Kissed by an Angel/The Power of Love/Soulmates Read online

  KISSED BY AN ANGEL, THE POWER OF LOVE, SOULMATES

  ELIZABETH CHANDLER

  POCKET BOOKS

  New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  DARK SECRETS™

  by Elizabeth Chandler

  Who is Megan? She’s about to find out….

  #1: Legacy of Lies

  Megan thought she knew who she was. Until she came to Grandmother’s house. Until she met Matt, who angered and attracted her as no boy ever had before. Then she began having dreams again, of a life she never lived, a love she never knew … a secret that threatened to drive her to the grave.

  Home is where the horror is….

  #2: Don’t Tell

  Lauren is coming home, eight years after her mother’s mysterious drowning. They said it was an accident. But the tabloids screamed murder. Aunt Jule was her only refuge, the beloved second mother she’s returning to see. But first Lauren stops at Wisteria’s annual street festival and meets Nick, a tease, a flirt, and a childhood playmate.

  The day is almost perfect—until she realizes she’s being watched. A series of nasty “accidents” makes Lauren realize someone wants her dead. And this time there’s no place to run….

  The word became a kiss…

  Ivy’s hair was hanging loose around her shoulders. Her eyes were smiling into Tristan’s, the color of an emerald sea in brilliant sunlight. Before he could move away, she caught his hand. She held it in both of her hands for a moment, then lightly kissed the tips of his fingers.

  Then she let go. But he held on now, twining his fingers in hers. Could she feel it, the way the lightest touch of her made his pulse race?

  “Ivy,” he said.

  The word was like a kiss.

  “Ivy.”

  The word became a kiss.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  These titles were previously published individually.

  First Simon Pulse edition September 2002

  First Archway edition August 1998

  Kissed by an Angel copyright © 1995 by Daniel Weiss Associates, Inc., and Mary Clair Helldorfer

  The Power of Love copyright © 1995 by Daniel Weiss Associates, Inc., and Mary Clair Helldorfer

  Soulmates copyright © 1995 by Daniel Weiss Associates, Inc., and Mary Clair Helldorfer

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster

  Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  20 19 18 17 16 15 14

  Lyric excerpts of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” (The Power of Love, p. 43) by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II. Copyright © 1945 by Williamson Music. Copyright renewed. International Copyright Secured. Used by Permission. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-6710-2346-1

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4391-2087-3

  KISSED BY AN ANGEL

  For Pat and Dennis, October 15, 1994

  P1-1

  “I never knew how romantic a backseat could be,” Ivy said, resting against it, smiling at Tristan. Then she looked past him at the pile of junk on the car floor. “Maybe you should pull your tie out of that old Burger King cup.”

  Tristan reached down and grimaced. He tossed the dripping thing into the front of the car, then sat back next to Ivy.

  “Ow!” The smell of crushed flowers filled the air.

  Ivy laughed out loud.

  “What’s so funny?” Tristan asked, pulling the smashed roses from behind him, but he was laughing, too.

  “What if someone had come along and seen your father’s Clergy sticker on the bumper?”

  Tristan tossed the flowers into the front seat and pulled her toward him again. He traced the silk strap of her dress, then tenderly kissed her shoulder. “I’d have told them I was with an angel.”

  “Oh, what a line!”

  “Ivy, I love you,” Tristan said, his face suddenly serious.

  She stared back at him, then bit her lip.

  “This isn’t some kind of game for me. I love you, Ivy Lyons, and one day you’re going to believe me.”

  She put her arms around him and held him tightly. “Love you, Tristan Carruthers,” she whispered into his neck. Ivy did believe him, and she trusted him as she trusted no one else. One day she’d have the nerve to say it, all of the words out loud. I love you, Tristan. She’d shout it out the windows. She’d string a banner straight across the school pool.

  It took a few minutes to straighten themselves up. Ivy started laughing again. Tristan smiled and watched her try to tame her gold tumbleweed of hair—a useless effort. Then he started the car, urging it over the ruts and stones and onto the narrow road.

  “Last glimpse of the river,” he said as the road made a sharp turn away from it.

  The June sun, dropping over the west ridge of the Connecticut countryside, shafted light on the very tops of the trees, flaking them with gold. The winding road slipped into a tunnel of maples, poplars, and oaks. Ivy felt as if she were sliding under the waves with Tristan, the setting sun glittering on top, the two of them moving together through a chasm of blue, purple, and deep green. Tristan flicked on his headlights.

  “You really don’t have to hurry,” said Ivy. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

  “I ruined your appetite?”

  She shook her head. “I guess I’m all filled up with happiness,” she said softly.

  The car sped along and took a curve sharply.

  “I said, we don’t have to hurry.”

  “That’s funny,” Tristan murmured. “I wonder what’s—” He glanced down at his feet. “This doesn’t feel…”

  “Slow down, okay? It doesn’t matter if we’re a little late—Oh!” Ivy pointed straight ahead. “Tristan!”

  Something had plunged through the bushes and into the roadway. She hadn’t seen what it was, just the flicker of motion among the deep shadows. Then the deer stopped. It turned its head, its eyes drawn to the car’s bright headlights.

  “Tristan!”

  They were rushing toward the shining eyes.

  “Tristan, don’t you see it?”

  Rushing still.

  “Ivy, something’s—”

  “A deer!” she exclaimed.

  The animal’s eyes blazed. Then light came from behind it, a bright burst around its dark shape. A car was coming from the opposite direction. Trees walled them in. There was no room to veer left or right.

  “Stop!” she shouted.

  “I’m—”

  “Stop, why don’t you stop?” she pleaded. “Tristan, stop!”

  The windshield exploded.

  For days after, all Ivy could remember was the waterfall of glass.


  At the sound of the gun, Ivy jumped. She hated pools, especially indoor pools. Even though she and her friends were ten feet from the edge, she felt as if she were swimming. The air itself seemed dark, a dank mist, bluish green, heavy with the smell of chlorine. Everything echoed—the gun, the shouts of the crowd, the explosion of swimmers in the water. When Ivy had first entered the domed pool area, she’d gulped for breath. She wished she were outside in the bright and windy March day.

  “Tell me again,” she said. “Which one is he?”

  Suzanne Goldstein looked at Beth Van Dyke. Beth looked back at Suzanne. They both shook their heads, sighing.

  “Well, how am I supposed to be able to tell?” Ivy asked. “They’re hairless, every one of them, with shaved arms, shaved legs, and shaved chests—a team of bald guys in rubber caps and goggles. They’re wearing our school colors, but for all I know, they could be a shipload of aliens.”

  “If those are aliens,” Beth said, rapidly clicking her ballpoint pen, “I’m moving to that planet.”

  Suzanne took the pen away from Beth and said in a husky voice, “God, I love swim meets!”

  “But you don’t watch the swimmers once they’re in the water,” Ivy observed.

  “Because she’s checking out the group coming up to the blocks,” Beth explained.

  “Tristan is the one in the center lane,” said Suzanne. “The best swimmers always race in the center lanes.”

  “He’s our flyer,” Beth added. “The best at the butterfly stroke. Best in the state, in fact.”

  Ivy already knew that. The swim team poster was all over school: Tristan surging up out of the water, his shoulders rushing forward at you, his powerful arms pulled back like wings.

  The person in charge of publicity knew what she was doing when she selected that photo. She had produced numerous copies, which was a good thing, for the taped-up posters of Tristan were continually disappearing—into girls’ lockers.

  Sometime during this poster craze, Beth and Suzanne had begun to think that Tristan was interested in Ivy. Two collisions in the hall in one week was all that it took to convince Beth, an imaginative writer who had read a library of Harlequin romances.

  “But, Beth, I’ve walked into you plenty of times,” Ivy argued with her. “You know how I am.”

  “We do,” Suzanne said. “Head in the clouds. Three miles above earth. Angel zone. But still, I think Beth is onto something. Remember, he walked into you.”

  “Maybe he’s clumsy when he’s outside the water. Like a frog,” Ivy had added, knowing all the while there was nothing clumsy about Tristan Carruthers.

  He had been pointed out to her in January, that first, snowy day when she had arrived at Stonehill High School. A cheerleader had been assigned as a guide to Ivy and was leading her through a crowded cafeteria.

  “You’re probably checking out the jocks,” the cheerleader said.

  Actually, Ivy was busy trying to figure out what the stringy green stuff was that her new school was serving to its students.

  “At your school in Norwalk, the girls probably dream about football stars. But a lot of girls at Stonehill—”

  Dream about him, Ivy thought as she followed the cheerleader’s glance toward Tristan.

  “Actually, I prefer a guy with a brain,” Ivy told the fluffy redhead.

  “But he’s got a brain!” Suzanne had insisted when Ivy repeated this conversation to her a few minutes later.

  Suzanne was the only girl Ivy already knew at Stonehill, and she had somehow found Ivy in the mob that day.

  “I mean a brain that isn’t waterlogged,” Ivy added. “You know I’ve never been interested in jocks. I want someone I can talk to.”

  Suzanne blew through her lips. “You’re already communicating with the angels—”

  “Don’t start on that,” Ivy warned her.

  “Angels?” Beth asked. She had been eavesdropping from the next table. “You talk to angels?”

  Suzanne rolled her eyes, annoyed by this interruption, then turned back to Ivy. “You’d think that somewhere in that wingy collection of yours, you’d have at least one angel of love.”

  “I do.”

  “What kind of things do you say to them?” Beth interjected again. She opened a notepad. Her pencil was poised as if she were going to copy what Ivy said, word for word.

  Suzanne pretended Beth wasn’t there. “Well, if you do have an angel of love, Ivy, she’s screwing up. Somebody ought to remind her of her mission.”

  Ivy shrugged. Not that she wasn’t interested in guys, but her days were full enough—her music, her job at the shop, keeping up her grades, and helping to take care of her eight-year-old brother, Philip. It had been a bumpy couple of months for Philip, their mother, and her. She would not have made it through without the angels.

  After that day in January, Beth had sought out Ivy to question her about her belief in angels and show her some of her romantic short stories. Ivy enjoyed talking to her. Beth, who was round-faced with shoulder-length frosted hair and clothes that ranged from flaky to dowdy, lived many incredibly romantic and passionate lives—in her mind.

  Suzanne, with her magnificent long black mane of hair and dramatic eyebrows and cheekbones, also pursued and lived out many passions—in the classrooms and hallways, leaving the guys of Stonehill High emotionally exhausted. Beth and Suzanne had never really been friends, but late in February they became allies in the cause of getting Ivy together with Tristan.

  “I heard that he is pretty smart,” Beth had said at another lunch in the cafeteria.

  “A total brain,” Suzanne agreed. “Top of the class.”

  Ivy raised an eyebrow.

  “Or close enough.”

  “Swimming is a subtle sport,” Beth continued. “It looks as if all they’re doing is going back and forth, but a guy like Tristan has a plan, a complex winning strategy for each race.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ivy said.

  “All we’re saying is that you should come to one swim meet,” Suzanne told her.

  “And sit up front,” Beth suggested.

  “And let me dress you that day,” Suzanne added. “You know I can pick out your clothes better than you.”

  Ivy had shaken her head, wondering then and for days after how her friends could think a guy like Tristan would be interested in her.

  But when Tristan had stood up at the junior class assembly and told everyone how much the team needed them to come to the last big school meet, all the time staring right at her, it seemed she had little choice.

  “If we lose this meet,” Suzanne said, “it’s on your head, girl.”

  Now, in late March, Ivy watched Tristan shake out his arms and legs. He had a perfect build for a swimmer, broad and powerful shoulders, narrow hips. The cap hid his straight brown hair, which she remembered to be shortish and thickish.

  “Every inch of him hard with muscle,” breathed Beth. After several clicks of her pen, which she had taken back from Suzanne, she was writing away in her notebook. “‘Like glistening rock. Sinuous in the hands of the sculptor, molten in the fingers of the lover …’”

  Ivy peered down at Beth’s pad. “What is it this time,” she asked, “poetry or a romance?”

  “Does it make a difference?” her friend replied.

  “Swimmers up!” shouted the starting official, and the competitors climbed onto their blocks.

  “My, my,” Suzanne murmured, “those little suits don’t leave much to the imagination, do they? I wonder what Gregory would look like in one.”

  Ivy nudged her. “Keep your voice down. He’s right over there.”

  “I know,” Suzanne said, running her fingers through her hair.

  “On your marks…”

  Beth leaned forward for a look at Gregory Baines. “‘His long, lean body, hungry and hot…’”

  Bang!

  “You always use words that begin with h,” Suzanne said.

  Beth nodded. “When you alliterate h, it sounds like hea
vy breathing. Hungry, heated, heady—”

  “Are either of you bothering to watch the race?” Ivy interrupted.

  “It’s four hundred meters, Ivy. All Tristan does is go back and forth, back and forth.”

  “I see. Whatever happened to the total brain with his complex winning strategy in the subtle sport of swimming?” Ivy asked.

  Beth was writing again. “‘Flying like an angel, wishing his watery wings were warm arms for Ivy.’ I’m really inspired today!”

  “Me too,” Suzanne said, her glance traveling down the line of bodies in the ready area, then skipping over the spectators to Gregory.

  Ivy followed her glance, then quickly turned her attention back to the swimmers. For the last three months Suzanne had been in hot—heated, hungry—pursuit of Gregory Baines. Ivy wished that Suzanne would get herself stuck on somebody else, and do it soon, real soon, before the first Saturday in April.

  “Who’s that little brunette?” Suzanne asked. “I hate little petite types. Gregory doesn’t look right with someone petite. Little face, little hands, little dainty feet.”

  “Big boobs,” Beth said, glancing up.

  “Who is she? Ever seen her before, Ivy?”

  “Suzanne, you’ve been in this school a lot longer than—”

  “You’re not even looking,” Suzanne interrupted.

  “Because I’m watching our hero, just like I’m supposed to be doing. What does waller mean? Everybody shouts ‘Waller!’ when Tristan does a turn.”

  “That’s his nickname,” Beth replied, “because of the way he attacks the wall. He hurls himself head first into it, so he can push off fast.”

  “I see,” Ivy said. “Sounds like a total brain to me, hurling his head against a concrete wall. How long do these meets usually last?”

  “Ivy, come on,” Suzanne whined, and pulled on her arm. “Look and see if you know who the little brunette is.”

  “Twinkie.”

  “You’re making that up!” Suzanne said.

  “It’s Twinkie Hammonds,” Ivy insisted. “She’s a senior in my music class.”

  Aware of Suzanne’s continuous staring, Twinkie turned around and gave her a nasty look. Gregory noticed the expression and glanced over his shoulder at them. Ivy saw the amusement spreading over his face.