Fallen Angel by Laura Taylor

contemplative. She shifted her gaze to the fireplace as she talked. "Exciting, terrifying, exotic, and dangerous. I was isolated from people my own age, especially when I was in my teens. Once I was old enough to navigate Patrick’s world, I adapted quite well. I inherited his friends, and they became my family. I can also live out of a single suitcase for months at a time better than anyone I know." The frown on his face told her that her attempt at humor had fallen flat.
    "You said he was an engineer. Is that how he supported you both?"
    Geneva nodded warily. "In a manner of speaking."
    Thomas said nothing. He simply looked at her.
    Geneva supplied what she knew he was waiting to hear—the truth. "Patrick was a munitions and explosives specialist."
    Surprise flared in his eyes. "He made bombs?"
    "Essentially, yes, although he was at the high–end of the spectrum as far as sophisticated bomb making was concerned. He had quite a reputation in the international community."
    "He knew Benteen, didn’t he?"
    "Quite well." Geneva felt so tense, she feared she might shatter into a thousand pieces if Thomas reacted badly to what she’d just told him.
    When he said nothing in the minutes that followed, she got to her feet and walked out of the living room. Her hands shook as she stood at the kitchen stove and refilled her mug.
    Geneva told herself that she possessed the strength to survive his departure. And that’s what she expected—that he would leave. After all, Thomas was an intelligent man and more than capable of reading between the lines, and she’d just told him that she was the daughter of a mercenary.
    Geneva turned away from the stove to see Thomas standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She controlled the anxiety raging within her by sheer force of will as she watched him make his way across the room.
    How in the world could she tell him that she’d learned her father’s skill with explosives?  And how could she tell him that she hadn’t been just an observer, but an active participant in the mercenary’s world of violence and destruction? What man would want a woman capable of such things?
    She raised her chin. He paused in front of her, relieved her of the mug she gripped with both hands, and then drew her into his arms.
    She shook like a willow battered by a hard wind as he held her and stroked her back with his hands. Several moments passed, moments during which she struggled to comprehend his intentions and his reaction to what she’d begun to reveal.
    Thomas released her and stepped back. "I don’t understand all the implications of what you’ve just told me, but the one thing I can’t get past right now is my gut instinct that you somehow feel responsible for the choices your parents made."
    She shook her head, denial instantaneous. "Not true."
    "Don’t lie to me. There’s no need," Thomas insisted.
    Geneva balked at that. "I am responsible for myself and no one else!"
    Thomas gave her a speculative look. "Then why are you so upset right now?"
    She hedged, too ashamed to do anything else. "I don’t like to discuss the past. It bothers me."
    "That’s not an answer, Geneva."
    "It’s the only answer I’m willing to provide at the moment," she countered, her defenses lining up around her like armed sentries.
    His gaze narrowed as he studied her. "What are you afraid of?"
    Her belligerence evaporated. "Myself," she whispered hollowly.
    "What do you mean?"
    "I don’t know." Her hands fell to her sides. She walked away from him.
    Thomas followed, forcing her to turn around and look at him. "Don’t push me away. Help me to understand what’s going on inside your head right now."
    "I can’t. I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m sorry."
    "Geneva, this is crazy. Talk to me."
    Anger and frustration detonated inside her. "Don’t do this to me!" she cried. "You don’t really want to know the truth, Thomas."
    His lawyerly calm absent, he shouted, "I want you, damn it! I want all of you. The good,