Page 38 of Audacity

His face softens. ‘I know you can handle yourself. And I could say the same for you.’ He holds out a hand, gesturing for me toenter the waiting lift. ‘I had to swat them away like flies. Fucking Dirk Jansen.’

I smile as I back up against the wall of the lift, arching my back and enjoying the ravenous way his eyes roam over my body. ‘They can look, but you’re the only man who gets to lay a hand on me. I really liked it when you reminded me of that back there. How does it feel to know that you can touch me whenever you want, wherever you want?’

He takes the bait, stepping forward as the doors close and sliding his hands around my waist. He dips his face, seeking out my neck and inhaling hard. I have my scent custom-blended, and it seems he approves.

When he speaks, his voice is muffled and, I think, a little bashful.

‘It makes me feel like a fucking king.’

This is it.

This is the way to intoxicate him.

That this beautiful male specimen has spent the past God knows how many years in a willing state of poverty and celibacy, of eschewing worldliness in favour of being spiritually replete, is staggering to me.

Because heisa fucking king.

And I’m going to waltz in here day after day, looking my absolute best, and show him, with every weapon in my arsenal, that I am here for one reason and one reason only.

To serve this king of mine.

CHAPTER 17

Gabe

Itake Athena to The Wolseley for lunch, a move dictated primarily by my wish to make her feel welcome and partly by a baser desire to show her off.

This beautiful space, once a prestigious car showroom and now a brasserie, has always been one of my favourite places to eat. When I was still a priest, I’d come here with Dad and Bren on their dime—my self-imposed ban on supplementing my meagre salary with family money didn’t extend to the odd excellent breakfast.

I adore the atmosphere here. The interior is somewhat masculine, all Art Deco features and magnificent chandeliers and monochromatic marble flooring and soaring ceilings: a church to the fine art of dining. The vibe is reminiscent of those wonderful European Grand Cafés, with a menu to match.

Once we’ve ordered—kedgeree for me and French onion soup for Athena—I revel in the warmth that comes from having the undivided attention of hands down the most beautiful woman in a bustling restaurant.

‘What?’ I ask, amused at the way she’s been appraising me.

She shakes her head. ‘It just staggers me that you were ever a priest.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Well, for one, you’re wearing a five-figure suit. For another, you seem far more at home at Rath Mor than you let on when I interviewed. And you seem fond of the finer things in life.’

I laugh. ‘Maybe I’m just highly adaptable.’

‘Maybe.’ Her narrowed eyes tell me she’s not buying it.

‘Look. Rath Mor may only have been spun off a few years ago, but this has been my family’s business since before I was born. I’ve always had a foot in both camps. Uncomfortably so, perhaps.’

‘You must have been the wealthiest priest outside of the Vatican.’

‘Not in practice. I didn’t take a penny of my family’s money.’

‘Could you have? You took a vow of poverty, didn’t you?’

‘It’s not technically a vow, more like a solemn promise. I could have taken some money, certainly, but it would have been in pretty bad faith, don’t you think? It would have diminished my ability to align with my parishioners, in any case.’

‘And what about now?’ She takes a sip of her sparkling water. ‘Did you?—’

We’re interrupted by a guy who approaches with an apology that sounds totally fucking phony to my ears. He’s tall, with light brown hair. I’d put money on him working at one of the many hedge funds in this neighbourhood. He’s staring at Athena as though the Virgin Mary herself has just graced him with an appearance.

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