The Angel (The Original Sinners) (24 page)

But now she wanted to make him beg. And she would show him the
same mercy he showed her. None.

She found the rectory dark and silent. She heard no footsteps
inside, saw no lights burning through any windows. Where would he be if not at
home at this time of night? Once she’d asked herself the question, she knew the
answer. He could be anywhere. This priest did not play by the rules the Church
imposed upon him. He could be with a prostitute right now, with a lover. Or
worse, with another fifteen-year-old girl he’d seduced until she grew up and
loved him enough to dedicate every last one of her books to him.

Just in case he was home and asleep with all the lights off,
Suzanne knocked on the door. No answer. Then she pounded on it with the tip of
her shoe. A minute passed. Still nothing. The rage welled within her. Father
Stearns had no respect for the law obviously. Not if he’d slept with a teenage
Eleanor Schreiber. Why show him any respect?

Suzanne turned the doorknob and found the rectory unlocked.

She stepped inside and called out a tentative, “Hello.” With
every minute that passed, her blood throbbed heavier and harder in her veins. If
she didn’t calm down, she’d pass out. What if he was here? Watching her? Waiting
for her?

Calling upon all the instincts she’d learned working in war
zones, Suzanne took slow, deep breaths and willed her heart to calm itself. She
let the little bit of light from the moon flood her senses. She walked
carefully, trying to avoid the creaking of the ancient hardwood beneath her
feet.

If she was to find any evidence of his proclivities, she knew
they’d most likely be in his bedroom. Her stomach recoiled at the thought of
returning to that place, that room where she’d shamed herself so completely. Of
course he’d turned her down, turned her away that night. She was a grown woman,
not a fifteen-year-old girl. Not his type at all.

Up the stairs she crept, closing her eyes to allow her ears to
hear without the distractions of sight. At the end of the hall she came to his
bedroom and rested her hand on the doorknob. For the first time in what felt
like a thousand years she said a prayer, a real prayer.

Please, God. Don’t let him be
inside.

God answered the prayer.

Suzanne found the room empty and the bed neatly made. Cursing
herself for not bringing a flashlight, she reached out and turned on the small
antique lamp on the table. Soft yellow light infused the room. Really Father
Stearns’s bedroom was a thing of beauty—elegant and simple, clean and
unassuming. And yet everything in it—the bed, the furniture, the white
linens—spoke of refinement and taste. But she’d learned long ago how looks could
be deceiving.

Making a circuit of the room, Suzanne eyed every possible
hiding place. She had no idea what she was looking for. Young Eleanor Schreiber
had grown up long ago and become a notorious erotica writer—famous for her
prose, infamous for her personal life. She didn’t just write it. She lived it.
But did she do it here? In this bedroom? Suzanne had read all the books. The
kind of BDSM Nora Sutherlin practiced, or at least her characters, involved
equipment and lots of it. Suzanne spied a trunk at the end of Father Stearns’s
bed. An old-fashioned steamer trunk, it looked large enough to hold a body.
Kneeling in front of it, Suzanne examined the lock. She had no idea how to pick
it. She’d have to break it open. Maybe she could find something in Patrick’s
car. A practical sort, Patrick would surely have a toolbox or something in his
trunk. As she stood up she noticed a small box on the table next to the bed. No
larger than a Bible, the box appeared to be rosewood. She held it in her hands
and turned it over and over, tracing the intricately carved cross on the
surface.

This box too was locked, but with such a small lock she knew
she could break it open with her fingers. She took a deep breath, dug her nails
under the edge of the lock and began to pull.

From behind her she heard the creak of hardwood.

“Shall I get that for you,
ma
chérie?
”

18

Nora woke up in the dark in her bed at Griffin’s.
Stretching out under the covers, she massaged an ache in her lower back. Taking
turns with Griffin and Michael had been both erotic and exhausting. Of course,
her two boys had nothing on Søren and Kingsley. Together those two had given her
some of the most intense sexual experiences of her life. Tonight’s little play
hadn’t really been about sex, however. She’d enjoyed it. Who wouldn’t? But for
six weeks now she’d watched Griffin staring at Michael when Michael wasn’t
looking and Michael staring back at Griffin the second Griffin looked away. All
the angst-ridden pining had started to get to her. Those two needed to get their
shit together, man up and admit what they wanted, and get the fuck on with
it.

With a sigh, Nora sat up and rubbed her forehead. She found
Griffin sitting next to her in bed with his chin resting on his knee. Next to
Griffin, Michael lay sound asleep on his stomach with the covers tucked up under
his chin.

Nora rested her head against Griffin’s strong bicep. He reached
out and laid a hand on her leg in a gesture of pure and simple friendship.

“That bad, huh?” she whispered. Griffin’s eyes were trained on
Michael and didn’t glance away even to look at her.

Slowly Griffin nodded.

“Yeah…that bad.”

For a moment she said nothing, merely watched Griffin watching
Michael.

“It’s weird,” Griffin said. “Did you notice he’s clinging to
the sheets like his life depended on it?”

Nora grinned. Michael always bunched his fingers into the
sheets when sleeping.

“I know. I teased him about it.” Nora raised her hand and ran
her fingers through Griffin’s hair. His darks eyes glanced her way once before
looking again at Michael. “He said he thought his subconscious worried that
gravity would be revoked in the middle of the night. He wanted to be
prepared.”

Griffin covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. But the laugh
quickly faded and Nora saw no mirth in his eyes anymore.

“I can’t have him.” Griffin stretched out his hand and let his
fingers hover an inch or two above Michael’s bare shoulder blade before pulling
his hand back and leaving Michael untouched. “Søren—”

“Søren is protective of Michael. But he’s not some kind of
monster you can’t reason with. Go talk to him.”

Griffin finally turned and met her eyes full-on.

“Talk to Søren? Yes, as if that ever worked for me before.
He’ll say no, and even if he didn’t, Mick’s dad…his dad would kill him if he got
involved with another guy. The stuff he’s told me about his father… Nora, that
bastard actually hit Mick. Hit him. God, it makes me…”

Griffin’s jaw tightened and his hand curled into a fist. Nora
knew in his mind Griffin was exacting beautiful revenge on Michael’s
conservative homophobic asshole of a father. She, like Søren, didn’t condone any
kind of violence except of the consensual bedroom variety. But somebody would
eventually have to teach Michael’s father a lesson or two about how to treat a
kid like Michael. Preferably a lesson that didn’t land Michael’s father in the
hospital and Griffin in jail.

“I know. I understand, Griff. I do. But—”

“But nothing. I want him so much it hurts. Like physically
hurts, Nora. And not just sex. It isn’t that. I can’t explain what it is but I
just…”

“Wesley,” Nora said and stopped. Where had that come from?
Griffin looked at her.

“Wesley?”

She smiled but the smile didn’t reach her eyes or touch her
heart.

“Wesley…he has this problem. Type 1 diabetic. Scared the shit
out of me, that kid did with his needles and his blood-testing. Every single
night, I’d have to look in on him when he was sleeping. I can barely sleep at my
own house anymore because he’s not there to keep me up at night. Which makes no
sense at all.”

“No,” Griffin said. “It makes perfect sense.” He glanced up at
Nora again. “Does this ever go away?”

Something wet and warm ran down her face, and she swiped it off
with her forearm.

“No,” she whispered. “Never.”

* * *

Suzanne gasped and spun around. Standing in the doorway
of Father Stearns’s bedroom was a man she’d never seen before. Tall and
frighteningly handsome, he had shoulder-length dark brown hair, near-black eyes
and a Mediterranean complexion.

“Who are you?” she demanded, stepping back but finding her way
of escape barred by the bed.

“I suppose I should ask you that. After all, I am allowed to be
here. I’m not certain you could say the same.
Oui?
Non?
”

He spoke in beautiful English tinged with an unmistakable
French accent. He stepped across the threshold and for the first time she
noticed his clothes. He wore black trousers and a black vest embroidered with
some sort of beautiful swirling silver pattern, a white shirt with the sleeves
rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, and knee-high riding boots.

“I’m…” she began. “I was…”

“You are Suzanne Kanter, the reporter who has been dogging my
dear friend’s steps for two months now. Twenty-eight years old. A freelance
journalist who usually spends her days in war zones. I don’t see any wars
anywhere.”

“Then you aren’t looking hard enough,” she countered.

“Congratulations on graduating cum laude from your journalism
school. A wonderful phrase—cum laude. I’ve always thought it should refer to
something else.”

“How do you know so much about me?”

The man smiled, a roguish, dangerous smile that set every nerve
in her body on end.

“My name is Kingsley Edge.”

Suzanne gasped and tried to take another step back and nearly
fell onto the bed in the process.

“From your reaction,” he said, coming closer, “I will assume
you’ve heard of me.”

“I’m a reporter. Of course I’ve heard of you. You destroyed a
friend of mine. Gwendolyn Black? Remember that name? You put a sex tape on
repeat on every computer in her son’s school. She’s been in therapy for two
years because of what you pulled.”

Kingsley shrugged.

“
Pas moi.
I was in Tahiti at the
time. Although I did hear about that unfortunate incident. Pity. But still…she
was attempting to make a name for herself by exposing the private life of a man
who’d never hurt a fly, a human-rights lawyer who’d saved thousands of lives and
put dozens of murderers behind bars. Your friend thought his interest in
alternative sexual experiences meant he did not deserve his privacy. I disagree.
And so did someone else apparently.”

“Someone else who worked for you.”

Kingsley Edge only grinned.

“Perhaps.”

Suzanne stared at him in silence as she tried to formulate an
escape plan, or an attack plan if that failed. So much time in war zones had
taught her how to defend herself. But she had no weapons on her, and Kingsley
Edge, despite his relaxed posture and elegant attire, definitely had a dangerous
air. She’d seen generals in their dress uniforms at cocktail parties who looked
more deadly than infantrymen in their desert BDUs. Kingsley Edge had that look
about him too. Something in the eyes. Something glinting and fearless. He looked
like a man who’d seen so much blood he had the Grim Reaper on speed dial.

“You’re afraid of me,” he finally said as he took another step
into the room. “You don’t have to be, Suzanne.”

“Everyone’s afraid of you. Everyone in my world.”

He grinned and the smile overtook his face and rendered him so
handsome she could scarcely breathe.

“Then come into my world for a little while and you won’t have
to be afraid.”

“What…” She looked around. “What are you doing in Father
Stearns’s bedroom? Hell, in his house?”

“He was called away. One of his parishioners is dying. The
family needs him. He might not return for a day or more.”

“So what? You’re here to water the plants?”

He laughed, a deep, warm, rich laugh. A fearless laugh.

“I like to get away from the city sometimes. From the phone
that won’t stop ringing. The endless decisions I have to make. The senator’s son
wants to bottom tonight but his favorite dominatrix is with the famous lead
singer. My tailor is out of the country, and I need a new suit for the slave
auction. And I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to properly violate my lovely
Juliette in days.”

“Juliette?”

“My secretary.” He sighed luxuriously with a put-upon air.

“Poor you.”

He nodded.

“My life is
difficile
. I come here
for some silence.”

“You just like breaking into the houses of priests?”

“I was invited. I am family, after all.”

Suzanne’s eyes went wide with shock.

“Harrison…” The pieces started to fall into place. “You?” She
nearly shouted the question. “You’re the French brother-in-law?”

“
Oui.
That box that fascinated
you.” He nodded at the carved rosewood box. “You wish to open it?”

“I do. But it’s locked. Can you open it?”

Exhaling heavily, Kingsley reached out and took the box from
her hands. He pulled a small set of keys from a pocket in his vest, stuck one in
the lock and turned.

“You women…all of you are Pandora. You cannot leave well enough
alone, can you? Here.” Kingsley gave her the now unlocked box back. “There’s the
answer to your mystery.”

With shaking fingers she opened the lid. Inside on a bed of
bloodred velvet lay two golden bands, one large, one small.

She pulled the smaller one out.

“Wedding rings?” she asked.

He nodded.

“That was my sister’s, my Marie-Laure. The other one was
his.”

Suzanne touched the larger band but didn’t take it from its bed
of velvet.

“I still can’t believe he was married before he was a priest.
He must have been so young.”

Crossing his arms, Kingsley leaned against the bedpost and
gazed out the dormer window.

“Neither can I sometimes. We were just children playing foolish
children’s games. We were at school together,
le
prêtre
and I. Marie-Laure and I were separated after our parents
died—I was only fourteen and sent to stay with my American grandparents. She
came to visit…I was then seventeen, he was eighteen. She barely twenty-one. I
couldn’t stand to lose her again, but she did not have dual citizenship as I
did. He married her to keep her here. He married her for me.”

“He didn’t love her?”

“He tried. For her sake. When she realized that he would never
feel for her what she felt for him…”

“I know she died. I’m sorry.”

“She didn’t die,” he said, meeting her eyes again. “She killed
herself.”

Suzanne nearly dropped the box.

But she held on to it despite her shaking hands.

“I’m…I’m so sorry, Mr.—”

“You may call me Kingsley. Or sir. Or monsieur. But please do
not call me Mr. Edge.” He rolled his eyes and laughed again. The reaction seemed
so incongruous to their topic that she laughed too out of sheer confusion.

“Okay, Kingsley. I’m sorry about your sister. My brother,
he—”

“I know.” Kingsley said the words softly, kindly, and with a
look of the profoundest sympathy in his eyes.

“Right. Of course you know.... So you and Father Stearns…you’re
related.”

“By a long-gone marriage only. But we’ve remained friends all
these years. I daresay I know him better than anyone.”

“Better than Nora Sutherlin?”

Kingsley raised his eyebrow and took the box from her hand.
Carefully he arranged the two wedding bands back on the velvet before closing
and locking the lid once more.

“He said she knows him better than anyone.”

Something in Kingsley’s eyes went cold and deadly at her words,
and Suzanne immediately regretted them.

“What he says and what is the truth are not always the same
thing. He may seem omniscient but where she is concerned…well, have you ever
heard the phrase
willful ignorance?
”

“They’re lovers, aren’t they?” Suzanne asked, hoping to shock
him into answering.

Kingsley only laughed.

“Ah…Pandora never learns. Does it matter if they are?
Really?”

“Of course it matters,” Suzanne said, rage welling up inside
her. “He’s her priest. Has been her priest since she was fifteen. If he’s been
sleeping with her, or was when she was a kid? Hell yes, it matters. Only a
monster would do that. A sexual predator. A—”

Kingsley raised his hand and shook his head.

“You have no idea who he is, Suzanne. If you judge him by his
actions, you will never know him.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“That makes no sense. There’s no way to judge any man except by
his actions.”

“You see only a sliver of the truth. And a lie can tell you
more than a partial truth.”

Suzanne took a deep breath.

“Then tell me all. You say you know him better than anyone. I
want to know him too.”

Kingsley set the box back down on the bedside table and stepped
toward her until he stood so close a whisper couldn’t even slip between
them.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.” He raised his hand to her
face and caressed the arch of her cheekbone with his fingertips. “Trying to know
him is like wrestling with God. You remember what happened to Jacob, no? He
grappled with God and limped away the next morning.”

Suzanne nodded slowly.

“I’ve been limping since the day Adam died. Please…I know you
can help me.”

Gently Kingsley pressed a kiss on her face right by her
ear.

“I can help you. But I give nothing away. If you want to cross
the river Styx, you must pay your coin to Charon.”

“I don’t have a lot of money. Just a reporter.”

“I have more money than I know what to do with. It isn’t your
money I desire.” Kingsley’s hand dropped to her neck. He pressed his thumb
lightly into the hollow of her throat. “But if you are willing to pay, I am
willing to answer.”