CHAPTER ONE

SYDNEY

I pick up another bible from the pew and drop it into the little slot and wonder, not for the first time, why it’s so difficult for people to put them back themselves when they are done with them.

I can practically hear Pa admonishing me for my ungodly thoughts as I step from the end of the last row of pews and back toward the lectern.

“Pa, I’m all done. I’ll see you at dinner,” I call and tilt my head, straining to hear his reply, but nothing comes. He’s probably got his door closed or on the phone.

With a huff, I grab my bag and coat, sliding it on as I stride down the hall to his office, checking my watch and hurrying my steps when I see the time. I’m about to call out again when I hear a voice I don’t recognise coming from Pa’s office. The door is ajar, and I pause to listen. Something else Pa would lecture me on if he knew I was here eavesdropping.

“Ecclesiastes 7:21-22, ‘Don’t eavesdrop on the conversation of others’, Sydney.”

“Thank you, for your help, Father.” His voice is a deep rumble yet tinged with sadness.

“Of course, Roman. And, please, if you need anything, my door is always open.”

Footsteps draw closer and not wishing to get caught, I stamp my feet quickly to imitate walking, then push the door open.

There’s an ooph from the other side, and I raise my hands as I crash into a hard body.

Hands grasp my elbows as I stammer out an apology. “S-sorry. I…” My words trailing off as I notice where my hands are, splayed across a man’s chest while he still holds my elbows.

“Apologies, Roman. This is my daughter Sydney,” Pa says as the man, Roman, releases me, and I step back. I lower my head but not before I catch Pa casting me a reproachful frown.

“Nice to meet you, Sydney,” Roman says, and while sadness still hugs his tone, now it is joined with something akin to anger. Raising my head enough to see his face, I’m met with green eyes that I imagine were once a vibrant viridian green yet now seem slightly dulled. Strong, defined cheekbones and a nose that has been broken at some point given the small curve, but it’s the scar across the bridge that is the biggest indicator. I can’t see his hair thanks to the cap he’s wearing, which no doubt annoyed Pa, but the dark five o’clock shadow leads me to think his hair is the same dark shade. And as I take in more of him, his black jacket over a tall, broad frame and dark jeans, I spy ink peeking from beneath the cuff of his coat and follow as it trails down his left hand. An altogether unexpected yet pleasurable thrill rushes through me at the sight. Thoughts of this man’s body covered in dark ink invade my mind. I quickly push the sinful vision and thoughts away as Pa begins talking.

“Roman is new to town and will be joining our congregation after a recent loss.”

Well, that explains the sadness I heard in his voice before. I wonder who he lost, lover or wife, maybe. Although I’m not sure he strikes me as the settle down married type.

“‘ Do not judge, or you too will be judged, ’” whispers Pa’s voice in my subconscious.

I nod. “It’s nice to meet you, and I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, then turn to Pa. “I have to get going. I’m already late. I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Very well. See you tonight, Sydney. And don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” I call as I exit the office and speed walk down the hall, through the nave and out the doors, turning right once I reach the pavement.

I have less than ten minutes to make a walk that usually takes me fifteen to twenty minutes. Sheila is not going to be happy if I’m late again. Besides, I hate tardiness.

I dart between the crowds as I reach the high street. It’s November and the streets are filled with shoppers hoping to get a Christmas bargain or finish their lists before their friends. Pa always has a few choice words—lectures really—on the true meaning of Christmas and how much capitalism has twisted it into a gluttonous, money-making farce. He has already reminded me that Advent is coming in three weeks’ time, and I’m not talking about opening a calendar and eating chocolate every morning from December 1st to the 25th.

By the time I burst through the doors of the bookshop I work in, I’m a sweaty mess, but I’m only two minutes late having ran the last half a mile.

I strip my coat and scarf off as I head for the staff room, catching the eye of Sheila as she serves a customer. I smile and wave like I’m not late.

I grab my deodorant, giving myself a quick refresh, then shove everything in my locker and close it, pulling up short as Sheila appears in front of me.

I try to hold her glare, but I just can’t do it and lower my eyes in submission.

“This is the third time you’ve been late this week, Sydney.”

“I know and I’m sorry, Sheila. It’s crazy out there and?—”

“I don’t need excuses. I need reliable staff who can keep time. Take this as your verbal warning, Sydney. If you’re late again, it will be a written and final warning.” I nod. “There is a stack of new books that need organising and putting out. If, by some miracle, you finish that before the end of your shift, there is a list of orders that need checking off, labelling and placing in the collection box.”

Finding my voice, I say, “Of course. I’ll make sure it is all done.” Sheila is walking away as I finish talking, muttering to herself and no doubt wishing she could sack me now and forget the red tape. My shoulders drop and I leave the staffroom. It would make Pa happy at least. He was never happy about me working, let alone in a bookshop. He insists it places me in temptation’s way. If only he knew the kinds of books being read nowadays.

In the small warehouse at the back of the shop, I furiously rip into the boxes containing the new books. Mumbling about being weak, allowing people to walk all over me and how God can’t possibly have meant for women to be such meek and mild humans. Doormat. That’s the word that pops into my head.

I don’t remember my mother and Pa hasn’t dated, well, not as far as I know. No, he can’t have. He’s too devoted to God and the church. The only female figures in my life growing up were women of whichever congregation Pa was presiding over. There have been a few, but we’ve been at the church of Mary Magdalene in London since I was sixteen.

I had a few female friends in school and college, but most stayed away. Who wants to be friends with a girl who isn’t allowed to go to parties, drink, date boys. I mean let’s be honest, I wasn’t at the top of any party invites, and boys either thought I was weird or saw me as a challenge. Bets were made about who would be the first to kiss me, get to second base, have sex with me.

Female role models were, therefore, in short supply growing up. I became the female version of Pa. My life consisted of school then college and church. Any events were always around the religious calendar. It is how I met Paul and fell in love. A version of love. Now I’m not sure if it was love at all. It certainly wasn’t the love you see in the movies or read about. And it wasn’t love for Paul either.

“Sydney, would you like tea?” Cressida asks from behind me, startling me and interrupting my thoughts. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. Daydreaming again?”

“Just thinking. Tea would be lovely, thank you.” Cressida smiles and disappears back into the staff room. I finish checking off the last couple of books from this box and load them onto the trolley ready to take them out to the shop floor.

Cressida is coming out of the staff room with a tray laden with cups of tea in her hands as I reach it.

“Let me grab the door for you,” I say, scooting forward and opening the door to the shop floor.

“Cheers. Your tea is in the ‘hopeless romantic’ cup on the counter.”

“Thanks.” I let the door close once she’s clear and go grab my tea. Hopeless romantic, huh? Yeah, I don’t think so. I carry my cup to the table and sit. Spying a box of biscuits, I help myself and proceed to dunk it. A book left open on the table catches my eye, and I get lost in the words as I lift my biscuit…

He lowers me to the bed, tearing at my clothes, quite literally. I curse and even growl at him when he rips my T-shirt from the bottom to the top in one fucking pull.

“Hey!” I say, gripping his face in my hands firmly. He lets me hold him there, but his hands have other ideas as they swiftly undo my jeans. “I don’t have a lot of clothes in the small bag, you know, so maybe go easy with the ripping, huh?”

“Fuck the clothes, Parker. I’d have you naked all fucking day.” He tugs my jeans, and I lift my arse so he can drag them down my legs. “Giving me easy access to this,” he groans, raising my legs and running his nose up my thong covered pussy. His groan turns to a growl as I raise my hips, offering myself to him and seeking my own relief as my pussy throbs. He obliges, slipping his fingers in my knickers and pulling them to one side before lowering his head and sucking my clit into his mouth.

Reality snaps back in with a plunk as half my biscuit drops into my cup, splashing tea over the side.

“Damn it!” I quickly shove the rest of the biscuit into my mouth and grab the cloth from the draining board, wiping the table and the bottom of my cup. I don’t bother with trying to fish out the biscuit. By now it will be mush at the bottom of my cup.

After rinsing the cloth, I sit back down, refusing to get drawn back into the book. I ignore the hot flush over my cheeks and the pulsing between my legs from the erotic words I just read. I slam the book closed, finish my tea and get back to work.

My shift passes quickly, but thoughts of what that man was doing to the woman in the book continue to invade my mind. Only I’m the woman and the man looks like Roman. It’s not like I’ve never experienced sexual pleasure. In fact, if Pa knew just how far I’ve taken things, he would be utterly ashamed. Reading that book earlier would be nothing compared to the real depths of my fall from grace.

While the church is a little more lenient on sex before marriage, Pa is not. He believes in saving yourself for your husband, that you should only ever have sex with the man you marry. Especially as he deems marriage a sacred vow. Strange considering he’s never married, but he argues that he’s married to God and his mission.

Paul and I fooled around, but we never had sex. Not until I discovered he’d been unfaithful. After discovering his infidelity, I naively believed him when he said he wasn’t strong enough to fight the temptation offered to him. When he got down on his knees and pleaded with me to give him a second chance, that he loved me so much and he’d wished it was me, I lapped it up like a thirsty dog. The next time things got heavy between us, I told him I was ready and didn’t want to wait any longer. So, I gave myself to him. Things were good between us, and we continued with our plans to wed three months later.

The day of our wedding arrived. I was so incredibly happy, and Pa was proud. But it all turned to dust during our vows when a woman burst into the church claiming that she was carrying Paul’s baby. I was heartbroken. Embarrassed beyond belief. And so ashamed that I’d freely given myself to him, trusting him.

I’d never seen Pa so furious. I hadn’t thought it possible to see such hatred in Pa’s eyes. Paul left the church, left town, the next day. The last I heard they were married and expecting another baby. The good Christian in me wishes them a happy life together, but a new and ever pressing rebellious part of me hopes karma will do her worst. Not only was Paul responsible for my first experience of a false love, he is also responsible for the fact I am no longer a virgin. And the reason for all my impure thoughts of late, my growing curiosity and urge to have sex again.

Maybe Pa was right and working here really is a temptation.

A path to damnation.