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replied quickly.
    His gaze swept swiftly over her body and his ever-subtle grin touched his lips. “Where else?” he murmured, as if directing his question with a certain amused exasperation to the divinity above.
    Donna ground her teeth together to keep from snapping out a reply. It didn’t matter. The priest was speaking to Tricia—whoever she was—again.
    “How about the Oak Room at the Plaza? Ummm…better give us an hour. I don’t want to give anyone a scare in my raven weeds and I’m certain Ms. Miro is going to want to change. Eight sounds perfect.” He glanced at Donna and suddenly laughed. “Don’t worry about the expense, Tricia. The lady I’m bringing with me will pick up the tab.” He laughed again, then closed with “Thanks, Tricia.”
    He hung up the phone and stood quickly. “Excuse me, will you, Ms. Miro? I’ll be back down directly.”
    “Wait a minute,” Donna demanded, but he ignored her. His long, sure strides took him out of the room before he could reply. Donna sat fuming for a moment with her foot still soaking, wondering just what she was getting herself into. She had the strangest feeling she was playing with fire.
    She stood with sudden vehemence, wincing as she placed weight upon the still-soaking foot. It didn’t matter! she thought angrily. She owed it to Lorna to find out what was going on, if she really was all right.
    Donna winced and glanced down at her foot. The ankle wasn’t half so painful as it had been. She grimaced, remembering what might have happened to her if the disturbing priest hadn’t come upon her. She was grateful to him, she reluctantly admitted to herself as she tentatively removed her foot and shook it slightly so that water would drip off. But, hell, what a messy situation she had literally fallen into. She didn’t even know what was going on.
    Grimacing slightly and looking about guiltily, Donna placed her still-damp foot on the thick Oriental carpeting. Her foot seemed to take her weight if she was very careful.
    Silently fuming, she gazed about the room. This time she noted the mounted deer head above the mantel and the gun rack in its handsome wood case against the far wall. The man was incredible.
    He swore like a truck driver, cuffed would-be thiefs, hunted and had the closest damn thing to bedroom eyes she’d ever seen. Oh, why had God put this man in her path?—and a priest, no less.
    Donna stopped muttering to herself as her idle hobbling brought her to his desk. The piece was as comfortably tasteful, austere, uncluttered, and as simple as the rest of the room. As the man? Surely, no. He was more like a walking powder keg but then, he could also hide his emotions. He released his anger only when it served his purpose. He was capable of raw violence, but that violence was very purposely controlled. She should know. He had used it to rescue her from a terrifying experience.
    Cautiously she moved to the bookcase. Ah! At least there was a Bible in it. Confessions of Saint Augustine. A number of things by Andrew Greeley. Why not?
    Donna kept combing the bookcases. There were novels by Robert Ludlum, Sidney Sheldon, and a number of other contemporary writers. A copy of Moby Dick, Beckett, and a bound collection of Shakespeare, Plays by Moliere….
    There were also a number of books on the occult: Witchcraft Today. Understanding ESP. A History of Magic/White and Black. And then there were The Psychosis of the Criminal Mind, In the Eyes of the Strangler, and An Analysis of One Murderer.
    There were more books. A lot of law books. Books on architecture, on history, and a number of “do-it-yourself” books.
    But it was the books on the occult and “criminal minds” that made her shiver. Besides the obvious, she felt that the priest was a mystery, that there was something about himself that he kept hidden.
    Maybe she should be getting the hell out of there—going as far away as she could! She didn’t know anything about him at all, much less about