Page 1 of Fallen Angel
Chapter One
Ethan sat up with a jerk and scanned his bedroom. His gaze darted from the table with his collection of model motorcycles to his dresser, upon which sat his most recent little league trophy, to his overflowing hamper in the corner. No one was there. Nothing was out of place. He could have sworn a loud noise had woken him up. His shoulders slumped a little as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. Then he leaned against the wall and looked at the new poster of a cherry red Porsche hanging above his dresser. He had wanted to get the one with the hot, bikini-clad blond draped over the hood, but his mom rejected his choice even though—as he had pointed out several times—he was using his own birthday money from his grandparents. Still, she refused him, arguing that at ten years old he was too young to be thinking about girls—which he knew was total crap, but she wouldn’t listen.
He swung the covers off and stood. He had to pee, bad. Stepping out into the hallway he looked impatiently down the seemingly endless hallway to the bathroom door at the far end. He considered the large potted plants in opposite corners of the landing where he stood and the fifty-gallon fish tank against the wall less than two feet away—both capable of holding what was near to bursting from his bladder, but he knew his mom would want to know why her Peace Lilies smelled like piss or why their goldfish were suddenly belly-up.
Careful not to wake his folks, he tiptoed as quickly and as silently as he could to the bathroom. Just as he was about to swing the door wide and barrel forward to the toilet, his desperate urge was suddenly forgotten, replaced by an inexplicable dread. He turned to the left and faced the small attic door that marked the end of the hallway. The attic was nothing to be afraid of. It was where he built his models, practiced drums, and painted. And yet, the feeling grew heavy in his stomach and fear as thick as the dusty cobwebs that hung like Halloween bunting in the corners of the attic gripped his heart. He stared at the door, his heart lodged in his throat. He wanted to run but couldn’t. As if controlled by someone else, his hand encircled the door knob and turned. He gaped down at his feet climbing the stairs in horror. “What are you doing?” his brain screamed as he continued to watch twin Judases in blue tube socks ascend higher and higher. He reached the landing and stepped into the room, then stumbled back against the wall.
A man dangled from a rope, secured to the ceiling, above a toppled chair.
An instant later, Ethan’s brain registered his father’s bluish face.
He screamed and never stopped.
Ethan Calloway sat up with a jerk. His ears were ringing. His heartbeat echoed in his brain, pounding like a sledgehammer at a demolition. He threw off his blanket, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and cradled his throbbing head in his hands.
Nothing like starting the day off with a dream of when your father committed suicide.
“What the hell,” he snapped as he stood and crossed the gleaming hardwood floor to his spacious walk-in-closet.
His housekeeper, Sarah, a local woman in her fifties with skin weathered by the hot Maine summers and frigid winters, was already there, neatly folding his boxer briefs and arranging them by color.
“It’s 5:30 in the morning, Sarah,” he said, not bothering to cover his nakedness.
She looked up, her lips pursed as she raised her brow at him. “You know I like to start early.”
Sarah had grown up in Bar Harbor and moved to northern Maine at the tender age of seventeen to be with her husband who logged the North Maine Woods. She was hardworking and liked plain language.
Ethan rubbed the back of his neck impatiently. “Yeah, but this is excessive, even for you.”
She shrugged. “Billy’s working overnights. I don’t sleep when he’s gone.”
He watched her fold another pair, smoothing out every wrinkle. He threw his hands up. “It’s just underwear.”
She didn’t look up. “Like you, Mr. Calloway, I don’t do halves. It’s either all or nothing. Here,” she said, thrusting a pair of black boxer briefs at him. “There’s coffee waiting for you downstairs. Looks like you could use a cup.”
“Thanks,” he said dryly, taking the black briefs and pulling them on. Then he left his room, resisting the urge to slam the door on the way out. The rustic walls of his log cabin raced past as he stormed down the hallway, which opened to a loft with a view down below to his spacious, open-plan living room and kitchen. On one side of the grand room, floor to ceiling windows boasted panoramic views, but he had no interest in watching the sun rise over the mountains that morning, nor was he heading down to drink the coffee Sarah had made. Before he could do anything else, he had to beat the hell out of something.
Passing the stairs, he swung open a door that led into a long breezeway, which connected his house to a series of work spaces. He threw open the first door to his art studio and stormed past a pile of large, blank canvases and teeming stacks of full paint cans. At the far end of the room, he descended a set of stairs into his showroom where his most prized custom motorcycles were displayed, each one made by his own two hands.
But he did not want to build or create at that moment—he wanted to destroy.
He pushed on, finally swinging open the door to his personal gym. Passing weight benches and endurance equipment, he thundered across the rubber tiles and barreled at the punching bag. He threw a jab, then a right cross, then a hook. He pummeled all his strength and fury into the bag that transformed into the face of Stanley Lockwood—the man who had pushed his father over the edge.
His father, Mark Calloway, had always been an emotionally volatile man. He had never been violent, allowing rage to be his guide, but he sank into periods of intense depression, only to rise up, soaring with elation a day later. Mark also had been an artist, a sculptor and a carpenter by trade. He poured his heart and soul into Calloway Builders and instilled in Ethan an appreciation for hard work: “You must work hard, son, if you want to make it. But remember—not making it is also hard work. It’s hard work being poor. It’s hard work watching your friends move up in life while you languish. Fighting for your dreams is hard work, but so is regretting that you never tried. If you’re going to work hard no matter what you do—you may as well work at what you love.”
Ethan remembered how animated his father had been when he came home to tell Ethan and his mother the news that Lockwood Luxury was building a new hotel in New York City and Calloway Builders won the bid to install the sheet rock. He patted Ethan on the back. “You see, son. Hard work pays.”
The memory of his father’s proud, hopeful smile served to fuel Ethan’s anger to new heights. He growled as he again struck the bag, harder and harder, one blow following another. Sweat beaded off his brow and dripped down his back. Raising his bloodied fists in the air, Ethan growled his unrelenting rage to the ceiling before storming into the adjacent bathroom. He stripped off his briefs and turned the water on, inviting the icy stream to rush over his entire body. But the frigid sting could not cool his ire. Still, his fury burned. He turned off the water. Currents sluiced off him as he stepped onto the floor and looked down. Despite the chill, his arousal was rock hard. Anger blazed in his soul. He needed a way to exorcise his demons.
He thundered back into the main part of his house. His hands fisted. He started toward the large wooden staircase the instant before the doorbell rang. He turned his head and glared at the massive double doors. His log home was situated on the summit of a small mountain, which meant unexpected visitors were rare. He pitied the mail carrier or whatever delivery person it was bound to be.
“What do you want?” he snarled the moment he threw open the door.
∞∞∞
Natasha Winslow squeezed her Chihuahua, Minky, a little too tight when the gorgeous, massively built, and fabulously naked man threw open the door and growled at her. He had asked her a question, but she found herself completely tongue-tied as her eyes traveled from his deep-set, angry, ice-blue eyes, across his chiseled jaw, and over his muscular shoulders. A sweet ache blossomed between her legs as her eyes trailed across his smooth, expansive chest and down his thickly corded stomach.
“Oh my God,” she gasped. Her eyes widened to drink in the full length of him.
