Page 205 of Once an Angel
trust him? He forced himself to rise and turn away. A lilting whisper of angel song drifted to his ears. At first he thought the melody was in his head, as haunting and familiar as the rhythmic rush of blood through his veins. Then a spasm of pain crushed his chest. Emily.
Her husky contralto toyed with his creation, gifting it with an artless charm and an innocence he had been able to envision only in the maddened inspiration of his dreams. It cut through his sophistication like a blade, peeling away the pretentious layers of oboes and French horns he had labored over for days. Without even trying she had stolen his song and made it her own. He knew that for the rest of his life, even if that song resounded through every concert hall in Europe, he would hear only the resonant purity of her voice.
Justin felt violated. He felt as if someone had stroked the most intimate heart of him and left it quivering, too easily shattered by the next careless touch.
Burning with fury, he strode across the clearing and threw open the door.
Emily lifted her head. Her soft trilling died in her throat. "Why, Justin, it's so beautiful."
Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted. Her eyes shone with trust and tenderness. He had seen that
look before, and being unable to remember where or when only stoked the fires of his anger.
He pulled off his hat. "Who gave you the right to rifle through my private things? Who the hell do you think you are?"
Emily's smile faded. She gazed up at him, wondering what he would do if she told him. Rain pelted the back of his oilcloth coat. Damp hanks of hair curled across his brow, shadowing his eyes. He smoothed them back and she swallowed a flinch. She had seen that look of embittered ire often enough in her life.
"Nobody gave me the right." She dragged her knee closer to her body, cradling his symphony to her chest. "Are you angry?"
He slammed the door. A handful of thatch spiraled down from the ceiling.
"Miffed, eh?"
He crossed the hut and jerked his music out of her hands. Still glowering, he rolled the sheets into a tube, giving her the distinct impression he wished it were her neck he was throttling.
She climbed to her feet, brushing dust from her skirt. "Are you ever going to speak to me again?"
He slapped the scroll against his palm. "Not if you're lucky."
"Luck was never my strong suit."
"Nor mine," he shot back. "At least not since I met you."
She clasped her hands behind her back. "You didn't actually meet me. You sort of found me. Like a
stray pup or a—"
"Bad apple?"
She looked down at her feet, but not before Justin saw her lips twist with a wry pain. Guilt shot through him. She hadn't helped his temper by reminding him of the night he had found her. The nubile curves of her moon-drenched body still haunted him. A gift from the sea, he had so foolishly called her. A gift from hell, more likely. Poseidon had probably laughed himself off his underwater throne to be rid of her. For a savage moment Justin wished he could recall that night, wished he had thrust apart her silky thighs and ravished her before she'd ever opened her impudent mouth.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Emily asked, alarmed by the open voracity of his gaze.
"Like what?" His dangerous purr folded an aching knot in the pit of her stomach.
She pressed her fist there. "Like I'm a French pastry and you haven't eaten in a month."
"Oh, it's been far longer than a month, my dear." He stalked toward her, backing her up with each silky word. "I wish I had gobbled you up that night on the beach. Because then at least I would have had a moment's peace in the afterglow . . . which is more than I've had since then." He stroked her cheek in
the tenderest of caresses. "Did you know you are an ungrateful, deceitful, rude, ill-tempered, nosy little wench?" His voice shot to a roar, "And those are your good points!"
Emily's rear struck the table. She tilted her chin in wounded dignity. "I'm quite aware of my shortcomings but if it makes you feel better, do continue your assassination of my character."
Growling under his breath, Justin spun on his heel. It didn't take him more than three strides to realize he was pacing without having to hop over stacks of books or snarled blankets. Emily folded her hands in a demure knot.
"My books," he muttered. "What the hell has she done to my books? She's trying to drive me mad. I'll never be able to find anything."
"Why, of course you will. I've organized them ever so nicely."
