“What’s back there?” I asked, noticing a door to the right of the altar. “Can anyone get in?”

  “No. It’s a locked room, beyond that a small courtyard. No one will get in from that way.”

  “So this is the only entrance?” I nodded at the door.

  “Yes.”

  I blew out a breath. Part of me was glad there was only one entrance to guard, but equally if it were breached, we were trapped.

  “Where did you come from?” he asked.

  “Brick Lane.” I touched my brow, noticing it was clammy. “I was marching with a friend, but a knife fight kicked off next to us. We got separated when riot police intervened. Then I was pushed over.” I held out my palms, they were scraped and gritty. “I thought I was going to get trampled but managed to get up.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “And just as I thought I’d be okay, someone threw a petrol bomb, it landed right near me. Scared the fuck out of me…” I paused. “Sorry, the life out of me.”

  His expression didn’t change.

  “The smoke stung my eyes, and the heat caught in my throat. It smelled so bad. But I found myself in an alley, it was quiet, and I had no idea where I was. I’d lost my bearings. But I stumbled on, I just wanted to get away.”

  “Did you find your friend?”

  “No. I hope she’s okay. But I think she went the right way. I got caught up in the wave of violence that went down the street.” I shook my head, nausea sweeping over me. “I tried to hurry, but it was hard going. I wished I hadn’t worn these fucking heels… I mean … heels, Father.”

  He glanced once more at my high-heeled black boots. They came just over my knee and were suede. As a rule they were very comfortable. But today, they’d slowed me down.

  There was another loud bang from outside.

  I jumped. My heart felt as though it had skipped a beat. What the hell was going on?

  The priest didn’t seem perturbed by the noise. As though he were used to it. I wondered if he’d been in war zones, perhaps done missionary work in dangerous places around the world. He certainly looked big and tough enough to hold his own.

  “I don’t know what that was,” I said, pressing my hand over my chest. “But I’m so glad I’m in here, with you.”

  Chapter Two

  One side of his mouth twitched.

  “I’m Cheryl by the way.” I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Father…”

  He hesitated for a second then took my hand. His palm was hot, his fingers strong. I got to see the letters on the knuckles on his right hand. L.O.V.E.

  “And you are…?” I prompted.

  “Steve.”

  “Nice to meet you, Father Steve.” I recalled the sign outside. It had said Father R Duncan. “Are you just passing through? Where is Father Duncan?”

  “He’s not here, obviously.” He had a familiar accent, East End. “I was standing in for him. Listening to confessions, lighting candles, stuff like that.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Another loud bang, right near the door this time.

  “Perhaps we should move away.” I stepped down the aisle as I’d spoken. “Just in case.”

  “In case what?”

  “I dread to think.”

  When I reached the pew one back from the front, I sat and looked up at the image of Christ. I’d never been particularly religious though I’d gone to a Christian school, and my parents had me christened when I was born. My godparents’ had been crap, though, one had run off with her father-in-law and was never seen again, and the other had ended up behind bars in Wormwood Scrubs.

  I turned.

  Father Steve was still standing where I’d left him.

  I rubbed my hands together, gingerly wiping away the grit. “Do you have any water?”

  “What?”

  “Water, you know, to drink.” Fear was bitter and I needed to get rid of the taste.

  He glanced at the door again. “Er. Yeah, hang on.” He turned to a large stone font. “Here.”

  I laughed. A silly high-pitched giggle born of surprise and lingering fear. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to drink holy water.”

  He frowned and glanced about. “Yeah. Hang on a minute.”

  Still holding the bag to his chest, he walked past me to a curtain. He pulled it back revealing a shelf holding a cut-glass jug of red wine, a stack of books, and several bottles of water. He scooped one up then strode toward me, his robes swinging and catching around what appeared to be a fine, strong set of thighs.

  Damn it. He was actually pretty hot for a priest. I tutted to myself. What was I thinking? Sure I had a high libido, was happy to have fun on a Saturday night out when a guy in a club took my fancy, but…

  “Here.” He handed the water to me.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” I unscrewed the top. “If I’d had my purse I’d have put some money in the collection.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He tightened his hold on his bag and looked down at me. Jesus was hovering behind him, his thin body and bony shoulders a direct contrast to Father Steve’s wide torso.

  “What you got in there?” I asked, nodding at his bag. “A million quid of church money? Saving it from looters, are you?”

  “Er, yeah, something like that.” Again his mouth twitched into a smile.

  Fuck, he was handsome as they came in a complete lack of vanity and weary-with-the-day look.

  “Well you’re better off in here with money. Let’s hope the mob passes, or the police get the situation under control soon.”

  “Were you here for the riots, last time?”

  “No, thank goodness. I was on holiday, Portugal. Looked awful on the news though.”

  “Yeah, bad shit happened.”

  Bad shit?

  I opened my mouth then shut it again. It wasn’t as if I could reprimand him. He spoke to God. God would lay judgement. Not that I had an issue with cursing, hell, I could turn the air blue when the mood struck me.

  “So do you live around here?” I asked. “In a rectory or convent or something?”

  He shook his head. “Regular place.”

  I took a sip of water. It was cool and refreshing and I was glad of it.

  “What about you?” he asked. “I guess by your accent you’re from around here, too.”

  “Yeah, down near Houndsditch.”

  “Ahh, a favorite haunt of Jack the Ripper.”

  I raised my eyebrows. He knew that? “Yeah, so they say. Usually quiet enough these days.” I sighed. “Wish I was there now. Tucked up in bed.”

  He turned and walked up to the altar. He set down the rucksack.

  I admired his grace of movement, his wide shoulders, the way his black hair tapered into a comma at his nape, just above the dog collar.

  It was a damn waste he was off limits to women. His brooding good looks and clearly muscular body ticked a lot of my boxes.

  I wondered if he’d ever had sex. Or if his calling to the church had come at a young age and he was a virgin.

  A small tremor went through me. Blimey, imagine that—a hot, sexy, virgin priest. I could do bad things with him. Dirty, sinful things that would pass a cold, dark night holed up in here.

  I glanced up at Jesus’s face.

  A wave of shame washed through me. What was I thinking? Lusting after a man of the cloth. A man who was married to Christ. Sexy or not, I shouldn’t be thinking that way.

  A siren screeched past outside. I wondered if it were a riot van.

  He turned to me, his shadow stretching over the two steps up to the altar. “Are you scared?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think that’s wise.”

  I swallowed. “You do?” Wasn’t his job to be supportive and caring?

  “Yes. You’re not completely safe in here.”

  “Well no, but better than I would be out there.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder, toward the door. “That would get me raped and murdered.”

  “So you think all men are bad?”

  “I didn’t say that.” I paused as he stepped down and came toward me.

  He slid onto the pew I was on, right up close, so his leg touched mine. “So what are you saying?”

  “That a crowd, when riled up, looking for blood, is not a good place for a woman on her own.”

  “You’re very sensible.” He tipped his head, as though studying me, trying to see into the depths of my eyes, my soul.

  His eyes were so dark, black, and impossible to tell where his irises stopped and his pupils began. His lashes were thick and his eyelids a little hooded. He swept his tongue out and stroked it over his bottom lip leaving a gentle sheen there.

  I tore my attention from what was a very kissable mouth, and looked up at Jesus on his cross again. “I’m not really sensible. I should have stayed home, like my father told me. He said the war wasn’t my concern and I wouldn’t make a difference by joining in a march.”

  “You live with your father?”

  “Yes, he’ll be worried about me.”

  “And with good reason.” He reached for my hand and turned it, palm up, in his. “London is a dangerous place tonight.”

  His touch sent a wave of sensation up my arm. “I know.”

  “Mmm…” He pressed his finger to the curved line on the inner side of my hand. “You have a long life line.”

  I swallowed. “I have?”

  “Yes.” He bowed his head lower, as though studying my hand.

  I could smell him he was so close, faded cologne, tobacco, perhaps coffee lacing his breath. Mostly it was a manly, sexy smell.

  Are priests allowed to smoke?

  I had no idea. And I didn’t really care. He was drawing little circles on my palm and after the horrendous evening I’d had I found it soothing.

  “You also have a long sex line.”

  I coughed. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Here.” He ran the tip of his nail, on his index finger, over one of the grooves in my skin that ran from my wrist to the life line. “Very long, and deep.”

  “I didn’t know there was a sex line. Not that I’ve ever had my palm read.”

  “Oh, yes, there’s a sex line.” He looked at me again. “You’re not married, are you?”

  “No. Not even close to it.”

  “Yet you’ve had lots of sex.” He frowned.

  “What is this? A confession?”

  He shook his head. “No, just a man asking a woman questions.”

  “Why do you want to know?” I asked.

  “I just do.” His gaze drifted down my neck, to my chest.

  I was aware of my breathing picking up, my nipples tightening. I wore an old denim jacket and a thin white sweater. Beneath that my favorite comfy bra. Right now I felt as though he could see the bra’s faded blue-gray lace, and the tattered cotton in the center where a tiny fabric flower used to be.

  “I didn’t think priests were interested in sex.”

  He shrugged. “Celibacy doesn’t equate to not having an interest.”

  A loud bang seemed to shake the whole building. Fireworks? A rocket perhaps?

  I glanced at the door.

  “The roof of this church is made of stone and slate. It won’t burn,” he said, not taking his attention from me.

  “I hope not.”

  He released my hand and hooked his finger beneath my chin. “So, are you going to confess, Cheryl?”

  “Confess what?”

  “Who you’ve been having sex with outside of wedlock.”

  “No one.” It was an instinctual answer, though of course not true.

  “A hunky boyfriend, a drunk one-night stand who has turned into a friend with benefits?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “No, neither.”

  “So what’s your poison? A vibrator … no that would be a waste. A woman like you should be adored by a man, not be seeking pleasure on her own.”

  “A vibrator?” So much of what he’d just said had made my head spin. Sure, I wasn’t accustomed to chatting with priests or hanging out in churches, but still … I didn’t think the guys down at the local would have asked me any of that.

  He chuckled. “I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?”

  “No … well yes, a bit.”

  “Don’t be shocked. Tonight is unusual.” He reached out and took a lock of my hair between his fingers. He rubbed it, spreading out the blonde strands. “I think God has thrown us together. To take care of one another.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.” He looked up and smiled.

  It was a filthy, dirty smile. The sort I’d seen on boyfriends when we’d been drinking, flirting, having fun and about to start satisfying some seriously carnal urges. “Father,” I whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “What … what are you doing?”

  “Sitting with a member of my flock who appears very scared.” He shifted on the narrow pew.

  “Yes. I am scared. Of what’s out there.”

  “Not what’s of in here?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Not if you have God in your heart.”

  “I’m not very good at going to church.” There, I’d said it.

  “I think you’re probably good at other things.”

  “Like what?” My heart rate was tripping along.

  “Other things that make you feel good. Things that make the person you’re with feel good.”

  Damn if he didn’t have that white collar sitting around his neck, I’d think he was being suggestive. Actually, no, even with that white collar I thought he was being suggestive.

  “Feel good?” I repeated.

  “Yes.” He leaned closer, his lips only a whisper from mine.

  Damn the instinct to kiss him was almost overwhelming. Sure he was a stranger, but he was a good man, a man of morals and beliefs.

  Which was exactly why I couldn’t kiss him.

  But what if I died tonight? What if this was it? Surely I should have one last moment of passion. I loved sex, and it was one of my favorite things to do.

  “What do you want to ask me?” he asked, his breath washing over my mouth.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I know you do.” He paused. “One thing. Ask me one thing. I’ll be truthful.”

  One thing. There were so many. He was the most unusual priest I’d ever met. Not that I’d met many. Not only was he handsome in a rugged kind of way, he also oozed sex appeal. It seemed to roll off him in waves. Had we been in a club I’d have gone for him, and had a one-night stand just to see how a guy like him did it.

  “You don’t have anything you want to ask me?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Go on then…”

  What was really in the bag? Why was he here at night alone? Where did he live exactly? Did he look at all women the way he was looking at me—as if he were undressing them with his eyes?

  “Have you ever had sex?” I blurted. It was the answer I really wanted after all.

  “No.” He shook his head. “Bonafide virgin.”

  “Oh.” Damn it. If I’d been turned on before, now I was in white-hot ready-to-go mode. The things I could teach him given the chance. What I could do with his naive, inexperienced, gorgeous body. The delights of the flesh I could introduce him to.

  “But I bet you’ve had lots of propositions,” I said, wondering if I should sit on my hands to stop myself reaching out for him.

  “Yes. But I’ve always turned them down.” His voice was low now, husky too. “Do you want to know why?”

  “Yes,” I said quietly.

  “Two reasons.”

  “Which are?”

  He glanced at Jesus. “I made my promises to the Lord.”

  “Of course. Yes.”

  “But lately…”

  “What…?”

  He shook his head and glanced at his lap.

  “Lately what? Tell me.” Had he been questioning his faith? Was that it? Was that why he was looking at me as though he had only one thing on his mind—and it wasn’t the riot outside.

  “Lately my faith has been tested. The evil in the world, including here. It’s hard to stay focused.”

  “I’m sure.” It was my turn to take his hand. I gave it a squeeze and looked at the way the hairs fanned over the back and disappeared into the black sleeve. I ran my fingers over the letters on his knuckles. Love was clearly a moto he lived by. “And what’s the other reason?”

  “I told you I’d had propositions.”

  I nodded.

  “And always turned them down.”

  “Because you’d made promises and you love God.” I paused. “Very noble. Very commendable.”

  “Yes.” He tipped his head. “But the thing is, Cheryl.”

  “What?”

  “No one like you, no one as sexy as you, has ever propositioned me.”

  Chapter Three

  “Like me?”

  “Yes, you…” He curled his hand around my waist, and the spread of his hand in my back held me firm.

  His chest touched my breasts through my jacket. He filled my vision.

  Suddenly his mouth hit down on mine, hard. He pushed his tongue between my lips, my teeth and stroked around.

  I gasped, the sound muffled, and gripped his cassock; the material was warm and soft.

  What the hell?

  I pulled back, panting, and looked up at him. “Father?”

  “I want you.”

  “But…”

  “I’ve been waiting years to be with a woman.” He too was breathing hard. “Tonight is the night.”

  “Have you really thought about this?”

  “I’ve thought of nothing else since you stepped in here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. My faith is wavering. I need a woman. You are beyond beautiful.”

  I wasn’t, I was fairly average, but I appreciated his sentiment. “But I hardly know you, and … and you hardly know me.”

  “Have you known every man you’ve slept with?” He raised his eyebrows, and slid his hand down my back.

  “Is that a trick question?”

  “No, I want the truth.”