The Last White Knight by Tami Hoag

sensed her pulling away from him even though she was still in his arms and pressed against the length of him. He raised his head reluctantly, opening his eyes like a man coming out of a trance. Lynn stared up at him, looking as stunned as he felt. He let her ease away from him, too aware of the level of arousal to which this one “simple” kiss had taken them both. He let her back away a step, but hung on to her shoulders, though whether it was to keep her from running or to keep himself from falling over he couldn’t have said.
    They stared at each other for a long moment, awareness quivering in the air between them. Finally Erik nodded.
    “I think I know the perfect chaperon.”
    • • •
    “Oh, my, yes,” Father Bartholomew said as he burrowed into the folds of his sleeping bag on the couch.
    He had shed his clerical uniform for a rumpled gray sweat suit from Holy Cross Seminary. His hair stuck up in odd tufts at the crown of his head, suggesting he had already been in bed when Erik had gone to fetch him. But he had jumped at the chance to keep vigil at the house, scurrying to gather his things together as if he feared the offer might be rescinded before he got his chance at adventure.
    He propped himself up now against the arm of the sofa, his face aglow. “This is quite an adventure for me. I feel a little like Father Dowling from the mysteries. You don’t suppose we might catch the culprit trying to sneak in?”
    Erik started to say no, but the little priest looked so hopeful behind the lenses of his crooked glasses, he didn’t have the heart to disappoint him. “It’s a possibility.”
    “Oh, my,” Father Bartholomew breathed, eyes round. “I haven’t been in on anything this exciting since my mission days in Africa. I was serving with some Jesuit fathers in Kenya. Those Jesuits can bewild men, you know.” He chuckled and burrowed deeper into his nest. “Oh, the stories I could tell …”
    Lynn shot a wry look at Erik, fighting to contain her smile. If nothing else, they were making Father Bartholomew’s day. “Thank you again for coming over, Father. I probably would have been fine here alone, but Senator Gunther insisted—”
    “Don’t think a thing of it, dear!” the priest said, holding up a hand to forestall her explanation. “I’m glad to be of service. A sentry for God. Looking out for mischief makers and hanky-panky.” His cheeks colored suddenly and his eyes and mouth made three perfect
O
’s. “Not that I was expecting the two of you—I mean—My, no.”
    “That’s all right, Father,” Lynn said, dodging his earnest expression, hoping he couldn’t see from her telltale blush that he’d already missed out on the hanky-panky. “Good night.”
    “Good night, Lynn, dear. Sleep well.”
    They left the father in the living room as he wiggled down into his sleeping bag like a boy at scout camp. Erik walked beside Lynn to the foot of the stairs in the hall. She had to fight the urge to bolt up the steps in order to escape the warm scrutiny of his eyes. Her senses seemed stuck in high gear, making her too aware of everything about him—the way he walked, the subtle scent of his aftershave,the way his watch looked on his wrist, how blond the hair on his arm looked against his tanned skin.
    “Well, I don’t think we have to worry about bad publicity, do you?” he said, his voice low and threaded with wry amusement. “No one would suspect us of having a wild night of hot, passionate sex while we had a priest for a chaperon.”
    “No, I guess not.” Lynn trudged up two steps, her hand lingering on the newel post. She twisted around toward him hastily. “Not that anything would have happened without him being here,” she insisted.
    Erik rocked back on his heels, his expression mockingly stern, eyes twinkling, lips twitching. “Oh, my, no.”
    Lynn ground her teeth and scowled at him. “Nothing would have. Nothing will.”
    A little gasp caught in her throat as he sprang up