Mysteria Nights, Page 3

  “I am not drunk,” he argued.

  True, his eyes were clear, not bloodshot, as he swept his gaze around the garden, lawn, and church. And he was in top physical form, too, gifted with the well-hewn body of an NFL running back—powerfully muscled, without a linebacker’s bulk. Carving a body like that took time. Alcoholism didn’t lend itself to keeping regular workouts.

  “What happened to you?” She folded her arms over her chest. “It usually doesn’t rain naked men. At least not in the six months since I’ve lived here. Unless it’s a seasonal thing.”

  His lips twitched, his gold-brown eyes sparkling, as he sized her up in an approving way. “If it is seasonal, lass, then we had better take shelter.”

  “Clothes first. Where’d you leave them?” she asked as calmly as she could as he didn’t seem to care that he wore none.

  He glanced around. “They took everything. Left me with nothing.”

  “You were robbed?”

  “Aye, you could say that.” His expression grew bleak all over again. “Robbed and abandoned.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t like hearing that. Everyone’s so nice around here, law-abiding folks. I can’t see anyone doing something like this. It makes me sick to find out it may be otherwise.”

  “Nay, lass. They were not from here. They were from . . . the south. Aye, that’s it.”

  “Oh, you mean Colorado Springs?”

  He shook his head.

  “Pueblo?”

  “Nay. Far, far to the south. Farther south than you have ever been, lass.”

  Mexico, she thought, nodding. “That’s okay. We’ll get them. Just because they skipped out over the border doesn’t mean they’re home free. You can use my phone to call Jeanie—Jeanie Tortellini,” she added at his blank look. “She’s our town sheriff. And a good one, too. She’ll file a report.”

  He frowned. “Nay. No reports. Will do no good.”

  “If you don’t let her know, the thugs who did this to you will do it to someone else next time they cross the border.”

  Tiredly but firmly, he said no. “’Tis over. ’Tis done.”

  “Wow,” she said in a quiet voice. “Just wow.”

  He glanced at her strangely. “Wow?”

  “You were robbed, beaten, stripped, and unceremoniously dumped in a pastor’s flower bed. You have every right to be angry.”

  “I am angry.”

  “Yet, you haven’t uttered one grumble of vengeance or head bashing.”

  “’Tis no use, truly, to wish for such things.” He seemed to be ready to say more but stopped himself. “None of it would do any good. ’Tis done.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean by wow. It’s not easy to forgive and forget. A true man of mercy; that’s what you are.”

  A look of pain crossed his face. “Aye, and ’twas my downfall, too,” he muttered.

  “Mercy is never wrong! Never. In fact, showing mercy is good for you. And not only for your body—” She threw her hand over her heart. “Forgiving is good for your soul.”

  He choked as alarm lit up his face. “Can you tell if a man has one—a soul?” All at once cynical and wistful, his expression revealed nothing of the reason behind the odd question.

  She explained gently, as if to a child. Perhaps, spiritually, he was still very young. “Some people have rotten souls, and some have beautiful, generous souls, but no matter what, they have one. You, me. No exceptions to that rule. Everyone has a soul.”

  He made a skeptical sound, but the longing in his face was clear as he rubbed his cleft chin. “How do you know so much about souls?”

  “It’s my job. See that church? I’m the pastor.” As much as she loved her chosen calling in life, she deflated a little. Once men found out she was a pastor, they stopped thinking of her as a woman. From then on, they only wanted one of three things: absolution, friendship, or free counseling.

  “A woman of God,” he said with dawning surprise. “You are a nun.”

  A laugh burst out of her. “It seems like that sometimes, but no, I’m not a nun. I can marry, have a family, just like anyone else.” I can have hot, feverish sexual fantasies about well-built naked men. I can feel so horny I can’t see straight. I sometimes think of “celibacy” as a fourletter word.

  She thrust out her hand. “I guess I should introduce myself since you obviously don’t know who I am. I’m Harmony—Harmony Faithfull.” He grasped the tips of her fingers with a cool, dry hand. There was gentleness cloaked in that strength, softness that he seemed to want to hide, but that she recognized anyway, putting her at ease when common sense told her she should be feeling the opposite. Just like when you sensed he’d grown tired of living. “And you are . . . ?” Ironic how she could know what every pore on his body looked like but not his name. “You have a name, right?” she teased when he didn’t immediately answer.

  His dark brows drew together in concentration. She was about to suggest he see a doctor for shock or a possible concussion when he blurted out sheepishly, “I am called Demon.”

  “Oh. That’s a favorite of mine. My nephew’s name is Damon, too.”

  “Demon—Damon.” He looked up, brightening. “Yes, I am Damon.” She smiled encouragingly. “Damon what?”

  Again he concentrated.

  Boy, he sure did seem rattled. But after all he’d been through, it was understandable. “Damon, you really need to see a doctor.”

  “Nay.”

  “But—”

  “I am Damon,” he announced. “Damon of Mysteria.”

  “Damon of Mysteria. It doesn’t sound familiar. Or maybe I just don’t recognize you without your clothes.”

  A devilish glint sparked in his eyes, sending shivers from her neck downward, flipping the “on” switch attached to all the neglected places in between as the sensation plunged to her toes. “Well, lass,” he said, winking, “I dinna think you can say that any longer.”

  Four

  Do not blush, Harmony. Do not. She stood up so fast that she got light-headed, her rational side praying that she didn’t faint, while at the same time the wanton tart she was fast becoming argued that there were far worse fates than landing in that incredible lap. “No, I guess I can’t say that any longer. Next time I see you around town, naked, I’ll know it’s you,” she retorted. Turning on her heel, she took a couple of steps and stopped. “Coming? I have some clothes inside I think will fit. I’ll brew a pot of coffee, too. You look like you could use it.”

  “Nay,” he winced, “nothing hot. Water.”

  I’m with you all the way on the water, bud. Only, I’ll take mine ice cold and in the form of a shower!

  Damon pushed to his feet, her sweater pressed between his massive thighs. Harmony was five-nine, but he towered over her, taller than all her brothers, even Jake Jr. He had to be six-foot-five at least.

  That long shadow fell over Bubba, who until now had been hanging close to Harmony. The puppy growled and backed up, teeth bared, fur rising in a ridge along his spine. “Hey, boy. It’s okay,” Harmony soothed, but the puppy started snarling and wouldn’t quit.

  Damon turned one hand palm up as he focused on the dog. His gold-brown eyes were arresting as it was, but now they grew so intense that they appeared to glow. It was a much different heat from what she’d seen when he’d caught her staring at his, uh, equipment. Not quite human, Damon’s gaze was animal-like in its intensity and focus, almost as if he were communicating with her dog, wolf to wolf, so much so that she half-expected them to start howling any minute as something went back and forth between dog and man. Then, spell broken, Bubba wriggled over to Damon to lick his hand, that cute little tail wagging furiously.

  “Wow. He likes you.”

  “He trusts me,” Damon corrected. “The like will come in time.”

  Mmm. The guy had a way with women and dogs, she thought. An interspecies charmer.

  They started walking toward the house. The road on the other side of the picket fence was empty of cars and joggers. Tha
nk goodness. If anyone saw the new pastor going inside her house with a naked man . . . well, she’d never be able to get anyone to believe the real story.

  Even she didn’t believe the real story.

  Bubba pranced alongside them as they walked up the porch steps leading to the door at the back of the chapel where Harmony’s living quarters were located. Stepping into her small, cozy living room, Damon looked painfully out of place: a towering, hard-featured, rugged man in the midst of everything small and soft. Or, it could be just that he was naked.

  In five seconds flat, she’d found him some work clothes that belonged to her largest brother. When Damon returned to the kitchen after changing into a pair of Jake Jr.’s faded Levi’s and a gray, oilstained, long-sleeved Henley T-shirt, her hunch was confirmed: everything was too tight and too short. At least the buttons and zippers weren’t popping. Yet.

  “Have a seat, Damon. I’ll fix you something to eat and drink.”

  Looking a little lost, Damon sat at her small table, smoothing large hands over the lace cloth. It was as if everything were new to him, everything a wonder. Even her, she realized with a tiny twist of her heart when his gold-brown eyes found hers for a moment before focusing on the glass of water she nearly spilled in his lap. It was more than her current state of isolation—or intuition; this man did things to her, plain and simple, with his ancient eyes and surprisingly young soul.

  She reached into the fridge for a leftover apple pie, a baked ham, rolls, mayo, and mustard. Big men ate big; that, she already knew from the five super-sized men in her family. Grabbing utensils and napkins, she dropped a slice of ham in Bubba’s bowl on her way back to the table, where she cut Damon a huge slab of pie and slid the plate next to the overloaded one that held a lumberjack-sized ham sandwich. After she made herself a much smaller sandwich, she carried her plate to the table to sit across from Damon as he downed his water with thirsty gulps. She poured him some more. “Feeling better?” she asked after he finished the second glass.

  “Aye.” He winked, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, in a truly medieval way, to dab at the droplets of water left behind. “How can a man not feel better, taken in with kindness, tended by such a beautiful wench?”

  She lifted a brow. “Wench. Is that Scottish for strong, capable, intelligent woman, I hope?

  “Nay. ’Tis old English. Old, old English.”

  “But you’re Scottish, aren’t you? The brogue.”

  “I do have a brogue, don’t I? You can thank my ex-employer for that, lass. His sense of humor knew no bounds.” He winked at her and lifted the ham sandwich, sniffing it, his eyes closing. His pleasure in the scent was so palpable, his anticipation so sharp, that by the time the breathless second had passed and he’d dived in with a hearty bite, her throat was dry and she was left wondering what she’d just witnessed.

  Did he approach all activities with the same explosive, allconsuming passion?

  Harmony . . . behave.

  Damon was thorough, but neat. Hardly a crumb escaped him. In short order, the massive sandwich was gone. Next, he turned to the slice of pie, hesitating for a moment as if he’d remembered at the last minute that he’d better use a utensil in her presence. In no more than four shovels of the fork, the pie was gone, too.

  “More?” Strangely drained, she shoveled another slice onto his plate, and he started on that, too, without taking a breath. She might as well fix him another sandwich, because he was still going strong. “Something must appeal about my cooking, or you haven’t eaten in about a thousand years.”

  “Ten thousand,” he said, wiping his mouth and hunting around for more food. She slid the pie plate toward him and let him serve himself, which he did with as much grace as speedy efficiency. When the first bite of pie reached his mouth, he closed his eyes, savoring the taste, and was that a shudder that ran through him?

  Fascinated, she balanced her chin on her hand, smiling as she watched him. “I don’t know what to make of you, Mr. Damon of Mysteria.”

  “Make of me whatever you wish, fair maiden.”

  “Fair maiden. I like that better than wench.”

  His gaze went soft again. “It fits ye better, too.”

  She swallowed against the feelings his gentle, sexy tone fired up inside her. Sitting straighter, she tried to gather the scattered shreds of her professionalism. “Maybe you’d better call your family to let them know you’re okay.”

  He shook his head. “There is no one.”

  “No one at all? You’re not married?” She immediately bit her lip.

  But he’d turned thoughtful. “Nay . . . never thought of it. My livelihood would have made such a pairing difficult. Impossible, rather. But, perhaps now that has changed. . . .” When he returned his attention to her face, it was with such bold intensity, such raw consideration, that this time she did blush.

  Harmony got up too quickly, sloshing water out of the pitcher. She grabbed a dish towel and started mopping at the puddle. Damon grabbed her wrist.

  All at once, his thoughts burst inside her skull. His experiences, his emotions, too. They spun in a blur too fast for her to interpret, like subtitles set on fast-forward, but in those few heartbeats, she was able to gain a sense of the man: his confusion, his lack of guile, and his genuine fear—something she sensed he was not used to feeling.

  Harmony, you’re not Great-grandmother Eudora. You’re insane. Your overactive hormones are finally taking their toll. You should have stuck to talking to the dog.

  She studied his big hand and then his face. She didn’t know how to explain what had just happened—nor did she want to. Her brain felt like a snow globe that had been shaken too hard. If he let go, maybe everything would settle down. “I’m a third-degree black belt,” she said softly. “And my dog will rip your throat out if you try anything stupid.”

  Bubba protested with a little whimper, looking from her to Damon and back again. Harmony had the sudden feeling that she might not want to test the puppy’s loyalties.

  Damon let go. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

  Harmony sat back down, her heart thumping. What had just happened? Somehow, she regained her composure. “I’d like to help you. But to do that, you’re going to have to tell me how you came to be under my apple tree.” She left out the naked part. Those were details he could fill in. “I’ll keep in confidence what you tell me.”

  Damon leaned forward. The maple café chair creaked under the shift in weight. “The true story?”

  She leaned forward, too. “No,” she whispered. “I want you to lie to me.”

  He took a deep breath, and then spilled. “I am the ten-thousand-year-old Demon High Lord of Self-Doubt and Second Thoughts, or I was until I was kicked out of Hell by Lucifer for committing random acts of kindness. After centuries of torture, I forget how many now, I was made mortal and banished to live out my days here, in Mysteria, the site of my original crime of beneficence.”

  Harmony stared at him. Damon stared back, as serious as they came. “I was just kidding about the lying,” she said.

  He opened his mouth to say something then seemed to change his mind. He drummed blunt-tipped fingers, glanced out the window as if seeking inspiration before returning his gaze to her. “I worked for a corrupt employer for many years. I carried out my orders until I learned what it was to be good. I learned that I liked being good over being bad. My employer punished me for it—for changing—and then he . . . he did this to me. He let me go. And so now I’m here, in Mysteria. With no home, no job, and”—he cleared his throat—“no clothes.”

  “You’ve been through hell, haven’t you?” With a bit of an alarmed expression, he agreed. She shook her head sympathetically. He was a strapping, healthy guy down on his luck; admitting he was jobless and homeless couldn’t have been easy.

  Jobless. Homeless. Here.

  Inspiration hit like a thunderbolt straight from heaven. “I have an idea.” She opened her hands so Damon could see the calluses, cuts, an
d paint stains. “I’ve been looking for someone to hire—a handyman and groundskeeper. It’d be a huge help to have someone here for the heavier work, so I can concentrate on the church. The fields haven’t been planted, the fence needs repair, and the barn needs fixing. I’d like to make it into a social hall, eventually, maybe a school, or even a gym, and I thought if I had some help, it’d leave me more time for recruiting more parishioners. In fact, any parishioners.” She sighed.

  “No one comes?”

  She shook her head. “Just this morning I asked God to help me. To show me how to bring people here. I asked for a sign. And what do I find in my yard? A naked Demon. Oh! I meant Damon. Sorry!” She threw her face into her hands to muffle the giggles bubbling up.

  Through her fingers, she heard Damon assuring her, “’Tis an understandable mistake,” in a surprisingly earnest tone.

  She peeked between her hands and saw that his expression matched his dead-serious tone of voice. Her giggles turned to laughter. Something must have struck Damon as funny because he, too, fell into genuine laughter, rich and deep.

  Finally, she got hold of herself, wiping her tears. “Oh, that felt good. I needed it, too. I think this is what’s known as divine intervention.”

  Damon’s sparkling eyes seemed at once impossibly ancient and like those of a newborn baby. “Aye, more than you know, my fair maiden.”

  “If I’m the fair maiden, then you can be my knight in shining armor. My hired knight. How does that sound?”

  He dipped his head once. “’Tis a fair offer.”

  They exchanged a smile that left her feeling cheerful and optimistic and warm all over. Really, really warm. Then she thought: what was she saying? Her smile fell as reality set in. “I can’t afford to pay much.”

  He lifted his hands as if to say he didn’t care.

  “Actually, I can’t afford to pay you at all.” She pushed back from the table. “I’m sorry. I made a promise I can’t keep. I’ll give you a ride back to town.”

  “I don’t require money. I’ll work for . . . sustenance.”

  She shivered at the look in his sexy eyes, the way he drew out that last word.