I'm No Angel (10 page)

“I did that on purpose,” she lied, trying her best to sound confident and in control. “It's an old P.I. trick.”

One of Tom's seductive eyebrows rose and he nodded slowly. “I see.”

She wished she could smack the cocky look off of his face. He didn't see anything but her lie. He knew she was still thinking about that kiss and it made him feel all-powerful.

Damn him.

“Since you seem to know all sorts of oddball P.I. tricks, is there one that states the best way to be inconspicuous is to drive around in an eye-catching car?” Tom folded his hands behind his head, looking far too comfortable for a man who should be petrified by her driving. “I'm not a P.I., but I would have thought tailing someone in a screaming red Jag would be a no-no.”

“Let me ask you this, Mr. Donovan. How many Fords or Toyotas have you seen driving around the streets of Palm Beach since you've been here?”

Tom merely shrugged.

“You'd be hard-pressed to find two or three vehicles that don't reek of wealth in this town and driving one of those two or three vehicles—and we might as well toss your Jeep into that mix—would make a person stick out like a sore thumb. My Jag blends in perfectly.”

“In other words, it's pretty much the same scenario as me wearing Levi's, T-shirts, and crocodile boots when most men in Palm Beach are wearing Brooks Brothers and, God forbid, Stubbs & Wootton slippers out on the street.”

“You catch on fast.”

“I'm quite perceptive. I know I'll never fit into this town. Then again, I'm not out to impress anyone.”

That, of course, was one of the things that made him so impressive, so irresistible. He was his own man; he wasn't trying to follow the norm.

And, damn it, he was inching his way into her every thought. This had to stop, and stop fast.

“You know, sweetheart,” Tom said, stretching an arm across the back of her seat, toying with her hair that had fallen out of its once-perfect French roll, and leaning so close to her that their cheeks nearly rubbed together, “there's no one coming toward us in the opposite lane. Now might be as good a time as any to smash your foot down on the accelerator and pass the guy in the Rolls.”

She'd tell him to mind his own business, but he was right.

Angel tromped on the gas, swung the Jag off to the left, and zoomed past the Rolls. She jerked back into the right lane when a pair of oncoming headlights got too close, and kept her foot firmly on the pedal until they'd once again gotten close enough to the Deusenberg to keep easier track of where the Countess was headed.

“Doesn't my driving scare you the least bit?” Angel asked, as she zipped across Flagler Memorial Bridge, and continued their cat-and-mouse chase in West Palm Beach.

“After wrestling alligators for a living, very little scares me.”

“You haven't really wrestled alligators, have you?” Angel asked, skirting around a big rig, then
making a screeching right hand turn from the far left lane.

“I've charmed water moccasins, too.”

“How do you do that? Play Liszt or Chopin for their listening pleasure, smile disarmingly, and call them sweetheart?”

Tom wound an index finger up in a strand of her hair. “I've reserved that method strictly for you.”

She glared at him out of the corner of her eye. “I'm not charmed.”

“If I remember correctly, it usually takes me three or four tries to completely charm a snake. Until that happens, they do an awful lot of hissing and squirming, trying like hell to get away from me.”

“And once they're thoroughly mesmerized?”

“They roll over on their backs and let me pet their soft side.”

“Pretty foolish, if you ask me,” Angel quipped. “I wouldn't roll over for anyone.”

“You know what? Those water moccasins said the same thing.” Tom winked wickedly. “But they couldn't escape my charm.”

Why did she have the horrid feeling she wouldn't be able to escape his charms, either?

Hell, she couldn't think about mesmerizing men at the moment. She needed to concentrate on the Deusenberg that was rapidly making its way to the outskirts of West Palm Beach.

Almost a block ahead of her, the Deusenberg whipped along as if the chauffeur didn't have a care in the world, which made him the perfect
driver for the Countess. God knows she couldn't have many cares, when she couldn't even be bothered with burying her husband until the social season ended.

Of course, who was she to judge? If Dagger had died while she'd been married to him, she would have seriously considered putting his dead body out at the curb with the rest of the trash.

Too many thoughts were ripping through her mind tonight. It was totally unlike her to have so little concentration—so little, in fact, that she blew right through a red light and didn't notice until she was halfway across the intersection.

Angel shot a nervous glance at Tom, who didn't seem the least bit fazed. Instead, he was sucking more blasted pineapple juice off his middle finger and, damn it all, an indescribably delicious twitch vibrated between her thighs.

If Tom didn't stop what he was doing, she was going to throw him out of the car at the next stop-light.

“You know, Angel”—
how many more times tonight could he possibly say ‘You know, Angel' or ‘You know, sweetheart'?
—“I was just wondering.” Tom's eyes narrowed as he slowly, methodically, and provocatively licked another finger.
Damn him!
“Is running a red light another one of those secret P.I. tricks you like to practice?”

“At the risk of sounding foolish, I'll admit, Mr. Donovan, that that was an unfortunate accident. No one, not a P.I., not an alligator wrestler, or even a snake charmer, should practice an idiotic maneuver like that.”

“Which makes me wonder why the hell you're
putting so much effort into following Frederike LeVien. She's not a murderer. She's not a terrorist.”

“It's my job. I'm being paid to find out what she's up to, and I work damn hard to make my clients happy.”

“At the risk of your life and possibly mine?”

“Just like you, I like to live dangerously.”

“I like that in a woman.”

“Is there anything you don't like in a woman?”

Out of the corner of her eye Angel saw Tom snatch the last piece of pineapple out of its plastic take-out container and pop it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, his gaze drifting up and down the entire length of her body.

“Believe it or not, sweetheart, there have been more than a few women who haven't interested me. On the other hand, there have been very few whose every action, every word, and, I must admit, every breath, have intrigued me to the point that I'd pay thirty thousand dollars just to have the pleasure of being near them. In fact, you're the only woman to hold that distinction.”

Her heart slammed against her chest. God, how she wanted to believe him, but her suspicious nature got the better of her.

“If you're saying that in the hope that I'll break down and wrangle you an invitation to the gala, you're sorely mistaken.”

“There you go again, thinking I have an ulterior motive.”

“Don't you?”

“The only ulterior motive I have for being here now or for saying something that's the God's
honest truth is having the opportunity to kiss you again.”

“That last kiss came about in a moment of pure insanity, Mr. Donovan.”

“I knew perfectly well what I was doing, and something tells me you never do anything you don't want to do.”

“You're right, I did want to kiss you, but don't get your hopes up for anything more.”

“I always have high hopes, Miss Devlin. In fact, that's why I bought a fabulous Italian Renaissance bed at the antique store across from Morganna's this morning.” His fingers feathered across the nape of her neck. The dimple to the right of his lips deepened as he smiled a very wicked smile. “And just so you'll know, it was delivered shortly after you spied on me this afternoon and”—he winked, damn him!—“it's all set up and ready to go.”

O
f all the places in all the world Frederike could have picked for her night on the town, why did she choose the Tropical Lei, a gaudy, red, yellow, and green neon-festooned “gentlemen's” club on the outskirts of West Palm Beach? Everyone knew the place was a den of iniquity. But if Frederike went inside, Angel had no choice but to follow—and boy oh boy, wouldn't that just put the frosting on the cake for Tom Donovan's expensively purchased stakeout?

The Deusenberg turned left after pulling into the seedy strip joint's parking lot. Angel turned right, trying to keep an eye on Frederike's vehicle, while looking for a parking space. Tom, of course, relaxed in the passenger seat, sporting a lascivious smirk.

“Well, well, well,” Tom said. “Who would have thought the grand dame of high society would frequent a place like this?”

“Don't jump to conclusions, Mr. Donovan.” Angel slipped her Jag in between a mud-splattered
monster truck and an old pink Cadillac with black-and-white-checkered upholstery and fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. “There's always the possibility that her chauffer needs to dash inside for a moment.”

“What? For a quickie?”

Angel shut off the engine. “Maybe he needed to use the little boy's room.”

“I don't think so, sweetheart. If a man stops at a strip joint, he's got more on his mind than taking a leak.”

“Guess we'll just have to wait and see.”

Angel folded her arms on top of the steering wheel and kept an eye on the Countess's car. Frederike's bat-out-of-hell, black-suit-wearing chauffeur climbed out of the Deusenberg, walked to the far side of the long and elegant vehicle, and offered a hand to Frederike as she stepped out of the car with both of her little dogs cuddled in her arms.

The short, pudgy woman who dressed like Cruella De Vil pressed an overly long kiss to the furry head of one skinny little pooch, then the other, before handing her prized and, as everyone in Palm Beach knew, much-loved dogs to her driver.

“Looks like it's Frederike who's going inside,” Angel said, her eyes narrowing. “But why?”

“Maybe she's a lesbian.”

Angel rolled her eyes at Tom's ludicrous statement. “She's been married eight times.”

“Obviously the men in her life haven't made her happy. Switching to women could be the best thing for her.”

“I'm not even going to venture a guess about what's in the Countess's mind or what's best for her.”

Tom reached across the car and curled a wind-tossed lock of hair behind Angel's ear. A mischievous smile touched his lips. “Does that mean we can call it a night? Head back to your place…or mine?”

Angel shook her head slowly. “Sorry. This job won't be over until I figure out what Frederike is up to, which means we follow her wherever she goes.”

“Guess you've gotta do what you've gotta do, and if you insist I accompany you, well, I suppose I'm up for it.” Tom's grin widened. “After all, I haven't been to a good strip club in…months.”

“How many bad ones have you been to?”

“Far too many to keep track of.” Tom winked again, an annoying yet far too charming habit. “How about you? Do you frequent strip clubs?”

“I danced in one to pay my way through college.” That was a big fat lie, but at least it shut Tom up long enough for Angel to reach over the back seat and grab one of the bags full of disguises that she carried around at all times.

“That wouldn't be filled with G-strings, pasties, and feather boas, would it?” Tom asked, his voice sounding hopeful.

“Close.”

Plopping the satchel on the console between her and Tom, Angel unzipped it and pulled out a pair of five-inch shiny red hooker heels that she dangled in front of Tom's overexcited eyes. “What do you think?”

“I think they'll look damn good on you.”

Angel slipped off her Manolos and tucked them under her seat, then slid her feet into the cheap mail-order stilettos and crisscrossed the long fake leather cords around and around her legs until she tied them off just below her knees.

“Is there anything else of interest in there?” Tom asked, digging into the bag.

Angel swatted his hand lightly. “Why don't you keep an eye on Frederike instead of me?”

“Where's the fun in that?”

“For your information, Mr. Donovan, P.I. work isn't all fun and games.”

One of Tom's eyebrows slanted. “No?”

“No.”

Angel touched an index finger to his strong, just-sprouting-a-hint-of-beard jaw and pushed until his eyes were facing the window. “Keep an eye on Frederike, please. She may or may not be going inside. If she does—or doesn't—we need to be ready to follow her.”

Tom fastened his gaze on Frederike, but Angel couldn't miss the way he continually cast quick glances in her direction, as she rummaged through her bag of tricks.

“Mind telling me why you have to change clothes to go into this place?” Tom asked.

“So I won't be recognized if I see someone I know,” Angel said, shoving her blond hair under a sleek, perfectly straight black wig that Cleopatra would have killed for.

“You don't think guys are going to stare at you in the getup you're putting on?”

“They might stare but”—she popped a piece of
gum into her mouth and gave it a quick couple of chews—“honestly, sugar, I don't think anybody's gonna realize or even care that under all this black hair is a blond lady of impeccable taste.”

“You're still wearing a dress of impeccable taste, if I do say so myself.”

“That's the next thing to go, honey bunch.”

Angel whipped a shimmering ruby tube dress out of the bag.

“Let me guess,” Tom said, his eyes growing dark and hot, as his gaze raked over the dress. “You're going to change into that right this minute?”

“That's the plan.”

“Right here in the car with me sitting beside you?”

“Do you have a problem with that?” Angel said innocently.

“My libido does.”

“Well, hon”—Angel dragged a red fingernail down the center of his chest—“you just keep that libido under control because I don't have time to deal with it and even if I did”—she smiled—“I wouldn't.”

Angel peeled her black silk Calvin Klein over her head and frowned when she caught Tom staring first at her strapless satin bra and then her barely-there thong. “I thought I told you to keep an eye on Frederike.”

“I listened but my libido didn't.”

“Take one last look,” she said, trying to appear stern but failing miserably, “because most of what you're gawking at is going to disappear in just a couple of seconds.”

“I'd ask if I could touch, but something tells me you'd have an instant comeback, something having to do with your stiletto and my balls.”

“You're a very astute man, Mr. Donovan.” She winked. “Now, if you don't mind, would you and your libido
please
turn your attention back to the Countess?”

“Whatever your little heart desires.”

Angel wasn't too sure what her heart desired. Unfortunately, she was beginning to realize that every other part of her anatomy, with the exception of her brain, had an uncanny desire to climb into the back seat and take Tom with her.

Thank God her brain was telling her “No way!” because climbing into the back seat would more than likely prove disastrous.

Wiping that thought from her mind, she slipped her hooker heels through the top of the spandex dress and wiggled her body into it. When the bodice was sufficiently in place, she un-hooked her bra and peeled it out from under the dress, then leaned over and shook her breasts into some semblance of order inside the spandex.

“Now, that's a maneuver a guy like me doesn't see every day.”

“And one you shouldn't have seen just now, since you're supposed to be on lookout.” Angel's eyes narrowed. “Is Frederike still with her dogs?”

“She just went inside.”

“Then we'd better hurry.” Angel dug into the bag again, pulled out a black fishnet tanktop and a couple of thick gold necklaces, then hit Tom with a grin. “Take off your T-shirt.”

Tom's eyebrow rose. “Excuse me?”

“If I'm going into that place looking like a hooker, you can dress appropriately, too.”

“No.”

“Don't argue.”

“You know, sweetheart, I'd rather have you slice off my balls a quarter of an inch at a time than go into that place looking like an asshole.”

“You're supposed to be doing what I want you to do, but since that's obviously an impossibility on your part and since I don't have time to go around and around with you on the subject of what you should wear inside this place so you won't be recognized, either, I'll let your inability to do as you're told slide.”

Angel shoved the shirt and gold chains back into the bag. When her hand reappeared, she held an enormous floppy felt sunflower studded with beads and sequins.

“If you think I'm going to wear that,” Tom growled, “you're sorely mistaken.”

“This,
Mr. Donovan, is to cover up the bulge dangling down my right thigh.” She pinned it to the dress, right over her stiletto. “It's tacky, but so is the rest of the outfit.”

Tom slid a finger up her leg and curled it around the floppy flower. “I like tacky.”

Angel picked Tom's hand off of her thigh. “I'm sure that once we're inside, you'll find all the tacky things your little ole heart desires.”

Angel threw open the door to the Jaguar and climbed out. When Tom was at her side, she pressed the lock button on her key ring, tossed it
into her much-too-expensive-to-wear-with-hooker-clothes Emma Claire original handbag, and sashayed toward Tropical Lei.

A bouncer cruised the neon-lit, palm-tree-lined red carpet leading to the shiny black entry doors. The guy was a big bruiser with a flabby and flat nose that looked like it had been broken far too many times. His swollen right eye must have taken a beating at one time, too. Tropical Lei was supposed to be a classy joint, but truth be told, it didn't look like a decent place for man or beast—or a woman, especially one dressed as a hooker.

For safety's sake, Angel latched on to Tom's arm. He seemed all too willing to have her close to his side as they sauntered up the carpet, so willing, in fact, that his hand drifted from her waist—where it belonged—to her butt, where it had no business going.

“That's for effect, sweetheart,” he whispered, taking a quick nibble on her ear in the process. “Any hooker worth her weight in gold would allow her john to keep his fingers on her derriere. You do want to look authentic, don't you?”

Angel paid Tom back, latching on to his earlobe with just the slightest bite of her teeth. “You can touch my butt, Mr. Donovan, but try to make this hooker-and-her-john masquerade look too authentic and I'll make a eunuch out of you.”

“You do say the nicest things, Miss Devlin.”

Angel smiled widely. “I try, Mr. Donovan.”

They had to pay two hundred each, up front, to become members of Tropical Lei, an American Express charge that would show up on an item
ized expense invoice that Frederike's butler would receive at the end of the month. Of course, paying a membership fee to a private “gentlemen's” club meant a whole lot more could be going on inside than one would find in a run-of-the-mill Palm Beach County strip joint. Drinking was allowed in the private clubs. Full nudity, too.

Oh, this was going to be fun, Angel thought facetiously.

Throwing back her shoulders, she stuck out her boobs, and fought for composure as she and Tom stepped through the double-door entry, with no telling what they would find inside.

The garish club reeked of perfume, aftershave, and sweat. Bump-and-grind music pulsated through speakers barely concealed by plastic palm trees, ferns, and birdcages stuffed with fake parrots. The bigger, at-least-six-foot-tall birdcages were stuffed with nearly naked, undulating women.

But the pièce de résistance were the three white wicker daybeds suspended atop bamboo-studded revolving columns. Of course, it wasn't just the daybeds that caught Angel's eye, it was the two young honeys decked out in nothing more than leopardskin thongs who cavorted on each black fur-covered mattresses.

“Kind of seedy, isn't it?” Angel said, as she and Tom made their way through the crowd.

“Sure the hell is.” Tom grinned, his gawking eyes sparkling with splatters of color from the strobe lights. “Just my kind of place.”

“Don't get too comfortable,” Angel ordered. “As soon as we find out what's going on with Frederike, we're out of here.”

Since it didn't appear Tom was in any hurry to move away from the action on the daybeds, Angel threaded her fingers through his and jerked him away, steering them around the outer edges of the massive, underlit room, keeping an eye out for Frederike, but in spite of the fabulously gaudy hats the Countess always wore, she seemed to have disappeared into the crowd.

Angel and Tom wove their way through the throng of men high on testosterone and booze, accidentally dead-ending at a circular stage rimmed by a bar, barstools, and drooling voyeurs. And smack-dab in the middle of the stage a spotlight beamed down on a busty babe whose rusty red hair had been teased at least ten inches high and ten inches wide. She wore nothing more than a gleaming red rhinestone in her belly button and stripper heels that must have been an inch higher than the pair Angel herself was wearing.

Tom stopped dead in his tracks, tugging Angel tightly against his side, as his libidinous gaze fixed on the redhead's bobbing breasts.

Angel's jaw tightened. Her eyes narrowed as Tom thoroughly scrutinized the woman's curves, that cheap red bobble in her navel, her strobe-lit thighs, and the speck of red curls that hadn't been ripped out by a bikini wax.