squawked as they dipped and swooped in the bright blue sky. Close to shore, a seal’s head popped up from the waves.
“This is impossible,” she whispered. A frigid wind whipped through the corridor created by the cove. Her hair blew across her face and blocked her vision.
She must still be in the acupuncturist’s office having some sort of psychotic episode because Raphael the Archangel was also there. Tall, imposing, and gorgeous. Only suddenly his gorgeousness wasn’t quite as attractive.
He was bigger than she’d realized. And not nearly as gentle. His fingers curled around her bicep in a grip that would be difficult to break although he wasn’t hurting her.
Great. She couldn’t even have an erotic dream without messing it up.
She closed her eyes, squeezed them tight. “Back home.” She wished herself back to her house. To her cozy kitchen. She was pretty sure there was half a bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge and right at this moment, she would trade her soul to chug it down and pretend she hadn’t gone crazy.
“Angelina.”
There he stood, looking more like a Hell’s Angel than an Archangel. He wore ripped jeans, a muscle t-shirt, a worn black leather jacket, and a few days stubble on his chin. Only a do-rag was missing. His eyes were the most unearthly shade of silvery gray. They appeared to glow from within. She guessed the sooner she indulged this fantasy, the sooner she would return to her regular life. “Archangels don’t exist.”
“And yet, here I am,” Rafe the Archangel, hah, said.
They really were here. The cool wind whipped off the ocean and briny salt water scented the air. Her eyes watered and her nose grew cold. She’d never had a dream where the details seemed so real. Except when they were.... She narrowed her gaze. “What kind of Archangel are you?”
“Healer.”
“Well, I don’t need to be healed, so carry on.” She flicked her fingers at him.
“I’m not here to heal you.” Rafe’s lips flattened into an irritated line.
“Then why are you here?”
“To train you.”
To train her? “And what would you train me for?” She looked around. Maybe this was some sort of new television show, a longer, extended version of Punk’d but without the celebrities. Of course that wouldn’t explain how she’d transported to the beach in a blink. Unless she’d been drugged. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was, as she stood here, in a coma somewhere.
“Search inside yourself, Angelina.”
“Oh, don’t go all Obi-Wan on me.” She hated cryptic shit. She wanted a straightforward revelation of the facts.
“Okay. You want it straight.” Rafe began to walk toward the horizon. “You’re descended from a line of healers.”
Healers. Right. She shook her head. “Your research is wrong. I studied nursing years ago. Now I’m going to school to be a paralegal.”
“A waste of your talent.” He turned back to look at her, but she still hadn’t moved. And he was as gorgeous as ever. “Let’s walk. I’ve noticed that you are rarely still.”
He’d noticed? Had those dreams been real? “I’m not a healer.”
“You are.” Raphael’s face was hard and implacable. “Matriarchal line, for the last thousand years. Maybe longer.”
Okay, she was so not buying into this. “Right. You’re telling me you....” Wait. He’d just said that he knew of a thousand years of healers in her family. Not that he was a thousand years old. Phew. Her brain had short-circuited for a second.
Angels.
Yeah, like that in itself wasn’t crazy. “My mother used to faint at the sight of blood.”
Rafe paused and the sun set behind him. “Your grandmother.”
Grammy. Her head swam, and she didn’t see Rafe anymore, but her Grammy lying in that bed as she asked about the change.
The surf seemed to be getting louder. White edged her vision as the blood rushed from her head.
Grammy. Those cryptic little comments.
Rafe watched her steadily but didn’t come any closer. And yeah,
“This is impossible,” she whispered. A frigid wind whipped through the corridor created by the cove. Her hair blew across her face and blocked her vision.
She must still be in the acupuncturist’s office having some sort of psychotic episode because Raphael the Archangel was also there. Tall, imposing, and gorgeous. Only suddenly his gorgeousness wasn’t quite as attractive.
He was bigger than she’d realized. And not nearly as gentle. His fingers curled around her bicep in a grip that would be difficult to break although he wasn’t hurting her.
Great. She couldn’t even have an erotic dream without messing it up.
She closed her eyes, squeezed them tight. “Back home.” She wished herself back to her house. To her cozy kitchen. She was pretty sure there was half a bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge and right at this moment, she would trade her soul to chug it down and pretend she hadn’t gone crazy.
“Angelina.”
There he stood, looking more like a Hell’s Angel than an Archangel. He wore ripped jeans, a muscle t-shirt, a worn black leather jacket, and a few days stubble on his chin. Only a do-rag was missing. His eyes were the most unearthly shade of silvery gray. They appeared to glow from within. She guessed the sooner she indulged this fantasy, the sooner she would return to her regular life. “Archangels don’t exist.”
“And yet, here I am,” Rafe the Archangel, hah, said.
They really were here. The cool wind whipped off the ocean and briny salt water scented the air. Her eyes watered and her nose grew cold. She’d never had a dream where the details seemed so real. Except when they were.... She narrowed her gaze. “What kind of Archangel are you?”
“Healer.”
“Well, I don’t need to be healed, so carry on.” She flicked her fingers at him.
“I’m not here to heal you.” Rafe’s lips flattened into an irritated line.
“Then why are you here?”
“To train you.”
To train her? “And what would you train me for?” She looked around. Maybe this was some sort of new television show, a longer, extended version of Punk’d but without the celebrities. Of course that wouldn’t explain how she’d transported to the beach in a blink. Unless she’d been drugged. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was, as she stood here, in a coma somewhere.
“Search inside yourself, Angelina.”
“Oh, don’t go all Obi-Wan on me.” She hated cryptic shit. She wanted a straightforward revelation of the facts.
“Okay. You want it straight.” Rafe began to walk toward the horizon. “You’re descended from a line of healers.”
Healers. Right. She shook her head. “Your research is wrong. I studied nursing years ago. Now I’m going to school to be a paralegal.”
“A waste of your talent.” He turned back to look at her, but she still hadn’t moved. And he was as gorgeous as ever. “Let’s walk. I’ve noticed that you are rarely still.”
He’d noticed? Had those dreams been real? “I’m not a healer.”
“You are.” Raphael’s face was hard and implacable. “Matriarchal line, for the last thousand years. Maybe longer.”
Okay, she was so not buying into this. “Right. You’re telling me you....” Wait. He’d just said that he knew of a thousand years of healers in her family. Not that he was a thousand years old. Phew. Her brain had short-circuited for a second.
Angels.
Yeah, like that in itself wasn’t crazy. “My mother used to faint at the sight of blood.”
Rafe paused and the sun set behind him. “Your grandmother.”
Grammy. Her head swam, and she didn’t see Rafe anymore, but her Grammy lying in that bed as she asked about the change.
The surf seemed to be getting louder. White edged her vision as the blood rushed from her head.
Grammy. Those cryptic little comments.
Rafe watched her steadily but didn’t come any closer. And yeah,
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