Lips curling, McBride straightened as much as his deteriorated spinal column would allow. He shook his cane at her.

“Get from me, devil’s harlot!” he said, and his voice was only an echo of the booming baritone he used to deliver the Word on Sunday mornings. Then he started coughing. He bent over, body wracked by spasms.

Grace came to his side. He should have pushed her away. But the fragrance of her, and the ripeness of her youthful figure, weakened his resolve.

Oh, the flesh is so weak, Lord.

Like a doting mother, she eased him back onto the couch. She brought him the highball glass of room-temperature water that had been standing on his desk, and helped him take measured sips. Drinking the water cured the dry, hacking cough.

She sat next to him, her leg pressing against his.

He should have thanked her, but he suspected her arrival had a malicious intent.

“What’s your purpose here?” he asked.

She put her hand on his thigh. He stared at her hand as if it were an alien thing. She kneaded the soft, atrophied leg muscles. He made no attempt to push her away.

It had been many years since he’d experienced the sensual touch of a woman. He had forgotten how wonderful it felt to be the object of a woman’s desire.

She doesn’t desire you, you old fool. This is a devilish act of deceit.

But he didn’t stop her. Encouraged, Grace rose, and straddled him right there on the couch.

The lenses of his glasses got foggy. Her cleavage was only inches away from his face.

Grace took off his glasses, leaned closer to him. Warmth radiated from her, her fragrance making him almost feverish with longing. Her bosom hovered close to his lips . . . so close that he could have tasted that sweet spot deep in the cleft of her breasts . . .

I’m failing my station, McBride thought, and it was the clearest thought he’d had since Grace had entered his sanctum. I simply don’t have the will to resist, I’m sorry, Lord.

Grace took his hands and guided them to her hips. He didn’t pull away. She put her hand on his hardening groin and squeezed.

“Old but not dead,” she said. “Good for you.”

McBride’s throat was so tight it was difficult to breathe, impossible to speak.

In a fluid motion, she pulled her dress over her head, tossed it on the arm of the sofa. Her body was improbably nubile, skin glistening like a mahogany sculpture.

She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her large breasts were engorged. She cupped them in her hands, played her fingers across the hard nipples, and watched for his reaction.

Involuntarily, he licked his dry lips.

Grace favored him with a knowing smile. She grasped the back of his head and pulled him toward one of her breasts.