A Cop's Second Chance

by Sharon Hartley

  Because I don’t believe he’s a priest. And I pray he’s not a priest or I’m in big trouble, because, Lord forgive me, in addition to the fact that he’s a violent jerk, he’s seriously hot. What is wrong with me?

  Thank goodness Father Mac couldn’t read her thoughts. Otherwise, he’d pick up his phone, speed-dial the Vatican and get her booted right out of the church.

  Aleta remained silent, unable to meet Father Mac’s gaze, unable to voice any of her private thoughts. How could she tell this good man she loved so dearly that he was being made a fool of? Who was this pretender who dared call himself Father Sean O’Malley? And what was his true purpose at St. Theresa’s?

  She needed to find out.

  “I don’t think Ms. Porter approves of my methods,” O’Malley said.

  “Which is exactly why this is such a good fit,” Father Mac said. “You two will balance each other out as you seek ways to solve our problems at Sunshine Center.”

  Aleta resisted the urge to snort. More likely nothing would get accomplished.

  “As you wish, Father,” Aleta said.

  She glanced at O’Malley, whose magnetic blue eyes had gone wide with surprise. He hadn’t expected her to agree. Well, good. She was more than pleased to keep him guessing.

  And then the man grinned at her. But his was no priestly beatific smile. This was a leer that acknowledged a shared secret.

  If she needed any more proof Sean O’Malley wasn’t a priest, that cocky grin provided the evidence.

  * * *

  THIS IS ALL WRONG.

  The next morning, Sean stared at himself in the mirror in his new quarters, disoriented by the sight of the strange dark clothing that shrouded his body. He’d never had any desire to become a man of the cloth. Especially once he reached puberty and learned what celibacy meant. And yet here he was wearing a uniform that screamed to the world he was a spiritual man, a man who put the needs of others above his own.

  Yeah, this was wrong.

  He rotated his shoulders, attempting to make the shirt settle more easily on his body. The fit was tight, despite being the largest size available. He ran a finger around the inside of the collar. This felt unreal, unnatural. Was this charade a betrayal of his faith?

  What faith? Since Patrick’s death, the church had seemed distant, irrelevant to his life. So why did this feel wrong?

  Maybe the old emotions were too deeply ingrained to ever be totally erased.

  Sean turned sideways and examined the length of the clerical trousers. At least he didn’t have to wear robes. Father Mac had promised his priestly duties would be minimal. He’d never listen to anyone’s confession. He’d be window dressing during Mass, to show he was someone who could be trusted.

  In reality, he was a fraud.

  He wasn’t here to help anyone. Was that the source of his unease, the nagging sense of betrayal?

  Regardless of what Father Mac believed, the brass had sent him here to crush the incipient gang activity at St. Theresa’s, and Sean intended to be thorough. Ruthless. His career depended on it.

  Avenging his brother depended on it.

  Once a gang carved out a niche inside a hood, you couldn’t shake them loose until a lot of blood stained the streets.

  How bad was it at St. Theresa’s? Determining that was his first order of business. He needed to learn if any of what the staff called “clients” had already joined the Devil’s Posse.

  Clients? Please.

  In his experience, kids like young Cyrus were felons in the making. Juvies who hadn’t yet been caught. The only way to cure the problem was to get juvenile delinquents off the streets and into custody, and that was what he intended to do.

  His appearance sure as hell didn’t matter. So why was he worried because the costume didn’t fit perfectly?

  Perhaps because, at the insistence of Father Mac, he was meeting the curvaceous Aleta Porter for breakfast in ten minutes. Sean gazed at the priestly image in the mirror—a reflection that was him and yet not him—and his disquiet faded away.

  Aleta was most definitely real, and she didn’t buy for one second that he was a priest. That ought to worry him, but he found her suspicions strangely comforting. He’d never admit anything to her outright, certainly never tell her his true purpose, but she’d be one citizen at St. Theresa’s he didn’t have to pretend with. He could even have fun by playing with her perceptions about him. He suspected that would be a game she’d enjoy.

  Sean exited his quarters and hesitated before inserting the key that Father Mac had given him. Did priests lock the doors to their private rooms? He’d left no proof inside that he was a cop. At his lieutenant’s insistence, he hadn’t even brought his badge. He didn’t have his service weapon either, which made him feel naked.

  He didn’t like the idea of anyone rummaging around his meager belongings, but if someone did, that would be more evidence of how deep the problems at St. Theresa’s went. Would the thief want to check out the new guy’s room?

  He closed the door without locking it and glanced up, surprised that there were no surveillance cameras to help him. Hell, this was the twenty-first century. On his way to the dining hall, Sean decided to speak to Father Mac about getting that basic line of security installed. Would his old priest agree or put up an argument about the sanctity of the church?

  He entered a noisy room full of mostly women of varying ages and a lot of screaming kids who either sat around tables eating their morning meal or ran around playing some unknown game. A few women wore T-shirts with a bright yellow sunburst that he recognized as the logo of Sunshine Center, so he assumed they were staff. The ones with kids were likely in-house clients from the women’s shelter.

  Two men sat by themselves at the most distant table, heads down, shoveling in food and not conversing. Strange. Were the battered women uncomfortable around these men? Sean shook his head. He needed to ask Father Mac about that. Sean suspected they were from the halfway house Father Mac operated for druggies who’d completed rehab. Or maybe they were formerly homeless people the good father had managed to lure off the streets at least temporarily.

  Unfortunately, Aleta Porter was nowhere in sight.

  To the left was an elevated stage, so likely this room did double duty when the church presented various programs. To his right was a cafeteria line, and Sean headed that way to grab a tray. The unmistakable fragrance of bacon made his stomach growl. A good breakfast was a definite perk on this assignment.

  A young African American woman nodded at him from behind the line, steam blurring her smooth face. “Good morning, Father.”

  Sean startled at her greeting, but recovered and said, “Good morning.” After a slight hesitation he added, “My child.”

  “You want your eggs fixed some special way?” she asked. “Father Mac said I’m to give our new priest whatever he wants.”

  “Scrambled will be fine,” Sean said, nodding at the prepared food before her. She loaded a plate with eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast, and handed it to him. Sean poured himself some coffee from a huge stainless-steel vat and moved to an empty table.

  Aleta didn’t strike him as the type of woman who would arrive late.

  He eyed the room as he sipped his coffee. Most of the women were casting glances his way, and no doubt wondering about the new guy. He couldn’t imagine why he’d have any interaction with them, but they’d learn who he was—or who he was pretending to be—soon enough.

  As Sean took a bite of crisp bacon, a little boy of around four or five shuffled up to his table. The kid was of mixed race and had huge brown eyes, a mini-Afro and a curious expression.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hello,” Sean replied.

  “I’m Julio.”

  Sean nodded. “I’m Father O’Malley.”

  Julio gave him a shy smile, and Sean smiled back.


  “Father Mac always gives me his toast,” Julio informed Sean with a pointed stare at his plate.

  “He does, does he?”

  “Yes.” Julio nodded, lending his reply grave emphasis.

  “Well, okay then.”

  When Sean presented the kid with half of a slice of limp toast, Julio scurried back to his mother clutching it triumphantly in his small hand. The mother sent Sean a grateful smile as the child climbed into the chair beside her. Sean nodded in return.

  Damn, but that kid was cute. Hopefully, his father hadn’t beaten him, but that was why these families were in residence at Sunshine Center. The church provided a place of refuge for abused women. A surge of anger tore through Sean’s gut at the thought of anyone hitting such a little person.

  * * *

  HOLDING HER BREATH, Aleta watched the interaction between O’Malley and Julio from the doorway. When he’d arrived at Sunshine Center, Julio had been distrustful of any male and worried about his mom, who’d cried incessantly for a week. Julio had gradually warmed up to Father Mac, and Aleta didn’t want that slight thread of trust to be broken by a harsh rebuke from O’Malley. After all, he’d told Cyrus to get lost without a moment’s hesitation.

  When the sham priest handed Julio his toast, she relaxed and moved toward the food line. At least O’Malley knew better than to make a child cry in a room full of people.

  After receiving her usual breakfast of scrambled eggs and buttery grits, she sat down opposite O’Malley, who was halfway through his meal. He looked up and nodded, wearing the confident smile she’d come to associate with him.

  “Good morning,” she said. Father Mac wanted her to work with this guy, so she’d have to give cooperation her best attempt.

  O’Malley lowered his coffee mug. “Good morning, my child.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Please. I’m not your child.”

  “But you are among my new flock,” O’Malley protested.

  Aleta shook the sweetener packet with more force that necessary, ripped it open and dumped it into her mug.

  “What are you really doing here?” she demanded.

  O’Malley met her gaze directly, and she sucked in a breath at the electric jolt that pierced her belly. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

  “Why do you doubt my purpose?”

  “You know why. I saw you in action with Ice Pick.”

  “Force needed to be used,” O’Malley said. “I was concerned for your safety.”

  “You shouldn’t have been. I can take care of myself.”

  “Is that right?” O’Malley looked her over with a doubtful expression.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Did you know that gangbanger was armed?”

  “No guns are allowed on the St. Theresa campus. There are warning signs everywhere.”

  “I see. Where are the fences?”

  “What are you going on about now?”

  “If you want to control weapons, you need to restrict access and install screening devices at all entrances.”

  “Oh, that sounds welcoming.”

  “Maybe, but that’s how you keep out weapons. Otherwise...” O’Malley trailed off and shrugged.

  “How do you know he was armed?” Aleta jabbed at her eggs with her fork, attempting to have a civil discussion.

  “For one thing,” O’Malley said in a tone that made her look up from her plate, “I saw a suspicious bulge in his pants.”

  Aleta dropped her fork with a clatter. “A bulge?”

  O’Malley nodded, his gaze glued to hers. “A suspicious bulge.”

  Aleta swallowed a laugh. She couldn’t laugh. This wasn’t funny. Ridiculous, yes, but not funny. Or was she misreading him?

  Never in her life had she imagined she’d have a conversation like this one with a man dressed as a priest. Now more than ever she refused to believe this charlatan was a man of God. She took a deep breath and met his gaze again. His eyes burned into hers, waiting for her response.

  He was playing with her. Wasn’t he?

  What if she were wrong? What if he really was a priest concerned about a potential danger in his new parish? She hesitated and shook her head. No way. She wasn’t wrong.

  And why was she noticing the color of his eyes and processing the fact that he had incredibly thick hair in a sort of a creamy caramel shade of brown?

  If this man was a bona fide priest, she was going straight to hell.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, keeping her voice low.

  “Sean O’Malley is my name,” he responded, thankfully leaning back in his chair, allowing her to breathe again. “Father Mac asked me here to help him with the gang problems.”

  Aleta nodded. That all sounded true. But no question there was a lot more to his story than that. She’d figure him out eventually. The internet could be her best friend.

  “So how would you like to do it?” O’Malley asked.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. Was that another double entendre? Was he toying with her again?

  “Do what?” she asked.

  “Father Mac requested that you show me around. I have a lot of questions.”

  She nodded. This was more like it. “We’ll go for a tour after breakfast. Go ahead and ask whatever you want.”

  “Will I have much interaction with the women in the shelter?” His gaze swept over the room.

  “I don’t see why. Father Mac brought you here to work with clients in our youth services department.”

  “Isn’t that where you work?”

  “Yes. My primary focus is to help young people stay out of trouble.”

  O’Malley grinned. “So we’ll be coworkers.”

  “Yes,” she ground out. At least I can keep an eye on you. “What else do you want to know?”

  “Do they serve breakfast, lunch and dinner in this cafeteria for the—clients?”

  “And staff. For anyone who is hungry. Father Mac won’t turn anyone away if they ask for help.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “Food is one of our biggest costs, but we’ve had success getting people who are homeless off the streets.”

  “Are you saying St. Theresa’s also operates a homeless shelter?”

  “No. If a woman living on the streets asks for help and we have an available bed, she can stay. But not men. That’s a bad mix for women who’ve been abused.”

  “What about those men over there?” O’Malley motioned with his head.

  Aleta didn’t look. She knew who he referred to.

  “Dave and Jose are recovering addicts from the halfway house. And, yeah, they’re supposed to be out of here by now. There’s different hours for various clients, but those two are okay.”

  O’Malley narrowed his eyes as he stared at the men. “You sure about that?”

  “You don’t trust anyone, do you?”

  “Trust has to be earned.”

  “Those two have earned it. They’ve completed their rehab and will be leaving us today. The women are used to seeing them helping around the grounds.”

  “Should I eat at certain hours?”

  “As long as you’re wearing that collar, you can eat whenever you want. No one will be afraid of you.” Although I have no doubt you represent a serious threat to the serenity of Sunshine Center. And me.

  O’Malley nodded, his focus lingering in the direction of Dave and Jose. “Understood.”

  Aleta scrutinized him. Father Mac trusted this guy, but how well did they know each other? And what was O’Malley going to do here?

  “Will you schedule regular office hours?” she asked.

  “I hope not.” O’Malley swung his gaze back to her. “Why would I need office hours?”

  “To counsel your flock.”

  His mouth twitched. “Do I have an offi
ce?”

  “There’s a vacant office next door to Father Mac’s. You could take that.”

  “Thanks. I’ll check it out.”

  “Any other questions?”

  He shrugged. “If you’re done eating, I’m ready for the tour.”

  “Good. I want you to meet my kids.”

  O’Malley raised his brows. “You have a family?”

  “You know I don’t mean my kids.” Why did he deliberately misunderstand?

  “So you mean your clients?”

  “Yes.”

  He smirked that unpriestly grin again. “How many kids do you have?”

  Aleta stood. “Depends on the day.”

  * * *

  SEAN ISSUED A low whistle when he and Aleta entered the huge gymnasium where two separate basketball games were in noisy progress. The building looked a hundred years old from the outside, but the interior had been seriously updated.

  “Oh, good,” Aleta murmured, her focus on the game farthest from them where two teams of five kids of varying ages and ethnic backgrounds hustled around the court. “Hot Shot is here.”

  “Who?” Sean asked.

  “He’s an extremely gifted athlete,” she said. “Come on.”

  Watching the players, Sean followed Aleta to the opposite side of the gym. He had no problem picking out which of the young men she meant. A lanky fourteen-or fifteen-year-old African American male towered over the other players. The kid possessed definite skills and easily outmaneuvered his teammates and rivals.

  “I’m glad they started without me,” Aleta said.

  “Better hope they didn’t steal anything,” Sean said.

  She threw him a look that said he was an idiot. She was an hour late to the gym because she’d taken him on a tour of St. Theresa’s. The ethereal beauty of the sanctuary had brought back too many memories of his childhood parish church, which was many miles from here.

  She’d also shown him the kitchen, the women’s dorms and the empty office he could use. Although he still didn’t know what he’d do with an office.

  She’d also taken advantage of the opportunity to question him about his background. Her mouth tightened as he’d evaded each query, and he believed he’d only increased her determination to figure him out.