People had suggested I simply convert to another religion and have done with it. There had been several offers. Still, my Catholic guilt told me I deserved to be punished for what had happened between Daniel and me. Moreover, the Pope had made things more complicated when he excommunicated me. Legally, I was still a Catholic, just an excommunicated one. So, if I tried to officially join another religion, it would be like trying to marry a new husband without being divorced from a previous one – not even Mormon women got away with a stunt like that in this country.
I sighed, then tapped the space key and watched halfheartedly as the New York Times scrolled across the antique monitor propped on the edge of my desk.
"Not even a graphical interface anymore," I muttered, waiting for the next article to materialize on the screen. I skimmed another op-ed page article.
Once again, the reclusive presidential candidate, Reverend-Senator Etienne Letourneau, took a firm position against "liberal" (read: all but heathen) Rabbi-Senator Grey from New York. It took me two sentences to realize Letourneau's rant was an obvious ploy to put the fear of God into the opposition. This campaign was such a joke. If you believed in what the LINK angels had to say, and an overwhelming majority did, Reverend Letourneau embodied the Second Coming of Christ. In a theocracy, being God was a guaranteed winning platform.
I had my doubts, and not just since the excommunication. One of my main arguments all along against Letourneau was that new messiah ought to have similar basic tenets as Christ. A recluse holed up in the mountains of Colorado surrounded by all the fresh air money could buy fell pretty damned short of my expectations. Honestly, I'd sort of been holding out for a woman messiah this time around – or, at the very least, not some nearly dead white guy.
My finger hovered over the reply key ready to fire off another letter to the editor, when I heard a loud rap of someone at the door.
"Later, Letourneau," I told the monitor, and hit save. "Door's open," I shouted, twisting the chair to step back into the leather pumps I'd kicked off earlier. I was still adjusting the heel when he let himself in.
"Detective McMannus?"
"Not anymore," I corrected, without looking up. "Door says private investigator."
With the shoe finally in place, I swiveled the chair. Something between a gasp and a hiss came out of my mouth.
Granted, masculine beauty has always been a weakness of mine, but this man literally took my breath away. Olive-skinned, tall, broad-shouldered, slender-waisted – he looked like he might have been sculpted from marble. Unfortunately, this David remembered to dress himself this morning. His fashion sense leaned toward urban combat. Leather jacket and dusty-blue jeans hugged his muscular frame. He looked like a warrior sheathed in casual armor.
As I traced the line of his throat up to his face, a smile captured my lips – a girl could cut herself on the angle of that jaw. His dark, curly locks were shorn above the ears in a martial style; gray eyes flashed from under strong, dark swatches of eyebrows.
"Are you Deidre McMannus?" He asked again, irritation marring his godlike brow.
"I am," I said, remembering to stand up and offer him a hand. Smoothing out the wrinkles in my blouse, I turned on my most charming smile. "And who might you be?"
He took my hand and I wasn't disappointed by the firmness of his grasp. "Lieutenant Michael Angelucci, Tenth Precinct."
"Oh. A cop." I dropped his handshake and turned my back to him. Not only a cop, but an angel freak. Since the appearance of the LINK-angels several months ago, thousands of converts changed their given names or surnames to include some form of the word "angel." More than half my client list was named Angelica or Angelo.
I sighed and sat back down. "Sorry, Mike, but I already bought tickets to the charity ball, so I don't think there's any more I can do for you."
Such a shame, I thought, allowing myself one last look at the way the stripes of sunlight fell across his chest. I should've figured him for a cop. My earlier assessment of his manly charms neglected to include the slight bulge of the standard-issue Glock tucked into the shoulder holster. With a clearer eye, I ticked off the other dead giveaways. The way he stood, all ready for action, held a certain flat-footedness that I should've picked up before. The biggest clue was the dumbstruck expression on his face. That said cop all over it.
Pressing the space bar, I retrieved the article I'd saved from the Times. I feigned an overwhelming interest in the screen, and added, "You boys should know I don't involve myself with police work anymore."
Michael eased his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He stood there, as if to tell me he had no plans of moving anytime soon.
Waving a hand in the air, I shooed him out of the office. "Come on, Officer, you managed to find the door once."
He glanced at the door, then swung his handsome face back in my direction. A lesser woman might've swooned, but I just tightened my smile. I gave up on the Times with a sigh. "Let me guess this time is different: it's a matter of life or death."
"Actually ..." Michael sauntered over to my desk and propped himself up on the edge. "It's more serious than that."
I laughed. Leaning forward onto my elbows, I rested my head on my hands. "What could be more serious than life or death?"
"Some things have eternal consequences." He smiled slightly, turning up the very edges of his mouth. The effect on his face was stunning. His eyes widened just enough to smooth the crease from the middle of his brow. Michelangelo eat your heart out.
"Some things do," I managed to say. "But I'm not running a church. You look like the football and Bible type. Why don't you try the Promise Keepers Church down the road? It's a drive-through."
"What they're selling can't help me."
I looked back at his face, trying to judge by his expression how he meant that. The tone sounded almost mocking, but his mouth turned down, and his eyes were serious.
"Yeah? But I can, eh?" I gave him a tired smile, "I have to warn you, I don't have any plastic figurines or Bible scorecards to offer."
"I'll have to make do," he said. Michael took my words as an invitation to stay and settled himself more securely on top of the scattered snail-news clippings and other clutter of my desk. His knee grazed the edge of a pewter picture frame. The back-prop folded and began to tip over, but Michael reached out to rescue it. He turned the frame over in his hands and glanced down at the photo. Something in the picture caught his attention, and his eyes flicked over it as if searching for some clue.
I leaned back in my swivel chair to observe him. The springs of the chair creaked noisily. He showed me the photo, "Family?"
"Yeah," I admitted, wary of the direction this conversation was going. My personal life was off-limits. Still, I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. "My brother, the priest."
As he set the frame down near its original spot, his deep-set eyes searched out mine. I didn't like the intimacy of his gaze, so I found myself bristling and talking without thinking.
"So, what are you implying? My brother's a problem?" I scoffed. "Mike, I have it on good authority that Eion's nearly a saint."
"What? No, no, not at all. I was just ... hmm-mmmmm." He paused, as if searching for the right words. Absently, Michael pushed at the glossy cover of the dog-eared paperback novel I'd been reading. His finger traced the edge of the design, skirting the hem of the heroine's ripped bodice. Slowly, along the embossed folds of the dress, his fingertip moved toward her bosom. Grabbing the book out from under his touch, I slapped the cover facedown on the desk, surprising both of us.