The Saint Excerpt - Eleanor and Kingsley Meet At Last
It was inevitable no matter how much Søren tried to keep them apart. At last it happened. Kingsley and Eleanor meet at last.
The whistling sound grew closer. Søren took her hand in his.
“Eleanor, allow me to apologize in advance.”
“Apologize? For what?”
“Who? Moi?” asked the man who strolled through the nearest door and right up to them. “I hope I’m interrupting something.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened at the sight of the man.
“I love that reaction.” He pointed at Eleanor’s face. “That is the ‘you didn’t tell me how pretty he was’ look, oui?”
“Didn’t I almost punch you on a set of stairs once?” she asked him.
“You broke into my house. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“You have Eddie Vedder hair,” Eleanor said, which was the only thing she had to say for herself. She was still trying to recover from the shock of the man. He wore the most amazing suit she’d ever seen in her life. Black trousers, riding boots, long black jacket, black and silver embroidered vest. He had dark shoulder-length hair and a face that belonged on a male model. And to make matters even worse, he was French. So this was the brother-in-law? The best friend? The Kingsley?
He picked up her hand as if to kiss the back of it, but at the last second he raised her fingertips to his nose and sniffed them. She pulled her hand back.
“So this is elle?”
“This is she. Eleanor, this is Kingsley. Kingsley, Eleanor. Now please go back to the rectory, Kingsley, before Eleanor starts liking you.”
“Liking me more than you, you mean. Too late. Isn’t it?”
“You are seriously French,” she said.
“Would you like to see how French I am?” He imposed himself between her and Søren and stared down at her with the most seductive expression she’d ever seen on the face of a man with all his clothes on.
“Kingsley, please,” Søren said.
“I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to her.”
Kingsley stepped even closer.
“How old are you?” he asked her.
“Seventeen. How old are you?”
“Thirty. Is your hymen intact?”
Eleanor stood up straighter.
“Is your brain intact?”
“I ask for a reason.” He shook his finger in her face to hush her. “I fucked a virgin last week. I didn’t mean to.”
“What happened? You trip and fall into her hymen?”
“You jest but do you know how hard it is to get blood off raw silk upholstery?” Kingsley asked, sounding positively perturbed. “She could have told me before I fucked her. I would have put a towel down first. But c’est la guerre. What’s the etiquette for accidentally fucking a virgin? Should I send flowers? If I fucked you and broke your hymen what would you want from me after?”
“Hair of the dog that bit me?” Eleanor suggested her father’s favorite hangover cure. “Fuck me again?”
Kingsley looked her up and down. He seemed to like what he saw.
“Would you like to play a round of Justine and the naughty monk with me?”
“Never heard of it.”
“I swear I will have you arrested,” Søren said to Kingsley. He sounded stern but Eleanor saw amusement in his eyes.
“Have you ever read Justine by Le Marquis de Sade? Wonderful book. Little twelve-year-old Justine runs away to a monastery and the monks rape her and subject her to orgies and beatings over and over again. So that’s how you play the game. Shall we?”
“How do we know who wins?”
“Whoever has lost the least blood by the end of the game wins.”
“Sounds fun,” Eleanor said. “I’ll play the monk. You play Justine.”
“Why, Kingsley,” Søren said in a taunting tone, “it’s like she knows you already.”
Kingsley only gazed at her a moment and she sensed him taking stock of her. The smile left his face, the amusement disappeared from his eyes. In a warning tone the man addressed Søren.
“You are asking for so much trouble with this one, mon ami.”
“He didn’t ask for trouble,” Eleanor interjected. “I offered.”
Kingsley nodded his approval.
“You weren’t exaggerating,” he said to Søren.
Søren put his mouth near Kingsley’s ear.
“I told you so,” Søren said in a stage whisper.
“Can I have her?” Kingsley asked. Søren replied something in French, something that made Kingsley grin even more broadly.
“What did he say?” she asked Kingsley.
“He said, ‘Wait your turn.’”
She glared at Søren, who only shrugged as if Kingsley had lied to her. She knew he hadn’t.
“She doesn’t like my translation.”
“She should learn French,” Søren said. Kingsley nodded his agreement.
“Hello!” Eleanor waved her hands. “I’m still here. I can hear you both talking about me. And you, I can see you giggling.” She stabbed the center of Søren’s chest with her finger.
He gave her an affronted look.
“Priests don’t giggle.”
“What are you looking at?” she demanded of Kingsley, who seemed to be undressing her with his eyes.
“She’s spirited, this one,” Kingsley said to Søren.
“Unholy spirited,” Søren agreed.
Kingsley turned his attention back to her.
“Why do you have your clothes on?”
“Was I supposed to take them off?”
“I’ve never heard a stupider question in my life,” he said with a very French, very disgusted sigh. “You weren’t supposed to have them on to start with.”
“I get it,” Eleanor said to Kingsley. “I do. You’re Prince Charming if Prince Charming wasn’t charming.”
“And wasn’t a prince but a king.”
Kingsley raked her body with his eyes. She might have been embarrassed by his nakedly hungry stare but he had a French accent, Eddie Vedder hair and the power to annoy Søren. The man got a free pass to make a pass.
Kingsley finally spoke again.
“I could lose my watch inside you.”