Angel smiled to herself, hearing Derry’s soft teasing in the curt rhythms of the stranger’s voice.

“Derry is a tease, Mr. Hawkins. The people here are admiring stained glass, not me. But he was right about the rest. If he wants me to meet you, I will.”

“Just like that?” Hawk said sardonically. “You’d meet a stranger?”

The words sent a shiver of uncertainty over Angel’s skin. Hawk wasn’t teasing or really questioning her. His voice was hard, disdainful, the tone both dark and cold.

“Just like that,” Angel agreed quietly. “I’ll be at the Golden Stein in ninety minutes.”

“No. Now.”

“What?” asked Angel, not believing that she had heard correctly.

“Now, Angel.” Then, coldly, “Your Derry needs you.”

“But – ”

The line went dead.

Angel stared at the phone, confused and more than a little irritated. Hawk had been rude, demanding, and abrupt. There was also the fact that nobody called her Angel, not even Derry.

Angelina, yes. Angie, yes. Angel? Never. Only in the privacy of her own mind did Angel acknowledge that name, the name she had begun to call herself when she woke up in the hospital after surviving a wreck she’d had no right to survive.

A wreck she hadn’t really wanted to survive. Not at first. Not alone.

“Trouble?” asked Bill, standing at Angel’s elbow.

Angel looked up from the receiver. She replaced it very gently.

“I don’t know,” she said unhappily.

Then Angel turned away from both the phone and Bill. She bent over to remove her purse and lightweight black shawl from a desk drawer.

“Make my apologies, Bill.”

“Angelina, you can’t just walk out on your own show,” began Bill in a voice that tried to be reasonable.

“Derry needs me.”

“Your career needs you more!”

Angel looked out into the full gallery.

“They’re buying my stained glass, not me,” Angel said.