Читать книгу The Angel - Tiffany Reisz - Страница 9

Returning Owen to his bemused parents delayed Nora in the sanctuary a few minutes after Mass. By the time she made it to Søren’s office, Michael already stood outside the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

“He summoned you too?” she asked, sitting across from him on the bench opposite Søren’s door.

Michael nodded.

“Kind of feels like we’re sitting outside the principal’s office,” Nora said. “I hear you’re valedictorian this year, so you probably never had to sit outside the principal’s office, did you?”

Nora waited and still got no reply from Michael. He smiled but didn’t speak.

“Michael? Pussy got your tongue?”

He laughed … audibly.

“Finally,” Nora breathed, relieved to hear something from him. “You have any idea why we’re here?”

Michael shrugged. “None. I don’t think it’s good though.”

“Michael, you didn’t talk to anyone, you know, about us, did you?”

The look Michael gave her abounded with so much hurt that she realized immediately she’d been an idiot to even consider that Michael would say a word to anyone about her or Søren.

“Nora,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “I don’t even talk to myself.”

Now it was her turn to laugh.

“I’m sorry, Angel. I’m just being paranoid.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t say anything, promise. I never talk.”

Nora stood up and walked over to Michael. She sat beside him and stared full-on. He started to look away, but she snapped her fingers in front of his face and pointed right at her eyes. Immediately his silver eyes met her green ones.

“You talked to me that night,” she breathed into his ear.

His pale face flushing, Michael whispered, “That was just a dream.”

Nora blew air over his neck under his ear.

“We had the same dream then.”

Michael’s pupils went wide and she knew he was remembering the night Søren had given him to her—as a gift and a test. She’d enjoyed the gift. She’d failed the test.

“Are you doing okay?” she asked, taking a step back to give him some breathing room.

Michael nervously rubbed his arms.

“Okay, I guess.”

“Did Søren give you that book?”

“Yeah. It helped. Thank you,” Michael said. She’d passed on her old beat-up copy of The Other Secret Garden to him, a classic work on the psychology of sexual submission.

“You’re welcome. Is our priest on the phone?”

Michael nodded.

“What language?”

“French first.” Michael leaned closer to the door. “Now Danish.”

“Hmm … that’s good news and bad news.”

“How?”

Nora returned to the bench and crossed her legs, a move that caught Michael’s attention.

“French is bad. French means Kingsley.”

“Who’s Kingsley?”

Nora grinned. Who was Kingsley? Kingsley Edge, the King of Kink in New York City. Half-French, all pervert. Her occasional lover and Søren’s best friend. Well, best friend on those occasions Søren wasn’t threatening to kill him.

“French is bad since Kingsley gets called when anything disreputable needs doing. But Danish is good. Søren always calls his niece in Copenhagen on Sundays after Mass so whatever’s going on isn’t so bad it’s upsetting the routine yet.”

“Father S has a niece?” Michael looked incredulous at the idea.

Nora grinned at him. Søren did have an aura of having been sprung full-formed from the head of Zeus about him. One could hardly imagine him as a little boy or having parents, going to school and doing homework. But she knew all about his family—the good and the evil.

“Two nieces, one nephew. And—” she held up three fingers “—three sisters. Two American sisters, one in Denmark.”

Michael looked up at the ceiling.

“Wow.”

“Can you imagine having him—” she pointed at the closed door, behind which stood one of the more intimidating men alive “—as your brother? Terrifying, right?”

“I don’t envy the boyfriends.”

They laughed together even though Nora knew Søren hadn’t gotten a chance to have any of the normal brotherly experiences with his sisters. He and Freja had grown up in separate countries and Claire was fifteen years younger than him. And Elizabeth … well, Elizabeth was another story.

“Come here and let me look at you,” Nora said, tearing herself away from the dark trajectory of her thoughts. “How tall are you now?”

Just thirteen months ago he’d been only a few inches taller than her.

“Five-ten.” Michael obediently moved to stand closer to her.

“I knew you weren’t done growing,” she said, remembering how she’d studied him as he slept that night. “You grew into your hands. Haven’t put on much weight though.”

He grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”

“None of that teen angst now, Angel. You’re tall, thin, have perfect porcelain skin and supermodel cheekbones. And unlike mine, your long black hair behaves itself. You, young man, are prettier than any guy I’ve ever seen.”

Nora studied him. Poor kid probably got ostracized at his school for his looks. He wasn’t at all effeminate, but he had passed pretty boy miles ago and landed straight in the middle of beautiful. The girls no doubt envied him for waking up looking lovelier than they could after an hour of primping, and the boys probably hated him for inspiring homoerotic thoughts in their fevered teenage brains.

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. And I’m always right about these things. Aren’t you legal yet, jailbait?” she teased.

“Turned seventeen last month,” he said, blushing.

“That’s legal in this state,” she said and winked at him. The blush deepened and Michael started to say something. But before he could speak, the door to Søren’s office opened. Without a word, Søren crooked his finger at both of them before disappearing back inside.

Nora took a deep breath.

“That’s our cue.” Standing up, she held out her hand. Michael hesitated only a second before slipping his trembling fingers into her grasp.

Hand in hand they entered Søren’s office. Despite knowing Søren for almost twenty years, she’d spent relatively little time in his office. Every member of Sacred Heart knew “Father Stearns’s Rules”—no children under sixteen were allowed in his office without a parent present, no one was allowed alone in his office without the door being left open, private conversations were for the confessional alone, and no one, absolutely no one, was ever allowed at the rectory. Ever.

Except Nora, of course.

The rules were stringent but necessary in the controversy-wary Catholic Church. And in all his years at Sacred Heart, Søren hadn’t caused even the barest whisper of scandal.

Nora and Michael sat in front of Søren’s desk. Glancing around, Nora noted little had changed in the office since he took over Sacred Heart nearly twenty years ago. His neat and elegant office was replete with books and Bibles in nearly two dozen languages. On his huge oak desk sat a framed photo of his beautiful niece, Laila. Laila must be Michael’s age by now. Nora hadn’t seen her since their last trip to Denmark. Nora loved their rare excursions out of the country together—only on another continent could she and Søren walk down the street holding hands. But he was a priest when she gave herself to him, and he’d warned her before she made her commitment that theirs would never be a normal relationship. At eighteen it was nothing to promise him she didn’t care about the sacrifices she’d have to make. At thirty-four she would still make the same decision she had back then, but maybe she wouldn’t make it quite that easily.

Nora turned her eyes to Søren. She still held Michael’s hand for comfort. But whether he was comforting her or she him, she couldn’t say.

“Eleanor, Michael,” Søren began. “We have a situation.”

“Fuck, I knew it,” Nora swore and didn’t even receive the slightest scolding from Søren. Now she knew it was bad, very bad, for Søren to lift the “no swearing on Sundays” edict. “Someone rat us out? I swear to God, I’ll kill them—”

“Eleanor, calm down. I said we had a situation, not a crisis. The priest visiting today—”

“The one who gave me and Michael the stink eye?”

“That one,” Søren said with barely concealed amusement. At least one of them could find this whole nightmare funny. “That was Father Karl Werner—”

“God, I hate German Catholics,” Nora, born Eleanor Schreiber and possessing not one but two German Catholic grandparents, said with venom.

“Father Karl,” Søren continued, pretending not to hear her, “is rather conservative. If he gave you a dark look, Eleanor, it was only because your reputation precedes you.”

“And Michael?” she asked. Michael was only seventeen and apart from scandalously choosing public over Catholic school, he was a model teenager at Sacred Heart: quiet, hardworking and about to graduate at the top of his class.

Michael sighed, flipped his palms upward and thrust his wrists out meaningfully. She didn’t need to see his scars to know that’s what he meant.

“Yes,” Søren said with sympathy. “Father Karl is not pleased that we are home to—”

“A walking mortal sin?” Michael completed for Søren. Nora wrapped her fingers around Michael’s wrist. She slipped her index finger under his wristband and lightly stroked the raised white scar she knew lurked underneath. A little over two years ago, when Michael was only fourteen, his conservative father had found out that Michael had a real and burgeoning interest in BDSM. Much like her when she was a teenager, Michael often hurt himself simply for the sexual thrill of it. Unlike her, it was his own judgmental father, not his empathetic priest, who caught him at it. Michael’s father had laid such shame and guilt on him that Michael had slit his wrists one day and nearly died. Some Catholics, especially of the older generation, considered suicide the most dire of all sins. No doubt Father Karl thought Michael should attend another church. Preferably one that didn’t still sport Michael’s bloodstains on the hardwood.

“Father Karl’s opinion of you both has nothing to do with his visit today,” Søren continued, making it clear in his tone he couldn’t care less about Father Karl’s opinion on anything. “The reason for his visit today had only to do with me. As you both may know, Bishop Leo has colon cancer and will soon retire.”

“And Father Landon is replacing him, right?” Nora asked.

“Father Landon was replacing him. Until three days ago when certain allegations came to the fore.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Nora groaned. “Why priests can’t keep their holy cocks inside their goddamn pants is beyond me.”

Michael inhaled sharply and Nora grimaced. She looked at Søren and smiled apologetically. Søren arched his eyebrow at her.

“Present company excepted, of course,” she said.

“Of course.”

Søren stood up and came around the desk. Nora looked up at him and stared at his face. Everything about him was so aristocratic and aquiline. Even in Denmark, where pale blond hair and blue eyes were the rule and not the exception like here in America, Søren still stood out for his height and his undeniable male beauty.

“With Father Landon’s transfer there remains the question of who will replace Bishop Leo.” Søren paused. The implication of his words hit Nora harder than a rattan cane across the thighs.

“Oh, shit. Søren.” Nora covered her mouth with her hand.

“Well put,” he said, nodding.

“What’s going on?” Michael asked. “This is bad, right?”

“Very bad.” Nora turned to Michael. “Our Father Stearns might be the next bishop of the diocese.”

Michael looked up sharply at Søren.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

“I’m afraid I can’t disagree. That Father Karl came here in person means I’m at the very least on the short list of candidates.”

Nora closed her eyes. Bishop … if Søren became the bishop he’d be the priest to all the priests in the diocese. He’d have to leave the Sacred Heart rectory where a few hundred trees gave him near-total privacy and move to a home he’d have to share with other priests. His already busy schedule would turn hectic and she would rarely if ever get to see him. And that’s if he got the job. Which he would, unless they found out about her and Søren’s extracurricular activities.

“Can’t you just tell them no?”

“Not without raising both ire and suspicion. This is supposed to be a great honor.”

“Honor my ass,” Nora said and saw Michael suppress a laugh. “I don’t mean that literally,” she said to him and noticed again what a gorgeous young man he was turning into. “Okay, maybe I do.”

“Eleanor, five minutes of decorum is all I ask,” Søren said.

“I’m sorry,” she said and meant it. “I’m just a little bit terrified. What’s the plan?”

She knew Søren. He wouldn’t be freaking her out with something like this unless he already had a plan.

“Usually the vetting process for a new bishop is one to two years. With the bishop growing weaker every day, they will attempt to have a new bishop installed by August at the latest.”

Today was May 16th.

“So what do we do for the next two and a half months?” she asked.

“You two will do nothing.” Søren eyed her and Michael. “I will handle this. The diocese will investigate me, of course. This is not a concern. Even if they do discover something about our personal life, Eleanor, the Church will do what it always does when faced with imminent scandal.”

“Hush it up,” Nora supplied, and Søren didn’t disagree. “But?”

“But tomorrow morning an article will appear in the Times about Father Landon. The press will likely descend on the diocese and involve themselves thoroughly in the investigation.”

“The press, huh? Explains why you were on the phone with Kingsley already today.”

Kingsley had a fascinating relationship with the press—fascinating in the way the sack of Rome by invading Barbarian hordes was fascinating. A reporter once threatened to run a story exposing one of Kingsley’s clients—an internationally renowned human-rights attorney—as a transvestite with multiple sexual fetishes. Two nights before the story ran, a sex tape that the reporter and her husband had made played in an endless loop on every computer in their six-year-old’s exclusive private school. The video was unremovable. All two hundred computers had to be scrapped and replaced.

The story never ran.

“I’d rather not resort to any of Kingsley’s methods to keep our private life private,” Søren said. Søren might be a sadist but he only hurt people consensually. “But his information is often invaluable. Rest assured, Eleanor, I will find a way to avoid becoming the next bishop. That is not why I called you both here.”

“I’m already dying not to know why you called us here,” Nora said. Something in Søren’s gray eyes warned her that whatever he was about to say, she wasn’t going to like it.

“You and Michael are the only two members of Sacred Heart who know who and what I am. The press will come, and they will ask questions. I cannot ask either of you to lie for me. And as I know neither of you will tell the truth when asked—”

“Damn straight,” Michael said under his breath, and Nora said a prayer of thanks for Michael’s loyalty. She knew Michael credited Søren with saving his life. She’d never heard the whole story, but she knew Søren had risked his career by telling Michael the truth about himself and his relationship with Nora. The night she and Michael spent together over a year ago was Søren’s reward to Michael for going an entire year without harming himself again. Although an unusually wise and mature teenager then and now, Michael had been fifteen the night she’d taken his virginity. Sixteen, not fifteen, was legal age in Connecticut and New York, and that made their night together a crime. She’d done the deed not knowing his age, but Søren had made the introductions.

“Okay. So Michael and I aren’t allowed to lie about you? Vow of silence then?”

Søren smiled. “You taking a vow of silence, Eleanor, is as likely as you taking a vow of celibacy. No, I think it’s best that you both leave town while this is going on. Together.”

Silence descended on the room like a shroud.

“Can I talk to you alone for one minute please, sir?” Nora asked, and Søren released a much put-upon sigh.

“Michael, would you mind?”

Michael stood up and left the office.

“Are you insane?”

“Little one, who owns you?”

Nora sunk back into her chair.

“You, sir. But you really want—”

“Eleanor, if a reporter asked you if we were lovers what would you do?”

“I’d tell him to mind his own goddamn business. Then I’d have Kingsley freeze his credit cards and bank accounts for the week just for fun.”

Søren raised his eyebrow.

“Okay. Point taken,” she said.

“I need to able to deal with this situation without worrying about you. But the most important reason is Michael. He needs you.”

“Needs me for what?”

“What you are best at,” Søren said simply.

“You expect me to train Michael?” Nora asked, aghast. “I was a pay-for-play dominatrix, remember? Training wasn’t my area. Surely there’s someone else—”

“There’s no one else I trust. And no one else Michael trusts. He starts college in the fall. This summer is our last chance to help him.”

Nora heard something underneath Søren’s words, and a shiver of worry rippled through her. She hadn’t really talked to Michael since their one night together, but she still cared about the kid.

“Help him? The last time I helped him it was because you were afraid he was going to try to kill himself again. What’s wrong with Michael?”

“Nothing I can tell you, I’m afraid.”

Sighing, Nora stood up and wandered over to the stained-glass window that adorned the back wall of Søren’s office. Unlike the stained-glass windows in the sanctuary, this window depicted no saints or biblical scenes but instead a bursting bloodred rose. Nora traced one of the cool metal spokes of the beautiful window with the tip of her finger.

“Søren, we’ve only been back together for a year,” she reminded him, reluctant to leave him for a day much less the entire summer.

“I know, Eleanor.” Søren stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her stomach. “But you have to trust me, trust that I know what I’m doing. I need you to help Michael. I need you to help me.”

I need you…. The infamous underground community they belonged to universally considered Søren its top dominant. Søren had even earned the nickname the Alpha and Omega Male. But those words—I need you—had escaped his lips more times than most who thought they knew him would believe. During their five years apart, Nora would sometimes be awoken early in the morning by a phone call and those three words from Søren. Although she had left him, she never told him no on those rare occasions that he called. Sometimes even he could not rein in his own dark desires. I need you, he would say, and Nora would leave her bed and answer simply, Okay. Tell me where and when.

“Okay.” She answered that need now. “Where and when?”

“As soon as possible, I’m afraid. And I’ll leave the where to you. I would only suggest you go far enough away that no one would attempt to follow you.”

“England?” she asked. “Zach and Grace are trying to get pregnant. This is something I can help them with. Or at least, you know, watch.”

“Out of the question,” Søren said. “I know how you behave in other countries. That you still are allowed a passport is one of the universe’s great mysteries.”

“That was not my fault,” she reminded him. “The consulate cleared me.”

“Eleanor …”

“Fine. We’ll go to Griffin’s,” she said. “He inherited his grandparents’ old horse farm, and he’s been bugging me for months to visit. How’s that?”

Søren heaved a labored sigh. “Griffin …”

Nora bit back a laugh. “Come on, Griffin’s okay. He’s one of my best friends.”

“He’s spoiled, juvenile and a coward.”

He was also rich, gorgeous and great in bed, but she decided not to remind Søren of those facts.

“You always call him a coward. Care to tell me why?” She turned around in his arms.

“No. But I suppose even Griffin deserves a second chance.”

Although curious what Søren meant by a second chance, Nora knew better than to ask. For a moment Søren stood in silence. He tapped his chin as he always did when plotting something.

“I’ll allow you to spend the summer with Griffin,” Søren finally said. “But he is not to touch Michael, or I will revoke both his key to The 8th Circle and you from his life completely. Understood?”

Nora blanched. Serious threats indeed. “Yes, sir.”

“Where is his grandparents’ farm?”

“Way upstate,” she said. “Near Guilford.”

Søren looked at her sharply and his mouth twitched in suppressed mirth.

“That area is rather close to where your mother is, isn’t it?” he asked. “Perhaps you could take a day and visit her.”

“Don’t even think about it,” she said, horrified by the prospect of Søren ordering her to visit her mother. “I’d rather go jogging in hell. Wearing stilettos on a hot day in Aug—”

“Eleanor.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Your cleavage is chirping.”

Nora swallowed and pulled her cell phone from her bra where she’d tucked it before Mass.

“Sorry. Forgot to turn it off.” Nora silenced the ringer.

Søren stared at her. Nora stared back. As usual, Søren won the staring contest.

“It’s Wes,” she confessed, not even having to look at the number. Sunday afternoon—always Wesley.

Søren studied her. This time she couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Does Wesley call you often?”

Nora nodded. “Once a week,” she admitted. “Every Sunday after church.”

“And why is this the first time I’ve heard about this?”

“Doesn’t matter. I never answer.”

“Why don’t you answer the phone when Wesley calls?” Søren asked her in the same tone he used in the confessional booth—lightly curious, not at all condemning, and completely and utterly infuriating.

“Because you haven’t given me permission to.”

“You’ve never asked permission. Were you afraid I would tell you no?”

Nora bit her bottom lip, a nervous habit Søren had been trying to break her of since she was fifteen. Søren reached out and brushed his thumb over her mouth. Nora looked up at him.

“I was afraid you’d tell me yes.”

Søren slowly nodded.

“I love you,” she said, standing up straight. “And I’ll leave you this summer, but only because you’re making me go. But if they pick you to be bishop, I’m going to move to L.A. and convert to Scientology. Fair warning.”

Relief washed through her at the sight of Søren’s smile. But she knew they weren’t done talking about Wesley.

“Michael’s waiting for you outside. I think he would appreciate an explanation and a ride home.”

“I can do both,” she said and started for the door. She paused before leaving and turned around. “Can’t believe I have to spend the whole summer without you just because of this stupid promotion.”

Søren said nothing but Nora saw something flicker across his eyes.

“It’s just the promotion, right?” she asked. “There isn’t anything else, is there?” A sudden fear gripped Nora, a fear that Søren didn’t want her around for some other reason.

“Kingsley called. Last night, someone broke into his town house.”

Nora’s eyes widened.

“Is he okay? Was Juliette there? What happened?” Her heart raced; Nora’s mind immediately flew to the worst-case scenario—that Kingsley and his beautiful Haitian secretary were hurt.

“He and Juliette are both fine. They were … distracted last night. Someone drugged the dogs and stole a file from Kingsley’s private office.”

Nora collapsed into a chair. Whoever the thief was must have balls of steel. Kingsley’s name alone usually scared off anyone who lusted after a piece of the reams of blackmail material he had on nearly every cop, judge, politician and lawyer in the tristate area. If his name didn’t scare off thieves, then his well-trained rottweiler pack usually did.

“Just one file? That’s good at least.”

“Eleanor—it was your file.”

“Mine? Why mine? I’m not even a dominatrix anymore.” The words hurt coming out, more than she expected. While she’d been a dominatrix in Kingsley’s employ, she bitched about it constantly. Now that she’d quit, she found she sort of missed it. Just another thing to add to her “miss every day” list, a list that was growing dangerously long.

“I wish I knew, little one. Kingsley believes an old client might be attempting to dispose of any evidence concerning him.”

“Makes sense, I guess.” Back in her dominatrix days, Nora’s client roster read like a Who’s Who of the rich, famous and kinky; Fortune 500 CEOs, high-level politicians and rock stars had paid through the nose to kiss the toe of her boot. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Whoever he is won’t be able to read what’s in the file.”

Kingsley and Juliette were the perfect team. Kingsley’s files were notorious for two reasons—first, they contained the secrets of an entire city, and second, they were utterly unintelligible to anyone but Kingsley and Juliette. Only they could read the pages written in encoded Haitian Creole.

“It’s the motivation, not the crime, that concerns me,” Søren said. “Still, simply one more reason why you should spend some time away from the city while Kingsley and I sort this out.”

“I could help sort things out if you’d let me. I’m not fifteen anymore, remember?”

Søren stood up and came to her. He held out his hand and she took it. Gently he pulled her to her feet and stared down into her eyes.

“You are my heart,” he said. He’d said those very words to her that morning. But that morning they’d sounded affectionate and playful. Now he said them as if he were stating a fact of anatomy. “I will not lose you. I’m sending you away to keep you safe. Do you understand that? Say ‘Yes, sir.’”

Nora nodded and swallowed a sudden lump in her throat.

“Yes, sir.”

Søren bent his head and kissed her long and slow before pulling back. Relaxing against him she put her ear to his chest. She loved hearing the steady beat of his heart. She’d called Søren dangerous, and to those who crossed him, he certainly was. Whoever it was who stole her file … she didn’t envy him. But Søren was not evil. He had the best heart of any man she’d ever known. A strong and good heart.

“My heart,” she whispered and gazed up at Søren.

“Rest assured, little one,” Søren said as he ran his hands possessively from her neck down her back, “I may send you away, but I will give you a goodbye that will hold you all summer.”

Michael waited outside of Father S’s office hoping that was what he was supposed to be doing. He sat on the bench with his skateboard under his feet and rolled it mindlessly back and forth while recalling every word Nora and Father S had said. The priest who was going to be the next bishop was being transferred. Father S was on the short list of candidates to be the next bishop. Father S wanted him and Nora to go away for the summer. He was supposed to spend the entire summer away with Nora Sutherlin.

The entire summer … with Nora Sutherlin …

Michael had dreams like that. Just last night he’d had a dream like that.

Nora emerged from Father S’s office and smiled at him.

“Good, I’m glad you waited. Want a ride home?”

Michael shrugged and stood up. He couldn’t believe this—over a year without saying a word to each other and now she was offering to drive him home?

“Sure. Thanks.”

The parking lot sat deserted but for a shiny two-seater silver convertible.

“Like it?” Nora clicked the button on her keys to unlock the car.

“Yeah. Awesome,” Michael said, walking around the car. He bit his lip with suppressed laughter when he saw Nora’s vanity license plate: it read NC-17.

Nora stood in front of her car and studied it.

“Decided to treat myself last month. Not as nice as my Aston Martin, but a BMW Z4 Roadster is nothing to sneeze at. I’m a fan of fine German engineering.”

Michael looked her trim but curvaceous body up and down—talk about fine German engineering. He started to say that out loud, knowing she’d laugh at the compliment and the reference to her German background. But as usual he couldn’t get the words out.

“Here, you drive.” She tossed him the keys.

Michael reached out and caught the keys with his fingertips.

“You want me to drive your brand-new BMW?”

“You’re old enough to drive, right?” She opened the passenger-side door and looked over the top of the car at him. “And considering I’ve let you inside my body, it’s not that big of a stretch to let you drive my car, right?”

She dropped into the seat and closed the door.

Michael’s knees buckled at her words. Taking a deep breath, he opened the driver-side door. He slid his skateboard behind the seat and sat down slowly behind the wheel.

“Let’s talk,” Nora began as he started the ignition and started to drive. “Well, you don’t talk so you can listen while I talk.”

“Just, please don’t—”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say stuff like that again or I’ll get us into a wreck.”

Nora laughed and squeezed his knee.

“All right, Angel. I promise I won’t talk about the night I tied you down and took your virginity. If you insist.”

“Nora, please,” he begged. He loved that she still called him Angel. No one ever called him that except for Nora.

“Fine, I’ll behave. For now. Anyway, here’s the deal. Søren wants us gone for the summer so he can handle things in his own way. I think he knows that if someone started sniffing around me, I’d probably kick their ass, which, admittedly, might not help the situation.”

“Probably not.”

“And considering I sort of kind of committed statutory rape the night you and I were together, well, I think he’s trying to keep me out of this whole mess as much as possible. And you too.”

Michael put on the turn signal at a four-way stop. No cars were coming from any direction. As nervous as he was, he hoped they didn’t encounter another car the entire trip home.

“You didn’t rape me, Nora. I wanted it. I was fifteen, almost sixteen, not five.”

He couldn’t believe he was finally getting to talk to her about that night. He knew Nora and Father S were upset about this whole thing. But today might be the best day of his life.

“The courts have a funny way of not caring about the legal age of consent when underage boys and famous writers are involved. But hey, you aren’t jailbait anymore.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Michael sent up a quick prayer that he hadn’t been hallucinating when Father S had said he and Nora needed to get out of town together.

“I have a friend named Griffin Fiske. He’s got a farm in upstate New York. I think we should go wait this catastrophe out with him this summer.”

“Griffin Fiske?”

“Yeah. He’s the son of John Fiske, Chairman of the Stock Exchange. Wall Street type. Griffin’s a trust fund baby. But he’s a sweetheart. Søren can’t stand him, but Søren has terrible taste obviously,” she said, pointing at herself.

“Is he—” Michael paused and tried to force the words out. “You know, one of us?”

Nora grinned. “Let’s just say that in the Underground, his nickname is Griffin Fist.”

Michael’s stomach clenched.

“Oh, God.”

“Tell me about it.” Nora patted his knee again. She really needed to stop touching his knee. “So the plan—we’ll go hide out at Griffin’s place for the summer.”

“Hide and do what?”

Michael pulled into the driveway of the small bungalow he lived in with his mother. Thank God his mom didn’t seem to be home.

“This is where you live?” Nora asked with nothing but curiosity in her voice.

“I know it’s not great. But it’s a nice neighborhood.”

“It’s a palace compared to the house I grew up in. Do you like it here?”

Michael shrugged. “Things aren’t great with Mom,” he said. “She’ll probably be glad when I start college.”

“Where are you going?”

“Yorke. Got a full ride. Faxed in my scholarship acceptance letter this morning.”

“Yorke? Good school. My old roommate used to go there. Anyway,” she said and seemed to brush off a sudden sadness, “Søren said this summer might be our last chance to help you. Help you—what did he mean by that?”

Michael didn’t answer at first. But everything within him told him Nora could be trusted. That not only could he trust her but he should trust her.

He leaned back in the seat and shut the car off.

“Two weeks ago … I almost hooked up with someone I met on the web.”

“A dominatrix?” Nora asked.

Michael nodded and said nothing.

“Michael, do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

“I know, I know. Father S gave me hell for it too. I was just …”

“What, Angel?”

“Lonely. For you.”

Nora reached out and touched his face. His heart fluttered in his chest as her gentle fingers traced the line of his lips, the curve of his jaw.

“Now you don’t have to be lonely anymore. You’ll get me the whole summer. Søren thinks you’re ready to be trained. I think so too.”

“Trained?”

“To be a submissive.” Nora let her hand drop from his face. She got out of the car and Michael followed suit.

“I thought I was …” Michael glanced around to make sure none of his neighbors were out. He’d die if anybody found out what he was. “I thought I was a submissive.”

Nora leaned back against her car and crossed her shapely legs at the ankles.

“Søren trained me for two years before he ever hit me or fucked me the first time, kid. Subs have to be as well trained as dominants if you’re going to do it right and not get hurt.”

“I want to get hurt.”

“Different kind of hurt.”

Michael hazarded a smile.

“Michael,” Nora began and all the mirth had left her voice, “being a sub is hard. Being a male sub is even harder. A woman says she wants to be tied up, everybody thinks it’s sexy. A man says that and everybody thinks—”

“He’s a fag,” Michael finished for her. “At least that’s what my dad thinks. Says I need therapy for my fetish.”

“Forget what your dad thinks. I’ll teach you how to be the best damn sub in the Underground. And to quote the wise and powerful Kingsley on the subject of fetishes,” Nora began and then slipped into an exaggerated but sexy French accent, “‘Fetishes … they’re the pet you feed or the beast that eats you. We’ll feed your beast until it’s tamed. Oui?’”

Michael laughed. Feeding that beast sounded like a great idea to him.

“Oui.”

“Good. So you’re in?”

“I’ve been dreaming about this for … ever. If you and Father S think I’m ready—”

“That doesn’t matter. Do you think you’re ready?”

Was he ready? God, for Nora Sutherlin he’d been born ready. Michael nodded. “I’m in.”

“Great. Now how do we get you out of Dodge without your mom calling the cops?”

Michael scoffed. “You don’t know my mom. She’ll be relieved if I disappeared for a few months. Or forever.”

Nora pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. Empathy shone in her green eyes.

“I’m sure she loves you, Angel. If she doesn’t come around, you’ve always got us. I got in trouble when I was fifteen—big trouble. My mom totally washed her hands of me. Our priest practically raised me after that. How do you think I turned out?”

“Amazing,” he said, and Nora curtsied.

“Your mom will come around, maybe. Hell, maybe my mom will eventually come around.”

Michael hoped it was true. He missed his mom. They lived under the same roof but they existed in two different worlds.

“I’ll just tell her I got a summer job upstate. I was gone most of last summer working as a camp counselor.”

Nora mulled it over.

“When’s graduation?” she asked. “You have to be there if you’re valedictorian, right?”

“It’s Wednesday night. I can skip though. I’m not valedictorian. I flunked AP physics.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Michael.”

“I’m not. I flunked it on purpose.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t want to give the speech.”

He expected Nora to chew him out for his willful stupidity. Instead she just laughed.

“I like your style. Look, don’t skip graduation. Even I went to mine. I’ll send a car for you Thursday morning.” She pulled a pen and notebook from her purse. “Here. This is my email address. Keep in touch, okay? Ask me anything.”

Michael took the sheet of paper with subtly trembling fingers.

She traded the sheet of paper for her keys.

“Nora?” Michael said as she opened her car door.

“What, Angel?”

Michael looked down at the paper in his hands.

“Thank you.”

She smiled at him. “You’re welcome.”

“Father S … it’s going to be okay with him? He’s going to fix it, right?”

“He has his ways of getting anyone to bend to his will. If he doesn’t want to be bishop, he’ll find a way out of it.”

Michael nodded, wanting to believe her. He hated the thought that Nora and Father S would get in trouble just for being in love with each other.

“You really think he’s going to have to deal with the press?”

“The media is all over sex scandals in the Church these days. Probably so.”

“What’s he going to do?” Michael’s stomach formed a tight knot of worry. But Nora only smiled at him.

“He’ll probably do what I do when I talk to reporters—charm the pants off of them.”

“Anything?” Suzanne asked and stretched out her aching arms.

“Not much. Every time I click on a link to a Marcus Stearns, all I get is an essay on the expulsion of the French Huguenots.”

“Me too,” Suzanne said and closed her laptop. She looked down at her notes. In four hours of searching online she and Patrick had found out nothing about Father Stearns. Nothing useful anyway. The anonymous fax she’d received hadn’t merely been a list of names. At the bottom of the page the asterisk had been explained within four ominous words—”possible conflict of interest.” That list of names told her two vital truths—Father Marcus Stearns was on the short list to be the next bishop of the diocese, and Father Marcus Stearns had something to hide.

“Dug around on Facebook, et cetera. A few parishioners mention him,” Patrick said, flipping through his notes. “‘Father Stearns performed a wonderful wedding homily from the Book of Sirach,’” Patrick quoted. “‘I can’t believe Matthew didn’t howl when Father Stearns poured the water on his head.’ Nothing exciting. Going from all this, we’re looking at a perfect priest who’s adored by his church.”

“I don’t buy it. Nobody’s that perfect. And I’ve got an asterisk that says differently,” Suzanne said, holding up the fax again. All day she’d been picking up the fax again and staring at the asterisk by Father Stearns’s name.

“Suzanne,” Patrick said, giving her a level stare, “the phrase conflict of interest could mean anything. You know that, right? He might have donated money to some political candidate the church doesn’t like. It doesn’t automatically mean he’s a child molester.”

Suzanne shook her head. “If it were that innocuous, no one would have gone to the trouble to send me the fax. We’ve got to keep digging.”

“Fine. So what now?” Patrick asked, dragging Suzanne into his lap. She knew he hoped the answer would be Give up and get over it. But she’d only just begun to fight.

“You’re the investigative reporter. What would you do?” she asked.

“Start making phone calls. Get the gossip from the locals.”

Suzanne pulled away from Patrick and found her cell phone.

“You’re the pro,” she said, giving her phone to Patrick. “I’m just a war correspondent. Show me how it’s done.”

Patrick sighed heavily and flipped his laptop back open. Peering over his shoulder, Suzanne watched as he looked up the phone number for the chief editor of the Wakefield newspaper. Patrick dialed the number and talked his way past a few peons.

“Patrick Thompson for the Evening Sun,” he said, and Suzanne was impressed he was using his own name and newspaper. “I’m looking into an incident that happened at Sacred Heart Catholic Church a few years ago. I’m sure you know what I’m referring to.”

Suzanne covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. What a bullshitter. She and Patrick knew absolutely nothing about anything that happened at Sacred Heart in its entire history.

Patrick had been smiling when he called but the smile faded as he listened to whatever the voice on the other end was saying.

“Two years ago,” Patrick repeated and scribbled something down on the notepad next to his knee. As she read the words, the blood drained from her face and hands.

Patrick hung up and looked at Suzanne. Suzanne tore her eyes from the page and looked back at Patrick.

“Now you know why I’m going after this,” she said, and Patrick nodded. “It’s not just about Adam. Not anymore.” She gazed down at the words again.

Michael Dimir, age fourteen, attempted suicide in Sacred Heart sanctuary.

One witness—Father Marcus Stearns.