Sensuous Angel

by Heather Graham

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured inanely, needing something to say.

  “Yes, isn’t it? It’s one of the oldest churches in Manhattan. The stained glass was brought from England, and a lot of the marble came from Italy. It really is a beautiful church.”

  Donna smiled her reply because they had entered the small apse. There was a peaceful quiet within the church—one that almost negated her feeling of anger, but didn’t quite succeed. She still felt as if she had been taken for a fool as she followed Tricia into a back pew and knelt beside her, lowering her head in silent prayer. Nothing came to mind except for the itching desire to slap a too-handsome priest across the face.

  The chorus began to sing, accompanied by the strains of an organ, several flutes, and a number of softly strummed guitars. She saw Luke then, as the service began. His voice was deep and husky, pleasantly resonant as it carried throughout the church. She didn’t hear the service, just his voice.

  He wore black and white robes, and despite her anger, Donna found herself dropping her eyes. Even if he was an Episcopalian, she was somewhat ashamed of her thoughts. They were extremely irreligious. She didn’t hear the words of prayer, just the rise and fall of his husky tenor, and it seemed that her stomach formed knots as she listened.

  And then, to her dismay, she discovered that his eyes had locked with hers. The fire within them seemed to ignite a burning low within her belly. Eternity passed—or was it just moments? She looked about herself. Nothing was amiss. But it was, it was. She was sitting through a church service, and all she could think about was this man.

  But it was all right to think about him. Episcopalian priests married, but did they become involved in affairs? An affair? The last thing she would want from him would be an affair. Then what did she want? Marriage? Oh, what was she thinking about? She still wanted to kill him.

  She looked at her hands and discovered that her fingers were trembling, as if they too were lost in memory of touching the dark hair that curled over his collar, feeling the hard knot of muscle in his shoulders as they danced.

  Donna took a deep breath. She hadn’t even been thinking about Lorna or about her coming interview with Andrew McKennon, the man she was there this evening to see.

  Tricia gave her a nudge on the arm, and Donna glanced up, startled. “The collection plate!” Tricia prodded her. Donna turned guiltily to the woman on her left and accepted the silver dish. She fumbled for two dollar bills to slip into it, then passed it on to Tricia, who smiled at her peculiarly.

  Donna took a deep breath, finding that she could finally pray. She prayed for the service to end.

  The chorus began to sing again, and Tricia was leading her out of the church. “We might as well walk around to the rectory,” Tricia said. “Luke will be busy for a while yet, but I’m willing to bet that Mary will have coffee and tea and some pastry ready.”

  Donna nodded. She felt a little foolish suddenly, as if her mind and imagination had carried her away. When she wasn’t near Luke, when she didn’t see him or hear him, she could convince herself that she was being absurd.

  Lorna—and Andrew McKennon. She had to remember her priorities. Very soon, hopefully, she would discover that her “faith” had been well founded and that Lorna was fine. And then she could go home, leave New York, and forget the Reverend Lucien Trudeau.

  Did she really want to leave? And could she leave? There could be no simple answer to all the mystery surrounding Lorna’s disappearance.

  Nor could there be a simple answer to the mystery of Luke Trudeau. He was no ordinary priest, and he was no ordinary man. Nor was the feeling that engulfed her when she was near him.

  Andrew McKennon could solve at least one of her mysteries. And she was due to see him very soon.

  Donna glanced at Tricia as they began to walk, remembering that she had promised to go by faith and not ask questions. But it had seemed last night that Tricia was not so alarmed at being questioned and that Donna just might get a few answers.

  “Tricia,” she murmured suddenly, “how well do you know Lorna?”

  “Oh, fairly well.” Tricia smiled. “Well enough to like her very much.”

  “I’m glad,” Donna murmured.

  “So am I.” Tricia laughed.

  “And…and Andrew McKennon?”

  Tricia smiled again. “I’ve known Andrew for years. He’s as close as a brother. And so is Luke.”

  Donna tried hard to conceal a grimace. She couldn’t think of the “Father” as anyone’s brother. His attitude toward the fairer sex just didn’t seem to be very fraternal or paternal.

  “Luke is a wonderful man,” Tricia said.

  “Oh, yes, dandy,” Donna returned.

  Tricia suddenly stopped walking. It was growing dark around them, but the street was tree-lined and surrounded by rare, propertied residential homes. A few blocks away there might be slums, but this was an upper-class Manhattan neighborhood.

  The congregation at St, Philip’s was apparently a varied one, some very rich, and some very poor.

  “Luke has asked me not to tell you too much, Donna, and I have to respect those wishes because there is a very good reason for them. But I want to assure you the best that I can. Everything possible is being done to keep Lorna safe.”

  “To keep her safe?” Donna pressed, feeling a little guilty. Tricia was going to go out on a limb to confide in her, and she wasn’t sure that she deserved such consideration.

  “I—I can’t say any more.”

  Donna felt as if her heart was hammering inside her chest. “I won’t repeat anything that you tell me,” she said, and she knew, from the trust and sincerity in Tricia’s eyes, that she would be bound to keep that promise.

  “Lorna is in protective custody.”

  Donna’s breath seemed to constrict in her throat. Protective custody? How did Tricia mean it? Had Lorna done something? She couldn’t believe it. No, no, the key word was “protective.” Lorna had seen something or heard something, protective custody. Whose custody? The police had denied knowing anything. “What do you mean, Tricia? Why didn’t Luke tell me that?” she asked.

  “Luke wouldn’t have told you anything he felt he shouldn’t—and I can’t explain further because you shouldn’t know anything right now. You shouldn’t even be seeing Andrew now. I’m surprised that Luke called me, and I’m even more surprised that Andrew agreed to see you.”

  “But why…?”

  “Donna, one day, hopefully soon, you can be told everything. But not now and not from me! Please? Andrew may explain the whole thing tonight. Can you let it go at that?”

  “I can try,” Donna promised. Blind faith, she thought. She would try.

  Tricia smiled vaguely and they continued walking on to the rectory. Their conversation was idle. Donna really was trying to keep her word, even though anxiety and curiosity seemed to be consuming her alive.

  She learned that Tricia had always lived in New York and loved it; Tricia was amused by Donna’s tales about her despotic grandfather and lovable mother.

  “She really irons underwear?” Tricia chuckled incredulously.

  “Yes. My brothers always had the neatest-looking jockeys in the locker room.”

  They were both smiling as they walked up the path to the house that Donna had been carried along the night before. Mary was apparently expecting them. She threw open the door and greeted them warmly. “Girls, there’s coffee, tea, and cakes on the cart in the study. Luke suggested I make myself scarce for the evening so I’m doing just that.”

  Donna started to protest, but Mary was already grabbing her hat and coat. “I’m going to meet my sister just down the street, so don’t fret on my account!”

  She left the two of them. Tricia—apparently very comfortable in her surroundings—led the way back into the study. Donna remembered the room all too well herself.

  Tricia poured herself a cup of coffee and took one of the little scones sitting on the tray. “Luke should be along any minute now. An
drew…well, he should be right along too.”

  Donna poured her own coffee and wandered around the room. She had a probing question she wanted to ask, and if she was going to ask it, she knew she had better get it out before Luke appeared. “Tricia,” she asked, trying to sound casual, “was April Luke’s wife?”

  Tricia seemed surprised that she knew about April at all. “Why, yes, yes, she was.”

  “She’s…dead?”

  Tricia hesitated, only the fraction of a second. “Yes, she died about a year ago.”

  “What happened?”

  Again Tricia hesitated. And this time, before she could speak, the door to the study suddenly burst open, and Luke was standing there.

  He had changed. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved, open-necked Wrangler shirt. His eyes were focused on Tricia as if he knew she had been divulging secrets.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he murmured, still staring pointedly at Tricia. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “NOT AT ALL, NOT at all, Luke!” Tricia murmured. She flushed uneasily. “Well, now that you’re here, I guess I’d better get going. I’ve an early morning tomorrow. Mondays, you know.”

  “Don’t go, Tricia!” Donna heard herself exclaim. Why did she feel as if she needed someone in the room to act as a buffer between them? Easy. She wanted to strangle him—and she wanted to hold him, touch him. Stay, Tricia, stay, she begged silently.

  “Oh, but I really have to,” Tricia murmured. She smiled and impulsively kissed Donna’s cheek. “I hope I get to see you again before you leave New York.” She hurried away, smiling uneasily as she came to Luke in the doorway. “Good night, Luke,” she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

  A smile of subtle amusement filled out the taut line that had been his mouth. “You really don’t have to go, Tricia.”

  “But I think I will,” she told him.

  Donna felt a little stab of jealousy at the look that passed between them. He might have been angry with her, but there was an understanding and affection that crossed between them that somehow touched Donna deeply.

  That same little knot that had twisted in her stomach at the church was with her again. Her knees felt wobbly, and worse, she felt a shaky heat. She still didn’t like the look in his verdant green and gold eyes when they fell on her; it was an alert and wary look, as if he trusted her as far as he could throw a bag of bricks. It was his “dangerous” look, as she was coming to think of it; she could not forget that whatever his denomination, he was not your usual, peace-loving priest. But there was more to that look than anger or guarded wariness. She still felt assessed, as if his eyes caressed her, knew her. Golden hunger gleamed within them—and that ever-present amusement.

  And Donna still wasn’t sure if she wanted to slap him for making a fool of her, or run into his arms and beg that he touch her again.

  Tricia slipped from the room unnoticed. Luke entered it and closed the door behind him.

  “Did you enjoy the service?” he asked her politely.

  “Tremendously,” she murmured dryly. “It was extremely similar to a Roman Catholic service.” She wanted to lash into him with utter fury; she wanted to stay as cool and calm as he was. She could feel her own tension, like static all about her, yet she was going to try—try!—to hear what avenue of explanation he would take now.

  “Yes, well,” Luke said casually, “the services would be similar. The denominations are extremely close.”

  He was still baiting her. Donna smiled. “Yes, well, I do know a little about it. The Episcopalian Church is the Church of England—formed because Henry the Eighth wanted a divorce, isn’t that the story?” Her tone was sardonic, and it irked her that she was stooping to attack his religion because she just felt that she had to.

  But he seemed undaunted by her opinion and unaware of her sarcasm.

  “Well, yes and no,” Luke answered easily enough, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “The trouble actually began long before that. Henry the Second was against the power of the church—and it coincided with the power of the state. He had a right to be annoyed, actually. Anyone claiming to be a ‘cleric’ could claim refuge from the law. And one in every fifty people could read the few prayers that classified one as a cleric.”

  “Ah, so the church was corrupt!” Donna said dryly.

  Luke lowered his eyes, but a small smile played about his lips. “No, the church was not corrupt. Men were corrupt.”

  Donna turned away. She would be an absolute fool to argue theology with a priest!

  “At least you really are a priest,” she muttered.

  “Did you doubt that?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Really?” He truthfully seemed surprised.

  “Maybe not completely, but I’ve certainly never met another priest quite like you.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t know exactly…” Donna began to murmur. Then she gave up pretending that she was staring into the darkness beyond the garden window. She swung about to face him. The hell with remaining calm and cool. She was furious, and she had a right to be. “You’re the first lascivious priest I’ve ever met!”

  He laughed, and the sound was deep and husky, sending those little currents he could create racing along her spine. Dear God, it was terrible. The man could recite a litany, and just hearing that caress of his voice could knot her stomach into a pit of heat.

  “Ah, Ms. Miro! Must I repeat myself? I am a priest, but not a saint.”

  “Not a god, just a man?” Donna taunted.

  “Very much a man, I’m afraid, Donna.”

  Too much a man, she decided as he started walking toward her, still smiling. And as he walked toward her, he looked more like a rugged cowboy from a Marlboro ad than a priest should ever have a right to look. His face seemed very tanned against the light blue of the shirt, his neck appeared long and strong, and at the open V of his collar, she could see the beginning of little fluffs of dark hair, that surely covered his chest. The muscles in his arms seemed to strain against the short, rolled sleeves of his shirt.

  She thought how much she would like to see him take that shirt off, how much she would like to be crushed against his chest, feeling the splay of his fingers in her hair again, the touch of his lips that both demanded and cajoled…

  She interrupted her own fantasy with inner fury. He had let her suffer through a night of miserable torment, and he had damned well known it! He was playing some game of secrecy over something she was determined to expose, and for all she knew, he might be engaged in some kind of criminal activity.

  “Donna…” He began as he came close to her.

  “Don’t come near me!” she snapped furiously. “You—oh, I don’t even know what to call you! You knew all the while that I came from an extremely Catholic home and you led me on to believe…how could you? And you had the bloody damn nerve to find it all amusing—”

  “Donna!” He interrupted her, and she knew that her rising temper had set a flame to his. He was quiet and controlled but no longer calm or unruffled. “I just let you go by your own self-righteous assumptions.”

  “Self-righteous assumptions!” she exclaimed, gasping in a deep breath. “My assumptions weren’t self-righteous—they were natural. And you know it! You know exactly what I thought, and how I would feel, and then last night, at the door—oh, I know precisely how to say it! You are a scurvy, low-blooded heel!”

  “Donna!” He said, and it seemed that he was torn by the same emotions, anger and need. His voice gentled slightly. “Perhaps I did play you along, but only because it was so obvious. And I’m not really a lascivious man—”

  “Oh, no? You seem very well versed in what you’re doing. Do they teach kissing at the seminaries these days? The art of seduction?”

  “Of course not,” he snapped angrily.

  “Then—”

  “Men aren’t born priests, and there is a very major difference between Roman Catholic and
Episcopalian—or Protestant—clergymen.”

  “I know,” Donna breathed. Yes, she knew he had been married, and he had probably been running around long before that marriage. He knew his effect, he knew exactly what he was doing. He had that streak of assurance. Was he so worldly, and she so innocent? Suddenly she was very afraid of him, and angrier still.

  He reached out to touch her. She had pitched her temper into such a blaze of fury that she was wild. She instinctively raised a hand to strike him, but discovered that she was entirely impotent because she was in his arms, crushed hard against the wall of his chest.

  “Stop it!” he snapped, and a fire, a blaze of fury seemed to burn deeply in his eyes.

  “No,” she murmured, but all she could do was pound limply against his back, mumble a protest against his chest. “Don’t! Please, let me go, this isn’t right, I don’t understand you, I don’t trust you, and I don’t—”

  She stopped speaking on a thin breath of fading air. The fire in his eyes had become a field of warm, beckoning embers. His hold about her lost the tension of anger; it remained firm but gentled, and she felt a tenderness in the arms that refused to let her go.

  “Donna,” he murmured. “Don’t you see? It’s…you.”

  His voice reached out to her, embraced and caressed her. There was confusion in it, as if he were a little awed; pained, as if he would rather he didn’t feel the magic, but refused to deny it.

  “I-I don’t…Luke….”

  Her words died away as she felt her head tilted back and his mouth claiming hers, moving slowly, provocatively. Making her forget, again, that anything else mattered. His heart—she could feel it again. And the heat of him. A wonderful, powerful heat, encompassing her, draining her, giving her strength. She couldn’t have broken away from him had she wanted to. From the moment she had seen him, she had known he was different. A man to make his own rules, to know what he wanted, to go straight for it.

  He wanted her, and she was shamefully easy for the taking. He could gaze at her and make her long for his touch. And when he touched her, when his lips moved over hers, knowing them, exploring them, kissing her until she was breathless, holding her close, moving his hands along her shoulders and back, her spine, her hips….