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Over her dead body…
Angel Lowell’s twin sister, Aiden, always got what she wanted—including Angel’s boyfriend, Drew Maitland, lock, stock—and marriage… Now Aiden is dead, and Drew and Angel have returned to Crossfield, Texas, to save the small town they had all once called home. It might be time for Angel to forgive the past…and live for the future…
The ten years apart have only deepened Drew’s need, and he has vowed that this time Angel will be his. But even if he can convince Angel to take a second chance on him, something—or someone—is determined to keep them apart. How can he protect the woman he loves from an evil they can’t even see?
Previously published.
Angels Don’t Cry
Amanda Stevens
Contents
Someone was calling to her, whispering her name softly, like the wind sighing through the trees.
Angel! Angel!
Ann Lowell moaned softly, her head moving from side to side on the pillow. Images danced through her unconscious—dark, threatening visions of a sky lit with lightning, of water deep and cold and black as it closed over her head, of blinding, numbing terror—
With a gasp Ann sprang upright in bed, her eyes staring blindly into the shadowed recesses of her bedroom. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment, then slammed against her chest in rapid, painful beats, temporarily driving away the memory of what had awakened her.
The storm, she thought weakly as she sagged back against the pillow, dazed and shaken. But...what storm? Moonbeams softly drenched her bedroom. The night sky outside her window was clear and starry.
A dream then—
No, not a dream. A feeling. A premonition. Her twin sister was in trouble. The revelation came to Ann quickly, startling her into alertness. She could sense the fear, could almost smell it. It was all around her, chilling her like a winter mist, settling over her like a dark and heavy shroud.
Something had happened to Aiden. Ann knew it as surely as she knew herself to be safe and sound in her own bedroom. She closed her eyes tightly, letting the sensations wash over her. The pulsing terror of her dream had given way to a strange calmness. Ann could feel herself sinking into a dangerous lethargy, a dark serenity that lulled and beckoned as though she were being pulled into a deep and dreamless sleep. Through it all came an unbearable sense of sorrow and loneliness...and betrayal. Strong, tearing emotions that for one brief moment were almost tangible. And then they began to fade....
“Aiden!” Ann screamed her sister’s name aloud as she bolted upright in bed. Again and again she sought to capture the elusive link with her twin, sought until sweat broke hot on her skin, until her knuckles whitened where she clutched the quilt ever tighter, until she knew with certainty it was too late to say I forgive you.
“Oh, God.” With shaking hands, she shoved aside the cover, reaching automatically for the telephone before she realized there was no one to call. Aiden and Drew had been divorced for a long time. Whether they kept in touch or not, Ann had no way of knowing. At any rate, she was not the one to call Drew Maitland.
She glanced at the bedside clock. Midnight. Midnight, and she had no idea where her sister was. Rising from her bed, she belted a robe around her as she walked to the window, staring blindly down at the garden.
She waited.
Her vigil at the window continued until the first lavender light of dawn stained the eastern sky, until the weak, winter sun broke through the horizon. Until nothing remained of the night before except memories. Still, she watched and she waited.
But the call from Cozumel, Mexico, did not come until two days later.
Her sister was dead.
Six months later.
Like its sleek, graceful namesake, Drew Maitland’s dark green Jaguar prowled the quaint, narrow streets of Crossfield, Texas, with a careful, almost contemptuous observance of the posted speed limit. A traffic light turned red, and the car lunged to a halt, the powerful engine idling and thrumming impatiently. Tinted windows obscured the driver from curious, prying eyes, but the anonymity was only an illusion. Already the news had spread.
Peering between parted curtains at her front window, Wilma Gates hurriedly dialed the number of the house next door. Bernice Ballard answered on the first ring.
“You’ll never guess who that car belongs to,” Wilma challenged by way of greeting.
“Humph. Looks like one of those foreign jobs,” Bernice noted in disapproval. “Probably one of those hotshots from the development company that’s been nosing around here. They all act like they’ve got money to burn—”
“He’s with Riverside Development Company all right, but you’re never going to believe—”
“—I swear, the way they breeze into town, acting like they already own the place, making offers right and left for river-fronted property, telling us what we should do with our