Mortal Sin (35 page)

He broke the kiss, pressed his face into her hair as she struggled for breath. “I saw this coming weeks ago,” he said. “I could have done something to prevent it. I could have backed away. I should have. But the simple truth is that I didn’t want to. What does that make me?”

“Human,” she said, curling her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, where it grew dark and thick and silky. “It makes you human.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, drifting with the exquisite sensations his mouth evoked. Weakly, without conviction, she said, “You should leave. Before we do something incredibly stupid.”

He dipped his head lower. “It’s too late,” he said. “We’ve already done something incredibly stupid.”

“Clancy, we can’t do this.”

Against her skin, he murmured, “I’ve waited so long to touch you. To taste you.”

A shudder raced through her. “You have to leave now.” she said breathlessly, desperately. “If you won’t, then I will. One of us has to be the voice of reason.”

“Fine then.” His mouth continued doing incredible things to her flesh. “Go ahead. Leave.”

“Fine, then. That’s just what I’ll do.”

He pressed his cheek to hers. His skin was warm, rough in places with a hint of whisker stubble, and he smelled so wonderful, clean and fresh and male. She swallowed hard, ran a hand down his shoulder to his biceps, explored smooth, muscled flesh.

“You’re still here,” he said.

“Oh, shut up. Shut up and kiss me again.”

His tongue tangled with hers. Lust, raw and yearning, sliced through her like a knife, raced through her veins, pooling thick in the aching hollow between her thighs. She let out a soft whimper and tightened her hold on him. Her thighs opened instinctively, without asking her permission, and wrapped themselves around him. Even through all their layers of clothing, she could feel that he was rock-hard and fully erect. They rocked together, driven by blinding need, frustrated by the inability to touch flesh against flesh.
Too late
, she thought. Too late to try to save herself, for she’d already fallen, and there was no longer any possibility of finding her way back.

Terror shot through her, and she tore her mouth from his. “Stop!” she said harshly. “Enough!”

“God, Sarah—”

“No! Not like this. If you don’t leave right this minute, I’m going to drag you upstairs and tear off your clothes and give you what we’re both screaming for. As much as I want to, I can’t do that. Because the God’s honest truth is that I don’t believe you have any idea what you really want.”

She knew the instant he regained control, felt his emotional withdrawal even before the physical one. With immense relief she escaped, amazed by how closely relief resembled disappointment. She fumbled with the light switch, snapped on the overhead light. He was still standing by the door, chest heaving, fingers buried in his hair.

In a tremulous voice, she said, “I do believe, Father Donovan, that you need to go home and do some serious thinking. If you ever figure out which side of the fence you want to land on, you give me a call and we’ll talk.”

His struggle clearly written on his face, he said, “And what will you be doing while I’m thinking?”

“I suspect I’ll be taking a lot of cold showers.”

“God in heaven, Sarah, I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to happen.”

“I know, sugar. But it’s happened anyway. And now you have to leave.”

He closed his eyes, nodded, let out a pent-up breath. “Walk me to the car.”

They walked side by side, close but not touching. The rain had stopped, and the air felt moist, reborn. He opened the car door and stood facing her, the door a safety barrier between them. “This isn’t about sex,” he said.

The hot roiling inside her said otherwise. “Isn’t it, Father?”

“No. I’ll tell you what this is about. When I see you walking across a room toward me, sweet and bright and gleaming like a new-minted penny, everything and everybody else disappears, and there’s only you.” He reached across the top of the door and ran his thumb along the curve of her bottom lip. “That’s what this is about. Good night, Sarah.”

He got in his car, started it up, and backed out of the driveway without looking at her again. Standing in the damp grass, her arms crossed, she watched him go. Long after his taillights had disappeared from sight, she still stood there, staring after him down the deserted street.

Eleven years.

He stared into the glass of Scotch clutched between hands that trembled so hard the liquid sloshed over the side, leaving a spattering of dark spots on the carpet. It had been eleven years since Meg died and the planet had come to a screeching, shuddering halt. Eleven years since he’d entered the seminary, naively believing he could simply shut off his sexuality like a hot-water spigot and never turn it back on again. He’d spent those years in an emotional deep-freeze, his heart and his body encased in a solid block of ice. He’d never been tempted. Not even once. Not until Sarah Connelly came along, with warmth and heart and determination, and thawed him out.

He still wasn’t sure how it had happened, knew only that he wanted her, wanted to bury himself inside her, wanted to feel the slow, silken slide of her skin against his. Wanted to tangle his fists in her hair, breathe in her spent oxygen, and swallow her cries when she came.

Sweet Christ.

He tossed back the Scotch, closed his eyes and waited for its warmth to seep into his veins. Three men had let her go. Fools, all of them. He could have laughed at the irony. Of them all, he was the only one who understood her worth. The only one who couldn’t conceive of setting her free. The only one who couldn’t possibly have her.

The booze wasn’t doing its job. He was still shaky, still tightly wound, still rock-hard and aching. He set the glass on the coffee table and peeled off his T-shirt, dropped it on the couch, and kicked off his shoes. Barefoot, he headed for the shower and finished undressing while he waited for the water to heat.

He stood under the spray, let it pummel his back, his shoulders. Turning, he raised his face to its surging warmth, warmth that reminded him too much of the woman he’d left behind. Water rolled off his shoulders, slithered through the dark delta of hair on his chest. Warm fingers of wetness caressed his groin, torturing and tormenting him in his flagrant state of arousal.

There was only one possible solution to his problem, one he hadn’t utilized in a very long time. With his forehead braced against slick wet tiles and hot water punishing his back and shoulders, he took matters into his own hands and dealt with the issue the same way he’d dealt with it as a frustrated fifteen-year-old.

It didn’t take long. A half-dozen grim, uncompromising strokes with a wet, soapy hand, and he exploded in a burst of guilty pleasure and collapsed face-first against the tiled wall, his heart thundering, his open mouth exhaling sharp, jagged breaths.

The guilt quickly smothered the pleasure. His action might have taken care of the immediate physical ache, but it had no more effect on the ache in his heart than a Band-Aid would have on a gaping wound. It was a pathetic substitute for the real thing, and in the eyes of the Church, just as wrong. Worse, he suspected he’d already broken his promise of celibacy by lusting after her in his heart, for it had been Sarah’s face in his mind, Sarah’s name on his lips, in that final instant of blinding release.

When his heart rate slowed to normal, he finished showering, dried off with a thick towel, and threw on clean clothes. Then he walked out into the sticky night and crossed the parking lot to the church.

The foyer was enveloped in velvety darkness. Clancy swung the door shut behind him, tugged it to make sure it had latched, and snapped the lock before making his way, surefooted in the darkness, to the sanctuary. He flipped on a single light and stood considering the crucifix hanging on the wall behind the altar.

Only here, in this familiar, comforting place, could he restore his equilibrium. Only here could he recover after his inauspicious tumble from grace. Walking silently on plush crimson carpet, he moved to the front of the sanctuary, paus-ing before the altar to genuflect. Tears burning behind his eyelids, he went down on his knees to pray for wisdom, for grace, and for guidance.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

One was at Bookmark the next morning when Clancy called from the road. “I’m on my way to the Cape,” he said, “but I’ll be back Friday night. If you need me for anything, call my cell phone and leave a message. I’ll be checking it regularly. The timing couldn’t be worse, but I don’t have a choice. If I don’t attend this thing, the bishop will have my hide.”

“You have a job to do,” she told him. “I’ve already monopolized way too much of your time.”

“You haven’t monopolized any time I wasn’t happy to give you. I called Paoletti this morning. Gonzales and his silent sidekick didn’t ring a bell. He’s checking around to see if anybody who covers East Boston can give us a handle on either of them. If he comes up with anything and can’t reach me, he’ll call you.” He paused, and for a moment there was only the hum of the open line between them. “Sarah,” he said, “about last night… “

A hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach. “It’s all right,” she said.

“No, it’s not. We have to settle this. We can’t just leave it hanging.”

“And precisely how do you propose we settle it, Father?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll figure something out. I just didn’t want you to think… “

“What?”

“That I’m some kind of opportunist.”

“One who took advantage of my purity and my innocence?”

At the other end of the line, he uttered a soft, breathy laugh. “When you put it that way,” he said, “it does sound ridiculous.”

“There’s no blame on your part, sugar. I was a willing participant in last night’s activities.” She paused, took a breath. “I probably shouldn’t say this. I imagine it’s not appropriate, but I’m saying it, anyway. I’ll be thinking about you. Have a safe trip.”

Before he had time to reply, she disconnected. She marched directly to the cash register, opened the drawer, lifted the change tray and removed the folded piece of paper on which Josie had written the name and number of her gynecologist.

Behind her, Josie said sweetly, “Change your mind, did you?”

Sarah crashed the piece of paper in her fist and slammed shut the cash drawer. “Oh, shut up.”

Dr. Sheldon’s receptionist, a sweet-voiced older lady named Mildred, efficiently squeezed her into a one-thirty time slot. “Now be sure to come a few minutes early,” she warned. “There’ll be paperwork to fill out since we haven’t seen you before.”

The minute Sarah hung up the phone, it rang. “Luis Gonzales,” Detective Paoletti told her. “Pretty well known to the boys over in District 7. He’s been hauled in a few times over small stuff, no felony charges. Hangs with a guy name of Tico Santana. Also had a number of petty charges, but nothing big. They both sound like small-time punks if you ask me.”

“I don’t suppose you’d happen to have a home address for Gonzales?”