Read Online Donovan’s Angel by Peggy Webb - Free Book Online

adventure by making the
acquaintance of a seventy-year-old dancing couple from Verona. “You
jitterbug! I’ve always wanted to know how to do that,” she told
then. And they treated her to an impromptu lesson beside the
windmill on the third hole.
    It took her fifteen minutes to get back to
her green.
    Paul was delighted.
    Being with her was like being in sunlight. He
felt warm and contented inside, and he knew that he was falling in
love. She was a dream, all lush, desirable woman one minute and
joyful little girl the next.
    Martie resumed her game and promptly knocked
her ball over the fence. He stood quietly, puffing on his pipe as
he watched her climb after it. Did she have any idea of her
remarkable talent for making people love her? She returned
triumphantly holding the ball aloft and sporting a hole in the knee
of her pants.
    “I finally got the little devil,” she
announced gaily, then picked up her club and prepared to swing.
Stopping in midswing, she looked up at him. “What’s my score
now?”
    “Sixty-five over par,” he told her.
    She pushed her hair back from her face and
smeared a streak of dirt on her cheek. “I guess that means I’m
losing?”
    He resisted the urge to bend down and kiss
the smudged cheek. “By a landslide.”
    “Then I shall treat you to ice cream,” she
announced grandly. Her club sailed into the air as she gave the
ball a mighty whack. “I think I’m going to turn my talents
elsewhere.”
    “Allow me.” Paul began to take off his
shoes.
    “What in the world are you doing?” she
asked.
    “Have you never heard of gallantry? You
insisted on climbing the fence for your ball. The least I can do is
wade a pond for your club.”
    “Yes, but I like climbing fences. Wading,
too.”
    He put his foot into the cold water and
grimaced. “I guess it grows on you.”
    They finished the game in style, Paul with
the bottoms of his jeans legs wet and Martie with a hole in her
pants. Her luck changed at the end, and she hit a hole in one.
    “I think I finally have the hang of this
game,” she declared happily.
    Paul took her elbow and escorted her back to
the car. “I think if you live long enough, you’ll be a fairly
decent player.” He grinned down at her and resisted the urge to
kiss her.
    She slid behind the wheel. “How long is
that?” She looked across the car and wanted to devour him piece by
piece, starting with that wonderful cleft in his chin. Instead, she
revved the engine to life. The wind whipped her already tousled
hair as she pulled onto Gloster and silently denounced fishbowl
professions and public decorum.
    o0o
    She pulled up at the grand Hilton Hotel and
informed him that they were going to have Haagen-Dazs ice cream by
candlelight. She expected him to be mortified at the thought of a
ragamuffin going to the Ritz, but instead he was delighted with the
woman who approached life with such zest.
    “Candlelight becomes you,” Paul told her as
they sat in a snug corner away from the late-night diners.
    “You’re supposed to be concentrating on your
rum raisin,” Martie informed him. She took a big bite and rolled
her eyes to show him how to concentrate on the ice cream. But
tingles were rippling along her spine, and she was having a hard
time remembering that certain things were taboo in ritzy
restaurants. Things like ripping the shirt off the man beside you
and purring against his chest. Or kicking off your shoes and
running your bare foot up his pant leg. Or leaning across the table
and licking that little dollop of ice cream off his lips.
    “I’d rather concentrate on you,” he said.
    “Which part of me?” she asked. “My daredevil
driving or my disregard for convention?”
    “Neither.” His voice wrapped her in velvet.
“Your enchanting smile and your incredible eyes.” He put down his
ice cream spoon and reached across the table to take her hand. “I’m
just sorry about one thing.”
    “That I’m totally unsuitable. Right?” Part of
her wanted