The Angel. Tiffany Reisz

from Søren. Although she had left him, she never told him no on those rare occasions that he called. Sometimes even he could not rein in his own dark desires. I need you, he would say, and Nora would leave her bed and answer simply, Okay. Tell me where and when.

      “Okay.” She answered that need now. “Where and when?”

      “As soon as possible, I’m afraid. And I’ll leave the where to you. I would only suggest you go far enough away that no one would attempt to follow you.”

      “England?” she asked. “Zach and Grace are trying to get pregnant. This is something I can help them with. Or at least, you know, watch.”

      “Out of the question,” Søren said. “I know how you behave in other countries. That you still are allowed a passport is one of the universe’s great mysteries.”

      “That was not my fault,” she reminded him. “The consulate cleared me.”

      “Eleanor …”

      “Fine. We’ll go to Griffin’s,” she said. “He inherited his grandparents’ old horse farm, and he’s been bugging me for months to visit. How’s that?”

      Søren heaved a labored sigh. “Griffin …”

      Nora bit back a laugh. “Come on, Griffin’s okay. He’s one of my best friends.”

      “He’s spoiled, juvenile and a coward.”

      He was also rich, gorgeous and great in bed, but she decided not to remind Søren of those facts.

      “You always call him a coward. Care to tell me why?” She turned around in his arms.

      “No. But I suppose even Griffin deserves a second chance.”

      Although curious what Søren meant by a second chance, Nora knew better than to ask. For a moment Søren stood in silence. He tapped his chin as he always did when plotting something.

      “I’ll allow you to spend the summer with Griffin,” Søren finally said. “But he is not to touch Michael, or I will revoke both his key to The 8th Circle and you from his life completely. Understood?”

      Nora blanched. Serious threats indeed. “Yes, sir.”

      “Where is his grandparents’ farm?”

      “Way upstate,” she said. “Near Guilford.”

      Søren looked at her sharply and his mouth twitched in suppressed mirth.

      “That area is rather close to where your mother is, isn’t it?” he asked. “Perhaps you could take a day and visit her.”

      “Don’t even think about it,” she said, horrified by the prospect of Søren ordering her to visit her mother. “I’d rather go jogging in hell. Wearing stilettos on a hot day in Aug—”

      “Eleanor.”

      “Yes, sir?”

      “Your cleavage is chirping.”

      Nora swallowed and pulled her cell phone from her bra where she’d tucked it before Mass.

      “Sorry. Forgot to turn it off.” Nora silenced the ringer.

      Søren stared at her. Nora stared back. As usual, Søren won the staring contest.

      “It’s Wes,” she confessed, not even having to look at the number. Sunday afternoon—always Wesley.

      Søren studied her. This time she couldn’t meet his eyes.

      “Does Wesley call you often?”

      Nora nodded. “Once a week,” she admitted. “Every Sunday after church.”

      “And why is this the first time I’ve heard about this?”

      “Doesn’t matter. I never answer.”

      “Why don’t you answer the phone when Wesley calls?” Søren asked her in the same tone he used in the confessional booth—lightly curious, not at all condemning, and completely and utterly infuriating.

      “Because you haven’t given me permission to.”

      “You’ve never asked permission. Were you afraid I would tell you no?”

      Nora bit her bottom lip, a nervous habit Søren had been trying to break her of since she was fifteen. Søren reached out and brushed his thumb over her mouth. Nora looked up at him.

      “I was afraid you’d tell me yes.”

      Søren slowly nodded.

      “I love you,” she said, standing up straight. “And I’ll leave you this summer, but only because you’re making me go. But if they pick you to be bishop, I’m going to move to L.A. and convert to Scientology. Fair warning.”

      Relief washed through her at the sight of Søren’s smile. But she knew they weren’t done talking about Wesley.

      “Michael’s waiting for you outside. I think he would appreciate an explanation and a ride home.”

      “I can do both,” she said and started for the door. She paused before leaving and turned around. “Can’t believe I have to spend the whole summer without you just because of this stupid promotion.”

      Søren said nothing but Nora saw something flicker across his eyes.

      “It’s just the promotion, right?” she asked. “There isn’t anything else, is there?” A sudden fear gripped Nora, a fear that Søren didn’t want her around for some other reason.

      “Kingsley called. Last night, someone broke into his town house.”

      Nora’s eyes widened.

      “Is he okay? Was Juliette there? What happened?” Her heart raced; Nora’s mind immediately flew to the worst-case scenario—that Kingsley and his beautiful Haitian secretary were hurt.

      “He and Juliette are both fine. They were … distracted last night. Someone drugged the dogs and stole a file from Kingsley’s private office.”

      Nora collapsed into a chair. Whoever the thief was must have balls of steel. Kingsley’s name alone usually scared off anyone who lusted after a piece of the reams of blackmail material he had on nearly every cop, judge, politician and lawyer in the tristate area. If his name didn’t scare off thieves, then his well-trained rottweiler pack usually did.

      “Just one file? That’s good at least.”

      “Eleanor—it was your file.”

      “Mine? Why mine? I’m not even a dominatrix anymore.” The words hurt coming out, more than she expected. While she’d been a dominatrix in Kingsley’s employ, she bitched about it constantly. Now that she’d quit, she found she sort of missed it. Just another thing to add to her “miss every day” list, a list that was growing dangerously long.

      “I wish I knew, little one. Kingsley believes an old client might be attempting to dispose of any evidence concerning him.”

      “Makes sense, I guess.” Back in her dominatrix days, Nora’s client roster read like a Who’s Who of the rich, famous and kinky; Fortune 500 CEOs, high-level politicians and rock stars had paid through the nose to kiss the toe of her boot. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Whoever he is won’t be able to read what’s in the file.”

      Kingsley and Juliette were the perfect team. Kingsley’s files were notorious for two reasons—first, they contained the secrets of an entire city, and second, they were utterly unintelligible to anyone but Kingsley and Juliette. Only they could read the pages written in encoded Haitian Creole.

      “It’s the motivation, not the crime, that concerns me,” Søren said. “Still, simply one more reason why you should spend some time away from the city while Kingsley and I sort this out.”

      “I could help sort things out if you’d let me. I’m not fifteen