Billionaire’s Sins by L. Steele
13
Ava
That had been two days ago. Forty-eight hours. A lifetime. After that little bombshell he'd dropped on me, Edward had insisted on dropping me back home. I hadn’t protested. Maybe I’d been too numb from the finality of his words. He’d meant it. I’d gazed into his eyes and the look in them had indicated that this time he was going to walk away. He wasn’t going to return and tell me he wanted to try to be friends. Well, we’d tried that and look how well that had gone? I should respect his wishes, let him get back to what is important to him. His Church, his vows, his God.
Does God not have enough people worshipping Him, that He also has to bind my Edward to Him? Why can’t He let Edward go? Would it help if I prayed to Him? The last time I'd prayed was when my mother had been unwell. Not that it had helped much.
But if Edward believes in Him so much, does that mean I could appeal to Him to release him? Would God actually hear me?
It hadn't helped before, but given how hopeless everything feels now, it couldn’t hurt to start, right?
Which is why, after finishing my dance class for the day, I’ve walked into the nearest church. The temperature instantly dips and goosebumps rise on my skin. I slide my hands into my coat and walk up the aisle. It’s late afternoon, and the sun’s rays slant through the stained-glass windows that line the walls on either side of the aisle. I take a pew a couple of rows from the front, then kneel down and place my elbows on the back of the seat in front of me. Ahead of me is the altar, and beyond that, the statue of Christ on the cross. I fold my fingers together, bend my head and studiously avoid looking at Him. After all, it’s His fault I’m here. He’s the reason I can’t get Edward to consider anything beyond a platonic relationship… And not even that. Any kind of connection, really… It’s because He has Edward’s loyalty that I have no place in his life. I squeeze my eyes shut. Hell… No… Sorry, no swearing. Let’s start again.
Dear God, I am not a regular church goer but I am here because… Well, I really don’t have the right to ask You this. I mean, I know it’s probably forbidden to even think about him that way. The ‘him’ here refers to Edward, of course. Funny how it’s easy to refer to him as Edward and not Father. Truth be told, I never could get used to calling him Father. I couldn’t really regard him as a 'Father,' if you know what I mean? Now you, God... You, I’d call Father. Because, well, you are the Father of all of us. I’m sorry I haven’t come in and prayed to You before… I’ve just been busy with this business of growing up and figuring out how to make something of myself, know what I mean?
But I am here now…and hmm… Come to think of it, is that why You made me meet Edward? One way of bringing me to Your doorstep? I bite down on my lower lip. It couldn’t be, could it? This isn’t all some crazy convoluted plan for the One Above to remind me to pray, is it?
Though, if it is, then You’ve succeeded, for I am here on my knees, begging You to help me.
Asking You if there is any chance in hell—okay not hell, forget I said that—just a chance, really, that You’d consider giving me and him an opportunity to be together, because, you know, since I saw him, since I laid eyes on him, my world has changed. I mean, I hadn’t even been aware of what I had been waiting for until I saw him… Does that make sense? He came into my life and I knew then… It’s him. The one I’d hoped to find some day. My other half. He grounds me, God, he…makes me believe anything is possible. Much like You do. When I am here and praying to You, I can focus on what is possible. On the future, on what is to come, and things I didn’t even know I wanted. It’s like I am on the verge of something momentous that's about to take place. Or maybe it is the sense of possibilities that has my heart racing?
That sense of calm, yet the prickle of excitement from knowing that You can make anything happen…that adrenaline that laces my blood, that sensation of the infinite, that I am but a speck of sand in time, and really, that my concerns are so minuscule in comparison to the wider plan… And there is a plan in store for me. There is…the one that You’re unfolding. I can’t see it…but I believe in it. Just as I believe in him. Despite everything I do, I am confident that there will be a chance for us to be together… I just have to trust.
Can I trust?
Can I?
My head spins, I snap my eyes open, glance up at Him on the cross. A strange stillness fills me. The hair on the back of my neck rises. My heart begins to race and my pulse rate speeds up. It’s as if I am on the precipice of something…something… That all of this was orchestrated and I am but the pawn in a design that I cannot yet see fully. "Is that true?" I whisper. "Should I believe in You? In him? Is that why You brought me here? Will everything work out?"
I hear the susurration of wings, a white pigeon—or is that a dove—? flies down from the ceiling. It alights on the cross, and its guttural cooing echoes through the space. Goosebumps pop on my skin. Oh, my… That’s…that’s a sign. It has to be, right?
The dove cocks its head to the left, then the right, before flying up toward the ceiling. It heads for the open door and I follow it. I reach the door, step out. I follow the bird down the steps, across the sidewalk. I watch as it flares out its wings to soar up, and further up. I take a step forward, miss the curb and stumble and fall onto the road.
A car horn sounds and I glance up, straight into the path of an oncoming vehicle.
My heart begins to race, the pulse pounds at my temples, and sweat beads my forehead. I throw up my palms to shield myself and squeeze my eyes shut, only to be hauled to my feet and back onto the sidewalk.
The car horn blares as the vehicle speeds by, and I am yanked against a hard, firm, broad chest. The scent of fresh cut grass teases my nostrils. My heart hammers so hard, I am sure it’s going to break out of my chest. Bands of steel seem to tighten around me as he tucks me into him, one arm about my shoulders, the other across my back and waist as he pivots away from the curb.
How the hell had he moved that fast? Where had he come from? How did he know that I was in danger? Are we forever doomed to be connected somehow, no matter how we might try to wrench ourselves away from each other?
"What the hell were you thinking?" he growls as he turns me to face him.
"The...the dove..." I stutter.
"Dove?" he frowns.
"I followed it out from the church. The next thing I knew, I was falling forward...and...and—" A sob wells up, and he pulls me closer.
"Shh! It's okay, I’ve got you. I have you; nothing can harm you now."
The sound of his voice through me, sinks into my blood. My nipples tighten—is it because of his nearness, or the near miss with the car, or both, perhaps? I try to answer but my throat is too dry. My limbs tremble and my knees knock together. I push my nose into the valley that demarcates his pecs, dig my fingers into the front of his shirt, and hold on as he swings me up into his arms, with my handbag crushed between us.
I glance up, past the white of the collar at his neck, to the thrust of his pouty lower lip, that mean upper lip, the bead of sweat that slides down the sinews of his throat. Heat flushes my skin and my stomach flip-flops. Every part of me is alert and alive, and so in awe of where I am. In his arms, being carried by him.
He enters the church, walks up the aisle, all the way up to the altar, before turning and heading toward a door on the left. He walks through what looks like an office—because of the large desk in a center—out through another door in the back, down a garden path, with flower beds on each side, to a small one-story Victorian structure built from red bricks with a slate roof. He walks up the steps, shoulders the door open and steps inside. He carries me to the couch, and lays me down, setting my head on a throw pillow.
I sit up and he points a finger at me. "Stay," he snaps.
"But," I swallow, "Edward, I—"
"Not a word." He glares at me and I shiver. My thighs clench and moisture gathers between my legs. Shit, why the hell do I find his dominant manner so hot?
He walks inside a door which I assume leads to his bedroom. My handbag slides from my arm to the floor. I slump back in the couch, swallow down the thickness that clogs my throat. That was close, like, really, really close… If Edward had been one second too late, if I had lurched forward a second earlier… If the car had been speeding even a little faster.... I gulp. My limbs tremble. Shivers ripple up my spine and I wrap my arms around my waist to stay warm.
"Here." His voice interrupts my thoughts, and I snap my eyelids open. He drops a cover over me, tucks it in under my chin. "Scoot over," he mutters.
I scoot in further and he sinks down next to me. He places a first-aid kit on the table, then opens it and pulls out some cotton and antiseptic. He takes my hand in his, turns my arm, pushes up the sleeve of my dress and dabs at the gash I only now notice. Pinpricks of pain spark at my nerve-endings, and another bout of shaking grips me.
"You okay?" He frowns.
"Y…yes." I say through chattering teeth. "D…don’t know what’s wrong."
"Delayed reaction," he reassures me as he continues to dab at the injured skin. He rips a packet open, pulls out the bandage and places it over the scrape. He takes my palm, turns it face up.
"Wh... what are you doing?" I whisper.
He doesn't respond. Simply pours out more antiseptic onto the cotton ball, then proceeds to dab it on my palm where the skin has abraded. I wince. Again, I hadn’t noticed it.
Guess I’d been too caught up in what was happening in the moment to realize I’d banged myself up. Another few seconds, and I might not be here on Edward’s sofa in his house.
OMG, I am in his house, on his couch, and he’s taking care of me. It’s what I wanted, right? So why am I so close to tears? Besides, I didn’t die. I am still here. I am alive and near him.
My entire body shudders and he frowns, then rises to his feet. He heads for a wooden cabinet in the corner, pulls out a bottle, and pours some of the liquid into a glass. When he returns, he sits down next to me again. He slides an arm under my neck, raises my head, and holds the glass to my lips. I stare into his handsome features. Those dark eyebrows, thick eyelashes, his dark hair messed up and falling over his forehead. He looks a little shaken, not as put together as all the times I’ve seen him in the past.
He jerks his chin at me, "Drink."
I take a sip and the alcohol burns its way down my throat. My stomach is suddenly on fire and I gasp. Tears prick my eyes and I blink them away.
"Again," he orders.
I hold his gaze, stare into those bright, beautiful eyes of his which glare at me with so much emotion that I gulp. He frowns, nods again to the glass, and I take another sip. This one goes down smoother. Warmth creeps under my skin; my breathing grows more ragged.
I wrap my fingers over where he holds the glass, and goosebumps rise on my skin.
His throat moves as he swallows and his gaze intensifies further. I take another sip, and another. I swallow down the liquid as heat permeates my cheeks, my chest, snakes down further. I squeeze my thighs together.
His nostrils flare. Those golden irises dilate. He stands abruptly, tosses back the remaining alcohol.
Then he walks back to the cabinet, pours another healthy dose of the whiskey, and tosses it back. Whoa. Are priests allowed to drink? Guess they are. I mean, they do drink wine during Communion, right? And why would he have whiskey in his house if he can’t drink?
I take in his tall figure; the broad shoulders clad in his customary black shirt tucked into black pants. The fabric molds to his slim hips, and clings to those powerful thighs. He’s not wearing his robe… Guess I caught him off-duty. Of all the churches in all the world, I had to walk into this one. I snicker to myself. What I wouldn’t give to meet him in a gin joint instead.
He jerks, as if the sound cut through his thoughts. He places the glass back on one of the shelves of the cabinet, then turns to me, "We need to talk."
