Errant Angel. Justine DavisЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Two

      It was him, Evangeline thought, her breath stalling oddly in her throat. He seemed to be as stunned as she was. The moment their eyes had met she’d felt a rush of reaction from him, so confused and powerful she hadn’t been able to sort out the emotions. Then he’d shut himself off, and she hadn’t been able to read anything. Or perhaps it had been because she’d been dealing with an unexpected response of her own.

      She didn’t understand it. She shouldn’t be reacting this way. Her vision that rainy night had been quite clear, so why was he so much more...more everything, in person? And why did she feel this strange sensation in her chest, as if her heart had suddenly lost its rhythm and was trying madly to find it again?

      He was taller than she would have guessed from what she’d seen that night, his dark hair not as shaggy-looking now that it was neatly combed, and he didn’t seem quite so thin now that she was standing face-to-face with his leanly muscled body. But those incredible green eyes were unmistakable, although they were shuttered now, unreadable, even to her. This man had had a lot more practice than Jimmy at putting up walls.

      When the boy had first mentioned Dalton MacKay, she’d thought it must be the man she’d seen; he did live over the garage, after all. And when Jimmy had told her more about him, she’d been nearly certain.

      “About the only guy between eighteen and fifty in the whole damn town,” the boy had said. “It’s weird that he wanted to come here. Everybody else bails out of this pit stop as soon as they can.”

       Just like I’m going to.

      The boy hadn’t said the words, but he hadn’t needed to; the words, the need, were clear in his eyes. As, she realized, was the hero-worship. She’d noticed it the first time the boy had begun to talk about Dalton MacKay.

      It was the boy’s talk about cars, and about the man whose name had once been known by thousands, that had prompted her to decide on the classic car. The quickest way to the boy’s heart, she’d told the bosses. They had, somewhat to her surprise, agreed rather easily and produced the replication.

      She’d known it was the right move the moment Jimmy had seen the Chevy; he’d lit up at the sight of it. His uncaring facade had fallen away, and he’d become uncharacteristically voluble in his enthusiasm. Then he had launched into extolling the virtues of the local mechanic—who was, it appeared, much more than he seemed.

      “He drove at Indy, in the 500, can you believe it? Nearly won it as a rookie four years ago, and held first place up until his engine blew ten laps from the finish the next year. If it hadn’t been for that crash...”

      “Crash?” she’d asked, remembering the scar she had seen on the forehead of the man whose pain had overwhelmed her on that rainy night.

      “Yeah. In the 500, two years ago. Dalton was hurt, and couldn’t race anymore. It really stinks, because he would have won, I know he would.”

      And if he had, she thought as she looked at Dalton now, what were the chances that he’d be here, in this quiet little town, to become the idol that kept one angry teenage boy from blowing up entirely?

      She knew the answer to that: zero.

      She glanced at Jimmy; the boy’s gaze was flicking from her to Dalton, somewhat uneasily.

      “Er...Dalton, this is Ms. Law,” he said finally, awkwardly. “The teacher I was telling you about.”

      Evangeline felt a tiny spurt of triumph. If the boy had been talking about her to his idol, then she was getting through. She hadn’t expected results so quickly.

      “I gathered,” Dalton said.

      Her breath caught again at the sound of his voice. And she didn’t understand that any more than she did her other reactions to this man. In all her years in this work, nothing like this had ever happened to her.

      “Isn’t the car great?”

      Jimmy’s enthusiasm bubbled over, and satisfaction rippled through Evangeline at his innocent delight. This had been the right approach. The car had gotten her close to the troubled boy faster than anything else could have. Maybe at last she was getting the hang of this work. Maybe she could avoid a stern lecture on her sometimes chaotic methods this time.

      “Yeah,” Dalton agreed, turning his attention to the car. As she watched him, Evangeline was sure she had only imagined that sensation of relief as he had turned away from her. She had to have imagined it, because if she hadn’t, then she was stuck with the problem of determining which of them it had come from, and she was having a little problem with that at the moment.

      She heard Jimmy’s excited chatter about the car, but her attention was fastened on the man beside him. She stared at him, reaching out with her senses; she had to know if he meant well by Jimmy, or had some ulterior motive for letting the boy hang around all the time. It was something she’d sadly learned over the years, that ulterior motives were often the norm rather than the exception, and she didn’t like the idea of anyone using an already troubled boy—barely more than a child, really—for some reason of their own.

      It wasn’t working. She was blocked. She couldn’t get through his formidable defenses, not from this distance. Those walls of his were too high, too thick; it was going to take more to read him. She was, she thought, sucking in a quick breath as the realization came to her, going to have to touch him. Only then could she find out what she needed to know. The idea disturbed her, and she wasn’t sure why. But she knew it was the only way.

      She moved toward them.

      “...love the red-and-white tuck-and-roll. And wait until you see the motor,” Jimmy was saying, running around to the front of the car and moving as if to reach for the latch.

      “Jimmy,” Dalton said warningly, glancing at her.

      The boy looked blank for a moment, then color tinged his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry.” He looked at Evangeline, his eyes pleading. “Can I show him?”

      “Of course you can.” Good Lord, she thought. The town mechanic teaching the wild boy manners. Much of her wariness about the man’s motives faded, but she still needed to be sure. She came up beside him as Jimmy fumbled with the hood latch.

      Concentrating on thinking only of Jimmy, to screen the information she would get, she casually, as if accidentally, brushed against Dalton’s arm. Her breath caught as skin touched skin; something seemed to leap between them, something hot, vivid and alive. For an instant she felt him stiffen, then, as casually as she had, he moved away. But it had been long enough.

      For a moment the flood of images confused her; she thought by some glitch she was getting Jimmy directly instead. It seemed altogether too possible that she’d messed it up, as much trouble as she was having getting Dalton MacKay out of her thoughts. Then she realized it was only that the situations had been so alike—a temporary home with frustrated foster parents who were spread too thin and an abandoned boy who hid his fear behind a front of anger and sullen indifference.

      She knew in that instant that Dalton MacKay had opened a tiny gap in his solid protective walls for no other reason than to try to help a boy whose feelings he understood all too well. And she knew, as well, how very hard it had been for him, to open up even that little bit.

      But underlying everything she’d picked up from him was a vicious, draining sense of guilt, so powerful she could feel it tugging at her even now, after the contact had been broken. It almost overwhelmed the memory of that odd, electric little jolt that had raced through her at the touch of his skin against hers. Shaken, she had to turn away for a moment. Then Jimmy managed to release the latch, and she automatically looked up, following the movement as he lifted the hood.

      She saw Dalton’s eyes widen, and a low whistle escaped him. “Factory fuel injection!” he exclaimed. “These are really rare.”

      “I told you it was hot.”