Earth Angel (6 page)

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Catherine carefully examined the sideview mirrors for any early morning traffic on the back road, then slowly drove the truck into the brush. The small dump truck made its own track through the wooded area, crushing bushes and underbrush under its large-tread tires. She silently begged forgiveness for the destruction, but knew the woods would cover her “road” within a week.

She had thought sleep would come easily that night, after her evening with Miles ended so precipitately. But she’d tossed and turned, Miles Kitteridge at every view. She decided in the early hours of the morning that if she couldn’t sleep, she might as well get moving on Earth Angel’s next assignment.

Damn that man, she thought. The whole evening had backfired on her. First she’d lost the controlling hand, then she’d nearly lost control of herself. If she hadn’t uttered those mindless words …

Miles could hurt her badly and walk away without a backward glance. There was a calculating coldness under his charm. He was only interested in her because he had a second opportunity with her, and she had denied him once before.

He was up to something about Wagner Oil, she mused. Who did he think he was fooling with all those supposedly innocent questions? He was the banker. He
had
to know what her uncle was doing. She bet her salary he was in cahoots with Byrne.

She reached the creek before she expected to, and had to stand on the brakes when the bank came up in a rush.

The two-ton truck stopped with plenty of room to spare. Catherine got out and observed her objective. The creek narrowed nicely at the bend in front of her. She was about a half mile down from Wagner’s Wissahickon paint subsidiary, outside Philadelphia. The previous week, the county had detected leakage farther down the creek, nearer the city. There were enough businesses and sewage treatment plants along the banks that they weren’t able to trace the culprit before the toxins were diluted by the water.

Catherine smiled grimly. Earth Angel knew.

She climbed into the cab again, grateful that the dump truck, even fully loaded, was only slightly harder to handle than a pickup. She carefully backed it around, weaving in and out of the trees. Even more carefully, she brought the rear end of the truck nearly to the bank.

She got out of the cab and walked to the back of the truck, humming the “1812 Overture.” When she reached the part where the cannons fired, she pressed a button.

The truck bed rose into the air, its load of clean dirt hanging precariously at a forty-five-degree angle. Rivulets dribbled off the earthen slope.

“Dadada-
de
-dadada-
de
-dada!” she sang out, and hit another button.

The dirt whoosed out of the dropping tailgate right on cue. It settled onto the narrow creek bed, effectively damming the water at the bend. The creek would eventually erode the earth … but not before the dam caught the runoff being leaked from a hidden pipe at the Wagner plant.

Catherine got a shovel out of the truck cab and walked into the knee-deep water. The newly created
mud sucked at her rubber boots. Whistling, she began to spread the dirt around. To make it pretty. She reminded herself to call the EPA, the county, and the press after she got home. She also reminded herself to dispose of the boots. They wouldn’t be fit for wearing after she was done.

She chuckled. It would be interesting to see how Miles reacted to Earth Angel’s latest exploit.

She couldn’t wait to find out.

When Catherine was finally back in her town house, she sighed in relief. Being a pollution commando was heck on the nerves.

She glanced down at her boots. A thin rim of white gunk was drying around the ankles. Clearly her dam was working, as the paint by-products were already collecting at that point of the creek. Wrinkling her nose, she wondered how she was going to get the boots off without touching them. She wasn’t about to move off the foyer mat to walk to the kitchen and get gloves. She’d ruin her carpet. But she wasn’t about to touch the boots to take them off there.

“Great planning,” she muttered, wishing she’d come through the garage.

Her doorbell rang. She froze, panic rushing through her. She couldn’t have been traced already!

She forced herself to think logically. She had rented the truck at a gas station in the suburbs, and bought the dirt at a nursery in another suburb.
No, they couldn’t have found her out so quickly. Besides, nobody could possibly know about the dam yet.

The doorbell rang again, then someone pounded on the door, nearly shooting her off the mat.

“Catherine!” Miles bellowed.

All the logic swept out of her head.

The doorbell rang over and over, as if he were leaning on it. “Catherine, are you okay? Catherine, answer me! Catherine!”

She muttered a barnyard curse and wondered if she could get away with acting as if no one were home.

“Catherine!”

“What?”
she screamed back reflexively, then soundly cursed again.

The doorbell ringing immediately ceased. The silence on the other side was almost as deafening. Finally, Miles asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay,” she called. In dread, she waited for the accusation and the demand to open the door so they could drag her away to prison forever.

Another, longer pause ensued. “I called earlier and there was no answer.”

“I was … in the bathroom.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?” She looked heavenward in supplication.

“Oh. Can I come in?”

“What for?”

“To make sure you’re all right.”

“But I just told you I was okay.”

“Catherine, I came to check on you because you were sick last night.” She could hear the exasperation
in his voice. “Now just let me in so I can see that you really are better.”

“Oh.” It finally sank in that he was there for a gentlemanly reason. She glanced down at the boots, the jeans, and the sweatshirt. One look, and he’d get the message. “It was lovely of you to come, Miles. I truly appreciate it. But I’m perfectly fine this morning. I told you last night I only needed to get out of the smoke and get some rest—”

“Then why won’t you open the door?”

“Ah … I’m not dressed.”

“I don’t care. I just want to see that you’re all right. You looked horrible last night. I never should have left you alone.”

Of all the times to be a gentleman, she thought with irritation. “Miles, really—”

“Open the damn door, Catherine. I’m not leaving until you do.”

He meant it. She panicked again. Now what? “Ah … well … just a minute.”

She turned and raced through to the kitchen, whipped off the boots by the garage door, cursed that she’d forgotten to put on gloves, washed her hands, then tore up the stairs to her bedroom. She rolled up her jeans, threw on a neck-high velour robe, then ran back downstairs. She took a deep breath to calm herself, smiled wanly, and opened the door.

Miles barged inside.

Catherine glanced outside for the police, security guards, one big Doberman, anything that looked remotely like a bust. Her stoop was clear.

“I knew it!” Miles exclaimed, scrutinizing her.

“Knew what?” she squeaked.

“Look at you, all sweating and bundled up like that. I knew I should have stayed last night.”

She swiped at her brow and was amazed to feel moisture on her skin. The heavy robe on top of her regular clothes wasn’t helping, either. Still, it was better that he thought she was sick than to discover what she was really doing.

“It’s just a touch of the flu,” she began.

“Flu! I thought it was an allergy.”

“Allergy. Flu.” She waved her hand. “Sometimes they start out the same. You know how it is.”

“Well, you should be in bed.” He took her arm and moved her into the living room.

“I was in bed,” she lied deftly, “until you tried to break down the door. Never do that to a single woman in the city. We get out our guns and blow people away for less.”

“Do you have a gun?” he asked.

“No, don’t be ridiculous. I just meant you scared me half to death.” She dug in her heels as he whirled her around. “Where are we going?”

“You are going back to bed.”

She turned, pulling him with her, and marched him back toward the door. “I will, as soon as you leave.”

He pointed her toward the stairs again. “You get in bed first, and I’ll bring you some tea.”

She turned him back. “I’ll get it when I’m ready.”

“Catherine!”

“Miles!”

They glared at each other. Finally, Miles said, “Get in the bed, Catherine. I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? You’ve seen me, now just go—”

She squawked as he swept her up into his arms and strode toward the stairs. She scrambled to yank down the robe and keep the Chinese collar high around her throat.

“Miles, this is silly,” she said primly. “Put me down and I promise to walk to my bedroom and then you can go back to your bank.”

He grinned. “And miss this opportunity to show off my Galahad traits? Not on your life.” His fingers shifted along her leg. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were wearing clothes under this robe.”

“I … got the chills.” She smiled at her adept answer. “I did put on something warmer than a gown.”

His grin disappeared. “I should have stayed.”

He negotiated the stairs easily. Catherine wanted to squirm out of his embrace, but knew she’d probably send them both tumbling down the steps. The fingers of his one hand were spread uncomfortably close to her breast, though, and her nostrils were filled with the scent of his cologne. That triggered something inside her. She tried to keep her gaze focused on the railing, but out of the corner of her eye she could discern his suit collar, his white shirt snowy against his jawline. His skin was tan and completely smooth, yet she could tell that by the afternoon, he’d have a shadow of a beard. Interesting, she thought, then wondered why she was so fascinated.

“Which room?” he asked, when they reached the top of the stairs. His voice was hoarse.

“In the front.” Hers sounded no better.

The moment he stepped over the threshold, she felt the invasion. She was allowing him into the most private of rooms, no matter how innocent
the reason. Now she did squirm, and he set her down.

Miles looked around at the floral draperies and white sheers, the striped wallpaper and cherry-wood bureau, the wide bed and its plump frilly comforter. One side was rumpled as if in invitation.

Catherine swallowed, wondering what the room told him about her. Probably more than she cared to have him know.

“Could I have that tea now?” she asked, desperate to get him out of there.

He turned and looked at her. She wilted under his sensual gaze.

“Sure,” he said.

Without another word, he left the room.

“Yes, she’s sicker than she’s letting on … I know there are nurses for hire … No, I can’t stay, Grandmother, I have a meeting at the bank … Well, why do you think I’m asking you?”

“I have no idea,” Lettice said smartly. “I am not a nurse. If Catherine is that sick, then call in one or take her to the hospital.”

Miles grit his teeth together and counted to ten. His grandmother was exasperating—as usual. Gripping Catherine’s kitchen telephone tighter, he said, “She’s not dying. She has the flu, and I need someone to watch over her, make sure she doesn’t get out of bed, and fix her tea and things. I don’t have time to arrange for a nurse, so can you come?”

“You surprise me, Miles,” his grandmother said.
Her voice was faint as if she were murmuring to herself. Louder, she added, “Yes, I’ll come.”

“Great.” He smiled in pleasure and hung up the telephone.

The tea kettle whistled, and he turned off the burner. As he fixed the cup of tea, a pair of grimy rubber boots lying by a door caught his eye. Odd, he thought. Had Catherine been wading in milk? The whitish stains looked fresh. He realized the door must lead to her garage, and he wondered why she’d left the dirty things on this side of the door, rather than in the garage.

Shrugging, he made a mental note to ask her if she wanted them in the garage. He also made a mental note to tell her that he would help her look for the codicil. That ought to cheer her up.

He wished he had stayed with her last night, though. She must have been sick all night. He’d panicked when he’d only been able to reach her answering machine earlier that morning. Then when he’d seen her pale face, guilt had hit him with a bang. Next time he’d let instinct rule, rather than Catherine. But in the meantime, he’d look after her. Besides, it felt kind of good.

He rummaged through her cabinets and refrigerator, looking for something suitable for her to eat, in case she was hungry. Not sure what a sick person should have, he got out an orange, some cold chicken, and a container of raspberry yogurt, then fixed a plate of Mallowmar cookies. He wondered if it was enough, and added two more cookies and a banana just to be sure.

“That ought to do it,” he muttered, setting it all on a tray he’d found.

When he reentered her bedroom, every thought went clean out of his head.

Catherine was sitting up in the bed, the covers pulled to her waist. The heavy robe was gone and in its place was a lavender nightgown. The bodice was all lace, seductively hinting rather than blatantly displaying. A man could run his fingers down the spaghetti straps of the gown, then disperse with them in one quick flick. Her thick hair shone with reddish lights as it curved around her face and shoulders. Her skin was translucent, like fine porcelain. The last thing she looked was sick.

She stared back at him for a long moment, her eyes dark and unfathomable, then lifted the covers up to her chest in a casual manner. The spell over him deflated like a sagging balloon. He continued into her room and set the tray down on her lap.

Her eyebrows rose. “I thought I was getting a cup of tea.”

“It’s there.” He pointed to the cup, then gingerly sat on the edge of the bed. Her legs were against his hip for one delicious second before she shifted them away. “I called my grandmother,” he said. “She’s coming over to take care of you.”