Losing Angeline: London Calling Book Two (8 page)

She was a witch, trailing her burning mouth over him until finally inching her way down his abdomen to find his bobbing length. As she twirled her tongue over the tip of his shaft, his eyes rolled back in tortured lust. She was weaving a spell, trapping him in a web of erotic pleasure. When he tried to free his hands, she tightened her grip, cuffing him harder as she took him further into her mouth.
 

He gasped, opening his eyes. Angeline rose over him, stunning and breathtaking in her need. She sank down on him, taking him fully inside her in one smooth stroke. She released his hands, bracing against his chest to better rock her body on his. Overcome, John’s arms loosely dropped to his sides.
 

He frantically cast his mind around, trying to find a distraction to keep from ejaculating like an inexperienced teenager. But she was relentless, rising up and down, all the while circling her hips in a seductive rhythm and sway that had him going out of his mind. His erection surged, engorging further.
 

From somewhere, he found the strength to grip her hips, slowing her down as she rocked harder. Their eyes met, and he was momentarily shocked by the desperation in hers. But then she tightened her inner muscles, gripping him in a silken fist. He arched up, impaling her further, straining and breathing hard.
 

He thumbed her nipples, plucking at their pouting fullness before reaching high to take one into his mouth. Sucking hard, he felt her quiver in readiness for her orgasm. He tormented her further by reaching down to circle and press her throbbing nub.
 

Angeline gasped, dissolving over him as an orgasm wracked through her. Her strong pulsations sent John teetering right over the edge. He gripped her hips as he jerkily thrust upward, erupting in a powerful climax.

She collapsed on him, boneless. John dragged deep breaths into his lungs, desperate for air. Sex with Angeline was always incredible, but he couldn’t remember a time when he’d come so hard. As his breathing slowed to normal, doubt niggled its way into his consciousness. He’d wanted to make love to her, slowly and thoroughly. She hadn’t allowed that, which was normally just fine as they engaged as equal partners, both inside the bedroom and out.

Remembering the look in her eyes earlier, he knew this was different. Shifting a little, he realized she was asleep already, blanketed over him in sprawling elegance. Reaching a hand out, he pulled the sheet over their cooling bodies.

They needed to talk. It was weeks overdue and today, after her walk, she seemed worse instead of better. As soon as she woke up, he’d corner her, make her tell him what was wrong. And he would banish whatever demons were haunting her. The unrelenting specter that had settled over them and their marriage would be expelled, once and for all.

As John’s eyes drifted shut in exhausted sleep, he never felt Angeline move away from him. By morning, she had left the bed.

***

Angeline ducked into the bakery cafe located a couple of blocks from Savannah’s waterfront. It was a pleasant but no-nonsense kind of space that served European-style pastries and quiches along with truly exceptional coffees. She scanned the dining area, seeing Patrick Martin parked at a small two-seat table beneath an oversized, brightly colored vintage French print. She hurried past the line of waiting patrons and crossed the black and white tiled floor to join him.

He stood, waiting for her to take her seat. “What can I get for you? Breakfast? Coffee?”

“Nothing to eat, but a latte would be lovely.” She folded her hands on the table as he went to get in line.

She’d been up most of the night, watching John as he slept then rising to go check in and stay with Devon. They were her world, the brightest spots in a life that had been dim and hopeless before them. She glanced up as Patrick returned to their table carrying a small tray with coffees, croissants, and a bright berry jam. Angeline smiled while swallowing back the nausea bubbling up from her churning stomach.

Patrick pushed the latte across to her, wisely deciding to leave her croissant in the middle of the table within easy reach. Taking a sip of his coffee, he eyed her over the rim of his cup. “Angeline, I can see you making yourself sick over there. Start by telling me why you wanted to meet.”
 

She worried her fingers together, unable to meet his eyes. She wasn’t sure this was the right decision, but she’d been over it a thousand times in her head overnight and could see no way out. She needed help.

Patrick briefly touched her hands, stopping their restless movement. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, I can promise I won’t judge or condemn you. But you have to tell me what’s wrong.”
 

She took in a deep breath before releasing it in shuddering nervousness. “You can’t promise that. You have no idea why I called you.”

“I know something is wrong. Partly because you called to meet me without John or Alice. And partly because of the way you look.” He nodded in encouragement as she finally lifted her eyes to his. “I may not know why you called, but I know
you
. You’re a good and decent person, Angeline.”
 

She was miserably shaking her head, denying what he said. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have involved you.”

“You haven’t involved me yet because you haven’t told me anything.” He set his cup down. “Now spit it out, all of it. Just get it out while you have the courage.”

She was the least courageous person she knew. All her life, she’d been running from her problems, from people. Only John, and then Devon, had tempted her into thinking she could stick with something, stay with someone for the long haul. Now, those dreams had collided with her awful past, crumbling to ash in the space of an afternoon.

She had nothing to lose. Her life was on the brink of being destroyed; she had to try to save herself and family from the ruin of her history. “I’m in trouble.” She blurted the words, watching Patrick as he split his croissant and began smearing jam on the flaky interior.
 

He glanced up. “Go on.”

She pulled her plate toward her, clumsily tearing the pastry in half. “There’s someone from my past. He’s found me and has come here.” She ground to a halt, knowing this wasn’t going to make a bit of sense to Patrick. “I guess I should start at the beginning.”

Patrick swallowed before responding, “I’m listening.”

“I’m not who you think I am.” At his startled expression, she continued, determined. “I’m not from the South. I’m not from a wealthy family. And most importantly, my name wasn’t always Angeline Dubois.”
 

Patrick stared, food forgotten.

“I was raised in the foster care system in Detroit. I lived in several homes, one after the other. As I reached my teens, I would run away a lot. I didn’t feel safe most of the time.” She met Patrick’s eyes, seeing only compassion. “I was suspicious, but terribly naive. I didn’t trust people, but I craved security and friendship. Love,” she gulped. Unconsciously, she pulled her croissant into smaller and smaller pieces, shredding it to bits. “Then, when I was a junior in high school, I had this phenomenal teacher. He taught art.”
 

Patrick’s face was grave, but he still didn’t interrupt.

“He noticed me, started spending extra time with me on projects. For the first time, I felt like someone finally saw me. Me—a troubled foster kid with no real prospects to do anything. Be anything.” She took a long drink of coffee, taking a moment to gather herself for the worst part. “He told me I had talent.” She blinked the tears out of her eyes. “And he said I was beautiful. It was his suggestion that I go to college and study art. He said I could make money as a model to help pay my way.”

Angeline couldn’t look at Patrick. He sat, perfectly motionless. She was certain if she looked up, she’d see the horrible knowledge of everything she’d left unsaid reflected in his eyes. She blearily stared down at the destroyed remains of her croissant.
 

“Angeline.” When she didn’t respond, he repeated himself. “Angeline, look at me.”

Reluctantly, she raised her head.
 

“I’m still here. I’m still your friend.” He caught her hand and squeezed when a sob escaped her. “Let me repeat myself—you are a good and decent person. This doesn’t change one thing about the way I see you. It just breaks my heart that you went through this and were taken advantage of when you weren’t much more than a vulnerable kid.” He continued to hold her hand, though it was limp and clammy. “You must know John would feel the same.”

She pushed herself away from the table, springing to her feet. “No, Patrick. You have to promise not to say anything to John. Never.” It was hard enough sharing the embarrassing details of her past with a friend like Patrick. There was a sense of security inherent in the distance between them. Telling John would lay her bare, exposing her most intimate disgrace. He’d never look at her the same.

“You’re not giving him enough credit, Angeline. I know John Sinclair, have for most of our lives.”

Angeline sat, determination carving her features into resolute granite. “Patrick, you have to promise. If you don’t, I’ll leave right now.”

He sighed, giving in to her. “I promise. But—”

“No buts, Patrick.
Never
. Say you’ll
never
tell.”
 

At his hesitation, she began gathering her things.
 

He rolled his shoulders, impatience making his voice sharp. “Stop. Sit back down, Angeline. I promise to never tell John.” At her visible relief, he tacked on, “But you have to promise you’ll reconsider telling him yourself.”

“I’ll think about it. But I won’t change my mind, Patrick. I couldn’t.”

“Maybe not today, but someday. I’ll settle for that. Now go on with your story. I assume it’s this teacher,” his tone was loaded with scorn, “that’s come here and found you?”

Relief and reluctance warred inside her, making her slightly lightheaded. “Yes.” Her voice was faint, and she cleared her throat. Stronger, she said, “Yes. It’s him.”

Patrick stood, surprising her. He gathered the plates and cups from their table. “Take a deep breath, I’m going to get us more coffee. And when I get back, you can tell me the rest, all of it. Don’t leave out any details you can recall about this man.”

Angeline nodded, glad of the brief reprieve so she could collect herself. “Okay.”

“Good.” Patrick walked off to get back into line.

Angeline breathed deeply, oddly more at ease. The worst was over; she’d begun a conversation that had been locked inside her for years. She’d never told anyone about Edward Pierce.
 

She would do so now, because her family’s happiness overrode her reluctance to reveal the darkened corners of her earlier years. And while she would share every detail she could remember about the man who’d spoiled her youth and betrayed her trust, she would hold back her own tortured confessions. Patrick Martin was a man of his word and she would trust him with her confidences. But no one could know her own culpability in what had happened to her.
 

She could barely face the truth herself.

***

Angeline lived on nerves and stress for the next six days. Edward hadn’t made another appearance, but she could feel his nearness, a palpable malevolence hiding in the shadows. There had been no private contact from Patrick either, although she and John had dinner with him and Alice two nights ago.

Angeline and John arrived earlier than the other couple, so they’d taken seats at the restaurant’s bar for an aperitif before dinner. Alice had walked in first, hugging John then Angeline in quick succession. Her embrace lasted a little longer than usual, Angeline thought, and her eyes were suspiciously moist when she pulled away.

Patrick had told her everything, Angeline knew it. She’d begged him to keep her secrets, and he’d stated he would keep his promise and never say a word to John. But he wasn’t in the habit of keeping secrets from his wife, and he wouldn’t be starting now. He assured her Alice would understand, and it was apparent he’d been right. Alice conveyed her friendship and love, sending unspoken yet strong support throughout the evening.

Maybe Angeline was wrong. Perhaps she’d inflated the errors and mistakes of her past beyond rational logic. After all, she had been so young, too innocent and vulnerable to be fully accountable for her actions. But the thought of confessing her lies was beyond her.

No, she would see this through, counting on Patrick to find the weakness in her opponent’s armor.

Patrick was a wizard with the Internet. He fully embraced the latest technologies, always looking for new ways to expand their business. He immersed himself in chat rooms and online communities, learning all he could from the emerging world unfolding around them. He was confident he could find something about the man who’d taken advantage of her.

“I don’t see what online research can tell you, Patrick,” she’d said.
 

“Angeline, we need leverage. The only way to defeat this bastard is to bring the fight to his door. I’m going to learn everything there is to know about Edward Pierce. I’ll find things his mother doesn’t even know. And when I do, we’ll strike.”

She’d sighed, clearly unconvinced. Patrick had leaned across the table at the cafe, over the remains of their second round of coffees. “You have to trust me. You’ve already told me more than you’ve shared with anyone else—even John. I’m asking you to keep the faith a little longer. Try to act as normally as possible at home and work. I’ll work as quickly as I can, but I need a few days.”

Angeline had nodded, agreeing to his request. But skepticism curled in her voice when she’d asked, “I just wish I knew what you’re hoping to find. It’s not that I doubt you, or your abilities. I worry there’s nothing out there to help us.”

Patrick’s lips had curved into a black smile. “Edward Pierce is a perverted snake. Even if we think he started with you, he didn’t finish there. No, I’m absolutely certain I’ll find a trail leading to more of his victims.” His smile flattened with grim determination. “Sexual deviants don’t stop, Angeline. I’m confident he found more young women he could exploit. Now, I just need to find them too.”