “Have I not made that clear?”

She gave up. When he looked at her with his special combination of erotic intensity and raw adoration, she had no resistance. She pressed her hand over his where it lay between them on the table. “Oh, I’m clear, darling. So in the spirit of mutual understanding, maybe we should pick up the pace a bit? Box our dinners and ask for the check? We can eat leftovers in bed later.” His gaze smoldered. “Much later.”

John surprised her by taking a deep breath and leaning back against the deep red leather of the booth. “No.”

Open-mouthed, she repeated him, sure she’d heard wrong. “No?”

He smiled, but she saw a muscle bunch in his jaw. Sliding his hand free from hers, he picked up his knife and fork to resume eating his coq au vin. “No.”

She exhaled, abruptly slouching away in an uncharacteristic display of bad posture. “Why not?” He never rejected her.
Never
.

“Because, my love, it is our anniversary tomorrow. You have given me seven years of the most incredible joy a man could ask for.”

She straightened, opening her mouth to speak but he held up his fork, interrupting her.

“We are going to act like civilized adults. We will eat our dinner and share a dessert with coffee.”

Angeline nodded primly in agreement.
 

“And later, much later…” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed a long, slender box. “You will put this on for me.” With one finger, he pushed the box across the table toward her.
 

She pulled the box closer, slowly bringing it to rest beside her plate. Carefully, she untied the deep brown satin ribbon from around the box. She glanced up at John in question.
 

He leaned back, bracing an arm on the padded seat in a seemingly relaxed pose. Angeline saw him thrum his fingers, once then again before he caught himself. He lifted his chin at her, indicating she proceed.

She gently removed the lid from the box, revealing the cabochon tourmaline pendant from the young artist’s event weeks ago. Tears swam in her eyes and she pressed a hand to her chest. “How did you know?”
 

“I saw your face when you looked at it. When are you going to realize I notice everything about you?”
 

“After seven years, I think I’m starting to get it.” She sniffed, overcome with gratitude, love, and desire for the man seated across from her. “Are you sure you don’t want to leave?” Absently, she caressed the rounded green stone of the necklace, glancing at John in question.
 

“No, Angeline. We’ll do what I suggested. Now eat your cold food.” He softened the words by smiling crookedly.
 

She hesitated over the box, not wanting to put the lid back on it. “Don’t you want to put it on me?”

“Oh yes, Lean. Like I said, later.
Later
you’ll wear that. But only after I’ve stripped everything else off you.” He had the gall to wink.

Laughing, she winked back. She really couldn’t resist him. Frankly, she had no wish to even try.

***

Edward clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. He watched Angela and her husband through the windows of the restaurant from the outdoor terrace. It was the first time he’d allowed himself to see them together, knowing it would be a test of his restraint and control.

He followed her as much as was possible, considering he didn’t wish to be caught. But her husband was another matter altogether. The man she married didn’t know him, had never met him. He suspected the brute didn’t have a clue about Angela’s past, including the fact she’d been Edward’s before anyone else’s.
 

Over the past days, he’d fully acquainted himself with John Sinclair, determined to know more about this man his Angel had chosen to love.
Marry
. The word sat like bile in his throat, burning and scorching him with its acidic bite. He couldn’t believe the woman he’d searched for, yearned and suffered for, would tie herself to such a hulking beast. The man was well over six feet and muscular. He was so overtly…
male
. Today, Edward followed him when he’d gone to a British pub with his friend and business partner. They drank stouts at barely eleven o’clock in the morning.
 

Uncivilized.

Edward considered himself to be a refined man. He was tall enough at a couple of inches below six feet. And while he kept himself fit, he never engaged in anything that would render him bulky. He never drank beer, only wine. Whites for spring and summer, reds for fall and winter. Of course, it was too warm for him to appreciate his usual Cabernet or Merlot.

Of course the weather played a part here. Even after a short time, he hated the South with its cloying, persistent heat. The people were crass too, with their crude dialect.
 

Stupid.

He focused on Angela, seeing an exchange occur. She had a gift in hand, some sort of box. He watched as surprise lit up her face. Her beautiful tawny eyes seemed to shimmer even from his distance. He leaned slightly forward, trying to peer more closely while remaining unnoticed. She tilted her head slightly, still gazing at Sinclair, before pressing a hand to her heart.
 

Edward spun in his chair, nearly knocking over the glass of Chardonnay at his elbow. His hands curled into fists as anger pulsed through him for several long moments. Practicing the deep breathing he’d learned, he inhaled through his nostrils before exhaling open-mouthed. Finally, he relaxed, smoothing his hands out onto the table before him.

He took a long sip of his wine, grimacing slightly. It was already too warm. Idly, he bitterly considered the scene he’d just witnessed.
 

It must be a special occasion of some sort. Otherwise, why the little box?
 

He curled his lip in disapproval. He hadn’t been so common as to give Angel presents or tokens during their time together. No, his gift was his attention, unrivaled and unceasing. He’d made her into a woman while allowing her to retain her sexual innocence. With his focused adoration, she’d known how beautiful and desirable she was to him.
 

He had
revered
her.
 

But she’d left him, clearly preferring this animal. He risked a glance to see the man lifting her hand to his mouth before pressing a kiss to the underside of her wrist. He seemed to be constantly touching her, mauling her. When he wasn’t, his eyes ran over her with undisguised hunger.

Edward took a long drink of his wine, forgetting it was too warm. He wanted to spit it out, reject it along with everything else about this place and these people. But control was too important, and he couldn’t draw attention to himself. He swallowed and took another sip with enforced discipline. He would drink his wine. He would watch them together.

He was a
refined
man.

Resolutely, he turned back to the window. Angela gazed at John Sinclair with fawning adoration. Absently, she caressed whatever was in the box with delicate fingers, deeply engaged in conversation with him.

Something else in her gaze nagged at Edward, and he forced himself to acknowledge it.

Need. Want. Love.

He had failed her before, he admitted. This time would be different. He’d changed after she left him, so he knew he could give her more now. This time, there would be enough for her to stay. She would look at him in exactly that way. She had before, the photos proved it.
 

She would again.
 

He finished the last of the Chardonnay with stoic precision. He rose, tossing enough bills on the table to cover his tab and a measly tip. Not able to resist, he glimpsed into the restaurant one last time, wishing immediately he hadn’t. John and Angela made a perfect picture, two beautiful young lovers in their prime. The photo in the newspaper hadn’t done them justice.

His gut roiled in protest, full of inexpensive wine and the free bread they’d offered. In a rare moment, Edward suffered indecision and a lack of his usual confidence.
 

No.
 

He would block those negative thoughts along with the images of them he’d just witnessed. He knew best and he had a duty to perform. She
must
be brought back to him.

They belonged together.

***

“Devon! I told you to put those down!” Angeline rushed over to her daughter, grabbing a set of sterling cufflinks from Devon’s chubby fingers. She slammed them on a nearby dressing table and whirled back to her daughter, finger pointing.
 

Devon toddled back one step, then another, cringing from her mother’s tirade. At the sight of her daughter cowering, Angeline abruptly straightened, shocked with herself. “Baby, don’t be scared.” She walked closer to Devon, arms outstretched to comfort her.
 

Her daughter stared, chin wobbling, before crumpling to the floor in a torrent of tears.
 

Angeline was distraught, upset for causing her daughter to shy from her. It was her worst fear, to be the kind of parent that harmed instead of nurtured.
 

John spoke from the doorway. “Let me handle this.” He walked over to where his small daughter sat on the floor, red-faced and weeping. “Shh, baby.” At his voice, she looked up at him with big watery eyes and hiccuped. John held out his arms as Devon launched herself into him, sobbing as he tucked her into his shoulder. “Devvie, don’t cry. Papa’s home now.” He crossed to a nearby chair, the same rocker Angeline had nursed Devon in when she was a baby. Settling himself down with Devon on his lap, he turned grave eyes to Angeline.

She burst into speech. “I’m sorry. I lost my temper with her. I’m so sorry.”
 

“Ang, we all lose our patience sometimes. But something has been going on with you for days, even weeks now.” He shook his head in a short jerk when she tried to interrupt him. His voice hardened. “Now I don’t know what’s going on because you won’t tell me. So what I suggest, for
all
our sakes,” he rubbed a soothing hand up and down Devon’s back, “is that you go for a walk, a long one if necessary, and get yourself sorted out.”

Angeline nodded, jerkily walking to the doorway. He was right but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. Glancing back, she looked at the twin pairs of gray eyes staring back at her. One was misty and wet with wounded feelings, almost colorless except for their darker rims. The other set had darkened to a deep fog with accusation.
 

John was rarely cross and never with her. Until now, when she’d turned her irritable mood on Devon and frightened her. For the first time, a detached part of her saw the stunning closeness between father and daughter. Not just their eyes, but in their very nature. John was a calm and deliberate man, slow to anger or judgment. Yet censure, mixed with confusion, radiated from him as he rocked their daughter back to calmness. Angeline knew it was an indictment against her, not only for today’s lapse, but also for the past days of her moods and misery.

Bleeding inside, she addressed Devon again before turning to leave. “I
am
sorry, baby.”

She sped down the stairway, blinded by tears but uncaring whether she stumbled or fell. Bursting out the front door, she took a deep breath then resolutely took off down the street, headed for the riverfront. She could find solace there, comfort in its ebb and flow caused by the nearby Atlantic’s tides. She’d grown up on the doorstep of the great river dividing Detroit from neighboring Canada, resplendent with tankers and cargo ships fit for an ocean. The Savannah River, much like the entire South, took a gentler approach. A little slower but steady nonetheless.