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Errant Angel
Justine Davis
Dalton Mackay Was No Angel But Evangeline Law was - and she had never met a human she couldn't save.Dalton, with his devil-may-care swagger, would have been a challenge - if he were her mission. But Evangeline had her divine orders, and Dalton would have to fend for himself. Evangeline Law Was No Lady… There was something odd about Evangeline, but Dalton couldn't put his finger on it.He only knew he was crazy about her - or maybe just plain crazy. Because suddenly Dalton found himself believing in things he never had before. Impossible things - like heaven. And destiny. And love…
Errant Angel
Justine Davis
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For the proprietor of Tom’s Garage…
The real angel in my life
Contents
Prologue (#u838c0316-0440-52d8-b1cb-d5fc923d99b1)
Chapter One (#u13bc194c-d677-5bd0-9f39-00c4d0c5231d)
Chapter Two (#uf5c32890-0976-5fe5-8d85-310c265f7c72)
Chapter Three (#uaa72da16-303e-5afa-818c-6547c5b09b99)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
“We have no choice.”
“We’re shorthanded.”
“She’s the only one available.”
The words were as gloomy as the clouds that swirled around them while the group sadly agreed. They turned as one to look at the boss, who let out a sigh. That alone told them he’d about reached the end of his rope, a rope pulled tight for too long and far too often by their errant problem child.
“Very well,” he answered at last. “We will try once more.”
“Maybe it will be all right,” someone else put in hopefully. “Somehow, even when she does things...differently, they seem to come out right in the end.”
There was a grumble of voices as they argued over that optimistic interpretation.
“She’s not that bad,” the hopeful one insisted. “You know her heart is true, she just gets...impulsive sometimes. And she was rather young when we recruited her. It’s not her fault that she didn’t have as much life experience as some of the others.”
The rest of the group snorted—as much as they were capable of—in disdain.
“Enough.”
They stopped, and turned their attention once more to the boss.
“Perhaps we’ve been going about this the wrong way,” he went on. “Perhaps in trying to control her, we’ve made a mistake. Humans are unpredictable.”
“Now that’s an understatement,” somebody muttered, earning an uncomfortable moment of the boss’s attention.
“I think,” he continued, “that this time we shall—how do they say it?—let her run.”
“I think they say,” somebody else muttered, “give her enough rope to hang herself.”
“Perhaps,” the boss agreed. “Or perhaps she will prove herself instead.”
“You mean you’re really going to turn her loose? No safeguards, no limitations?”
There was a pause before the answer came. “None except those necessary to protect her.”
A low, collective whistle rose from the group. Only once before had the limitations been suspended, and the result had been...well, unexpected, to say the least. It was the reason they were shorthanded now; they’d lost their very best, but they found it hard to mourn the loss when it had taught them much about human love and joy.
“If we’re going to do it,” the hopeful one said, “we’d better do it now. That child is headed for big trouble.”
“Yes,” the boss said, focusing on the hopeful one. “You’ll be her contact for this mission.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Everyone else seems to expect her to fail. That’s not what we’re about.”
A rustling rose from the group as the rest of them shifted uncomfortably; there was too much truth in the boss’s words.
“All right,” the hopeful one agreed, although they all knew she had little choice in the matter. And it was an honor, of sorts, to be put in charge.
Even if past history showed it might be somewhat like being in charge of an out-of-control circus.
One
What on earth?
Evangeline lifted her head, pressing one hand against her chest. What on earth, she repeated silently, was this odd feeling? This pressure, this constriction, this awful tightness?
In the depths of her mind, a memory stirred, but it was gone before she could put a name to it. The squeezing sensation increased, until she felt as if something vital would burst under the strain. She looked around her, but nothing had changed. She was still alone in the quiet, wet darkness of the little California town a few lonely miles over the hills behind Santa Barbara, on a midnight-deserted street where even the dogs had taken refuge from the rain.
Her fingers curled as she reached toward the golden chain around her neck. But before she could touch the oddly shaped pendant that hung from the chain, the distant mist in her mind parted, and she knew what the feeling was.
Pain. She was feeling pain.
She was so startled that she nearly slipped on a patch of rain-slick pavement. Pain?
“Impossible,” she murmured. She never felt pain. They’d made sure of that. Especially not this kind, the heart-wrenching, gut-level agony of emotions ripped to shreds.
She looked around again, but saw nothing unusual, no explanation for this unexpected sensation. The drugstore she stood in front of was dark. So was the café at the end of the block. The only sign of life at all was a light on upstairs over the auto repair shop across the street.
She tried to focus on the pain, tried to sense the source, but the feeling itself was so fierce, so strong, that it overwhelmed all else.
She reached again for the pendant that hung from the gold chain around her neck. It warmed in her hand, gave off an eerie golden glow, but nothing else happened.
“Great,” she muttered. “The line’s busy.”
She waited, not very patiently; it was hard, in the face of this unrelenting ache, to be stoical. At last the pendant thrummed gently. She nearly snapped the inquiry out.
What took you so long?
The answer formed chidingly in her mind. Tut, tut, my dear, it wasn’t that long.
Easy for you to say. I’ve got a problem here.
So we sensed. Whatever is that odd sensation?
It’s pain, oh mighty one.
Sarcasm does not become you, Evangeline. Besides, that’s impossible. You know you can’t be injured.
Not physical pain. This is different. Emotional.
Oh?
Interest filtered through. The concept of emotional pain, of pure, human heartache, had always fascinated her bosses, since they never experienced it themselves. It had been a very long time since she’d felt that kind of pain, but she remembered, and the memories were more vivid than any recollection of mere physical discomfort.
She tightened her fingers around the pendant as she went on.
I can’t find the source. It’s so overpowering, I can’t even determine a direction.
You’ve always been very sensitive in that area.
Her brow was furrowed now.
I still can’t pin it down. How can I accomplish my mission if I can’t even find my mission?
She could have sworn she heard a sigh. Hopefully not the same way you usually do.
She would have blushed if they hadn’t removed that capability, as well. She knew they were referring to her sometimes reckless approach, and tactics that had caused them much stress on more than one occasion. Then, before she could come up with a suitable—or even unsuitable—comeback, they gave her an answer that puzzled her.
Actually, you shouldn’t be sensing pain from your target. He’s not feeling pain right now, emotional or otherwise. The boy is much too angry.
Then what am I getting? It’s awful. Like someone whose soul is caving in on him.
Him?
She hesitated before going on.
Yes, it is a man. I can tell that much. He must be my mission. He’s in agony.
No. It’s the boy. You know that, we sent you all the information.
I know, it’s just that—
No, Evangeline. Please, for once, tend to business.
But—
No.
It was flat, it was determined, it was an order, and if she hadn’t known it was impossible for them, she would have said they were tired. She gave up for now.
I understand, she sent.
The connection faded. Quickly. Maybe they were tired, she thought. Of her, she added glumly. As if it was her fault people sometimes didn’t react the way she thought they would. Well, if they didn’t like the way she did her job, then they could fire her. After all, she hadn’t asked for this, they’d come to her. Of course, she hadn’t had many options at the time....
Now that the communications link was gone, the pain came rushing back. It seemed to roll over her from her left, and instinctively she looked in that direction. And saw again the single light glowing in the window over the repair garage.
She had taken several steps before the stern order she’d been given brought her up short. She stood there in the dampness, not really feeling the chill. It didn’t take her long—it never did—to rationalize it out. She obviously couldn’t function through this haze of pain, so she had to find the source, didn’t she? Maybe it was something she could fix quickly, and then get on with her work, as ordered.
She started off again, then hesitated again. They had been angry with her, the last time. She’d half expected them to pull her after that one. Not that it had been her fault that dying little girl’s brother had been so awful. And she’d thought the punishment she’d doled out to him moderate enough—why shouldn’t he spend a week hearing in his head what everyone was thinking about him? Besides, it had all come out right in the end.
And she couldn’t bear this. She truly couldn’t. Besides, she hadn’t really said she’d give it up. She’d said only that she understood they wanted her to. She started toward the light.
Three Oaks Garage.
She stood looking up at the faded lettering over the high, roll-up door. The place looked old, as did most of the buildings of this small business district that was centered around the plaza where the three spreading old trees the town had been named for stood. She had no doubts now that she was in the right place; whoever was sending off those waves of anguish was here, close by. No doubt in the room with the light; no one who was feeling like this would be sleeping much.
She tilted her head back, staring up at the rectangle of light. She spared a second to hope that the bosses weren’t monitoring her power usage, then closed her eyes and concentrated.
The darkness behind her eyelids seemed to swirl, then lessen, fading to gray. Slowly the image formed, wavered, then settled.
It was a small room, teetering on the edge of shabby. There were few furnishings; a narrow, neatly made bed against a far wall, a single armchair in front of a small television, on top of which was the only new touch in the room, an inexpensive VCR. Across a side wall was a sink, a small two-burner stove, and a waist-high refrigerator. Next to that was a door that led to a tiny, pocket bathroom.
The carpeting was worn to the threads in spots, and the curtains that hung at the single bank of windows were old and faded by the sun. Yet the room was painfully clean and tidy, with none of the clutter of day-to-day living. No dishes, no glasses, no newspaper casually tossed after reading. The atmosphere of the room was beyond austere, it was almost Spartan.
