Clinton Priest

Chapter Eleven

Clinton's POV

"It was a mistake to come," she tells me, looking over my shoulder at beautiful Elizabeth. She's off the floor and busy smoothing her red form fitting dress as she glances at us from the corner of her eyes.

"Perhaps," I say to her, "but here you are."

"I came to say thank you for the piano," she says.

"It's nothing you should have bothered about."

"How did you know I liked the piano," she asks curiously as I leads her away from the sitting room and into the adjacent room. It's a smaller room. A stunning clash of leather and silk, it's remained the same for almost three centuries. A tribute to a past I could never forget. For what man could ever forget his soul?

"You have the fingers of a pianist," I say, gesturing to the worn out leather chair next to the curtained window.

I sit in the opposite chair, my calloused hands itching for a cigar. I give in and within seconds I have a lit cigar between my lips.

"Why Lizzy?" She asks softly.

"You recommended her to me remember?"

"I didn't think this was what you meant by company."

"It wasn't," I admit gently as I think back on Elizabeth. There is nothing more to her but mindless ambition and beauty. I have always been attracted to murderous beauties; the kind most likely to kill me in bed.

"Why did you kiss her," she asks me  suddenly and I place my lit cigar on the ash tray.

"I was tempted," I answer truthfully. "The only tested way to overcome temptation is to embrace it wholeheartedly without reservation, without hesitation."

"I thought you were celibate," she says in confusion.

"A common misconception," I tell her.

"A misconception you never corrected," she says sharply.

"I've never deemed it necessary to correct," I tell her. I'm amused by the fire burning in her eyes. I wonder if it translates in bed. My eyes roam her slender body. She isn't beautiful by any means. Her only outstanding features are her eyes. A brown so dark, they suck up the light and give nothing back. She's nothing like her Isabelle. She's nothing like the women I've amused myself with over the decades since Haven and I find her refreshing.

"You are a liar," she says, "I despise lies." Typical speech of a nun. Hate the sin yet love the sinner.

"I never lie," I tell her.

She stands and stares at me. For a split second, brown fades to green and back again.

"Haven." Her name stumbles out of my mouth and the feeling of longing hits me the power of a freight train.

There's nothing stunning about her except her eyes. Those beautiful eyes that turn green when she looks at me.