Fallen Angel Read online

  FALLEN ANGEL

  by

  Laura Taylor

  www.authorandeditor.com

  Copyright ©2011 by Laura Taylor

  Published in the United States by Blue Jay Media Group

  ebook ISBN: 978-1-936724-06-2

  250 pages

  Copyright ©1994 by Laura Taylor

  ISBN-10: 055344526X

  Cover design ©2011 Blue Jay Media Group

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book, whether in print or electronic format, may be duplicated or transmitted without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Other Books by Laura Taylor

  Intimate Strangers, based on the novel Tender Mercy

  Fallen Angel

  Desert Rose

  Midnight Storm

  Troubled Waters

  Wildflower

  Jade's Passion

  Starfire

  Promises

  Just Friends

  Heartbreaker

  Wilder's Woman

  Winter Heart

  Lonesome Tonight

  Seduced

  Dangerous Surrender

  Slightly Scandalous

  Cloud Dancer

  Anticipation

  The Christmas Gift

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Honorbound, hard cover and paperback

  Special thanks to my dear friends—award–winning writers

  Kathleen Creighton

  Helen R. Myers

  Peggy Webb

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Dedication

  Author's Note

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Other Books By

  Copyright

  Author’s Note:

  I would like to acknowledge the John Tracey Clinic, which is dedicated to the needs of the hearing impaired.

  1

  Attorney Thomas Coltrane made his way down the back staircase of the converted Victorian mansion, and then strolled along a deserted ground level hallway at the rear of the structure. More relaxed than he’d felt in a long time, his thoughts were on the office space he’d just inspected and the two–year lease he’d subsequently signed with the property manager.

  The three–room suite in what passed for a Cedar Grove office building was a far cry from the entire top floor he’d leased until recently in an upscale San Diego high–rise on behalf of his law firm, but he didn’t care. If anything, he felt relieved that he’d finally extricated himself from the trappings and aggravation of his high profile life as a litigator.

  Having spent the years since graduating from Harvard Law on the fast track as he successfully defended international corporations from multi–million dollar lawsuits, he’d managed to orchestrate his return to northern Nevada with zero fanfare. That, in and of itself, was something of a miracle, especially given the media’s fascination with his professional and personal life in recent years.

  Thomas felt the peace of mind of a man who’d made the right decision for the right reasons. He intended to practice law, defending individuals instead of corporate entities. It was the reason he’d followed in his late father’s footsteps and become an attorney in the first place.

  The hefty retainers and all the hassles that went with the rich and powerful bored him to tears now. He wanted a simpler life, a real life, the kind of life that had horrified his former partners when he’d announced his plans to leave the senior position of their longstanding partnership several months earlier.

  In truth, he recognized how jaded he’d become in recent years, but he was working on the cynicism that had become a part of his personality. He had all the money he would ever need, and his reputation as one of the top five litigators in the country remained intact. Thomas knew he possessed the ruthless, go for the jugular instincts of a legal predator, just as he knew he needed to temper those instincts, and several others, if he intended to attract clients to his new law practice.

  At least he’d finally gotten to the point that he no longer minded the face of the man who looked back at him from the mirror each morning when he shaved. That, he knew with an honesty intrinsic to his nature, was a major step in the right direction.

  "Did you understand me?" a man asked, his tone intense.

  Thomas deliberately slowed his footsteps when he heard the question.

  "Yes, but I’m having trouble believing you," confessed the woman who answered him.

  Her voice, a low breathless sound replete with shock, prompted Thomas to hesitate at the intersection of two hallways in the rear of the building. He peered around the corner, wondering who and what he’d interrupted.

  "I wouldn’t lie to you about something this critical to your well–being," said the man, who towered like a sturdy oak over the petite–looking woman.

  "You don’t lie," she replied with obvious conviction. "You never have." Her hands moved gracefully as she spoke. "He’s really dead?"

  Because they were visible despite the fact that she stood with her back to him, Thomas recognized the way in which she used her hands. Sign language. The word dead belatedly impacted in his mind like a grenade. Dead? He frowned.

  "He’s quite dead." As he responded, the man also used his hands with a dexterity that indicated a long–term knowledge of signing. "My sources are reliable."

  Thomas understood the gestures that reinforced the words they spoke, although his own signing skills had become rusty with disuse. He’d rarely needed them since his mother’s death ten years earlier.

  Thomas took a step forward, deciding to alert the couple to his presence in the shadow–filled hallway, but he paused once more. An instinct he couldn’t label urged him not to reveal himself just yet.

  "I know your sources are impeccable. You give new meaning to the word meticulous. It’s just that I can’t quite take it all in."

  "What’s left of Jamal is in the ground."

  "What’s left? I don’t understand."

  "It’s not important. The bottom line in this situation is that he can’t harm you. He’s been neutralized, and his followers have gone to ground. Everything associated with the man died with him, so there’s no need to let his quest for vengeance haunt you any longer."

  Neutralized. Interesting word, Thomas reflected.

  She shook her head, her dense mane of hair shifting across her shoulders and down her back like a golden waterfall. "When? How?" she asked, finger–spelling the two words.

  "Lebanon. A car bomb. The Mossad confirmed his identity."

  Thomas blinked in surprise at the reference to the Israeli Intelligence Agency. Who are these people? he wondered.

  "They’re very capable," she conceded.

  She has a gift for understatement, Thomas thought, a wry smile lifting the edges of his sensual mouth. He knew from personal experience, thanks to a stint in the Army as a Green Beret, that the Mossad was the best intelligence gathering service in the international community of nations.

  "Quite capable," the man concurred, his tone tinder dry.

  "It’s been ten extremely long years, Nicholas. I…" Her words abruptly ceased. She lowered her hands to her sides.

  She’s upset, Thomas realized. He watched the man called Nicholas draw her into his arms and embrace her.

  Thomas didn’t move.

  The woman’s companion released her and stepped back a few moments later. "It’s over, little one. Now you can finally relax and have a real life, the kind of life you’ve always wanted."

  She tilted her head, peering up at him for a long moment. "Can I? I w
onder."

  "Don’t wonder. Just do it."

  "Old habits die hard. We both know that."

  Thomas heard a wistful note in her voice.

  The man smiled. "Have some faith in yourself. Hannah rehabilitated me, didn’t she?"

  "Hannah’s not like most people. She wanted to understand, and she’s never felt compelled to sit in judgment of anyone. She simply loves with some inbred instinct that defies logic. Most people aren’t quite so trusting or tolerant."

  "Cynicism doesn’t suit you."

  "I’m just careful," she insisted.

  "You’re more than careful, and we both know why. It’s time to find out if someone is capable of accepting you for yourself, don’t you think?"

  "I am accepted."

  "Only by those people you’ve allowed into your world. The population is too damn sparse, and there’s not a lover among them. You need and deserve more."

  "You’re becoming as stubborn as one of those legendary mules from Hannah’s home state."

  He chuckled, his humor doing little to ease the harsh angles of his face. "Probably."

  Shuddering, she pressed her fingertips to her temples.

  Delayed reaction, Thomas thought. He’d seen the response to stress countless times, both in and out of the courtroom. Although he didn’t know why, he sensed that her reaction went far beyond stress, though.

  Nicholas placed his fingertips beneath her chin, nudging her face into view so that she could see his lips as he spoke. "Start living. It’s time. Hell! It’s past time. You’re thirty–five years old."

  She laughed, the sound both shaky and faintly erotic to the ears of the man observing their exchange.

  "I feel seventy–five right now. I guess I never expected the situation to end. Not in my heart, anyway."

  "Patrick wouldn’t have wanted you to live this way."

  "Patrick meant well, but he…"

  "But, nothing."

  "Nicholas, do you think he ever understood what he set in motion? I tell myself he didn’t, but sometimes… sometimes I still wonder."

  Thomas saw the man’s face turn to stone, the warmth in his gaze departing, as well.

  "Of course not. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have done what he did."

  Patrick? Lover or husband? Thomas wondered as he watched the woman.

  She squared her shoulders, then shifted her body. Thomas caught a glimpse of her profile. The stubborn tilt of her chin reminded him of a Dublin model he’d met years earlier in the south of France. The delicate sculpting of this woman’s cheekbone hinted at an ethereal beauty that was more classical than contemporary.

  "I think he would have been better off with a son," she remarked.

  "Gender wasn’t an issue with him. He adored you, and you can’t ever forget that."

  Patrick must have been her father, Thomas concluded.

  "I’m not sure what to do now," she admitted.

  "Live your life and be yourself, little one. You’ve always been a gift to those who love you. It’s time to love yourself now, and it’s way past time to let the right man into your life."

  Thomas waited for her response. The air in his lungs started to burn as he held his breath.

  "I don’t know if I can," she finally said. "I hate admitting it, but I’m afraid to trust anyone too much."

  "Cowardice doesn’t suit you."

  Thomas disliked the hard edge in the man’s voice, but the woman didn’t seem to mind his words or the emphatic way in which his hands sliced through the air as he made his point. They’ve known each other for years, he realized.

  "Thank you," she said in that low, sensual voice of hers. "Thank you for everything."

  Everything? Thomas couldn’t curb his curiosity. What exactly did everything mean? Had they been lovers? Were they lovers now?

  Although startled by his unexpected curiosity, Thomas realized that he didn’t want there to be anything more than friendship between these two people.

  The man and the woman continued to talk.

  Thomas pondered the clandestine quality of their entire conversation. It aroused not only his intellect, but it piqued the ceaselessly curious mind of an attorney who made it his business to solve the more complex legal puzzles that often mystified his professional colleagues.

  "But you’ve done so much for me," she said. "How do I even begin to repay you?"

  "There’s no need, Geneva. I don’t send bills to my friends. Besides, you’ve always given more than you’ve received. Without you, Sean would be dead. Because of you, Hannah has her brother back, I can converse with my best friend again, and he has a life he’s proud of. In the final analysis, I owe you."

  "We’re an unconventional family, Nicholas."

  Geneva. Not a run–of–the–mill name, but Thomas already realized that she wasn’t your run–of–the–mill kind of woman. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

  Nicholas leaned down, gathered her close, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You’d better get into the store. The tourists are here en masse, and this is your peak season. I’ll see you soon."

  He grazed her cheek with his fingertips in a final parting gesture that made Thomas stiffen. Pure reflex, he realized a heartbeat later. He didn’t understand his response, although he recognized the irrational nature of his resentment because he wasn’t the one offering comfort to this woman. He blamed his reaction on the thin mountain air of northern Nevada, and then felt like a fool.

  "I love you, Nicholas," she signed. "I wouldn’t have survived if you hadn’t…"

  Nicholas interrupted her. "I love you, too, but you would have survived. You’re a woman of many talents. Anyone who has ever known you realizes that."

  Thomas again debated the wisdom of revealing himself. In the end, though, he hesitated.

  The woman named Geneva exhaled shakily as she watched Nicholas make his way down the hallway that led out to the rear parking lot assigned to tenants of the converted Victorian mansion. She then walked the final few steps to a door marked PRIVATE. Sagging against the door, she bowed her head and pressed fingertips to her temples.

  When she straightened and glanced down the hallway, Thomas saw her face for the first time. The face of an angel. His gaze dipped, and he took in the contours precisely defined by the fitted jumpsuit she wore. An angel with the body of a centerfold. A fallen angel?

  He felt his insides tighten with tension. His heartbeat accelerated, and his senses, every one of his male senses, went on full alert. Unexpected desire flooded his bloodstream, shocking him with its force.

  She swayed suddenly, and he watched as she steadied herself by placing a hand placed against the doorframe. Genuine concern leaped to life within him. Oblivious to her audience of one, tears spilled from her eyes to trace damp paths down her cheeks and into the corners of her mouth. She cursed very softly.

  Thomas heard the sound. No stranger to disappointment, he grasped the blend of frustration, shock, and emotional defeat in her curse, even if he didn’t understand the reasons. He experienced a sudden longing to touch her, to hold and comfort her.

  What, he wondered, would it be like to feel her warmth and softness? He suddenly wanted to breathe in the fragrance of her skin and hair. And he wanted a taste of her. An endless taste.

  He wanted—he wanted her—and with a depth of hunger that rocked him. Stunned, Thomas Coltrane didn’t move for a long moment. This woman whose last name he didn’t know, this woman who was a stranger, touched a chord in him in an achingly familiar way that baffled him.

  Turning to face the door, Geneva reached into her shoulder bag with one hand and dried her cheeks with the other.

  Thomas moved out of the shadows and approached her. He momentarily forgot that she might not be able to hear him when he said, "Miss?"

  She didn’t answer.

  He spoke a second time, then realized that it was her ability to hear, not Nicholas’s, that was impaired. She employed sign language out of necessity. Her voice, in particular the ab
sence of tininess, prompted him to conclude that, like his mother, she’d been a part of the hearing world before losing one of the key senses that most people take for granted.

  He reached out. Thomas Coltrane knew the instant he touched her shoulder that he’d made a serious error in judgment.

  ** ** **

  Geneva rummaged through the contents of her leather shoulder bag, oblivious to the fact that her conversation with Nicholas Benteen had been observed. More important, she wasn’t alone. Her emotions swirled in turmoil, her thoughts jumbled, her mind filled with images from the past.

  Images of joy and sadness. Images of destruction. Images of people and places she would never see again. And some images normally consigned to nightmares undiminished by the passage of time. They were not muted now, however. They played vividly through her mind.

  When a heavy hand settled on her shoulder, Geneva’s survival instincts kicked in—instincts honed in her late teens and early twenties during a brief but formidable career as an explosives expert for hire. She jerked free, raised her arm in a smooth arc as she turned, and knocked aside the hand of the person who’d come at her from behind. She simultaneously released her shoulder bag, allowing it to crash to the floor.

  Geneva failed to conceal the fear that flashed in her large blue eyes. Fear that was real, the kind of fear that cannot be feigned. Her expression quickly changed to fury, though—fury barely tempered by her fluid physical transition into a defensive stance. Balancing on the balls of her booted feet, she extended both hands, ready to ward off an attack. Her body and her facial expression telegraphed a clear message about a self–defense capability that far exceeded standard training.

  "Stop!" the man shouted. "I didn’t mean to frighten you."

  She watched his lips, her expressive eyes filled with caution and anger. Then, she met his gaze, and she stared up at him with skepticism.

  "I apologize," he said.

  "Do not touch me." She enunciated each word, not bothering to sign the command. "Not ever."

  He nodded.

  "Move away from me. Now," she ordered.