hair. To a casual observer, the action would have seemed as nothing more than the wind, but Lucien knew otherwise. “He says it would be nice if you took me home.”�
Unable to speak, he lowered his head, his senses whirling. He remained oddly frightened by the power this child held with her innocent touch.
She squeezed his hand, failing to understand every inch of his body was tortuously alive. His thoughts spun madly and he felt drunkenly dazed. Vaguely, a gruff voice pulled at the depths of his mind, tugging at the senses he honed over the years. He recognized the sound of a command, although the words remained indecipherable.
“Oh, right,” she answered, her eyes alight with a hint of laughter and a marked touch of absolute pity. “Reese says you need to help him with me, that I'm a handful. He says,” she paused, her expression intent. “He says that he’ll trust you for now.”�
“I’ve been assigned to babysitting?” Lucien attempted to sound outraged, but failed miserably. The girl giggled, self-consciously covering the vacancy between her teeth.
“Yep,” she grinned, her eyes twinkling before growing somber. “My brother says since you aren't the bad one, you can watch over me.”
“What else does your brother say, little princess?” Lucien asked, leading the child from the bus shelter and hailing a nearby taxi with the effective wave of his scarred hand.
“He says you need to stop calling me princess.”�
“Princess, I…” the words were difficult. They trod purposely through the pouring rain, a chill enveloping him as the child’s glow grew. He felt captured in the unforgiving waves of a turbulent ocean, and buffeted against unseen cliffs. He was a man drowning; losing himself in the multitude of unfamiliar and mind-numbing sensations flooding him.
“My name isn’t Princess,”�the child corrected stubbornly.
She slipped her fingers from his and slid into the awaiting cab, her shoulders set, and her chin lifted regally into the air. Lucien’s lost spirit brutally crash back to the unforgiving world of the living. He sensed there was something special about this child, an essence he couldn't pinpoint. He sat beside her, his thoughts deep while he slammed the door shut.
“Alas, my dear princess, if I can't call you by what I perceive with my own eyes, then you must tell me your name.” He ordered gruffly, his tone unconsciously more regal than intended.
“My name is Evangeline Keegan,” she supplied with a giggle.
Somewhere within the depths of his stunned mind, each precisely enunciated syllable registered. A low growl of triumph slipped from him, and he gifted the bewildered cab driver with the most glorious of smiles.
Evangeline...Messenger of the angels.
Keegan…Fire.
After nearly four hundred years of unspeakable pain and loneliness, he had located the source of the Angel's Fire, and his redemption.
CHAPTER TWO
�Whatever was lost, placed by the wayside of our youth, shall be found
Remember, this guy doesn’t like to be touched.
Eva Keyes muttered the reminder under her breath. Realizing what she was doing, she paused, striving to smooth her disgruntled expression. Wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, she continued to contemplate the memos scribbled in the slim border of her notes.
She huffed, frowned again, and then tried to clear her scowl. After all, she couldn't allow any sort of hearsay to begin about her lack of professionalism, all due to one simple facial expression.
As everyone in the television profession knew, she couldn't have the slightest wrinkle evident for the public's critical perusal. It was frustrating enough the ruthless television cameras added an additional ten pounds to her already curvaceous figure. If the camera lens detected an imperfection on her otherwise flawless features, the critics would rip her apart.
She could see the headlines now, splashed across the front of tabloid covers…
Was Eva Keyes suffering the effects of a face-lift gone awry? Was her true age beginning to show? Were late nights and wild parties ruining the Queen of Investigative Television?
God, the list was endless! Eva knew Hollywood would maliciously invent stories if it meant revenue for flagging tabloid sales. As the vapid thoughts flashed through her head, she pressed a finger to the betraying frown line, hoping the blasted thing vanished before the cameras zoomed in!
Fame was a fickle mistress and years of working on TV taught her the importance of self-preservation. As it were, she suffered from everything deterring a more influential station from seeking her as a reporter. She was overweight, over-endowed, and over-brained.
She knew her faults, and understood being in the right place at the right time had landed