The Saint
Page 60
“Sounds fun,” Eleanor said. “I’ll play the monk. You play Justine.”
“Why, Kingsley,” Søren said in a taunting tone, “it’s like she knows you already.”
Kingsley only gazed at her a moment and she sensed him taking stock of her. The smile left his face; the amusement disappeared from his eyes. In a warning tone, the man addressed Søren.
“You are asking for so much trouble with this one, mon ami.”
“He didn’t ask for trouble,” Eleanor interjected. “I offered.”
Kingsley nodded his approval.
“You weren’t exaggerating,” he said to Søren.
Søren put his mouth near Kingsley’s ear.
“I told you so,” Søren said in a stage whisper.
“Can I have her?” Kingsley asked. Søren replied something in French, something that made Kingsley grin even more broadly.
“What did he say?” she asked Kingsley.
“He said, ‘wait your turn.’”
She glared at Søren, who only shrugged as if Kingsley had lied to her. She knew he hadn’t.
“She doesn’t like my translation.”
“She should learn French,” Søren said. Kingsley nodded his agreement.
“Hello!” Eleanor waved her hands. “I’m still here. I can hear you both talking about me. And you, I can see you giggling.” She stabbed the center of Søren’s chest with her finger.
He gave her an affronted look.
“Priests don’t giggle.”
“What are you looking at?” she demanded of Kingsley, who seemed to be undressing her with his eyes.
“She’s spirited, this one,” Kingsley said to Søren.
“Unholy spirited,” Søren agreed.
Kingsley turned his attention back to her.
“Why do you have your clothes on?”
“Was I supposed to take them off?”
“I’ve never heard a stupider question in my life,” he said with a very French, very disgusted sigh. “You weren’t supposed to have them on to start with.”
“I get it,” Eleanor said to Kingsley. “I do. You’re Prince Charming if Prince Charming wasn’t charming.”
“And wasn’t a prince but a king.” Kingsley raked her body with his eyes. She might have been embarrassed by his nakedly hungry stare but he had a French accent, Eddie Vedder hair and the power to annoy Søren. The man got a free pass to make a pass.
“I could lose my watch inside you,” Kingsley finally said to her.
“And good night.” Søren grabbed the Frenchman by the back of the neck. Kingsley shivered as if the viselike grip Søren put on him seemed to have the opposite effect of the one Søren intended. “I can’t take you anywhere. Go back to the rectory. I will be there soon.”
“I have to go?”
“He really doesn’t,” Eleanor said.
“He really does.” Søren released Kingsley, who gave her an apologetic smile.
“Je suis désolé, ma belle. I must leave you. I will be inside the priest’s rectory tonight if you need me, want me or desire me. You know where to find me.”
“In his rectory.”
“Firmly ensconced. If I’m not there, I’ll be inside a bottle of Syrah. I’m getting the priest very drunk tonight.”
“I think he’s already there,” Eleanor said. She’d never seen Søren so playful before. They should get him drunk more often.
“Merely warming up.” Kingsley took her hand, and this time he kissed the back of it instead of sniffing her fingertips. “Rest assured I leave you entirely against my will and with the firmest of convictions that we shall meet again someday.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, fairly certain that nice was the least correct word she could have used in that sentence.
“And a pleasure to meet you at last,” he said. “I look forward to you making the acquaintance of my ceiling.”
He turned on his booted heel and, whistling the French national anthem, again headed to the door.
“I want to be his best friend.” She grinned broadly at Kingsley’s retreating back.
“Don’t let your guard down yet. He’s not finished,” Søren said.
Søren was right. At the door Kingsley turned on his boot heel and strode back to her. He looked down into her eyes. A moment before he’d worn the air of a dashing rogue like something out of a romance novel. No more. Now he seemed dangerously sober to her.
“A word of warning.” Kingsley looked at her and only her. “Your shepherd is a wolf. You will learn that eventually and you will learn it the way I learned it.”
“How?”
“The hard way.”
“Kingsley, that’s enough.” Søren wasn’t joking anymore. Neither was Kingsley.
“Tell her what you are, mon ami,” Kingsley said to Søren, his eyes never leaving her face.
“You’ve either had too much to drink tonight, or not enough.”
Kingsley smiled broadly, but Eleanor saw no amusement in his eyes.
“Never enough.” He bowed his head at her, turned on his heel again and left the room, this time without whistling. As he walked away she heard the sound of his military-style boots echoing off the floor.
Søren exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath for the entire exchange.
“Why, Kingsley,” Søren said in a taunting tone, “it’s like she knows you already.”
Kingsley only gazed at her a moment and she sensed him taking stock of her. The smile left his face; the amusement disappeared from his eyes. In a warning tone, the man addressed Søren.
“You are asking for so much trouble with this one, mon ami.”
“He didn’t ask for trouble,” Eleanor interjected. “I offered.”
Kingsley nodded his approval.
“You weren’t exaggerating,” he said to Søren.
Søren put his mouth near Kingsley’s ear.
“I told you so,” Søren said in a stage whisper.
“Can I have her?” Kingsley asked. Søren replied something in French, something that made Kingsley grin even more broadly.
“What did he say?” she asked Kingsley.
“He said, ‘wait your turn.’”
She glared at Søren, who only shrugged as if Kingsley had lied to her. She knew he hadn’t.
“She doesn’t like my translation.”
“She should learn French,” Søren said. Kingsley nodded his agreement.
“Hello!” Eleanor waved her hands. “I’m still here. I can hear you both talking about me. And you, I can see you giggling.” She stabbed the center of Søren’s chest with her finger.
He gave her an affronted look.
“Priests don’t giggle.”
“What are you looking at?” she demanded of Kingsley, who seemed to be undressing her with his eyes.
“She’s spirited, this one,” Kingsley said to Søren.
“Unholy spirited,” Søren agreed.
Kingsley turned his attention back to her.
“Why do you have your clothes on?”
“Was I supposed to take them off?”
“I’ve never heard a stupider question in my life,” he said with a very French, very disgusted sigh. “You weren’t supposed to have them on to start with.”
“I get it,” Eleanor said to Kingsley. “I do. You’re Prince Charming if Prince Charming wasn’t charming.”
“And wasn’t a prince but a king.” Kingsley raked her body with his eyes. She might have been embarrassed by his nakedly hungry stare but he had a French accent, Eddie Vedder hair and the power to annoy Søren. The man got a free pass to make a pass.
“I could lose my watch inside you,” Kingsley finally said to her.
“And good night.” Søren grabbed the Frenchman by the back of the neck. Kingsley shivered as if the viselike grip Søren put on him seemed to have the opposite effect of the one Søren intended. “I can’t take you anywhere. Go back to the rectory. I will be there soon.”
“I have to go?”
“He really doesn’t,” Eleanor said.
“He really does.” Søren released Kingsley, who gave her an apologetic smile.
“Je suis désolé, ma belle. I must leave you. I will be inside the priest’s rectory tonight if you need me, want me or desire me. You know where to find me.”
“In his rectory.”
“Firmly ensconced. If I’m not there, I’ll be inside a bottle of Syrah. I’m getting the priest very drunk tonight.”
“I think he’s already there,” Eleanor said. She’d never seen Søren so playful before. They should get him drunk more often.
“Merely warming up.” Kingsley took her hand, and this time he kissed the back of it instead of sniffing her fingertips. “Rest assured I leave you entirely against my will and with the firmest of convictions that we shall meet again someday.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, fairly certain that nice was the least correct word she could have used in that sentence.
“And a pleasure to meet you at last,” he said. “I look forward to you making the acquaintance of my ceiling.”
He turned on his booted heel and, whistling the French national anthem, again headed to the door.
“I want to be his best friend.” She grinned broadly at Kingsley’s retreating back.
“Don’t let your guard down yet. He’s not finished,” Søren said.
Søren was right. At the door Kingsley turned on his boot heel and strode back to her. He looked down into her eyes. A moment before he’d worn the air of a dashing rogue like something out of a romance novel. No more. Now he seemed dangerously sober to her.
“A word of warning.” Kingsley looked at her and only her. “Your shepherd is a wolf. You will learn that eventually and you will learn it the way I learned it.”
“How?”
“The hard way.”
“Kingsley, that’s enough.” Søren wasn’t joking anymore. Neither was Kingsley.
“Tell her what you are, mon ami,” Kingsley said to Søren, his eyes never leaving her face.
“You’ve either had too much to drink tonight, or not enough.”
Kingsley smiled broadly, but Eleanor saw no amusement in his eyes.
“Never enough.” He bowed his head at her, turned on his heel again and left the room, this time without whistling. As he walked away she heard the sound of his military-style boots echoing off the floor.
Søren exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath for the entire exchange.
