nineteen
The church doors flew open nearly thwacking Kady in the face. Too frightening by half was the huge, angry priest in the entryway glowering down at her.
“I said eight-thirty,” he fumed. “It’s almost nine.”
Though she couldn’t do much more than tilt her head back and stare up at him, Kady remained enough in her right mind to notice that Tristan was still decked out in formal vestments—a white alb under a brocade chasuble with a large gold cross hanging front and center on his impressive chest. That he hadn’t changed after Mass struck her as strange. That he looked so holy was disconcerting.
“I—I—”
“Who the hell was that guy?” he demanded, peering over her head at the Jeep rounding the corner. That good-looking guy. For the entire time they were parked outside the church, Tristan had been spy—watching them through the sidelight window. And no, goddamnit, it wasn’t jealous rage he’d been feeling.
“I—I—”
“You said that already,” he snapped.
“I was w-walking. He gave me a ride.”
He leaned down until they were eye-to-eye, noses almost touching. “He?” His voice went from a fiery hundred degrees to a frosty forty below. “He who gave you a ride?”
“S-Sebastian,” she squeaked.
“S-Sebastian?”
He saw Kady’s eyes narrow a fraction and from that barely perceptible indication could tell she was now more pissed-off than afraid.
“One of Mo O’Malley’s bartenders, if you must know.”
“Oh, so we’re on a first name basis with the local soda jerks now, are we?”
“He’s not a soda jerk,” she defended. “He’s a mixologist.”
Tristan rolled his eyes—gimme a fucking break—and was about to abandon the topic when a shadow of irrational fear suddenly darkened his thoughts. “Are you seeing him?”
“Who?”
“You know who.” An anxious thudding had begun in his chest.
“That’s none of your beeswax.”
“I asked… you… a question.”
“I don’t see how that’s—”
“Answer me, damnit.”
“No,” she shouted back. “No, okay!”
The denial seemed to pacify him. Momentarily. “Just fucking him then?”
Kady opened her mouth to retaliate but no sound made it out. As she stood hotly gaping at him, Tristan placed an index finger under her jaw and with a gentle lift closed it. “An open mouth catches flies.”
Her lips formed a childish moue.
He grasped her chin. “Such a pretty little pout,” he remarked, gently rubbing his thumb over her petulant lower lip.
The caress was unexpected, entrancing, and put her body in a state of suspended animation. With every stroke breathing became difficult. All Kady could do was stand there and stare up at him like a mesmerized nincompoop.
Smugness tugged at his lips. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “Like a siren of Greek mythology. Seducing sailors to their doom. Beautiful, treacherous, deadly.”
Whatever spell she’d been under was instantly broken. Tristan’s words were wrapped in disdain like a fish in newspaper and the stench brought Kady back to herself.
With a searing look she batted his hand away, and in her most imperious voice told him to, “Go to hell, Father Cleary.” Then with all the haughtiness of a queen dismissing a lowly subject, Kadence threw up her head and swept past him on her way into the church.
Her little performance earned her an ounce of begrudging respect. Well, well, well… The country mouse was showing some backbone. Tristan’s forehead creased. And he was pretty sure he didn’t like it. “Where are you going?” he bellowed after her, his words reverberating off the cathedral ceiling like rolling thunder.
Without looking back, she answered, “Where do you think? To the penance box. It’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”
Masculine lips formed an enigmatic smirk. Indeed it is, my dear.
She continued down the nave of the church, wood heels clacking purposefully against stone tile, her floral-print skirt swishing about her ankles. Tristan watched her, hands on his hips. With Kady’s face no longer posing as a distraction, he was able to take in the rest of her. What he saw caused his eyebrows to conjoin. The other night at O’Malley’s she was dressed to entice. Now with the long skirt and clodhoppers she looked like an extra from Little House on the Prairie. And what was the deal with the giant Cinnabon on her head?
Entering the confessional booth, Kady pulled the door shut with a rude bang and flopped down on the kneeler. Arms crossed in a sulky display she waited impatiently for Tristan to enter his side. Before he could get fully settled she began. “Bless me, father…”
“Don’t you mean, forgive me, father?” Through the grate Tristan could make out enough of her face to see that Kady was matching him frown for frown.
“Have it your way,” she muttered. “Forgive, me, father…” She made a small noise that was either a cough or a snort. “I haven’t been to confession since Brangelina became a thing.” Sarcastic snort, definitely.
“Don’t get cute. You know damn well how this is supposed to go. You say, ‘forgive me, father, for I have sinned’…then I make the sign of the cross and say, ‘in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit’… then you proceed to tell me in great gory detail what transgression you committed and why.”
“That wasn’t the deal,” she challenged.
“Deal? We didn’t have any damn deal. I’m doing you a favor here. Do I have to go over again how this works? You dump all your baggage, recite the Act of Contrition, then to atone for your crime complete whatever sentence I dole out.”
“Crime, father? It’s not like I murdered anyone.”
“Didn’t you?” he said softly.
Kady’s stomach clutched as if she’d received a blow to the gut. “No,” she gasped, lunging to her feet. “You know that’s not true! Oh God, how could you? You—You can’t possibly— You don’t actually—” She brought her face right up to the grate. “Say it!”
Tristan regretted the cruel insinuation the moment it left his lips, but his shamefaced silence was interpreted by Kady to mean that like so many others, he assumed she’d taken a dive down a flight of stairs on purpose.
“Say it!” She was screeching at him but so suffocated with emotion her voice could barely get beyond a loud whisper. “Tell me you don’t believe I tried to get rid of the baby.”
Though the Catholic Church condemns abortion, even in cases of sexual assault, Kady had strongly considered it. Under the circumstances, how could she not? A baby not conceived in love was one thing. But a child resulting from a heinous act…? Though she personally believed children were innocent of evil and shouldn’t be made to suffer the sins of the fathers, deep down Kady wasn’t so sure she could unconditionally love a child born of rape. The decision was taken out of her hands when fate intervened—or was it God?—and sent her tumbling head over heels down a steep stairwell.
“Don’t be stupid, woman. Anyone who knows you knows what a klutz you can be. Of course it was an accident.”
“Then apologize. Apologize for implying otherwise and for being such a mean SOB. Say it, damn you!”
“I apologize. Jesus.” Despite the less than convincing delivery, Tristan was truly remorseful. His only defense was that he was feeling spiteful and combative and had been gunning to hurt her. Mission accomplished, dickhead. Hearing Kady’s quiet sniffling made his chest constrict. Genuinely contrite, he said, “I’m sorry.” And this time sounded like he meant it.
“Yeah, well, screw you, Father Cleary,” she grumbled, sitting back down. “And whatever else you think you know about me. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. What I tried telling you before. I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing to be ashamed of and nothing that requires absolution. I can’t feel repentant about something that never happened.”
“You said the other day that if I gave you a chance you
’d reveal all. Now you tell me there’s nothing to forgive? All right, then maybe we should just skip the confession part of this sham and go straight to the dispensing of penance.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You owe me atonement.”
“I told you I don’t have anything to confess. Not in the way you mean, anyway.”
“Then why are you wasting my time? Why are you here?”
“Because there’s something you need to know.”
“I already know your sin. The only thing I need is to hear you say it.”
“I didn’t come here tonight to confess a sin but to tell the truth.”
“Truth? ‘A lie told often enough becomes the truth.’ That was Lenin. The communist not the musician. You wore a skirt.”
“What?”
“Do you know I dream about you?”
“W-what?”
“Oh yeah. Like some damn apparition you haunt me. Almost nightly it fucking feels like.”
Tristan’s out-of-nowhere naked admission rocked Kady off her axis, leaving her with scant breath and no words. Was he saying what she thought he was saying?
“Even when you’re thousands of miles away I can’t seem to escape you. You know that? No, of course not. How could you?” Half desperate, half hopeful he asked, “Do you dream about me? Do you see my face when you close your eyes at night… like I do yours?” He was at the window, fingers grasping the wire mesh like a man imprisoned.
“T-Tristan? I don’t know what’s happening right now.”
“Do you ever wake up in the morning to find your panties soaked… with want… with need?” His voice was quietly raspy. “Do women even have wet dreams I wonder?”
Kady could do little more than draw air in and out of her lungs as he continued his bemusing musing.
“Do you groan my name whenever you get that hot restless throbbing between your thighs? Do you? Think of me? When you’re laying in bed late at night… when you’re touching yourself. Naked. Have you ever pictured my face buried in your pussy? Imagined my tongue fucking your cunt? Wondered how my finger would feel probing your—” The noise Kady made was between a gasp and a choked gargle. “Do you wonder what it would be like?”
With her skipping like a stone across water, she was dumbfounded as how to respond. Never before had he said such intimate things to her. Never. The words weren’t only sexually graphic they were vulgar. Dirty. Things said in pornos, supposedly to arouse. But Kady knew Tristan had meant them to shock. To her dismay he achieved both—making her mouth dry and her crotch wet.
“Do you?” he rasped.
In a fit of nerves she blurted, “No.”
“No?” he echoed softly.
“You’re wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“I didn’t cheat on you.”
“Ah.” Back to that.
“There wasn’t anyone else.”
“Heard that one already.” Her cowardly redirection was disappointing.
“I swear.”
“That, too.”
“You’ll never believe me, will you?”
For the longest time Tristan didn’t answer. “Doesn’t matter,” he decided finally.
“The truth doesn’t matter?”
“Only atonement matters now.”
“I don’t get any of this. Why did you ask me here tonight?”
“Your skirt…”
“My what?”
“What treasure you’re hiding under there I can only imagine.”
“W-what’s gotten into you?”
“Clarity,” he replied cryptically. “And you never answered my question.”
“About…?”
“Whether you’ve ever woken up with that sweet, agonizing ache of desire clawing at your insides… Like I have.” The acknowledgment was a bitter pill. “More goddamn times than I care to recount.”
“I—I don’t know why you’re telling me this but I’m not sure I want to know. I have no desire to play games with you, Tristan.”
“Desire,” he scoffed. “Fickle thing, that. One minute it leaves you feeling all tingly inside…the next like you’re getting fucked up the ass.”
“That’s it, I’m done.”
“Like hell you are.”
Kady shot to her feet. “I’m out of here!”
“Sit. Back. Down.”
The over-enunciated command told her that the tight leash Tristan had on his control was seconds from snapping. Grudgingly, she slammed herself back down on the bench and expelled a chuff of aggravation. “God. What is it you want from me?”
“What I want… is to see everything you so freely shared with someone else. Someone not your betrothed. I want you to show me what I missed out on.”
“I don’t—”
“You want my forgiveness? You have a confession that needs absolution? Then it’s quid pro quo. Tit for tat. You don’t get something for nothing. Get how this works now? So we’ll start with the skirt. Lift it up so I can see your pu—panties. Assuming, of course, you’re wearing any.” A side of his mouth slanted up when she made a noise of indignant protest.
“Whatever penance you think I deserve… Please, Tristan, not like this.”
“Pull up your skirt and give me a Hail Mary. I won’t ask again. You already know how I fucking hate to repeat myself.”
Trying to keep up with him was leaving her physically and emotionally exhausted. “So this is how it’s going to be?”
“This is how it’s going to be.” His voice dipped an octave. “You’re going to do everything I tell you. You’re going to take your medicine and you’re going to fucking like it. And since you happen to be wearing a skirt tonight we’re going to start there. Now… Pull. It. Up.”
Kady refused to budge. When Tristan saw her cross her arms in defiance he put his mouth right up to the grate, and in a voice so quiet she had to strain to hear, said, “Let me put it to you another way. You can either get on board or get out. But just so we’re clear, it’ll be for good this time. I won’t be issuing any more rain checks.”
Her instincts were screaming at her to get the hell out of there while she still could. On the other hand, she had her heart begging her to stay. Then there was her curiosity wanting to know where all this was lunacy was headed. Curiosity killed the cat, stupid. But satisfaction brought it back. Debate over.
Kady stood up.
Tristan’s breath caught as an arrow of panic spiraled through him. Shit, she was leaving. He’d pushed her too hard, too far. She was walking away. Just like that. Without a fight. Again. No, damnit, he wouldn’t allow it. He was on the verge of flying out of the booth to physically stop her when he saw Kady bend over and reach for her toes.
What the hell was the woman doing?
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what Kadence was doing. She was calling his bluff. Gathering the hem of her skirt, she drew it upward—slooooowly—sliding the voluminous material along the length of her legs, one provocative inch at a time. Then she began reciting the requested prayer in a low monotone.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, our Lord is with thee.”
Tristan didn’t know whether to feel good about how easily his threat had worked, or bad about how quickly she’d caved. Hell, he’d only wanted to mess with the girl. To teach her a lesson about actions and consequences. About helplessness and hopelessness and humiliation. Then he was going to release her like a trout caught on a fly, a little battered perhaps but none the worse for wear.
Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord…
Fuck, okay. So he’d intended all along on playing with her as callously as a cat with a mouse, so sue him. The fate of the mouse after the cat is done with it, Kadence Janacek should be so lucky.
“Our Lord is with thee,” she repeated, struggling with the next verse. “Blessed…”
“Art thou,” the priest automatically prompted.
“Blessed art thou among women, and blessed…”
“Is
the fruit…”
“Of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us…”
“Sinners.”
At Tristan’s barbed emphasis on the word, Kady shot him a blistering look and sprinted to the finish. “Nowandatthehourofourdeath—amen!”
During the unbearably long time it took her skirt to reach its destination, he’d been watching the snail’s pace progress with bated breath. At the unexpected reveal of black knee-high socks and white granny panties, it left him on a wheezing cough.
What in the name of all that is holy was the woman wearing? Where was that teeny-weeny string bikini bottom from the other day? And what was up with those wool socks? They looked like the kind old men wore with shorts.
Along with sullen and self-conscious, Kady was feeling just plain stupid standing there with her skirt hiked up to her hips. “This what you had in mind, father?” she asked tartly.
Not. Even. Close.
“Are we done here now? Have you gotten a good look? Have I atoned for my many grievous sins finally?”
“Get rid of them,” he ordered. “The socks. They look ridiculous.” Talk about a boner killer. Not that the holy father had one. Not yet, anyway.
Despite the greenhouse temperature Kady insisted, “It’s freezing in here.”
“The thermostat’s set at seventy.”
“They stay on.”
“Don’t make me fucking repeat myself.”
With a mutinous glare Kady let go of the skirt. It came down like a theater curtain in the middle of the act.
Tristan’s upper lip drew back, exposing his canines. “If I tell you to do something you’ll damn well do it.”
“You’re serious.”
“As a fucking heart attack.”
“My God. So this—this!—is why you brought me here tonight? To bully me into degrading myself as part of some sick revenge fantasy?”
“Take those damn socks off or else—”
“Or else what? You’ll unfriend me on Facebook? Block my number from your phone? Pass me on the street like you don’t even know me?”
Tristan played the part of avenging angel while Kady had been relegated to scapegoat, a role which didn’t sit well with her. In fact, this whole thing was really starting to piss her off. Like, really really off.
FATHER: Men of the Cloth - Tristan (Forbidden Priest Romance 1) Page 15