A Heart Revealed

by Julie Lessman

  Sean’s legs dropped from the ledge with a clunk, right before his knees banged on the table when he shot to his feet. Blood leeched from his face while he stared, his eyes dry sockets of shock. “Rose . . .” Her name came out raspy and thick, as if adhered to his tongue, which seemed likely given no other words could eke past.

  Her step forward was timid for someone so prone to barging ahead, and her furtive glance at Emma revealed a hint of hesitation in doleful brown eyes. “Excuse me for interrupting,” she whispered, contrition heavy in her tone, “but I wondered if I might speak with Sean.” Her gaze returned to his, begging consent. She swallowed hard, causing the pearl choker she wore to bobble on her neck. “Alone . . . if I may.”

  “No.” It came out hard, clipped, and so uncommon for him that he heard Emma catch her breath. Ridges cut into his brow as he glared, his voice riddled with blame. “What do you want?”

  Her fingers pinched white on the purse. “To apologize . . . and to say how sorry I am.”

  He pushed his chair in, the gesture more of a slam than a courtesy, then faced her with a cold stare, muscles tight and arms locked to his chest. “All right, you did. Now leave.”

  “Sean!” Emma jumped to her feet. “That’s not like you,” she whispered. “For goodness’ sake, she came to apologize.”

  A tic pulsed in his jaw. “So she says, Emma, but you can’t trust anything she does.” He burned Rose with a look. “The store is closed. How did you get in?”

  She lifted her chin, but he could see the hurt in her eyes. “I hid in the restroom . . . until they locked the doors and everyone went home.”

  “See?” His mouth sagged as he extended his hand. “She has no ethics whatsoever.”

  “That’s not true!” Rose cried. “I’m a bit unconventional at times, but I do have ethics.”

  “Yeah, too bad you don’t use them. Go home, Miss Kelly . . . or Mrs. Connealy . . . or whoever you are, and leave me alone.”

  “Sean, stop, please!” Emma’s tone rang with an authority she seldom employed, causing heat to crawl up the back of his neck.

  With a grind of his jaw, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sucked in a deep breath, suddenly ashamed of his boorish behavior. “Rose, Emma . . . I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I had no right to treat you disrespectfully.”

  Emma slowly sat back down while Rose nodded with tears in her eyes. “I forgive you, Sean, as I hope you’ll forgive me.” She faced him with a square of her shoulders despite a slight quiver in her voice. “And for your information, it’s still Miss Kelly and likely to remain so, at least for the foreseeable future. You see, I hoped we could . . . well, go somewhere and talk. Over coffee, maybe, because I . . . ,” pearls shifted on alabaster skin, “. . . need you to forgive me.”

  Something twisted in his chest, but he ignored it. She’d cost him his job, his dignity, and seventeen years of his life, and his anger ran deep. She stood before him, a beautiful woman whose heart was breaking. Even now he felt the attraction, and that was the thing for which he blamed her the most. His cheek pulsed as he stared her down, his cool manner masking the seething inside. “After what you did to me, Miss Kelly,” he said in a rigid tone, “and I suspect to both Chester and your father, it appears you’re in the market for a good deal of forgiveness. Which,” he said with a thrust of his jaw, “in my case, is going to take some time.” He reached for his jacket. “I’ll see you out—we don’t want to add stealing to your list of infractions.”

  Rose paled as if she’d been slapped.

  “Sean! That’s quite enough.” Emma rose and took a step forward, her voice as soft as Sean’s was hard. She indicated a small chaise in front of Alli’s and Bert’s desks where a comfortable sitting area had been arranged, complete with coffee table and magazines. “Miss Kelly, may I ask you to wait while I speak to Mr. O’Connor privately?” Emma studied the young woman whose eyes brimmed with tears and spoke again, her voice barely a whisper. “Please?”

  Rose nodded and sat on the chaise, her gaze focused on fishing a handkerchief from the purse in her lap.

  “Emma—” Apology laced his tone, but Emma only moved to her office and stood at the door, her gaze avoiding his. He blasted out a sigh and strode in, wheeling around when he heard the click of the lock. “Look, Emma, I apologize for this, but the woman had it coming,” he began gruffly, his tone void of remorse. “It’s just an unfortunate situation, and I’m sorry you had to see it.”

  She stood at the door, her back to him for several seconds and hand still on the knob, and when she turned, his heart sank in his chest.

  “It’s not me who needs your apology, Sean,” she said quietly. Her voice was as gentle as he’d ever heard, and her face as ashen as when he’d shocked her with the good news. But this time, no smile softened her lips and no light danced in her eyes. Only grief, etched deeply in the ridge of her brow.

  And disappointment.

  His anger slithered into shame, forcing him to look away.

  A gentle hand lighted on his arm. “This is an unfortunate situation, Sean, it’s true, but the thing that grieves me the most is that one of my dearest friends and the kindest, most caring man I know has been so hardened by anger.” She lowered herself into one of two chairs in front of her desk and released a fragile sigh. “Will you sit for a moment . . . please?”

  He complied against his will, back bent and elbows stiff on his knees. His chin felt like rock pressed to tightly clasped hands. A nerve quivered in his jaw as he stared straight ahead, fully aware of her gaze. He steeled himself for her reprimand.

  “Did you know, Sean, that I was supposed to be a boy?”

  He blinked. Whatever he had expected her to say, this wasn’t it, and his head swiveled toward her, chin still propped on his hands. “What?”

  A faint smile shadowed her lips and she clasped arms tightly to her waist like a little girl, as if it were the dead of winter rather than a balmy day in September. “You see,” she continued, sounding like they were chatting over a leisurely lunch, “Mrs. Doyle swore to my father that he would have a strapping boy.” A wry smile crooked a corner of her mouth. “She had quite a reputation, you know, as somewhat of a seer in County Kildare where I grew up. It seems every time she swung a woman’s gold band on the end of a thread, the ring would circle for a girl and go back and forth for a boy, and apparently the woman was seldom wrong. So you can certainly understand that when Mrs. Doyle’s tea leaves confirmed it and my mother carried low, well, naturally my father was certain he had sired the next archbishop in the county.”

  Her easy manner faltered as her gaze trailed into a vacant stare, dulled by a melancholy that seemed to take her far, far away. “He was devastated, of course,” she whispered, “but not as devastated as his only child, who bore the brunt of the blame with the back of his hand.” She blinked and suddenly the hurt little girl disappeared and she was Emma once again—beautiful in her calm and at peace with the world. Her eyes gentled as they searched his. “It was my bitterness and unforgiveness that forced me into the arms of Rory against their wishes, Sean, the hardness of my heart that led me down a path of pain. I wanted to wound them, make them pay for the hurt they caused me. And when God finally healed my heart toward them, it was too late.” Tears brimmed as she stared, her gaze pleading with his. “Suddenly they were gone . . . snuffed out in a fire that scarred my life as surely as Rory had scarred my face.”

  Her sorrow stabbed like his own, tightening his chest until he couldn’t breathe. A fierce protectiveness rose within, and he stood and tugged her up in his arms, embracing her with the same tenderness she’d always shown him. “Oh, Emma,” he whispered, “that breaks my heart . . .”

  She hesitated, and he felt her sigh against his chest. “Then you know how I feel when I see someone I care about make the same mistake.” She pulled away and clasped his hands. “Please, Sean, don’t let bitterness change who you are, because it will. It’ll harden and rob you of the joy in your life as surely as sin snuffs
out the light in our souls. Please—have that cup of coffee with Rose, talk to her, forgive her. It’s the only way you’ll be free from the hurt that she caused.”

  He eased his hands from hers, his body stiff. “I can’t, Emma. She doesn’t deserve it.”

  Her smile was sad. “Neither did I, but God is a God of mercy, and he requires the same of us.” She patted his hand. “You can do this.”

  If it were any other person on the face of the earth, he’d rise and make light of it, teasing his way out of an uncomfortable situation. But the woman beside him was no ordinary person, at least not anymore. She was Mrs. Emma Malloy, the only one he’d ever allowed a glimpse of his soul, and the one he respected more than any woman alive, outside of his family. He glanced up, and suddenly those mesmerizing green-gray eyes—the hue of pale jade or onyx—tripped his pulse, an unsettling awareness that hers, for whatever reason, was the opinion that mattered the most.

  Exhaling loudly, he allowed a hint of annoyance in his tone. “I suppose you mean now?”

  Her gentle chuckle brought a quirk to his lips and he sighed. “I’d rather you just docked my pay,” he muttered and then blasted out another sigh. Lumbering to his feet, he unrolled his shirtsleeves while studying her through narrow eyes. “Okay, Mrs. Malloy, you win.” His lips twisted as he straightened his tie. “I’ll do it, but out of pure principle, I oughta make you pay for the coffee and my time.”

  Her soft laughter was a tonic that never failed to ease the agitation in his soul. “Oh, you’ll get paid all right, Mr. O’Connor,” she said with a smile that reminded him of a little girl with a secret to share. She rose and rounded the desk to sit in front of her Remington, casually inserting a piece of paper that defied the sassy wink of her eye. “Just not on your paycheck.”

  This was a mistake. The thought plagued Steven O’Connor from the moment they left the Blackthorn where they’d had dinner, all the way to Joe’s girlfriend’s apartment, leaving a queasy feeling in his stomach along with the two burgers he’d just consumed. Not that the girl Nellie had fixed him up with wasn’t pretty—no, she had a face and a body that put Steven on edge, stirring desires he’d worked so hard to suppress. The last thing he needed was to get involved with another girl like Maggie, taking him down the same path that had almost destroyed his life. He slid a sideways glance at Joe nuzzling Nellie’s neck, then at Nellie’s roommate, Pauline, who clung to Steven’s arm as if permanently attached, and stared straight ahead, lips clamped tight. He could smell her perfume in the cool breeze that ruffled her platinum curls, and something in his gut told him that this would be a very early night.

  “So, what do you do for fun?” Pauline asked with an innocence that was anything but.

  “Steven doesn’t know how to have fun,” Joe chided with a wink. “Which is where you come in, Pauline. I’m counting on you to save my best friend from dying of piety and resurrect the Steven O’Connor I know and love.”

  Steven’s lips skewed to one side. “I’ve grown into a mature, responsible human being, Agent Walsh, if you even know what that is.”

  Hand splayed on his chest, Joe feigned offense. “Hey, I’m responsible, O’Connor, just ask Nellie, right, hon?” He cupped her close to plant a kiss on her neck, making her giggle. “I’m responsible for keeping my girl happy. Besides, responsible doesn’t have to mean boring.”

  “Boring?” Pauline breathed with a half-lidded gaze that focused on Steven’s mouth. “Somehow, I find that very hard to believe.”

  A once-familiar heat rolled through Steven’s body at the huskiness of her tone, and he gave her a stiff smile. “Believe it. When it comes to having fun, Joe leaves me in the dust.”

  “Mmm . . . we’ll have to see what we can do about that,” Pauline teased.

  “Attagirl,” Joe said, tugging Nellie up the cracked steps of her four-story apartment building. He opened a paned-glass door and grinned while Nellie and Pauline hurried through, giving Steven’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “The man is in dire need of a good time.”

  Steven shook his head while a faint smile edged his lips. Maybe I am. Although Joe’s tone was thick with humor, Steven knew his best friend worried about him, at least ever since his breakup with Maggie, which seemed to affect Joe as much as it had Steven. And, why not? Their tight college group had disbanded, ending life as they’d known it—parties and drinking and women as free and easy as the bathtub gin they poured down their throats. Steven absently licked his dry lips, guilt souring his tongue as if it were the hard-grain alcohol he’d once been so partial to.

  But overnight, everything had changed. His reckless ways had driven a wedge between him and his father until they’d jeopardized the very life of the man he loved. Patrick O’Connor’s brush with a near heart attack after their fight two years prior had finally stripped Steven of all rebellion, neatly replacing it with a gnawing guilt instead. A guilt that compelled him to uphold a law he’d once flaunted, becoming a tight-lipped prohibition agent bent on righting his wrongs. He felt the stroke of Pauline’s finger against the rough skin of his palm, and his jaw tightened. And a guilt that kept him at arm’s length from women like Maggie.

  Nellie opened the door of her apartment with a twist of her key and flicked on the light.

  “Relax,” Joe whispered in his ear, while Steven reluctantly followed Pauline in, annoyed that his eyes strayed to the gentle sway of her hips. He quickly diverted his gaze to their apartment, taking in the gold brocade sofa and love seat with its abundance of colorful pillows and fringed floral rug. The coziness of the room seemed to relax him somewhat, and he silently exhaled, watching as Pauline turned on a Tiffany lamp that sheathed the room in a warm glow.

  “What’s your pleasure?” Nellie asked from the kitchen, giggling again when Joe stole a kiss. “Not that, Walsh,” she said with a playful swat, “I meant drinks.”

  “I’ll take a Coca-Cola if you have it,” Steven called, grabbing a magazine from the coffee table as he sat on the couch. Pauline kicked her shoes off and joined him, snuggling a little too close for comfort while he absently flipped through the pages.

  “Here you go.” Nellie delivered Coca-Colas before settling on the love seat next to Joe, her glass in hand. “So, anyone up for poker?” she asked with a wriggle of brows. “I feel lucky, and we sure could use some help with the rent.”

  It was actually just what he needed, Steven realized after they’d played several hands, relaxing on pillows Nellie had tossed on the floor. Between Joe’s corny jokes, Nellie’s lively personality, and Pauline’s doting attention, Steven enjoyed himself more than he’d thought possible, laughing and trading insults with Joe like old times. Even Pauline didn’t seem like such a threat anymore, cheering him on as he arm-wrestled with Joe.

  When Steven had won all of their money, Joe jumped to his feet and extended Nellie a hand. “What do you say I take a look at the curtain rod you wanted me to fix in your bedroom?”

  “Sure,” she said with a broad smile, following him down the hall with a wink over her shoulder. “Be good, you two.”

  Feeling awkward, Steven reached for the cards. “Know how to play gin rummy?”

  “I do,” Pauline said with a tentative smile, “but if it’s okay with you, I’d rather just talk.”

  “Sure.” Steven stood and offered his hand to help her up from the floor. “So how did you and Nellie come to be roommates anyway?” he asked, tossing the cards on the coffee table. He upended his Coca-Cola and eased back onto the couch.

  “We were best friends in high school,” she said, offering him a peppermint candy. Lowering to the sofa, she tucked her legs beneath her skirt. “I understand you and Joe go way back as well—kindergarten, right?”

  Steven placed his empty glass on the table and shifted to face her. “Yeah. We’ve been good friends all of our lives, and now that we work as partners day in and day out, we’re more like brothers who occasionally get on each other’s nerves.”

  Her hand idly caressed the couch
next to his leg, her eyes following the stroke of her fingers. “He worries about you, you know. Thinks you’re still bleeding over Maggie.”

  He puffed out a sigh. “Maggie is over and done, and Joe knows that better than anyone.”

  Her lashes lifted slightly as she watched him through veiled eyes. “He claims you’ve had no interest in women since,” she said quietly. “Is that true?”

  Heat cuffed the back of his neck. “Joe talks too much,” he said in a rough voice.

  Gentle fingers lighted upon his leg. “Or cares too much,” she whispered.

  Warmth generated from her touch, and he studied her for several seconds, drawn to the pull of green eyes soft with concern and full lips parted in invitation.

  As if sensing the attraction, she leaned in, her palm warm on his thigh as she brushed soft lips against his. His breathing quickened, awakening urges dormant since Maggie. He hesitated for the briefest of moments and then clutched her close, deepening the kiss as he eased her against the couch. Pulse skyrocketing, his mouth took hers with an intensity that had once been second nature. And then in a ragged heave of his breath, he pushed her away, the heat of passion burning away in the heat of his anger. “You’re drinking?” he rasped.

  “Steven, no, I promise . . .”

  But he saw the lie on her face, and he tasted it in her mouth, not quite masked by the peppermint candy she’d offered him earlier. He shot up and sniffed her half-empty glass before striding to the kitchen to jerk cabinets open. He found what he was looking for on a top shelf—an innocuous bottle of witch hazel, tucked behind a package of Quaker Oats. He screwed off the lid, and the scent of oil of juniper assaulted his senses. Fury surged through his veins as quickly as this home-brew gin could travel the bloodstream, and with tic in his jaw, he dumped it down the drain with violent force. Hurling the bottle into the sink, he turned on Pauline, eyes itching hot. “Oh, this is rich! Entertaining prohibition agents with a stash in your pantry. I oughta haul you in.” He pushed her aside and stormed toward the door.