Nobody's Angel Mass market paperback - 2001

After all the vengeful years of plotting and planning, and weeks of
searching, he thought he'd found her.

Adrian's stomach rumbled as he ordered a beer. In his haste to get here
after work, he hadn't stopped to eat. He couldn't eat. His stomach had
twisted in knots so tight he wasn't certain if the beer would pass through.

His hand crushed the bottle the waiter brought, but his gaze never left
the stage. The shaved-head waiter shoved his tip in his pocket and
sauntered off. To Adrian, the kid looked too young to work in a bar, but
he wasn't in any position to report him. He sank lower in the cracked
vinyl seat of the booth and tried drinking the beer, barely noticing the
taste. He hadn't touched the stuff in years, but in these last few weeks
of hunting his prey he'd guzzled enough to dull any desire to drown in it.

The noise level in the barroom had already reached rocket-launch
proportions. Tearing his gaze from the unlit platform of the stage, Adrian
scanned the almost all male crowd, gauging it as he had learned to do from
these last years in confinement with repressed male hostility.

The red and blue bar lights illuminated the smoky haze just enough for him
to catch glimpses of weather-seasoned faces. This wasn't any polite yuppie
hangout where the constant murmur of networking laced through the
entertainment. This was a very large, noisy, drinking, brawling, pickup
crowd. How the hell had Miss La-de-da wound up here?

She was a "Miss" now, he remembered. Before, she'd been Mrs. S.O.B.

For the most part, the crowd left him alone. Herd instinct warned them to
steer clear of loners, and his naturally brown coloring marked him as
alien in their all-white world. He knew how to overcome the obstacle of
his mother's Hispanic origins when he wanted, but he wasn't in the mood
for that game anymore. He had only one purpose here--to find the woman who
had ruined his life and return the favor.

Adrian cracked a peanut shell between tense fingers and sought the stage
again. The band was moving about, setting up instruments. The last singer
had left to a chorus of boos and catcalls. The audience didn't care for
melancholy love songs, it seemed.

He hadn't even known Tony's wife could sing. Hell, what he knew about her
could fit in a thimble. If it hadn't been for the conniving old reporter,
Headley, he could have spent the rest of his life searching for her.

Or he could have bought a gun on the street and rapped a few skulls until
he got what he wanted.

First time around, he would try the peaceful approach. He wasn't in a
hurry to spend any more time behind bars. The black hole of the last four
years had already sucked him dry.

The audience stirred restlessly. The tinny noise from
the jukebox didn't provide sufficient vibration to animate more than a
tapping toe or two. Two couples in the booth across from him erupted in a
name-calling argument. The burly bouncer edged his way through the throng
at the horseshoe bar in their direction.

Adrian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was out of his territory.
Hell, he was out of his state, violating parole. No one knew him here, but
he had no wish to be identified later.

The band began tuning up. The crowd's roar lessened perceptibly and all
eyes turned toward the stage. Obviously, she wasn't a newcomer.

He propped his snakeskin boots on the far seat and sipped from his bottle.
Those boots had caused him some ribbing years ago, back in Charlotte, in
the good ol' days. But boots were the order of the day here in Knoxville,
in this end of town. Maybe he should have a hat, too.

He couldn't afford one.

He didn't go down that depressing trail. He'd been broke before. He knew
how to persevere against all odds. Hope was what mattered. As long as he
had a smidgen of hope to cling to, he would survive.

Hope came in the form of Faith this time. Faith Hope.

Adrian snorted at the incongruous appellation. He assumed it was a stage
name. He'd known her as Faith Nicholls back in the days of yore. Even that
name hadn't fit. Faith Dollars might have made sense. Faith Fatbucks.
Faith Moneybags. Her kind didn't deal in nickels and dimes.

Curiosity curled the edges of his mind as the spotlight blinked on. Maybe
the beer was working on his empty stomach. He threw another peanut in his
mouth and wrapped his fingers around the neck of the bottle. What the hell
was Faith Moneybags doing in a dive like this?

Headley had broken the story that culminated in his arrest all those years
ago. The old reporter had felt responsible or guilty enough to keep in
touch ever since. Headley had been the one to tell him Ms. Moneybags
walked out on her S.O.B. of a husband long before the trial. Adrian hadn't
known that at the time. Nicholls hadn't said a word, and once the shit
hit, he had been too busy trying to save his own hide to care what his
partner's wife did.

The spotlight changed colors and Adrian popped another peanut as his gut
clenched. Would he recognize her after all this time? Last time he'd seen
her, she'd looked like the proper SouthPark matron she was--her flaxen hair
smoothed into a chignon, her red suit screaming "designer," her nails
neatly buffed and polished as she swore on a Bible to tell the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

She'd lied.

As the band struck a fast chord with a heavy bass beat, he recognized the
tune. The crowd roared, probably more in gratitude at not having to make
more small talk than in appreciation for the music. If that was her
signature song, it wasn't very original.

Adrian had his doubts that he had the right woman, but Headley had sworn
she was in Knoxville and that he'd heard reports she'd been singing in
bars. That meant some of Headley's drunken cronies had seen someone who
looked like her, but if she used the name Faith--

The cymbals crashed, the guitar hit a screeching crescendo, and the
spotlight burned red.

Adrian nearly crushed the bottle neck as Faith Hope strolled on stage,
belting out the familiar country refrain.

He didn't hear the song. He strained to see the Stepford Wife he knew
behind the white leather miniskirt, sequined vest, bouncing blond locks,
and red knee-high boots. Only the red silk shirt hinted at the woman he
wanted to see. He didn't recognize her, but he'd never really met Faith
Nicholls. He'd seen her in the office occasionally, saw her once at the
trial. This couldn't be her.

Disappointment washed over him as the singer crooned a song of love, her
blond shoulder-length hair swinging with the beat. She already had toes
tapping and heels stomping. She didn't look any older than the damned
waiter.

How in hell did that enormous voice exist in such a delicate package?

Adrian would have ripped the cap off the bottle with his teeth if the
waiter hadn't already removed it. His blood simmered and settled in his
groin as he studied the slender bundle of energy on the stage. She
probably wasn't being deliberately seductive. She'd covered nearly every
inch of her but the long legs, and she wore boots to deemphasize them.

He'd considered banging the first willing female he found as soon as the
prison gates opened, but life had gotten in the way. That had been a
mistake. As Faith Hope's voice lowered into a sultry refrain, he
practically sizzled in his own juices.

It couldn't be her. Nothing he had seen of Faith Nicholls had ever caused
him to so much as blink an eyelash, and not just because she'd been his
partner's wife. He didn't like dainty blondes. People shorter than him
made him feel like a gangly youth.

But the woman on stage was an irresistible ball of fire. She shouted, she
crooned, she laughed and sweet-talked her way into the hearts of every
damned man in the place. And she wasn't that great a singer.

Adrian scowled as even that realization didn't cool his lust. He wasn't a
musician, but he recognized most of the songs because he'd grown up with
them blaring out of the radio. She had most of the words right and didn't
mangle the notes badly enough to jar, but a skilled vocalist, she was not.
She captured the audience by sheer passion alone.

He watched in awe as she not only silenced the testosterone-laden crowd
with the haunting refrains of "Blue Bayou," but had them weeping in their
beer for lost loves and lost places
as her voice broke on the chorus. Without missing a beat,
she swung into a rocking version of "Rocky Top," and the crowd stampeded
to the dance floor, with or without partners. The woman might not be a
musical genius, but she knew her audience.

He couldn't tolerate the doubt any longer. This couldn't be Faith
Nicholls. Every cell in his brain screamed the impossibility. Respectable
society matrons did not descend to stinking, smoky dives to sing for truck
drivers and hog farmers. But he couldn't bear hitting another dead end
either. It had to be her. He didn't know where else to look, and the rest
of his life depended on finding her.

Leaving the bottle on the table, Adrian edged around the foot-stomping
crowd on the floor. Sticking to the shadows outside the circle of light,
he leaned against a massive, vibrating amplifier at stage edge and watched
her from a few yards away.

She was all sparkle and light, flashing sequins, flying golden hair, and
shimmering stockings over tanned legs. She stroked the microphone and
crooned to it in a way that probably aroused every prick in the place. It
certainly did wonders for his own.

Wryly, Adrian noted she had a run in her stocking that snaked a thin trail
over a leg so shapely a man's hand could mold it like clay. He wanted to
cling to that small evidence of imperfection, prove to his straining groin
that she was a woman just like any other, and no goddess capable of
restoring his life with the wave of a wand.

But if she was Faith Nicholls, she had that power.



Normally, Faith wouldn't have noticed a stranger standing in the darkness.
She tried not to see any of the men avidly following her every move. She
hated the stares and concentrated on the words and the music. But the
intensity of the stranger's gaze drew her like a magnet. Alone in a crowd,
he collected shadows.

Did she know him? Was that why he was staring at her? She swung to the
other side of the stage, away from him, but the spotlight only allowed so
much leeway. She preferred not being recognized, but had always known the
chance was out there.

Damn, why didn't he at least move? Out of the corner of her eye she caught
the coiled tension in muscled arms folded tightly over a wide chest,
giving the lie to his casual pose against the amp. Had he worn a cowboy
hat or a workshirt or anything normal, she might disregard him entirely,
but in black long-sleeve shirt and jeans, he was a silhouette of sharp,
hard edges. He wasn't the usual city-soft Friday-night cowboy. She caught
a glimpse of silver at his ear and the swing of coal-dark hair slicked
back in a long ponytail. He had "Danger" imprinted on his forehead as
clearly as any flashing road sign.

A beer bottle crashed somewhere in the rear of the bar, jarring her back
to attention. On weekend nights the place could explode like a powder keg
if not controlled. She could see Egghead elbowing his way to the shouting
combatants, and she eased into a lighter song. The man in the shadows
didn't break a smile at the sexual innuendoes and puns that had the rest
of the audience howling.

"Patricia Rice is a master storyteller."
--MARY JO PUTNEY