“Fuck the other half.”
The house was almost full by the time he and Sam made it to the main f loor. Thirty minutes later, they had a full house and then some. Sam had done a masterful job with the food and wine, especially given what short notice she’d had. Apparently working as a bartender for six years had put her in contact with the best people in the business. They ate. They drank. They laughed.
And of course, they fucked.
Not Kingsley. He walked from room to room with a glass of wine in his hand. For two weeks he’d been fasting from sex. He wanted his first meal to be a feast, not a snack. He needed someone delectable, succulent, mouth-watering…
S?ren walked in.
Kingsley rolled his eyes.
“Not you,” Kingsley said to him.
“Hello to you, too,” S?ren said, glaring at him. “I’m here for five seconds, and you’re already upset with me.”
“Yes,” Kingsley said. “I’m trying to pick out someone to fuck, and you’re blocking my view.”
“Forgive me. I had no idea you were prowling.”
“When am I not prowling?” He handed S?ren a glass of Syrah off a passing tray. S?ren often wore his clerics when he stopped by the house, but tonight he’d come incognito—black pants and black jacket, but a white shirt. “I can’t believe you actually came tonight.”
“I hadn’t planned to.”
“What changed your mind?”
S?ren reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope.
“This.”
He gave it to Kingsley who opened the envelope.
He found a minicassette tape inside.
“Fuck,” Kingsley said.
“It was delivered to the church two hours ago. I listened to it.” S?ren spoke in French now, a wise move considering they were surrounded. “You seem to be confessing to sleeping with my Eleanor. Which is an impressive feat since you’ve never met her.”
“I lied because—”
“I know why you lied, and I appreciate it. But someone clearly does not appreciate it.”
“I’ll handle it,” Kingsley said, and took the tape from him.
“Is this something I need to be concerned about?”
“Non,” Kingsley said. “It’s mine to deal with, not you.”
“Do you know who sent it?”
Kingsley shook his head. “I talked to the man on the tape— Robert Dixon. He swears it wasn’t him. I believe him, but he’s not telling me everything. He admits to taping us, but he tapes everything out of paranoia.”
“You’ll let me know if this situation gets out of hand?”
“It won’t get out of hand,” Kingsley said. “But just in case…”
“What?”
“Pack a bag for Denmark.”
S?ren started to say something, but Sam picked that inopportune moment to interrupt.
“Is this him?” Sam asked. Even without the Roman collar, S?ren had a priestly air to him. It was no wonder Sam had known who he was without an introduction. “I’m Sam. You must be Our Father Who Art in Connecticut.”
“A pleasure,” S?ren said, and kissed her hand.
“No. Stop.” Kingsley took S?ren’s hand away from Sam’s. “Take two steps back right now. She’s my secretary. You aren’t allowed to f lirt with her.”
“I wasn’t f lirting,” S?ren said. “Merely being polite.”
“He’s worried because he thinks you’re prettier than he is,” Sam said to S?ren.
“He is prettier than I am,” Kingsley said. “It’s the eyelashes.”
“You do have unusually dark eyelashes for a blond,” Sam said, studying S?ren. “How do you do it?”
S?ren answered, “Mascara.”
“No offense, Padre, but between the two of you, Kingsley would win the pretty boy competition.”
“I’m not the least offended,” S?ren said.
“It’s the long hair. All boys should have long hair.” She pulled his hair, and he slapped her hand away. She slapped back.
“Children,” S?ren scolded. “Behave.”
“Sorry. I love the hair,” Sam said.