by Anne Stuart
“Celibacy is not a requirement,” Leaf said. “It’s merely a suggestion. If we wish to follow the master then we should emulate him.”
It took a second for this to sink in. “You’re telling me Luke Bardell is celibate?”
“Of course.”
“Of course,” Rachel echoed in disbelief. “You know, there’s a problem with celibate religions. No little followers to keep the faith going. The Shakers found that out.”
“We aren’t a religion; we’re a philosophy. And children aren’t allowed here. They’re too young to understand our teachings. Luke says we must take care of our worldly responsibilities before we nurture ourselves.”
“A cult leader with a republican conscience,” Rachel muttered. “What next?”
“It’s not a cult.”
“Yeah, I know. Not a religion, not a cult, just a way of life,” Rachel said, tossing herself down on the bed. It was narrow and hard, like a bed of nails. It suited her mood.
“Dinner will be at six o’clock. We’re all vegans here, but our cooks are very skillful. I know you won’t mind.”
The only thing worse than a vegetarian diet was its stricter form, vegan. Rachel sighed. “It will be lovely, I’m sure. In the meantime I think I’ll take a little rest.”
“Perfect,” Leaf said. “I’ll come back for you at supper time.”
Rachel lay very still on the bed, listening as Leafs sandaled feet disappeared into the thick silence. She’d left the damned uniform behind, and Rachel stared at it, wondering if she had the energy and the anger to dump it in the trash. She didn’t.
She looked at the wood-paneled ceiling overhead. She’d done her research well—this facility was less than four years old, built with the best that money could buy. It was worth millions, all thanks to the spiritual leadership of a man who’d spent three years in prison for manslaughter after killing a man during an armed robbery.
Luke Bardell had risen far and fast in the last seven years since he’d walked out of Joliet Prison on parole. And now no one could touch him, no one would even dare try, including the parole board who should have thrown him back in jail for violating the rules of his parole long ago.
No one would dare try to touch him but Rachel Connery. And she was going to bring him down.
She’d worn high heels as a stupid little act of defiance. She wasn’t going to go exploring in them, she wasn’t going to put on those damnable sandals that Leaf had left behind either, even though they looked like they might fit. She would go in her stocking feet, roaming the empty halls of Santa Dolores, and see whether she would come across the elusive Luke Bardell. She wasn’t going to await his summons for a papal audience. She was going to find him—now. And remind herself just how human he was.
She should have known it would be a stupid waste of time. She passed a good half dozen of the brainwashed—people who looked at her and smiled and murmured some crap about “blessings.” But Luke Bardell was nowhere to be found. No one stopped her from going into any room, including the large, stark room that looked designed for large meetings or human sacrifices. But there was no sign of their mysterious, illustrious “master.”
By the time she gave up and headed back for her room her mood had not improved. She was hungry, she was hot and tired, and whether she liked it or not she was going to change out of her city clothes into something more comfortable. She wasn’t certain that she’d brought anything suitable, and she’d go around stark naked before she’d dress up like the karate kid, but a shower would remind her that she was here on a quest—one she had no intention of failing.
It was winter, and her room was already dark when she reached it. There was no light switch on the wall, and she cursed beneath her breath as she stumbled into the darkness, the door swinging shut behind her, sealing her in.
“Goddamn place,” she muttered. “No goddamn light switches, no goddamn meat, no goddamn messiah when you go looking for him,” she grumbled, flailing around for a lamp on the bedside table. She found one, only to discover that it was an oil lamp.
“Shit,” she said out loud. “And no goddamn electricity.”
The flare of the match was dazzling in the inky darkness, and Rachel uttered a little shriek, mesmerized by the light as it traveled toward a lamp. A moment later a dim illumination filled the room, growing brighter by the moment, and a man shook the match out and tossed it in the kiva.
“You were looking for me?” Luke Bardell said.
She would never forget nor forgive her initial moment of panic. She’d gone in search of him, to face the lion in his den. And instead he’d invaded hers.
He was as mesmerizing close up as he was from a distance. It wasn’t something as simple as physical beauty, though he had that in abundance. An elegant, narrow face, wide gray-blue eyes that looked at her with astonishing compassion, a nose and chin strong enough to give his angelic face character, and a mouth that could seduce a saint.
He sat on her bed, the only place to sit in the room, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was wearing one of those baggy cotton outfits, though his was pure white instead of the pale colors the others wore. He had one of those tall, lean bodies that looked almost gaunt, and yet only a fool would underestimate the strength and power beneath the loose fitting white tunic. His hair was very dark and very long, and it flowed down his back, and he watched her with his big, elegant hands folded quietly in his lap, watched her with faint curiosity and not the slightest hint of apprehension.
“How’d you get in here?” she demanded, not caring how hostile she sounded. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“We have no locks at Santa Dolores,” he said in a tranquil voice. “We don’t use harsh or profane language. It’s an infectious poison, just as surely as drugs and alcohol and animal flesh are.”
She resisted the impulse to tell him to fuck himself, she wasn’t sure why. “Sticks and stones may break my bones,” she murmured.
He raised his eyes to look at her, and she met his gaze with complete self-control. No wonder he was able to have otherwise intelligent adults eating out of his hand. Those eyes of his could make an iceberg melt.
But Rachel was frozen harder than an iceberg, and thoughtful looks and soulful eyes left her unmoved.
“You’re very angry with the Foundation of Being, aren’t you?” he said, not moving from her bed. “You think we took advantage of your mother.”
“No.” She began unfastening her silk jacket, determined not to be intimidated by him. “I think you took advantage of my mother. You seduced her, convinced her not to leave her money to her only child, and then act as if you’re the misunderstood victim.”
His smile was slow and oddly unsettling. “I’m celibate.”
“So they told me. I don’t believe it.”
“You were asking about me? Why did you want to know?”
The dark wouldn’t show the faint color that rose to her cheeks, she thought with sudden gratitude. “They volunteered the information.”
“How very odd,” Luke said, swinging his long legs around and rising from her bed. He was very close to her in the small room, and she noticed he was quite a bit taller than she’d realized. She didn’t like tall men. But then she didn’t like short men or average men either, she reminded herself. There was nothing to be nervous about. “They must have divined somehow that you wanted to know. There are no coincidences in this life. No accidents.”
“Life is nothing but one long accident,” Rachel snapped, immediately regretting her impulsiveness. “If my mother hadn’t met you, she wouldn’t have fallen under your influence, and I wouldn’t be a pauper.”
“Yes,” Luke said gently, reaching up and touching her short-cropped hair. It was an odd, intimate gesture, one that left her frozen in place. “But you still wouldn’t have your mother, would you?”
She was still standing there, minutes after the door closed behind him.
Author Bio
I’ve been writing since the
dawn of time. A child prodigy, I made my first professional sale to Jack and Jill Magazine at the age of 7, for which I received $25 (admittedly my father worked for the publisher). Since then I’ve written gothics, regencies, romantic suspense, historical romance, series romance—anything with sex and violence, love and redemption. I misbehave frequently, but somehow have managed to amass lots of glittering prizes, like NYT, PW and USA Today bestseller status, Lifetime Achievement Award from the Romance Writers of America, and a decent smattering of Romantic times and RITA awards.
I live on a lake in Northern Vermont with my incredibly fabulous husband. My two children have flown the coop, but the three cats do their best to keep us from being lonely.
In my spare time I quilt and play around with wearable art, and the rest of the time I write write write. Apparently women of a certain age get a rush of creativity, and I’m currently enjoying it. Too many stories to write, not enough hours in the day.