Cold Blooded (43 page)

I'm either out or--" She grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"

"Oh, in ... It's James," Father Mcclaren said and she smiled as she conjured up his handsome, if worried face.

"I'm glad I caught you ... I feel like a fool to admit this but I think I may have left my wallet at your house. Maybe I dropped it while looking in the toolbox or while I was sitting on the couch ... I don't remember."

"Let me check. Hold on a minute." Olivia did a quick search. The toolbox didn't hold anything other than her grandfather's assortment of screwdrivers, pliers, hammers, and wrenches, and the couch only gave up a few quarters, lint, and kernels of popcorn, but then she looked beneath the blankets in Hairy's bed in the part of the porch that had been converted to the laundry room and sure enough she found a shin, black leather wallet. Father James Mcclaren's picture stared up at her from his driver's license.

"Got it," she said as she returned to the kitchen and picked up the phone again. "My dog's a thief. I found it in his bed. I could bring it to you tomorrow. I've got to drive into the city anyway."

"I'm afraid I'll need it before then, so unless it's inconvenient, I'd like to stop by and pick it up later. Right after mass tonight?"

"That would be fine, " Olivia said, leaning a hip against the counter and seeing Hairy appear at the back door, where he began to pound against the glass. "I was just trying to save you a trip." She unlocked the door and cracked it open.

Hairy galloped inside.

"I'll see you later then," Father James was saying. "How about around eight-thirty?"

"Great."

"How's Sarah?"

"She just left." Olivia sighed. "It's a long story. I'll tell you all about it when you get here."

"See you later."

Olivia hung up and set the wallet on the counter, where the dog couldn't get to it. "Shame on you," she said to hairy as she walked to the front of the house and shut the door.' ' from a priest."

That's worse than lusting after one. She "tusked, tusked," then fed both animals and, telling herself that she was not paying any attention to Sarah's assessment of Father James's feelings for her, changed into black slacks and a sweater, touched up her makeup, tried and failed to tame her hair, and spritzed on a couple of shots of perfume.

Reminding herself she wasn't getting ready for a date, she switched on the television. The screen flickered to show an African-American newswoman standing in front of an old, dilapidated building surrounded by trees and brush.

Police cars, lights flashing, were parked haphazardly around what looked to be a warehouse until she realized that she was viewing the grist mill where the most recent victims had been found.

She swallowed hard. So this was where they had died-- in a desolate, crumbling building.

"... as you can see, the police are still here, searching for clues.

Last night the bodies of two women were discovered by ... "

Olivia, mesmerized by the report, dropped onto the couch.

She'd avoided watching the news for the last few days, hadn't wanted to dwell on the murders, but now, viewing the crumbling mill and knowing what had happened inside, she listened, transfixed, as the reporter warned the citizens about a brutal serial murderer on the loose. "... though not many details have been released, the police have issued a warning to all citizens ... " Other images flashed before the scene.

Photographs of the victims interspersed with footage from the archives which displayed the apartment house in the Garden District where Cathy Adams's nude body had been found, the statue of St. Joan of Arc, and the burnedout shell of a house in Bayou St. John where Stephanie Jane Keller had been slain. "... and now, here, two women found in what an anonymous

source has called macabre, brutal, and ritualistic slayings reminiscent of the Rosary Killer, who prowled the streets of New Orleans just last summer." The screen changed to footage of Bentz talking to the press. It was a hot summer day and Bentz was sweating as he answered the reporter's questions, assuring the viewers that the Rosary Killer had been killed.

"But, Detective, isn't it true that the killer's body was never recovered?" a sharp-featured reporter asked.

The screen cut to the anchor desk, where a man and woman were seated.

The anchorman stared solemnly into the camera.' ' now the streets of New Orleans are being prowled by a serial killer again, barely six months later. Has the Rosary Killer returned? Or is this a new menace? For continuing coverage of this, and other area news, tune in at--"

Olivia snapped off the set. Seeing Bentz's image only made her angry all over again. Yes, she understood his feelings about getting involved with her, but come on, it wasn't as if she'd been expecting a marriage proposal. Not that she would have accepted one anyway. She had this thing about avoiding relationships that could ultimately result in marriage.

Ever since finding out that her fiance" had cheated on her with her best friend, she'd decided marriage wasn't for her--at least in the foreseeable future--and her biological clock could just quit ticking for a while.

Is that why you pick men who are off-limits?

"No," she said so loudly that hairy growled. She pushed all images of Bentz out of her mind and spent the next two hours in the second bedroom, catching up on some assignments for her classes the following week, then, seeing headlights splash illumination on the lane, hurried downstairs.

She threw open the door before Father Mcclaren had a chance to knock.

"I was expecting you," she explained, noting that, tonight, he was wearing his clerical collar along with a black shirt, black slacks, and his leather bomber jacket.

"And you're clairvoyant. Like your grandmother. You mentioned it"
"Did I also mention that it's a royal pain? Come in."
She walked him into the kitchen and handed him his wallet.
With a glance at the dog, she said, "I don't think he had enough time to

do any real damage with your credit cards.

But he could've gotten on the Internet. Let me know if you see charges
for flea collars and dog biscuits and I'll see that he pays you back."
James actually grinned. "I'll go over my statements with a fine-tooth

comb."

She slapped his wallet into his hand. "Is there anything else I can do
for you?"
He hesitated and for a second she expected him to say something clever

... even suggestive. Instead, he said, "No, thanks."

"How about a glass of wine?" she asked. She liked his company. Wanted
him to hang around.
Again the hesitation in his blue eyes, the indecision.
' '. A glass." He glanced around the small cottage.' ' said that Sarah

left. As in for the night?"
"As in she flew back to Tucson." Olivia opened the refrigerator door.
"Leo wants a divorce. He's already got wife number two all lined up."
She handed Father James the bottle and a corkscrew then found a wedge of

brie and, in the cupboard, a box of crackers that were well past their pull date.

"How did she seem?" he asked as he found a couple of glasses and poured

the wine.

"Better than I expected. Maybe that's because she talked to you."
"I doubt it." He handed her a goblet and touched the rim of his to hers.
"Cheers," he said.
"To new friends."
"And happiness."
"I suppose I can twist your arm and ask you to build me another fire?"

she suggested. "You did such a great job last night." "Flattery will get

you everywhere," he said. "Let's see what we can do."
Together they hauled chunks of dry oak and kindling into the living
room. Olivia wadded up newspaper and Father James fussed over a "back
log," then arranged the paper and kindling before striking a match.

"Perfect," she said as hungry flames devoured the dry under.

"Let's see ... give it time ... sometimes it starts out fast and then
dies out. You have to be careful. And patient."
"Do you?"
"Mmm." He slid her a look and she wondered if they were still talking

about the fire.
"That's the way it is with everything, isn't it?"
"The good things."
They sipped the Chardonnay, made small talk, and Father James loosened

up a bit, even accepting a second glass.
"You know, you could do something else for me," she suggested and one of
his eyebrows rose.

Her heart nearly stopped.

Dear Lord, what was wrong with her? Why the devil was she flirting with him?

"What's that?" he asked and the irreverent smile that teased his lips was at odds with his profession.

"Nothing that will get you into trouble."

"Oh, darn."

"How about helping me string some Christmas lights over the mantel?" ' ' here I thought you were offering me food and drink because you enjoyed my company."

"No such luck," she kidded. "Now, come on, handyman, mush!" She set do wn her glass, rummaged in the closet under the stairs, and gently set her grandmother's shotgun to one side so that she could pull out a box of ancient decorations.

"Isn't it a little early?" he asked, helping her carry two cartons of lights to the living room.

"Once it's after Thanksgiving, ' the season," she quipped and, to prove it, turned on the radio. WSLJ made a point of playing one holiday song an hour the week after Thanksgiving. Within ten minutes, before they were finished stringing the lights, a jazzy instrumental version of "Let It Snow" filled the room.

"Didn't I tell you?" she asked as she switched off the table lamps, and other than the glow from the fire and the pinpoints of colored light draped over the mantel, the room was dim. Cozy.

"That's not really a Christmas carol."

"But it's seasonal. Come on, you never hear that played in July."

He laughed. "When I hear ' Christmas,' it's officially Christmastime."

"But--"

"I'm not kidding." He sat beside her on the couch and stared at the
fire. " ' the Snowman,' or ' Wonderland' don't cut it either."

"Purist," she muttered, sipping from her glass.
"Comes with the territory." His eyes danced, reflecting the green and
red pinpricks of light.' ' this" --he hoisted his stemmed glass into the
air--"doesn't."

"No?"

"Uh-uh. Definitely off-limits." But as he shook his head, he poured them
each another glass. "However, we can't let it go to waste," he said.
"After all, it's imported."
"It is?"
"All the way from California, If you haven't noticed, it's another

country out there."
"How would you know?"
"I lived there."
"Really."
"Yes, ma'am. And I've got a secret about that time in my life." His

smile was positively seductive. She leaned back on the couch. "What?"
"It was before I was a priest."
"Oh-oh, something dark and evil."
"You might say." He laughed. "Before I found my calling, I was a

surfer."
"No way!"
"Oh, yeah ... you should have seen me hang ten."
"Give me a break." She grinned, the wine and intimate room going to her

head.

"Maybe someday I'll give you a demonstration."

She was taking a gulp of wine but laughed so hard she choked. The thought of Father James, clerical collar in place, priestly robes flying as he crouched upon a surf board and rode the crest of a wave off of Malibu, gave her a fit of giggles. She coughed so hard she had to set her glass down.

"I ... don't ... believe ... "

Suddenly he was holding her, patting her on the back.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes ... no ... " she gasped.

"Olivia ... " His pats were harder on her back, helping her cough.

"Breathe."

"Does ... does the Pope know about the surfing?" she asked, still trying to catch her breath.

He laughed loudly, a deep rumbling sound as he pulled her close to him.

"Do I detect a note of irreverence?"

"From me?" Pinning a look of shock on her face, she shook her head in mock innocence and noticed that his arms still surrounded her. "Never." "You are incredible," he said, his voice a whisper as the smile slowly slid from his face and she realized how close they were, that their noses were nearly touching, that the smell of him was overpowering, that her breasts were flattened to his chest. It was crazy. And so emotionally dangerous.

Stop this, Olivia. Before you do something you can't stop. Before you make the biggest mistake of your life! But she didn't move. Couldn't.

She swallowed hard and his eyes flicked to her throat.

Though he didn't open his mouth, she swore she heard him groan. "I don't think I should be here," he said, but didn't let go. "In fact, I know I shouldn't." His words slurred a bit.

"Probably." She sighed. "But ... ?"
"Olivia, I can't ... " He stopped. As if he'd witnessed the sadness in
her eyes. As if he knew exactly what she was thinking. "Oh, hell," he

ground out, then added, "Forgive me," before he glanced down at her lips
and kissed her.
Hard. Without a tremor of reluctance.
Warning bells screamed through Olivia's mind. This was wrong. So wrong.
They both knew it. Hadn't he just tried to say as much? But she kissed

him back. Between the wine and the darkened room and the sense that they both needed to reach out to someone, she pushed aside all the doubts that plagued her, doubts that continued to echo through her mind.

He's a priest, for God's sake. And probably half drunk.
How will you feel tomorrow?
How will he?
Don't throw away the friendship he's offering ... This is a sin, Olivia.
A sin!
Think!
Her heart pounded, her skin tingled and deep inside she began to heat.
She couldn't stop. Didn't want to.
He was eager once he'd crossed that invisible barrier between them. His

hands searched beneath her sweater, scaling her ribs, delving into her

bra, kneading her breasts.
She melted like butter inside, knowing she was making the biggest
mistake of her life. Don't do this, Olivia. For God's sake, don't!

Anxiously he pulled her sweater over her head and kissed her all over, her cheeks, her neck, the tops of her breasts.

His mouth burned a scorching path, touching and caressing, his tongue was rough and wet. Her mind spun crazily with erotic images she couldn't control.