by Lisa Jackson
“Do you?”
“Mmm.” He slid her a look and she wondered if they were still talking about the fire.
“That’s the way it is with everything, isn’t it?”
“The good things.”
They sipped the Chardonnay, made small talk, and Father James loosened up a bit, even accepting a second glass. “You know, you could do something else for me,” she suggested and one of his eyebrows rose.
Her heart nearly stopped.
Dear Lord, what was wrong with her? Why the devil was she flirting with him?
“What’s that?” he asked and the irreverent smile that teased his lips was at odds with his profession.
“Nothing that will get you into trouble.”
“Oh, darn.”
“How about helping me string some Christmas lights over the mantel?”
“And here I thought you were offering me food and drink because you enjoyed my company.”
“No such luck,” she kidded. “Now, come on, handyman, mush!” She set down her glass, rummaged in the closet under the stairs, and gently set her grandmother’s shotgun to one side so that she could pull out a box of ancient decorations.
“Isn’t it a little early?” he asked, helping her carry two cartons of lights to the living room.
“Once it’s after Thanksgiving, ‘tis the season,” she quipped and, to prove it, turned on the radio. WSLJ made a point of playing one holiday song an hour the week after Thanksgiving. Within ten minutes, before they were finished stringing the lights, a jazzy instrumental version of “Let It Snow” filled the room.
“Didn’t I tell you?” she asked as she switched off the table lamps, and other than the glow from the fire and the pinpoints of colored light draped over the mantel, the room was dim. Cozy.
“That’s not really a Christmas carol.”
“But it’s seasonal. Come on, you never hear that played in July.”
He laughed. “When I hear ‘White Christmas,’ it’s officially Christmastime.”
“But—”
“I’m not kidding.” He sat beside her on the couch and stared at the fire. “ ‘Frosty the Snowman,’ or ‘Winter Wonderland’ don’t cut it either.”
“Purist,” she muttered, sipping from her glass.
“Comes with the territory.” His eyes danced, reflecting the green and red pinpricks of light. “And this”—he hoisted his stemmed glass into the air—“doesn’t.”
“No?”
“Uh-uh. Definitely off-limits.” But as he shook his head, he poured them each another glass. “However, we can’t let it go to waste,” he said. “After all, it’s imported.”
“It is?”
“All the way from California. If you haven’t noticed, it’s another country out there.”
“How would you know?”
“I lived there.”
“Really.”
“Yes, ma’am. And I’ve got a secret about that time in my life.” His smile was positively seductive. She leaned back on the couch. “What?”
“It was before I was a priest.”
“Oh-oh, something dark and evil.”
“You might say.” He laughed. “Before I found my calling, I was a surfer.”
“No way!”
“Oh, yeah … you should have seen me hang ten.”
“Give me a break.” She grinned, the wine and intimate room going to her head.
“Maybe someday I’ll give you a demonstration.”
She was taking a gulp of wine but laughed so hard she choked. The thought of Father James, clerical collar in place, priestly robes flying as he crouched upon a surf board and rode the crest of a wave off of Malibu, gave her a fit of giggles. She coughed so hard she had to set her glass down. “I … don’t … believe …”
Suddenly he was holding her, patting her on the back. “Are you all right?”
“Yes … no …” she gasped.
“Olivia …” His pats were harder on her back, helping her cough. “Breathe.”
“Does … does the Pope know about the surfing?” she asked, still trying to catch her breath.
He laughed loudly, a deep rumbling sound as he pulled her close to him. “Do I detect a note of irreverence?”
“From me?” Pinning a look of shock on her face, she shook her head in mock innocence and noticed that his arms still surrounded her. “Never.”
“You are incredible,” he said, his voice a whisper as the smile slowly slid from his face and she realized how close they were, that their noses were nearly touching, that the smell of him was overpowering, that her breasts were flattened to his chest. It was crazy. And so emotionally dangerous. Stop this, Olivia. Before you do something you can’t stop. Before you make the biggest mistake of your life! But she didn’t move. Couldn’t.
She swallowed hard and his eyes flicked to her throat.
Though he didn’t open his mouth, she swore she heard him groan. “I don’t think I should be here,” he said, but didn’t let go. “In fact, I know I shouldn’t.” His words slurred a bit.
“Probably.” She sighed. “But… ?”
“Olivia, I can’t …” He stopped. As if he’d witnessed the sadness in her eyes. As if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Oh, hell,” he ground out, then added, “Forgive me,” before he glanced down at her lips and kissed her. Hard. Without a tremor of reluctance.
Warning bells screamed through Olivia’s mind. This was wrong. So wrong. They both knew it. Hadn’t he just tried to say as much? But she kissed him back. Between the wine and the darkened room and the sense that they both needed to reach out to someone, she pushed aside all the doubts that plagued her, doubts that continued to echo through her mind.
He’s a priest, for God’s sake. And probably half drunk.
How will you feel tomorrow?
How will he?
Don’t throw away the friendship he’s offering … This is a sin, Olivia. A sin!
Think!
Her heart pounded, her skin tingled and deep inside she began to heat.
She couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to.
He was eager once he’d crossed that invisible barrier between them. His hands searched beneath her sweater, scaling her ribs, delving into her bra, kneading her breasts. She melted like butter inside, knowing she was making the biggest mistake of her life. Don’t do this, Olivia. For God’s sake, don’t!
Anxiously he pulled her sweater over her head and kissed her all over, her cheeks, her neck, the tops of her breasts. His mouth burned a scorching path, touching and caressing, his tongue was rough and wet. Her mind spun crazily with erotic images she couldn’t control.
His lips found her nipple and she dug her fingers into his thick hair, holding him closer.
He groaned as if from his very soul.
God help me, she thought, closing her eyes as the wicked sensations swept through her blood. She wanted him, ached for him, longed for more of his fevered touch. And she wasn’t disappointed. Sweat slid down his body as he unbuttoned the waistband of her slacks. The zipper slid down with a soft, slithering hiss. His hands scraped her clothes from her, caressing her buttocks and legs, creating a whirlpool of heat that kept building as he kissed her.
Perspiration dotted her skin and her mind was spinning.
“You’re so damned beautiful,” he whispered as he flung her panties onto the floor. She was stark naked in the half light while he was still in all of his clothes, including the white collar that announced to the world he was a priest, a celibate man dedicated to God. He must’ve noticed her gaze drop to his neck because in one swift, angry motion he ripped the collar from his throat. His lips crashed down on hers.
Closing her eyes and her mind to the thought that she was seducing him into sin, she kissed him back. Their tongues touched and collided. She yanked at the buttons of his shirt and pushed the fabric over lean, hard, sinuous shoulders. The muscles of his back were strong and she felt his erection hard through his pants. Her mind clouded and spun
, she wanted him and yet… it felt wrong… and not only because of his station in life. For a blinding instant she thought of Rick Bentz and how she still felt about him. This lovemaking wasn’t the same. It wasn’t about love; it was about sex—forbidden sex, angry sex, get-back-because-she-was-hurt sex.
James kissed her hard and she tried to blot out Rick’s image—for God’s sake he’d rejected her—but when she found the zipper of his slacks, and James, breathing hard, started to guide her hand inside, she stopped.
“I … we can’t,” she said in a rush. This was so wrong in so many ways.
His eyes flared angrily and she felt like an idiot, a tease. She pulled the quilt around her as he leaned backward. “Olivia—”
“Shh … I know … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean things to go this far,” she said and fought tears. Regret tore through her as she saw the pain etched in his features. “I think, no I know I was using you. I was hurting and …” Her chin trembled. “… you know you’re just too damned good-looking to be a priest. I think the term today is ‘hottie.’ ”
He groaned, but cracked a weak smile. “Is that some kind of consolation?” he asked thickly.
“No.” She shook her head and took in a deep breath as she pulled the afghan more tightly around her naked body. “It’s a compliment. I care too much about you for this to happen.”
“Forgive me, but that sounds like a cliché, part of a rehearsed speech. I’m not buying it.”
Wrapping her arms around her knees, she sighed. “Okay, so I feel like the ultimate tease here. But it wasn’t intentional. Really. I care for you. A lot. But if we took this one step further, I think—no, I’m sure, that we’ll both regret it. Maybe even before morning.”
“You’re in love with someone else.”
She gritted her teeth. “I was. Yes. No more.”
He snorted as he scooped up her bra and panties and handed them to her. “You’re kidding yourself, Olivia.” His blue eyes held hers. “You and I both know it. Now, I think we should both get dressed and I’d better leave before I change my mind.”
Grabbing his wrist, she said, “Please. I don’t think you should drive. You can stay. In the spare room. It seems kind of empty now that Sarah’s gone.”
“I don’t know…” But he hesitated. “I am a little dizzy.”
“I promise to make you the most fabulous breakfast you’ve ever eaten in the morning,” she said, wanting him to stay, to cement their friendship, so that she would know that they could get over what had just happened between them. “Boiled crawfish, shrimp omelette, biscuits with gravy … my grandmother’s favorite recipes.”
He hesitated, then glanced around the cozy room with its sparkling colored lights and the crackle of the fire. “Okay, you’ve tempted me and I can’t resist.” His eyes grew serious. “I guess I’ve already proved that.”
Wiggling into her clothes, she said, “We’re putting that behind us, right?” “Right.”
“Good.” She pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead. “Thanks, James. For understanding.”
“No problem,” he said, though she guessed it was a lie. “It’s all part of the job.”
Chapter Thirty-three
“Are you nuts?” Kristi said as she shoved her extra pair of running shoes into her backpack. “Me, not go back to school? Come on, Dad, I thought you were into me getting a higher education.” She glanced at her father standing in the doorway, his chin all rock-hard, his lips compressed. Jesus, did he always have to play the heavy? She was not in the mood for it. Her period had started this morning and she’d already had to deal with Jay. For God’s sake, he’d actually gotten red-faced and cried when she’d handed him back his ring in the parking lot of the Dairy Queen. On top of all that, Brian hadn’t called this entire four days and she had two papers due. One for Zaroster and another for Sutter. Now her dad was pulling this overprotective stuff again.
She didn’t have time for any of this crap.
“I just don’t see what it would hurt if you waited a few days to go back,” Bentz said, walking into the room and looking all tough. As if that would change her mind.
“It’s college, Dad, and no, they don’t take roll, but I’ve got some assignments that are due pronto and I can’t afford to miss class. It’s not like I’m this brainiac stellar student, you know.” She zipped up the bag and glanced around her room one more time. The bed was still unmade. Just the way she’d kept it when she lived here and she knew it bugged the hell out of her father. She flipped the covers over the pillows in a halfhearted stab at straightening up, then noticed the bouquet of carnations and rosebuds, still fresh, that her father had placed in the vase on her nightstand before she’d arrived. “Look, I know you’re worried. There’s a serious bad guy on the loose, but I still have to live my life, you know.”
“I don’t think you get how dangerous this is. The creep is lurking around college campuses. There’s a connection to All Saints.”
“Is it serious? Or just a theory? I thought some of the victims went to Tulane or Loyola.”
“That’s true, but I think his hunting ground is wider.”
“ ‘Hunting ground?’ Yuk, you try to make it sound creepy.”
“It is,” he said soberly. “I don’t have to try. These women weren’t just killed, Kristi. They were sacrificed. Butchered. The public information officer is letting out some more info on the son of a bitch, to warn the public and to ask for their help in tracking him down.”
“Good. You’ll catch him faster.” She hauled her backpack onto her shoulder.
“Let’s go.”
“I want you to have a bodyguard,” he said, trying a new tack.
“What? No friggin’ way.” But she could tell he was serious. “Think about it. I can’t have some guys following me all over campus like I’m the daughter of the president or anything. No, Bentz. It’s not going to happen. And don’t start messing with my friends, either. Doing background checks and all that shit. It’s not going to work. Come on, Dad, I’ve really got to get back to campus.” Then she saw it, a tightening in the cords at the base of his neck. “You already have, haven’t you? You’ve checked into someone— oh, no, don’t tell me it’s Brian. You wouldn’t.” She saw it in his eyes. “You can be such a bastard!”
“Did you know that he was in trouble with the law?”
“Yeah, he told me all about it. Statutory rape. And he doesn’t get along with his folks. Okay. Yeah, I know. Now, let’s go.” She stormed out of the room. “It’s time to rock ‘n’ roll.”
The dogs were driving him out of his mind. They howled from dawn to dusk and then some.
The Chosen One reminded himself that he didn’t have long to wait. December second was barely a week away … and he needed to spend that time flogging Bibiana while the dogs watched and grew hungrier.
He crossed himself at the altar and changed into street clothes, surveying himself in the mirror, smiling as he thought of his next mission. This one was more personal than the others … Bibiana … Sister… it was time to meet … How had it happened that his mother, named for St. Bernadette of Lourdes, had been such a whore? A woman capable of giving up her child, her only son, then marrying the very man who had sired that boy and having more children—girls—which she kept. Never once had she tried to contact him. Never once had she attempted to explain. It was as if he’d never existed.
It was an outrage; a sin.
Who had the son been given to? Hayseeds! Hicks! A barren farming couple who wanted him only to put him to work, sunup to sundown, a couple whose strict interpretation of Catholic dogma had been corrupted by their need to survive. He, the son they’d wanted so desperately, had been flogged and cursed, forced into servitude, told incessantly how much he cost his parents with his parochial education which, of course, they’d insisted upon. And a strict school it had been, an institution where there had been no girls, no distractions, a school which concentrated on learning and higher education, a school where he’d excelled
and managed to receive scholarships and where he’d learned that he’d had a different calling, that God had chosen him to suffer, the Father in all His wisdom, had picked him to rid the earth of sinners … first his parents, but slowly … so that it would appear natural.
First the “accident” with the tractor that had left his father a cripple. Then, over time, the slow effects of the fertilizer supplements added to his medications, swirled carefully into tall glasses of sweet-tasting, over-the-counter concoctions for everything from cough syrup to constipation remedies. His “mother” had been just as easy with her belief in “natural” herbs, pills that could be easily doctored, capsules that could be swapped all too easily. She’d been half-blind, so dependent. No one had suspected. They’d been in their late forties when they’d adopted him, and then, when he’d found his calling, when God had first spoken to him, they had already started to decline.
Freda had died in her La-Z-Boy watching Jeopardy!, Tom from a heart attack not a year later.
Simple.
Neat.
Tidy.
And just the beginning, he thought now as he heard the dogs’ howls over the soft strains of classical music. Bach. Usually calming. But not tonight.
Tonight he was restless. He needed to find Bibiana, to convince her to meet with him. She would be wary, so he would have to be careful. But then … he had just the bait.
Adjusting his jacket, he walked down the stairs to the basement where a single red bulb glowed, giving the old cement walls a faint crimson glow.
The woman laying naked in the straw was still unconscious. Her hands were bound behind her, a shackle chaining one ankle to the wall. He’d left her a bucket to use should she need to defecate and he gave her enough water to keep her alive. She was groggy still, the discoloration on her face unfortunate. He hadn’t expected her to struggle. Stupid bitch of a woman. Whore. Out drinking and flirting … a married woman. He would keep her. Alive. For a while. Until she’d lured St. Bibiana here. His hands clenched as he thought of his sister. Olivia Benchet, the privileged one.
