Errant Angel. Justine Davis

      Errant Angel

      Justine Davis

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For the proprietor of Tom’s Garage…

      The real angel in my life

      Contents

       Prologue

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

      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.