âAngels have never been fiction.â
He was right, of course, but had Cassandra ever imagined sheâd one day be standing in an angelâs arms? Yes, she had. It had been a blissful, sensual dream of a warrior.
Sam stroked her shoulders and bent before her, as if to kiss her. But he only lingered there, their mouths inches apart, breaths dallying, eyes searching each otherâs.
She wanted the kiss. It was wrong on so many levels, but she needed it. Yet she sensed Sam would not give it. Could not. Because they were both fearful of the Pandoraâs box their desire could open.
But at that moment all she heard was an insistent voice inside her head. Kiss him. It will be dangerous ⦠but how can you resist?
MICHELE HAUF has been writing romance, action-adventure and fantasy stories for more than twenty years. Her first published novel was Dark Rapture. France, musketeers, vampires and faeries populate her stories. And if she followed the adage âwrite what you know,â all her stories would have snow in them. Fortunately, she steps beyond her comfort zone and writes about countries she has never visited and of creatures she has never seen.
Michele can also be found on Facebook and Twitter and michelehauf.com. You can also write to Michele at: PO Box 23, Anoka, MN 55303, USA.
Cassandra Stevens stepped back from the finished silver sculpture to admire her handiwork. She had formed the male body from silver sheet metal, and worked with various shaped anvils to capture the smooth muscles and lithe structure of the male form. For the wings, stretched back and out from the body, she had used a lost-wax casting method to achieve the intricate barbed vanes.
A monthâs work glistened under the bright light that hung over her workbench.
When she wasnât working afternoons at the Central library as a research assistant, she spent her evenings designing silver objects dâart and jewelry. Her dream of forming an elite jewelry design business were going much slower than planned since arriving in Berlin two years ago, but better to be meticulous and careful than to rush into things. At least regarding business.
In life, rushing into things was always the better option. Danger did not sit back and wait for a person to weigh their options. One must always be ready.
Yeah, you go, Action Danger Girl, she chided her silent thoughts. Thinking she was ready was much easier than actually being ready. Sheâd never be sure. Never.
The silver sculpture had known its form the moment sheâd begun to sketch a flat image on paper and had then transferred it to a sheet of silver.
âAn angel,â she murmured, knowing, as sheâd been working on it, how telling it was she sculpted an angel.
Fascinated during the process, her fingers had worked of their own volition, as if they instinctively knew what her subject should look like. That had never happened with any of her previous projects.
Tossing her hair over a shoulder, loosely bunched at the middle with a ribbon to contain the thick, wavy tresses that hung to her elbows, Cassandra stroked a finger down the abdomen of the figure. She sighed. This was the closest sheâd been to six-pack abs in months. Lately, her social life had been suffering for her art.
What social life? You forgot to get yourself one of those, remember?
Another sigh would just be redundant.
The silver wings stretched out behind the sculpture about a foot, and the whole work was heavy, but not delicate, for sheâd riveted and soldered the wings in place.
Cassandra had dreamed of winged men most of her life. Winged nightmares had visited her sleep, as well. But her hopeful heart emerged during that flicker of wakefulness following a nightmare and, as a result, the dreams overcame the nightmares.
Most of the time. Doom remained the overwhelming common theme in her dreams.
Angels were ⦠not good. The Fallen ones Granny Stevens had taught her about were downright evil. They were as spiteful, selfish and dangerous as some mortals.
But one angel managed to rise above the dire warnings and tease her admiration. Sheâd never imagined his faceâuntil now.
Studying the tiny face about the size of her thumb, Cassandra offered him an approving nod. âYou are a handsome bloke.â No halo sat above the sculptureâs head, but that made sense to her. He wouldnât have one.