Angel walked over to the desk and sat down on its corner, careful not to bring disarray to the papers Three had meticulously arranged. Three frowned as he observed the ex-angel’s movements.
“Are you limping?” he demanded to know.
A soft blush blossomed on Angel’s face. He didn’t look at Three when he answered. “I slipped on a plastic champagne flute in the parking lot.”
Despite his carefully applied self-control, a groan escaped Three’s throat. It turned into a growl halfway. Angel looked up and into Three’s eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“You don’t need a devil, you need a nanny—or better yet, a bodyguard.”
The ex-angel froze momentarily. Then a change seemed to come over him, his muscles relaxed, his posture became, for lack of a better word, more angelic. He leaned forward until his nose
