Angel in Disguise Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise for Mitzi Pool Bridges

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Angel in Disguise

  by

  Mitzi Pool Bridges

  Lobster Cove Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Angel in Disguise

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Mitzi Pool Bridges

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2014

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-642-2

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-643-9

  Lobster Cove Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for Mitzi Pool Bridges

  “FIND MY BABY is a rip roaring good mystery, with a surprising twist at the end...I loved the plot and characters, loved the mystery and Mitzi Pool Bridges is now one of my new favorites.”

  ~Manic Readers

  ~*~

  “FIND MY BABY is highly recommended for being unique, well written, and a story that is nearly impossible to put down.”

  ~Sizzling Hot Reviews

  ~*~

  “FIND MY BABY is riveting romantic suspense at its best. With an emotional subject that will touch any heart, the pace only grows stronger as the book continues. I’m adding this author to my watch list!”

  ~Storm Goddess Book Reviews

  ~*~

  “If you love a good solid romance with strong family ties set in rural Texas, PROMISE BROKEN will be one of the highlights of your year.”

  ~Night Owl Reviews

  ~*~

  “PROMISE HER...is an extremely good book and I would recommend it to those romance readers who love a strong heroine and a hero that would do anything to protect her...I also recommend reading the other books prior to this one in this series to get to know the secondary characters.”

  ~The Romance Studio

  Dedication

  For Charley

  With All My Love

  I couldn’t do this without you.

  Acknowledgements

  My usual thanks to my editor, Laura Kelly, for her amazing skill at drawing out the best in this fledgling author. This is my eighth book for TWRP, and Laura has guided me through each one. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

  Another thanks to my critique group—Ann, D’Anne, and Diane, for your input.

  Thanks to Adrian and Blake at Independence Harley-Davidson for their words of wisdom about motorcycles. You guys were a big help.

  A bigger than big thanks to my readers. You’re the best.

  Chapter One

  Nate Holden took a last look out the rearview window of the Greyhound bus. Lights from Houston’s skyline faded into the shadows of the night. He’d left nothing behind. No family, no wife or kids, no girlfriend, not even a friend. Maybe one. Either way, he’d had to get the hell out of town. Fast.

  Nate had done just that.

  Now his mission was to keep from getting killed.

  Taking out his billfold, Nate looked down at the ID on his new driver’s license. He didn’t recognize the face that looked back at him. He was unaccustomed to seeing himself with a short boxed beard and longer than normal hair. Gabe Vaughn. Gabe Vaughn. He’d better get used to the name. From now on it was his.

  Gabriel Michael Vaughn, to be precise.

  He gave a low, wry chuckle. Gabriel and Michael indeed: two of God’s archangels, if you believed in such things.

  He closed his billfold, stuck it back in his pocket.

  No one needed an angel on their shoulder more than he did, because as sure as he sat in this half-empty bus, the devil himself would storm heaven and earth to find and kill him. He scanned the passengers. Most were older men and women, their faces lined with worry, age, or both. No one glanced his way or seemed the slightest bit interested in him. Good.

  The further they got from Houston, the more Gabe’s nerves settled down. The landscape changed from big city tall buildings and concrete spaghetti freeways to open roads and small towns. It was dark, the highway unfurling mile after mile beneath the lights of the bus.

  From what he could see of the faces of the other passengers, they looked as tired as he felt. No danger that he could see. At least not here.

  Which was no reason to let his guard down. Until he was thousands of miles away, he’d stay alert. After a while, like all the other passengers, he fell asleep. But every time he woke, he checked his surroundings, the people around him. Maybe he’d escaped in time.

  Then it was day and the sun reflected off the asphalt in shimmering waves that made his eyes droop with the need for sleep.

  For the next two days and nights, it was the same routine. Stops for breaks and to pick up or let out passengers—to change drivers. Otherwise, they kept going.

  Right out of Bar Harbor, Maine, the bus was clicking along at the speed limit of seventy-miles per hour when it swerved on the highway. “What the hell?”

  Gabe held onto the rod on the back of the seat in front of him as the driver fought for control. Women screamed. Men yelled. The bus continued its slide until it came to a sideways stop in a narrow ditch where it stopped tilted to the side.

  Shit! He didn’t need another kink in his already screwed up life.

  “Everybody out,” the driver shouted.

  Gabe grabbed his backpack, took the arm of an older lady two seats in front of him so she could get to her feet, and helped her out before he took the steps to the outside. Had he been found? Had they somehow vandalized the bus to get to him? Were the other passengers in danger because of him?

  He had to get out of there. Breathing in the night air, he looked around. Was there someone out there in the dark waiting for him? He had a gun in his ankle holster but didn’t want to pull it out unless it was necessary. His gaze went north to south, east to west. Seeing nothing untoward, he breathed a shallow sigh of relief. He was being paranoid.

  There was little traffic. And there was nothing around them but an endless dark highway. From what he could see from the headlights of the bus there was scrub, a few trees
, and nothing else. Not a town, not even a house that he could see. A car stopped, a man ran toward the bus. Gabe crouched low, unsnapped his holster, and reached for his gun. The man called out, “Do you need help?” And Gabe came to his feet.

  The driver, a cell phone to his ear, asked if anyone was hurt, and yelled for everyone to stay calm. “Blowout. They’ll get another bus here as soon as they can.”

  However soon it was, it wouldn’t be soon enough. Gabe was too exposed. He took off walking down the highway, headed away from the crippled bus and its harried passengers.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” the driver yelled after him.

  Gabe adjusted his backpack to a comfortable position, ignored the man, and kept walking, never looking back.

  Darkness lent eerie shadows to the silent and empty space stretching in front of him. It was the middle of September, the night almost cold. In Houston it was blazing hot. Even then nights didn’t cool down much. His jacket was in his pack, but he wouldn’t open it now. His goal was to get the hell away.

  It was a good thirty minutes down the road when he saw a sign. Lobster Cove—two miles.

  Good. He’d get something to eat, spend the night, and take off again in the morning. He had no destination in mind. Just to get as far away as he could.

  It was dark when he walked into the town. Dozens of shops had their lights out already. Tourist town. Would he find a café open this late? It didn’t matter. He could live on a couple of the protein bars in his pack—but a hot meal would hit the spot.

  Lobster Cove B&B. Good as any. He walked to the door, knocked. A man of medium height, hefty build and thinning hair came to the door. “Looking for a room?”

  “I am.” Gabe stuck out his hand. “Gabe Vaughn. Do you have one available?”

  “We do. End of the season, you know.”

  “How much?” Gabe’s finances were not the best at the moment. He’d known when he started this trek he’d be forced to work a while, travel a while, until he was convinced he was safe.

  The man who had introduced himself as Clyde Orenson quoted a price Gabe thought he could afford for at least a night or two.

  Clyde showed him to a nice room. The nicest Gabe had been in over a year. “Thanks,” he said, and started to shut the door.

  “Breakfast is included, serve from seven to nine.”

  “Appreciate it.” It was time to get some much-needed rest.

  Gabe put his pack on the table in the corner, took his holster off his ankle, and stripped down to his shorts before dropping to the floor. Fifty sit-ups and as many push-ups later, the kinks from the long walk and from sitting too many days and nights eased.

  He went to the window, peered between the curtains. By now darkness had swallowed the small town, and he could see little except from the moonlight that cast shadows between the B&B and the quiet, deserted street.

  After a hot shower, he hit the sack. Fatigue should have made him sleep a solid eight hours. Instead, he tossed and turned. He’d been in dangerous situations before, but nothing like this. For the first time in a long time, he was glad he had no family. He wouldn’t want them to pay because of him. He turned over again, hugged the extra pillow close. He needed to sleep. He couldn’t stay alert if his brain was sluggish.

  Sleep finally took him around three. But he was wide-awake at six. He dressed, packed his few belongings into the backpack, and went downstairs. Clyde met him at the bottom. “I just got up. If you’re not in a hurry, I’ll have coffee and muffins shortly.”

  “Don’t bother.” He wanted eggs and biscuits desperately. “Do you mind if I leave my pack here until I get back?”

  “Not a bit.”

  Gabe walked down the steps of the old Victorian. Nice, he thought. A couple of blocks later he turned off Pine Street onto First, passed a bar, the bank, the hospital. Surely, there was a café around here.

  At the end of the block he saw lights. Something was open. The closer he got the better he could see the sign. Julie’s Coffee and Sweet Shop.

  He looked through the window. Did they serve breakfast?

  A woman, her red hair tied behind her head in a ponytail, an apron around her blue jeaned waist, was busy putting something in the case. The aroma of fresh coffee filtered even here. He tried the door. Bolted shut.

  He looked for a sign that would tell him what time the shop opened, and instead found one that intrigued him even more.

  Pastry Chef Wanted.

  Chapter Two

  Julie heard the knock but was in no mood for early customers.

  She slammed the last tray of cupcakes into the case and looked up. She didn’t know the man standing under the lights at the door. He was tall, complexion dark, high cheekbones with a beard close to the face. Some Indian blood there somewhere. His ink-black hair was on the long side and tied back in a short ponytail.

  She started for the door. Stopped. Looked again at the face staring at her through the window and realized she was alone and about to let in a man she’d never seen before. One who could possibly be dangerous. She started to go back to the kitchen where she had a tray of cookies in the oven.

  He knocked on the door again. Harder.

  Sighing, she went that way. “We open at six-thirty.”

  “It’s almost that now.”

  His nose had been broken. Maybe twice from the looks of it. But the desperate-for-caffeine look in his eyes had her unlocking the door. She could take care of herself, and a few minutes early wouldn’t make any difference.

  “Coffee?”

  “Right.”

  “Take a seat. I’ll be right back. Cookies in the oven.”

  He smiled. The smile jolted her. He was a nice looking man. She hurried to the kitchen and pulled out a batch of chocolate chip cookies just in the nick of time. She really wasn’t up to this.

  After putting them on the counter to cool, she went to the coffee machines. “Latte?” Café au Lait?

  “Plain. Black.”

  Anything to go with it?”

  “How about some bacon and eggs?”

  She shook her head. “Can tell you’re new in town.” Nice southern accent. “How about a muffin or a blueberry tart?”

  “If that’s all you have, I’ll take one of each.”

  “Apple-cranberry muffins are about the only thing I bake that turns out like it should. And the tarts, of course.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be a baker?”

  “My mom is the real pastry chef in the family. But she has arthritis now, and it’s getting worse.”

  “That why you’re hiring?”

  “I’ve lost the best pastry chef in Lobster Cove. She comes in when she can. Today she can’t.”

  “Bummer. How’s business?”

  “Over the past month, I’ve turned away five customers who wanted birthday cakes and one who wanted a huge wedding cake. If this keeps up, I’ll lose my customers and have to close.” She hustled over with the coffee and sweets. “Wouldn’t happen to be looking for work, would you?”

  She had to be desperate; the man looked nothing like a pastry chef. But it felt good to share her frustration with someone besides her best friend. He was someone most likely just passing through. He did look a little yummy, though, with those broad shoulders and big muscled arms.

  He took a sip of coffee, a bite of muffin. “Not too bad.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The muffin. Not too shabby.”

  She put her hands on her hips and fixed him with a look. “I beg your pardon. My customers love them.”

  “Don’t blame them, but I’ve tasted better.”

  “And where would that be?”

  His face closed shut. He wouldn’t be answering that question.

  He switched to the tart, chewed slowly. “Now this is great.”

  “So glad you like it.” She turned away. “I don’t suppose you’re a pastry chef,” she called over her shoulder as she headed back to the kitchen.

  She was al
most at the counter when he said, “Could be.”

  She paused, then slowly reapproached the table. “Really?”

  “I learned from the best.”

  “Want the job?” The offer blurted out of her mouth so fast she hadn’t had time to think. Did she really want this man in her kitchen? Not if she were sane.

  She could tell he was as shocked by the question as she was. But she’d had her sign up for over a month, had put ads in the local paper as well as in Bangor and Bar Harbor. Not a single phone call. She didn’t want to lose this place. What would she do? Would she have to leave Lobster Cove for a bigger city to find a job? The thought chilled her.

  This man sitting in her small coffee and sweet shop was looking better and better.

  “You pay in cash?”

  That didn’t sound good. Who wanted to be paid in cash? People in trouble. “Let’s see what you can do, first. Then I might think about it.” She wouldn’t be part of anything illegal, and this man screamed of secrets.

  He stuck out his hand. “Gabe Vaughn.”

  “Julie Whitney,” she said and shook his hand. His hand in hers was firm, but not smooth. He hadn’t been a pastry chef lately, that was for sure. But the touch of his hand in hers felt good. Solid. Reassuring.

  “If I make the grade, I want you to know up front this will be temporary.”

  His voice was firm. She had no choice. She was up to her neck in alligators. Even if it were for only a month, it would buy her some time. “How’s this; if you can bake and the customers come back for more, I’ll pay you in cash. But first I want to taste the goods.” Did she really say that? But oh, my, there was just...something about him.

  He stood. Goodness, he was tall. And those black eyes didn’t miss a thing.

  The pay in cash bothered her. A lot. Since she did her own bookkeeping and payroll, she’d let it slide for a while. If he made the grade.

  “Got an extra apron?”

  Could it be this easy? A stranger walks in for a cup of coffee and turns out to be a pastry chef? Who was he? Where had he come from? Why was he here?

  Definitely not a tourist. Then what? A criminal? She looked at him again. With those hard-edged looks he could pass for one. So what was she doing?