“She is difficult to miss,” he said, his small smile widening just slightly. “Usually we are graced with her presence but she’s on something of a sabbatical this summer.”
“Too bad. I have to say I’m impressed your church would be so welcoming to her. I’ve read a few of her books. Sinful stuff.”
Suzanne saw something flash in his eyes. Surprise maybe? Or was it mirth?
“It was Christ’s way to welcome sinners and tax collectors and other nefarious characters into His company and His Kingdom. On His especially compassionate and generous days he would even speak to reporters.”
His smile changed again. Now pure irony graced his lips.
“How did you—” she began, shocked into near speechlessness.
“You were taking notes during the Mass. Only an Evangelical Protestant or a reporter would bother taking notes during a homily or sermon, especially one of mine. And after twenty years in the priesthood, I can spot a lapsed Catholic at a thousand yards.”
“Is that so?”
“You stand and sit at the appropriate times without looking lost. You called me Father comfortably, not Pastor or Reverend. And you have a distinctly Catholic look in your eyes.”
“What Catholic look?”
“Guilt.”
Suzanne stood up straighter, refusing to let him see he’d rattled her. After all, she didn’t see one iota of guilt in his eyes.
“Okay, yes. Guilty. Reporter and ex-Catholic,” she said, painting on an even wider fake smile.
“We do see the occasional lapsed Catholic here but not many reporters,” he said, his tone conversational. “I assure you nothing noteworthy had happened lately. I haven’t performed an exorcism in, well, weeks.”
Suzanne looked at him a long, confused moment.
“You aren’t what I expected,” she said, dispensing with all pretense.
“Considering what the common perception of the clergy is these days, I shall take that as a compliment. You’ll have to forgive me, Ms. Kanter. I have my people to attend to. But my office is always open. Something tells me you have some questions for me.”
“Yes. A lot more of them than I originally thought.”
“Then I shall see you again soon. Good day to you.”
With a polite nod he left her to join a group of men who had apparently been waiting to speak to him as well. Suzanne followed him with her eyes as he walked away. That had not gone as planned. Not even close.
Trailing behind a boisterous family of five or six children arguing over where to eat dinner, Suzanne made her way to the parking lot. Once inside Patrick’s car she pulled out her notepad again.
Extremely intelligent, she wrote. And ridiculously handsome. He was expecting me.
At the bottom of the page she scrawled, I don’t trust him, and underlined it three times.
* * *
Nora sorted through her luggage, separating her clothes from her toys. At times like this she missed having her own dungeon. Back in her dominatrix days, she had a palatial dungeon, if such a thing could exist, in the VIP wing of The 8th Circle. Søren still had his own personal quarters there, of course. As did Kingsley and Griffin. But once she returned to Søren as his submissive, she’d had to give up her dungeon to her replacement—Mistress V. However, she’d kept most of her gear for those occasions when Søren gave her permission to top someone. Some of the kinksters in their community frowned on her playing switch while in the possession of their alpha dom. But Søren loved her and understood her. And he knew better than to put his foot down in this area. She loved topping women and even a certain secretly switch-hitting Frenchman of their acquaintance. The jealous haters could have her spreader bars and her signature red riding crop when they pried them out of her cold, dead hands.
Nora’d bought a collar for Michael, a black one to match his hair. She had no intention of collaring him permanently, but he needed to get used to wearing one if he planned on joining the Underground with her and Søren. She dug to the very bottom of her bag. Whips and chains, a Wartenberg wheel, two sets of handcuffs—rope and metal—bondage cuffs, snap hooks…all ended up in an impressive array on the floor. Nora dove once more into her luggage and laughed at what she pulled out. How did her duckie pajamas get in with her kink gear? She remembered she’d been on the phone arguing with Zach, her editor, while packing. Obviously Zach had distracted her a little.
Nora stared at her pajamas, at the little baby ducks printed on the blue flannel. Pajamas had been the cause of her first fight with Wesley right after he moved in. No one would ever call her an exhibitionist—she knew too many real exhibitionists to even make a claim on that title—but she had a good body and didn’t care who saw it. So the first morning after Wesley moved in she came down to the kitchen in her usual sleepwear—a little nearly transparent black camisole and panties. Half-asleep still, she’d entered the kitchen, patted Wesley on the top of his blond head, grabbed a croissant and a cup of coffee, and headed for her office. A few minutes later a visibly troubled Wesley came into her office and stood with his back to her.
“Yes, Wesley, those jeans do make your ass look fabulous,” she’d said, glancing over at his tall, lean and way-too-sexy-to-belong-to-a-virgin body.
“That is not why I have my back to you. You have no clothes on, Nora,” he’d said, sounding royally perturbed.
“I do have clothes on. I have on my pajamas.”
“Too bad. I have to say I’m impressed your church would be so welcoming to her. I’ve read a few of her books. Sinful stuff.”
Suzanne saw something flash in his eyes. Surprise maybe? Or was it mirth?
“It was Christ’s way to welcome sinners and tax collectors and other nefarious characters into His company and His Kingdom. On His especially compassionate and generous days he would even speak to reporters.”
His smile changed again. Now pure irony graced his lips.
“How did you—” she began, shocked into near speechlessness.
“You were taking notes during the Mass. Only an Evangelical Protestant or a reporter would bother taking notes during a homily or sermon, especially one of mine. And after twenty years in the priesthood, I can spot a lapsed Catholic at a thousand yards.”
“Is that so?”
“You stand and sit at the appropriate times without looking lost. You called me Father comfortably, not Pastor or Reverend. And you have a distinctly Catholic look in your eyes.”
“What Catholic look?”
“Guilt.”
Suzanne stood up straighter, refusing to let him see he’d rattled her. After all, she didn’t see one iota of guilt in his eyes.
“Okay, yes. Guilty. Reporter and ex-Catholic,” she said, painting on an even wider fake smile.
“We do see the occasional lapsed Catholic here but not many reporters,” he said, his tone conversational. “I assure you nothing noteworthy had happened lately. I haven’t performed an exorcism in, well, weeks.”
Suzanne looked at him a long, confused moment.
“You aren’t what I expected,” she said, dispensing with all pretense.
“Considering what the common perception of the clergy is these days, I shall take that as a compliment. You’ll have to forgive me, Ms. Kanter. I have my people to attend to. But my office is always open. Something tells me you have some questions for me.”
“Yes. A lot more of them than I originally thought.”
“Then I shall see you again soon. Good day to you.”
With a polite nod he left her to join a group of men who had apparently been waiting to speak to him as well. Suzanne followed him with her eyes as he walked away. That had not gone as planned. Not even close.
Trailing behind a boisterous family of five or six children arguing over where to eat dinner, Suzanne made her way to the parking lot. Once inside Patrick’s car she pulled out her notepad again.
Extremely intelligent, she wrote. And ridiculously handsome. He was expecting me.
At the bottom of the page she scrawled, I don’t trust him, and underlined it three times.
* * *
Nora sorted through her luggage, separating her clothes from her toys. At times like this she missed having her own dungeon. Back in her dominatrix days, she had a palatial dungeon, if such a thing could exist, in the VIP wing of The 8th Circle. Søren still had his own personal quarters there, of course. As did Kingsley and Griffin. But once she returned to Søren as his submissive, she’d had to give up her dungeon to her replacement—Mistress V. However, she’d kept most of her gear for those occasions when Søren gave her permission to top someone. Some of the kinksters in their community frowned on her playing switch while in the possession of their alpha dom. But Søren loved her and understood her. And he knew better than to put his foot down in this area. She loved topping women and even a certain secretly switch-hitting Frenchman of their acquaintance. The jealous haters could have her spreader bars and her signature red riding crop when they pried them out of her cold, dead hands.
Nora’d bought a collar for Michael, a black one to match his hair. She had no intention of collaring him permanently, but he needed to get used to wearing one if he planned on joining the Underground with her and Søren. She dug to the very bottom of her bag. Whips and chains, a Wartenberg wheel, two sets of handcuffs—rope and metal—bondage cuffs, snap hooks…all ended up in an impressive array on the floor. Nora dove once more into her luggage and laughed at what she pulled out. How did her duckie pajamas get in with her kink gear? She remembered she’d been on the phone arguing with Zach, her editor, while packing. Obviously Zach had distracted her a little.
Nora stared at her pajamas, at the little baby ducks printed on the blue flannel. Pajamas had been the cause of her first fight with Wesley right after he moved in. No one would ever call her an exhibitionist—she knew too many real exhibitionists to even make a claim on that title—but she had a good body and didn’t care who saw it. So the first morning after Wesley moved in she came down to the kitchen in her usual sleepwear—a little nearly transparent black camisole and panties. Half-asleep still, she’d entered the kitchen, patted Wesley on the top of his blond head, grabbed a croissant and a cup of coffee, and headed for her office. A few minutes later a visibly troubled Wesley came into her office and stood with his back to her.
“Yes, Wesley, those jeans do make your ass look fabulous,” she’d said, glancing over at his tall, lean and way-too-sexy-to-belong-to-a-virgin body.
“That is not why I have my back to you. You have no clothes on, Nora,” he’d said, sounding royally perturbed.
“I do have clothes on. I have on my pajamas.”
