By one o’clock, Suzanne knew she was onto something.
Marcus Augustus Stearns, born in England in 1920, was the heir to a small barony. He’d come to New England in his late thirties and used his title to marry into a spectacularly wealthy family. The mother, Daisy, had realized her Edith Wharton fantasy and married the baron despite the fact that his only asset was his title. After just one year of marriage, Daisy had given birth to a daughter, Elizabeth Bennett Stearns. Not just an Edith Wharton fan but a Jane Austen fan as well, Suzanne noted. And then barely one year after, Suzanne was thrilled to discover, a son, Marcus Lennox Stearns, was born. Beyond that, the trail went cold. Marcus the Younger seemingly disappeared. No school records, no college records, no mentions of him at all.
Suzanne leaned back in the chair in her cramped library study carrel and closed her eyes.
Catholic priests made almost no money. No one became a Catholic priest to get rich. And yet, if this was the same Marcus Stearns, he’d given up a huge inheritance and a title, albeit a minor one, in the British peerage to become a priest. She had trouble believing it was possible. Still, a tantalizing possibility.
“Father Stearns,” she whispered to herself, “who the hell are you?”
* * *
When Nora awoke the next morning, she found her neck bare of her collar and the bed empty but for her. She disposed of all evidence of her presence—she replaced the white sheets on the bed, put the candles away and made a sweep for any stray female flotsam—before dressing in Søren’s bathroom and heading down to the kitchen. Nora got out her purse and wrote a check for Owen Perry’s school fund. She knew Søren would find a way to get the money to the Perry family without them learning it was from her. Her small shadow at church, Owen’s sweet, innocent company during Mass was always welcome. But still…she had a very bad reputation to uphold.
Leaving the check on Søren’s table, Nora groaned when she saw he’d left her another note. This time the note was in a sealed envelope and on the outside were the words Do not open until instructed.
“Sadist,” Nora growled and stuffed the envelope into her purse. She dug out her keys and checked the time on her cell phone. She had one new text message.
Hurry up, it read. My cock can’t wait to see you. Love, The Griffin.
Nora wrote back, Just for that, I’m taking the scenic route.
With a hint of heaviness in her heart, Nora left Søren’s house and headed to her car. She threw her stuff and herself inside and started the engine.
Griffin… It had been over a year and a half since they’d slept together. The last time had probably been in Miami at his father’s beach house. She’d lied to Wesley and said she’d had a book-signing at an alternative bookstore down there when all she really wanted to do was get away from her slightly disapproving roommate for a few days and have uninterrupted kinky sex. She’d gotten her wish. She probably would have continued to see Griffin even after going back to Søren, but even Søren’s patience could be tested by the young and often obnoxious Griffin Fiske. For Søren, S&M was like air or water—he needed it to function. For Griffin, S&M was a game that he played to get laid as often as humanly possible.
Nora remembered her last night with Griffin at the beach house. They’d gone out to a club and brought home some insanely hot Portuguese kid named Mateo or Mateus…something like that. Bi-curious and barely twenty-one, he’d never been with another guy before or done kink. Nora had taken her turn first, Griffin second. Then they’d tackled him at the same time. The next morning the kid dropped to his knees begging them to take him back to New York with them.
Suddenly Nora found herself grinning like an idiot. She and Griffin did make a good team.
Nora revved up her engine, put on some Beastie Boys, headed for the parkway and hit the gas.
Fuck the scenic route.
* * *
It didn’t matter where he’d fallen asleep the night before—the couch in the living room, his tiny twin bed at his grandmother’s house, his own bed under his mother’s roof—no matter what bed he fell asleep in, he was always back in the hospital bed when he woke up.
Michael remembered the dryness in his mouth when he’d finally woken up, how his lips felt like torn paper. He remembered the tubing around his nose and the wires running in and out of his arms. He’d been afraid to move his hands, afraid if he tried they wouldn’t be there to move.
He’d opened his eyes and blinked painfully. A man in black stood at the window in the hospital room staring out onto the helicopter pad. Deepest night, the only light in the room came from the life-support equipment that beeped and breathed in the dark.
“Father S?” It took everything Michael had to croak out those words.
His priest turned from the window and walked to his bed. Looking down on Michael, he smiled and Michael saw nothing in the smile but forgiveness.
“Your mother is here, Michael,” his priest said in a voice quiet as the night that surrounded them. “She’s with your father and the doctor right now. Should I find her for you?”
Michael shook his head. He wasn’t ready for his family yet, wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to face them again.
“Am I,” he began and coughed a little. “Am I going to hell?”
Father S reached out and briefly placed a hand on Michael’s forehead.
“No,” he said simply and with such conviction that Michael immediately believed him.
Michael looked up into his priest’s face. He’d admired Father S from the moment his family started going to Sacred Heart. What he wouldn’t give to have Father S’s peace and certainty.
“Am I going to live?” Michael barely heard his own voice.
“You are, yes. Thank God.” Michael heard the shadow of fear lurking behind the relief in his priest’s voice. He never imagined he’d ever see Father S afraid of anything. Even in the dark he could see a smudge of red on Father S’s white collar. Michael’s own blood, he realized. “Your hands will have some numbness, but all feeling should return eventually. You lost a great deal of blood, and will be fatigued for a few weeks as you recover. I’m afraid you’ll be in counseling for some time. I’ve asked your family if they’ll allow me to counsel you instead of sending you to a secular psychiatrist. They’re discussing it with your doctor right now.”
“I don’t think even you can help me.”
Father S had looked down at him and exhaled slowly.
“Your mother told me about the pictures your father found you looking at a few months ago, and the cuts and burns.”
Only the severe blood loss kept Michael from blushing.
“Dad thinks I’m sick. He left Mom because they keep fighting over me. I think I’m sick too. I want bad things. I don’t know why.” He paused to cough again. “I don’t know what I am.”
Father S looked at him for a minute and Michael felt himself being weighed in his priest’s mind. He must have passed the test because Father S sat on the side of Michael’s bed and began to speak words Michael never even dreamed he would hear from the sainted Father Marcus Stearns.
“Michael, as a priest I hear a hundred confessions every week. But now if you’ll allow me, I’m going to let you hear my confession. And be warned, it is a long confession and will certainly shock you.”
“Your confession?” Michael swallowed the sandpaper in his throat.
Father S crossed his arms over his chest and met Michael’s eyes. Michael studied his p
riest’s profile. Even now he seemed the epitome of piety and tranquility, his handsome face unlined and serene, his eyes as strong and gray as steel.
“Michael,” Father S said, his voice low but steady, “I know what you are.”
“You do?”
“Yes. You are something different—something some people find strange and fearful—but what you are is as natural as being male or female or awake or asleep. The things you desire, you long for, I understand them. You belong in a different world from the one you now live in.”
“What world? What am I?” Michael asked, wanting to sit up but finding his body would not work with him yet.
Father S had met his eyes and Michael saw the hint of a smile in them, a secret smile and the passing shadow of a green-eyed girl who could make any man lose his religion.
“My confession begins,” Father S said, “as the confessions of many men begin—with three words.”
“Father, forgive me?” Michael hazarded a guess.
Father S sighed.
“I met Eleanor.”
Michael opened his eyes and saw, as he knew he would, that he lay in his own small, neat room at his mother’s house. Rolling out of bed, he threw on clothes and booted up his computer. His hands shivered with excitement when he saw he had an email from Nora.
Michael—A car will pick you up Thursday morning at ten. Pack whatever you want, but I’ll make sure you get everything you need. It’s a long drive so bring something to read and eat. Can’t have you wasting away. God knows you’ll need your strength this summer. Oh, don’t bother packing your halo, Angel. You’re not going to need it.
This message, and your pants, will self-destruct in five minutes.
Covering his mouth as he laughed, Michael leaned back in his desk chair.
Michael knew enough about dominants and submissives to know that the relationship between them wasn’t always sexual. He’d happily live as Nora’s personal slave whether she fucked him or not. Dominants got off on dominating, and submissives got off on submitting, and if Nora wanted him to mop his floor with his hair, he’d do it with bliss. Finally his long hair would come in handy. But something about that line—Don’t bother packing your halo—made him think that Nora intended to use him for something other than janitorial services. Awesome.
You took my halo over a year ago, he wrote and hit Send with a smile.
Making a quick mental calculation he realized he had forty-nine hours until the car came for him. Forty-nine hours… He’d pack tomorrow, leave the next day, and today he’d be lazy and read.
Digging behind his headboard, he found his copy of Nora’s newest novel. He hadn’t read this one yet. He’d been forcing himself to wait until school was out so he could properly enjoy it. Propping himself up on his pillows, Michael started to flip through to the first page. On the way he stopped at the dedication and looked for Nora’s usual secret message to Father S.
Michael’s eyes widened a little when he saw the dedication page.
To W.R. Many waters…
Michael furrowed his brow at the message.
Who the hell was W.R.?
* * *
It took a lot of money to impress Nora Sutherlin. She had enough money of her own to not think very highly of it. And she’d had enough wealthy clients, very wealthy clients and stratospherically wealthy clients and acquaintances, and seen their homes, at least their bedrooms, to know there was more elegance and beauty in Søren’s rectory than in all their mansions combined.
But at her first glimpse of Griffin’s house, farm, estate…dukedom, she couldn’t hold back a flabbergasted, “Holy shit, Griff…”
Nora double-checked her GPS to make sure she hadn’t ended up in Scotland by mistake. Soft rolling hills lay back under sheets of softest green. A white fence ran the length of the fore and back land. And the house—Greek Revival with a touch of medieval castle—rose up proudly, straining across her field of vision. No wonder Griffin had been haunting The 8th Circle less these days. Now that he had installed himself in this secluded Wonderland, he had a private playground of his very own.
She drove up to the massive gate—wrought iron and guarded by two stone griffins on either side. It seemed Griffin had been named for the family avatar.
Nora pressed the call button on the intercom. She’d expected to hear the voice of a servant or security guard.
“Hey, bad girl,” came the deep, sexy voice of The Griffin himself. “Can’t believe the Pope let you out of the Vatican.”
“Call it an indulgence. Now are you going to let me in, Griff?”
“Say please and call me sir.”
“Did you forget who you’re dealing with?” Nora raised her eyebrow and directed a stern stare at the security camera.
“Never, babe. Come on in. Let’s get this orgy started.”
The iron gate screeched open and Nora pulled up to the house—even more impressive up close than from a distance—and turned off the car. The door yawned open as she neared it. Stepping into the cathedral-like foyer, she gazed around her with unabashed awe at the interior; it might be a farm in name but it was a castle in spirit. And coming down the main spiral staircase taking two steps at a time and wearing nothing but a black kilt and Doc Marten boots was the lunatic laird of the manor himself.
Griffin Fiske… He was one of Kingsley’s finds seven years ago. Griffin had been only twenty-two then but he was damaged, dangerous and dead sexy—Kingsley’s favorite combination. Apparently one night Griffin had been partying at the Möbius, Kingsley’s infamous strip club, and Kingsley watched Griffin beat the hell out of a guy who’d crossed the line with one of the strippers. Six feet tall, bronzed skin and with the broad chest and shoulders of a heavyweight boxer, there wasn’t much in the world more fun to stare at than Griffin Fiske. He had elaborate armband tattoos around both biceps, dark hair that spiked up just too perfectly, and the dirtiest smile she’d ever seen on anyone besides her. The house might be Greek Revival but the master was Greek warrior.
“Fiske isn’t a Scottish name, Griff,” Nora reminded him as he skipped the last four steps to land right in front of her.
“But the house is from Mom’s side. And she was a Raeburn. Anyway, I heard you had a weakness.” He grinned at her before pulling her into a bear hug.
“Two words—easy access,” she said, giving him a sharp swat on the kilt.
“Topping me already? Can’t have that.”
Nora squealed as Griffin picked her up, slung her over his shoulder and started up the stairs.
“Sir?” came a low, well-modulated English accent from the bottom of the stairs. At the landing Griffin turned around before Nora could glimpse the source of the voice.
“Alfred, are you looking up my skirt?” Griffin demanded as Nora squirmed on his shoulder.
“Master Griffin, I would marry my own mother for the excuse to stab my eyes out with her brooches rather than see anything under your kilt,” the man’s voice said with elegant aplomb. “Where would you like your guest’s things, sir?”
“That’s an Oedipus Rex reference,” Nora, the eternal English major, supplied. The voice clearly came from Griffin’s butler, who sounded utterly unperturbed by the sight of his employer strolling around in nothing but a kilt and boots with a woman over his shoulder. Nora guessed this was not an uncommon occurrence.
“Stick them in the Blue Room. And no interruptions for the next couple of hours, please. My guest and I will
be fucking. Two hours, Nora?”
“At least,” she agreed.
“Better make it three, Alfred.” Griffin shifted Nora higher on his shoulder and continued up the stairs.
“This is going to be a long summer, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Eight and a half inches long, if you’ll recall.”
Griffin kicked open the door to the master bedroom. He threw her unceremoniously across the monstrous bed draped in mountains of black pillows and luxurious white-and-black-striped sheets. Nora’s heart raced as Griffin climbed on top of her. She playfully put up a struggle but only for the pleasure of having Griffin capture her wrists and push them over her head. If she had to choose only one man to be with the rest of her life, it would be Søren, hands down and for all eternity. But as Griffin held her down with one hand while digging under her skirt with the other, she couldn’t deny Griffin had his own charms.
“Left boot or right?” he asked, teasing her clitoral piercing through her lace panties.
“Right.”
He dug around her right boot and pulled out a condom.
“Griffin, before you fuck me, I have to tell you something.”
Griffin paused after ripping the condom wrapper open with his teeth. He leaned close and put his mouth at her ear.
“Tell me anything....” He kissed her from her ear to her neck.
“It’s just,” she panted as he started to slip a finger into her underwear, “I need to pee.”
Griffin groaned and rolled off her. “There,” he said and pointed at a door.
“Thank you, darling. That was one helluva drive, you know? You get sick of the city?” Nora stood up and walked into the bathroom.
“Parents are in the city. Parents who want grandchildren. I am here so I won’t be forced to give them any.”
“Understandable,” Nora called out. “My mom stopped asking about grandchildren ten years ago. Just start fucking a priest and they’ll back off.”
The Angel (The Original Sinners) Page 8