Face of Danger - Roxanne St. Claire

Roxanne St. Claire - The Guardian Angelinos #3 - Face of Danger

Face of Danger (The Guardian Angelinos #3)
Roxanne St. Claire



The Bunker Hill Bridge cast a long shadow over the sea of slate gray concrete bowls and ramps, the whine of traffic competing with the constant whirl of BMX and skate wheels on concrete. It was music to Vivi Angelino’s ears.

Trotting down the hill from one of the viewing areas, she scooped up a discarded napkin that had blown from the refreshment stand and popped it into the trash. Charles River Skate Park was her baby, and even the smallest piece of trash marred its perfection.

Switching her board from one hand to the other, she paused at the bottom of the half-pipe to watch as some kid attempted a five-forty McTwist. A thrum of empathetic exhilaration pulsed through her as the skater sailed into the air and spun gracefully into the move.

Vivi had yet to land the five-forty, but when she did it would be here, at the Boston park she’d spent every spare minute raising money and corralling support to build.

The McTwister wiped out right in front of her with a slam and a loud “Sonofabitch!”

Vivi walked over to help the kid up, offering knuckles to the failed skater. “You’ll get it.”

“Damn right I will,” he said, popping up even though his butt had to burn. “The McTwist is better than sex.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, half to herself as she checked out the top of the ramp. “Haven’t tried it yet.”

The cement reflected silver white in the rare winter sunshine, a gift on a Sunday in February, when the weather gods usually tortured Boston with snow.

The pipe was crowded, so she decided to cruise the park some more and give herself mental back pats for the all the hard volunteer work she’d done. All the years of trips to City Hall, all the presentations to council members, all the free time she’d sacrificed had been worth it to give the skaters of Boston a home for their passion. These kids, city rats most of them, had no idea how to rally politicians and city leaders to get what they wanted. But Vivi was older—though no less passionate about her pastime—and remembered how frustrating it could be to be a teenager with no voice.

So she’d been their voice, and this glorious jigsaw of concrete and grass was the result. She eyed the strategically placed viewing areas where parents and partners, newbs and wannabes looked out over the courses and—shit. Her heart dropped like a longboard on the eight-foot ramp.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

Assistant Special Agent in Charge Colton Lang stood with strong hands gripping the rail, broad shoulders tensed in determination, his relentless gaze sweeping over the ramps like a deadly sniper intent on finding his next victim.

Lang was the very last person she’d ever expect to see at Charles River Skate Park.

He’d only make fun of it. Tease her for being a little old for a skateboard.

Not that his opinion mattered. He was a client of her security and investigation firm, and this was a nonworking Sunday morning. Who cared if he saw her hanging at the park she had built?

She did. She cared too freaking much about everything that concerned Colt Lang. And that was her problem. Her dirty little secret problem.

So what the hell was this uptight white-bread FBI agent doing on her sacrosanct skate park grounds, wrecking her perfectly awesome Sunday morning? How could he have found her here?

And now he would see her with three inches of hair standing on end from her last trip down the vert pipe, her face damp with sweat, her clothes hanging off her like she’d grabbed them from her bedroom floor and stepped in without even glancing in the mirror. Because, well, she had.

But it doesn’t matter, right, Viviana? He’s just a client.


She stole another look, and saw him take his phone out of his pocket.

Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her—he’d have to have a really excellent eye to pick her up in this sea of skaters, every single one wearing the same uniform of baggy top and cargo pants, sunglasses, and helmet.

Inside the pocket of her cargo pants, her phone rang. Damn. He was calling her.

She turned, trying to use her board to shield herself as she slipped the phone out, hoping he wasn’t scanning the crowd to spot anyone answering a cell phone at that moment. It would be so like him to use that sneaky