Page 3 of Fallen Angel
Chapter Two
“Oh God! Oh no! Shit!” The last word was drawn from Angel Sullivan’s lips, sustained and loud as she fought to maintain control of her dying car. Horns blasted around her. Cars whizzed by on her left as she squeezed the last bit of juice from her fourteen-year-old sedan.
“Come on. Please!” she pleaded. The end of the bridge was in sight. Her car bucked forward, jerking her in her seat. Then it rumbled and knocked. She pulled off to the right as far as she could while it rolled to a dead stop. Smoke coiled up from her hood, fanning out against the gray sky as she sat now unmoving on the Zakim Bridge—one of the major arteries in Boston.
Passing cars shook her in her seat. She pressed her forehead to the wheel. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered. Then she held her breath and tried to turn her car over, but only a grating noise reached her ears. “Come on,” she pleaded with her car and the universe. “Please start.”
Nothing.
She tapped her gasoline reader. Supposedly, she still had half a tank.
“Damn it,” she muttered before she reached for her cell phone.
At least, she had roadside service. She did her best to ignore the cars hurrying past just inches from her door as she called the emergency number. It was a man who answered.
“Hi,” she said. “I’ve broken down on the Zakim Bridge.”
“On the Zakim? That’s not good.”
No shit!She wanted to scream. “I realize that.”
He asked for her member number. Then, after a lengthy pause, he said, “Well, hang tight. We’ll have a truck there soon.”
“Thank God,” she breathed. “How long will it take?”
“An hour and a half at the most.”
“An hour and a half! But that’s crazy. This is Boston not Frye Island, Maine. There’s got to be a dozen garages within twenty minutes of here.”
“A truck will be there within an hour and a half,” he repeated.
She laid her head back against the headrest in defeat. “Fine,” she said. After answering a few more questions, she ended the call just as the gray churning clouds overhead unleashed sheets of rain.
“Great,” she whispered, nervously eying the cars whizzing past. She was grateful the morning commute was over, because fewer cars were out on the highway. Still, as the hour approached eleven, traffic could move much faster. And now that the road was wet, all she could picture was a car hydroplaning right into her, smashing her against the cables or forcing her car to somehow plummet off the bridge into the Charles River.
In her rearview, she saw a black Jeep coming up fast behind her. Her shoulders shot up around her ears as she braced herself for her own rickety car to shake as it raced by. But instead, the Jeep slowed as it passed, then pulled off the road in front of her.
“Oh geez,” she whispered. Her heart raced even faster as she watched for what would happen next. Sure, she didn’t like the idea of waiting on the busy bridge for another fifty-two minutes, at least, but she also didn’t want to attract the attention of strangers. She gripped the wheel as the black door opened and a tall man with wide shoulders and short, wavy, black hair stepped out. He pulled the hood of his gray sweatshirt over his head, huddled down against the pelting rain, and started toward her.
“Oh my God!” She snaked her hand out to make sure the car door was locked.
Watching him draw near, she wished he would just turn around and go back to his car. The closer he came, the harder her heart pounded. And then, suddenly, he was beside her. A softtap, tap, tapaccompanied the rain on her driver’s side window.
She looked up at him through the rivulets rushing down the glass.
They locked eyes.
“Oh God,” she said aloud, struck by mesmerizing ice-blue eyes beneath a deeply furrowed brow. He held her gaze for several moments, his face unreadable and hard. She didn’t know what to do. His sexy good looks screamed bad boy, and his present frown was anything but friendly.
He didn’t actually expect her to unlock the door or get out of the car, did he?
Sure, she was young, terrified, and completely alone in the world, but she wasn’t stupid.
She was about to write a note to hold up to the window telling him just that when suddenly his full lips curved in a slight and very sensual smile before his knuckle again lightly tapped the glass. Prompted by his sudden smile and her lack of writing utensil, she took a deep breath and cranked the ancient lever on her door to crack her window.
He rested his brow on his forearm, which was draped across the top of her door, and peered down at her. His gaze quickly scanned over her and the inside of her car. Then he simply said, “Pop the hood.” His voice was deep and unhurried, despite the traffic rushing by just inches behind him and the rain hammering down from above.
“I called my roadside service,” she blurted, her hands gripping the wheel in a death lock.
