2
Returning Owen to his bemused parents delayed Nora in the sanctuary a few minutes after Mass. By the time she made it to Søren’s office, Michael already stood outside the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
“He summoned you too?” she asked, sitting across from him on the bench opposite Søren’s door.
Michael nodded.
“Kind of feels like we’re sitting outside the principal’s office,” Nora said. “I hear you’re valedictorian this year, so you probably never had to sit outside the principal’s office, did you?”
Nora waited and still got no reply from Michael. He smiled but didn’t speak.
“Michael? Pussy got your tongue?”
He laughed … audibly.
“Finally,” Nora breathed, relieved to hear something from him. “You have any idea why we’re here?”
Michael shrugged. “None. I don’t think it’s good though.”
“Michael, you didn’t talk to anyone, you know, about us, did you?”
The look Michael gave her abounded with so much hurt that she realized immediately she’d been an idiot to even consider that Michael would say a word to anyone about her or Søren.
“Nora,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “I don’t even talk to myself.”
Now it was her turn to laugh.
“I’m sorry, Angel. I’m just being paranoid.”
“It’s okay. I didn’t say anything, promise. I never talk.”
Nora stood up and walked over to Michael. She sat beside him and stared full-on. He started to look away, but she snapped her fingers in front of his face and pointed right at her eyes. Immediately his silver eyes met her green ones.
“You talked to me that night,” she breathed into his ear.
His pale face flushing, Michael whispered, “That was just a dream.”
Nora blew air over his neck under his ear.
“We had the same dream then.”
Michael’s pupils went wide and she knew he was remembering the night Søren had given him to her—as a gift and a test. She’d enjoyed the gift. She’d failed the test.
“Are you doing okay?” she asked, taking a step back to give him some breathing room.
Michael nervously rubbed his arms.
“Okay, I guess.”
“Did Søren give you that book?”
“Yeah. It helped. Thank you,” Michael said. She’d passed on her old beat-up copy of The Other Secret Garden to him, a classic work on the psychology of sexual submission.
“You’re welcome. Is our priest on the phone?”
Michael nodded.
“What language?”
“French first.” Michael leaned closer to the door. “Now Danish.”
“Hmm … that’s good news and bad news.”
“How?”
Nora returned to the bench and crossed her legs, a move that caught Michael’s attention.
“French is bad. French means Kingsley.”
“Who’s Kingsley?”
Nora grinned. Who was Kingsley? Kingsley Edge, the King of Kink in New York City. Half-French, all pervert. Her occasional lover and Søren’s best friend. Well, best friend on those occasions Søren wasn’t threatening to kill him.
“French is bad since Kingsley gets called when anything disreputable needs doing. But Danish is good. Søren always calls his niece in Copenhagen on Sundays after Mass so whatever’s going on isn’t so bad it’s upsetting the routine yet.”
“Father S has a niece?” Michael looked incredulous at the idea.
Nora grinned at him. Søren did have an aura of having been sprung full-formed from the head of Zeus about him. One could hardly imagine him as a little boy or having parents, going to school and doing homework. But she knew all about his family—the good and the evil.
“Two nieces, one nephew. And—” she held up three fingers “—three sisters. Two American sisters, one in Denmark.”
Michael looked up at the ceiling.
“Wow.”
“Can you imagine having him—” she pointed at the closed door, behind which stood one of the more intimidating men alive “—as your brother? Terrifying, right?”
“I don’t envy the boyfriends.”
They laughed together even though Nora knew Søren hadn’t gotten a chance to have any of the normal brotherly experiences with his sisters. He and Freja had grown up in separate countries and Claire was fifteen years younger than him. And Elizabeth … well, Elizabeth was another story.
“Come here and let me look at you,” Nora said, tearing herself away from the dark trajectory of her thoughts. “How tall are you now?”
Just thirteen months ago he’d been only a few inches taller than her.
“Five-ten.” Michael obediently moved to stand closer to her.
“I knew you weren’t done growing,” she said, remembering how she’d studied him as he slept that night. “You grew into your hands. Haven’t put on much weight though.”
He grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”
“None of that teen angst now, Angel. You’re tall, thin, have perfect porcelain skin and supermodel cheekbones. And unlike mine, your long black hair behaves itself. You, young man, are prettier than any guy I’ve ever seen.”
Nora studied him. Poor kid probably got ostracized at his school for his looks. He wasn’t at all effeminate, but he had passed pretty boy miles ago and landed straight in the middle of beautiful. The girls no doubt envied him for waking up looking lovelier than they could after an hour of primping, and the boys probably hated him for inspiring homoerotic thoughts in their fevered teenage brains.
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. And I’m always right about these things. Aren’t you legal yet, jailbait?” she teased.
“Turned seventeen last month,” he said, blushing.
“That’s legal in this state,” she said and winked at him. The blush
