The Angel (The Original Sinners) (10 page)

“Holy shit,” Griffin breathed, his dark eyes widening at the
sight of Michael.

“Yeah,” Nora said, smiling back at Michael. “Number two—Michael
is absolutely, completely, ridiculously beautiful.”

“Nora…” Griffin said in a distressed voice. “I think I’m in
love.”

“You’re in heat, Griff. Big difference. Oh, and number
three…Søren says you can’t fuck him.”

Skipping down the steps, Nora left a speechless Griffin behind
her. She grabbed Michael and pulled him into her arms.

“Hey, Angel,” she said, kissing him on the lips. “How was the
trip?”

“Bizarre,” Michael whispered. “There was a guy in the backseat.
In riding boots. We dropped him off at Father S’s.”

“Oh, that was just Kingsley. He likes to inspect the new
recruits. Did he hit on you? Ask you if you’ve ever had sex in the back of a
Rolls Royce?”

“Um, yeah,” Michael confessed, blushing. “But I didn’t—”

“Good,” Nora said. “You passed inspection. Go say hello to
Griffin while I make out with your driver.”

Nora bodily spun Michael, aimed him toward the steps and
slapped him on his jeans-clad bottom. Robin, one of her and Søren’s favorite
submissives from The 8th Circle, stepped out of the driver’s seat in her chic
gray chauffeur’s costume complete with driving hat and leather gloves.

“I love a woman in uniform,” Nora said, giving Robin a long,
thorough kiss. From the top of the steps, Nora heard applause. She pulled back
from the pretty submissive and saw Griffin clapping and Michael gaping. Michael
looked at Griffin, who looked at Michael. Michael looked at her. Griffin kept
looking at Michael.

Nora groaned. “Robin, take me back to the city with you.”

“I’m sorry, mistress. Mr. King said I wasn’t allowed. Oh, and
Mr. S has a message for you.”

“What, pray tell, is Mr. S’s message?” Nora asked, already
dreading whatever message Søren decided to pass on to her through an
underling.

“He wanted me to ask you if you still had that note he left for
you? The one that said ‘Do not open until instructed’?”

“Yes. I still have it. What about it?”

“He said you still can’t open it.”

Nora nodded. “Fine. Great. Wonderful. You can tell Mr. S that
he can take his note and shove it up—”

“Nora?” Griffin called down to her. “Kiss Robin again. I want
to get a pic.”

Nora rubbed her forehead. Long summer ahead. Too long.

Nora shook Robin’s hand goodbye, a move that led to booing from
the peanut gallery at the top of the steps. Robin got into the Rolls and drove
off, leaving Nora alone with a timid teenage boy and a horny Griffin.

Looking up at the blue sky above her, Nora sent up a quick
prayer to St. Mary Magdalen, patron saint of ex-prostitutes, and St. Jude,
patron saint of lost causes. Her prayer consisted of one word.

“Help.”

* * *

Suzanne took a deep breath and whispered one word to
herself—“Afghanistan.”

An odd mantra, but it worked for her. She’d been in Afghanistan
for the past three months, and in that desolate, broken country, she’d eaten
fear and slept with courage. Lieutenant Hatton, the handsome Texan who always
called her Red—IED took his right arm. Staff Sergeant Zimmerman, the New York
Jew who couldn’t stop flirting with her—a bullet to the sternum. And Private
First Class Goran, the shy North Dakotan with a one-year-old daughter back
home—a bullet to the brain. His own.

She’d seen all of it. Witnessed horrors she could barely recall
because her mind had done such a good job of burying the visuals so deep even
she couldn’t find them. No one really understood why she did what she did, not
even her really. In college when she decided to major in journalism, her advisor
told her she had the looks to be a top-notch weathergirl. Her impressive
intelligence could get her far, he’d said. But a face and body as choice as hers
could take her anywhere she wanted to go. And he’d grabbed her ass and told her
exactly where he wanted her to take it. Instead she took it to the dean and got
the tenured, award-winning professor canned. As he cleaned out his office, she
knocked on his door, smiled at him and said, “Cloudy with a chance of fired,”
before walking off. Weathergirl her ass. A man who couldn’t keep his hands to
himself had been the death of her brother Adam. Her advisor had been the first
abusive man with too much power she’d taken out. Father Stearns might be
next.

“Afghanistan,” she repeated. She’d been in war zones. She could
do this. Suzanne changed into a reasonably nondescript black dress and pulled
her long red hair back into a knot. Earlier that day when she’d hit yet another
brick wall attempting to dig up anything on Father Stearns, she’d decided she
had no choice but to meet the man. Scanning Sacred Heart’s website she found
that Father Stearns presided over Thursday evening mass. Purposefully she hadn’t
told Patrick about her trip to Wakefield. He worried about her, worried she’d
get hurt. “Afghanistan,” she told him every time he started to patronize her. He
chased cheating politicians around the Upper East Side. She covered war zones.
That usually shut him up.

Before leaving, Suzanne slipped into a pair of plain black
flats. At five-nine in bare feet, Suzanne stood as tall as most men she knew.
The priests of her childhood were all small men, old and weak. She wanted this
priest to feel comfortable around her, comfortable enough to talk. Intimidating
him with her height wouldn’t help the situation.

Being a city girl to the core, Suzanne didn’t own a car.
Luckily Patrick did, and he trusted her just enough to let her borrow it. Either
that or he really did want her back and would use any means to get in her good
graces. Using Google Maps she found Sacred Heart Catholic Church a scant five
minutes before Thursday evening Mass was due to start. She raced from the car
and into the sanctuary, taking a seat near the back where she could lurk
unnoticed. Once inside and seated, Suzanne took the opportunity to look around
and get her bearings. Digging in her bag, she pulled out her little steno pad
and flipped it open.

Beautiful sanctuary,
she wrote.
Stained-glass windows depicting Christ’s miracles,
traditional architecture—Richardsonian Romanesque maybe? Choir loft above
me, seats about 300 people. Truly gorgeous church. I fucking hate it
here.

She hadn’t sat in a Catholic Church in years, not since Adam
died. Even before that she’d given up on the church, on her childhood faith, on
prayer. Any God who could let the sort of evil she’d witnessed happen on His
watch wasn’t a God she wanted any part of. And since there didn’t seem to be any
other gods out there doing any better, she’d just given up on the concept
altogether. She didn’t miss Him or It one bit.

Suzanne stiffened with nervousness as a hymn she hadn’t heard
in a million years began and filled the sanctuary. For a 5:30 p.m. evening mass,
an impressive number of people were in attendance, almost a hundred by her
estimate. Well, if Father Stearns had made the short list to be a bishop so
comparatively young, he must have something going for him. Maybe he was one of
those liberal theologians who did a lot of social work. Or maybe the church had
a fairly active youth group or music ministry. Or maybe…

Suzanne’s body rose from her pew as her heart plummeted through
the floor. Shock came first and gave way to disbelief. Disbelief lasted but a
moment before suspicion reared its head.

Never before in her life had Suzanne seen a man more
strikingly, viscerally handsome. Blond, incredibly blond, and so tall she could
have worn five-inch stilettos on her feet without fear of even meeting him eye
to eye.

The vestments, the white collar…it had to be him. But how could
a Catholic priest be so… She couldn’t even find the right word. Attractive?
Beautiful? Desirable?

Still staring, Suzanne nearly forgot to sit down with the rest
of the congregation. She’d chosen her seat carefully hoping to go unnoticed in
the crowded middle of the sanctuary. But as Father Stearns came up to the altar
he cast his eyes across his people and let them rest on her for a long,
deliberate moment.

As his gaze touched her, Suzanne felt something stirring in the
recesses of her stomach, something that formed a tight knot and sunk in deep and
hard. Her hands went numb. Her skin flushed. Even her toes tingled in her plain
black flats. For the first time in over a decade, for the first time since Adam
died, she felt compelled to release one tiny desperate prayer under her
breath.

“Oh…my…God.”

7

If Michael didn’t worship the ground Nora walked on,
he’d probably kill her. From what he could tell, Griffin’s
horse-house-mansion-farm, as Nora called it, had about a billion rooms. And of
all those one billion rooms, she was forcing Michael to sleep here. She’d left
Griffin in the grand foyer while she’d escorted him to his room. His room in
the—

“The nursery?” Michael asked in horror.

“Isn’t it cute? Griffin said he spent half of his childhood up
here. This is his old room. There’s no crib anymore. It’s been redecorated.”

“It’s the nursery,” Michael reiterated, feeling about five
years old. Nora merely batted her eyelashes at him and kissed his cheek.

“Get settled in. I’ll be back for you later so we can start
training.”

With that she flounced out of the room—an impressive feat
considering her tight skirt and low-cut shirt weren’t even remotely flouncy—and
left him alone.

Michael stood in the middle of the nursery and decided it
wasn’t as bad as the name implied. In fact, the room, suite actually, was pretty
impressive. In an arched alcove sat a sumptuous-looking full-size bed. A big bay
window looked out onto a huge inground swimming pool. The pool…perfect, Michael
thought, mentally draining it. Deep with perfectly sloped sides. He dreamed of
skateboarding in swimming pools like that.

“She’s fucking with your head.”

Michael turned toward the voice and saw Nora’s friend Griffin
standing in the doorway. Never before had Michael seen anyone quite like
Griffin. Really tall and handsome and obviously all muscle, Griffin had hair
that was kind of long but still spiked up in a way he’d only seen on male models
with their own hair stylists. He had a slight crook in his nose as though it had
been broken once and not fixed right. Instead of marring his appearance, it made
him look more interesting, as if he’d really lived. He seemed young though. Too
young to own a house this big and old. Michael guessed he was in his late
twenties, if that.

“Nora is,” Griffin continued when Michael didn’t answer. “With
the nursery thing.”

Michael nodded and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“So she wasn’t kidding about you not talking,” Griffin said,
coming into the room with Michael’s big army-green duffel bag over his shoulder.
Michael nearly buckled under the weight of it but Griffin carried it like a
backpack.

“Sorry,” Michael said. Earlier he’d been able to squeak out a
hello to Griffin before they both got distracted at the sight of Nora kissing
his driver.

“Better.” Griffin nodded his approval. “One word is better than
no words.”

Michael tried to think of something to say, something a rich,
handsome guy like Griffin would want to hear from him. He came up blank.

“Where do you want your stuff?” Griffin asked.

“Anywhere,” Michael said. Griffin gave him a stern look.

“You give me more than one word or I’m keeping your stuff,”
Griffin warned.

“On the bed?” Michael offered.

Griffin held up one hand and ticked off something on his
finger. “That’s five words total. Fabulous.”

Michael laughed and blushed a little. He held up his own hand
and ticked off two fingers.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Griffin said.

Pausing, Michael counted again on his fingers. He held up both
hands.

“Ten words?” Griffin guessed and Michael nodded.

“Thanks for letting me stay here. Your house is awesome.”

“You’re welcome. The mistress and her friends, Søren excluded,
are always welcome here.”

Michael smiled.

“Do you like the room?” Griffin asked.

“It’s really nice. For a nursery.”

“It’s an English nursery, not an American nursery. Suite of
rooms in a big damn house to hide the kids. No Winnie-the-Pooh anywhere, I
promise. Actually,” Griffin said, looking around his old room, “I think it was
Noah’s ark when I was a baby. I’ve never gotten that, you know?”

“Gotten what?” Michael asked, unable to stop following Griffin
with his eyes. Griffin was twice his size. Usually big muscular guys intimidated
him. His father certainly used his large size to make everyone around him feel
scared and small. For a dominant into kink, Griffin actually seemed really safe
and friendly.

“Noah’s ark nursery decor. I’m not religious like you and the
mistress, but if I’m not mistaken Noah’s ark was about the destruction of the
entire world, right?”

“Right,” Michael agreed.

“Might as well decorate with the Four Horsemen of the
Apocalypse.”

Shrugging, Michael looked at the walls now painted an elegant
light blue.

“Kids like ponies.”

Griffin turned around and stared at him before bursting into
laughter.

“She didn’t tell me you were funny,” Griffin said, smiling at
him. Michael blinked. Griffin had the kind of smile that shone so bright and
white it made your eyes water.

“I didn’t know I was.”

“You are,” Griffin said, still staring at him. Michael flushed
a little under the scrutiny. Nora did the intense staring thing too; so did
Father S. Must be a dominant thing. Only reason Michael could come up with why a
guy like Griffin would look at him so keenly. “Anyway,” Griffin continued as he
seemed to remember something. “The mistress sent me to do your checklist. She
thought you’d be more comfortable doing it with another guy. Your checklist, I
mean.”

“Checklist?”

“A lot of doms do checklists with their partners before doing
kink. That way the dom knows beforehand what you want and what you don’t. Helps
prevent subby from having a freak-out in the middle of a scene. You know, don’t
want to accidentally do cage-play with an ex-POW.”

“Whoops,” Michael agreed.

“Exactly. So get comfortable. This thing is like ten fucking
pages long,” Griffin said, throwing himself into the bay window seat and
crossing his legs. In his loose-fitting khakis and white shirt, he looked like a
well-groomed beach bum. Michael looked around for a chair. Not seeing any he
decided to behave like the submissive he was and just sit on the floor.

Once again Griffin stopped and stared at him. Michael hugged
his knees to his chest and tucked his long hair behind his ears. It made him a
little uncomfortable the way Griffin looked at him. But uncomfortable in a way
he kind of liked.

“Right, okay,” Griffin said, pulling a sheaf of papers and a
pen out of his back pocket. “Easy enough. Everything’s on a one-to-five
scale—one meaning it turns you on as much as kissing your grandmother and five
meaning it makes you spray your shorts just thinking about it. Doesn’t matter if
you’ve done it or not—just if you want to do it. First category—sex.”

“Five,” Michael answered.

Griffin grinned at him. “That was just the category. But I like
your enthusiasm, Mick.”

“Mick?”

“Can I call you Mick? Michael’s too formal. I’m not formal.
You’re lucky I’ve even got pants on today.”

Michael mulled it over. No one had ever called him anything
other than Michael except for his father, who’d called him Mikey as a kid—a
nickname Michael loathed. And Nora called him Angel. But she was Nora. She could
call him anything.

“I like it,” Michael decided and smiled.

While skimming the pages of the checklist, Griffin muttered
something that sounded to Michael like “assassinate the Pope for this.” Michael
decided he must have misheard.

“Category one,” Griffin continued, “on a scale of one to
five…vaginal sex?”

“Five.”

“Agreed. Oral sex?”

“Five.”

Griffin looked at him before dropping his eyes to his notes
again.

“Even better. Anal sex?”

Michael coughed. “Five.”

“Multiple partners?”

Michael looked down at his wrists and checked that his watch
and wristband completely covered his scars.

“Five.”

“Threesomes?”

“Five.”

Michael didn’t look up but he could feel Griffin’s curious eyes
on him.

“Two women and one man?”

“Five.”

“Two men and one woman?”

Michael shifted on the floor and didn’t look up at Griffin. It
took him a long time to answer.

* * *

Five minutes after Thursday evening Mass ended, Suzanne
stood outside of Sacred Heart in the shade of a willow tree and watched Father
Stearns.

Gorgeous. The priest, her target, was absolutely gorgeous. The
congregation filed out of the front doors and greeted their priest in the warm
evening air. With the men he exchanged handshakes. From most of the women he
received light, chaste hugs. Every child received a touch on the top of the head
like a tiny blessing. Every child but one.

A young boy of about six or seven with unruly black hair
stormed up to Father Stearns and turned an angry face up to the priest.

“Owen, I’ve already told you—” Father Stearns began but the
small boy wouldn’t let him finish.

“It’s not fair,” he said, stamping his tiny foot. “I want to
say thank-you. You have to tell me—”

“Owen,” Father Stearns said, bending low to meet the boy eye to
eye. “You know priests aren’t allowed to tell secrets. The person who gave you
your tuition money asked me not to tell you.”

Suzanne stiffened at the sight of the little boy, Owen, and the
priest standing so close together. At least the boy didn’t seem intimidated by
Father Stearns. She already was.

Owen raised his little fist, narrowed his eyes and growled.

“Young man, did you just growl at me?”

The boy looked immediately contrite.

“Maybe,” he confessed, wrinkling his face up.

“Clearly you’ve been spending too much time with your Miss
Ellie. She growls at me too.”

At the mention of the mysterious Miss Ellie, Owen’s anger fell
from his face.

“When’s she coming back?” Owen said. “I did a new painting for
her.”

“I can’t say,” Father Stearns said, standing back up to his
full height again. “She may be gone for some time.”

Owen nodded and stared down at his shoes.

“I miss her,” the boy said, digging the toes of his sneakers
into the grass.

Father Stearns sighed and tapped the boy on the top of his
head.

“As do I.”

Owen ran off at that, and Suzanne realized she finally had an
opening. Nervously she strode up to Father Stearns and plastered on her best
attempt at a weathergirl grin.

“Father Marcus Stearns?”

He turned to her with the slightest smile on the edge of his
lips.

“Very nice to see a new face at Sacred Heart. How do you do,
Miss…?” he began and extended his hand.

Suzanne froze momentarily before remembering she was
undercover. She held out her hand and let him take it. He had perfect hands,
sculpted like a statue’s. Smooth, warm skin but strong, very strong, although he
gripped her fingers lightly. He grasped her hand like a man who knew his own
strength, knew how to command and control it.

“Kanter,” she supplied. “Suzanne Kanter. I’m very well, thank
you,” she said, answering etiquette with etiquette as she pulled her hand back.
“I enjoyed the Mass.”

“I’m glad to hear it. What brings you to Sacred Heart?” he
asked, his voice curious but not suspicious. Suzanne decided to press her luck a
little and see if she could get a reaction out of him.

“Nothing very pious. You see, I heard a rumor that Nora
Sutherlin attends church here. I’m a big fan so I thought I’d drop in. But I
didn’t see anyone who looked like a famous writer.”

“She is difficult to miss,” he said, his small smile widening
just slightly. “Usually we are graced with her presence but she’s on something
of a sabbatical this summer.”

“Too bad. I have to say I’m impressed your church would be so
welcoming to her. I’ve read a few of her books. Sinful stuff.”

Suzanne saw something flash in his eyes. Surprise maybe? Or was
it mirth?

“It was Christ’s way to welcome sinners and tax collectors and
other nefarious characters into His company and His Kingdom. On His especially
compassionate and generous days he would even speak to reporters.”

His smile changed again. Now pure irony graced his lips.

“How did you—” she began, shocked into near speechlessness.

“You were taking notes during the Mass. Only an Evangelical
Protestant or a reporter would bother taking notes during a homily or sermon,
especially one of mine. And after twenty years in the priesthood, I can spot a
lapsed Catholic at a thousand yards.”

“Is that so?”

“You stand and sit at the appropriate times without looking
lost. You called me Father comfortably, not Pastor or Reverend. And you have a
distinctly Catholic look in your eyes.”

“What Catholic look?”

“Guilt.”

Suzanne stood up straighter, refusing to let him see he’d
rattled her. After all, she didn’t see one iota of guilt in his eyes.

“Okay, yes. Guilty. Reporter and ex-Catholic,” she said,
painting on an even wider fake smile.

“We do see the occasional lapsed Catholic here but not many
reporters,” he said, his tone conversational. “I assure you nothing noteworthy
had happened lately. I haven’t performed an exorcism in, well, weeks.”

Suzanne looked at him a long, confused moment.

“You aren’t what I expected,” she said, dispensing with all
pretense.

“Considering what the common perception of the clergy is these
days, I shall take that as a compliment. You’ll have to forgive me, Ms. Kanter.
I have my people to attend to. But my office is always open. Something tells me
you have some questions for me.”

“Yes. A lot more of them than I originally thought.”

“Then I shall see you again soon. Good day to you.”

With a polite nod he left her to join a group of men who had
apparently been waiting to speak to him as well. Suzanne followed him with her
eyes as he walked away. That had not gone as planned. Not even close.