Sensuous Angel Read online

  The priest watched him until he was swallowed up by the shadows of twilight. His face as ruggedly immobile as granite, he stooped and retrieved the offending knife with an agility that was startling for his size. He tripped the blade and folded it into his pocket. Then his disturbing golden gaze turned to Donna.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at her, annoyance clearly etched across his well-defined and rakishly handsome features.

  “All right, lady,” he demanded impatiently. “Just what kind of an idiot are you?”

  She was no less stunned by the strange priest than her assailant.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I’M NOT AN IDIOT!” Donna protested indignantly. She winced inwardly. Sprawled on the ground, her stockings ripped, her neat chignon a mass of tangled dishevelment, she did feel a bit like a fool, if not a complete idiot. But she was not about to condescend the point to this man—even if he had rescued her and even if he was a priest.

  He shook his head with exasperation. “Lady, any woman walking along this street in a suit from Saks has to be an idiot.” He finally extended his hand to her. She gazed stupidly at his hand. It was broad, the fingers long, the nails bluntly clipped.

  Ignoring his gesture, she attempted to rise on her own. As soon as she placed her weight on her injured ankle, a streak of pain ripped through her. Before she could stop it, a soft cry escaped her. To her vast dismay, she found she was losing her balance once more.

  But before she could teeter ignominiously back to the pavement again, the supporting hand she had just refused came about her waist and she was steadied. She stared up into the flame hazel eyes that now held a glint of amusement and murmured an awkward “Thank you.”

  It was the most disconcerting gaze she had ever encountered—and from a priest. “I—I can stand now,” she stuttered nervously.

  He chuckled. “And then what?”

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s unlikely that you can walk.”

  “I’ll just get a cab—”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  A flash of anger ripped through her. “I’m already an idiot. Why not be a fool?”

  He chuckled again, undaunted by her wrath. “Why not indeed?” But before Donna could respond, she found herself lifted into strong arms and secured against his broad chest, and held with no more effort than he might expend on a feather as his long stride took them down the street.

  “Wait…” Donna protested feebly. “I have to find a man—”

  “You’ll find lots of men if you keep this up.”

  “Damn it! I mean—”

  He started to laugh. “Calm down—just for a few minutes. You’re not going to do anything in the state you ARE in so listen to me and be agreeable. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that the ‘meek shall inherit’?”

  “No—and they obviously forgot to tell you!”

  He inclined his head slightly, his too-sensual lips curving subtly. Then he ignored her comment. “You can explain what the hell you think you’re doing, and then maybe I can help you. You’re definitely not going anywhere on your own power with that ankle,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Donna’s arms had instinctively wound around his neck when he had lifted her. She sighed softly, biting back further reply. It wasn’t the most normal feeling in the world to want to throttle a priest, and she had to admit that, thanks to him, she was in fairly good health and still in possession of her shoulder bag. And she hadn’t even thanked him. Of course, he wasn’t the type to draw out profuse gratitude. She relaxed suddenly, closing her eyes, aware—not without a certain resentment—that he was right. If he had left her, she would have truly been in trouble: lost in the ghetto and unable to walk.

  And maybe—just maybe—this man could help her. He obviously knew the neighborhood. If she didn’t accept his help now, she really would be an idiot. She was still shaking from her encounter with the youthful assailant. At this particular moment, it was pure relief to forget her quest, to lean on his masculine strength.

  Her eyes flew open. His masculine strength! The man was a priest! Oh, dear Lord! she thought dismally. What were you thinking when you made this man a priest?

  He was almost a foot taller than she, and built solidly. He wasn’t heavy, but touching him she knew he was all muscle. His scent was light but pleasantly masculine, the hair her fingers brushed at his nape was decidedly, satanically dark. The jaw she stared up at was determinedly strong and square, and the eyes that occasionally glanced down to hers were the most wickedly compelling and…seductive…she had ever seen.

  Donna lowered her eyes uncomfortably, flushing suddenly with acute and painful embarrassment. She didn’t remember ever being so affected by a man—not even the one man she had, however briefly, called her husband. Even the touch of his jacket against her cheek seemed to send shivers racing along her spine. Guilt riddled her along with the shivers. She’d spent half her life in Catholic schools, and there she was reacting physically to a man of the cloth.

  No! It was only an aftereffect, she told herself staunchly. And for a priest, he was terribly rude and abusive. He had called her an idiot, and she was not an idiot!

  Still, she gritted her teeth as he turned one corner and then another. They hadn’t come far at all, but suddenly they were out of the ghetto, facing Central Park.

  “I—I’m sure I can get a cab here,” she stuttered.

  “I’ll get a cab,” he said curtly.

  It seemed he had no sooner said the words than a taxi was pulling up beside them. She was placed inside it, and then he was sliding next to her. He gave the driver an address that meant nothing to her.

  “Really,” Donna began, feeling as if her nerves were pulled like a guitar string, “I’m sorry I’ve troubled you. I’ll just go to my hotel room.”

  “No way, lady.” The priest chuckled. “I don’t want to spend all my days walking the streets. Let’s solve your problem tonight so that I don’t have to worry about picking you up in pieces some night.”

  Donna clamped her lips tightly together. “I am not an idiot,” she said quietly. “I ran into a bit of bad luck, that’s all.”

  He didn’t respond. The cab came to a halt on a pretty, tree-lined street with ivy-covered brownstones.

  “I’ll pay for the cab,” Donna said quickly, scrambling in her purse for the fare.

  “I think I can handle it,” the priest said dryly, handing the driver a number of bills.

  The cabbie smiled in return. “Thanks, Father Luke.”

  “Have a good night, Jonas,” he said briefly, and then he was reaching for Donna again, lifting her from the cab before she could protest.

  “I really do think I could hobble along,” Donna said awkwardly as he walked her up a flight of immaculately clean steps and pressed a buzzer. She flushed as his gaze fell on her. There was something about his subtle smile and the devilish gleam in his magnetic gold and green eyes that told her quite blatantly he was fully aware of her discomfort from his touch—and very amused by it.

  The door suddenly swung inward and they were greeted with startled surprise by a squat little woman who barely reached the priest’s broad shoulders. “Luke! My goodness! What has happened? Bring the poor girl in right away and I’ll get some tea on. There’s a fire in your office, Father. Oh, my, my! Should I call the doctor?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Mary. I believe the lady merely has a slight sprain.”

  “I’ll get a tub of hot water and epsom salts then, Father.”

  “Thank you, Mary.”

  “Oh, please!” Donna protested, feeling truly absurd as she nestled in the priest’s strong arms and stared into the warm brown eyes of the kindly and concerned housekeeper. “Please don’t put yourself to any trouble! I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “No trouble at all, young lady,” Mary said firmly. “Come along now, Luke—let’s get that sprain taken care of!”

  Father Luke followed his housekeeper meekly down a hal
l attractively furnished with a dark crimson rug and an antique deacon’s bench to a door just past the bannistered stairway.

  “Whatever happened?” Mary queried again as she pushed the door inward and stood aside so that the priest could set Donna in a large plush sofa.

  “Our young friend stumbled upon one of our more dangerous streets,” the priest offered wryly, leaving Donna as he stood casually against the corner of a massive oak desk.

  “Oh, no! You were mugged! Poor dear!”

  “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 tsking 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.”
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br />   “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.