Free Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers Page B

his breath. She moved around him, smiling. “No need to be shy with me, mister. Tell me what you want.”
    He looked down at her. “You.”
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    “I’m all yours.”
    Michael watched her cross the room to a washstand. Angel. The name fit the way she looked, a flawless, blue-eyed porcelain doll with pale skin and golden hair. Maybe marble was a better description. Porcelain shatters. She looked too hard for that—so hard, he hurt looking at her. Why? He hadn’t expected to feel that. He had worried too much about getting past the desire he knew she would arouse in him. God, give me strength to resist her temptation.
    She poured water into a porcelain bowl and picked up a bar of soap.
    Everything she did was graceful and provocative. “Why don’t you come here and I’ll wash you.”
    He could feel the heat rushing all through his body, most of it ending up in his face. He coughed and felt as though his collar were choking him.
    She laughed softly. “I promise it won’t hurt.”
    “It’s not necessary, ma’am. I’m not here for sex.”
    “No. You’re here for Bible study.”
    “I came here to talk with you.”
    Angel gritted her teeth. Hiding her irritation, she let her gaze drift boldly.
    He moved uneasily beneath that look. She smiled. “Are you sure you want to talk?”
    “I’m sure.”
    He looked dead certain. With a sigh, she turned to dry her hands.
    “Whatever you want, mister.” She sat on the bed and crossed her legs.
    Michael knew what she was doing. He fought the swift desire to take her up on the clear message she kept sending him. The longer he stood silent, the more his mind drew images, and she knew it by the look in her eyes.
    Was she mocking him? No doubt about that.
    “Do you live in this room when you’re not working?”
    “Yes.” She tilted her head. “Where did you think I lived? In a little white cottage at the end of a road somewhere?” She smiled to take the bite from her words. She hated men who asked questions and probed.
    Michael studied her surroundings. No personal articles out, no pictures on the wall, no knickknacks on the small, lace-covered table in the corner, no feminine clothing scattered about. Everything was neat, clean, spare. A 62
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    modest armoire, a side table, a kerosene lamp, a marble washstand with a yellow porcelain water pitcher, and a straight-backed chair furnished her room. And the bed on which she was sitting.
    He got the chair from the corner, set it in front of her, and sat down. Her satin wrap had opened a little. He knew she was toying with him. She swung her foot idly, like a pendulum, sixty seconds to a minute, thirty minutes to a half hour. All the time he had.
    Lord, I’d need a million years to reach this woman. Are you sure this is the one you meant for me?
    Her eyes were blue and fathomless. He could read nothing in them. She was a wall, an endless ocean, a clouded night sky so dark he couldn’t see his hand before his face. He saw only what she wanted him to see.
    “You said you wanted to talk, mister. So talk.”
    Michael was saddened. “I shouldn’t have come to you like this. I should’ve found another way.”
    “What other way is there?”
    How was he going to make her understand he was different from the other men who came to her when he came by the same way they did? Gold.
    He had listened to Joseph and gone to the Duchess, and then he had listened to that woman say Angel was a commodity—a fine, precious, well-guarded commodity. Pay first, then talk. Paying had seemed the easiest, most direct way. He hadn’t cared about the price. Now it was clear the easiest way wasn’t the best.
    He should have found another way, another place. She was too ready to work and not the least bit ready to listen. And he was finding himself too easily distracted.
    “How old are you?”
    She