The Angel
Page 23
“What world? What am I?” Michael asked, wanting to sit up but finding his body would not work with him yet.
Father S had met his eyes and Michael saw the hint of a smile in them, a secret smile and the passing shadow of a green-eyed girl who could make any man lose his religion.
“My confession begins,” Father S said, “as the confessions of many men begin—with three words.”
“Father, forgive me?” Michael hazarded a guess.
Father S sighed.
“I met Eleanor.”
Michael opened his eyes and saw, as he knew he would, that he lay in his own small, neat room at his mother’s house. Rolling out of bed, he threw on clothes and booted up his computer. His hands shivered with excitement when he saw he had an email from Nora.
Michael—A car will pick you up Thursday morning at ten. Pack whatever you want, but I’ll make sure you get everything you need. It’s a long drive so bring something to read and eat. Can’t have you wasting away. God knows you’ll need your strength this summer. Oh, don’t bother packing your halo, Angel. You’re not going to need it.
This message, and your pants, will self-destruct in five minutes.
Covering his mouth as he laughed, Michael leaned back in his desk chair.
Michael knew enough about dominants and submissives to know that the relationship between them wasn’t always sexual. He’d happily live as Nora’s personal slave whether she f**ked him or not. Dominants got off on dominating, and submissives got off on submitting, and if Nora wanted him to mop his floor with his hair, he’d do it with bliss. Finally his long hair would come in handy. But something about that line—Don’t bother packing your halo—made him think that Nora intended to use him for something other than janitorial services. Awesome.
You took my halo over a year ago, he wrote and hit Send with a smile.
Making a quick mental calculation he realized he had forty-nine hours until the car came for him. Forty-nine hours… He’d pack tomorrow, leave the next day, and today he’d be lazy and read.
Digging behind his headboard, he found his copy of Nora’s newest novel. He hadn’t read this one yet. He’d been forcing himself to wait until school was out so he could properly enjoy it. Propping himself up on his pillows, Michael started to flip through to the first page. On the way he stopped at the dedication and looked for Nora’s usual secret message to Father S.
Michael’s eyes widened a little when he saw the dedication page.
To W.R. Many waters…
Michael furrowed his brow at the message.
Who the hell was W.R.?
* * *
It took a lot of money to impress Nora Sutherlin. She had enough money of her own to not think very highly of it. And she’d had enough wealthy clients, very wealthy clients and stratospherically wealthy clients and acquaintances, and seen their homes, at least their bedrooms, to know there was more elegance and beauty in Søren’s rectory than in all their mansions combined.
But at her first glimpse of Griffin’s house, farm, estate…dukedom, she couldn’t hold back a flabbergasted, “Holy shit, Griff…”
Nora double-checked her GPS to make sure she hadn’t ended up in Scotland by mistake. Soft rolling hills lay back under sheets of softest green. A white fence ran the length of the fore and back land. And the house—Greek Revival with a touch of medieval castle—rose up proudly, straining across her field of vision. No wonder Griffin had been haunting The 8th Circle less these days. Now that he had installed himself in this secluded Wonderland, he had a private playground of his very own.
She drove up to the massive gate—wrought iron and guarded by two stone griffins on either side. It seemed Griffin had been named for the family avatar.
Nora pressed the call button on the intercom. She’d expected to hear the voice of a servant or security guard.
“Hey, bad girl,” came the deep, sexy voice of The Griffin himself. “Can’t believe the Pope let you out of the Vatican.”
“Call it an indulgence. Now are you going to let me in, Griff?”
“Say please and call me sir.”
“Did you forget who you’re dealing with?” Nora raised her eyebrow and directed a stern stare at the security camera.
“Never, babe. Come on in. Let’s get this orgy started.”
The iron gate screeched open and Nora pulled up to the house—even more impressive up close than from a distance—and turned off the car. The door yawned open as she neared it. Stepping into the cathedral-like foyer, she gazed around her with unabashed awe at the interior; it might be a farm in name but it was a castle in spirit. And coming down the main spiral staircase taking two steps at a time and wearing nothing but a black kilt and Doc Marten boots was the lunatic laird of the manor himself.
Griffin Fiske… He was one of Kingsley’s finds seven years ago. Griffin had been only twenty-two then but he was damaged, dangerous and dead sexy—Kingsley’s favorite combination. Apparently one night Griffin had been partying at the Möbius, Kingsley’s infamous strip club, and Kingsley watched Griffin beat the hell out of a guy who’d crossed the line with one of the strippers. Six feet tall, bronzed skin and with the broad chest and shoulders of a heavyweight boxer, there wasn’t much in the world more fun to stare at than Griffin Fiske. He had elaborate armband tattoos around both biceps, dark hair that spiked up just too perfectly, and the dirtiest smile she’d ever seen on anyone besides her. The house might be Greek Revival but the master was Greek warrior.
Father S had met his eyes and Michael saw the hint of a smile in them, a secret smile and the passing shadow of a green-eyed girl who could make any man lose his religion.
“My confession begins,” Father S said, “as the confessions of many men begin—with three words.”
“Father, forgive me?” Michael hazarded a guess.
Father S sighed.
“I met Eleanor.”
Michael opened his eyes and saw, as he knew he would, that he lay in his own small, neat room at his mother’s house. Rolling out of bed, he threw on clothes and booted up his computer. His hands shivered with excitement when he saw he had an email from Nora.
Michael—A car will pick you up Thursday morning at ten. Pack whatever you want, but I’ll make sure you get everything you need. It’s a long drive so bring something to read and eat. Can’t have you wasting away. God knows you’ll need your strength this summer. Oh, don’t bother packing your halo, Angel. You’re not going to need it.
This message, and your pants, will self-destruct in five minutes.
Covering his mouth as he laughed, Michael leaned back in his desk chair.
Michael knew enough about dominants and submissives to know that the relationship between them wasn’t always sexual. He’d happily live as Nora’s personal slave whether she f**ked him or not. Dominants got off on dominating, and submissives got off on submitting, and if Nora wanted him to mop his floor with his hair, he’d do it with bliss. Finally his long hair would come in handy. But something about that line—Don’t bother packing your halo—made him think that Nora intended to use him for something other than janitorial services. Awesome.
You took my halo over a year ago, he wrote and hit Send with a smile.
Making a quick mental calculation he realized he had forty-nine hours until the car came for him. Forty-nine hours… He’d pack tomorrow, leave the next day, and today he’d be lazy and read.
Digging behind his headboard, he found his copy of Nora’s newest novel. He hadn’t read this one yet. He’d been forcing himself to wait until school was out so he could properly enjoy it. Propping himself up on his pillows, Michael started to flip through to the first page. On the way he stopped at the dedication and looked for Nora’s usual secret message to Father S.
Michael’s eyes widened a little when he saw the dedication page.
To W.R. Many waters…
Michael furrowed his brow at the message.
Who the hell was W.R.?
* * *
It took a lot of money to impress Nora Sutherlin. She had enough money of her own to not think very highly of it. And she’d had enough wealthy clients, very wealthy clients and stratospherically wealthy clients and acquaintances, and seen their homes, at least their bedrooms, to know there was more elegance and beauty in Søren’s rectory than in all their mansions combined.
But at her first glimpse of Griffin’s house, farm, estate…dukedom, she couldn’t hold back a flabbergasted, “Holy shit, Griff…”
Nora double-checked her GPS to make sure she hadn’t ended up in Scotland by mistake. Soft rolling hills lay back under sheets of softest green. A white fence ran the length of the fore and back land. And the house—Greek Revival with a touch of medieval castle—rose up proudly, straining across her field of vision. No wonder Griffin had been haunting The 8th Circle less these days. Now that he had installed himself in this secluded Wonderland, he had a private playground of his very own.
She drove up to the massive gate—wrought iron and guarded by two stone griffins on either side. It seemed Griffin had been named for the family avatar.
Nora pressed the call button on the intercom. She’d expected to hear the voice of a servant or security guard.
“Hey, bad girl,” came the deep, sexy voice of The Griffin himself. “Can’t believe the Pope let you out of the Vatican.”
“Call it an indulgence. Now are you going to let me in, Griff?”
“Say please and call me sir.”
“Did you forget who you’re dealing with?” Nora raised her eyebrow and directed a stern stare at the security camera.
“Never, babe. Come on in. Let’s get this orgy started.”
The iron gate screeched open and Nora pulled up to the house—even more impressive up close than from a distance—and turned off the car. The door yawned open as she neared it. Stepping into the cathedral-like foyer, she gazed around her with unabashed awe at the interior; it might be a farm in name but it was a castle in spirit. And coming down the main spiral staircase taking two steps at a time and wearing nothing but a black kilt and Doc Marten boots was the lunatic laird of the manor himself.
Griffin Fiske… He was one of Kingsley’s finds seven years ago. Griffin had been only twenty-two then but he was damaged, dangerous and dead sexy—Kingsley’s favorite combination. Apparently one night Griffin had been partying at the Möbius, Kingsley’s infamous strip club, and Kingsley watched Griffin beat the hell out of a guy who’d crossed the line with one of the strippers. Six feet tall, bronzed skin and with the broad chest and shoulders of a heavyweight boxer, there wasn’t much in the world more fun to stare at than Griffin Fiske. He had elaborate armband tattoos around both biceps, dark hair that spiked up just too perfectly, and the dirtiest smile she’d ever seen on anyone besides her. The house might be Greek Revival but the master was Greek warrior.
