Page 104 of Rogue

Dree looked over the small garden in front of the house, a sweet little sanctuary with lush green grass like a nice golf course, some small palm trees and bushes, and a few evergreen trees that looked like spruce. The garden was beautifully tended, with perfectly placed terra cotta footpaths winding among the manicured areas of lawn. A pieta statue of Mary holding the dead body of her son, Jesus, stood in one corner of the garden.

The door clicked, opening.

Dree turned back.

In her peripheral vision, she caught a glimpse of a very tall man wearing black.

Something about his form—the broad shoulders, his narrow waist, and long legs, his black hair curling around his face like he needed a haircut—was familiar even before she saw his face.

Sister Mariam said, “Andrea Catherine, may I present Deacon Father Maxence Grimaldi. Father Maxence, this is Miss Andrea Catherine Clark, our new nurse practitioner for the premature infant project.”

A truly phenomenally handsome man with movie-star good looks and an exquisitely toned physique stood in the doorway of the rectory, and he wore black trousers and a black shirt with a white tab in the ecclesiastical collar.

A Catholic priest’s clerical collar.

Because he was a priest.

Or he was a transitional deacon who was going to become a priest, as Sister Mariam had said.

Which meant he was becoming a Catholic priest, a Jesuit.

Dree’s brain was a muddle of English and half-remembered French and static crackles of shock, and she finally stuttered,“Augustine?”

He was barely breathing and frozen, but he reached his hand forward, palm up.

Dree lifted her arm and settled her fingers in his palm, not a handshake, but like he was going to lead her somewhere. His hand was as warm and heavily callused as she remembered from the previous morning.

Deacon Father Maxence Grimaldi did not smile as he said, “Dree,chérie.”