Daman's Angel (Crimson Romance) Read online

  She could. She knew what she wanted to say to him, but finding the way to communicate was difficult. She nodded.

  “Where … where do you come from?”

  A shadow of an unformed memory slipped out of her reach. The headache increased, splitting her skull from the inside. She groaned, touched her fingertips to her forehead. In an instant, he’d perched on the edge of the bed. His weight made a dent her body tilted into. He was frowning at her, looking worried. She wanted to help him not be so worried. She wanted to answer him, but she couldn’t.

  She shook her head. Pain stabbed, if only it would go. If only she could think. Remember. Grasp the fleeting feelings that teased the edge of her mind.

  Her fingertips heated and pulsed with light-filled energy. It flowed from her mind, to her hand and surrounded the pain. She closed her eyes, concentrating on taking the pain away. Heat moved through the pain. She imagined a light leading outwards, carrying the pain with it, flowing in it like a leaf on a river. Her hand cooled and she opened her eyes. There was no more pain. Her head was free of the crushing headache of moments before.

  She opened her eyes and smiled at him. He sat at her side, barely breathing, watching her. Silent. Still.

  “Don’t … be … ” she couldn’t find all the words. Could only think the feeling of them. She’d frightened him. She didn’t want to do that.

  “Can you remember your name?” he asked. His voice was tense.

  “I … ” She felt better now that the headache was gone. Her mind was clearing. She sat up. His shoulders tightened, an edginess crept into his stance, eyes narrowed. Ready to move, should he need to be. She didn’t want him to be like that around her. It wasn’t right.

  Something soft brushed her shoulders. She twisted. Feathers. Hers. She felt through them, as though they were an extension of her body, her skin. She raised her hand and spread her fingertips through the gossamer light strands. It was normal. Right for them to be there, as though she’d known they would be.

  She shook her head. “I … don’t know … name.”

  It didn’t seem to be familiar to have a thing — a name. She searched the dark cavern of her mind, but still there were no recollections of anything about herself. “Can you tell me … who … I am? Please?”

  She was desperate to know, needed to cling to some reality. If she knew what she was, then other memories would follow.

  He paused. He seemed intent on telling her something. It was important to him, so she would listen. “You’re not like me. Not … human.” His eyes hit the ground, then rose, back to hers, hesitating. Thinking.

  “An angel,” he whispered. “You’re … an angel.”

  “Ang-el,” she repeated. The word fit her tongue, but there was no meaning. No understanding. She placed her fingertips where she had been struck. There was no pain. The wound was healed, but it must have caused more damage than just to the flesh.

  The man hesitated, and then moved toward her, raising his hand to touch her forehead. His hand trembled. She watched as he gazed at his hand and made it stop shaking. He brushed aside a strand of hair. It lightly brushed her skin, tingling where it touched. A sigh rippled through her as he held her hair back.

  She felt the distinct urge to wrap her arms about him, as though doing so would calm him and make it all right. There should be no distress, because there was no need for it. Any badness could be soaked away with the warmth of the eternal love. That was the way it was and always would be.

  But the warmth that spread through her was different to the eternalness. It was stronger, it pulled and swirled within her heavy body, making her skin crave his touch. The urge was strong, as though touching were normal between them. But she didn’t know why it should be so.

  “I can show you what you are.”

  He took a large black slate from the table next to her. It lit with colorful images. He pressed the screen and slabs of pictures and writing flashed on the screen. When he was satisfied with the image, he handed her the slate.

  It felt smooth and quite light. She could hold it quite well, although she felt it was the first time she had with these new hands.

  She concentrated on the image on the screen. It was a hand-drawn woman with long hair, like hers. Like her, this woman had wings.

  The man retrieved a hand-held mirror from a drawer and handed it to her. She took the mirror. She flipped it over and around, looking at it curiously.

  “Here, like this.” He helped her position the mirror so that she could see herself. She held trembling fingertips to her face. She threaded her fingers through her hair, watching her hand slide through the long strands.

  She moved the mirror to view her wings. She extended them as far as she could stretch them. She felt the tips touch the sides of the room. The sunlight that poured through the window lit up her feathers, warming them with a golden hue. It was so nice, feeling the sun. That was something she knew she always enjoyed. She stretched her arms out wide, feeling the nice way her muscles worked. It felt so good to move.

  The man watched her, staring. He reached toward her, his movements slow and deliberate. She waited, knowing she wasn’t in any danger from him. His fingers found her feathers. Stroked them. His touch was soft. Gentle. The warmth wound further into the core of her body, unfurling and heating her from the inside.

  “So soft,” he whispered.

  He moved closer, his hand moving to the shoulder of her wing. He moved it along the ridge of muscle. His fingers tensed, feeling the strength impounded there. He moved back, but she wished he hadn’t.

  “Strong. That man. You knocked him out with one blow.”

  “He wanted to kill you. I felt his intention. He is no good,” she said.

  He stilled. “You … can talk now?”

  She nodded. “It is difficult, but it gets … better.” Her tongue was loosening up and it was becoming easier to put the thoughts into the words as her brain worked better.

  “Where did you come from? Last night … you came out of the air.”

  She shook her head, uttering a sound of frustration. “I don’t know why I was there. What happened to me?”

  “You took a bullet for me. I should be dead. Those men were going to shoot me, but you came out of nowhere and saved me.”

  “Then I am thankful,” she said.

  “Thankful! That’s not the word I would have found if I were in your position.”

  “But … you live. Do you want to die?”

  He barked a laugh. A guttural sound. “Sometimes I do. Hell, I would have welcomed it last night. But here I am alive and well, with my personal angel in my bed. What did I do to deserve that?”

  “People often don’t know the good they do.”

  “I don’t do ‘good.’ I do ‘get-even.’ That’s what I was trying to do last night before it went wrong. Get even. Then you came and I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do about you.”

  He stood. He couldn’t help the groan that escaped his lips as he stooped, clutching his side.

  “You’re hurt,” she said.

  She stood, placing her hands on his sides, feeling for the pain. She concentrated on taking the pain away. Her mind probed his body, finding broken bones and bruising. She wished it to heal, sent her thoughts into her body and waited for the cells to listen and repair. Heat permeated from her thought, through the muscles, to the very marrow of his bones. Her hands heated as his body listened. He grasped her hands, tried to pry them away, but she held onto him. His gaze met hers. Locked. He was trapped with her hands and her gaze.

  The heat receded. She took the pain with her until there was no more heat. No more pain. She dropped her hands. He gasped, pulled his shirt upwards so that he could see his side. The bruising was completely gone. He touched his skin. His ribs had healed.

  He returned hi
s gaze to her. “How did you do that?”

  “I just thought … and it was. It is natural for me.”

  He took her hand, ran the pad of his thumb over the open palm. She was snared in an all-powerful urge to touch, to explore. It came from nowhere, quick and heady and all consuming. As though she had felt these things before. That he had done this to her and she had liked it.

  He raised her hand to his mouth, pressed her knuckles against lips. Gentle pressure. ‘What are you doing?’

  “I … I’m kissing your hand.” He frowned. He gazed at her hand, eyes growing introverted.

  “Why do you do that?”

  “I … don’t know.” He raised his eyes to hers. The words were slow, as though he were trying to work out why he still held her hand so close to his mouth. He seemed to be as affected by their closeness as she was.

  She couldn’t take her eyes from him. She was hypnotized, her mind filled with a deep, unfulfilled yearning that she couldn’t name. She only knew it was as real as the man she still held in her arms.

  She was caught in a spell together with him, as though the same temptation pulled the both of them together. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. She held trembling fingertips to her mouth, absently rubbing her lips. It was as though she knew how his lips felt on hers. How soft they were, how he tasted. Masculine and beyond temptation. As though it were right and wrong all at the same time. How well they moved together. How she could lose herself in his touch. She swayed toward him. Strong arms held her steady while her body trembled from within.

  Her gaze moved to his. He watched her carefully, intently. Something shifted in the depths and he moved away from her, confusion laced the heat. He ploughed his fingers through his hair.

  “Why do you move away?” she asked.

  “Men like me don’t kiss angels like you.”

  “I know what happens between a man and woman.” On an inherent level she knew that she had seen men and women kissing, loving each other. She frowned, trying to remember a specific memory, but the black wall locked her out to anything but vague feelings of familiarity. “I don’t think I’ve ever tried it.”

  “You … might have … seen it before,” he said.

  Her lips curved. What came between and man and a woman, the way they show love, was a gift of life. “It is beautiful.”

  “We can’t, I mean I can’t. We … shouldn’t.”

  “It is not wrong.” She placed a hand on his stubble-roughened cheek. His jaw clenched and he sucked in a lungful of air. He placed his hand over hers and she was lost, riding in the torment in his eyes. He blinked and it was gone. Cleverly hidden.

  “Are you hungry?” He placed his hand on her stomach. “Does it hurt here?”

  She nodded, her brows arched. There was a pain there that she couldn’t name where he pressed and it had increased since she had woken. “Yes. What does that mean?”

  “It means we’re going to get something to eat.”

  He felt her gown gently with his fingertips. The material drifted lightly around her, floating as though it were too light for the air. It settled back against her body, curving to her shape, falling to her ankles.

  “You can’t wear that,” he said.

  “Is there something wrong with it?” she asked.

  “It’s not what you’d call street wear. I’ve got something a little more … appropriate.” He drew open a drawer from a cabinet in the room and pulled out some articles of clothing. He turned to her, looking over her shoulder, debating over the items he held.

  “Your wings,” he said.

  She closed her eyes. She felt her wings grow lighter, the solidity dispersing into the air as they became a part of the earth that could not be seen or felt.

  He swallowed hard. “That’s … going to be much easier to get these on.” He handed her the clothes. She twisted them in her hands, trying to work out what the openings were for.

  “Would you like help?” The muscle worked at his jaw.

  “I don’t know how these go on,” she said. Dressing was unfamiliar, as though she’d never done it before.

  He sighed. Moments passed. “Can you take off … your dress?”

  She nodded, peeling off the material from the hem at her ankles and bringing it above her head. He cleared his throat, looking at the floor, the bed, anywhere but her. Finally he ran his fingers through his hair as he met her eyes.

  “It is natural to be this way. Souls come to this earth naked. It is nothing to be ashamed about,” she said.

  “Give me the clothes,” he said. The words ran together through clenched teeth.

  He chose the first article, placing it over her head and threading her arms through tunnels of material. Then he picked up the darker, heavier item. “These are pants and they fit your legs.”

  His fingers slid over her skin, scattering goose-bumps. Delightful shimmers zinged up her legs. She placed her hands on his shoulders, balancing as he drew the article up her body. His muscles tightened and bunched beneath her grasp. Tight and unyielding.

  His hands trembled as he fumbled with the zip and button. She noticed a sheen of perspiration on his brow as he helped her. When it was fastened, he quickly stepped away, reaching into the wardrobe.

  He pulled a jacket of his from a hanger and slung it over her shoulders, helping her with the arms. He did the buttons up until the front was closed tight.

  “Better?”

  It was warmer. The material of her dress didn’t protect her body from the cool of the air. “Yes.” She tested the clothing, finding pockets and zips, feeling the texture. It was all delightfully new.

  “Good. Before we go, I need to be able to call you something. You need a name.” He considered for a moment, and then said, “Angel.”

  “I like that. What is your … name?”

  “Call me Daman.” It suited him and she smiled.

  His expression darkened and he turned, wrenching the door open. “Let’s eat. Then I’ll find a way to get you back where you belong. It’s certainly not here with me.”

  The warmth of moments before fled. He’d locked her out, wanted her away from here. Maybe that was for the best. She didn’t know why she was here, didn’t know who she was. She was lost and Daman wanted to help her find her way home. Until her memory returned, she was at the mercy of an unknown world. There was no denying the attraction that reacted in such harmony with her body or the way in which he felt so familiar. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to find her way home if it meant saying goodbye to something that felt so good.

  Chapter Three

  “Boss. There’s something I have to tell you.”

  Haki burst through the door to Vincent’s private rooms and stopped short, taking in the sight of his boss on the treadmill. Vincent’s feet pounded at a fast, even pace. Haki knew his boss had been at it for an hour or more, judging by the sweat that poured from his lean face and drenched his newest-label Adidas running gear. His boss liked to keep fit. Very fit.

  He also knew his boss didn’t like to be disturbed when he exercised. He’d forgotten in his excitement and now it was too late. Vincent coveted his privacy. Even news like this had to wait.

  Haki crossed his wrists and stood as passively as his large frame would allow. If he could dissolve into the walls, at the moment, he would. His eyes roamed the room. He hadn’t been into the inner sanctum very often and even then, only seconds at a time. Certainly not enough to study the quality of the fittings and expensive furniture.

  The olive-striped wallpaper had been sectioned a third above the floor with a shining, freshly stained oak railing. Below the railing was matching wallpaper in a masculine pattern. A huge bureau stood against the wall directly behind the desk, filled with sporting awards, books and pictures of Vincent with various athletes, some Haki recognized as being Olympians.r />
  Old photographs of his family were hung in precise intervals. His grandfather shaking hands and smiling with Sausage Bob, a well-known old-school gangster of the 1920s in a bar, people lined up behind them, also smiling. Haki caught sight of a gun in a sidearm as a jacket flap opened. Vincent’s beloved father, Marcus Lepski, was photographed with Sam O’Malley, another with Malcolm Streeton, an up-and-coming ambitious politician in the 1980s. The politician looked nervous and wasn’t looking at the camera. Marcus’ hand on his shoulder suggested he didn’t want to be photographed, but that he had to make an appearance.

  The desk was clear, other than a sleek black large-screened laptop Haki had never seen far from Vincent’s sight.

  Vincent adjusted the speed of the treadmill. The machine reduced speed and stopped. He grabbed a hand towel that had been slung over the front bar and mopped his face. He left it slung around his neck before stepping from the machine and facing Haki.

  Haki felt his heart rate increase instantly. If it weren’t for his well-paid work, he doubted he’d be standing here facing what he felt was going to be Armageddon.

  “This had better be good, Haki. I still have an hour’s weight training to go and I like to do it warm,” Vincent drawled.

  He crossed his arms and leaned against his very large, very old oak desk. There was strength and power in his lean limbs. His relaxed pose didn’t fool Haki. Although he was a large Maori and had the frame of a bulldozer, he knew Vincent could knock him out with a single, well-aimed punch.

  Vincent wiped a trickle of sweat that ran down his cheek. “I’m waiting.”

  Haki mentally shook himself. “The cop.”

  Vincent rolled his eyes. “Which cop?”

  “Daman Quade.”

  Vincent’s eyes hardened into black beads. “I assume you’re going to tell me he’s dead?”

  Haki shook his large head and fought to stand in the same place. He forcibly relaxed his shoulders. The tension was giving him a headache. “No, boss. It’s just that … ”

  “I’m waiting. And cooling.”