Michael parted the curtains a bit and smiled as his eyes swept the sanctuary. Seven-thirty on Sunday morning, and the first floor and balcony were almost filled to capacity. It had been a long time since three hundred fifty people attended the sunrise service without it being a holy day.
He didn’t fool himself for a minute: most were not here to listen to his sermon, not this time of the morning. They had come to see the main attraction, Mariah Adele Carpenter. Even so, they were here, and he hoped something he said today would make a difference.
Michael had felt ill at ease upon awakening this morning. The feeling persisted when he joined Abigail for breakfast. Nor did it lessen after he said morning prayers in his office. Usually an act of devotion brought him peace, but not today. Most likely this vague uneasiness was just an accumulation of all that had happened recently. He sighed; it was not a convincing argument.
He let the curtain fall back in place and headed for the choir room. He could always count on the choir’s exuberance to lift him up—something he sorely needed right now.
God, he’s got such a beautiful body, Mariah mused, probably for the hundredth time. No wonder he was such a hot model in his college sculpting class. Thomas lay on his stomach, his face half buried in the pillow. She let her eyes wander down his muscular thighs and calves then up to his narrow waist and broad shoulders. Her gaze rested briefly on his rounded biceps and thick forearms, then slid back down to his best asset (in her opinion): his tight buttocks.
I can’t understand why someone who looks like him would have anything to do with me, she reflected, also for the hundredth time.
That thought evoked a grin. She was no longer allowed to voice this sentiment out loud in his presence. The last time she did, he shook his finger in her face and said, “No more, Mariah. If you enjoy your insecurities so much then, by all mean, keep them. But to yourself. I don’t want to hear how beautiful I am and how ugly you are anymore.” His mouth twitched in an effort to keep from returning her grin. “And stop insinuating that by being with you, I have bad taste ... hell, I’m beginning to get insulted!” At that, both of them cracked up, and she promised to keep her opinions to herself.
Mariah’s smile faded and she yawned lavishly. She had awakened several times during the night, her heart stuttering, her body slick with sweat. She remembered none of the dreams that had caused this.
At one point, she had cried out. Still asleep, Thomas had rolled onto his side, and pulled her up against him (he called it “spooning”) then wrapped his arms around her and fit his knees behind hers. His solid body behind her and his warm breath on her neck had the effect of a narcotic. She finally fell asleep, only to be awakened two hours later by the clock radio.
Mariah wrapped her arms around her body. She had the greatest urge to strip off her clothes, jump back into bed, and wake him up. She knew what would happen; they would kiss until he became fully awake—and aroused—and then would make love.
She grinned, remembering an argument they’d had some time back. Howling and raging had elicited no more than a shrug from him. How unusual, she pointed out, that a man half Italian and half Spanish didn’t have a fiery Latin temper. Leering at her, his half-closed eyes gleaming, he had said in a terrible Spanish accent, “I am Latin when it counts, baby.” That, and the fact that he tried to kiss her while she was giggling, had made her laugh all the more.
A sigh escaped her lips. Mariah knew she would never let the choir down. Besides, singing in the choir was one of the few remaining pleasures in her life, and she would not give it up unless forced to.
She had finally given in, quit work, and moved into Frannie’s safe house. Her coworkers gave her a “retirement” party, joking about her new lack of responsibilities. But she knew they were relieved to see her go. Not only for their safety (you never knew when some mental case would spray bullets in the building in his attempt to kill her) but also for the crowds of people and the media that got in their way.
The house was as plain as vanilla yogurt, but she had plans to spruce it up. Maybe sapphire blue walls in the living room, a kitchen mauve with black trim. And the bedroom fairly cried out to be painted in gold with red stipples. She didn’t care about resale value; she would paint this baby to suit her taste, and to hell with the next occupant. Let the FBI hire someone to paint it back to its original blah when she left.
Mariah left the bedroom, snatched her purse off the dining room table, and opened the front door. There was Frannie in her white BMW at the curb. She always welcomed Frannie’s company. Except it might be nice to go someplace alone once in a while, she thought.
Frannie was not convinced by the thin smile Mariah gave her. Further, she refrained from telling Mariah how bad she looked. She shrugged: if she were in Mariah’s shoes she’d have bad nights too.
Gregory Sinclair threw off the covers and leaped from the bed. Soaked in sweat, he heard sounds of mewling before he realized they came from his throat. The night leached strength from his body, and he collapse back onto the bed.
The nightmare had changed. Something had loomed in the distance, awash in a radiance that reminded him of blood. But blood wasn’t luminescent, didn’t shine, didn’t swirl like mist around a figure lost behind its brilliance. The light had flared up then out to encompass everything, heading straight for him, seemingly directed by the shadow bathed in the glow. He was stunned into immobility, could not retreat back up the aisle. Could not even breathe.
Had he not awakened when he did, Gregory was positive he would have died where he lay.