Grave Stones

by Calinda B

  How long must it have been since he released his urges? Since he was a teen? She licked her lips. The space between her legs throbbed with longing. She may as well have held a checkered flag to wave him past the finish line into her “pit stop.” Mentally, she smiled at the image. He’s not the first priest to question celibacy. Or, accidentally act on it. Remembering the parish priest in her neighborhood in Dublin whose “housekeeper” was basically his wife in all but name, she frowned. That man tried to keep it all a secret but everyone knew. She pictured herself pretending to tend house for Father Ward—which would never happen in a million years since I barely keep my own house clean—while she enjoyed life as his clandestine consort. I can see it. Him pounding into me with his tight ass and muscles. Oh, I want to do more than see it. A smile curved along her face.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Miss Finn.”

  “What?” She blinked up at him.

  He studied her intently, with his piercing green-eyed gaze, his face framed by stormy skies. His dark brown locks swirled around his head, tossed by the frenetic wind.

  Her cheeks grew hot, despite the frigid air surrounding her. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

  “It sure looked like something.” He cocked his head and quirked his mouth into a half-smile. “But, from the pink of your cheeks, it’s best you keep whatever you are thinking to yourself.” His attention diverted toward the village. “And I’d best practice a modicum of decorum.” He removed his arm from her shoulders.

  The warmth from being close to him was quickly replaced by the nip of the biting wind. She hugged herself. “Yes, put on your best grave face.” Her cheeks grew hotter. “I mean, serious face. Never mind.”

  She hurried ahead of him.

  Twenty minutes later, they approached the crime scene, her in the lead. Siobhan was nowhere to be seen. A few villagers lingered on the sidewalk in front of the house, no doubt finding this gruesome occasion the highlight of their existence.

  They hushed and turned in unison at the squeaking wheels of the gurney, which carried a sheet-covered body. The Medical Examiner, cloaked from head to toe in protective blue gear, pushed it. Two uniformed Garda strode behind, their faces grim.

  Garda Galbraith shuffled behind the other Garda.

  Lassi paused.

  Cillian stopped next to her, keeping at least a meter of space between them.

  “There you are,” Garda Galbraith said, stepping past the gurney.

  “Here I am,” she said with a shrug. “Any clues yet?”

  He released his hand from the steel edge and held it up to stop the procession. His breathing was labored, like he’d hiked the Wicklow mountains. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his sweaty brow. “Where did you go? I told you I needed you for questioning.”

  “For what? I didn’t do anything.” Her chest jutted at him, like she was itching for a fight.

  “Lassi.” Cillian’s hand landed on her arm. “She was clearly upset by the sight of poor Dylan,” he said to Galbraith. “You saw her. She was in such a panic I had to walk with her to get her to calm down.”

  It took everything she had not to snort and roll her eyes at the utterly ridiculous and unbelievable excuse. I’m a nurse. I deal with blood, guts, gore, and screaming women daily. But when she pictured the horrid image of Dylan holding his own tongue, she blanched and shook free of his grip.

  “That’s right, Galbraith. My heart was fluttering so.” She made small taps on her breastbone. “Like a scared rabbit, I was. The good Father ushered me away from here so I could get a hold of myself.” And then he plundered me with his sexy mouth and ground his priestly man-meat into my belly.

  Galbraith eyed her. Then he eyed Father Ward.

  One of the other Garda said, “Galbraith, let’s get this body loaded up and headed for the morgue. There are investigations to be had and an autopsy to perform.”

  “Right,” he said, his stony gray eyes pointed back in her direction. “Don’t you be going anywhere, Miss Finn. We may need you for...”

  The chill of fear washed through her. Lassi’s eyes widened. “For?”

  “Questioning.” Garda Galbraith puffed out his chest.

  “Oh, come on!” She threw up her hands. “This is ridiculous! You know I’m innocent. You’ve got it all wrong. I’ve been too busy with my great-aunt’s place to even think of doing something so... so...” She shuddered.

  Galbraith pinned his sharp-edged gaze on her. “All I’m saying is…stay put.”

  Anger exploded in her belly. “You know I didn’t do it. I’m innocent!” She gestured wildly, her hands flying. “And if you’re implying I can’t move freely around this fecking village, you’re mistaken.”

  “You’re a person of interest, that’s all I’m at liberty to say. Don’t leave the village.”

  “Galbraith! Get over here,” the medical examiner snapped.

  When Galbraith trundled out of sight, she hissed to Cillian. “This sucks. This whole thing. I should never have come to Bally.” She pulled a handful of her hair. “And, it’s a bloody good thing we’re both innocent, because you’re the most shite liar I’ve ever heard. Me, panic? I’d have been booted out of nursing school.”

  “I’ll work on it.” He skewered her with his gaze.

  “What, lying? First, you kiss me and now you want to lie? How is that representative of the cloth?” Her hands flew to her hips.

  He brought his finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. “The villagers are terrible gossips. Keep your voice down.” His eyes slid to the small group, a few yards away. When his attention was back on her, he said, loudly, “You poor thing. I think you need to be getting home to rest. This has been a shock for you.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  Galbraith, standing near the medic van, called, “Father Ward. Miss Finn.”

  Lassi stalked toward him, heedless of whether Cillian would follow. This whole day has turned into monkey balls.

  “These two are the Garda inspectors from Dungarvan. This is Moira Brown and Ryan Conway.”

  Lassi shook their hands, giving them a clinical once over.

  Plump Moira, with her iron-gray hair and disapproving-face, looked like the one to watch out for.

  Ryan was a young, skinny, ferret-faced fellow with oily hair and beady eyes. He seemed like the lesser evil.

  “I’ll do whatever I can to assist you in your investigation,” Lassi said, a tone of defiance leaking through her words.

  “Thank you,” Ryan said. “We’ll let you know if we need to talk with you.” He nodded and turned toward the other Garda.

  This whole experience—being a suspect, the murder, the people, the everything—became too much. A sudden, swirling light-headed sensation overtook her, like she was one heartbeat away from fainting. Fearing she might collapse in a heap, she did the only thing she could think of—she ran.

  Chapter 10

  Lassi left the village, Cillian, Galbraith, the fecking cow herd of villagers, and the murder scene and jogged back to Great-Aunt Roberta’s cottage. Get me out of here. She caught Cillian’s look of concern but she didn’t care. She needed space away from everyone. This village is a head case, nut job, pile of shite and monkey ball bonanza.

  When she got to the cottage, she slowed and marched straight to her sporty sedan. There, she opened the boot and began digging through the mess of clothes, shoes, weather-wear, and debris. I’ve got to take my blood pressure. I think it’s over the moon. Her movements grew frantic. Where are you? Then, she spied it: her leather satchel of medical supplies. She hauled it from the car, slammed the lid, and hustled inside, satchel in hand.

  As she opened the door, the angry tabby bolted past her legs.

  “Fecking cat,” she said, as she steadied herself against the wall to keep from falling to her knees.

  He crouched in the hall and hissed at her, his ears plastered to his head.

  She ignored him and beelined for the sofa. Settling onto the lumpy cushion, she op
ened the bag and removed her stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. “My blood pressure has to be skyrocketing. I’m two seconds away from coronary arrest.”

  The tingling sensation in her lips following Cillian’s kiss hadn’t dissipated. Nor had the electricity crackling through her limbs. And, shite, I nearly fainted back in the village. Now my ears are ringing, my heart is speeding...I’m either having a stroke, a heart attack, or a brain aneurysm.

  Her hands shook so hard she fumbled to get her coat off and the cuff around her biceps. After she’d Velcroed the cuff in place, she closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. Christ on a cracker, I looked like an idiot in front of the Garda...in front of Cillian, what with me about to faint all aquiver. I’m a nurse. A professional. All kinds of crazy sensation swirled through her body, drawing her attention back to the kiss on the beach...and the sounds coming from the woods. Her eyes flew open. Someone was out there, I know it. The same unease as when the Garda were assessing her washed through her. But it couldn’t have been the Garda because Cillian and I watched them arrive. Who, then?

  The cat prowled into the front room and leaped on the chair across from her.

  “So, you’re the reason for all the cat hair on the chair, are you? You and your now-dead friends certainly added to the mess, didn’t you?”

  He hissed at her, showing his pointy fangs. Then, having made his point, he lay back, spread his legs, and began grooming them.

  “You’ve got too many knots in your hair. You need a good brushing, not a licking. Your tongue’s going to fall off.” The image of Dylan’s tongue being ripped from his mouth brought a shiver up her spine. “Gah! Enough, already. Take your fecking blood pressure and let’s see if you’re dying.”

  When her fingers touched the metal binaural piece of the stethoscope, sparks flew, and an electric shock jolted through her hand. She yelped and dropped the device. “Fecking hell! What’s going on?”

  The cat stopped his grooming and hissed at her.

  She glowered at him. “Yeah, well, how do you think I feel?” She stared at her fingers. No sign of a burn. She let out a breath and stared at the stethoscope. Not wanting to risk another involuntary shock treatment, she scanned for something to use to pick up the device, like a pot holder. Her gaze landed on one of her great-aunt’s yellowed doilies. She plucked one off the arm of the sofa and wrapped it around the binaural. No shock. Carefully, she inserted the right ear-tip into her ear. Holding it in place with her shoulder, she moved the doily to the other hand and placed the other tip in her left ear.

  “There.” She dropped the doily and reached for the metal diaphragm without thinking. Another shock jolt zinged through her fingers. “Come on! This is ridiculous.” She gritted her teeth and grabbed it again, determined to take her goddamned blood pressure, which, by now, had to be through the roof. After inflating the cuff, she spun the metal release, grinding her teeth against the electric shock. “Huh. My BP is perfectly normal.” She waited a few minutes, then repeated the process. “Still normal. Low, even.” She yanked off the cuff and then tugged the earpieces from her ears, experiencing more shocks. Staring at the stethoscope, she mumbled, “This thing is whacked broken.”

  Footsteps crunched outside and a knock landed on the door.

  She dropped her medical equipment on the couch, rose to her feet, and scurried to answer it. Every nerve in her body turned into a magnet, drawn to the force of Cillian Ward standing on her doorstep. Father Cillian Ward, don’t forget. The tingling in her limbs intensified. Good Christ, how sick am I? Do I have some deadly illness?

  “Cillian!”

  “Lassi. May I come in?” Weariness lined his face, yet did nothing to dissuade her attraction to him.

  “Sure.” She stepped aside, making space for him to enter.

  He brushed past her arm and another sizzle of current shot through her body. Shite, shite, shite, I hope he doesn’t feel that.

  She shut the door and followed him into the front room.

  Mr. Meow rose to all fours, his back arched like a camel’s hump. He hissed, then growled at Cillian.

  “Don’t mind him, he’s a...” Lassi began. Then, she bit back her words.

  Cillian put his hand up, his palm facing the feline intruder.

  Mr. Meow’s eyes widened. He twirled in a circle, curled on the chair, and settled into slumber. A loud purr issued from his throat.

  Lassi gripped the edge of the opening to the front room. “Whoa. What was that? You’re a cat whisperer?”

  “Hardly,” he said, turning to face her. His gaze dipped toward the medical stuff on the sofa. “Are you all right, love?”

  “I’m, um...” Thrilled you called me love and freaked out about what’s happening to my body. “I’m fine.”

  With her hand still gripping the door frame, she matched his soft, frowning expression with a challenging none-of-your-fecking-concern gaze.

  He gave her one of his piercing looks and nodded. “All right, then. I came to ask if you’d care to use your nursing skills with baby Paul. He’s sick and Siobhan is in no shape to care for him.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not feeling the best.”

  He cocked his head. “Are you getting sick?”

  “I wondered but I don’t think so. I think it’s stress.”

  He nodded. “So, you’ll see to Paul?”

  “Fine.” Her grip tightened on the wall. I hope little Paul can’t catch my electric fever.

  “Great.” He gripped the sofa back like it was some sort of grounding device.

  Their eyes locked.

  His lips parted and his tongue slid along his teeth.

  She chewed the inside of her cheek.

  Sexual tension sizzled between them, taut and electric.

  She finally broke the spell. “I need...” To get my shite together? To throw him on the couch and climb on? She cleared her throat. “I need a drink of water.”

  She spun on her heel and tracked toward the kitchen on shaking legs.

  The clatter of Cillian’s footsteps followed.

  I need some space from this whatever it is between us. Once inside the kitchen, she picked up her half-filled tea cup. With trembling hands, she poured the cold tea into the sink and flipped on the faucet. Sparks danced along the steel handle.

  The plumbing rumbled and sputtered, sending rust colored water shooting into the stained sink. She filled her mug and leaned her tummy against the counter, keeping her back to Cillian. She let the water continue to flow into the mug to give her mind something to do. Watch falling water like a demented idiot.

  Although he stood across the room, his breathing thundered in her ears. Am I hallucinating now? She lifted the mug of nasty water to her lips, and touched it to her lips. It tasted foul, like it had been called forth from the bowels of hell. She coughed, spraying water and spit against the back wall. It wasn’t this bad earlier. Maybe it’s me, what with the strange sensations I feel.

  Cillian continued his slow, steady breathing. But why does it sound like a strong wind in my ears?

  She blew out her breath and reached to turn off the faucet, still holding the cup in her other hand. This time the jolt of electricity from touching the metal made her squeeze the mug in a death grasp. The ceramic cup shattered in her hand. Her arms flew back.

  “Jesus Fecking Christ,” she swore, not caring if Father Ward—Cillian—heard her use the Lord’s name in vain.

  She whirled around. Her gaze landed on Cillian. She drew back her head and gasped, stunned.

  He bore a crazy, wild look, like the kind she’d seen on the faces of family members of victims in the emergency room. Only, family members in the emergency room never made her want to strip them naked and fuck. “What’s going on, Father? What’s happening to me?”

  He stalked toward her in a sexy swagger the likes of which she’d never experienced. He was all alpha, dominant, in control.

  She fell back into the counter.

  He pinned her with his body, his arms on
either side of her, gripping the counter. His eyes shimmered with the colors of an emerald sea as he sought...What? What’s he hoping to find in my eyes other than freaked out lust?

  “There’s no help for it now, I’m afraid,” he muttered softly, as if speaking to himself. “It’s happening.”

  “What do you mean? What’s happening?”

  He lowered his head and plundered her mouth with his. His bulging—Dare I think it? Okay, it’s a cock, priest or not—erection ground against her.

  His dominance…his force...his total command of her body consumed her. You’re no virgin, Father Ward. You were either a man-whore in this lifetime or the last one. Her mind yielded to the wild sensations coursing through her, crashing against her belly and ribcage, like waves trying to escape the confines of the sea.

  His hand dropped between her legs, fingering her clit through the fabric of her pants. He moaned into her mouth, sending vibrating shivers down her throat.

  Her imminent climax grew with a tornado-like intensity. She began to whimper and mewl, desperate to come, still pressed to his lips.

  A jangling ringing filled the air.

  She and Cillian both froze.

  Ring, ring.

  Her head whipped toward the fecking old-fashioned phone hanging from the wall.

  “Saved by the bell,” she joked. She turned to meet his gaze.

  Some feral expression danced across his face, laced with guilt and confusion. Or, maybe you’re projecting what you’re feeling, girl. She ran her fingers along the gold cross dangling from his neck.

  “I’m sorry, Father Ward,” she said, focusing on the cross. Her breathing chuffed hard and fast.

  He panted, resting his hands on her shoulders.

  The phone continued to ring.

  “What are you sorry about?” he asked, his voice deep and rich.

  She spread her palms on his strong chest and urged him away. Her core ached with need. Her heart swirled with longing. And her mind kept nattering at her, saying, What the feck are you playing at? Slowly, she shook her head. “Everything, Father. We can’t do this. I won’t have your salvation on my soul.”