Leslie Kelly - She's No Angel

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Bruce. Just Bruce.

I’m so glad you like that I’m no angel.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

OF ALL THE PLEASURES in the life of Mortimer Potts, he’d have to call being the patriarch of a small Pennsylvania town among the finest. In the single year that he’d been living in Trouble, having purchased the bulk of it to save it from bankruptcy, he’d watched the place emerge from its cloak of depression the way a pretty flower might pop out amid a field of weeds and scrub. Not fully in bloom yet, it merely offered a hint at the color curled within its tightly wound petals. Observing it blossom had become his favorite pastime.

But the town wasn’t his greatest pleasure. It couldn’t compare, say, to spending time with his family—his grandsons and new granddaughter-in-law. Or having an eighty-one-year-old body that could perform all its necessary functions without benefit of odious amounts of fiber or Viagra. At least, most of the time. There had been that one occasion with the Feeney sisters when he’d discovered what the hoopla over that little blue pill was all about. It was a wonder his heart had survived the unexpected adventure. Still, watching the town emerge from its sleep was infinitely better than needing the obituaries to see who he’d outlived.

“I heard that sigh,” a disapproving voice said, the clipped British accent unaltered by decades of life in the U.S. “You’re thinking of those wretched sisters again, aren’t you? Either that or the time we rescued the harem in forty-six.”

Mortimer smiled in reminiscence. “A noble adventure.”

Roderick, his manservant—and best friend—sniffed, the same supercilious sound of disapproval he’d made since the day they’d met. “I doubt the sheikh would have been so quick with his golden reward if he knew how many of his wives thanked you personally.”

Ahh, yes. He did enjoy being thanked.

His fond memories quickly faded, Roderick’s words suddenly making him feel very old. Gone were his journeys to other continents, where he and his majordomo had been freewheeling adventurers. Or even, in his later years, where they’d been freewheeling parents, the two of them raising Mortimer’s grandsons.

Having lived life as a citizen of the world, he’d seen no reason to bring the boys up any other way. So while other youngsters their age studied faraway places by reading about them in textbooks in stuffy schoolrooms, his grandsons were visiting those spots. South America. Africa. From sampans in Shanghai to digs of ruins in Greece, Mortimer and Roderick had taught the boys not merely how to think, but how to live.

Now, however, there were no more adventures. No more trips to other continents. If he were foolish enough to get on a horse today, he’d be more likely to break a hip than to win a race across the desert.

“Is everything prepared for Michael’s arrival?”

Roderick nodded. “Right down to his favorite dish.” His brow scrunching in disgust, he added, “Chili. How very—”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Mortimer replied, his tone dry. “Pedestrian?” It was one of Roderick’s favorite words.

“I was going to say uninspiring.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“You can’t read my mind, Mortimer.”

Chuckling, Mortimer said, “I know you well enough to know how it must have pained you to shop for canned kidney beans.”

Rod laid one hand on Mortimer’s broad, oak desk and leaned over, as if exhausted. “You’ve no idea. It is impossible to purchase fresh chili peppers, or even cumin, in this town. I had to settle for a few of those dried-up, yellow envelopes full of mystery spice.” He sounded as disgruntled as if he’d been forced to substitute Chicken of the Sea for beluga.

“How very pedestrian,” Mortimer murmured, purposely gazing at his paper, though he saw Roderick puff up like a porcupine out of the corner of his eye.

What a funny, prickly man. And the truest friend anyone could ever ask for. They’d been together since the Second World War, crossing the globe in search of adventure. Mortimer’s family money and high spirits had led the way while Roderick’s common sense had kept them out of trouble. Well, it hadn’t kept them out of trouble, but it certainly had extricated them from a few…tricky…situations.

Even when the occasional marriage had divided them, they’d remained close, and Rod had been the first person a widowed Mortimer had called when he’d experienced the second great loss of his life—the death of his daughter. As always, the stoic Englishman had come to his side, stepping forward with Mortimer to parent three orphaned little boys, who’d lost their father less than a year before in the first Gulf War.

“The point is,” Rod said, as usual changing the subject when he was losing an argument, “Michael has developed horrifyingly middle-class tastes.”

Mortimer smiled, lifting his drink to his lips, eyeing the amber-colored whiskey and suddenly wishing he’d helped himself to one of the beers he’d put on ice for his grandson. “Yes, he has, but considering he is a New York City police officer, I’d say that’s probably appropriate.”

“A police officer.” Roddy couldn’t have sounded more disdainful if Michael had decided to become one of those male go-go dancers. “If he had to go into law enforcement, couldn’t he at least have gone into the MI5?”

Grunting, Mortimer lowered his drink, still wanting that beer. “Aside from the fact that he’s an American, not a Brit, and would therefore have been more likely to choose the CIA, my grandson could never be a spy. He’s far too noble.”

Roderick’s eyebrows rose until they almost blended in with his gray hair. “The boy’s the toughest fighter I’ve ever seen.”

Well, yes, he was that. The youngest of Mortimer’s three grandsons had reacted differently to the loss of his parents than his brothers had. Morgan, the oldest, had become an adventurer, much like his grandfather. Max, before settling down with his new wife last year, had been a playboy, with women dogging his every step.

Michael, though…He’d grown hard. Tough. Self-protective. And the boy did have a bit of a temper. Mortimer suppressed a chuckle, remembering the time he’d bailed his teenage grandson out of jail. He’d been arrested for brawling with three boys who’d made the mistake of harassing a young lady Michael liked. A born protector, that one. “He needs a good woman, that’s all.”

“Surely you’ve learned your lesson about matchmaking.” Roderick managed to sound both scandalized and interested by the idea. “Hasn’t the woeful expression on the face of your secretary been enough to cure you of such impulses?”

Hmm…true. His latest effort had backfired. When Allie, his assistant, had left here an hour ago, she’d seemed very blue over her botched summer romance. “Perhaps Allie and Michael…”

“No. He’d chew her up and pick his teeth with her bones.”

Roderick was probably right.

“Michael needs someone much tougher.” Slowly pouring himself a drink and sitting in the leather chair opposite Mortimer’s, Roderick pursed his mouth in concentration. “Someone smart. Independent. A woman who won’t let him dominate her. Who will stand up for herself. Someone…”

“Tricky.”

“I was going to say strong. Self-confident.”

“Yes, yes,” Mortimer said, waving an airy hand, “but sly. One who’ll humor Michael’s need to protect her, never letting on that she doesn’t really need protecting. You do know how much he likes taking care of people.”

“Taking care of women,” Roderick said with a sigh.

Yes, Michael did do a lot of that, especially since he’d become a police officer. But something had happened to the boy a few years ago, involving two women. His grandson had gone from a smiling good guy with a mildly quick temper to a brooding good guy with a lightning-fast one.

A good man in a fight. While Maxwell was the grandson Mortimer would have loved to have with him when he’d entertained a half-dozen ladies of the evening in a dingy, shadowy Bangkok bar, Michael was the one he’d have loved to have at his back in the alley behind that bar later that night. When the ladies’ protectors had tried to relieve him of his belongings.

They hadn’t succeeded. But they had left Mortimer with an interesting, half moon-shaped scar on his shoulder. One of many.

As for Morgan…He’d have liked to have had him along when he’d been forced to claw his way out of an ancient tomb in Oman, where he’d been walled up for smiling at the wrong sultan’s wife.

“I suppose I cannot talk you out of this?”

Mortimer stared at his friend. “Were you trying to?”

The other man flushed slightly, then shrugged, giving up all pretense. “No. I don’t like to see him so hardened…. He needs to find something more for his life.”

“So we’re agreed.” Like Roderick, Mortimer wanted to see that smile return to Michael’s face. No, he would never become a prankster like his brother Max. But there was no reason for Michael to go through life with his guard always up. “He needs someone who will make him stop taking himself so seriously.”

“But he won’t go into that willingly,” Roderick said. “We’ll have to make him think things are very serious indeed.”

Lifting his glass again, Mortimer tried not to laugh. “Are you saying we’re partners in this sly, matchmaking venture?”

Shaking his head so hard a strand of graying hair fell over one eye, Roddy stood. “That is your purview.” He headed to the door, but before leaving, looked over his shoulder. “Though I suppose I can be counted upon to…supervise.”

Mortimer hid his triumphant smile.

Roderick continued, “Now, where do you think we’ll find this completely contradictory strong/weak, intelligent/dim, exciting/calming, tough/loving woman?”

When put that way, it did sound impossible. Then the image of a face swam into Mortimer’s mind. He was surprised he hadn’t thought of it sooner, since he’d been quite enjoying reading the young lady’s sarcastic advice-to-the-lovelorn book this morning. She was feisty and brash, yet pretty and soft. Just the ticket for Michael, who needed to play protector but could never be with a woman who’d let him ride rough-shod over her. “You know, it so happens I recently met a young lady who would be perfect.”

Roderick waited expectantly.

“Her name,” Mortimer said, drawing out the suspense, sure of his friend’s reaction, “is Feeney.”

He wasn’t disappointed. Roderick began to sputter, then turn bright red. “No. Not those two…”

“Their niece. A lovely young woman.”

“Is she a murderer, too?”

Mortimer knew what Roderick was referring to. There had certainly been gossip about the Feeney sisters, Ida Mae and Ivy. He wasn’t sure it was true, however. “That’s never been proven.”

Roderick marched back into the room, picked up his half-empty tumbler and tossed the remnants of his whiskey back in two gulps. Finishing, he breathed deeply and said, “You’re willing to risk Michael’s well-being by involving him with a Feeney woman. I say, Mortimer, have you quite gone off your nut?”