A Season of Angels Page 0,7

completely.

"You might want to thank me," he suggested lazily.

Flustered, Monica blinked several times, seldom at a loss for words as she was now. "Thank you," she managed, the words as stiff as starch, stuck in her dry throat. "I'm not sure what happened, but apparently I lost my balance."

His brazen grin broadened. "Was that you singing just now?"

She nodded, and the curiosity got the better of her. "Did you hear two voices or one?"

"One."

"But there were two. That's what flustered me so. Another voice blended with mine. A strong soprano. Surely you heard the other voice?"

"Listen, lady, all I heard was you and I'm not much for religious music, but from where I was standing you sounded real good."

She blushed with pleasure. Her voice was adequate and she did love to sing, but she didn't possess any great talent. To assume she did would have been vain on her part, and vanity was a greased track straight to the arms of the devil as far as Monica was concerned. "Thank you again."

"You need some help joining the others?"

Monica glanced toward the riser and shook her head. The ensemble was almost finished with their program and it would only disrupt the group to have her climb back into position now.

"Then I'll be on my way," he said. "I can hardly wait to tell Lou. It isn't often a beautiful woman throws herself into my arms."

"I didn't throw myself into your arms," she informed him primly, straightening the sleeves of her dark suit jacket.

"Not technically perhaps, but there you were, pretty as a picture gazing up at me, asking for a kiss."

Monica bristled. "I most certainly was not."

"It felt good to be in my arms too, didn't it?"

"I beg your pardon?" Monica stared at him in numb disbelief. Was the man so arrogant he actually assumed she'd hurl herself into open space on the off chance a man would catch her? He was being ridiculous and she took delight in telling him as much.

He was smiling when she finished, a cocky off-center smile that lifted the edges at one side of his mouth. "I'd say, from the look of you, having a man hold and kiss you is exactly what you need."

This sounded like a threat to Monica, and she pinched her lips together and retreated a step. "You're disgusting!"

He raised his hands, palms up. "I'm just an innocent bystander. I was minding my own business, looking for nothing better than to drown my sorrows in a cold beer when you catapulted into my arms. The way I look at it, you should be thanking your lucky stars I was here to catch you."

"You were headed toward the Blue Goose?" she asked, realizing now why he'd been so determined to cut through the crowd. He wanted a drink.

"Lady, after the day I've had, you'd need a beer too."

"Don't," she pleaded, urgently taking a step toward him.

He glared at her, and his beige trench coat fanned out at his sides. The cold cut through Monica, but it didn't seem to bother him. "Don't what?" he demanded impatiently.

"Drink. There are better ways of dealing with problems other than alcohol."

"Lady . . ."

"My name's Monica. Monica Fischer," she said, holding out her hand to him. He looked at it for a moment as if he were going to ignore it before reluctantly exchanging handshakes.

"And you're . . ."

"Sorry I ever met you," he muttered.

"Please, let my friends and me help you," she said, gesturing toward the ensemble standing on the risers, singing the last of the songs.

"Listen, all I want is a cold beer and some peace and quiet. I've been on a stakeout for the past twenty hours and I . . ."

"You're with the police?"

He hesitated, and it was evident by the way he glanced longingly toward the Blue Goose that he had other matters on his mind. "I'm a private detective," he admitted. "There, does that satisfy you?"

"You must be tired," she tried again, thinking fast, hoping to convince him of the error of his ways.

"And getting more so every minute. Good-bye, Marcia."

"Monica," she corrected. She hurried after him, convinced she owed him this much for having saved her from certain injury.

"Whatever," he said, without looking her way. "Have a good day."

"Has anyone ever talked to you about the direction your life is headed?" she asked, scurrying to keep pace with him. She was tall, but he was taller and it took two of her strides to equal one of his.

"Are you