Читать книгу The Angel - Tiffany Reisz - Страница 12

On Monday morning, Suzanne woke up with the dawn and didn’t even bother turning on her computer. She’d never been stymied like this before. It was as if some sort of presence sat on the other end of the internet purposely thwarting her every attempt to find out anything of substance about Father Marcus Stearns. But today she was going to pull out all the stops. Desperate times called for desperate research.

She was going offline.

The library opened early but she arrived even before the doors unlocked. As soon as they let her in, Suzanne rushed the research desk with pencils and notepaper. She hadn’t done hardcopy research in years. Probably not since middle school when her entire class had taken a field trip to the library and learned how to dig through the fat green tomes and write down the name, date and issue of the periodical they were looking for. Suzanne didn’t have much to go on. All she’d gleaned from her online research was that Father Marcus Stearns had been at Sacred Heart for nearly twenty years and had presided at no other parishes. Apparently Father Stearns also acted as confessor to a nearby order of Benedictine sisters. One of them had a blog and mentioned that their Father Stearns, like her, had been born in New Hampshire. Guessing he graduated seminary at age twenty-eight, that meant he would be forty-seven or forty-eight. So she knew his name, approximate age and state of birth. A place to start at least.

By noon, Suzanne decided to give up again. There was simply nothing on Marcus Stearns out there. But she took one more dive into the stacks and came up with a Marcus Stearns who’d been in his early forties in 1963 and lived in New Hampshire. At least it was the same name if not the right age. Possibly a relative, she decided, and kept digging.

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 priest’s profile. Even now he seemed the epitome of piety and tranquility, his handsome face un-lined 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.”

“Your priest doesn’t put out for me.”

“True. But he’ll beat the hell out of you if you ask nicely though. Jesus, Griffin, your bathroom is bigger than my basement. Spoiled much?”

“Not nearly enough. You done yet?”

“Yes and no.”

“I don’t want to know what that means, do I?”

Nora washed and dried her hands. Pausing in the bathroom doorway, Nora looked at Griffin, who sat on the bed with his legs open wide enough she could see he wore his kilt in true Scottish fashion. She approved of this.

“You know, I should probably take a shower before we fuck. Søren gave me a very intense goodbye last night, and I haven’t washed it off yet.”

“You know I don’t mind sloppy seconds. And knowing Pope Whatadick, he probably blesses his cum before he blows it.”

“I promise you he does not,” Nora said as she strolled slowly back to the bed. “Why do you and Søren loathe each other so much?”

“Ask him,” Griffin said, reaching out to unbutton her shirt.

“I did. He won’t tell me.”

“Let’s just say we have an ongoing difference of opinion. My opinion is that he’s a pretentious arrogant prick, and he disagrees with that.”

Nora stared Griffin down. He couldn’t quite meet her eyes.

“I know that’s not true. I tell him he’s a pretentious arrogant prick all the time and he’s in full agreement. I could beat it out of you.”

“Not a chance. You don’t get to top me anymore. This summer you’re my bitch, switch.”

“You used to let me top you all the time.” Nora recalled the dozens of time she’d tied Griffin down and used and abused his poor willing self.

“Only because it was the only way you’d let me fuck you. And even then you never got to beat me.”

“Too bad. I think a good hard beating would be good for your soul. Fine, you can top me. But no beating me, either. Only dominance and bondage, alas. Søren’s rules.”

“I know. He called and read me the riot act yesterday,” Griffin said as he unbuttoned her top button with a deft flick of his fingers.

“He’s very protective of his property.”

“I can’t say I blame him.” Griffin leaned back on the bed and stared her up and down. “Strip for me, beautiful.”

At thirty-four, Nora would take all the erotic appreciation she could get from younger men. She let her shirt drop to the floor and peeled slowly out of her camisole.

“Jesus,” Griffin said and took her by the arm; gently he pulled her to him. The grin vanished as he stared at her stomach and chest. “He did give you one helluva goodbye, didn’t he?”

“Oops. Sorry. Should have warned you.”

“You two did blood-play?” Griffin asked in horrified awe.

Nora shrugged.

“A little. Just seven cuts. Speaking of, we should probably stick to anal for the next couple of days. The last cut was in a pretty sensitive area.”

She expected Griffin to laugh—if they weren’t fucking, they were laughing. But Griffin only stared at her a moment while he studied her skin. He gently ran a finger around her wounds—the cut on her collarbone, on her rib cage, under her breast.

“We don’t have to play if you aren’t up for it,” he said.

“Griff, I’ve had papercuts worse than this. And also on my crotch. This is what happens when you fall asleep while working on your edits naked. I’m up for it. Seriously.”

“Okay. We’ll fuck if you make me,” he said, smiling at her again. “We’ll just go vanilla until you’re healed.”

Vehemently Nora shook her head. “Not a chance. No vanilla. The one time I even attempted vanilla sex I nearly passed out.”

“Nora Sutherlin tried vanilla sex? This I have to hear about.”

Griffin stretched out on his side and playfully patted the bed next to him. Rolling her eyes Nora crawled onto his sheets.

“It’s not a big deal. Tried it. Didn’t like it. Stopped.”

“Why’d you stop? Vanilla sex is boring but it’s not hard. You’re the chick. You just lie there and pretend to like it.”

Pretend to like it … that was the problem. She didn’t have to pretend…. Nora closed her eyes. For a second she wasn’t in Griffin’s bed anymore … she was on her bed back home with Wesley on top of her. They were kissing, their bare chests pressed to each other’s. Wesley’s hands stroked her hair and caressed her arms. She kissed his neck and muscular shoulders. He was so young, only nineteen then, and still a virgin. And there he was, as brave as he was beautiful, ready and willing to give her his virginity. And she wanted it, wanted him … and not for his body and not for the pleasure and not for the sex. For something else so much deeper and scarier that instead of letting him make love to her, she let him go.

“It’s hard to explain,” she said, opening her eyes. “Vanilla just doesn’t work for me.”

“Not that hard to explain—vanilla blows,” Griffin said. “So what? Celibacy?”

“Don’t even joke about that. Just tie me down, fuck me up the ass, call me a slut and just watch the cuts.”

Griffin grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Ha,” she said. “I’m still the top.”

Griffin raised his eyebrow at her and she knew she was in trouble—the good kind.

In a second she found herself flat on her stomach with Griffin peeling her clothes off. From behind the corner of his bed, Griffin pulled out a leather strap. He grabbed two sets of bondage cuffs from the bedside table. With practiced expertise, Griffin buckled the cuffs around her wrists and ankles, bound her hands to the bedpost and strapped her legs wide-open to a spreader bar.

Nora groaned with pleasure as Griffin prepared her body for him—she was going to have to ask him what kind of lube he was using because it felt amazing—and then pushed carefully inside her. She felt the brush of wool as his kilt rubbed against her naked skin. Nora decided there and then to take her next vacation in Scotland.

This is who she was, she reminded herself. She was a switch. All summer long Griffin would top her. All summer long, she would top Michael. She’d have the best of both worlds and no vanilla sex at all. No staring into big brown eyes with flecks of gold in them and saying “Wesley” instead of “sir.” No holding each other while they made love with only sweat wet between them and not blood. Sex was sex. Pain was pain. And Wesley and that part of her was in the past.

Griffin continued to move inside her. Nora buried her head against her arm and whispered Wesley’s name into the sheets.