Donovan’s Angel (10 page)

“Yes, Paul,” she whispered. “But before I let
you go, I want to be in your arms one last time.”

He pulled her hungrily to him and cradled her
head against his shoulder. “Martie, Martie. How can you be so
stubborn?” He caressed her hair as he talked. “For us, there is no
last time.”

“Yes.” She rubbed her face against the soft
cotton of his plaid shirt. Underneath the fabric she could feel the
thundering of his heart. Her voice was muffled against his chest.
“I want a kiss that will last a lifetime.”

He cupped her face and lowered his mouth to
hers. The kiss was fierce, hungry, as all their pent-up passions
rushed to the surface. She swayed against him and circled his waist
with her arms. His hands left her face and roamed down her back,
massaging with an urgency that demanded a response.

She molded her hips against his and began an
erotic love dance, a tantalizing imitation of forbidden pleasures.
Paul’s tongue plunged into her open mouth, tasting and probing in
perfect rhythm with her thrusting hips.

A red blaze of heat fogged their brains, and
the restraining clothes between them seemed to vaporize. Paul was
vividly aware of her breasts, peaked and straining against his
chest; of the sleek line of her hips and legs, soft and pliant
against his. His hands slipped under her shirt, glorying in the
silkiness of her bare skin, and his tongue began a slow, languid
assault within the velvet depths of her willing mouth.

She was liquid fire in his arms, moving
restlessly, fighting for a fulfillment she knew she couldn’t have.
Her silver hair floated with the motions of her head, releasing the
scent of summer flowers. Paul absorbed the fragrance of her,
knowing that he would never again smell violets and roses without
thinking of this moment.

They clung together, prolonging the exquisite
torture until they were both limp with the effort of restraint.
Martie leaned her damp forehead against his chest and closed her
eyes.

“My mistake,” she whispered. “It only makes
me want more.”

Paul rested his chin on top of her head and
rocked her in his arms. “There will be more, Martie. I
promise.”

On that particular Saturday, with the
forgotten soup bubbling on the stove and the hall clock chiming
six, he would have proposed if he’d thought there was the ghost of
a chance that she would say yes. His lips caressed her hair and he
sighed. Sometimes patience was a crown of thorns.

She stood quietly in his arms, memorizing the
feel of him, storing the information away for the lonely hours and
days and years without him. She was almost tempted to deny their
differences and plunge into a courtship with him. But for once in
her impulsive life she held back, ruled by caution and
self-restraint. She could accept responsibility for hurting
herself, but she would not be responsible for hurting this
marvelous man who was holding her so tenderly.

She lifted her head. “I’ve changed my mind
about the soup,” she murmured.

“So have I.” Reluctantly, he released her.
“If I don’t go now, I’m afraid that I never will.”

“Who would know if you stayed, Paul?” she
asked softly.

“I would.” He caught her fiercely to his
chest for one last embrace. “Good night, angel,” he said, and then
he was gone.

The screen door vibrated with his
leavetaking, and Martie stood in the vast emptiness of her hallway
fighting a lump in her throat.

“I will not cry,” she said aloud, but she
knew that she was fooling herself. Two glistening tears were
already streaming down her cheeks. “What’s the matter with me?” she
cried, dashing the tears away with the back of her hand. “First I
tell myself that I don’t want to hurt him, and then I try to tempt
him. On top of that, I’m talking to myself.” She picked up a pillow
from the hall settee and flung it against the wall. “Why? Why does
he have to be a minister?”

The only response was the soup boiling over
in the kitchen.

After she had cleaned up the mess and fed the
pets and taken her bath, she tried to lose herself in an Agatha
Christie mystery, but it was useless. With a sigh she closed the
book and walked to her bedroom window. Somewhere behind the
darkened fence was the parsonage, and inside that parsonage was a
man who had invaded her life. A man who wouldn’t go away. He clung
to her thoughts as tenaciously as he clung to her life.

What was he doing? Was he wishing that he had
stayed? She paced beside the window until the hall clock chimed
midnight.

Letting her silk robe drop to the floor,
Martie slid between the sheets. “Tomorrow I’ll put him out of my
mind,” she promised herself. She gave her pillows a mighty whack
and tried to fall asleep.

o0o

She sat in the back row of pews and tried to
be as inconspicuous as possible. Heaven only knew why she had come.
She had tried to stay away; all day long she had ignored the church
chimes and the tugging of her heart. But finally she had given in.
Just one last glimpse of him, she had told herself. After all, she
had never even heard him preach. Maybe he would be one of those
pulpit-pounding, hellfire-and-damnation preachers who would make
her want to leave and never see him again. She sat on the pew
rationalizing as the choir filed into the loft.

A few friendly glances were cast toward her,
and there were rustlings and whisperings all around. Suddenly an
expectant hush fell over the crowd as the Reverend Paul Donovan
stepped into the pulpit. His rich voice filled every corner of the
small country church as he read the scriptures. Martie glanced
around at the rapt, upturned faces of the Sunday night worshipers.
There were farmers in clean, starched overalls and businessmen in
three-piece suits. Good country women in plain navy dresses and
pillbox hats held the hands of bright eyed kids with freshly
scrubbed faces and slicked down hair. Stooped grandfathers with
sparse white hair shared their Bibles with gangly legged teenage
grandsons. Adolescent girls with bright red lipstick and layers of
makeup covering their fresh crop of pimples covertly watched their
teenage sweethearts.

Martie’s eyes were drawn back toward the
pulpit. She felt the strong current flowing between Paul and his
parishioners. It was more than the hypnotic beauty of his voice and
the warm sincerity of his clear gray eyes. They were bound by a
common purpose, a mutual seeking for the peace and strength and joy
that comes through faith. She closed her eyes as Paul’s compelling
words swept over her, and she knew that nothing must ever separate
him from his work.

Although she loved to sing, she didn’t join
in the final hymn. She had already determined to make a hasty exit
before Paul spotted her. After the benediction she tried to blend
in with the homeward-bound crowd, but Paul had seen her and was
rapidly working his way toward the back of the sanctuary.

She had almost gained the door when a
cheerful voice hailed her.

“Martie! Wait!” Jolene sprinted up the side
aisle and stood before her. “I saw you from the choir loft. Gosh, I
thought you were going to leave before I could catch you.” She took
Martie’s elbow and propelled her back into the church. “I meant to
talk to you about the children’s program last Tuesday, but it
slipped my mind.”

She stopped talking long enough to signal
frantically to Paul. “Look who I’ve found,” she called to him.

Paul extracted himself from the crowd and
joined them. “And none too soon,” he remarked, beaming at Martie.
“I think you’ve just rescued Jolene from a desperate
situation.”

Lightning jolted through Martie’s body and
thunder crashed in her ears. If Paul felt the electrical storm, he
certainly didn’t show it. How could he be talking about desperate
situations while she was being electrocuted? Why had she come here,
and how much longer could she endure this storm without touching
him?

“Desperate?” Jolene echoed plaintively. “Why,
I’m positively frantic.” She ran a hand through her mop of brown
curls. “The play scripts arrived last week and Miss Sudie, who
usually directs the Halloween pageant, has come down with flu. If
Paul hadn’t reminded me about you last Sunday . . . the children
would have been so disappointed. Oh, my! You’re a blessing in
disguise.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Martie replied.
She was having a hard time following Jolene’s breathless
conversation, since her mind was busy memorizing every detail of
Paul in his robe and clerical collar.

“But you’re going to. Wait right here while I
run and get the script.” Jolene dashed down the aisle before Martie
could say that she had no intention of ever returning to Paul’s
church, let alone getting involved with a Halloween pageant.

The church was empty now except for the two
of them.

“I’m glad you came, Martie,” Paul said,
taking her hand.

“It doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind,
Paul.”

“I know. But still, I’m glad. So is Jolene. I
told her about your work with children in the daycare center.”

Her hand nestled in his, and she felt his
strength flowing into her. “I can’t let the children down, can
I?”

“No indeed.” He smiled.

“I do love pageants!”

“I’m sure you do.”

“And Halloween is just around the
corner.”

“It’s practically here already,” he
agreed.

Martie’s eyes sparkled as she began to
anticipate the pageant. “What is the play?”

“
Daniel in the Lion’s Den
.”

She smiled with delight. “Good. We can have
costumes . . . mop heads for lions’ manes and red ribbons for their
tails. I can even make a robe for Daniel.

“Perhaps Mrs. Pingham can help you with the
sewing,” he suggested, his eyes twinkling.

Martie shot him an impish grin. “You didn’t
like the shorts.”

“I loved everything about them. Especially
the lopsided leg and the heart-shaped box.”

They stood in the chapel laughing, unaware
that their hands were still clasped. And at, that moment, Jolene
walked into the back of the church.

Seeing them together that way, so intent on
each other, their faces shining with
where-have-you-been-all-my-life joy, she laid the script on a table
and made a discreet exit.

Paul stood in the shadows at the back of the
fellowship hall and watched Martie work. He thought she resembled
an exotic flower moving about the small stage in her ruffled,
multicolored gypsy dress. Taking his pipe from his pocket, he eased
into a folding chair and studied the scene before him. She was a
natural with children. Even little Sally Pingham, who had always
been too shy to participate, was enthusiastically saying her
lines.

He puffed contentedly on his pipe as the play
progressed, and if anyone had asked him to describe it, he would
have said that it was all about a stunning woman with a knack for
imparting joy and inciting happiness.

“That’s it for tonight, children,” Martie
called out ten minutes later. “Cookies are in the back, and I’ll
see all of you here tomorrow night.” Smiling, she took two of the
chubby hands that were thrust at her and started toward the back of
the fellowship hall.

“You were wonderful.”

Martie stopped as Paul’s magical voice spoke
from the shadows. She sent her hungry charges ahead to the kitchen.
“I didn’t know we had an audience,” she said, turning to face
him.

“I was doing some work in my office,” he
explained. “I thought I’d drop by and take you home.”

“No thanks. It was such a pretty evening that
I walked.”

“So did I.” He smiled. “I believe we’re going
the same way. We might as well go there together.”

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“No.”

Keeping her eyes on the spiral of smoke that
wafted about his head, she pondered the situation for a moment. She
had known, of course, that she would see Paul while she directed
the play. There was no way to avoid it. She had also known that
each time she saw him she would remember the kiss they had
exchanged in her back hallway. Perhaps it was best this way. Maybe
if she saw him every evening, he would lose some of his appeal.
Maybe she would discover that what she felt for him was merely a
passing fancy rather than something akin to love.

“I suppose it would look funny if we walked
on opposite sides of the street,” she conceded.

“People would probably talk.”

“Heaven forbid! You don’t mind waiting until
the mothers pick up the children?”

“For you, angel, I would wait forever.”

She decided not to even think about that
remark. “Have a cookie while you wait.”

“Did you make them?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I hope they’re chocolate chip.”

“Poppy seed.”

He sighed. “I might have guessed.”

o0o

As it turned out Paul ate more poppy-seed
cookies than Skeeter, who, according to his contemporaries, had a
bottomless pit for a stomach. After all the children had gone, Paul
and Martie walked home in the twilight.

He took her hand as they started down the
sidewalk. “In case you fall,” he said.

And knowing that she was more agile than a
monkey, she nestled her hand in his. Her step was jaunty, keeping
time to the carousel music in her head, and rather than losing his
appeal, Paul Donovan worked his way even more deeply into her
heart.

“I love holding hands,” she said, sighing
happily. “There’s something so wonderfully romantic about it.”

Paul lifted her hands to his lips and planted
a gentle kiss on her palm. “I’ll remember that.” He thought his
heart would burst with love for this spontaneous woman, and he
longed to take her in his arms and shout that love from the church
steeple.

The kiss ignited Christmas sparklers in her
body. “Not just with you, of course,” she added hastily, anxious to
correct any mistaken impression her words might have given him. “I
love holding hands with everybody, even the postman. There’s
something friendly about touching, don’t you think?”