Sensuous Angel (3 page)

“I really am fine,” Donna said meekly, wishing for some reason that she could dig a hole beneath the sofa rather than lie on it.

Mary was
tsk
ing away. “I’ll get the tea and epsom salts right away, Miss—” She stopped, staring awkwardly at Father Luke.

He shrugged and lifted his hands casually. “I don’t know her name, Mary. She hasn’t offered to tell me.”

Donna wondered briefly how great a sin it was to wish to boil a priest in bubbling oil. She forced a smile to her lips. “Miro,” she told the housekeeper. “Donna Miro.”

“Oh—you’re Italian, aren’t you?” Mary didn’t wait for Donna’s nod but rushed on. “I just knew it! You look just like Sophia Loren—when she was young, of course. Doesn’t she, Luke?”

Luke now had his arms crossed over his chest as he freely surveyed Donna. His expression was grave; only his golden eyes gave away his humor. “Mmm—I suppose, Mary. But…not quite. The eyes are much more Elizabeth Taylor—when she was young, of course.”

“You’re so right, Luke!” Mary laughed. Then she smiled quickly at Donna and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Donna knew that she resembled a ripe tomato, her blush was so hot. She was both furious and incredibly at a loss. She was usually quite competent when dealing with men on business and socially, but this man was making her feel as if she were sixteen again.

And of all things, he was a priest. She had spent her life amidst a very Italian, very Catholic family. Priests were not supposed to be devastatingly handsome. Nor were they supposed to have shoulders like Sherman tanks nor possess eyes that touched one like fires.

“Well, Miss Miro? Or is it ‘Mrs.’? Or ‘Ms.’?”

Donna scrambled to sit up, forcing herself to meet the priest’s eyes with a straightforward composure.

“Miro is my family name,” she said curtly.

He cocked a brow politely and Donna fervently wished that she had simply chosen one of the above.

“You were never married?” he inquired.

It was none of his business! she thought resentfully. But there was something about that white collar—she couldn’t lie or even evade.

“Once.”

“But no more?”

“No more.”

“Who were you looking for, Ms. Miro, and why?”

The change in the tenor of questioning came so abruptly that Donna found herself momentarily tongue-tied. Then she blurted out the name that was an anathema to her lips. “A man named Andrew McKennon.”

The lids closed briefly over the priest’s strange golden eyes; other than that, he gave no visible sign of any emotion.

“Do you know him?” Donna demanded. It seemed almost impossible; there were over eight million people in New York City—at least that was the conservative estimate—and it seemed that she had at last stumbled on a man who had heard of Andrew McKennon.

“Why are you looking for him?” the priest cross-queried.

Donna hesitated a moment. She wasn’t accustomed to discussing her business with strangers, even if the stranger was a priest. And she was afraid she’d get the same answer she had gotten from the police—that she was probably worried over nothing. Lorna was an adult; it was her choice to disappear if she chose to.

The police had been sadly uninterested with the whole affair. But then it was hard to blame them. According to the harried officer who had assisted her, thousands of people were reported missing weekly.

“Ms. Miro?”

He was waiting for an answer. She was going to have to tell him something.

“A friend of mine disappeared here. The last letter I received from her mentioned a man named Andrew McKennon. Then I got a letter from McKennon himself, basically telling me to mind my own business.”

The priest raised a dark brow and it seemed that a faint smile played about his lips. “But I take it that you don’t think you can mind your own business?”

“Father, I’m concerned, very concerned. Lorna wrote to me from a hospital—the hospital has no record of her ever being there. I wrote to the return address on the letter McKennon had sent me and my letter was returned. I hired a private detective to find Lorna—he could come up with nothing. Then I came myself. I haunted the police station. They were barely interested in letting me fill out the missing persons form. Lorna mentioned that she was in danger. If she told me that she was in danger, how can I forget about it? Maybe she’s in over her head. Maybe she’s involved with people that no one should be involved with! I have to find out who this McKennon is! He could be a criminal, a drug addict, a murderer for all I know!”

“Do you think that your friend would have involved herself with a man if he were a criminal?”

“Not purposely, no.”

“But maybe she has gone away just because she wanted to.”

“And maybe she hasn’t. Father, if she had just decided to go away, she would have told me that. Damn it—she had already gone away from home! She was widowed about a year ago, and she came to New York for a change of pace. Father, she is worth quite a bit of money. I’m very afraid that she might be the victim of…”

“Of what?”

“Oh, I’m not sure! But some kind of foul play. And would you please stop with the questions! I asked you one.”

“Ah, yes, you did.”

“Well?”

“You asked me about Andrew McKennon?”

The words were softly voiced. Was he asking her, or telling her? Procrastinating?

“Yes, about McKennon!” she snapped, wishing fervently that she could shake the man. He did know something, she was certain. He was holding back. Playing with her in a strange fashion! Or else he was seeking information, just as she was.

“You do know him!” she exclaimed in accusation. “Why are you denying it?”

He half smiled, his features twisted into a handsome mask of subtle amusement. “I never denied it.”

“Then please—tell me how to find him. Can’t you see how important it is that I get to meet him?”

“And why is that?”

“He’s the only one who can give me any answers!” Donna exclaimed, her exasperation growing.

“About your friend, you mean.”

Donna sighed deeply. The man was testing her patience further than the police had. “Yes, Father, I told you—”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “You told me all about your friend. But you also told me that she had written to you and that she was apparently fine when she wrote.”

Donna stared at him incredulously. She shook her head. “Is it New Yorkers, Father? Or is it just me? How could someone not be concerned under the circumstances?”

“Just what do you want to know, Ms. Miro?”

“That Lorna is all right!”

She was almost shouting. No, there was no “almost” to it. She
was
shouting. She felt as if she had left planet Earth and had come across a strange alien who spoke English, but didn’t really comprehend the language.

“What if I assured you that your friend was fine?”

Donna stared at him tensely, her fingers knotting around each other. “Father, I’m sorry, but I’m not really sure I can trust anything that you say. You won’t even answer a simple question with a yes or a no!”

He laughed suddenly. “Ms. Miro, I’m not terribly sure that I can trust you. And it isn’t my right to trust you, really.”

“Oh, Lord!” Donna moaned. “You make no sense!”

“Sorry.”

“Is that all that you can say? Father, please! Do you or do you not know Andrew McKennon?”

Ignoring her question, he countered, “What would make you happy, Ms. Miro?”

“Father, I would be happy if I could see Lorna.”

“Ah…” he murmured. “Of course.”

Donna ignored the skepticism in his voice and stared straight at the flames. She had to remain cool and calm and not give

way to his piercing eyes and manner. She was beginning to feel that New York was peopled entirely by lunatics. And you had to deal with lunatics very carefully.

“Ms. Miro, you have to realize that I don’t know you from Adam.”

“What?” Donna gasped.

“Precisely what I said.” The priest laughed. “You’re asking me questions but I know nothing about you. You’re a total stranger to me.”

“Father, one of us is totally insane.”

He chuckled—a husky sound like smooth velvet that made her very uneasy. “Not insane, Ms. Miro. I’d say we’re just skirting around one another carefully.”

“Are we?”

“Yes.”

“Well, could you skirt around a little less carefully then? Do I look dangerous, Father? You just rescued me from a mugger, so it seems unlikely that I could cause anyone harm.”

“Oh, Ms. Miro, I get the impression that you could be very dangerous. In many ways.”

His words didn’t make sense but his eyes did. She realized that he had assessed her fully as a woman and decided that he hadn’t found her lacking. What kind of a priest was this man?

Donna blinked uneasily, drawing her eyes from his unnerving green and gold stare. She stupidly began to notice little things about the room. It was a pleasant room, extremely comfortable with the overstuffed sofa, light marble hearth, and carved oak desk. She noted that ferns and vines climbed and scurried from attractive wicker planters about the rosewood bookshelves that boasted a wide variety of reading material—nonecclesiastical. In fact, there was nothing in particular in the room to indicate that the man was a priest at all.

“Ms. Miro,” he began again, his tone changing to one that was strictly business, “I can’t tell you anything until—” He broke off suddenly as there was a tap at the door and called out, “Come in, Mary.”

Mary bustled back into the room with a tea cart, the top tier carrying a beautifully etched silver tea service and lovely bone-china cups while the lower tier carried a plain yellow bucket. “First things first!” Mary commanded with a smile. “Luke, why don’t you serve your guest some tea while I see to her ankle.”

Luke complied with no comment. “Cream, sugar, lemon?”

“Just plain, thanks—oh!”

Donna gasped as Mary took a no-nonsense hold of her foot. “Father’s right, Miss Miro—nothing here but a mild sprain.” Donna heard her shoe make a soft clunking sound as it hit the carpet. “Let’s get your stocking off now….”

Mary waited expectantly. Donna again felt herself turn an absurd shade of red. Why couldn’t she have been rescued by a nice white-haired priest with a rotund potbelly? Why this man who was once more watching her with amusement-laden eyes that somehow portrayed a sensuality that made heat rip along her spine?

“Come, come, now…Donna! We must get this ankle into the hot water—” Mary broke off abruptly, seeing the flush on Donna’s cheeks and the electricity that seemed to spark between Luke’s devilish gold and her crystal-blue eyes. She laughed delightedly. “I’m so sorry! Luke, step out of the room, please. You’re embarrassing the lady!”

Luke smiled, then obligingly left the room. Mary discreetly joined him.

Donna hurriedly ripped off her remaining shoe and her pantyhose, watching the door all the while and berating herself for doing it. He wasn’t going to come barging back into the room.

“Miss Miro?” Mary called, tapping on the door lightly.

“All set,” Donna returned with a breath of relief.

A second later her ankle was feeling nicely soothed, and Mary was leaning with stern instructions that Donna keep the ankle soaking for at least twenty minutes. Donna was totally taken off guard as the devastating priest brought two cups of tea, handed her one, and sat comfortably beside her on the sofa.

“Well…tell me more about yourself,” he urged her in a noncommittal tone.

Donna busied herself with her tea, trying to ignore the ruggedly masculine, scintillating scent of his aftershave. She felt that if he touched her again she would shoot through the ceiling with the sear of his magnetic heat.

He was an extremely attractive man, but she was at a loss to understand the intensity of her reactions to him. She tended to be wary of strangers—men in particular—and she had never felt such a physical attraction before. She sipped her tea quickly, silently praying, God, make me stop this! But the feelings stayed with her—and so did the guilt and embarrassment. She had to pull herself together quickly. She couldn’t afford to spend a minute dwelling on her strange reactions. Each nuance of his rich voice warned her that he could be a formidable foe.

“You already know my name,” she said irritably, now watching the steam that rose above her cup. “I live outside of Worcester, Mass. I’m twenty-eight years old. I graduated from Boston U. with honors. You can check on any of the information I’ve given you. I’m completely legit, Father, which I’m beginning to think you’re not.”

Donna heard the flick of a lighter. She turned back to the priest. He had lit a cigarette and was staring idly at the smoke as it whirled into the air. He spoke without glancing her way. “I’m sorry, Ms. Miro. It’s just as I’ve told you. I don’t really have the right to tell you anything.”

Donna felt every muscle within her body tense. “Why not? What is the great mystery here?”

The golden eyes lit upon her, uncomfortably probing and knowing. He didn’t reply.

“There is something very wrong, isn’t there?”

He shrugged. “Very wrong? I don’t know. I’m not God.”

“You might have fooled me,” Donna muttered beneath her breath.

“I’m flattered.”

How had she wound up playing this absurd battle of wits with a sarcastic priest?

“Just how well do you know Andrew McKennon, Father?”

If she had expected a reaction from her volatile demand, she was to be sadly disappointed. She received another of his subtle shrugs—yet the invasion of his golden eyes was far from subtle.

“Fairly well. He’s one of my parishioners.”

“Oh,” Donna murmured, shielding her eyes with the length of her lashes. A little, inexplicable tremor shook her but she forced herself to look guilelessly into his eyes. “Then you
can
introduce me to him—take me to him. He shouldn’t be terribly surprised to see me.”

He studied her a long while, his gaze unfathomably raking over her ragged form with no apology. “I’m afraid that it’s not quite that easy, Ms. Miro,” he said politely.

“How difficult can it be?” Donna demanded, annoyance hiding the fear his question had sent racing through her. Just who or what was Andrew McKennon that this priest was protecting him? “I can’t leave New York without meeting McKennon! If you decide not to help me, I’ll find another way.” She twisted to him, deciding to add a note of entreating charm. “Father, please help me…”