Donovan’s Angel Read Online Free PDF Page A

one.”
    “Pity.”
    “Besides, what would Miss Beulah say?”
    “She would probably be upset…”
    “That’s an understatement!”
    “. . . because she’s missing all the
fun.”
    One of Martie’s legs slipped off the limb and
dangled in the air. Deftly, Paul reached up and caught her ankle.
“Don’t worry, Martie,” he assured her. “I won’t let you fall. You
can turn loose the limb.”
    Falling was the least of her worries. What
really bothered her was how she could keep the flames that were
licking along her leg from setting fire to the tree. “I’m not
worried. You can let go of my leg.”
    “And be responsible for you breaking a bone?
Not a chance.” He gave a tug and Martie came tumbling off the limb
into his arms.
    The electricity of the contact surged between
them, and their eyes widened with the knowledge. For a breathless
moment they clung to one another, marveling in the rightness of the
touch. Martie molded herself to his broad chest and knew that she
was courting disaster.
    The shape of her burned itself forever into
Paul’s memory, and he wondered if discretion were, after all, the
better part of valor. For the first time since becoming a minister
he railed silently against the strict code of conduct that kept him
from whisking her off to his bedroom.
    Reluctantly he lowered her to the ground,
knowing that he would be on his knees a long time trying to
reconcile himself to the agonizing slowness of developing his
relationship by the rules. He shoved his pipe into his mouth,
seeking solace in the familiar routine.
    Martie was thankful that the waning daylight
prevented Paul from seeing how flustered she was. She didn’t quite
understand it herself. For Pete’s sake, it wasn’t as if she had
never been with a man. But not even Rafael, the scintillating
Spaniard who had taught her to fight bulls by day and introduced
her to fireworks of the flesh at night, had made her feel like
this. All trembling expectation and joyful music inside. And she
and Rafael had been engaged . Well, practically.
    She stuck her hand into her pocket and
brought out the abused socks. “I’m afraid these are beyond repair,”
she said apologetically. “Baby thoroughly chews every gift that she
brings to me.”
    “I noticed that about the marigold you had
tucked in your hair the day we met. Why don’t we just give these
purple socks a decent burial?” he suggested.
    “That’s your line of work, isn’t it?”
    Paul took a long draw on his pipe and stood
quietly for a moment before answering. “Partially. Marriages, too.
Would you like to talk about my work, Martie?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    “Because my work seems to be a stumbling
block to our . . . friendship.”
    “Nonsense,” Martie declared with a toss of
her head. “I’m as friendly as a puppy. I even climbed a tree to
return your socks.”
    “So you did. And also to tell me about the
marigolds.”
    She loved the smile in his voice. The
fragrant smell of his pipe tobacco blended with the music of
crickets in the October evening, and the peacefulness of the small
town wrapped around Martie like a benediction. She could almost
believe that she and Paul didn’t have irreconcilable differences.
Almost. “We even shared tea.”
    “But not ourselves. I want to know why you
climb trees instead of going on the sidewalk the long way around. I
want to know what makes you love animals and bright clothes and why
you retreat when the conversation gets personal.”
    “I do not retreat.”
    He chuckled. “No. But you do make a
flamboyant exit.”
    “Flamboyance is my style. Not. . .”
    “Not what, Martie?” he asked gently.
“Convention? Dullness? Stodginess?”
    “Those are your words, not mine. Furthermore,
if you’re going to preach, I’m going home.”
    The rich rumble of his laughter filled the
evening air.
    “It’s habit, I guess. Sometimes I get carried
away.” He shoved the socks into her hand. “Here. You hold these
while I get the