Read Donovan’s Angel for Free Online Page B

Martie’s. “I hope
you worked up an appetite. This Indian summer picnic is famous all
over northeast Mississippi for the food we spread.”
    “I could ruin that reputation in one fell
swoop. How do you think your parishioners will feel about tofu and
alfalfa sprout sandwiches?” she asked mischievously.
    He hesitated. “It sounds . . . intriguing. I
can’t speak for the rest of the congregation, but being a loyal
fried chicken fan I’ll have to be won over.”
    Martie picked up her basket and looked around
the picnic grounds. “Now what?”
    “Everybody puts the food on those tables
under the oak tree, buffet style. Then you can choose what you
want. I highly recommend Jolene’s chocolate pie.”
    As Martie placed her sandwiches on the table,
she watched Paul with his parishioners. He stood as solid as a rock
in their midst, chatting, counseling, sharing a joke, sharing a
burden. His quick laughter and peaceful spirit drew the people
toward him, and Martie knew that she was seeing the man at his
work. Ministry was not a Sunday morning job; it was seven days a
week, twenty-four hours a day. Paul was a heart-thumpingly
appealing man; no doubt about it. But he was also a minister, and
that was something that could not be left in a briefcase at the
office.
    Martie heaved a big sigh for what might have
been. She had no illusions about the unsuitability of a
relationship with a minister. As a free spirit—a maverick of
sorts—she knew she was impulsive and unconventional to a fault. And
that couldn’t be packed into a box and stowed somewhere, either.
She unwrapped her sandwiches with unnecessary vigor. Sometimes life
just didn’t seem fair.
    “Those sandwiches look . . .
unusual
.” Miss Beulah’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“What are they?”
    “Tofu and alfalfa sprouts,” Martie told
her.
    “Alfalfa! Like they feed
cows
?” Miss
Beulah swatted the air with her funeral parlor fan, and the red
roses on her dress jiggled up and down. “That sweet little Glenda
the preacher used to date always brought fried chicken.”
    Martie’s heart plummeted. Paul had said that
he was a fried chicken fan. He was probably a Glenda fan, too, and
she had just dreamed all this magic between them, and why did that
matter so much because, after all, she was going to forget him
after today, and Miss Beulah had just made her as mad as hell.
    “It’s health food, Miss Beulah,” she
explained sweetly, “but occasionally a cow does eat my
sandwiches.”
    “Well, I
never
!” Miss Beulah made a
beeline for Essie Mae to share Martie’s latest transgression.
    Martie grinned wickedly, even through the
blessing, and she was still grinning when Paul led her to a quiet
corner under a copse of pines.
    “This is my favorite spot on the church
grounds. Sometimes when I need to think, I leave my office and come
here.” He spread the blanket he had retrieved from the trunk of his
Ford and sat down with his heaping plate.
    “It would be a wonderful place to make love,”
Martie observed, her violet eyes sparkling with devilment.
    Paul choked on his bite of fried chicken.
What was she up to now? He could see the imp peeping through her
eyes and decided that silence would be the best response. Let her
have enough time to vent whatever was on her mind.
    “Once down in Tijuana I did the fandango on
top of Rafael’s bar. I was dancing so hard my earrings fell into
the guacamole dip. Afterward everybody at the party drank champagne
from my slippers.”
    He still didn’t say anything.
    “Aren’t you shocked?” she asked, turning to
look at him.
    “Am I supposed to be?”
    This was not at all the way she had planned
it. He was supposed to see how unsuitable she was and walk off in
disgust. It would be easier that way.
    “Don’t you even want to know who Rafael
is?”
    “Do you want to tell me?” he asked, taking
another bite of fried chicken.
    “He’s a bullfighter. He taught me how to
fight bulls and drive fast cars and