Above and beneath the water, fingertips touching, toes, torsos coming closer and closer then moving away.The most beautiful man she’d ever seen knew best how to hide beneath a cassock—according to her vision, not his admission—beneath a growl, a frown, and his grumblestiltskin temper. His anger, however, could not be removed as easily as his cassock. Deep-rooted anger simmered inside him. Something from his past festered, infecting every aspect of his life.He hurt, and she wanted to heal him.She wanted him. For sex, for playing and adventuring, for tipping kayaks, spelunking, lunches on the dock, sharing their art, talking, long walks, for sleeping beside . . . and for sex.Not a good sign for two people as different as a witch from a cassock wearer.Bloodless bloodhounds from hell, he could be on sabbatical for all she knew. Did cassock wearers take sabbaticals? Except that he’d said he wasn’t one. Nor a priest either.If he avoided sexual commitment now, imagine how he’d run if he knew she was falling for him.
