The archangel clearly didn’t believe in putting his guests at ease.

But Elena wouldn’t call him a bad host—a table set with croissants, coffee, and orange juice sat in solitary splendor in the middle of the wide open space. Another look and she saw that the roof wasn’t bare concrete. It had been paved with dark gray tiles that glimmered silver under the sun’s rays. The tiles were beautiful and unquestionably expensive. An extravagant waste, she thought, then realized that to a being with wings, a roof was assuredly not a useless space.

Raphael was nowhere to be seen.

Putting her hand on the doorknob, she pulled open the glass door and walked out. To her relief, the tiles proved to have a rough surface—the wind was soft right now but she knew that this high, it could turn cutting without warning, and heels weren’t exactly stable at the best of times. She wondered if the tablecloth was bolted to the table. Otherwise, it would probably fly off and take the food with it sooner rather than later.

Then again, that might be a good thing. Nerves didn’t make for easy digestion.

Leaving her purse on the table, she walked carefully to the nearest edge . . . and looked down. Exhilaration raced through her at the incredible view of angels flying in and out of the Tower. They seemed almost close enough to touch, the temptation of their powerful wings a siren song.

“Careful.” The word was soft, the tone amused.

She didn’t jump, having felt the push of wind engendered by his near-silent landing. “Would they catch me if I fell?” she asked, without looking his way.

“If they were in the mood for it.” He came to stand beside her, his wings filling her peripheral vision. “You don’t suffer from vertigo.”