“Ms. Miro,” he began again, his tone changing to one that was strictly business, “I can’t tell you anything until—” He broke off suddenly as there was a tap at the door and called out, “Come in, Mary.”
Mary bustled back into the room with a tea cart, the top tier carrying a beautifully etched silver tea service and lovely bone-china cups while the lower tier carried a plain yellow bucket. “First things first!” Mary commanded with a smile. “Luke, why don’t you serve your guest some tea while I see to her ankle.”
Luke complied with no comment. “Cream, sugar, lemon?”
“Just plain, thanks—oh!”
Donna gasped as Mary took a no-nonsense hold of her foot. “Father’s right, Miss Miro—nothing here but a mild sprain.” Donna heard her shoe make a soft clunking sound as it hit the carpet. “Let’s get your stocking off now….”
Mary waited expectantly. Donna again felt herself turn an absurd shade of red. Why couldn’t she have been rescued by a nice white-haired priest with a rotund potbelly? Why this man who was once more watching her with amusement-laden eyes that somehow portrayed a sensuality that made heat rip along her spine?
“Come, come, now…Donna! We must get this ankle into the hot water—” Mary broke off abruptly, seeing the flush on Donna’s cheeks and the electricity that seemed to spark between Luke’s devilish gold and her crystal-blue eyes. She laughed delightedly. “I’m so sorry! Luke, step out of the room, please. You’re embarrassing the lady!”
Luke smiled, then obligingly left the room. Mary discreetly joined him.
Donna hurriedly ripped off her remaining shoe and her pantyhose, watching the door all the while and berating herself for doing it. He wasn’t going to come barging back into the room.
“Miss Miro?” Mary called, tapping on the door lightly.
“All set,” Donna returned with a breath of relief.
A second later her ankle was feeling nicely soothed, and Mary was leaning with stern instructions that Donna keep the ankle soaking for at least twenty minutes. Donna was totally taken off guard as the devastating priest brought two cups of tea, handed her one, and sat comfortably beside her on the sofa.
“Well…tell me more about yourself,” he urged her in a noncommittal tone.
Donna busied herself with her tea, trying to ignore the ruggedly masculine, scintillating scent of his aftershave. She felt that if he touched her again she would shoot through the ceiling with the sear of his magnetic heat.
He was an extremely attractive man, but she was at a loss to understand the intensity of her reactions to him. She tended to be wary of strangers—men in particular—and she had never felt such a physical attraction before. She sipped her tea quickly, silently praying, God, make me stop this! But the feelings stayed with her—and so did the guilt and embarrassment. She had to pull herself together quickly. She couldn’t afford to spend a minute dwelling on her strange reactions. Each nuance of his rich voice warned her that he could be a formidable foe.
“You already know my name,” she said irritably, now watching the steam that rose above her cup. “I live outside of Worcester, Mass. I’m twenty-eight years old. I graduated from Boston U. with honors. You can check on any of the information I’ve given you. I’m completely legit, Father, which I’m beginning to think you’re not.”
Donna heard the flick of a lighter. She turned back to the priest. He had lit a cigarette and was staring idly at the smoke as it whirled into the air. He spoke without glancing her way. “I’m sorry, Ms. Miro. It’s just as I’ve told you. I don’t really have the right to tell you anything.”
Donna felt every muscle within her body tense. “Why not? What is the great mystery here?”
The golden eyes lit upon her, uncomfortably probing and knowing. He didn’t reply.
“There is something very wrong, isn’t there?”
He shrugged. “Very wrong? I don’t know. I’m not God.”
“You might have fooled me,” Donna muttered beneath her breath.
“I’m flattered.”
How had she wound up playing this absurd battle of wits with a sarcastic priest?
“Just how well do you know Andrew McKennon, Father?”
If she had expected a reaction from her volatile demand, she was to be sadly disappointed. She received another of his subtle shrugs—yet the invasion of his golden eyes was far from subtle.
“Fairly well. He’s one of my parishioners.”
“Oh,” Donna murmured, shielding her eyes with the length of her lashes. A little, inexplicable tremor shook her but she forced herself to look guilelessly into his eyes. “Then you can introduce me to him—take me to him. He shouldn’t be terribly surprised to see me.”
He studied her a long while, his gaze unfathomably raking over her ragged form with no apology. “I’m afraid that it’s not quite that easy, Ms. Miro,” he said politely.
“How difficult can it be?” Donna demanded, annoyance hiding the fear his question had sent racing through her. Just who or what was Andrew McKennon that this priest was protecting him? “I can’t leave New York without meeting McKennon! If you decide not to help me, I’ll find another way.” She twisted to him, deciding to add a note of entreating charm. “Father, please help me…”
Donna’s voice trailed off suddenly as she realized that as she had turned, she had placed her hands on his knees. She could feel hard sinewed muscle beneath the black cloth and, again, a heat that was magnetic. She raised her eyes from her hands to his only to feel a new surge of confusion when she found his brow cocked mockingly and his golden eyes glittering again with both amusement and appreciation.
She withdrew her hands as if she had touched fire, which perhaps she had indeed. What the hell was he, devil or angel?
He allowed a smile to filter across his sensuous mouth at her reaction. “I’m afraid it sounds as if you dislike Andrew—and you don’t even know him.”
Donna stiffened. “I don’t dislike him, Father.” That was true. How could you hate a mystery man? She could only fear what he might be, or what he might be doing to her friend. She tried to shrug noncommittally. “As you said, I don’t know him. I’m merely afraid. For Lorna. Something could happen to her…might have already happened to her. Oh, for God’s sake, Father, can’t you see that I’m simply concerned! She could be in real danger, she could die, and young women in their twenties shouldn’t die!”
“No,” he returned, and there was a dry, bitter twist to his deceptively light tone. “Young women in their twenties shouldn’t die.”
They were both abruptly silent, the silence increasing the tension that was making Donna feel as if she were strung wire.
She sighed suddenly, feeling her entire night had been a ridiculously disturbing ordeal. She constantly felt as if she wanted to reach out and shake him—and then crush him to her. The deadly allure was there. Since the rather dismal end of her own marriage, she had dated a number of attractive men, but never felt the slightest appeal. And now she was sitting there, feeling sensual, totally electric, tension was bidding her to reach out and touch and immerse herself in a man she also wanted to bind to a stake and set afire with a blaze to quench that devil fire in his eyes.
And, God help her, he was a priest, and God probably didn’t help people who wanted to burn priests.
“Father,” she said stiffly. “It’s obvious that I’ve wasted a great deal of time for us both. If you’ll just call me a cab—”
Donna barely believed his next words as he interrupted her. “Don’t be so hasty. I’ll help you, Ms. Miro.”
“What?”
“I said that I’d help you.”
“Oh, thank you—”
“Don’t thank me yet, because I can’t promise anything. And if you want my help, you’re going to have to agree to a deal.”
“A deal?”
“Umm,” he murmured, his eyes teasing, but also deadly serious. “The kind signed in blood.”
“Sounds like a pact with the dev
il.”
“Does it?”
“And you’re supposed to be a priest.”
“I am a priest, Ms. Miro. Well, do you want my help or not?”
Donna hesitated, wondering what she was getting into. Then she sighed impatiently, thinking that she should really be running as far from this man as she could get.
“Let’s hear about this deal, Father,” she murmured.
CHAPTER THREE
“I WILL HELP YOU to find Andrew. I think you should meet him. I can understand that you feel you must assure yourself that your friend is all right, but I don’t think that you can see Lorna. And you’ve stumbled into something that you shouldn’t have.”
“Stumbled into—”
“Never mind. Forget I said that.”
“Forget! How—”
“Because it’s the only way that I’ll help you. But this is the deal. You keep your mouth shut. You stop driving the police crazy, and you stop searching for Andrew McKennon.”
“I can’t do that! You just said that something was very wrong. That I’d stumbled into something! And now you’re asking me to pretend that none of this exists—”
“No, I’m asking you to keep your mouth shut. But I’m beginning to wonder,” he added dryly, “if you’re capable of doing that.”
“Do you know, Father, you’ve been giving me comments just like that ever since I found you!” Donna protested.
“I believe I found you, Ms. Miro,” he retorted politely.
“Point well taken,” Donna acknowledged. “I meet you and discover that you do know this man that no one else has ever heard of. But I shouldn’t even be asking about a friend who disappeared. I’m supposed to forget all about it. I don’t trust you. But you’re going to help me. If I can learn to keep my mouth shut.”
“In a nutshell, Ms. Miro.”
“But I don’t know a thing about this McKennon! And everything that happened to Lorna must have started with him!”
“Ms. Miro, I feel I should warn you now that Andrew McKennon is more than a parishioner. He is a…friend of mine. More than a friend. And if I’d done what I should have done, I would have denied that I knew him. Andrew has to decide what to tell you now, do you understand? I’m going on faith myself right now, Ms. Miro. I have to trust you to be discreet. I shouldn’t be doing this at all.”
“Then why did you say you would help me? Why did you allow me to go on—”
He stood abruptly, walking to the deep-maroon drapes and pulling them aside. Night had come to Manhattan, but gentle light from the streetlights warmed the tree-lined block in a soft glow. The priest stared out at the trees with their beautiful decking of fall colors for a moment before he turned and sat in the chair behind the oak desk. Then he spoke. “I allowed you to continue because I wanted to hear if you understood me. And I can only repeat that I’ll help you find Andrew. But I’d deny a thousand times over that he existed if you started pressing this thing.”
Donna’s fingers tensed in her lap but she bit back anything she might have to say. Fine. All she wanted to do was find McKennon and then she would take it from there. She’d promise to keep quiet and then do anything that she could to find out where Lorna was. She had to. She had to make Lorna her main concern—even if it meant giving a promise that was a lie to a priest. There was something going on, and for all she knew, this particular priest could be deeply involved in…whatever it was.
Could he really be a priest? she wondered for the thousandth time? None of it fit, none of it made sense. But it would have been impossible to plan it all. Mary and the home and the very priestly white collar. And it had been dark, but she was certain that she had seen the steeple of a church just down the street….
Donna started, realizing that the priest was watching her, amusement still touching his features, even though he appeared to be in deep thought. Had he known what she was thinking? Heaven forbid. How could she? She had grown up with such a very, very Catholic family! Yes, that was true, but, she reminded herself, the friars who had conducted the Inquisition had been religious men.
“Ms. Miro, are you quite all right?” he queried her suddenly.
“Fine, thank you. But would you mind telling me what you’re doing?”
“Not at all. I’m thinking.”
He drummed his fingers on the desk and started speaking again, slowly, as if he carefully weighed each word. “Andrew is not always an easy man to find, Ms. Miro. I haven’t the right to explain to you why that is. If you want my help, you’re going to have to trust me.”
“But why—”
“Questions already!” he reproached her.
“Father, you make less sense by the moment.”
“Nothing is going to make sense to you, but I can’t change that. It’s going to have to be part of the deal.”
“Ah, yes! The deal,” Donna murmured with annoyance.
“Yes, the deal.” He raised a dark brow high, as if questioning her integrity. “It begins right now. And it encompasses only this, Ms. Miro. You’re going to have to put your faith in me. Absolutely no questions asked. No matter what you think, see, or hear, you’re going to have to believe me when I tell you that Andrew McKennon is a good man—and that what I’m asking of you is for your own good.”
“You want me to go by blind faith?” Donna asked incredulously. “In you?” Was he asking her the ridiculous, or could it be true that Andrew McKennon was not a bad or evil man? That the priest couldn’t—for reasons unknown to her—say more, but that he was really trying to give her an emotional assurance?
Father Luke smiled. Faint lines of laughter crinkled about his eyes, giving them a mocking and devilish glow. He lifted his hands, as if to heaven. “Blind faith? In me. Yes, I suppose I do want you to go by blind faith. I’ve gotten quite accustomed to doing it myself, you see.” The laughter faded from his handsome-features. “It’s the only way that I will help you, Ms. Miro.”
Suddenly Donna found that she couldn’t meet his eyes—eyes that raked over her with both a peculiar appreciation and a searing that seemed to touch her soul. She felt absurdly stripped by that gaze; as if she had been taken down to naked flesh—and naked motive. He was a very strange man. Compelling, frightening. She began to feel that she might have been safer in the hands of the mugger. There was about him a sense of energy, and of danger, and of sexuality. He truly had no right to be a priest.
“Well?” He demanded suddenly.
Donna paused a minute, wondering what purgatory awaited those who purposely lied to priests. She swept her lashes over her cheeks. Andrew McKennon was impossible to find. She had hired a private detective, who had gotten nowhere. She had tried the police, and they had almost thrown her out the door. She had tried the streets and fared even worse.
“Blind faith, Father. All that I want to do is meet McKennon for myself and get some kind of real assurance that Lorna is all right.”
She watched as he suddenly frowned, then drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment and picked up the telephone. After a second a smile touched his features, making Donna once more acutely aware of his devilish, ruggedly male good looks.
“Tricia? Ummm…it’s Luke. Fine…fine…thanks. Listen, I’d like to see you as soon as possible. It’s about Andrew.”
Apparently “Tricia” had a few things to say about the reason for his call. Not angry things; just worried things. The next thing Donna heard was the priest reassuring the woman. “You know that if I didn’t really believe that what I was doing was okay, I wouldn’t be doing it.”
More conversation. Then: “Trust me. Andrew would.”
Donna waited tensely as the woman replied. The priest’s golden eyes abruptly turned her way. “Where are you staying?” he demanded.
“The Plaza,” Donna replied quickly.
His gaze swept swiftly over her body and his ever-subtle grin touched his lips. “Where else?” he murmured, as if directing his question with a certain amused exasperation to the divinity above.
“How about the Oak Room at the Plaza? Ummm…better give us an hour. I don’t want to give anyone a scare in my raven weeds and I’m certain Ms. Miro is going to want to change. Eight sounds perfect.” He glanced at Donna and suddenly laughed. “Don’t worry about the expense, Tricia. The lady I’m bringing with me will pick up the tab.” He laughed again, then closed with “Thanks, Tricia.”
He hung up the phone and stood quickly. “Excuse me, will you, Ms. Miro? I’ll be back down directly.”
“Wait a minute,” Donna demanded, but he ignored her. His long, sure strides took him out of the room before he could reply. Donna sat fuming for a moment with her foot still soaking, wondering just what she was getting herself into. She had the strangest feeling she was playing with fire.
She stood with sudden vehemence, wincing as she placed weight upon the still-soaking foot. It didn’t matter! she thought angrily. She owed it to Lorna to find out what was going on, if she really was all right.
Donna winced and glanced down at her foot. The ankle wasn’t half so painful as it had been. She grimaced, remembering what might have happened to her if the disturbing priest hadn’t come upon her. She was grateful to him, she reluctantly admitted to herself as she tentatively removed her foot and shook it slightly so that water would drip off. But, hell, what a messy situation she had literally fallen into. She didn’t even know what was going on.
Grimacing slightly and looking about guiltily, Donna placed her still-damp foot on the thick Oriental carpeting. Her foot seemed to take her weight if she was very careful.
Silently fuming, she gazed about the room. This time she noted the mounted deer head above the mantel and the gun rack in its handsome wood case against the far wall. The man was incredible.
He swore like a truck driver, cuffed would-be thiefs, hunted and had the closest damn thing to bedroom eyes she’d ever seen. Oh, why had God put this man in her path?—and a priest, no less.
Sensuous Angel Page 3