Heaven's Gift aka Kiss of an Angel

when it should have brought her joy. In a mortal lifetime she'd probably be ecstatic, but as a spiritual being, she'd been told an emotion as intense as passionate love wasn't possible. Her Superior had been wrong; so very wrong.

She'd done the unpardonable by making love with J.T., her only defense being that with him she experienced a connection so undeniably perfect and powerful in its magnetism, she couldn't deny the fierce longing to blend hearts and souls so irrevocably they meshed into one entity. She'd done that and more. Much, much more. Her face flamed when she recalled the wicked things he'd done to her, and her sensually uninhibited response to him.

But to have actually fallen in love with J.T., a mortal, to have given him her heart and soul as she had, was a reprehensible act that would no doubt warrant severe punishments. She was already eternally matched, her spirit supposedly secured to her soulmate while she waited as a guardian angel to be joined with him. As hard as she tried, though, she couldn't recall her soulmate's face or the warmth of his soul, because the only thing filling her up inside was J.T.'s essence.

The picture she'd drawn reflected her jumbled emotions, swirling patches and broad strokes that created nothing more than confusion. With a moan of hopelessness, she drew her knees up and hugged her sketch pad to her chest. She tried to keep herself together when all she wanted to do was fall apart, or run back into J.T.'s arms, where she'd been so content, so fulfilled.

Heaven help her, what was she going to do about J.T.? When she returned from her mission and her Superior discovered she'd given her heart to another, what plausible excuse could she give? Her actions couldn't be explained as a moment of weakness, because she'd openly wanted J.T., had felt a link to him from the very beginning of her mission. She'd ached to be a part of him, but she'd never expected to fall in love with the man, the ultimate of mortal emotions.

She couldn't allow them to make love again, not that she believed J.T. would want to after she'd blurted out the special nickname Amanda had called him. She still couldn't figure out why she'd called him Johnny, why the name had slipped so naturally from her lips. Another piece of the ever-growing puzzle to tuck away. When she returned from her mission her Superior would have all the answers to the bizarre visions she'd had, to the feelings that made J.T. so much a part of her.

Resting her head on her knees, she drew in a breath to release the awful tightness constricting her chest. What hurt the most, she supposed, was the way J.T. had shut down after she'd accidentally called him Johnny. His cool remoteness had cut her to the soul like a blade. She'd wanted to cry out at the bleakness creeping back into his gaze, the loneliness churning in the depths of his eyes. But she understood his withdrawal. His heart and soul belonged to Amanda, his eternal soulmate.

Sorrow and sadness engulfed her, and she swallowed back uncharacteristic tears. There was no future for them. Ever. Once her mission was complete, she would leave J.T. behind to continue her work as a guardian angel. But the memory of the way their bodies had been joined in complete harmony would always remain a part of her, and she didn't know if she'd survive the sweet, aching memory of it all.

The sound of someone moving around in the room next to hers penetrated the walls and her thoughts. She guessed J.T. was getting ready to start the day, as she should be doing, but she couldn't drum up the energy to move. Facing him didn't hold much appeal, especially after the brusque way he'd escorted her to her bedroom and left her there to enter his.

She sighed heavily, reminding herself that no matter what happened between them, she still had a job to do. In a few minutes she'd get up, she told herself, just as soon as the crushing despair lifted from her heart.

Staring at his freshly shaven face in the bathroom mirror, J.T. berated himself for the hundredth time for being so thoughtless, so utterly careless while making love to Caitlan.

He hadn't protected her from conceiving a child. The alarming thought had hit him like a two-ton brick while he'd been taking a shower. Unbidden, memories of the tight, hot feel of Caitlan wrapped around him had taunted his mind. Deep inside she'd been silky soft and snug, exquisitely so, and with nothing separating them he'd given her every bit of himself. He'd burned with need, had forgotten everything but the taste and feel of her.

Nothing separating them. He'd never intended to make love to her when he'd followed her to the barn, but that didn't excuse his negligence. He knew better than to have unprotected sex.

Shoving away from the sink, he muttered a dark curse and strode into the adjoining bedroom to put on his boots. He jammed a foot into one boot, arranging his jeans over the top, and then the other.

He'd been careless once before, with Stacey, and the result had been less than ideal. Caitlan wasn't calculating or manipulative, like Stacey had been in her pursuit-quite the opposite, actually-but Caitlan wouldleave to go back to the city, and he didn't think she'd be too happy being burdened with a child.

His empty stomach churned with anxiety and twisting deeper was regret. He'd marry Caitlan if she turned up pregnant, but he knew she'd grow to resent him and his way of life, and worse, he'd never be able to give her the love she deserved. He just didn't have it in him. Hadn't he learned that with his attempt at marriage with Stacey?

And then there was the strange link between him and Caitlan to consider, the way she extracted need and longing from him, and a yearning for something more. That medallion of hers unnerved him, as if it held some kind of power to connect them. Twice he'd been affected by the damned thing when he'd touched the heated gold, experiencing an out-of-body sensation straight out of some sci-fi movie. And, most hauntingly, she'd called him Johnny, when no one had called him that since Amanda's death.

The other experiences could be written off as an active imagination, but how had she known his nickname? Standing, he shook off the niggling doubts settling over him. Maybe he didn't want to know.

Dressed and ready for the day ahead, J.T. left his bedroom, glancing toward Caitlan's closed door. A streak of light at the bottom of the door told him she was up, and he walked over and knocked lightly, wanting to get this awkward conversation about protection and pregnancy over with.

'Yes?' she answered softly.

'It's me. I need to talk to you.' He grimaced at the clipped tone of his voice and deliberately softened it. 'Can I come in?'

She didn't reply; not that he could blame her. He'd been anything but congenial on the walk back to the house from the barn. Guilt weighed down his conscience when he recalled how cold he'd been, and how he'd all but deserted her at her bedroom door without so much as a good night, an apology, a promise, a curse… nothing.

'Caitlan?'

'Go away, J.T.,' she said wearily. 'I'll be downstairs in a bit.'

Okay, he deserved that. He almost turned away, but a streak of stubbornness held him there. Testing the knob, he found it unlocked and slowly opened the door and looked inside.

She sat on the bed, knees pulled up under the covers, drawing on that pad of paper she coveted. Her hand stilled and she glanced up, but she didn't glare at him as he'd expected her to. Like he wished she would, so he wouldn't feel like such an ass. No, her features were delicately somber, her violet eyes wide and glossy. The bedside lamp haloed her dark tousled hair, and he detected a faint smudge of weariness beneath her bottom lashes. She looked extremely vulnerable, and achingly beautiful.

A sudden emptiness consumed him, leaving him emptier and more desolate than ever. As he held Caitlan's gaze, something elemental shifted within him, making him too susceptible to this woman who'd intrigued him from the very first. He denied his growing feelings for Caitlan, that he was coming to care for her in a way that he hadn't cared for anyone in a long time. She made him feel, and he couldn't afford to. Besides, she'd only get hurt.

Pushing aside the tenderness and warmth crowding their way into his heart, he stepped inside her room without an invitation and shut the door quietly, wanting privacy for their discussion.

She returned her attention back to her drawing, the tip of her pencil scratching across the paper. 'What do you want, J.T.?'

You. The word came without provocation; it was the absolute truth. All he wanted at that moment was to strip off his clothes and hers, push her back on the bed, and sink deep inside her, losing himself in her damp softness and heat. He wanted to see passion and desire flare in her eyes, wanted to experience again those ripples of pleasure that clutched him when she reached that crest.

He'd been right: once with her wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. God, he hated this weakness he had for her.