Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (77 page)

He reached into his pocket. “Oh. I nearly forgot,” he said, retrieving a folded piece of paper. “These are all matters of public record, so I’m not breaking any Church laws here, but it’s a list of the christenings during the time you mentioned. Because of the birth date, I’ve narrowed it down quite a bit. I hope it helps.”

“It will,” she promised him as he handed her the computer printout. “Thanks.”

“The least I could do.” This time she thought he might lean down and graze his lips over her temple, but he didn’t, and if he’d even considered it, he held back. “Goodbye, Olivia.” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t be a stranger. The door to God’s house is always open.” She watched as he turned his collar to the wind and jogged to his car.

James felt Olivia’s gaze. It seemed to burn right through his jacket. Gritting his teeth against the heat flooding his veins, he didn’t stop running until he reached his Chevy. Gazing into her eyes had been his undoing, and the hard-on stretching the crotch of his slacks was evidence enough of that. What the devil was wrong with him? He climbed into his four-door, started the engine and waved. As if he wasn’t thinking about jetting out of the car, running back to the porch, swooping her off of her feet and carrying her up the stairs so that he could bed her. That’s what he wanted.

To strip her of her clothes, climb atop her body and bury himself in her as deep as he could. He hazarded a last glance in her direction. She’d picked up the dog and was holding the scruffy little beast to her chest as she leaned against the siding on the porch.

It wasn’t just sex he craved. It was all of it. His heart ached. A beautiful woman, a cozy little cabin in the woods, and a mutt of a dog. All the things he’d given up in life. For his calling. For God. Because he believed. He’d always believed and he knew in his heart that he could help others with their faith, that it was his purpose on life, God’s plan for him.

Gritting his teeth, he stepped hard on the accelerator and the car sped over a little bridge to land in the rutted, leaf-strewn lane. He couldn’t allow himself to have these doubts. Not now. Not ever. Because it wouldn’t take much to propel him into taking a step over the threshold of sin. He cranked the wheel at the main road and skidded onto the highway. Rain splattered the windshield and he began to pray.

He was losing his battle with lust.

Chapter Thirty-one

Kristi spun and kicked hard, then punched the boxing bag hanging from the ceiling of her bedroom.
Thud.
The bag took the hit. It swayed and came back for more. “Can’t get enough, eh? Ah, so!” She was covered in sweat, her hair ringing wet, but all the old tae kwon do moves she’d learned as a kid came back to her.
Just like riding a bike
, she thought.

The punching bag swung crazily; it wasn’t what Master Kim, her once-upon-a-time instructor, would have called a worthy sparring opponent, but the bag did the trick as far as giving her the workout she needed, both mentally and physically. One more spinning hook kick, then a side kick, and finally a one-step punch. “Die,” she growled at the bag.

She was almost over being mad at her dad.

Almost.

So he’d come back late from the office? So it was Thanksgiving? So what else was new? He used to drive her mother crazy—C-R-A-Z-Y—with all his cop shit. At the time, Kristi hadn’t understood it; she’d been a little kid. But she had recognized the tension that escalated between her parents whenever her dad was eyeball deep in a case. He’d never change. His work came first.

No, that wasn’t really true. She did believe that she was his first priority. If nothing else, Rick Bentz loved her whether he was her “real” dad or not. It was so weird to think that her uncle, the priest, was her biological father and Rick, the man who raised her and whom she still considered “Daddy,” was really her uncle. Sick, sick, sick. She gave the bag a couple more quick kicks then ended with a chop to the throat—well, if it had had a throat, it would have been dead!

Bentz stuck his head through the door. “Come on, Cassius, time to mash the potatoes.”

“Who?”

“Cassius Clay, you know—”

“Oh, right, Ali. The Great One.”

“No, that’s Gretsky.”

“The hockey guy.”

“Muhammad Ali was The Greatest.”

“You know too much about this shi—garbage,” she said. “Just let me run through the shower and I’ll be out.” When he looked about to protest, she pointed a long finger at his nose. “Don’t even think about touching
my
‘taters, got it? I’ll be out of the shower in ten minutes. They can wait.”

Before he could put up any kind of argument, she dashed into the bathroom, locked the door and twisted on the faucet. She didn’t quite make her ten minute time frame but before a half hour was out, she’d cleaned up, thrown on her favorite sweats, snapped her hair into a ponytail and mashed the damned potatoes.

Bentz had sliced the hell out of the over-cooked turkey and though his stuffing was on the mushy side and the gravy looked like it had a serious case of acne, the canned cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie and chocolate eclairs he’d bought at the local bakery made up for it. And he’d tried. Kristi would give him that. He’d left fresh flowers in a vase on her bedside table, her favorite stuffed animal, a gray raccoon with a button eye missing had been positioned on the pillows of her bed, and he’d even managed to find two candles that he’d lit and placed on the tiny kitchen table for “just the right ambiance.” They sat with the table pushed against the wall, the three counters and sink filled with messy dishes. But it didn’t matter.

The best part was that he hadn’t touched a drop of Wild Turkey or whatever it was that he used to pour down his throat every holiday. Those were the bad times. And now she understood why. He’d drunk a lot for as long as she could remember, probably ever since finding out that she wasn’t really his kid, but then, after the accident when he’d shot the kid, he’d poured himself into a bottle … She remembered her parents’ fights, how each holiday had been a battle. Other kids had looked forward to Christmas, but she’d felt the tension building and in her pre-teen years, wanted to skip the whole thing. And then Jennifer had died. Rick had given up drinking for good. Kristi figured he deserved an “A” for effort.

They were nearly done with the main course when he brought up all the bad subjects at once. “You talked to Jay yet?”

Kristi poked her mashed potatoes with her fork. “Yeah. On the phone. We had a fight.”

“Did you explain what’s going on?”

“Not really.” She didn’t want to think about Jay. Not now.

“Don’t you think you should?”

“I will when I’m ready, okay?” she said defensively. Noticing how his eyebrows had climbed halfway up his forehead, she sighed and set down her fork. “I’ll see him tomorrow or Saturday. I didn’t want a big scene on Thanksgiving. Why ruin the holiday?”

The lines on her dad’s forehead deepened, but he nodded, obviously trying to give her some space. “You’re right. And I should butt out.”

“Now there’s an idea.” She aimed her fork at him, pointing across the table. “But I’ll talk to him before I leave.” She took a couple more bites, and decided she had to bring up Brian. Her dad was bound to find out anyway. “I guess you should know that I’m seeing someone else.”

“Some
one.
I figured you’d date a lot of different guys.” He cut a bite of turkey and pronged it with his fork.

“Wellll … I
was
supposed to be pre-engaged to Jay.”

“Whatever that means.”

“So I wasn’t really looking, but this one guy, he’s a T.A. and don’t freak out, okay, just because he’s a little bit older.”

“How much is a ‘little bit?’ “ Bentz had stopped eating and was looking at her intently.

Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut. “A few years and it’s not serious, okay.”

“I hope not. I didn’t know T.A.s were allowed to date students.”

“It’s frowned upon if the T.A. is assigned to your class, and yes, I can guess your next question, Dad. Brian is assigned to my class, but believe me, it hasn’t affected my grade in Philosophy. In fact, you’d probably think just the opposite.”

Bentz’s frown deepened. Geez, she was blowing this!

“Omigod, don’t even go there, Dad, my grades are fine, just not stellar, okay. And Zaroster’s class is tough. Philosophy of Religion. God, why did I sign up for that one? But, really, none of my classes are a snap. It’s not like high school. Zaroster, Sutter and Northrup are three of the hardest professors on campus and I’ve got them all.”

“That’s not so bad,” he said, digging into the soggy stuffing again. “Tough is good.”

“Then how about weird? I swear I ended up with the strangest teachers at All Saints. Even Mrs. Wilder, the bone-head math teacher is kinda freaky. I bet she lives with twelve cats and knits little sweaters for them.” Kristi laughed at her own joke, hoping to derail her father, but, of course, it hadn’t worked. He hadn’t so much as cracked a smile.

“Why do you think your teachers are strange?” he asked and this time he put his fork down.

“I don’t know. They just are. Come on, think about what kind of people spend their whole lives wrapped up in one subject and being a part of academia. They’re bound to be a little off-center.” She lifted a shoulder. “Enough with the interrogation, okay. My grades will be fine. Let’s not think about it now. It’s Thanksgiving.”

He was about to say something else, but thought better of it. “Yeah, I guess it is.” One side of his mouth lifted. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Well, I’m glad to be here, although, I gotta admit it was touch-and-go for a while. When you were late picking me up, I thought, ‘screw this, I’ll just stay here.’ ”

“Because of the T.A.? Brian?”

“He had something to do with it.”

“He got a last name?”

“Yeah, he does ….” she hesitated but decided her father with all of his police connections would find a way to dig up the information. “It’s Thomas, okay? Now, make me a promise. Swear to me that you won’t go looking him up on the computers at work. He doesn’t need his privacy invaded. It’s bad enough that mine is.”

“It’s not—”

“Yeah, Dad, it is and not just because you’re my father, but because you’re paranoid and a cop and a single parent.”

“Paranoid?” The phone rang and Kristi jumped.

Brian was on her mind and she’d given him the number. Then again it could be Jay. She answered with a quick “Hello?”

There was a pause. “Kristi?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Uncle … this is James.”

She felt sick inside. Her biological father. The priest. Her dad’s brother. She looked over at her dad. Bentz was staring at her. “Hi,” she forced out. “How are you?”

“I just wanted to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Oh. Right. You, too,” she said, her mind racing. How would she get him off the phone? She didn’t want to talk to him. Ever. What a creep! And to think … She didn’t even want to go there. She’d trusted him once. When she’d thought he was “Uncle James” and didn’t understand Bentz’s stand-offish attitude toward his brother, the gleam of jealousy in his eye. Now she did and she didn’t want to talk to him. Not ever. As far as she was concerned Bentz was and always had been her father. Period. He’d always been there for her. Always. Even during the bad times with his drinking, she’d never doubted that he loved her. Oh, he drove her nuts, no doubt about it, but didn’t every dad? This guy—James—he was slime spit, a real dick-head. She never wanted to set eyes on him again. But here he was on the phone, his voice so damned calm and serene, it was enough to make her want to puke.

“I’d like to see you,” he was saying. “I did talk to your dad—my brother—the other day and he suggested I not push the relationship, but I did want to say that I’m thinking of you and of him. My prayers are with you.”

“Fine. Thanks.” She hung up quickly and noticed her palms were sweaty, her heart racing and when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she saw that her skin had turned the color of chalk.

“Jay?” Bentz asked and she shook her head as she slumped into her chair.

“Father McClaren.”

“Shit! I told him not to—” Bentz caught himself.

“He just wanted to wish us both a nice Thanksgiving. You know, Dad, that shouldn’t be threatening.”

“It isn’t.”

“But it is strange. I mean, really wacked out. Swear to God, we must be the most dysfunctional family on the planet.”

He laughed and tossed his napkin onto his plate. “We’re not even in the top ten in this city. Just when I think I’ve seen it all, something else comes along. Believe it or not, our family still hovers in the normal range.”

“Oh, yeah, right.”

That was hard to believe. “That’s because all you deal with are scum bags.”

“My point exactly.”

Kristi wasn’t buying it. She helped him clear the table, then slice thick slabs of the pie, but she knew that their family wasn’t anywhere near normal. Not when her biological father was her uncle and the guy who raised her was an alcoholic cop who’d accidentally killed a kid in the line of duty, and her mother probably got loaded on downers and committed suicide by driving a mini van into a tree. No matter what Bentz said, no way did they brush normal.

He was deluding himself.

James clutched the phone for several seconds after Kristi had hung up. He replayed their short conversation in his mind. Yes, it had been brief, but then he’d expected as much.
Time
he told himself,
it will take time.

He lived in a small house one block from St. Luke’s and he considered going over to the church early and speaking with Monsignor O’Hara. He hung up the phone.

Father James, who so many turned to for counseling, needed someone in whom to confide. He had so many issues to deal with.

First and foremost there was Kristi. His child. How he’d once wanted to give up the priesthood, marry Jennifer, claim Kristi as his own. Failing that, at least he’d hoped for interaction with her. He could never be recognized as her father, he knew that much now, but he could still have the role of uncle … if she’d let him.

He didn’t want to take away anything from Rick. Bentz had done a fine job with Kristi. Better than fine. And raising a daughter alone was never easy.

Then there was the issue of Olivia. Dear Father, help him.

James walked to his desk and found his Bible. It had been his mother’s and he found solace in the thin pages. Where was the passage he wanted? He flipped to the Book of Proverbs just as the phone rang loud enough to startle him.

He picked up the receiver but his eyes were skimming the pages, searching for the passage that would give him peace.

“Forgive me, Father …”

James didn’t move a muscle. The midnight confessor was calling again. The clock ticked on the wall, counting off the seconds. He was sweating, his hand around the phone in a death grip. “What can I do for you, my child?” he forced out.

“I… I… must complete my mission … but sometimes I have doubts.”

“We all have doubts. What is your mission?”