The Trouble with Angels

By Maggie Adams

Christine Baxter was having a helluva night. Her blind date had run out on her and the check. She had run into a mugger trying to steal her purse and succeeding. Finally, her beloved Beetle, Pinkie, had run out of gas on a deserted highway. Her only hope was a dimly lit club sign on the other side of a deep embankment riddled with trash. Apparently, her guardian angel had the night off.

Gabriel Easton and Michael Westmoreland were best friends looking for that special woman to share their lives and their bed. When the beautiful blonde literally fell through their club door, they thought their prayers had been answered. Michael knew she was sent from heaven. Gabriel felt she was hell on heels. Both agreed that she was perfect for them.

And Christine? Well, she thought she was in a lot of trouble.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maggie Adams
• Release date: Dec 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463216996

Maggie Adams

Maggie Adams is an internationally known contemporary romance author. Her first book in the Tempered Steel Series, Whistlin’ Dixie, debuted in Top 100 for Women’s Fiction, humor, on November 2014. Since then, she has consistently made the best seller 5-star list with her Tempered Steel Series.  She also writes erotica, paranormal romance, young adult romance and women’s fiction. Maggie’s books can be found on eBook and paperback on her website and all book sites. When she’s not writing, she can be found dancing, singing and cooking (usually all at the same time), and spending time with her family and friends. .

Book preview

one

Y ou are not what I expected. You remind me of a fat robin. I was looking for more of a quiet wren.

Christine looked up from her pasta. It was apparent this blind date was a disaster, but she was determined to salvage the evening, if only for the meal. I’m sorry, but did you just compare me to a bird?

She looked at her companion, a one Harold T. Pottence, as he wiped his thin mustache in a rather delicate manner. His eyes, hidden behind large glasses, were nowhere near the vivid blue in the picture on the dating site. His complexion was rather pale compared to the tanned man in that picture as well. His hair was plastered to his head like a nineteen seventies car salesman. As a matter of fact, he barely resembled the picture on the website. Talk about not what was expected!

Well, I am an amateur ornithologist. It was simply a statement.

You never mentioned in your profile that your hobby was birds. Christine tried once more to elicit some form of interest in her dining partner. Tasty pasta or not, the evening was deteriorating rapidly.

My brother suggested that I omit that on my profile. He sniffed. I don’t know why. The study of birds is quite a fascinating hobby. I’ve been published, you know.

Was that your brother in the profile picture?

He squirmed for the first time. Yes. I don’t take a good picture, but we are very similar in looks. You recognized me right away.

She had recognized him only because he said he would be carrying a red rose. At the time, she thought it was a romantic gesture, but when she took it, she realized it was plastic.

She should have walked out then.

She frowned at him as the waiter came up to take her plate. He continued to speak in his defense, Well, as I said, you’re not what I expected either. You described yourself as fit. You’re not fit, you’re a bit fat. I was hoping for a slim physique. Your large breasts and hips are not appealing to me. I really see no reason to take this further.

Christine’s mouth dropped open. Fat?! Surely, he did not just say that?

I am quite fit, thank you. I have an hourglass figure. I do not need medication of any type, and I, unlike you, have proper manners, social skills, plus dignity and decorum. She slammed down her napkin. Excuse me. I am going to freshen up.

Christine marched toward the ladies’ room, yanked open the door, and turned on the cold water, shoving both wrists under it to calm herself. She was shaking with anger and humiliation. That pompous little weasel had hit on my most vulnerable insecurities. She checked her makeup in the mirror. Light blue eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, round cheeks and full lips told her she wasn’t unattractive. She glanced down to where her blouse stretched across her bosom, the buttons strained a bit and the fabric gaped slightly.

Okay, maybe I need to lose a few pounds, but I’m not fat. I’m just curvy. Shaking her head in the affirmative, she reapplied her lipstick, smoothed her skirt, and prepared to tell Mr. Pompous Ass to stick his comments where the sun didn’t shine.

Making her way back to the table, she noticed it was empty. A sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. The waiter stood patiently with the guest check holder in his hand. Christine looked up at him. Don’t tell me. He left without paying.

The waiter gave her a somewhat embarrassed nod. She sighed, digging into her purse for her wallet. She extracted the required amount plus a good tip. After all, it wasn’t the waiter’s fault the douche bag had skipped out. He even politely helped her with her coat. She made her way out the door and into the parking lot, vowing to never again visit that damn dating site. She was getting her money back, too.

She reached her car, the old VW Beetle she’d had in high school. A gust of wind whipped her hair in front of her face as she tried to unlock her door, blinding her momentarily. She didn’t see the man until he grabbed her arm. Even then, it took a second for the realization to filter into her brain that she was being mugged.

Your purse, bitch, and the keys. The rotten breath assailed her nostrils. She instinctively turned to look at him, but he shoved her against the car door. Now! He yanked at the purse and she let go, her fingers aching from the wrenching of the straps.

Keys! He grabbed her hair, pulling her back. Open the door and get in.

She could tell he was nervous and high on something, desperation making his voice sharp. He kept glancing around as she tried to fit the key in the lock. She was in a full-blown panic, knowing if she got in this car with him, she might die, yet unable to think clearly. He slammed her head with force against the doorframe. She saw stars.

Hurry the fuck up! He panted.

As the blood dripped from the cut on her forehead, she tried once more to think of a way to escape. Her fingers brushed against the key fob and with a quick breath, she hit the panic button. The car horn blared repeatedly.

Fuuuuck! Her assailant shoved her to the side and she fell to the ground. He kicked her twice in the stomach. Bitch! Bitch!

She heard footsteps, and someone