Dark Angel 03: Broken Dream Read Free Page A

Orlando would be there. It was still pretty crowded on the sidewalk, and messed up by piles of dirty snow, puddles of slush, overflowing trash cans, clouds of exhaust fumes.
    ‘You see him?’ Charlie enquired.
    I shook my head, felt my heart falter. ‘Maybe he’s still back by the reservoir.’
    ‘You remember his cell phone number?’
    ‘Yeah, but that doesn’t help. His battery’s dead.’ I was in a rush to get away, ready to retrace my steps.
    ‘Whoa, Tania. let’s think this through. We’re talking about eight hundred and fifty acres of parkland for your boyfriend to get lost in. It’s a no-brainer – you could be running round there in the dark for hours like a headless chicken. It’s better if you head back to your hotel and wait for him there.’
    By now my pulse was racing again. I was listening to Charlie’s idea partly because it was plain common sense and partly because I dreaded going back past the dark angel carousel. ‘You sound like my dad,’ I joked feebly.
    He pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘He’s Romanian.’ I lowered my voice a couple of octaves. ‘“Running like headless chicken.” That’s how he talks.’
    Charlie smiled. ‘So going back to your hotel is a good idea?’
    I didn’t answer as I looked around for Orlando one last time, stepping aside as a family of shoppers bustled by loaded down with bulky Bloomingdale’s bags. A cab pulled up in a nearby bay.
    ‘Where’s your hotel?’
    ‘Way down in TriBeCa. It’s a small B&B.’
    ‘So take this cab,’ Charlie told me, striding ahead and opening the door.
    ‘I don’t have any money, remember.’
    ‘Give me the address.’
    ‘86 Hubert Street, just off Twelfth Avenue.’
    ‘You hear that?’ Charlie asked the cab driver, taking bills out of his wallet and handing them over. ‘This covers it, right?’
    The driver nodded, glancing from Charlie to me before he took the money.
    ‘Problem solved.’ Charlie held open the door of the cab.
    ‘But I can’t … I mean, why would you do this?’ He was just a guy walking through Central Park after a day’s work.
    ‘Let’s say it’s good for my karma,’ he grinned, and as he did this the Jack Kane similarity sent me weak at the knees. I’ll describe him again: hazel eyes that always seemed to find the funny side of any situation, plus perfect teeth and a quirky smile that puts a dimple in one cheek, which actually and coincidentally is one of the features I love most about Orlando’s face – his dimple, his Irish smile.
    ‘I want to pay you back,’ I gabbled, leaning out of the window as the cab driver pulled away from the kerb.
    ‘Don’t even think about it,’ my knight errant replied, striding off.
    ‘Lucky you,’ my driver grunted as he pushed into the gridlocked traffic. He was looking in his overhead mirror, probably wondering what I’d had to do for my free taxi ride.
    What could I say? I sat back and closed my eyes.

2
    N o Orlando, no phone, no money – it was so not good. But as the cab driver turned into Hubert Street, pulled up outside number 86 and I climbed the brownstone steps, I did actually begin to feel the band of anxiety loosen. The windows of my B&B glowed with a warm yellow light, there was a Christmas wreath on the door and a welcoming smile from my landlady as I walked into the cosy lobby.
    ‘Had a good day?’ she asked. She was straightening the Persian rugs in the hallway, turning on more lights.
    ‘Until I went and lost my boyfriend. After that, not so good.’ And I told her about the mugging, the loss of my bag and the fact that Orlando hadn’t showed up yet. ‘I was hoping he’d already be here.’
    Mrs Waterman shook her head. She was small and slender, a widow in her fifties with a smart haircut and Botoxed brow.
    ‘He’s not?’
    ‘No. Sorry, honey, I haven’t seen him. But don’t worry – he’ll be here.’
    I nodded and took the small elevator up to the third storey, found the