Edge of Sight - Roxanne St. Claire

Roxanne St. Claire - The Guardian Angelinos #1 - Edge of Sight

Edge of Sight (The Guardian Angelinos #1)
Roxanne St. Claire


Us. Love. Forever. Sight. Wholeness. You. Nothing Zaccaria Angelino could ever have.

“What do you want?” Sam asked again, more softly, defeat in her voice.

He went with the easiest. “You.”

“I want you, too, Zaccaria.” She whispered his name and held out her arms. “I want you so much.”

But he couldn’t move into those arms. “You deserve better.”

So she closed the space between them, taking that one step that he couldn’t. And his heart folded in half with love for her.

“Zach.” She cupped his face like she had in her apartment, her warm, dry palm closing over his scar. “I don’t want better.”

He just looked at her.

“I want you,” she said. “Just like you are.”

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t utter a word that was in his heart.

But Sam didn’t notice, because she was still touching him. She inched up on her toes and kissed his good cheek. Then his scarred cheek. Then his mouth. Heat coiled up inside him, his body betraying his brain, his need so much bigger than his pride. “I want to make love to you,” she whispered.

“Hot, fun, fast, and fearless! I want one of these bodyguards.”

—CHERRY ADAIR, New York Times bestselling author on Take Me Tonight

For my nephew, Captain Anthony Roffino, who is all the extraordinary and amazing things an Army Ranger hero should be… and so much more. I’m proud to be your Aunt Rocki.


I understand you got into that little law school across the river.”

Samantha Fairchild scooped up the cocktails from the service bar, sending a smile to the man who’d been subtly checking her out from behind rimless glasses. “Our trusty bartender’s been bragging about me again.”

Behind the bar, Wendy waved a martini shaker like a sparkler, her eyes twinkling. “Just a little, Sam. You’re our only Harvard-bound server.”

Sam nodded to the light-haired gentleman, not really wanting to start a conversation when Paupiette’s dining room was wall-to-wall with a Saturday night crowd. Anyway, he wasn’t her type. Too pale, too blond, too… safe.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, a Harvard law degree,” the man said. “I’ve got one myself.”

“Really? What did you do with it?”

The smile widened. “Print money, like you will.”

Spoken like a typical Harvard law grad. “I’m not that interested in the money. I have another plan for the future.” One she doubted a guy dripping in Armani and Rolex would appreciate. Unless he was a defense attorney. She eyed him just as two hands landed on her shoulders from behind.

“I seated Joshua Sterling and company in your section.” Keegan Kennedy’s soft voice had a rumble of warning in it, probably because she was flirting with lawyers in the bar when her tables were full. “I’ll expect a kickback.”

“That sounds fair.” She shrugged out of his grip, balancing the cocktail tray.

“I bet he’s a generous tipper, Sam,” the lawyer said as he placed two twenties on the bar and flicked his wrist for the bartender to keep the change. “You’ll need it for the Con Law texts alone.”

She gave him a wistful smile, not too encouraging, but not a complete shutdown, either. “Thanks…”

“Larry,” he supplied. “Maybe I’ll stop in before you start classes with some first-year pointers.”

“Great, Larry.” She forced a more encouraging smile. He looked like a nice guy. Dull as dry toast, but then he probably wouldn’t kick her in the heart with an… army boot. “You do that.”

She turned to peer into the main dining area, catching a glimpse of a party of six being led by the maître d’s second-in-command.

Joshua Sterling’s signature silver hair, prematurely gray and preternaturally attractive, glistened under the halogen droplights, hung to highlight the haute cuisine but casting a perfect halo over this particular patron.

It wasn’t just his tipping that interested Sam. The last time Boston’s favorite columnist had dined here, they’d gotten into a lively debate about the Innocence Mission, and he ended up writing a whole article in the Globe about the nonprofit. The Boston office where Sam volunteered had received a huge influx of cash because of that story.

“Good work, Keegan.” Sam offered a grateful smile to the maître d’, who had vacillated between pain in the ass and godsend since he’d started a few months ago. “Count on ten percent.”

He laid a wine list on her cocktail tray, threatening the delicate balance of the top-heavy martini glasses. “He tips on wine, so talk him into something from the vault. Make my cut fifteen