Angel’s Guilty Pleasures

Prologue

The Ludzecky family was well acquainted with tragedy, but none as horrific as this one.

The matriarch, Donuta Ludzecky, affectionately known as Matka, sat in the front pew of a Catholic church next to her best friend, Rosie Pettrone. The woman had suffered the worst loss any mother could have visited on her—losing a child or, in this case, losing two. Twin boys. Twenty-eight years old. The driver of a truck had barreled through a red light and crumpled the front of the car. The boys were killed instantly. They had been married to Paulina and Antonia, Donuta’s two daughters. Like the good Polish woman that she was, Donuta sat stalwart, holding back any display of her own emotions. Of course, she suffered with and for her friend. But she also could not help thinking of the effect this obscene event would have on her eight children.

Her gaze traveled first to her twin girls, dressed in black, shoulders hunched, sitting on either side of Rosie. Antonia had dissolved into tears the moment they had walked into church and had not stopped crying. Lukasz had to take care of her two-year-old son, who cried into his uncle’s chest. Paulina, stronger both physically and emotionally than Nia, had slid her arms around her boys, and remained stone-faced. The crying would come later for her, Donuta knew. And their lives would never be the same without their men. Donuta had learned that fact from the death of her own husband when she was in her forties.

Her gaze landed on Lukasz. He and his wife, Kelsey, had come down from Binghamton after the accident happened. Their near-perfect lives had been hard-won, and now their happiness would be shadowed by their sisters’ trauma. And Lukasz would suffer over living four hours away from the family. Next in age, Caterina was content as a mother, working in linguistics for the Secret Service, very much in love with her husband Aidan O’Neil. She would want to protect the girls, which would be impossible. She had already made plans to stay in Queens with them for three weeks.

Ana, the third oldest, had helped take care of Donuta’s other children, especially when more babies had come along and Donuta was in the hospital, giving birth or, twice, with exhaustion. Though Ana was happily married with one child, she would smother her twin sisters, trying to make things right for them.

Magdalena, a year younger than Ana, would take over the logistics. A successful businesswoman, she would try to organize, strategize and “fix” whatever she could for her sisters. She did not yet know there was no fixing tragedy, that the girls needed to simply grieve, but Magdalena believed she could do anything she set her mind to.

And then there was Sofia, who had had tragedy of her own. At sixteen, she had been diagnosed with leukemia. The treatment had forced her to give up her dancing aspirations. This one would go into herself unless someone stopped her. Donuta hoped her quiet daughter, fragile, thin as a willow, could withstand the sorrow that had come their way.

And last was Elizabeita. Who knew what the baby of the family would do? Bright enough to be a Rhodes Scholar and earn two degrees at Oxford, pretty enough to be a model and bold enough to sky dive and jump off cliffs, the girl had been impossible to control all her life. Donuta worried about her. How would this one handle the overwhelming grief?

When the priest asked them to stand, Donuta chided herself. She was thinking about her family’s welfare, and here was poor Rosie, who had suffered such loss. However, the fact remained: Donuta would be a friend in every way, but her role as Matka would make her priority her children, as always.

“I remember.” When he didn’t say more, she batted her eyes like Elizabeita did when she flirted. “Mr. Castle, are you asking me to come up and see your etchings?” The old line for seduction.

“Well, Ms. Pettrone, my intention was more honorable until you said that, but I’m up for anything.”

Was she? Right now, Nia felt like she was.

He watched her. When she didn’t move, he took her hand. “Come up to my place. I do want to show you something.”

They walked faster down the two blocks, still holding hands. Once inside his building, they took the elevator in silence and Rafe unlocked the door to his loft.

Nia entered first. “I’m still stunned by how big this place is.”

“I don’t need all this space, but Jonas loved the openness.”

“It suits you, Rafe.”

He turned to her. “Why is that?”

“You’re larger than life and not because you’re famous. It’s your personality. You’re joie de vivre. You live in primary colors.” And her tones ran from cream to beige and often times gray.

“What a nice way to put it. Jonas said I take pleasure in everything.”

“After a difficult childhood, that’s amazing.” He was amazing.

“Now I’m embarrassed.”

Taking her hand, he tugged her to the studio. Several easels stood guard around the room. Two canvases were started. Another was covered with a cloth, and he crossed to it. “Stand about five feet away. Face the other side of the room.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to show you something I did the night you were at my loft. But I want to see your face when you first get a look at it.”

Nia turned to the collection on the opposite wall. The easels there sported scarlets and yellows, peacock blue and pinks.

Rustling, scraping. Then, “Okay, turn around.”

Pivoting back, Nia gasped. Oh, my God. She almost couldn’t take it in. Slowly, she walked closer to the canvas. Studied the way the sky gave way to her image—which was…unbelievable. Every feature was right. And every feature was wrong. He’d drawn her as a sensual siren, floating out of the clouds. The glint in her eyes was unfamiliar.

“I don’t understand. This isn’t me, in so many ways.”

“It’s how I see you, I guess.”

“Rafe, this woman is so…sensual. Sexy. So not me.”

“I think it is. Or had been. Or might be.” He stepped closer, cupped her jaw. “Let me prove that to you, Nia.”

Nia’s first instinct was to run. Fast and far away. Her heart raced, and her palms began to sweat. But she glanced at the painting again, and suddenly, she knew she wasn’t going to leave. So she moved closer and said, “Take me to bed, Rafael.”

Sitting back, she took a pillow and clutched it to her chest. She was shaky from his touch. Vulnerable. A sudden bolt of fear shot through her. “I don’t want to ruin things between us, Logan.”

“Are you sure we would if we took this further?”

It was her turn to shake her head. “I guess the question is, do we want to risk it?”

“Do you want to pursue this?”

“I think it should be a joint decision.”

“Based on?”
She arched a brow. “I don’t know. Probability of success? We spend our days assessing that at work.”

“Okay. Let’s figure this out logically, like the business people we are.”

Hunching over, he put his hands on the coffee table. His back was impossibly tense. “Sixty percent of all marriages end in divorce. Thomas is separated, by the way.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Workplace romances have dire consequences unless the people get married. Often, even then, their jobs go south.”

She grimaced. “That doesn’t sound very promising. I love my job.”

“I do, too. We have to set priorities.”

Magdalena stomach knotted. “What’s most important to me is to have you in my life, Logan. I don’t want to lose that.”

“Yeah, kind of like that saying you use. ‘Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.’”

“Right. Things are great now between us. I’m afraid that will change.”

Straightening, he faced her. “Then I don’t think we should let this go further. I don’t want to take the chance.”

The disappointment was almost overwhelming. Still she eked out, “All right.”

“You sure you agree?”

“I do, Logan. I promise, I’d tell you the truth about something so important. I am disappointed. More than. But this is the right thing to do.”

He stood. “I’m going to take a shower.” He shook his head. “A cold one. When I return, we start over. Let’s not ever mention what happened.” He held out his hand. “Deal, partner?”

“It’s a deal, Logan.” She meant it, though she held on to him a little longer than she should.

And as she watched him leave, she knew she hadn’t lied to him. She did think this was for the best. She just wished she didn’t feel sad about it.

“The dinner was awesome, Daddy.” Opal smiled at her father like she always did, as if he’d hung the moon.

“I’m glad you liked it, princess.”

“Mom does, too.” Her dark-haired, green-eyed daughter looked over at Ana. “Right, Mom?”

“Yep, my favorite of all your dad’s dishes.”

“Did you know, Opalinski”—his Polish nickname for her—“that I made this meal for Mom the first Valentine’s Day after you were born?” Opal had turned ten in October.

“How come you didn’t go out for dinner?”

Ana steeled her heart against the story and transferred her gaze to the family room, where a fire blazed in the hearth and could be seen from the table in the kitchen. Jared had been living here because Opal had to have surgery in a week and he’d insisted he be close to her. Ana had nixed the idea of Opal at his house; instead, he’d moved into the home they used to share. But it was harder than she imagined it would be. These reminiscences were as difficult to listen to as much as rereading the notes Jared, a literary man, had written to her all their lives together.

“We had a babysitter all lined up—Aunt Magdalena. But when she got here, your mother started to cry.” His expression, when he turned to Ana, was the one he used to give her when he loved her. “She didn’t want to leave you on your first Valentine’s Day. So I went out to the store, got ingredients for this dish, and we ate at home.”

And, Ana thought, made sweet love that night. Memories of how good they were together devastated her, so she stood. “I’ll clean up.”

Jared’s gaze intensified. God, it wasn’t fair that he looked better at thirty-nine than when she’d met him. He had a touch of gray hair at his temples, but it made his eyes stand out like emeralds, even when he wore his glasses. “Does that have to be done right away?”

She pretended to inspect Opal. Both her height and her slender frame mirrored Jared’s more than Ana’s. And now her face was tense. “I think our daughter is tired.”

As if the suggestion made it so, Opal’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah, I guess.” She bit her lip. “I can’t wait till this is all over.”

Her rare kidney disorder made it necessary to move the ureter from the top to the bottom of her kidney, which would prevent the fluid buildup she was now suffering. Problem was, she’d lose most of the function in that kidney.

“I know this has been hard for you, honey.” Jared stood and kissed the top of her head. “How about if you get ready for bed, and you and I read some?”

“Will you do all those voices in Huckleberry Finn?”

“I’d love to.”

Their daughter left the room, and they heard her footsteps on the stairs. Ana crossed quickly to the sink with dishes in her hands. She began rinsing them, but the gravity of Opal’s situation hit her at the oddest times. Combined with Jared’s trip down memory lane, emotion welled up and clogged her throat. Please don’t let me cry.

Unaware of her emotional state, Jared began to clear the table. When he brought his and Opal’s plates to the sink, he stopped. She knew her body had begun to shake.

“Annie.” His pet name for her. He moved in close so his front, his heat touched her. His hands went to her shoulders. “You don’t have to suffer alone. Please, let me comfort you. Let’s comfort each other.”

Without her mind’s conscious consent, she leaned back against him. She couldn’t help it. Because she did that, he slid his arms around her waist and held her to him. His breath at her ear, he said, “We can get through this together. I promise.”

Though she knew he’d made a lot of promises he hadn’t kept, she let herself believe this one. She had to. She’d expended all her strength on getting through the past two weeks since Opal’s diagnosis.

This time, he kissed her hair.

Then, loudly, too loudly, she heard, “Dad, I’m done… What’s going on?”

Jared stepped away. Ana straightened. “Just helping Mom clean up.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be right up.”

Ana could hear that Opal didn’t move. So she ducked out from in front of Jared and pasted a smile on her face. “You look cute in those new jammies Aunt Mags gave you.” Red and black, they had dogs on them.

“Yeah, to take to the hospital.” Again, she bit her lip. Looked as if Ana wasn’t the only emotional one tonight. Crossing to her daughter, she embraced her.

Ana wished she could keep her child close, not turn her over to doctors who would operate on her. But she couldn’t; she had to be strong. “I promise we’ll be there for you, Opal. You’re not alone in this.”

“Daddy, too?” she asked in a whisper.

Ana glanced at Jared. His face was taut and he’d gone stiff. She could tell he was as worried as she. “Yes, Daddy, too. I promise. We both promise.”

Sofia practically danced up the stairs to her place over the studio. Behind her, Max’s steps sounded light, too. He’d said, rather implacably, at the end of the night, I’m gonna follow you home.

I’d like that.

They crossed the threshold and she closed the door. “So, I guess it went good?”

“It did.” She leaned against the wood. “They were darling.”

“They’re not the only ones.” He advanced toward her, his dark eyes gleaming like hot coals. “You were a real trouper. I can’t tell you how much your reaction meant to me.”

Staring up at him, she bit her lip. “I wanted it to go well.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you a lot, Max. When I was put off by their mannerisms, I was disappointed in myself. Though I still worry you and I are so diff—”

He cut her off with a kiss. A hard one that set her head spinning. Lifting her off the floor, he braced her against the wood and moved in. Their bodies met, and her hips pressed into his. She hadn’t meant to do that. Her action was spontaneous, like this kiss.

He growled, and responded in kind.

Pure hot pleasure rose in her as he continued to kiss her. Then one hand went to her breast. She jerked.

“Is this okay?” he asked against her cheek.

“Yes, more than okay. It feels so good.” The sensation of a man’s intimate touch was wonderful. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt it. And never so strongly.

He massaged her. Let his lips travel to her neck and kissed her there. Heat rose from him, from her, and Sofia stopped thinking.

She didn’t know how much later he drew back. She reached for him again, but he took her hand and let her slide to the floor. “No, not this way. Not mindless.”

“Mindless feels pretty good to me right now.”

“It won’t tomorrow. We got a plan, baby, and we should stick to it.”

Sofia tossed her head back. And straightened her shoulders. She remembered lying in bed right after the surgery, at sixteen, vowing to live her life without hesitation. And every single year after that when she went to have a checkup, as she waited on the examining table in one of those skimpy robes, she promised herself she’d embrace each day. So far, she had. Or at least she thought she had, until right this moment, when Max resurrected all the feelings of sexual arousal and attraction that had been buried deep inside her. There hadn’t been a man in her life in a long time. How awful.

“Sofia? Where did you go?”

“Backwards in time.”

“I don’t understand. Don’t you think we should stick with the plan? Get to know each other better, take this slow?”

She pushed herself off the wall and into him, looping her arms around his neck. “No. I say, screw the plan.”

Elizabeita entered one of the conference rooms at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and took a seat in the back. Most of the Contemporary Art staff had already gathered, and she noticed a workman touching up some paint on the side wall. Its scent was strong but not unpleasant

“How’s everybody today?” Delores Martin, the head curator in charge of the division, asked. In addition to Dee, three assistant curators, three collections managers, one research associate and a variety of technicians completed their department. Sometimes, Elizabeita had to pinch herself to believe she’d actually gotten an assistant curatorship at this renowned museum three years ago.

Mumbles of good or okay or tired abounded. Elizabeita liked the people she worked with, including the two interns from the School of Art in Manhattan.

After some announcements, Delores zeroed in on her. “Elizabeita, I’ve got good news for you.”

“Seriously? We’re getting it?” She’d been working on bringing a touring exhibit of a comparison between Dali and Picasso to the Met.

“Yes, we are. A gallery in Chicago had to drop out because of a fire. We’ve gotten their slot at the beginning of November.”

“Hallelujah!” Success meant a lot to her.

“We don’t have much time to prepare for this, but I’m sure it will sell out in days. Publicity is already underway. You can expect the setup to begin as soon as the Matisse exhibit ends and is broken down.”

“Great. Will I still be going to the conference in California the week after next?”

“I don’t see why not.” She transferred her gaze to the person next to Elizabeita. “Ellen, about your project. We didn’t receive a grant we expected from the city. It’s impossible to finance your exhibit before the end of the year.”

Also an assistant curator, Ellen Pratt frowned. “But you said it was on track to be accepted.”

“I thought it would be. I didn’t plan on the cut.”

Elizabeita knew how Ellen must feel. She’d experienced rejection at work, too. Then again, everybody did.

“Make an appointment to see me and we’ll talk.”

They covered other business, then Dee took off her glasses and leaned forward. “We’ll end with something we need to discuss—the emails our department has been getting.”

For a while now, the staff at the Met had been receiving emails which consisted of a line or two about modern art. The missives had gone from innocuous statements about its lack of relevance, its nonsensical presentation to branding the style as pagan, blasphemous and sacrilegious. After studying the history of art at Oxford, Elizabeita knew about art fanatics.

“There might be cause for concern,” Delores went on.

“Why?” Ellen asked. “We have the best security of any art museum in the world here. And Director Davidson is top-notch.”

“We do. Physically.” The museum sported the requisite cameras, guards in every room, motion sensors on each work of art, and vigilant overnight security. “But we may need assistance in dealing with computer issues.”

The collections manager offered, “These emails have been coming periodically for a while now. Aren’t they just from some kook who doesn’t understand genius or wants attention?”

“At first, we thought so. Then the frequency increased. And the tenor of the messages has become aggressive. Also, a few employees have noticed lurkers around the quietest spaces in the museum. When security was called, they vanished.”

“A lot of people lurk in museums.” This from the research associate. “We call it browsing.”

Elizabeita agreed about the lurkers. Her favorite patron of the museum, a little old Polish man who took the train in from Brooklyn every week, could be considered one. And he was as harmless as a kitten.

“All I can say is the director wants you to be on the lookout for anything unusual. And be sure to send your emails to him as soon as you receive them so his team can analyze the data.”

Elizabeita’s gaze strayed to the man painting in the corner. He hadn’t gotten much done. Right now, he was on his haunches doing something she couldn’t see. It was unusual to have a workman in a room during a staff meeting.

When the group broke up, Elizabeita took out her phone. As she walked into the hallway, she checked for messages. Three texts had come in, and she moved to the side to read them. One from a professor she had taken classes from—and more—who lived in London. One from Ana. Another from a guy she’d dated once and didn’t plan to see again. She answered them and then pushed herself off the wall. Right as the workman came out. They collided.

A gallon can went flying. When it hit the wall, the top came off and beige paint spattered everywhere. ““What the hell?” he muttered and whirled around. “You ran into me.”

“I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m sorry.”

“Do you have any idea how long that’s going to take me to clean up?”

She frowned. “Quite a while.”

He glanced back to the wall. “Damn it,” he said under his breath.

“Listen, I can help you. It was my fault.”

“Damn right it was.” He raked her up and down with a disgusted gaze. “Never mind. I can’t see you mopping up paint in those heels and the suit.”

Hmm. Must be he didn’t know who she was. Not a big shot at the museum, for sure, but she’d started working here after she got her second degree in art and had interned in galleries in London and Paris. She planned to climb the art ladder fast. Now, at twenty-six, she was recommending exhibits and had gotten one approved. She could, if she wanted to, get him in trouble.

Sofia would kill her. Sweetie, she’d say. Be forgiving of people. You never know if their cat died, if they were up all night at a second job, or if they’d lost everything they’d worked for.

So she backed up a few steps. “You’re right. I was only trying to help.” Stung, she started to walk away.

And heard behind her, “I could probably leave the paint on the wall, and people would think it was just another piece of that damned modern art.”

Hmm. He had a sense of humor. Who would have guessed?