A Touch of Heaven
Portia Da Costa
A perfect stranger with a heavenly touch.
Miranda's first glimpse of her neighbors' house sitter nearly takes her breath away. He's everything she likes in a man-handsome and naked. She can't resist the impulse to introduce herself to this intoxicating stranger.
She quickly finds out he's more than just looks. His miraculous massage brings relief to her aches and pains, then pleasure that explodes into the sweetest, most erotic experience of her life. Yet with each encounter that follows, her confusion grows. Unlike other men she's known, he fulfills every secret desire, yet demands nothing in return.
Patrick is holding back more than a scrap of vital information. He is an angel on an earthly mission of kindness, bound by an unbreakable code. Miranda must not know that her wit, gentleness and womanly curves only sharpen his secret longing to live-and love-as humans do.
And Patrick faces an agonizing choice that could bring them everything they've ever wanted…or separate them for all eternity.
Portia Da Costa
A Touch of Heaven
Copyright © 2011 by Portia Da Costa
For the two Simons, human and feline.
Chapter One
He’s there again, my new neighbor, the guy who’s house-sitting next door for the Johnsons. At least I think he’s house-sitting. I can’t remember them mentioning him before they went away.
I wonder if they knew he likes sunbathing naked when they asked him to mind the house for them.
Yes, naked. Starkers. In the buff. Not wearing a stitch. There he is on the lawn again on his tatty old blanket. Stretched out in the sun, exactly as the good Lord intended.
And speaking of the good Lord, thank you, God, for giving this old bird a treat.
This is the third day in a row that he’s been out there, and the third day I’ve sneakily watched him from my balcony. Does he know I’m spying on him? He certainly doesn’t give any indication. But then again, all he seems to do is sleep. He worships the sun for hours on end, and somehow he never seems to get burned. His skin always looks golden, beautiful and smooth, not the slightest bit red.
I shuffle my sun mattress over to the wrought iron railings at the edge of the balcony so I can get a better view, and boy, is he a sight for sore eyes.
He’s got the body of a god and the face of an angel, and that’s not exaggerating. From this vantage point, I can only see his profile and his tousled golden hair, but I know for a fact the rest of him is just as scrumptious, face and body. His back is a sculpted poem of muscle and his ass is nothing short of breathtaking. His strong, narrow feet look touchingly vulnerable stretched out in the sunlight.
I should go down. I should talk to him. He must know I’m here and that I’m looking. So why am I shilly-shallying? I’m a grown woman-far too far grown for my liking-and I shouldn’t be afraid of some strip of a lad, of a youth or whatever, a guy who’s probably far more years my junior than I care to count.
I pop my head up for a better view.
Well, he might be drop-dead gorgeous, but he’s an unrepentant slob. His rug is littered with books, newspapers, an iPod, about half a dozen soft drink cans and the wrappers of several chocolate bars and at least four empty crisp packets. The lucky devil. Not only can he lie out in the sun for hours without burning, it also seems that he can guzzle junk food without putting on an ounce or damaging his pearly white teeth. And they are pearly white, because I just saw them. He smiled to himself a moment ago in his sleep.
I wonder what he’s smiling about. Something must have amused him.
Even as I speculate, he lifts his head, looks over his shoulder and smiles again. But this time, it’s directly at me.
Oh hell, that’s torn it. What shall I do?
Several possible courses of action occur. Do I duck down again, pretend I’m not here and hope the sun was in his eyes and he didn’t actually see me?
Don’t be an idiot, Miranda. Of course he saw you. He’s not blind.
Or do I brazen it out and smile right back? Give him a cheery, neighborly wave and grasp the opportunity I’ve desperately been waiting for-a chance to meet this dreamy guy face-to-face? I’ll be playing with fire, obviously, given my history. Handsome younger men are a flame I’ve been well crisped by before. But hey ho, you only live once, don’t you? I’m prepared to risk getting kicked in the teeth again, for just a chance to get close to a heavenly body like his.
Easing myself up into a sitting position, I smile down and flap a cautious wave at my naked neighbor. “Hi. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
Great opening, Miranda, so original. But Golden Boy doesn’t seem to mind. Yanking out his earbuds, he sits up, swivels around and gives me the full beam of the most extraordinary, spine-meltingly gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen on any man, woman or child.
And that’s not all… I also get an extended flash of a sizeable and equally gorgeous penis.
Lord, have mercy.
“Marvelous,” he concurs, looking up into the cloudless sky for a moment as if he’s searching for something. Then his stare flicks back to me, his smile daring me to comment on his nakedness, challenging me not to look away.
“Er…um…are you having a picnic down there?” Great, Miranda, yet more sparkling repartee. He’ll just write you off as a dotty old lady at this rate.
Still smiling, he glances at the detritus surrounding him. “Yes, I suppose you could say that. A picnic, yes. Would you care to join me?”
Oh hell.
Excuses clamor to be made. I start confabulating stories about housework to do, shopping needed, or visits owed to friends. My bravado is in danger of withering on the vine and the sanctuary of indoors beckons me-a refuge from the dangerous temptation of beautiful young men.
I dither on, and he cocks his head on one side in a challenging way that’s also completely irresistible. Before I know what I’m doing, I say, “Great. I’d love to. I’ll be right down.”
“Wonderful.” His beautiful smile widens, and as I haul myself up from the mattress, my knees feel weak. And for once, it’s nothing to do with middle-age wear and tear, arthritis and other general aches and pains, and everything to do with skittish, flurrying excitement and a mad, sweet, ridiculously girlish infatuation. The kind I told myself, never again, never again.
I grab my hat and my sun lotion and my water bottle, and slither into my wrap. I wish I dare dash inside and check myself in a mirror because I know I’m a disheveled fright. But with every sneaky glance I cast his way, I see him staring back up at me, waiting. Looking eager…
Now don’t fret, Miranda. He’s just being neighborly, so it doesn’t matter whether you look like a sophisticated prime-time woman or a scruffy old harridan. It’s purely academic.
Clutching my belongings in one hand, I make my way cautiously down the external wrought-iron stairs leading down to the garden, then pad across to the borderline between my realm and his. The low, insignificant hedge looms like a mighty Rubicon, but before I can hesitate again, Golden Boy springs up from his blanket and comes to meet me. He puts out a hand to take mine and helps me over the scrubby little barrier.
Great, now he is treating me just like a dotty old dowager, a ruin who can’t manage to get across a foot-high hedge without toppling over. So much for my misplaced hopes he might fancy me.
And yet the cheeky twinkle in his eye is unmistakable. It’s not sympathy. It’s interest. I’m sure it is. I have to fight not to check out his cock for confirmation.
Calm down, you fool. He’s just being nice. He’s not like you. He doesn’t have a fatal weakness for older women the way you do for younger men. And if he did, he probably wouldn’t have it for women with quite so much mileage.
/>
I offer him a nervous grin, and his answering smile makes me feel as if I’ve just drunk a glass of champagne far too fast. How could anyone feel worried or bitter or scared faced with that? It’s just heavenly. And so are his face and body. No woman on earth could think straight around a guy who so casually displays a sumptuous cock like his.
I smile back at him, again fighting a titanic battle not to ogle his crotch. And failing miserably. South of the border, he’s long and thick. Decidedly perky.
“Er… I’m Miranda, by the way. Miranda Clay,” I burble as he leads me to his impromptu picnic ground. It’s an exceptionally hot day, and I’m feeling hotter by the second just looking at him. It’s not entirely a physical sensation, but more a strange wave of well-being flowing from him to me, transmitted by his firm touch and the air between us.
Bizarre.
“And I’m Patrick,” he replies, courteously supporting me and helping me down onto the blanket. His eyes, which are blue as a crystal ocean, narrow like a blade when I flinch at a stray twinge of pain. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
Like grace personified, he settles beside me, his body as fluid and supple as my younger one once was.
“Are you in pain, Miranda?” It’s a question, but I have the weirdest feeling it’s not the flinch that made him ask it. Without knowing why, I suspect he just knows things. And when he takes my hand in both of his and cradles it with his fingertips against my wrist, I also know I’ll do anything he says.
“Yes, I am a bit…but it’s nothing. Just a twinge of arthritis, that’s all.” I try to smile again but it comes out as a nervous grimace. He’s so awesome up close that I feel star struck. “We get it early in my family.” I twitter on, making sure he knows I’m not quite a senior citizen yet, just the victim of unfortunate genetics. “The sun will do it good if I’m careful and don’t get burnt.”
A frown pleats his otherwise flawlessly smooth brow, and an expression of sympathy forms on his handsome face.
No! I don’t want pity. I already feel like forty kinds of fool for harboring the daft notion, even for a second, that you might fancy me.
“Yes, I believe it will.” A fascinating mix of emotions crosses his features. There’s understanding, something a bit like admiration, and an almost crafty but benign calculation. I’d swear he knows that sympathy is the very last thing I want from him.
A bit at a loss what to say, I look around and notice his books. And get a surprise. Patrick is reading romantic novels. Some of the books I loaned to Helen Johnson months ago. I’ve been meaning to ask for them back because they were mostly keepers I wouldn’t want to part with.
“Um…enjoying the books?”
“Yes, indeed.” His expression confounds me. Men don’t usually read romances and chick-lit, but he seems completely sincere. “I like stories of love. Especially against the odds.” He touches the cover of a particular favorite of mine, a heart-wrenching historical, and again his face displays a chiaroscuro of emotions. I could swear he really does understand the agony of the book’s hero and his tangle of love and loss.
“Er…good. Glad you like them. That’s one of my favorites too.”
“They’re your books?”
“Yes, I loaned them to Helen. She broke her ankle and she couldn’t get about, so I brought a bunch of them round to keep her occupied.”
“That was thoughtful of you.” His blue eyes narrow, as if assessing my motives. Then he beams at me, granting his approval.
“She’d do the same for me.” My voice comes out a bit prickly. Who is this guy to pass judgment on me? Helen probably wouldn’t have thought to bring me reading material. She certainly hasn’t bothered to return what I loaned her.
“Would you like them back now?” He starts to gather my little library, stacking them in a neat pile, handling them carefully. I can see that some of the spines are cracked, but my gut instinct tells me he didn’t do it.
“No, it’s okay. Please hang on to them as long as you like. I have lots of others too, when you’ve finished those. Just let me know.”
“I will.” Setting the books aside, he glances up at the sky, his blue eyes wide open, not squinting at the sun.
“The sun is very hot. Would you like me to rub some sun lotion on your back?”
Ooh, yes, you can rub whatever you want wherever you want, you gorgeous creature.
I don’t say that, of course. “Thanks, but I think I’m okay for the moment. I just put some on.” I barely have to pause. “Would you like me to do you instead?”
He beams. Ah, what must it be like to be so adorable and know you’re so adorable?
“Thanks, but it’s okay. I’m okay for the moment too.”
Disappointment must be writ large on my face. I’m so pathetic. I told myself I’d never do the ooh-I-fancy-you, do-you-fancy-me dance ever again.
“But maybe in a little while,” he adds, with that little eye-narrow again. He’s wise. He knows what’s going on. “Can I offer you something else in the meantime?”
I can’t help but laugh. The cheeky so-and-so. He has the grace to laugh too, as he starts rummaging through his hoard of drinks and snacks, all the time watching me out of the corner of his twinkling eyes.
He offers me crisps, cheesy this and that, cupcakes, cans of full-sugar fizzy drink. He’s a generous host with his smorgasbord of junk food, and against my better judgment and my intention to eat healthy I’m soon putting away crisps by the handful. Oh, they’re so delicious and salty, and allowing the very devil to get into me, I speculate on other treats that are delicious and salty too.
Yes, I’m sneaking glances at his penis again. I try to be discreet, but every time I think I’ve managed to eyeball him without him noticing, I look up and he’s watching me.
“Okay, I admit it. Gerry Johnson always keeps his clothes on, so I’m not used to seeing buck-naked men in my next door neighbor’s garden. Can we get past that?”
He quirks his eyebrows at me. They’re as beautiful as the rest of him, sandy-gold and expressive. “I can go inside and get dressed, if like. I don’t want to embarrass you, Miranda.”
“No, it’s all right. Well, I don’t mind if you don’t mind.” I’m turning brilliant pink now, a rather fetching shade of cherry that’s much like the pop he’s been drinking and nothing to do with the sun. “It’s just that I can’t seem to stop myself looking at you.”
“No problem,” he says. “I can’t seem to stop looking at you either.”
Whoa! Surely you jest, young man?
I look down at myself. If I’m honest, I’m not really a total ruin, but he’s still getting the worst of the deal. I’m a bit fatter than I’d like, and a bit older than I’d like, but all things considered, I’m just about managing not to slide into total decrepitude. Even so, compared to him, I’m far from the pinnacle of desirability.
“Yeah, right…”
His stern look shocks me. “Why do you say that, Miranda? You’re a beautiful woman, and of course I want to look at you.” He abandons his beverage and wipes his lush mouth with the back of his hand in a gesture that does terrible, wonderful things to me, right down in the pit of my belly. “In fact, I’d love to see you naked too.”
I drop the crisp bag and a few spill out, but we both ignore them. I haven’t got the slightest idea what to say, but my mind goes mad, deluging me with a lush erotic picture show.
First, I see Patrick and me in bed, him looming over me, golden and beautiful as he prepares to fuck me. I can almost feel the tip of his gorgeous young cock pressing against my entrance. A second later, I’m lying wide-legged at the edge of the bed, and he’s kneeling between my thighs, his tongue delicately extended and ready to lick my pussy.
My face is pinker than ever now and even though I try to look away from him, I can’t. I’m hypnotized and I feel as if I’m falling into those heavenly blue eyes of his. The way he slowly smiles tells me he’s seen what I’ve seen…or some kind of approximation. I know he knows I’m t
hinking about sex with him.
“Now I have embarrassed you, haven’t I?” He doesn’t look sorry, just a bit like a naughty boy, who means well and isn’t afraid of mistakes. “I shouldn’t be so forward.” Suddenly he reaches out and takes my hand again. He holds it loosely in his, so easy and natural. “It’s just that I’m not used to being around women. And I tend to mess things up.”
How can a man who looks like Patrick not be used to women? It seems bizarre. And yet he looks so sad for a moment, and wistful, that my heart twists. I still desire him, but his mysterious sorrow touches me too.
“Ditto,” I answer wryly. “I’ve got out of the habit of being around men. I’ve been sort of off them…and it’s difficult to get back in the game.”
Patrick’s hand is warm, the skin smooth and very soft. I wonder what he does for a living; if he does anything at all. He’s been out here three afternoons running when most men of his age would normally be at work.
Good grief, is he a gigolo? I dismiss that one immediately though, even though he’s got the looks and the body. A male escort would be around women all the time.
Another frown pleats his flawless brow, and I shudder. I could swear he’s mind-reading me again.
“Are you cold? I could get another blanket, if you like?”
“No, I’m fine…just a funny feeling, you know?”
He nods and his blond curls bob in the sunlight. It seems he does know, even if I’m not quite sure what the hell I’m talking about.
“Did someone hurt you, Miranda? Was it a man?”
Yes, a man hurt me. I turn away. Those clear blue eyes are too searching. And yet suddenly, against my natural inclination, I start to talk.
“Yes, you could say that.” Both of his hands fold around mine again, encouraging and soothing. It feels wonderful, like a gentle glow of solace, and yet vaguely deliciously, sensual. “I’ve been married. Twice, actually. My first husband was wonderful, quite a bit older than me…but he died.”
A Touch of Heaven Page 1
