Chapter 1
Christian Lasher stilled like a predator that had just sighted unexpected prey when he glanced over Father Gregory’s shoulder. His eyelids narrowed over a pair of blue eyes a female reporter from Rolling Stone had once described as being equally adept at giving the impression of stripping away the protection of a woman’s clothing, as they were at drilling straight through her outer façade to her very soul.
The same reporter had added that, much to the regret of a broken-hearted collection of discarded lovers, Lasher seemed to prefer what he saw in the former instance much more than what he saw in the latter one.
Father Gregory apparently didn’t notice Christian’s sudden absorption as he continued to pump his hand, extolling his thanks for the hundredth time that afternoon. “The parish, and especially the children, will be eternally grateful to you—and the other members of the band as well, of course. The proceeds from this year’s festival will not only make it possible for us to finally build a new gymnasium, but also to hire a full-time art teacher, something we sorely need.”
He glanced solicitously back at the elderly priest, but his eyes returned to their former target immediately. “I guess it’s the least I can do to make up for putting that skunk in Sister Elizabeth’s desk drawer back in the sixth grade,” he mumbled distractedly.
Father Gregory’s broad smile faltered, as did his vigorous shaking of Christian’s hand. For a brief moment, his voice became as stern as the one Christian recalled from his grade school days. “You were responsible for that? We couldn’t use that classroom for a month.”
He grin was nearly as devilish as it had been back when he was a twelve-year-old hellion.
“Yeah, and I don’t think Sister Elizabeth ever got the smell of skunk out of her habit either, although I know she wore the same one every Tuesday until I graduated the eighth grade.” Before Father Gregory could make a predictable comment about Sister Elizabeth’s years of dedicated service to St. Catherine’s, Christian continued. “Who’s she?”
The object of his interest was bending over to speak in a soothing voice into the tear-streaked face of a brown-haired child. Not the same little girl Christian had seen her with in the park next to St. Catherine’s or in the lobby of his loft condominium. Not the little girl whose white-blonde hair was two shades lighter than her mother’s and who shared the same red bow of a mouth and sparkling green eyes. The little girl Christian had seen this woman with on several occasions was too young to be of school age.
Despite the almost Quaker-like conservatism of her dress, Christian thought she might be one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. He had no right to find her so appealing. He’d seen her repeatedly with the little girl. Christian had already noticed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that was never proof of anything. Cecilia used to forget to put on her ring once in a while. There were a million reasons this young woman may not be wearing one.
He didn’t do married women. Not his thing. Never had been.
He’d returned to his hometown of Chicago for a sabbatical during this stressful, painful period of his career. He needed a sanctuary to lose himself for a while…maybe to find himself again. The last thing he wanted was to get involved with a woman who was either married or by the look of her clothes, a step away from the nunnery.
Wait a second…when he was a student here, hadn’t all of the teachers been nuns?
But then Christian recalled the way the woman’s eyes had widened when he’d intentionally held her gaze yesterday in his condominium lobby. In that brief meeting of their gazes, he’d seen passion secretly encased in all of that innocent softness, that sea of soothing calm. He doubted she even knew it existed. Christian admonished himself for it but he couldn’t seem to stifle the impulse.
He wanted to cause some serious waves in that calm sea.
“Ah, perfect. That’s Megan Shreve, our art teacher. We got her almost fresh out of graduate school last year. You’ll be able to personally meet one of the people your performance will directly benefit. After the St. Catherine’s block party we’ll be able to offer Megan a full-time position,” Father Gregory said enthusiastically as he began to start over to the woman. He paused and looked up in surprise when Christian stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t tell her about the block party and Lasher Down and all that stuff. Just tell her I’m a St. Cat’s alum back for a friendly visit. Come on, Father, it’s not like I’m asking you to lie or anything,” Christian added compellingly when he saw Father Gregory’s hesitation.
Father Gregory gave a conspiratorial nod. Christian knew the priest had assumed he wanted to keep his identity secret due to modesty, a desire for anonymity in his charitable acts. That was part of his motivation, but his primary reason was a lot more mercenary.
He doubted the depraved hard-rocker type would impress Megan Shreve.
Not that he was depraved. Not that he wanted to impress this slip of a female.
As Christian got near enough to her to catch a hint of her fresh floral scent, he was man enough to acknowledge that at least one of his self-assurances was a lie.
Her light green eyes widened when she noticed him standing next to Father Gregory. He watched, fascinated, as a light pink stain colored her cheeks. Her eyes lowered over him. Christian didn’t miss the way her gaze skittered nervously toward Father Gregory as if she’d just been caught doing something red-handed that she’d probably never had to bring to the confessional in the past.
Only the handful of people who really knew Christian Lasher would have recognized the fact the infinitesimally small shift of his lips connoted a smile.
He continued to study her while Father Gregory and Megan conversed. He should have stopped his eyes from following the fascinating trail of that blush as it lowered across the regal column of her neck and the inch or two of skin exposed at her chest.