Sensuous Angel

by Heather Graham

  Donna stopped muttering to herself as her idle hobbling brought her to his desk. The piece was as comfortably tasteful, austere, uncluttered, and as simple as the rest of the room. As the man? Surely, no. He was more like a walking powder keg but then, he could also hide his emotions. He released his anger only when it served his purpose. He was capable of raw violence, but that violence was very purposely controlled. She should know. He had used it to rescue her from a terrifying experience.

  Cautiously she moved to the bookcase. Ah! At least there was a Bible in it. Confessions of Saint Augustine. A number of things by Andrew Greeley. Why not?

  Donna kept combing the bookcases. There were novels by Robert Ludlum, Sidney Sheldon, and a number of other contemporary writers. A copy of Moby Dick, Beckett, and a bound collection of Shakespeare, Plays by Moliere….

  There were also a number of books on the occult: Witchcraft Today. Understanding ESP. A History of Magic/White and Black. And then there were The Psychosis of the Criminal Mind, In the Eyes of the Strangler, and An Analysis of One Murderer.

  There were more books. A lot of law books. Books on architecture, on history, and a number of “do-it-yourself” books.

  But it was the books on the occult and “criminal minds” that made her shiver. Besides the obvious, she felt that the priest was a mystery, that there was something about himself that he kept hidden.

  Maybe she should be getting the hell out of there—going as far away as she could! She didn’t know anything about him at all, much less about anything that he might be hiding!

  She closed her eyes. She couldn’t leave. She had to help Lorna. Yet at what cost to herself?

  She started her half-limping, idle wandering about the room once again. And then her thoughts took on a sudden change as her eyes fell on a picture on his desk in a plain brass frame. The picture was of a young woman who had a face with a classic beauty in fine oval features and more. The photographer had caught her animation, the sparkle of dark amber eyes, even the whirling flow of golden blond hair.

  As Donna pondered the small portrait, Mary suddenly swept back into the room, holding a bandage. “Donna! You shouldn’t be standing on that foot!”

  Donna swallowed guiltily. “I-I’m sorry, Mary. But I had to try it—and it is so much better. Thank you. And I am so sorry if I soaked your carpet—”

  “The carpet will dry! Not to worry about a thing like that! But you get off that foot now and stand only when you have to.”

  Donna started to hobble obediently back to the sofa, but she couldn’t resist one backward glance to the portrait. Mary saw the direction of her eyes and smiled sadly. “April was a lovely, lovely girl, don’t you think? Ahhh…Luke was so in love with her. And she with him. But…the good Lord takes us all when he will.”

  Donna was glad she had reached the sofa, for she would have fallen to the floor without it. As it was, it was all she could do to hold back a gasp of shock. God grant it, “Father” Luke gave the appearance of being an extremely healthy and virile man; he had eyes like the devil himself and exuded strength and vibrant sensuality—but the man was a priest!

  How could his kindly housekeeper speak so nonchalantly about his loving a woman? Unless, of course, this April had been his wife before he became a priest? Her shock receded then, and she recalled with a sympathetic poignancy his words: “No, young women in their twenties shouldn’t die,” words that had held a note of bitter pain.

  She swallowed quickly, attempting a small smile as Mary’s eyes turned to hers. She couldn’t resist further temptation.

  “Who…uh…was she, Mary?”

  “Why, April, Donna? Ahh…and just like a spring day, she was. So sweet, and gentle. And—”

  “Mary!”

  The housekeeper’s name was called sharply from the doorway. Neither woman had noticed that the door had swung open—or that the priest had returned to tower within it. Except that he didn’t look like a priest any more. He was still in black, but now he wore a light-blue open-neck knit shirt beneath a casual black leather jacket.

  He might have just stepped from a page of The New Yorker. Elegantly casual man about town, the type who drove a Ferrari and had a dozen blondes practically purring as they lounged about him in sleek poses.

  “Excuse me”—his tone gentled and he offered a brief smile to his housekeeper—“but we have to hurry, Mary.” His glance turned sharply to Donna. “Ms. Miro? I’m afraid we’ll have to go now if we’re to make our appointment. I do think you need time to make yourself a little more presentable.”

  Donna automatically placed a hand on the escaping tendrils of her hair. She was a disaster. No pantyhose, no shoes. One foot soaked and still dripping. Clothing dirtied and crumpled, hair a disheveled mass. And she was going to the Oak Room with a man who was definitely the most striking individual she had ever encountered.

  “Luke! Give the girl a minute!” Mary said firmly. She smiled warmly at Donna. “Give me just a second. I’ll get an Ace bandage wrapped around your ankle and it’ll be as good as new!”

  Mary gave her employer a chastising stare as she bent down and took Donna’s ankle in her hand. Donna had to grit her teeth for a minute as Mary wrapped the bandage around her ankle, but once it was in place and her shoes were back on, she found that she could stand with little discomfort.

  “Ms. Miro? Are we ready yet?” The priest queried her as she balanced a bit doubtfully.

  “I…uh…yes! I’m ready. Mary, thank you so much for everything.”

  “Nothing at all, dear. Nothing at all. And I’m so sure we’ll be seeing more of one another!”

  Donna had no reply. She hobbled quickly to the doorway where she stared up at…the man. The flecks of molten gold and green in eyes seemed to fuse to the shade of fire as he returned her scrutiny with humor. He offered her his arm and she had little choice but to accept. His touch seemed to burn with the heat of his eyes. It rippled through her. It made her more acutely aware of being a woman than she had ever known possible.

  “Come on, Ms. Miro, our chariot is waiting.” She swallowed and lowered her lashes and hurried along beside him. Whomever, or whatever, Father Luke actually was, the effect he had upon her was definitely sinful.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IN THE DIMNESS OF the cab Donna could see a reflected gleam in the golden eyes that seemed ever more satanically appealing in the neon glow of night. Something about him just wasn’t right.

  Donna drew her gaze from him to stare out the window, thankful to recognize the area of Central Park South. A hansom cab pulled by a large bay gelding clattered by as they stopped at a traffic light. Donna jerked back around to face the man beside her. The whole situation was driving her crazy.

  “Are you Catholic?” she demanded.

  He glanced her way with lazy, heavy lidded eyes. “Do you know the meaning of the word, Ms. Miro?”

  “Of course: ‘universal.’”

  “Then I suppose I can certainly say I’m catholic.”

  “What kind of an answer is that?” she demanded. The taxi seemed terribly small.

  “The best you’re going to get, Ms. Miro. Except that I’ll hasten to assure you I didn’t create a charade of my life simply for your benefit this evening.”

  So he was a priest. She felt a little doomed because she was falling beneath the spell of his fascination and was attracted to a man who had dedicated his life to a different calling. How did she deal with him?

  A baseball bat would have been nice. Right across the back of his head. She wanted to label him as arrogant—but she couldn’t, not quite. He was quick to parry her thrusts, yet his voice always carried a low note of humor that wasn’t cruel, merely amused, as if he were clearly aware of her dilemma and enjoying it. Arrogant…no, not exactly. He was an assured man, confident in himself…electrically vital….

  Like Mark. Donna’s mouth twisted into a sad smile as she thought of the man who had once been her husband. Mark could walk into a room and charm everyone. His eyes ca
rried that bold flash of appreciation and challenge. So dynamic. Lorna had told her once that Mark had been too dynamic and that it would be hard for her to fall in love again because she would have to find a man more dynamic to make her forget him.

  This man was dynamic. He made her forget everything, even the fact that he was a priest. And the attraction was still there—perhaps worse in the cab—a chemistry that was blinding. An undeniable, overpowering instinct to go to him.

  She was floundering in quicksand. And yet, if he were any other man, she would have been certain that he was as riddled by the magical yet natural beguilement as she. Even when she wanted to slap him she wanted to feel the strong, clean-shaven contours of his jaw….

  “My turn,” he said suddenly.

  “For what?” Donna asked, meeting his eyes uneasily.

  “Are you…Roman Catholic, Ms. Miro?”

  In the near future, she would regret that she gave little notice to his emphasis on the adjective “Roman.” But she was tired and sore, confused, angry—and disturbed by his very unpriestly presence. She answered him flippantly. “Me? Of course, Father. An Italian girl from Shrewesbury Street? They consider us to be very, very Catholic!”

  Donna noticed her fingers were shaking as she drew further against her side of the cab. The distance didn’t help. She stilled her fingers with strength of will and began a new line of questioning.

  “Who is this Tricia? Why are we meeting her?”

  “She is a friend of mine—and she keeps in touch with Andrew more closely than I do.”

  Donna was unable to query him further since the cab pulled in front of the entrance to the Plaza. Again she attempted to pay—and again she was impatiently brushed aside.

  The large, beautiful lobby of the hotel was brimming with people. Saturday night, Donna thought dryly. Masses of people were descending for a night out on the town, bedecked in all sorts of regalia for the theater or dinner or dancing. Donna threaded her way toward the elevators, trying to talk over her shoulder.

  “Please go on in to the Oak Room. I’ll meet you as soon as I’m able.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of leaving you, Ms. Miro. You could trip somewhere on that ankle. Or you could get your directions backward and spend the next twenty-four hours looking for the Oak Room.”

  She wanted to argue with him—she certainly didn’t want him coming to her room—but it was impossible to argue in the crowd as he calmly ushered her along by the elbow. Once inside the crowded elevator, she gave up with a sigh, wondering then just how she had left her room. She had a habit of really spreading out—leaving hair spray on the nightstand, bobby pins all over the sink, and her toiletries from one end of a bureau to another. Face it, she had a habit of being disorganized, and also—when she was pressed for time—of leaving discarded clothing wherever it had fallen.

  “What floor, Ms. Miro?”

  Donna answered him brusquely, once again wondering about the state of her room. She could recall nothing—except that she had been in a hurry to get going.

  Too soon they were walking down the hall and she was fumbling in the shoulder bag for the little code card that was her key. It was galling to realize that she couldn’t even function properly when he stood beside her. For several years she had considered herself immune to attractive males and now….

  But it wasn’t just her, she thought defensively. He had drawn the eyes of every female in both elevator and lobby. Almost everyone, she corrected herself. He was a riveting man. Strength of will? she Wondered. Or perhaps the self-assurance that was purposeful?

  “May I help?”

  She wasn’t even managing to slip the little card into the door.

  He took the initiative without reply and a second later they were entering the room.

  Donna was loath to turn on the light but equally loath to be alone with him in the darkness. She quickly hit the switch.

  The beds were made, but that was about it. She had only been in New York a day and already she had a clutter of shoes next to the dresser, jackets thrown over one bed and a chair, and an assortment of toiletries strewn across the dresser.

  Latent childhood rebellion, she thought briefly. Her mother was the perfect Italian housewife to the core—to this day she studiously ironed the permanent-pressed sheets and her father’s boxer shorts.

  “Uh…I’ll just be a second,” Donna murmured nervously as she headed for the closet, trying to kick her shoe assortment beneath the dresser unobtrusively. “Just make yourself comfortable—”

  She broke off, glad that she was facing the clothing she had hung up. Make yourself comfortable! Surely that wasn’t the right thing to say when a priest stood in one’s hotel room.

  She grabbed a sleek navy cocktail dress and backed out of the closet. He was about to sit in the one large fanback chair that faced the window overlooking the park when he paused. Donna frowned, but he straightened with a smile, dangling a pair of red lace panties from his forefinger. “Will you be needing these?” he inquired with bland innocence.

  Donna pursed her lips and stomped to retrieve her garment—causing her ankle to buckle with pain. He was quick to rescue her with a firm grip on the arm, but Donna felt little gratitude.

  “Thank you,” she muttered, snatching them from him and straightening herself quickly. She made a quick escape into the bathroom, the husky sound of his chuckle following her.

  She leaned against the closed door for a moment, trying to slow the erratic beating of her heart and the great gulps she was taking in for air.

  “He can’t be a priest!” she mouthed.

  She stumbled over her own clothing as she tried to change, but she still managed to get her clothes on quickly. She gave up on trying to repin her hair and simply brushed it and allowed it to hang loose. No time for makeup repair. And she had forgotten to burrow through a drawer for a new pair of stockings….Damn.

  Drawing a deep breath, she exited the bathroom in her bare feet. He was watching her every movement, sitting comfortably with an ankle crossed over a knee, his dark head relaxed against the chair, his fingers idly strumming its arms.

  “Tell me, Ms. Miro, how does a girl from Shrewesbury Street wind up at the Plaza?”

  Donna paused and straightened from the drawer she had been searching to face him through the mirror. “You tell me first, Father Luke, how a priest happens to wear custom clothing?”

  He smiled nonchalantly. “I have two sisters, Ms. Miro. They’re both fond of lavishing gifts on me at Christmas.”

  It didn’t ring exactly true. But then it didn’t sound like a lie either.

  Donna found a pair of stockings and slammed the drawer shut.

  “Okay, fair enough. We made money in the olive-oil business,” she said, continuing quickly with a defense mechanism that had become mechanical since her college days. “The legit olive-oil business. Being of Italian descent does not automatically make one a member of organized crime.”

  He lifted his dark eyebrows high with humor. “My dear Ms. Miro, I would have never assumed such a thing.”

  Donna flushed slightly. “I’m sorry. I got tired of the teasing at Boston U. when everyone asked if I could get a hit man for a certain professor when exams were coming up.”

  “No one likes to be stereotyped, Ms. Miro.”

  There was a calm authority to his gentle words that sent her flying back to the bathroom in confusion. What was going on here? she screamed inwardly as she stepped into the fresh stockings. She had to get away from this man—but he was her only link to Andrew McKennon and, therefore, to Lorna.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting the pain that could still touch her so easily. She had to find Lorna. Or did she? Maybe she should have stayed out of it…

  No. She exhaled a deep sigh. She had thought it over again and again. Lorna was as close to her as her brothers and sisters. Maybe closer. They had been friends since they had been five years old. She couldn’t take a chance that everything was all right. She had to k
now. If something were to happen to Lorna, she would never forgive herself for not getting involved.

  Okay, so she was involved. And being involved had cast her into the company of a priest who was making her feel as if her muscles had become wet cement and her bones had turned to jelly. Who teased her, confused her, frightened her, excited her, and made her fear for her soul.

  Donna straightened and surveyed her reflection in the mirror. Her dress was simple and concealing, yet nicely sophisticated. She was twenty-eight, adjusted to the world around her, sure of her views and goals, and comfortable in her relationships with family and friends. She was not going to allow herself to appear unnerved.

  She tilted her chin slightly and flicked her long hair behind her shoulder. She was ready.

  This time she strode out of the bathroom with a calm assurance, pausing only to transfer a few things from her shoulder bag to a smaller evening purse. She didn’t glance at the man whose eyes she could feel like brands on her back until her task was complete. Then she turned and sauntered as best she could, with her ankle still weak, for the door, gripping the handle and swinging it open. “Shall we go—Father?”

  He stood and strode toward her. “Certainly, Ms. Miro.”

  Despite her resolve, she lowered her eyes as he reached her. “Could you please quit that?”

  “What is it you wish me to quit?” he inquired softly.

  She wondered bitterly how even the husky depths of his voice could touch her like a sensual caress. Somehow she raised her eyes to his. “My name is Donna.”

  “Donna,” he said agreeably, inclining his head with a slight grin curved into his handsome features.

  “I wish I knew,” she murmured, dismayed to hear that her own voice was husky, “how I should really be addressing you.”

  He chuckled, breaking the spell that had seemed to bind them to the doorway as he slipped an arm through hers to lead her out and down the hallway. “My name, Donna, is Lucian Trudeau. Father Trudeau, if you will. Or Father Luke.”

  “I’m really not terribly sure I can call you Father Luke,” Donna exhaled on a whisper of air.