The Angel (The Original Sinners 2)

Just in case he was home and asleep with all the lights off, Suzanne knocked on the door. No answer. Then she pounded on it with the tip of her shoe. A minute passed. Still nothing. The rage welled within her. Father Stearns had no respect for the law obviously. Not if he’d slept with a teenage Eleanor Schreiber. Why show him any respect?

Suzanne turned the doorknob and found the rectory unlocked.

She stepped inside and called out a tentative, “Hello.” With every minute that passed, her blood throbbed heavier and harder in her veins. If she didn’t calm down, she’d pass out. What if he was here? Watching her? Waiting for her?

Calling upon all the instincts she’d learned working in war zones, Suzanne took slow, deep breaths and willed her heart to calm itself. She let the little bit of light from the moon flood her senses. She walked carefully, trying to avoid the creaking of the ancient hardwood beneath her feet.

If she was to find any evidence of his proclivities, she knew they’d most likely be in his bedroom. Her stomach recoiled at the thought of returning to that place, that room where she’d shamed herself so completely. Of course he’d turned her down, turned her away that night. She was a grown woman, not a fifteen-year-old girl. Not his type at all.

Up the stairs she crept, closing her eyes to allow her ears to hear without the distractions of sight. At the end of the hall she came to his bedroom and rested her hand on the doorknob. For the first time in what felt like a thousand years she said a prayer, a real prayer.

Please, God. Don’t let him be  inside.

God answered the prayer.

Suzanne found the room empty and the bed neatly made. Cursing herself for not bringing a flashlight, she reached out and turned on the small antique lamp on the table. Soft yellow light infused the room. Really Father Stearns’s bedroom was a thing of beauty—elegant and simple, clean and unassuming. And yet everything in it—the bed, the furniture, the white linens—spoke of refinement and taste. But she’d learned long ago how looks could be deceiving.

Making a circuit of the room, Suzanne eyed every possible hiding place. She had no idea what she was looking for. Young Eleanor Schreiber had grown up long ago and become a notorious erotica writer—famous for her prose, infamous for her personal life. She didn’t just write it. She lived it. But did she do it here? In this bedroom? Suzanne had read all the books. The kind of BDSM Nora Sutherlin practiced, or at least her characters, involved equipment and lots of it. Suzanne spied a trunk at the end of Father Stearns’s bed. An old-fashioned steamer trunk, it looked large enough to hold a body. Kneeling in front of it, Suzanne examined the lock. She had no idea how to pick it. She’d have to break it open. Maybe she could find something in Patrick’s car. A practical sort, Patrick would surely have a toolbox or something in his trunk. As she stood up she noticed a small box on the table next to the bed. No larger than a Bible, the box appeared to be rosewood. She held it in her hands and turned it over and over, tracing the intricately carved cross on the surface.

This box too was locked, but with such a small lock she knew she could break it open with her fingers. She took a deep breath, dug her nails under the edge of the lock and began to pull.

From behind her she heard the creak of hardwood.

“Shall I get that for you, ma  chérie?”

18

Nora woke up in the dark in her bed at Griffin’s. Stretching out under the covers, she massaged an ache in her lower back. Taking turns with Griffin and Michael had been both erotic and exhausting. Of course, her two boys had nothing on Søren and Kingsley. Together those two had given her some of the most intense sexual experiences of her life. Tonight’s little play hadn’t really been about sex, however. She’d enjoyed it. Who wouldn’t? But for six weeks now she’d watched Griffin staring at Michael when Michael wasn’t looking and Michael staring back at Griffin the second Griffin looked away. All the angst-ridden pining had started to get to her. Those two needed to get their shit together, man up and admit what they wanted, and get the f**k on with it.

With a sigh, Nora sat up and rubbed her forehead. She found Griffin sitting next to her in bed with his chin resting on his knee. Next to Griffin, Michael lay sound asleep on his stomach with the covers tucked up under his chin.

Nora rested her head against Griffin’s strong bicep. He reached out and laid a hand on her leg in a gesture of pure and simple friendship.

“That bad, huh?” she whispered. Griffin’s eyes were trained on Michael and didn’t glance away even to look at her.

Slowly Griffin nodded.

“Yeah…that bad.”

For a moment she said nothing, merely watched Griffin watching Michael.

“It’s weird,” Griffin said. “Did you notice he’s clinging to the sheets like his life depended on it?”

Nora grinned. Michael always bunched his fingers into the sheets when sleeping.

“I know. I teased him about it.” Nora raised her hand and ran her fingers through Griffin’s hair. His darks eyes glanced her way once before looking again at Michael. “He said he thought his subconscious worried that gravity would be revoked in the middle of the night. He wanted to be prepared.”

Griffin covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. But the laugh quickly faded and Nora saw no mirth in his eyes anymore.

“I can’t have him.” Griffin stretched out his hand and let his fingers hover an inch or two above Michael’s bare shoulder blade before pulling his hand back and leaving Michael untouched. “Søren—”