Donovan’s Angel (6 page)

“I never figured you for a coward.”

“I’m not a coward,” she snapped. “I’m just
facing the simple truth.”

Paul reached out and took her hand between
his. “Time has a wonderful way of working things out. Why don’t you
wait and see what happens?”

“I don’t have to wait. I know what would
happen. I would turn your life upside down and you would try to fit
me into a neat little convention-bound cubbyhole.” She pulled her
hand out of his and jumped up. “And besides, there’s Glenda. Why
didn’t you tell me about sweet little Glenda and the fried chicken?
I’ll bet she never did the fandango in her life!”

All the pent-up frustration came tumbling
out. It was not that she was jealous of Glenda, she told herself.
It was just that Glenda and her fried chicken were considered
suitable.

Paul tried to keep a serious face. “No,
Glenda never did the fandango. She wouldn’t even waltz.”

“You see!” Her braid was twitching she was so
mad. “Sweet little Glenda probably wouldn’t have touched a baseball
bat with a ten-foot pole.”

Paul unfolded his long legs and stood up.
“It’s highly unlikely,” he agreed solemnly.

Martie folded her hands across her chest and
thrust her chin out—her fighting stance. She didn’t stop to
question her fierce reactions.

“Whatever happened to this paragon of
suitability? Did she ride off into the sunset on a fried
drumstick?”

He could no longer suppress his grin. “No.
She rode off to Tijuana with a bullfighter.”

His quick wit defused her anger. As her hands
dropped to her sides, she shot him an impish grin. “I don’t suppose
anybody will ever call me sweet little Martie.”

He tilted her chin with his forefinger.
“Beautiful. Seductive. Spicy. But not sweet.” His finger traced the
stubborn line of her jaw. “Glenda is a nice girl that I knew once.
She’s a part of my past just as Rafael and Booty are a part of
yours. Not my present and not my future.” He paused to tuck a stray
curl behind her ear. “There are about fifty people out there
waiting to speak to me before we leave. Sit tight, angel. I’ll be
right back.”

“I’m no angel, Paul.”

He seemed almost not to have heard her as he
took a long draw on his pipe and gazed beyond her toward the
ivy-covered walls of the brick church. “I know. Perhaps that’s a
part of your fascination.”

She watched him walk across the grass and
become a part of the vine-covered-cottage-and-picket-fence crowd.
He was one with them, chatting and laughing and reminding her of
slippers by the fire and barbecues in the backyard. Bullfights in
Mexico and nightclubs in Texas and skydiving in California lost
their appeal. She looked at his face and thought of cricket songs
and cream in the tea and moonlight kisses.

“Perhaps that’s
your
fascination,”
she whispered. And she knew that the Reverend Paul Donovan would be
very hard to forget.

Martie mopped the perspiration from her brow
and turned up the volume on her stereo as if the increased decibels
could wipe Paul from her mind. She stretched and lunged to the
frantic beat of the music. “I shouldn’t have had that sinfully rich
chocolate pie,” she said to nobody in particular

Olivia Newton-John’s recorded voice
encouraged her to get physical.

“That’s what I wanted to do,” Martie panted.
“But you know how it is with small town gossip.”

She did five rapid waist bends and went into
a series of toe touches. “I’m just too physical for him. I mean,
can you imagine love in the afternoon with fifty Miss Beulahs
pounding on the parsonage door?” Her hands froze on the floor as
she peered between her legs at the amused face of Paul Donovan.

“Do you always talk to records?” He was
leaning casually against the door frame, looking very much at home
and obviously enjoying the view.

The blood rushed to her head. He looked every
bit as good upside down as he did right-side up. “Don’t you ever
knock?”

“I did, but you didn’t hear me. Apparently
you were engaged in scintillating conversation.”

His smile broadened as he moved away from the
door and eased his big frame into a straight backed chair. His mind
commanded him to do those things, and it was a good thing that he’d
had lots of practice or he would have missed the chair. What was
that daring little outfit she was wearing? he wondered. He thought
it had something to do with animals, lions or tigers or something,
but mostly it had to do with his heart. It’s a wonder they didn’t
hear its beat clear to Faith Church.

And the glistening little bead of sweat that
had just rolled between her breasts was the most provocative thing
he had ever seen. He stuck one of his shaking hands into his pocket
and fetched his pipe. Anything to get his mind off the stunningly
sexy woman upended before him. He stuck his pipe into his mouth,
then forgot to light it.

Martie slowly straightened up. “I suppose the
cat let you in.” She walked across the large, almost bare room and
got a towel from the chest beside the exercise barre.

Paul watched her move and took a long,
steadying draw on his pipe. He still didn’t know it was unlit.

“No,” he mumbled. As conversation went it
wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do under the
circumstances.

She wiped her damp forehead with the towel
and tried to pretend that his voice wasn’t sending shivers up and
down her spine.

“Then who let you in?” she asked.

He took another draw on his pipe and suddenly
realized it wasn’t lit. Removing the pipe, he performed that small
chore with a sense of amazement at the strange malady that had
stricken him since Martie had come to town.

“Actually, I was standing on your porch steps
looking forlorn and Baby came to my rescue. She pushed the door
open and then turned around to invite me in.”

“Are you an interpreter of barking?”

“No. I’m a tail-wagging interpreter.” The
words bounced innocently around the silent room, and the Reverend
Paul Donovan nearly bit the stem of his pipe in two.

Martie covered her laughter by burying her
face in the towel. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed
seven, and somewhere in the ancient house Aristocat, who rarely
spoke unless he had just cause, gave Baby a sound scolding. Olivia
Newton-John still exhorted everyone to get physical, and Martie
wanted to but knew that she didn’t dare because Paul was a
minister. She hung the towel on the rack and unconsciously tilted
her chin up. As they say in the movies, it was time for plan B,
whatever that was. She didn’t have a plan B, but Paul didn’t know
that, and she could be very inventive when she tried.

“I hope you’re not too big on Southern
hospitality,” she told him.

“I haven’t given it much thought lately.”

“You probably will after this evening because
I’m showing you the door.”

“I’ve already seen it.” His smile was
perfectly innocent, but his eyes twinkled with devilment.

She was too busy trying to invent plan B to
notice. She paced as she talked, emphasizing her words with
gestures and tosses of her head.

“I’m not going to see you any more because
I’m forgetting you.”

He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss
the silver-blond curl that rested at the nape of her neck. Instead
he said, “Why?”

“Because of the picnic this afternoon.”

“I thought you enjoyed the picnic.”

“Well, actually, it was because of the tofu
and the fried chicken and the polyester pants suits.”

“You lost me after the tofu.”

“Don’t you see!” Arms akimbo, she stopped in
the middle of the floor and glared at him. “I’m different.”

Paul thought she looked about as formidable
as a china doll. “You certainly are. What do you call that outfit
you’re wearing?”

“It’s a leotard and you’re as stubborn as a
post oak.”

“Tenacious, too,” he agreed cheerfully. “I
already told you that.”

Plan B wasn’t working. She studied the toe of
her hot-pink ballerina slippers. Impossibly long lashes concealed
her eyes, and she didn’t know that her vulnerable pose ripped at
Paul’s heart and threatened to topple his shaky reserve.

When she lifted her head, her violet eyes
looked as if they’d been drenched in sunlight. “Why are you here?”
she asked softly.

“I was sitting in my study going over
tomorrow’s sermon when I felt a compelling urge to see you.” He
rose from his chair, tamped out his pipe, and moved toward her with
slow, deliberate movements. “Your thoughts came winging to me
across the fence, and I knew, as if you were in the same room, that
you were busy erecting walls.” He stopped only inches from her, and
his magnificent voice swept over her in quiet seduction. “I won’t
let you get rid of me that easily.” His hands reached out and
captured her shoulders. “I won’t let you forget me, Martie.”

She lifted her face to his and suddenly they
were in each other’s arms, pressing and tasting and probing and
swaying with the whirlwind that overtook them. Her fingers curled
into his hair and she arched upward to meet the demanding thrust of
his tongue. Paul made a sound that was half agony, half ecstasy as
he hauled her against his body, fitting her to his hard planes and
muscular ridges. Walls crumbled and reserve flew out the window as
they clung together, savoring the magic that bound them.

Time stood still for them—but not for the
rest of the world: crickets sang in the October evening; Baby
sneaked through the fence to see what she could find on the
preacher’s clothesline; Aristocat sat on the fence serenading Miss
Beulah’s prissy Persian; Jolene and Bob put catsup on their grilled
hamburgers; Sam sprayed bug guard in her yard; and Essie Mae
trained her binoculars through a gap in her hedge to see what the
Bishops were up to.

And inside Martie’s house, the hall clock
chimed the half hour.

Pontotoc and its residents could have dropped
off the map and the two people in the exercise room would never
have noticed. They were in another world, a world filled with
splendid heat and yearning flesh and unbearable longing. Theirs was
an urge as ancient as time, and it was all the more poignant
because it was forbidden.

Paul was the first to break away. Shaking his
head slowly to clear his drugged senses, he let his arms drop away
from Martie’s irresistible form. He took a step backward, putting a
breathing space between them.

Martie ran a trembling hand through her hair
and wondered how plan B could have gone so wrong.

“You like to play with fire, don’t you,
Paul?”

“Only since I met you.”

“If that was a sample of not letting me
forget, you’ve succeeded. I won’t need a second demonstration.”

They stood a few inches apart, their
breathing combining in harsh cadence in the quiet room as they
pondered their separate dilemmas. The patient minister won a mighty
struggle over the restless man, and the impetuous gamine triumphed
over the passionate woman.

Martie was the first to speak. The sparkling
smile she cast at him transformed her from beautiful seductress to
fun-loving little girl.

“You want fire?” she said. “I’ll give you
fire. After tonight you’ll be begging me to forget you.” She
grabbed his hand and dragged him through the rambling house to the
kitchen. “Make us two cups of hot chocolate while I change. The
cocoa is in the cabinet beside the sink.”

Paul laughed indulgently. Again he was
reminded of the elusive foxfire as she made a lightning transition
from desirable to playful. “How do you know that I like hot
chocolate?”

“You look like a hot chocolate man to me.”
She bounced out of the kitchen. “Make mine with lots of sugar,” she
called over her shoulder.

“I know.” Alternately whistling and smiling
as he worked, he thought about the wonderful providence that had
set the woman of his dreams right behind the parsonage fence.

Martie made a detour by the exercise room to
shut off the stereo, then bounded up the stairs two at a time to
change. Telling herself that this was plan C, or
get-rid-of-the-minister-once-and-for-all tactics, she took undue
care in selecting a hot pink camp shirt and aqua cropped pants. She
tied a hand woven sash in rainbow colors around her tiny waist and
decorated herself with dangling turquoise earrings, a squash
blossom necklace and seven silver bangle bracelets, souvenirs of
her singing stint with Booty. A little hum bubbled up the whole
time she was dressing.

When she rejoined Paul in the kitchen, she
said in a voice as gay as her attire, “Darned if I didn’t nearly
land on my bottom. Is my hot chocolate ready?”

Paul handed her a cup of the steaming liquid.
“I beg your pardon?”

“I slid down the banister,” she explained
airily. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

He threw back his head and roared with
laughter. Had he thought being with her was a celebration? Being
with her was a full-fledged party, complete with balloons and
bazookas and confetti. “Did you get splinters? I’m an expert
splinter picker.”

“Perhaps we should check it out, Reverend
Donovan,” she said with mock seriousness.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“You started this conversation,
remember?”

“So I did.” They sipped their hot chocolate
in companionable silence for a while, and then Paul spoke again.
“I’m consumed with curiosity. Just what are your plans for making
me flee in terror from my beautiful backyard neighbor?”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” Martie replied
mysteriously. “Don’t you like surprises?”

“Coming from you, yes. I like everything
about you, Martie.”

And she liked everything about him. If only
things were different. She plopped her empty cup on the table and
stood up. She was not one to mourn what might have been.
Circumstances couldn’t be changed, but feelings could. Blithely she
embarked on the course of alteration.