Cold Blooded

  “Listen, if you track that brother of yours down, you tell him he’s got a pa—a real one—who’d like to meet him. Seems the whole fam-damn-ily is a helluva lot more interested in him than they are in his father. Goodbye, Olivia,” he said angrily and hung up so loudly Olivia jumped. Well, fine.

  After replacing the receiver, she decided to pour herself an after-dinner drink. That was the way Reggie Benchet affected her. He drove her straight to the bottle. Scrounging through the cupboards, she found half a pint of Black Velvet and added a healthy shot to her coffee. “Cheers,” she muttered to herself and heard Sarah’s voice droning on over the faint sounds of jazz. Good. With a smile, she took a sip. Not bad. She hummed as she finished putting the last pot away.

  The phone jangled again.

  Now who? Admonishing herself for a fool, she couldn’t help but hope Bentz was calling again.

  “Olivia, let me talk to Sarah,” Leo Restin said without so much as a “hi,” or “hello.” Great. “I know she’s there. She called a friend of mine last night, so get her on the line.”

  “Leo—”

  “Now!” he ordered. Olivia didn’t like his tone of voice. She looked at the receiver, then promptly hung up.

  “Bastard,” she whispered before taking another swallow from her cup. “How do you like those apples?”

  The phone rang sharply. She considered unplugging the damned thing and let Leo stew in his own juices. She drained her cup.

  On the fourth ring, she answered sweetly, “Hello?”

  “Olivia, don’t you hang up on me,” Leo commanded.

  “Uh-oh? Not nice, Leo. You can’t boss people around.” She dangled the receiver over its cradle.

  “Olivia!”

  Sighing, she held the phone to her ear.

  Leo was nearly choking with rage. “I want to talk to my wife, and if you don’t put her on the goddamned line, I’ll come over there and—” She dropped the receiver again and considered another drink, but the phone rang immediately. She picked it up. Before she could say a word, Leo said, “Please put my wife on the phone.” His voice was strained. He was forcing the words between clenched teeth.

  “Then behave, Leo. It’s Thanksgiving,” she said.

  “You have no right to—”

  “Ah, ah, aahhh.”

  “Okay, okay. Just let me talk to her.”

  Olivia was considering hanging up again when she looked up and found Father James standing in the archway, his blue eyes trained on her. “Trouble?” he asked.

  “Nothing serious. Leo Restin is on the phone. Does Sarah want to talk to him?”

  As if she’d been lurking around the corner, Sarah shot into the kitchen. “I thought I heard you say his name,” she charged. Her eyes were still wet, tears clinging to her lashes, but she threw Olivia a how-dare-you-screen-my-calls look and snatched the phone from her hands. “Hello?” she said brokenly, then the tears began to roll rapidly down her cheeks again. “Oh, God, Leo, where are you? I’ve been so worried …” She turned an ostracizing shoulder toward Olivia, who, shaking her head, poured herself and James each another cup of coffee. She reached into the cupboard again and silently she held up the near-empty bottle of Black Velvet. To her surprise, the priest nodded. Olivia poured them each a healthy shot then, as Sarah whispered, sniffed, and sobbed into the phone, carried their drinks into the living room.

  Hairy S, snoring softly, was curled beneath the window.

  “Did you get through to her?” Olivia asked as they settled onto the couch.

  Father James took a sip of his drink. “Privileged information,” he said. “Confidential.”

  “I just want to help.”

  “You’ve done all you can. Now it’s up to Sarah and Leo.”

  “Jerk,” Olivia muttered. She wanted to confide in Father James, to tell him what a no-good, two-timing, mean-as-the-devil creep Leo Restin was, but she kept her comments to the one word. Before she had a chance to second-guess herself, Sarah swept out of the kitchen.

  “I’ve got to go. Leo wants to meet.” Her eyes were bright with hope, a tremulous smile upon her lips.

  Olivia was certain her friend’s heart was going to be ripped out and stomped on all over again. “Are you sure—?”

  “Yes! And I don’t have any time for a lecture. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back—” She started for the staircase then thought better of it. Hurrying back to the living room, she extended her hand to the priest. “Thank you, Father,” she said. “You … you really helped.” And then she was gone, racing up the stairs, rattling around in the bathroom and flying back down again. “I’ll see you later,” she said to Olivia and then winked wickedly. “Unless I get lucky.”

  She was out the door before Olivia could clap a hand to her forehead. “This is never gonna work.”

  “That’s her decision.”

  “I know, I know, but she did come here, to my house, broken into a million pieces.”

  “Maybe not so many,” James said and sipped from his coffee cup as the strains of an old Frank Sinatra tune filled the room. Red embers glowed as the fire hissed and sparked. The whiskey was taking effect. Olivia’s bones melted a bit and she nudged off her shoes with her toes. Looking at James seated at the far end of the couch, his long legs stretched in front of him, she felt lucky that he was there. Without his clerical collar, he seemed so real. So approachable. So downright male.

  He stared at the fire, his brow knit in concentration, his jaw hard. A scholar’s mind, an athlete’s body, usually hidden beneath a priest’s vestments.

  “Something’s bothering you.”

  “Me?” He glanced up at her and flashed a quick smile. “Nah.”

  “Yes, there is … and don’t try to deny it. I’m a little bit of a psychic, you know.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “It’s true. My grandmother used to read tarot cards and tea leaves, and even though she was a devout Catholic, she dabbled in voodoo.”

  “How does one ‘dabble’ in something like that?” he asked.

  “Well, voodoo isn’t all about killing chickens and pushing pins in dolls to curse people, you know.”

  “I do know.” He slid her a glance. “I’ve studied all kinds of religion and theology and not just through the seminary. It’s one of my passions.”

  “Any other ones?”

  He chuckled. “Oh, yeah …” he said and his voice softened but he didn’t elaborate. “What about you?”

  “Uh-uh. We weren’t talking about me. I said that something’s troubling you and you tried to change the subject.”

  “Even priests have problems,” he admitted and she watched as firelight played upon the sharp angles of his face. Yes, there was something bothering him, a sadness he tried to hide.

  “Maybe I can help.”

  “You have. Already.” Edging a little closer, he took her hand in his and she was surprised to feel calluses upon his skin. “Just inviting me here, letting me be a part of your little family of friends, that helped. It reminded me of what it feels like to be a part of a family.” He held her hand a second longer than necessary, then dropped it.

  Olivia’s breath caught. “I had ulterior motives because of Sarah. Besides, you have a family.”

  His eyes darkened even more. “That I do.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Around. But… my folks are gone, one a year after the other, and I’ve got a half-brother but we don’t see each other that often.” He stared at her for a few seconds, his concentration intense, and she suspected he was waging some kind of inner battle. “I think I’d better go.” Placing his hands on his knees, he stood quickly, as if he were afraid he might change his mind. “I’m on duty later.”

  “A priest’s work is never done?” she quipped.

  “Amen, sister.”

  They laughed and the tension between them broke; she was able to breathe again as she walked him to the door. “Thanks for coming and talking with Sarah.”

  “Anytime.” His voi
ce was soft and she knew he meant it. Maybe Sarah was right, she thought, retrieving his jacket and watching as he slid his arms through the sleeves. He looked down at her, his dark hair falling over his forehead and the intensity of his gaze damn near heart-stopping. She had the unlikely urge to kiss him goodbye, just a brush of her lips over one cheek, but she didn’t dare.

  He reached into his pocket. “Oh. I nearly forgot,” he said, retrieving a folded piece of paper. “These are all matters of public record, so I’m not breaking any Church laws here, but it’s a list of the christenings during the time you mentioned. Because of the birth date, I’ve narrowed it down quite a bit. I hope it helps.”

  “It will,” she promised him as he handed her the computer printout. “Thanks.”

  “The least I could do.” This time she thought he might lean down and graze his lips over her temple, but he didn’t, and if he’d even considered it, he held back. “Goodbye, Olivia.” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t be a stranger. The door to God’s house is always open.” She watched as he turned his collar to the wind and jogged to his car.

  James felt Olivia’s gaze. It seemed to burn right through his jacket. Gritting his teeth against the heat flooding his veins, he didn’t stop running until he reached his Chevy. Gazing into her eyes had been his undoing, and the hard-on stretching the crotch of his slacks was evidence enough of that. What the devil was wrong with him? He climbed into his four-door, started the engine and waved. As if he wasn’t thinking about jetting out of the car, running back to the porch, swooping her off of her feet and carrying her up the stairs so that he could bed her. That’s what he wanted.

  To strip her of her clothes, climb atop her body and bury himself in her as deep as he could. He hazarded a last glance in her direction. She’d picked up the dog and was holding the scruffy little beast to her chest as she leaned against the siding on the porch.

  It wasn’t just sex he craved. It was all of it. His heart ached. A beautiful woman, a cozy little cabin in the woods, and a mutt of a dog. All the things he’d given up in life. For his calling. For God. Because he believed. He’d always believed and he knew in his heart that he could help others with their faith, that it was his purpose on life, God’s plan for him.

  Gritting his teeth, he stepped hard on the accelerator and the car sped over a little bridge to land in the rutted, leaf-strewn lane. He couldn’t allow himself to have these doubts. Not now. Not ever. Because it wouldn’t take much to propel him into taking a step over the threshold of sin. He cranked the wheel at the main road and skidded onto the highway. Rain splattered the windshield and he began to pray.

  He was losing his battle with lust.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Kristi spun and kicked hard, then punched the boxing bag hanging from the ceiling of her bedroom. Thud. The bag took the hit. It swayed and came back for more. “Can’t get enough, eh? Ah, so!” She was covered in sweat, her hair ringing wet, but all the old tae kwon do moves she’d learned as a kid came back to her. Just like riding a bike, she thought.

  The punching bag swung crazily; it wasn’t what Master Kim, her once-upon-a-time instructor, would have called a worthy sparring opponent, but the bag did the trick as far as giving her the workout she needed, both mentally and physically. One more spinning hook kick, then a side kick, and finally a one-step punch. “Die,” she growled at the bag.

  She was almost over being mad at her dad.

  Almost.

  So he’d come back late from the office? So it was Thanksgiving? So what else was new? He used to drive her mother crazy—C-R-A-Z-Y—with all his cop shit. At the time, Kristi hadn’t understood it; she’d been a little kid. But she had recognized the tension that escalated between her parents whenever her dad was eyeball deep in a case. He’d never change. His work came first.

  No, that wasn’t really true. She did believe that she was his first priority. If nothing else, Rick Bentz loved her whether he was her “real” dad or not. It was so weird to think that her uncle, the priest, was her biological father and Rick, the man who raised her and whom she still considered “Daddy,” was really her uncle. Sick, sick, sick. She gave the bag a couple more quick kicks then ended with a chop to the throat—well, if it had had a throat, it would have been dead!

  Bentz stuck his head through the door. “Come on, Cassius, time to mash the potatoes.”

  “Who?”

  “Cassius Clay, you know—”

  “Oh, right, Ali. The Great One.”

  “No, that’s Gretsky.”

  “The hockey guy.”

  “Muhammad Ali was The Greatest.”

  “You know too much about this shi—garbage,” she said. “Just let me run through the shower and I’ll be out.” When he looked about to protest, she pointed a long finger at his nose. “Don’t even think about touching my ‘taters, got it? I’ll be out of the shower in ten minutes. They can wait.”

  Before he could put up any kind of argument, she dashed into the bathroom, locked the door and twisted on the faucet. She didn’t quite make her ten minute time frame but before a half hour was out, she’d cleaned up, thrown on her favorite sweats, snapped her hair into a ponytail and mashed the damned potatoes.

  Bentz had sliced the hell out of the over-cooked turkey and though his stuffing was on the mushy side and the gravy looked like it had a serious case of acne, the canned cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie and chocolate eclairs he’d bought at the local bakery made up for it. And he’d tried. Kristi would give him that. He’d left fresh flowers in a vase on her bedside table, her favorite stuffed animal, a gray raccoon with a button eye missing had been positioned on the pillows of her bed, and he’d even managed to find two candles that he’d lit and placed on the tiny kitchen table for “just the right ambiance.” They sat with the table pushed against the wall, the three counters and sink filled with messy dishes. But it didn’t matter.

  The best part was that he hadn’t touched a drop of Wild Turkey or whatever it was that he used to pour down his throat every holiday. Those were the bad times. And now she understood why. He’d drunk a lot for as long as she could remember, probably ever since finding out that she wasn’t really his kid, but then, after the accident when he’d shot the kid, he’d poured himself into a bottle … She remembered her parents’ fights, how each holiday had been a battle. Other kids had looked forward to Christmas, but she’d felt the tension building and in her pre-teen years, wanted to skip the whole thing. And then Jennifer had died. Rick had given up drinking for good. Kristi figured he deserved an “A” for effort.

  They were nearly done with the main course when he brought up all the bad subjects at once. “You talked to Jay yet?”

  Kristi poked her mashed potatoes with her fork. “Yeah. On the phone. We had a fight.”

  “Did you explain what’s going on?”

  “Not really.” She didn’t want to think about Jay. Not now.

  “Don’t you think you should?”

  “I will when I’m ready, okay?” she said defensively. Noticing how his eyebrows had climbed halfway up his forehead, she sighed and set down her fork. “I’ll see him tomorrow or Saturday. I didn’t want a big scene on Thanksgiving. Why ruin the holiday?”

  The lines on her dad’s forehead deepened, but he nodded, obviously trying to give her some space. “You’re right. And I should butt out.”

  “Now there’s an idea.” She aimed her fork at him, pointing across the table. “But I’ll talk to him before I leave.” She took a couple more bites, and decided she had to bring up Brian. Her dad was bound to find out anyway. “I guess you should know that I’m seeing someone else.”

  “Someone. I figured you’d date a lot of different guys.” He cut a bite of turkey and pronged it with his fork.

  “Wellll … I was supposed to be pre-engaged to Jay.”

  “Whatever that means.”

  “So I wasn’t really looking, but this one guy, he’s a T.A. and don’t freak out, okay, just because he’s a little bit
older.”

  “How much is a ‘little bit?’ “ Bentz had stopped eating and was looking at her intently.

  Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut. “A few years and it’s not serious, okay.”

  “I hope not. I didn’t know T.A.s were allowed to date students.”

  “It’s frowned upon if the T.A. is assigned to your class, and yes, I can guess your next question, Dad. Brian is assigned to my class, but believe me, it hasn’t affected my grade in Philosophy. In fact, you’d probably think just the opposite.”

  Bentz’s frown deepened. Geez, she was blowing this!

  “Omigod, don’t even go there, Dad, my grades are fine, just not stellar, okay. And Zaroster’s class is tough. Philosophy of Religion. God, why did I sign up for that one? But, really, none of my classes are a snap. It’s not like high school. Zaroster, Sutter and Northrup are three of the hardest professors on campus and I’ve got them all.”

  “That’s not so bad,” he said, digging into the soggy stuffing again. “Tough is good.”

  “Then how about weird? I swear I ended up with the strangest teachers at All Saints. Even Mrs. Wilder, the bone-head math teacher is kinda freaky. I bet she lives with twelve cats and knits little sweaters for them.” Kristi laughed at her own joke, hoping to derail her father, but, of course, it hadn’t worked. He hadn’t so much as cracked a smile.

  “Why do you think your teachers are strange?” he asked and this time he put his fork down.

  “I don’t know. They just are. Come on, think about what kind of people spend their whole lives wrapped up in one subject and being a part of academia. They’re bound to be a little off-center.” She lifted a shoulder. “Enough with the interrogation, okay. My grades will be fine. Let’s not think about it now. It’s Thanksgiving.”

  He was about to say something else, but thought better of it. “Yeah, I guess it is.” One side of his mouth lifted. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  “Well, I’m glad to be here, although, I gotta admit it was touch-and-go for a while. When you were late picking me up, I thought, ‘screw this, I’ll just stay here.’ ”