and computer. Gazing alongside this choir loft at the stained-glass Shepherd holding His sheep, Cat wished He’d work a miracle for her about now.
But all this wishful thinking wasn’t getting her new book written, was it? She couldn’t keep calling herself a writer if she didn’t land another contract soon. Couldn’t land another contract if she didn’t get a handle on these gawdawful characters who eluded her efforts to motivate them.
Cat looked at the half page of crap she’d struggled over all day and clicked the file closed. Maybe writing a pirate romance wasn’t such a hot idea—no matter how those Pirates of the Caribbean movies had recaptured the romance of swashbuckling and bad-boy heroes. She gathered up the notes she’d scribbled, wishing she’d been a better sport with Trevor and his friends. Where would she be if Trev hadn’t invited her to live here? Or if Grant Carey hadn’t taken her as a pro-bono client, to fight the tangle of red tape those creditors had tied her up with?
As she focused on the top slip of paper, Cat blinked. It was a Powerball ticket, compliments of Bruce Bigelow—who, thank goodness, designed industrial parks and city greenways with more élan than he played the part of Elizabeth Swann. When the jackpot had swelled to $258 million last night, he’d bought tickets for all of them. Liquor had spurred his generosity, but the numbers still counted, didn’t they?
“And I hope you win it, honey! The whole frickin’ jackpot!” he’d slurred as he closed her hands around the ticket. “Nobody deserves a new life more than you, sweetheart.”
Cat’s gut fluttered. A whole new life…maybe even like the ones she’d been researching for her book, complete with a private island villa and a high-dollar yacht…white sand beaches with palm trees. The images in her mind were so vivid she could feel the ocean breeze caressing her cheek—
And that’s the whole damn problem with you and your imagination, her mind muttered. Always wishing—spinning something from nothing. Then you get upset because it isn’t real.
She stepped outside to the small balcony Trevor had built between the bell tower and the main building. Maybe some cold evening air would clear her head. It was a brisk winter night just made for cuddling naked under the covers with a lover.
“Oh, stop it!” Cat hugged herself, blinking at tears—tears that came way too easily these days. When would she get past this mess Laird had left her in? When would she feel like herself again, competent and capable and—
When you wish upon a star…
She held her breath, listening. Had the guys tuned in to an old Disney flick? It was the voice she remembered from her childhood crooning that sentimental tune—Jiminy Cricket in Pinocchio—wasn’t it? The music swelled, taking her weary heart with it, and she sighed up at the evening sky with tears dribbling down her cheeks. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be a child again, to believe she could wish upon a star and her dreams would come true?
“I wish I could find a man who truly loved me,” she whispered.
The solitary star above her shimmered. And then it winked.
Cat’s mouth dropped open. She had not imagined that! That star had flickered—at her! And as she watched, it winked again—and then it shot across the sky with a glorious burst of star fire!
Got your attention yet, Cat?
She glanced quickly around. Had one of the guys come upstairs? Had anyone else heard that voice—or seen that shooting star?
Nope. It’s just you and me, babe.
Cat swallowed hard. She gripped the railing, aware that her pulse was pounding and goose bumps were running up and down her spine. Was this how it felt when you lost your mind? First you thought stars were signaling, and then you heard disembodied voices, and then—
I’m not gonna show myself, so you better listen up. Check your Powerball numbers, got it?
“Who are you?” Cat was shaking now, looking anxiously around the little balcony. Inside, the loft she’d just left was shadowy enough that she was half afraid some weirdo was hiding behind the pipe organ to pounce on her if she—
Angels don’t pounce, Cat. Get a grip.
“Angels,” she rasped. “Right. An angel’s telling me to check my Powerball ticket. Like I’m supposed to believe that.”
Believing in things you can’t see is the first lesson in Wish Fulfillment 101. I’m Spike, by the way. Your guardian angel, reporting for active duty.
Her pirate story was over the top, but this! Now she was hearing voices—some tough guy named Spike, claiming he was her guardian angel—
You’ve always wanted to believe in me, so here I am. It was a street-savvy baritone that spouted attitude all over the place and smelled like a sports bar on play-off night.
Cat wrinkled her nose. She did smell cigarettes! And beer!
Okay, fine, I’ll take my Luckies and my Bud and butt outta your life, Cat. But I’m tellin’ ya, you’re already a winner. If you don’t believe me, it’s your loss, doll.
“Doll?” Cat snickered at the hint of gangster in his tone, still wondering why she was even holding this conversation. Yet she could see him perfectly in her mind’s eye…realized her body was thrumming on a whole new wave length now. She felt the caress of an unseen hand as surely as she’d imagined the Caribbean breeze earlier.
And then he was gone. Only the subtle apple-wood smoke from Trevor’s fireplace wafted around her now.
She glanced inside again, wondering what to believe. Should she check those numbers? Should she—
On instinct, Cat looked up. The dusk had deepened, and another star above her shone more brightly than the others coming out around it. When it winked at her, she went inside: who was she to disregard a third sign? Messing with stuff like that meant trouble…especially since there were no witnesses to this little incident. Except for Spike, of course.
She opened her laptop again, willing it to hurry as the familiar beeps and whirring sounds brought pictures to her screen. Wistfully she picked up the lottery ticket, wishing she could believe the brief conversation with an angel that already felt, well—unreal.
Cat typed in the URL listed on the ticket…Powerball. com. By now, the day’s numbers would be displayed and they’d have upped the jackpot amount because no one’s numbers matched—
WINNER! WINNER! WINNER! flashed across the screen.
Cat scrolled down to where the numbers were listed—on a ticket purchased in Crystal City, just south of here, the sidebar said! Hadn’t Bruce bought their tickets in a trendy little watering hole near the interstate?
She held her breath, glancing from the cash-register receipt to the screen. 34—and 34.18—and 18.48—and 48—
Voices rose below her as the three pretend pirates cussed the television in the parlor.
“Damn! Isn’t Crystal City where you bought these—”
“So much for retiring early.”
“Hey, I bought you the damn chances, guys!” Bruce’s tenor whine rang out. “It’s not like my numbers were any better than—”
“Holy shit,” Cat whispered. Her hand shook so badly the receipt fluttered to the floor. Surely she’d misread; she turned on the desk lamp to compare those numbers again.
A few moments later Trevor’s voice ascended the narrow wooden stairway ahead of their footsteps. “Let’s see if Cat’s checked her numbers yet. We need to help her lighten up tonight, guys. Maybe order in some pizzas and—”
She stared at the three men approaching from the other side of the pipe organ console. Trevor Teague in his mascara and beaded scarf; Grant Carey in his flowing shirt with a sword swinging from his magenta sash; Bruce Bigelow who’d ditched the blond wig but still wore a fitted gown of hot-pink