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PETER WAS PLEASED to see Francesca come barreling down the curving stairs with a smile, and a quick, swinging gait. He hoped that cheeriness came with forgiveness, which was what he’d come in search of. Much like Katherine had often made him feel after their arguments, his conversation with Francesca had left him feeling sheepish. Katherine had a fiery temper he’d respected, and he’d seen so much of her in Francesca’s angry eyes yesterday.
“Hi, Frankie.” Peter’s gaze rose to Francesca, held.
At the sound of Peter’s voice, Francesca came to a screeching halt. His dark eyes smiled up from beneath a wide-brimmed Stetson. He wore cowhide chaps over jeans, brown, leather boots, a fringed vest, and a plaid shirt beneath it. He made a handsome cowboy, Francesca thought.
“What are you doing here? Missy was just up, and she never told me you were here.” Knowing Tommy was on the other side of the closed living room door, Francesca shot Peter a flustered look.
“I just got here.” Peter gave Bear a stern stare that stopped him yapping. “I’d like to have a word with you, Frankie,” he said, turning toward the living room.
“I’m glad you stopped by, Dad. There’s something about the Mulligan case I’d like to run by you.” Francesca steered Peter toward the study.
She felt seventeen again. When was she going to feel like her own woman around him? She wondered if every daughter felt as inadequate as she did around their father.
“I’m not stopping for long. Tiffani and I are on our way to the club’s Halloween dance. She’s fixing her face.” Peter hesitated for a moment. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday, Frankie. You were right. I shouldn’t be interfering in your personal life.”
Peter’s apology caught Francesca off guard. Peter Thompson apologized to no one, and it felt like a monumental achievement, a rite of passage. For a moment, Francesca relished in the magical feeling. But the moment was short-lived. Right now, she had to get Peter out of the house. She couldn’t risk him running into Tommy.
“Apology accepted. Now, go get the car started, and I’ll get Tiffani.” Francesca bent down to pick up Bear when he started scratching the living room door.
Peter caught a whiff of Francesca’s perfume, noticed the touch of rouge on her cheeks, the glossy lips. Although casually dressed in jeans and a cashmere sweater, Francesca looked overdressed for a night in. “Are you planning to go out?”
Francesca cleared her throat as she searched for the lie in her head. “Missy and I were going to a bar in town.”
“Shut up,” Peter snapped at Bear when he started barking at the living room door. “While your husband is at home pining for you, you’re off to a bar?”
“James? Pine?” Francesca rolled her eyes. “That’ll be the day.”
“Don’t get smart with me, young lady.”
“You promised not to interfere, Dad.”
“That was before I knew you were painting the town and with Missy, nonetheless. The help. Really, Frankie?”
Francesca’s eyes flared. “For one, Missy is my friend and two...”
The tapping of heels on wood cut into the heated conversation, and Francesca and Peter turned to Tiffani. Her blonde hair was knotted into two braids. Her breasts spilled over a low buttoned plaid shirt tied high above her flat belly. She wore a thigh-high pleated skirt with knee-high, suede boots, and her face was overly painted. She looked like a cheap, tart, and Francesca wondered what her father saw in the woman.
“Hi, Frankie,” Tiffani said, in her feigned honeyed voice. “Hello, Lion.” She scratched Bear’s head, who watched her with confused eyes. “Baby, my face is fixed. Let’s go.”
“Yes, go. You shouldn’t keep Tiffani from making her grand entrance. Especially when she looks so,” sluttish, “great.” Francesca subtly steered them toward the front door.
“Thank you, Frankie. I do love my grand entrances, and I do look great.”
“Have a great time.” Francesca opened the door.
Tiffani and Peter were inches from stepping out when Tiffani turned to Francesca. “By the way, Frankie, that priest of yours is way too yummy for words.”
Shit! Shit, shit. So close. The contrived smile died out from Francesca’s face.
A frown creased Peter’s brow. “How do you know what he looks like?”
“He’s right there in the living room, looking all fatherly and delicious. To think he’s celibate. What a waste.”
“Father Matthew is here?” Peter turned to Francesca, eyes sharpening as he realized her blatant deception.
“I don’t know his name, baby, but there’s a hunky man dressed as a priest in the living room. Not as hunky as you,” Brittani said, at Peter’s annoyed gaze skimming fingers down his chest.
Batting Tiffani’s hand away, Peter turned narrowed eyes to Francesca. “I want to meet this priest you’re hiding away.”
Francesca felt her skin prickled at the base of her neck when Peter turned toward the living room. The thought that Peter would make Tommy disappear from her life again made Francesca’s heart sink deep in her chest. She couldn’t deal with losing Tommy all over again when she’d just found him.
She needed Tommy in her life. He gave her the strength she needed to believe in herself, to stand up to James. Tommy instilled the confidence in her James had stolen from her. Tommy was the man who understood her, the man she loved, and her father wasn’t going to push him away—not this time.
Francesca maintained her self-control, and leaning into Tiffani, whispered, “It would be a shame for you not to make your grand entrance. Especially when you look so stunning, Tiffani. You know, once they start serving dinner, everyone will be too focused on their meal to appreciate...”
“Me.” Tossing the intolerable notion around her vacant head, Tiffani curled a hand around Peter’s arm as he was about to open the living room door. “Baby, we gotta go. Now.”
“We have time. I need to find out what this Father Matthew is doing here with my daughter, late on a Saturday night, without her husband present.” Peter flicked eyes darkened with suspicion at Francesca.
“Jesus, Peter, it’s only seven o’clock, and it’s a goddamn priest. What could he possibly be up to? And, baby, if we go now I’ll,” she dropped her voice to a whisper in Peter’s ear.
Whatever Tiffani said, had Peter swirling away from the living room door faster than a tornado, and hurrying them to the car.
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FRANCESCA FINGER COMBED HER HAIR AND, taking a deep breath, stepped into the living room as Father Matthew added a log to the fire.
“Good evening.” He set the screen in front of the crackling fire, turned to Francesca. “Hello, Bear.” Father Matthew scratched Bear’s head when he rose on his hind legs to greet him, “I’m sorry to drop in unannounced and to have caused such a ruckus.”
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” Father Matthew watched Bear flop and sprawl on the carpet by the crackling fire.
“I’m sorry.” Francesca nodded slowly as she watched the flames in the fireplace burn amber. The crackle of wood, its woody scent, made the room a calming oasis. Just what she needed then.
“I would have come out and introduced myself, but it seemed like a family situation.”
“It was. That was my dad and his second wife.” Francesca took a decanter of brandy from the bar, poured into two Baccarat snifters.
“Next time, I’ll make sure to call ahead. My choir practice got canceled at the last minute. Some kids came down with a cold, and I thought you might want to talk, seeing as your case starts Monday.” Tommy sat at the sofa, took the offered glass.
“Calling would be good. Especially now that Daddy has these crazy thoughts in his head.” Francesca walked to the window, slid the drapes open. A half-moon shaded the city under a silver haze lending a romantic feel to the night. “Thank you for thinking of me, but I’m feeling good and ready to kick ass. Umm, butt.”
Tommy grinned. “I’m glad you’re going to kick ass, and I’m proud of you, Francesca. I’m glad you’re happy that you’re taking control of your life. You’re a good person, and you shouldn’t allow a bully, husband or not, to demoralize you.”
“Thank you for always saying what I need to hear.” Pushing to her feet, Francesca walked to the record player. “I haven’t seen you in a few days. God keeping you busy?”
“I’ve had an overwhelming demand for christenings and weddings.”
“Post-war nuptials and babies. People have a few years of catching up to do.” Francesca’s dropped the needle on the record she chose. “Do you mind?”
“I’m a fan of Ernie Birchill’s Dream a Little Dream of Me.”
“You know your music. This is a favorite of mine. It reminds me of a wonderful time in my life.” Walking back to the sofa, Francesca brought her scent with her and reached deep into Father Matthew.
The music, the sweet notes of her perfume, felt intimately familiar and touched him in ways he never expected. For the first time since knowing Francesca, Father Matthew looked at her. Really looked at her. Concentrating on the delicate lines of her face, the seductive, brown eyes, the spill of luxuriously dark hair, and the full mouth meant for kissing, he felt something stir in him.
Father Matthew put distance between them when he felt his heart begin to pound in his chest, when urges he’d tamed for so long, stirred hot in him. He’d made vows to God and the church that had taken him in when he was injured and lost, and healed him back to life.
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TOMMY’S EYES BLINKED OPEN TO THE three strange faces by his bedside staring down at him. He watched them exchange words in a language he didn’t understand. Afterward, the oldest of the three men walked out of the room. The remaining two took a seat on opposite sides of his bed.
When Tommy attempted to sit up in bed, the pounding headache kept him down. The younger of the two rose to help him. Tommy swept a confused gaze over the man who fluffed the pillow and set it behind his head. He, like the other two men, wore a brown linen tunic with a capuche, and a rope belt. Around his neck hung a wooden cross, and he was cleanly shaven.
“Thank you, but who are you and where am I?” Tommy’s voice was groggy, his eye dazed.
“Prego.” The young man bowed sat on the straw chair.
Massaging the ache at his temple, Tommy struggled to hold a conversation with both men but gave up when all he got were silent nods. “Where the hell am I?” Tommy scanned the small, austere room.
There was a bed, a night table, and a three-drawer dresser. Brick walls were whitewashed, and the only window in the room was curtained in simple white linen. There were candles in ancient candleholders, which cast shadows on the ceilings and walls. A small earthen jug and basin stood on a wooden table, and next to it were two neatly folded towels. The smell of incense hung heavy in the air.
All eyes flicked to the door when it swung open, and the bearded man carrying a tray walked in. “Buon Giorno. I bring you some food.”
“You speak English.” Tommy sighed happily.
“Yes. A little.” He set the tray down at Tommy’s lap. “The coffee is hot. The bread is fresh, so is the butter. Made by Signora Capitano.”
“Where am I?” Tommy sipped on the steaming espresso, winced at the pungent taste.
“I’m sorry, sugar does not come easy since the war.”
“Where am I?”
“You are in the Benedictine Monastery. We are Sicilian monks. I am Father Pio. This is Lay Brother Enzo and Lay Brother Vincenzo. They have been by your side since your accident.” Gray eyes turned to the sitting men who bowed their heads.
“Accident? Jesus, that smarts.” Tommy yelped when the headache and dizziness circled back to his eyes. “Sorry, Father,” he said when the spinning stopped.
Father Pio slid his hand from the wide sleeve and waved it in dismissal. “You don’t remember the accident?”
Tommy dug into his memory but came up empty. “No, I can’t seem to remember much.”
“How about your name?”
Digging into his fuzzy brain, Tommy came up empty, and he shook his head.
“You were hit on the head and left for dead. We deduced you were a soldier with the allied forces. Does any of that sound familiar?”
Tommy’s confused eyes flashed to the sitting men, back to Father Pio. “No, I can’t seem to remember anything.”
“Do not panic. It will take time for your memory to return.”
“What do you mean?” Tommy struggled to remember, but he kept on coming up blank. “How long will it take?”
“Maybe days, months, possibly years.” Father Pio sat on the chair. Lay Brother Enzo vacated for him. “Signora Capitano and her sister found you amid the rubble and bodies. They took you back to their home. Took care of you until they realized you needed more serious medical care they couldn’t give you and came to me for help. I was a medic in the war of nineteen fourteen. I never thought I’d see another world war in my lifetime.” Father Pio reflectively ran fingers over his peppered beard. “You’ve been unconscious for seven weeks. We weren’t sure if you were going to come out of it.”
“Jesus! Sorry, again, Father. You say I was a soldier,” Tommy said, and Father Pio nodded. “Where’s my uniform, my dog tags? Seeing them may trigger my memory.”
“Signora Capitano and her sister burned your uniform. And you had no tags.”
“Why would they burn my uniform?” Tommy jolted up in bed, sending his head spinning.
“You must not agitate yourself.” Father Pio tilted his chin to Lay Brother Vincenzo, who immediately rose to pour water from the pitcher on the night table into a tin cup. “You drink. They had to get rid of any evidence you were a soldier in case the Germans raided our town again. They did it for your safety and theirs.” Father Pio explained.
“Yes, of course. Do they remember the insignia on my uniform? It would tell me which country I fought for.”
Father Pio shook his head. “But they did keep one thing for you. They found it in your ripped haversack. Unfortunately, it was partially torn.” Father Pio tilted his chin up at Lay Brother Vincenzo, who crossed to the brick wall, and pulling the loose brick, retrieved the letter.
Tommy read, his eyes welling up in tears by the time he finished it. “There’s no name on the letter, and I can’t remember who she is.”
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FRANCESCA CLOSED THE GAP BETWEEN HER and Father Matthew. The subtle scent of her perfume nagged at him. The silence and their closeness caused emotions long-buried to stir.
Francesca met the lake-blue eyes overflowing with emotion. “What are you thinking?”
His breath fluttering unevenly, he looked down at her. “So, so many things,” he said, absently running a hand over her hair in a casual intimate way that made her pulse race.
“Is one of those things to kiss me?” Francesca stepped closer,
There was shame, so much shame when he felt the burn in his belly when his mind raced to forbidden thoughts, and his body responded. The guilt went deep in him when all he wanted to do was reach out to touch Francesca, to kiss her. “Yes.”
“Then kiss me.” Francesca laid her hand against his cheek.
He leaned into her hand. There was a sense of familiarity in her touch, her voice, and it sent his mind floating. He felt the jolt of a staggering kiss, the feel of tender lips on his. He felt a sharp edge of passion and the love of a woman deep inside him. For a moment, he felt an absolute bond with Francesca, a tangible link to her that spanned for years. He felt it deep in his bones.
Reaching for Francesca’s hand, Father Matthew brought it to his lips and brushed them over her palm. His moist lips on her skin sent her head spinning, touched the dozens of nerve endings in her body he’d once brought alive. Pulsing with the wonderful sensations only Tommy could spark in her, Francesca drew her mouth close to his.
Tossing aside logic and caution, Father Matthew said, “I want to.”
“I very much want you to too.”
Francesca’s mouth was a whisper from his, her hot breath on him, the next wave of memory hit him then. He didn’t know how, but he knew how her mouth fit with his and God, he wanted the taste of her in him. No one made him feel as she did just then, but vows, commitment, guilt had him pulling back.
“I can’t. I’m so sorry. I need to go.” Darting out of the room, his face raw with guilt and remorse was the last thing she saw.
