A Heart Revealed

by Julie Lessman

  Emma appeared rooted in place, arms folded to her waist as if to protect herself from his wrath. With the slightest lift of her chin, she gave him the same tight-lipped look Bert always did whenever he pilfered the last lemon drop from the crystal dish on her desk. “It’s a wedding, Sean, you have to dance—it’s an unwritten rule.”

  He shot up, muscles twitching beneath tightly rolled sleeves as he stood, palms and candy bar propped hard to his wooden desk. A silent growl vibrated in his throat, giving his voice the same grinding tension he’d noticed in Mitch when Charity pushed too far. “So-un-write-it, Em-ma,” he said in a clipped tone as foreign to him as the notion of dancing. “Rose is lucky I’m going at all as much as I hate weddings. Heaven knows the garter will find me, even in the restroom, so the woman needs to count her blessings and let it go.”

  The steely look in Emma’s eyes softened, which meant she was obviously rethinking her approach. Two little puckers formed above her nose as she slowly entered his office, and her brows sloped up in that sad-eyed stare that always signaled his doom. Because unlike Charity who often employed the same little-girl-lost technique with Mitch, this was pure, unadulterated Emma Malloy, heart bleeding over someone else’s misfortune.

  Sean blew out a heavy breath and put a hand to his eyes. “Please don’t look at me like that, Emma, you know I can’t handle it.”

  She moved to his side, her light touch trapping a groan in his throat. Her voice was the whisper of an angel—gentle and caring and wringing the starch from his conscience. “That’s because you hate it as much as I do when you disappoint someone, Sean,” she said quietly, “and you’ve already told me how much it would mean to Rose if you danced.”

  He didn’t answer, hoping she’d go away.

  “Please?” She ducked to smile into his eyes, and his groan escaped into a full-fledged growl. She chewed on her lip, apparently in an effort to bite back a grin. “I can teach you the fox trot and the lindy hop right in my office,” she said softly, “which would help a lot in getting you through the night.” Without waiting for his answer, she carefully disarmed him of his candy bar and tucked it back into his shirt pocket before tugging his hand. “Come on, you big baby, just thirty minutes. That’s all I need to make Rose the happiest woman alive. Please?”

  He huffed out a sigh as she dragged him toward the door, lips leveled in a tight line. “No, it’d take a rock the size on Charity’s finger to make Rose the happiest woman alive.” Jerking free, he strode into Emma’s office ahead of her, turning with hands locked on his hips and a scowl on his face. “What? Is she paying you or something, for you to badger me like this? Well, I’ll tell you what—you’re lucky everybody’s gone, or I wouldn’t be doing this.”

  “I know,” she said meekly, the twinkle in her eyes belying her solemn manner. “But if you could have seen the look on Rose’s face when she said how she wished you could dance . . .”

  “I’ve seen it,” he said in a terse tone, “and apparently it had a greater effect on you than it did on me.” He huffed out a sigh. “Close the door, Emma,” he ordered, rather enjoying making her pay for forcing his hand. She had way too much influence on him as it was and sometimes it ruffled his Irish. He folded his arms and perched on the edge of her desk, experiencing a sudden twinge of sympathy for both Mitch and Luke in dealing with women like his sisters—strong-willed, stubborn, and bent on getting their way. Emma Malloy certainly hadn’t fit into that category until recently, he thought. His lips slanted. Until he’d started dating Rose.

  With barely the sound of a click, she closed the door and turned, hands tight on the knob while she stared at him with those soft, gray eyes that always reminded him of a deer about to bolt.

  His jaw set. To the devil with the deer—he wanted to bolt, but the shy, hopeful look in her eyes had him by the throat, a talent that Emma Malloy seemed to master without even trying.

  He blew out his frustration on a wave of noisy air. “You’ve got thirty minutes, Malloy, but I’m gonna warn you right now—Fred Astaire I’m not.”

  Her lips curved into that innocent way that always melted his heart, and he found himself relenting—as usual—with a reluctant smile. He lumbered to his feet with a groan. “Okay, Ginger, let’s put your foot where your mouth is.”

  “I promise this will be fun,” she said in a rush, hurrying to the cherrywood buffet against the wall where an RCA Victor phonograph stood ready and waiting. His mouth went flat. Further evidence of her plot to goad him into making Rose happy.

  He shook his head and watched her while she bent over the phonograph, his gaze traveling the length of her before he realized what he was doing. Heat ringed his collar and his pulse notched up a degree when he suddenly realized Emma Malloy had a beautiful body. How had he never noticed before—those long, willowy legs that slid up to gentle hips and a small waist? Fire scorched his cheeks as he admired generous breasts all the more obvious in a new pale yellow sweater that brought out a touch of green in her eyes. He cleared his throat and looked away while she carefully lifted the needle into place with a scratchy sound before it glided into the record’s groove. The mellow sounds of Duke Ellington’s “Three Little Words” suddenly floated through the air, and oddly enough, his muscles began to relax. He closed his eyes to enjoy the magic of one of his favorite songs, by an artist Emma knew he loved.

  “I know what you’re doing, I see it all too clear . . .”

  He inhaled deeply, and all of his resistance fled, because he knew exactly what Emma was doing and why. Her mission in life seemed to be to make those she loved happy, and for whatever reason, Emma desperately wanted to see him happy, to make a go of it with Rose, to walk down that aisle into a life she believed would bring him much joy. The air in his lungs released in a slow, tranquil sigh at the gift of Emma in his life. He had never felt this close to a friend, much less a woman, and he marveled at the fact that when he was with her, contentment seemed to purl through his body as languidly as the Duke’s music now oozed through his mind.

  His eyelids opened, and there she stood, arms outstretched and an impish grin on her face.

  “I knew the Duke would work his magic,” she said, taking his left hand in hers and clasping it at eye level. “Which I must admit, has me feeling a wee bit like Charity.” Absently nibbling her lip, she placed his right hand on her shoulder blade and rested her arm on his. “Now relax, because you’ll find the fox trot to be a smooth, easy dance very similar to the waltz.”

  His mouth angled up. “Oh, that helps a lot, since I know how to waltz too.”

  She lifted her chin, apparently striving to be professional, but the twitch of her lips gave her dead away. “First, left foot forward, one-two, then right foot forward, three-four . . .”

  Without a word, he followed her effortlessly, as if he had Astaire blood in his veins. It should have felt strange, holding her this way, but somehow it didn’t and Sean wondered why. Maybe because he was from an affectionate family that hugged all the time, he reasoned, so naturally closeness and hugs had already become a part of their friendship.

  “Left foot to the side, five-six . . . ,” she said, gaze intent on their feet.

  Their proximity allowed him to study her close up . . . the way one side of her mouth tilted when she scraped her teeth against her lip, like now, indicating she was focusing hard on the lesson. For the first time he noticed an almost invisible sprinkling of tiny freckles across her nose, subtle and shy like Emma herself. He caught a faint whiff of the perfume Charity had given her—Shalimar—with its hint of lemon and vanilla, and he breathed it in, the scent teasing his senses with the same innocence and beauty of the woman he held in his arms.

  “Then left foot forward, one-two . . .” She glanced up with a smile. “Good . . . good, you’ve got it, now. Then turn your right foot one-quarter angle, three-four . . .”

  He wasn’t surprised that he picked it up quickly—athletics had always come easily for him, and apparently dancing was no different, but
to say he was shocked he enjoyed it was an understatement. The music seemed to flow in his limbs and in no time, he was whirling her in his arms, hand firm against her back as he drew her close with confident ease. He gave her a crooked smile. “Look out, Fred Astaire!”

  A breathless giggle escaped her lips as the music stopped, and she put a hand to her chest. “Goodness, you’re a natural, although I should have expected that with your affinity for sports.” She dashed back to the phonograph to reset the needle, shooting a grin over her shoulder. “Once more, and you’ll be giving me lessons, I promise. And then it’s the lindy, and your life will be complete.” She returned, clasping his hand.

  Maybe it was the door being closed . . . or Emma near breathless . . . or even the velvet voice of the Duke that created an intimacy he found he rather enjoyed. He smiled, his voice husky with affection. “So, Mrs. Malloy, tell me how you’ve become so light on your feet—have you been frequenting the dance marathons at Revere Beach?”

  The pink of her cheeks deepened as she cocked a brow. “Why, yes, Mr. O’Connor, I find it a great release for the little energy I have left after twelve-hour days, six days a week.”

  He laughed and tightened his hold for a spin. “Then it’s a wonder we haven’t bumped into each other, because heaven knows that’s how I spend my free time.”

  Her eyes warmed with approval. “This will make Rose very happy,” she whispered.

  His chest expanded as he studied her with a wry smile, reveling in her praise. “I know, but isn’t it about time you start thinking about my happiness? Dancing and marriage—two things that give me indigestion, and yet you seem intent on prodding me into both.”

  It was her turn to laugh, the gray of her eyes sparkling like polished silver. “I am thinking of your happiness, bound and determined that your fears will not keep you from all God has.”

  The music stopped, but he retained his hold, assessing her through pensive eyes. He nudged a finger to her chin and smiled. “So that’s how you spend your free time, then—as a guardian angel to the people you love?” His thumb grazed the curve of her jaw, marveling at its silky touch. “Tell me, Mrs. Malloy, just how did I rate you as a friend?”

  “Why, as a favor to Charity, of course,” she said with a wink, the action so uncharacteristic that it made him laugh outright. “She asked me to keep an eye out for her big brother, because . . . well, apparently he has a few flaws . . .”

  “Flaws?” He released her and crossed his arms, eyes in a squint. “Such as?”

  She scrunched her nose. “Well, she says you’re a late bloomer for one.”

  “Late bloomer,” he repeated, head cocked. “And what exactly does that mean?”

  She peeked up, lips curved in a tease. “Oh, you know, a mature man on the outside, but inside, nothing more than a little boy who refuses to grow up and fall in love.” She worked her lip as if to suppress a grin. “Which, Charity claims, is simply because you’re a little . . . ,” there was no mistaking the sass in her eyes now, “. . . dense.”

  His jaw dropped, along with his arms. “I’ll show you dense,” he said with a tickle, the plane of his hand to the side of her neck causing her to squeal and tuck in a knee-jerk reaction.

  “I didn’t mean it, I promise,” she shrieked with a giggle, twisting to escape.

  Laughing, he pinned her arms to her sides, eyes narrowed in a mock glare. “Say it, Emma—‘Sean O’Connor is not dense, he’s one of the most brilliant men I know.’”

  Cheeks flushed with fun, she masked her humor with a serious sweep of lashes followed by a show of humility that softened the gray of her eyes. “Sean O’Connor is not dense,” she repeated slowly. “He’s one of the most . . . ,” she gave him an innocent blink, “. . . brilliant men I know.”

  A grin broke free as she plucked the half-eaten Snickers out of his pocket and lurched away. “I mean little boys!” she shouted, her giggles bouncing off the walls as she skittered for protection on the other side of the room. She faced him at the window, chest heaving and palms braced on the ledge, the candy bar smashed in her hand. Behind her, a tangerine moon rose ripe in a starry sky, its hazy glow encircling her like a halo despite the mischief in her eyes.

  The thrill of the hunt broadened his grin as he took his time, his gait slow and easy while he rounded her desk, gaze hungry and locked with hers. “Give it back, Mrs. Malloy,” he whispered, feeling the adrenaline of horseplay that pumped in his veins.

  “No!” she cried, more giggles bubbling over. She jerked her chair to block his way, then eased around the desk, waving the Snickers like a taunt, her impish smile reminding him of Gabe. “Not until you learn the lindy and promise to leave the candy at home when you go to this wedding. You may be a late bloomer, but at least you won’t smell like a little boy.”

  That did it. Slamming the chair in, he lunged, surprising her with a firm clasp of her arm. He dove for the Snickers, but she fought him with shrieks of wild laughter, the candy bar clutched tightly behind her back. He reeled her in and grinned, challenge coursing his veins as he gripped her to his chest.

  “Give it up, Emma,” he breathed, “you won’t win.”

  Locking her with one arm, his other circled her waist while his hand wrestled with hers to recapture the candy.

  Her body stilled . . . and in a catch of his breath, everything changed. One moment she was laughing, and in the next, her laughter faded away, leaving her lips parted with shallow breaths while gentle eyes slowly spanned wide. The effect totally disarmed him, causing his heart to thud to a stop. Silence pounded in his ears as he became aware of her body pressed to his, her warmth, her scent engaging his pulse to a degree that jolted him. He swallowed hard, feeling the rise and fall of her chest, the burn of her hand embedded in his, and a flash of heat traveled his body until it scorched in his cheeks. He flinched away.

  “Emma, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to manhandle you.” He stepped back and plunged his hands in his pockets, desperate to deflect the embarrassment he felt. His smile was awkward. “Keep the candy then, I have more in my bottom drawer.”

  ———

  God, help me . . . Cheeks aflame, Emma wavered on her feet, mangled candy bar clutched to her chest as it rose and fell with every ragged breath she took. Her body quivered with the same heady feeling she’d felt the night in the car outside Robinson’s, only this was far worse. As if she’d just ridden the Cyclone roller coaster at Revere Beach, skin tingling and every muscle reverberating with the danger and excitement of soaring through the air. Except tonight the danger was very real, evident in the flush of her body and the hammering of her heart. Even now, blood coursed from his touch, converging in her face and throbbing in her brain, hands clammy from the desire to be in his arms again, to feel the press of his body warm against hers.

  God, forgive me . . .

  Hands shaking uncontrollably, her eyes avoided his as she held out the candy. “No, really—it was my fault, and I’m sorry.” He didn’t take it, and her gaze darted to the clock while her words rushed out, shallow and hoarse. “Goodness, it’s late, and we need to go home.” She whirled around, candy still in hand, rushing to where the phonograph circled soundlessly like the guilt in her mind.

  “Emma . . .” His voice echoed with pain, remorse . . .

  No! Please—just leave me alone. She didn’t respond, fingers fumbling to turn the machine off. The whirring stopped and she put a hand to her eyes, her pulse finally slowing to a rational pace. God, help me to face him, please. To get past this and back to what we had.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she turned with a square of her shoulders, determined to put this embarrassment behind. Meeting his gaze, she forced a stiff smile. “Goodness, that was certainly awkward, wasn’t it? But . . . we both learned something very valuable today, didn’t we?” she said, infusing a lilt into her voice as she marched to his side. She extended the candy bar once again, but this time her eyes held a tease she labored to convey. “You learned to dance the lindy and fox tr
ot . . . and I learned not to steal your candy.”

  She heard his slow exhale before the strained look slowly disappeared from his eyes, and when his lips eased into that familiar smile, she found herself exhaling too.

  He took the candy and shoved it in his pocket, his tone taking on its usual playful banter. “I think you learned something else, Mrs. Malloy, that should serve you well in the future.”

  “And what might that be, Mr. O’Connor,” she said, sensing their camaraderie was well on the mend.

  He tapped her on the nose. “I may be a late bloomer, but I don’t think I need to worry about you ever calling me dense again.” Stretching with a groan, he eyed the clock. “You haven’t taught me the lindy yet, so what do you say we give it a whirl?”

  Her smile faded just a hair. “I don’t think so, Sean, it’s getting late—” She took a step toward the door and he stilled her with a hand to her arm.

  “Please?” he whispered, his eyes strangely serious. A muscle shifted in his throat. “I don’t want to go home, Emma, not yet.” He released her then and shoved his hands in his pockets, color hazing his cheeks as he gave her a smile that quickened her pulse. “Besides, you said it yourself—I need to learn the lindy for my life to be complete.”

  She folded her arms to ward off the mix of feelings whirling inside. “I’d say your life is more than com—”

  “Emma—” His voice held intensity she’d never heard before. “Please? For Rose?”

  Rose.

  The woman who could save her from herself . . . and Sean.

  She drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “All right. One dance, and then we go home.”

  He glanced at the clock. “No, one dance, and then I take you to dinner. It’s the least I can do for keeping you so late.”

  She tilted her head to study him. “That’s not necessary.”

  “I know, but humor me.” He strolled to the phonograph and turned it on, flashing a smile over his shoulder. “Like I humored you.” He held up one of the records stacked on the buffet. “Lucky Lindy, I presume?” She nodded, and he set the needle and strode to where she stood, arms raised. “Let’s get this lesson over with, Mrs. Malloy, I’m hungry, and I have a dinner to buy.”