Sensuous Angel (14 page)

The hot chocolate came, and they sipped it while commenting on the movie. Nothing serious was said, no questions were asked.

But halfway through the movie, Donna began to yawn. She felt so secure, so at peace. She wished that she could fall asleep with him there beside her. She wished that he would slip an arm around her and that she could curl against his length….

“I think I’d better go,” he said huskily.

He stood. His hair was somewhat rumpled, but dishevelment didn’t mar his looks. It made him look more ruggedly appealing than ever. Donna felt as if her heart were skipping beats, warning her that the pain of loss was near.

But she had to go home. Things were moving too quickly for her. She was in over her head. Her emotions were rushing like a waterfall over a chasm and she could go no further unless she was sure she could ride out all of the rapids that were in her way.

He slid into his jacket then walked to her side. “Good-bye, Donna,” he said softly.

He didn’t touch her though she yearned for his touch.

Without looking back, he walked to the door. But he wasn’t able to touch it.

“Luke!” His name tore from her with an anguished cry, and she was bounding from the bed, staring at him with hunger and torment.

He stopped, turning back to her, raising a brow in a silent and eloquent query.

“Don’t—don’t go,” she pleaded. “Not…yet.”

He didn’t move. Donna raced across the room, catapulting into his arms. Beneath the soft kid of his jacket she felt the hardness of his arms, the granite warmth of his chest. She touched his cheek tentatively with her palm. Her eyes beseeched his.

He cupped her chin with his palm, caressing it. His mouth moved slowly to take hers, barely touching it at first. His tongue drew a silken line over her lower lip. Then his mouth fused with hers, and his hands raked into her hair, then down the length of her back, to her hips, holding her close, lifting her, closer, closer.

Sweet, burning heat. She tasted it on his lips, she felt it envelop her. His was all the colors of the autumn leaves, the texture of a midnight, rough velvet sky. He coaxed and he commanded, he crushed the breath from her, he ravaged, and yet he gave with tenderness, always feeding the fires of her own hunger and need. She felt weak against him; he shifted slightly, holding her, loving her, molding the length of her body to his so that she knew him from the taste of his tongue to the muscled strength of his thighs. She was so pliable, so willing to know him.

His lips moved from hers, returned to them again with little nibbling kisses. Kisses that roamed…tasted…savored. She felt his lips against her cheek, warm, a breath of arousal at her earlobe, touching the pulse that beat furiously in the arched column of her throat. He found her mouth again, taking it with a wild hunger that drew a moan from her muffling again into the ache of desire. Then he set her away from him, smiling with the devil’s own taunt burning in the golden depths of his eyes.

“Seductress!” he teased huskily. “You could melt a heart of a stone.” He chastely kissed her forehead. “But that, Ms. Miro, is all that you’re going to get. Until you agree to marry me, of course.”

But it wasn’t all that she got. He pulled her to him again and held her. It was hard to let her go. So very hard. Especially when he held her. When he had tasted the sweetness of her sensuality. Felt the rise of passion. Her hips pressed to his. The full, rounded and firm swell of her breast, brushing his chest, tempting him as the best of saints could not be tempted and survive. He could have her but risk the chance of losing her forever. And forever was what he wanted.

“Decide quickly, Donna. Please. And come back…to me.”

He released her and stepped swiftly from the room.

In the hallway he uttered a low groan, steadying himself against the wall. She was small…so petite against him. But so fully, femininely formed. Marvelous breasts. Tiny waist. Long, shapely legs, curvaceous hips, rounded derriere…Her eyes framed in dark, sultry lashes. Full lips, sensually sculpted, demanding to be kissed whether she laughed or frowned. She was beautiful and also one of the sexiest women he had ever met. His little Italian temptress. She had made him feel whole again.

Well, he was in a little bit of agony at the minute, but she had given him something. He felt so vital and alive…and in love.

When he stepped into the night again, the stars were shining. It was still cool, and still beautiful. It smelled like fall.

He stared up at the stars, and at the heavens, and he smiled.

“Thank you, Lord. Thank you for bringing her to me. And you know, I really don’t ask for a lot of personal favors, but do you think that you could make this one work out? Only if it’s Your Will, of course. But, do you think that you could make it Your Will?”

He whistled as he eschewed the idea of a cab and started walking once again.

New York City. She hosted the rich and the famous; she cradled the destitute and weary. Flash and neon, graffiti and crime. It had taken a heavy toll from him and daily demanded more and more. But it seemed that it had also given something back.

Donna Miro….

I
T HAD BEEN A
long day. Donna had wrestled with the accountant all morning over fiscal year quarterly taxes, then she had spent the afternoon with the ad exec who was taking over their account. She wanted nothing more than to drive out of Worcester to her own small house in Auburn and soak in a tub of hot bubbles all night.

Donna collected her purse and sweater and moved down the hallway to the firm’s largest office—her father’s. She smiled at his secretary, then slipped inside.

Sal Miro had eyes as light as his daughter’s and hair as dark, except that his was streaked with what Donna thought of as very dignified silver. He was a handsome man, she thought with pride. Medium height, slim build, and generally, a smile for everyone. He had been brought to the United States as a small boy, and he had embraced his new country with nothing short of reverence. Neither the long years of struggle to build the business nor the insanity in the house where he had raised, and was still raising, the last of his six children had ever damaged his sunny disposition.

He was on the phone when she entered the office, so she waited, returning his smile. But after he said good-bye, he didn’t hang up the receiver. He grimaced slightly and handed it to Donna. She glanced at him questioningly. “Your grandmother,” he whispered.

Donna grimaced herself and took the phone. “Hi, Gram.”

“Donna, you come to dinner tonight.” Her grandmother’s heavily accented English made Donna smile.

“Gee, Gram, I’d love to, but—”

“No butsa! You come. I have a surprise for you.”

Donna exhaled. Her grandmother—whom her father had taken after, thank God!—was surely the sweetest woman in the world. It was hard to refuse her anything. “I’m really tired, Gram.”

“You don’ta eata right!”

Donna chuckled. “Gram, if I ate like you wanted me to, they’d have to roll me down the street. Listen, Gram, another night, okay? I’m really—”

“
Per favore,
Donna!”

“All right, all right, I’ll be there! But I can’t stay late!”

“Gratzie!”

The receiver went dead in Donna’s hand. Her father winked at her. “You should have said yes to begin with and saved yourself some trouble.”

Donna laughed and took her father’s arm. “You’re probably right. Grandpa hollers, but Gram just asks softly and we all jump.”

“Yep—same way it’s been for years,” her father agreed. He stared at her as if he wanted to say something but hesitated.

“What, Dad?” She asked him.

“I’m glad she called, and I’m glad you’re coming home for dinner tonight,” Sal said. “You’ve been a little strange, honey, ever since you came home from New York. Are you sure everything is okay with Lorna?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Donna said, lowering her lashes with the lie. She had told her parents that she had learned Lorna had taken a trip to Europe.

“Something else is bothering you, isn’t it?”

“No, I’m fine, just tired.”

Sal chuckled, slipping an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “I see. It’s a man.”

Donna flushed, not really surprised by her father’s perception. He was often a very quiet man, but she had learned long ago that he was quiet because he listened well and ascertained all the things said between the lines.

“Yes,” she told him.

“What’s the problem?” Her father’s voice took on a slightly rough edge. “He’s not another…Mark, is he?”

“No, Dad, nothing like that,” Donna answered.

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

Donna shrugged. Why not? she asked herself. Who better to talk to than her own father?

“He’s a priest,” she said a little distractedly.

“A
what?
”

For all the wild shouting that went on in her household, Donna had seldom heard her father really raise his voice.

She was certain that half of Worcester had heard him—and worse, his face had turned a mottled red. She was in sudden panic that she might have caused him a stroke.

“Not a Catholic priest, Dad!” She wailed quickly, patting him on the back. “Dad? Dad?” There was an old-fashioned silver water pitcher sitting on his desk, and a tray of glasses. She quickly poured him some water. He drank it gratefully, watching her over the rim of the glass. Donna started talking quickly. “Dad, he’s an Episcopalian priest.”

“An Episcopalian priest?”

“Yes, Dad.”

Sal shook his head. She might as well have told him that she had been seeing a two-headed monster. He took a deep breath

and smiled weakly at her. “Donna—get me some more water will you? No, on second thought, there’s a bottle of blackberry brandy in my desk. Get it out, please?”

Donna did as her father shuffled around for shot glasses. He poured out two shots.

“Dad?” Donna queried nervously.

He drank down one of the shots. “I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” he murmured. He picked up the other glass, drank it quickly, and stared at her.

“You’re really in love with him, aren’t you?”

Donna nodded.

Her father glanced at her then sighed, closed his eyes tightly, and opened them again. “This is America,” he said finally. “And I always wanted to raise my children to be Americans. That means tolerance and acceptance.”

“Dad, are you saying that you don’t mind?”

“I mind, but I love you, Donna. And if it had been a Buddhist monk to make you happy, then I would have accepted a Buddhist monk.”

“Oh, Dad!” Donna exclaimed. She wrapped her arms tightly around him. “I love you so much!”

He returned her hug and grimaced. “So many years, Donna, yet the family remains so close; so important. Children grew up and they leave. But your grandparents have kept us all together. I have six children, and in my heart I know that no matter how far they go, they will come back. You’ll be the first to marry outside our religion, Donna. But changes come.” He looked at her sharply. “Will you…will you convert?”

Donna shook her head. “He has never suggested it, Dad.”

“An Episcopalian priest will have a Catholic wife?”

“He asks nothing of me, Dad.”

Sal nodded slowly. “Don’t think any more then, Donna, about what he is, or what he does. Just ask yourself if you really love him.”

“I do.”

“Then you have no problem.”

“Thank you for that, Dad. I do, in a way, still have a problem. Gram wrote so many letters to the archbishop—and then to the Pope!—to see my annulment through. So that I could be married in the church—”

“It’s…possible that you could be married by both churches,” Sal suggested.

“Perhaps. I—I don’t really know.”

Sal signed again. “Donna, your mother will say little. She will have her reservations, but she will say little. Your grandmother will also keep her thoughts to herself. You can almost count on your grandfather putting you through misery. Be kind to him, because he is an old, old man now who fought very hard for his family. But stick to your guns, Donna. You do what you feel best.”

“I will, Dad. Thank you so much.”

One hurdle that she had been dreading, Donna thought, was over. She could get through the rest. But she was still worried, still uncertain. And it wasn’t the fact that Luke was a priest….

She shook her head. She didn’t know him, nor what had put that brooding look in his eyes and had bruised his heart. But marriage…marriage meant years of discovery. She loved Luke; she had to believe that time would give her all the rest.

Sal was staring at her strangely and she lowered her eyes again. She knew her father had never cared for Mark, but he had never said a word against him to her. Her annulment had hurt him and her mother and the rest of the family because they hurt for one another.

She was surprised when he put his arms around her and hugged her tight. “Is he in love with you?”

“I think so,” she repeated.

“Be sure, honey, then do whatever you have to do.”

“I will.”

“At least I know now,” he told her, his blue eyes twinkling like diamonds against his olive complexion, “why you’ve been lost in a dream world lately. You miss him.”

So badly that it hurt, Donna thought, but didn’t say aloud. “I kind of walked out on him,” she said, then smiled as she took his arm. “Come on, Dad, I think we’ll hit all the traffic if we don’t hurry.”

America and the olive-oil business had been good to the Miro family. They could have lived anywhere they wanted now, but they had remained in a triple decker on Shrewesbury Street. Her grandparents lived on the top floor, her parents in the middle, and her brother Vic, his wife, and two small daughters lived on the ground floor. The house was surrounded by old trees, barren now with winter almost upon them. But even when the grass had died and the leaves had fallen, there was something special about the lawn and the old triple decker. It was a welcoming place. Generations of children had lived and played and grown up there, and if love could be a tangible thing that hung in the air, it did so here.

A loud scream suddenly tore from the house, followed by a child’s wail and a mother’s soothing voice. “The girls are at it again,” Sal said with a wink to his daughter. “But I don’t think they’re as wild as the bunch I raised.”