Page 63 of Angel

“And what happens when she discovers your dirty little secret?”

“She won’t find out. We’re staying in the city, not the mansion. There is no trace of Angel anywhere else.”

He brings his fist down on the table, the veins in his arms corded and pulsating with anger.

“Fuck, Angel.”

He blows out a breath. “Are you seriously putting us through this shit?”

“Apparently so.”

His eyes burn with fury and for a moment, I believe I may have finally discovered the secret to making him lose his shit big time. He’s volatile for sure, but always brings it down when he’s ready to explode.

Not this time. I’m confident this could be that day.

Then he thumps his fist on the table and mutters under his breath, swinging his gaze back to mine and hissing, “Then you shall reap what you sow.”

I don’t look away. I’m no longer scared of him, and he doesn’t get to intimidate me anymore.

I have been alone for too long. He may prefer it that way, but Sophie has made me realize it’s not good. A man needs his mate, and in her I have found the perfect one.

Gabriel gathers himself, leaning back in his usual chair set against the big marble table on the terrace, overlooking the garden.

There is a huge lake in the distance, a boathouse and a walled garden. He lives well in solitude.

He moves back to business.

“Tell me about Jack Vincent.”

I fill him in, and he steeples his fingers in thought and replies in his usual husky drawl.

“Find the girl, Cindy. I’ll run a check on her and her mom. She may be able to ID the imposter.”

“Titan is on it already.”

He nods in approval.

“The other girl, Sally, who he beat up at the motel. She hangs around the theater, and we have eyes on it. As soon as she appears, one of the guys is going to approach her on the pretense of business. When he gets her alone, he’s calling us.”

“Find out what she knows.”

“Of course.”

He taps his fingers on the table, a habit I share and appears deep in thought.

“Something isn’t adding up.”

“I agree.”

This time I lean forward.

“A guy who dresses as a Wild Angel and beats up hookers in motels doesn’t sound like the kind of guy to send expensive floral arrangements on a piece of stationery that appears custom-made.”

“Neither was the idea of a famous actor at the height of his prime, fucking whores in the same motel for kicks. It happens. Life is fucked up enough, so why is that so strange?”

He has a point, I guess, and I lean back, wondering why he’s uneasy.

“Think about the evidence we have so far.”