The King. Tiffany Reisz
was sent to pastor at a small parish in a town called Wakefield in Connecticut. She’s in my congregation. I recognized her the second I saw her. You would have, too.”
“What’s she like?”
“Dangerous. She doesn’t even know how dangerous.”
“How dangerous?”
“She...” Søren stopped and laughed. “She made me make her a promise.”
“Made you? No one makes you do anything.”
“She did. I needed her to agree to something, and instead of being cowed like every other person I’ve ever attempted to terrorize before, she refused to accept my terms. Unless...”
“Unless what?”
“I promised to break my vows with her.”
“Is that so? Which vows? Poverty? Obedience? Will she make you buy expensive things and tell the pope to go fuck himself?”
“She wants us to be lovers.”
“Are you?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?” Kingsley repeated. “So you plan to?”
“She made me promise I would.”
“So, why haven’t you?” Kingsley asked. He tried to keep his voice light, airy, amused. But he’d never had a more serious conversation in his life. If this girl was real, if she was the one he and Søren had dreamed of, and Søren had found her, that meant something. What it meant, he didn’t know. But something. Something that terrified him and aroused him all at once.
“Because,” Søren said, “I’m a priest. And she’s a virgin.”
“A dangerous virgin? I didn’t think such a being could exist.”
“You’ll believe it when you meet her. But that’s not all you should know about her.”
“What else?”
“She’s fifteen.”
Kingsley inhaled sharply.
“Fifteen. Are you insane? Do you know what they do with priests who—”
“Which is why I haven’t done it. As much as I’d like to.”
“Beautiful, is she?”
“Kingsley, you have no idea...”
Kingsley heard pure aching need in Søren’s voice. He hadn’t heard desire like that since the last night they’d spent together.
I own you...you are mine...your body is mine, your heart is mine, your soul is mine... Søren had whispered that in Kingsley’s ear as they’d fucked on the cold hard floor by the small hermitage fireplace. You want me? Kingsley had asked, taking every inch of Søren into him. So much, Søren had said. You have no idea how much.
“I should meet our little princess,” Kingsley said.
“Not a princess, a queen.”
“Take me to her, then.” Kingsley didn’t actually want to meet her. He felt sick again at the thought of it. This was a dare. You saw a unicorn? Prove it, then. You say you’re Christ back from the dead? Show me the wounds.
“I can’t,” Søren said.
“Why not?”
“She’s in police custody.”
Kingsley laughed.
“Now I know why you’re here. Your Virgin Queen has gotten herself into trouble. You expect me to help her?”
“I’m asking you to. Begging you to if I must.”
“Even when you’re begging, it sounds like an order.”
“Would you rather I ordered you to help her?” Søren asked, stepping away from the window. “I can still play the game.”
“It was never a game to me.”
Søren turned and faced him, his eyes cold and steely.
“No. It was never a game to me, either.”
Kingsley sat down on the black-and-white sofa. He crossed his ankle over his knee and leaned his head back against the fabric. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips. God, what a night.
“Do I want to know what she’s in police custody for?”
“She stole five cars. Her father apparently owns something called a chop shop.”
“They steal cars, chop them up and sell the parts. Good money in it.”
“He made her steal for him. The police caught her in the act. Her father ran for it.”
“I hope they catch him and give him the chair.”
“Death is too good for him. But he’s not my concern now. She is. She’s facing serious time in juvenile detention or worse. I can’t let that happen. I found her a week ago. I can’t lose her already.”
Kingsley looked up at him through narrowed eyes.
“You...” Kingsley said. “You’re in love with her.”
Søren didn’t deny it. Kingsley respected him for that.
Honesty was its own special brand of sadism.
“I am.”
“Well, then,” Kingsley said, laying his head back again. “Maybe all hope is not lost.”
He expected Søren to laugh at that, but when he looked up he saw the steel in Søren’s eyes.
“We have to help her,” Søren said. “Please.”
“Please? You’ve learned manners in the past eleven years.”
“Will you help her? Will you help me?”
Help the girl. How? Easy. He had a few judges who owed him favors. He regularly fucked the wife of an important district attorney. He could make some phone calls. He couldn’t get the charges dropped. His contacts needed to cover their asses. But he could get her community service, probation with some luck. Nothing serious.
“What’s her name?”
“Eleanor Louise Schreiber.”
“Schreiber? German name.”
“It is.”
The corner of Kingsley’s mouth quirked in to a half smile.
“That explains the Beethoven. I suppose you don’t play Ravel anymore.”
Søren had played Ravel for him the day they met and many days after. Ravel, the greatest of all French composers. And now his heart turned to Beethoven—the greatest of all the Germans.
“I would play Ravel for you,” Søren said, his voice stiff and formal. “If that’s what it took.”
Kingsley’s eyes flew open.
“I’m not going to make you fuck me just so I’ll help your Virgin Queen. That’s her game, not mine.”
“Is there a price for your assistance?”
“You gave me a fortune. I’m richer than God, and you think you owe me something?”
“Don’t I?”
“A favor,” Kingsley said. “One favor.”
“Anything. Name it.”
Kingsley stood up, walked across the room and stood only inches from Søren.
“All I ask of you,” Kingsley began, “all I beg of you...don’t leave me again. Please. Eleven