Do Not Disturb Read Free

the next instant, a close-up photograph flashed onto a huge screen. A man’s face, framed by gray-blond, lionine hair, took over the room.
    Stephen Whitney.
    It was as if a hand had found Angel’s throat and squeezed. Erupting from her seat, she didn’t think of anything but getting that air. Of getting out. Somehow she scuttled over Sunglasses’ knees and then bounded toward a narrow side door. As she pulled it open, another body joined hers and they burst into the sunlight shoulder to shoulder.
    As the door swung silently shut behind them, Angel sucked in several long breaths of fresh air. Then she glanced over at her fellow escapee. It was a teenager, her dark hair in one of those ballerina-buns that young girls favored. She had on a light blue cotton sweater set and a matching teensy-weensy skirt that high schoolers always wore with chunky shoes.
    â€œStuffy in there, huh?” Angel said, feeling a thousand times stronger now that she was outside, more than strong enough to feel sorry for the kid someone had dragged to such an event. “Not just the air, but all those old white men talking at the podium. I wish I had an M&M for every time I heard the phrase ‘American values.’”
    The girl’s eyes widened. A single note of laughter bubbled out of her, then she clapped her hand over her mouth.
    Angel felt sorry for the kid all over again. To her mind, a little irreverence was as necessary to survival as venti lattes, juicy half-pound hamburgers, and quest-for-justice movie marathons on the Lifetime channel.
    She gave a wondering shake of her head. “And what do you think about that boys’ choir? I know they say their voices will change with puberty, but have you ever met even a little boy with a voice that high? I’m thinking there are girls under those coats and ties.”
    The teenager choked off another laugh. “You don’t really believe that.”
    Angel’s spirits lifted higher with the simple task of lifting someone else’s. Smiling, she shrugged. “It’s possible.”
    She should know.
    The girl released another half-laugh, then looked around guiltily.
    Poor thing, Angel thought, her folks should have left her at home. “Go ahead, hon, it’s all right. You’re not dead.”
    The teen’s eyes focused over Angel’s shoulder, then widened. Angel felt a sharp kick of awareness, then her nose twitched, itching at that unmistakable sense of trouble. She didn’t turn around—or move, for that matter.
    She didn’t need to, because she already knew who was behind her. His voice confirmed it. Even though he wasn’t whispering now, she recognized the voice of Sunglasses Man.
    â€œYour mother’s looking for you, Katie,” he said. “We have to get going.”
    The teenager—Katie—bobbed her head. “All right.”
    The girl brushed past. It was then that Angel finally turned, steeling herself to meet the man’s suspicious gaze, eyeballs to eyeglasses. But he was looking down at Katie instead, easy-to-read love on his face.
    Angel breathed easier. Then Katie looked over. “Thisis my uncle, Cooper Jones,” the girl offered. “And I’m Katie. Stephen Whitney’s daughter, Caitlyn.”
    Whitney . Stephen Whitney’s daughter. His other daughter.
    Stunned, it was autopilot that had Angel shaking the slender hand that was proffered. Damn, damn, damn, damn, she scolded herself. If she hadn’t been such an ostrich about the artist, she would have known that as well as being married, he’d fathered another daughter.
    â€œI’m…” Angel’s mind whirled through all the names she’d used in her lifetime. The identity she’d inexplicably chosen for herself when she was fourteen years old didn’t immediately present itself.
    â€œLet’s hurry, Katie,” the girl’s uncle—he must be the brother of Katie’s