She looked forward to her wedding night with Andrew Cobalt as she never had with her first husband.

Aria sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair. Uncut since before her first marriage, it fell to the floor in a rich, satiny river the color of oak wood. Andrew came in silently, without the train of revelers customarily accompanying a bridegroom, but she saw him in the mirror.

She thought of him as young, though he was only so by comparison. Gray frosted his thick black hair. His whippet-thin body was a scholar’s, but kept fit by frequent exercise. His open collar revealed a tanned chest, rippled with patterns of muscle.

She turned to greet him. “Good night, Andrew.”

“Good night, Berengaria.”

“Please, call me Aria. Berengaria is a long-dead queen.”

A tight smile crossed his face as he went to the bed. He lay down, opening his collar further—idly, for his own comfort. He waited, neither summoning nor inviting her. He knew she would come.

Aria put down her brush and said, idly, “This is a lovely house.”

“Purchased from a recluse, or perhaps his executors. It has been well-kept, and the solitude may be welcome.” Wiry fingers traced the embroidery on her pillows. “Does it please you, Aria?” A slight hesitation before he said the name, but his fingers never stopped stroking, petting insensate silk.

She rose and came to him. “It does,” she said.

Andrew undressed, pulling the shirt over his head before she could reach for it. This bared more of the compactly powerful build she’d glimpsed—along with, in a jagged line across his lower ribs, a silver scar.

Aria traced it, raising shivers, until he captured her hand. “That was a long time ago,” he said.

She looked into his eyes—dark, and with a gleam like new ice over deep water. “And now…?”

He bent forward to kiss her and reached for the hem of her nightgown.

His feet made scuffing sounds on the linoleum as he shuffled from the small galley kitchen back into what served as his living room. The church provided meager lodgings, but free was better rent than many paid, and he did not require much room. He had managed to save most of his salary over the years and looked forward to retiring to a warmer clime, perhaps near an ocean where he could afford a large house and a maid to clean it.

The television cast shadows along the walls and ceiling. No other light shined, not even a candle. John liked it dark at night, after being under the bright fluorescents of the church office all day. Even the stained-glass windows tourists gasped over grew tiresome after long enough, the sun making the red glass stab his eyes like knives, causing terrible headaches.

At first, he thought the dark shape in his reclining chair was a shadow. It had to be a shadow. Then, it spoke. “Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

“Who are you? How dare you? What do you want? Get out!” John shouted, blurting every thought in his head in his panic.

The man did not move. “Please, sit,” he said, pointing toward the small chintz-covered chair John reserved for his rare guests.

It was the Englishman, the one who had disappeared from the confessional. The one John had thought of several times since the incident. The one he’d dreamed of, much to his dismay.

“You must leave at once or I shall call the police,” John said. It never served to let anyone see your fears, or know your weaknesses. But, he had grown old, and it was harder than it once was to hide behind the mask of priesthood, especially here in his ratty old robe and dirty slippers. He shifted from one foot to the other, alarmed to find his hand shaking as he tried to point commandingly to the door.

“You will do no such thing,” the man told him in a voice so deep, and so genuinely commanding, it caused John to stand up straighter, a frisson of energy crackling down his spine. “Sit. We have much to discuss, you and I.”

John did as asked, his voice fainter as he offered one last protest. “You’ve no right to be in my private chambers.” Clamping his mouth closed, he swallowed thoughts about making an appointment, about the lateness of the hour, about custom and ritual, about the church. The strange man’s posture, tone, and very presence told him he’d have none of it.

Wearing a dark suit, white collar and black tie, his shoes shined so that John saw reflections from the television, the man looked like an attorney, or an undertaker. His features, even masked in half shadow, were arresting. Strong, angular jawbones met to form a firm, wide chin; long blade-like nose and lips managed to be sensual though they were thin.

“You’ve dreamed of me,” the man said. His expression held no animosity, yet his brown eyes glittered with fierce intensity.

A ripple of fear coursed through John’s middle. It would do no good to lie. “Yes.”