A Season of Angels (Angels Everywhere #1)(12)

For the life of her, Monica hadn’t been able to forget the private investigator. Heaven knew she’d tried. He was little better than an alcoholic, drinking beer in the middle of the day. Not only that, he’d been arrogant, rude, and curt with her. He’d treated her as if she were a senseless child when she’d tried to help him.

Monica didn’t understand what it was about this one man that intrigued her so. She’d gone to bed that night and dreamed of him. She’d woken breathless, her heart pounding double time. A woman had no control over her dreams, Monica assured herself. If she had, Monica certainly wouldn’t have allowed that . . . man to touch her. The very idea was appalling. No, Monica corrected, closing her eyes and shaking her head, that wasn’t the truth. It was the problem. She had thought about him touching her, kissing her. Her untamed imagination had taken over and she’d allowed it to happen in her dreams.

“There you are,” her father said, strolling into the living room. “I’ve been looking for you.” He settled down in the leather chair by the fireplace and reached for the evening paper. “I’m afraid I’m going to need you tomorrow afternoon.”

“For what?” He seemed to forget she had a job and even if she did work as the church secretary it was a demanding position. Her father would cover for her if necessary, but she would rather he asked first instead of volunteering her services, which was something he often did.

“Mrs. Ferdnand just phoned and she can’t be a bell ringer for the shift she signed up to take last Sunday.”

“But, Dad.” Standing on a cold street corner and collecting charitable donations was the last way Monica wished to spend an afternoon. An hour never lasted so long and by the end of her shift she’d be frozen solid.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.”

“I know.” It was useless to argue with him. The man had the patience of Job and an answer for every argument.

“It’s downtown so you’ll be sure to get plenty of traffic,” her father added, reaching for the sports section of the newspaper and folding it open.

“Great.” She stabbed the needle into the fabric and set aside her needlepoint. After working on this Ten Commandment project for weeks she was only on the fourth commandment, which meant she hadn’t a prayer of finishing before Christmas. She studied the tiny stitches. Ironically the one she was currently stitching stated Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother. God must have worked it out that way, sealing any argument she might have given.

“Are you all right?” her father asked her unexpectedly, momentarily setting the paper aside.

“I’m fine,” she said, then amended, “a little tired perhaps.”

“I thought as much. You don’t seem to be yourself lately.”

“Oh?”

“I know this thing with Patrick hurt you and . . .”

“Patrick is a friend, Dad. He was never anything more. I don’t know why you insist upon dragging his name into every conversation.” It was a white lie to suggest she hadn’t cared about Patrick, but sometimes she found those necessary, although she was never comfortable stretching the truth.

“I noticed Michael talking to you the other day. He’s a very nice young man.” He eyed her speculatively as if waiting for her to comment.

“Very nice,” she agreed. But Michael didn’t stir her blood, he didn’t make her heart throb and the thought of him kissing her produced not so must as a whit of excitement.

Her father was right, there was definitely something wrong with her.

The following afternoon, Monica was dressed in her dark blue suit, standing on the corner of Fifth and University, ringing her little heart out. Surely there was a reward awaiting her in heaven for this.

A man dressed in leather and wearing enough gold to strangle himself stopped and inserted a ten-dollar bill in the bright red pot. When Monica thanked him, he insisted upon “giving her five.” It took her a good three minutes to realize what he intended. He was simply looking to slap her hand. He ambled away, suggesting she get with it, whatever or whomever “it” was.

Okay, so she wasn’t cool, if that was the current vernacular. Nor was she hip or groovy or several other words that came to mind. She was God’s willing servant. All right, she wasn’t so willing just then, but she was doing her part and that was all that mattered.

Her ears were cold and her fingers had lost their feeling and she had another half hour to go when it happened.

It was him.

The man who’d caught her in his arms three days earlier, the one she’d attempted to restrain from entering the Blue Goose. He was standing on the other side of the street waiting for the traffic to pass so he could cross. Everyone else would wait for the green light and the walk sign, but not him. Oh, no, he was too impatient for that.

She stopped ringing the bell, then started again with a vengeance, closing her eyes, hoping with everything in her that he’d simply walk past and not notice it was her.

Monica should have realized that would have been asking too much.

“Well, well, well,” he said, strolling all the way around her. “And who do we have here? Monica, am I right?”

She ignored him and stared straight ahead, jerking the small bell back and forth for all she was worth, her shoulders so stiff they ached.