This is his idea of friends?
She drew in a deep breath and sliced her hands into the warm water, scouring plates like a madwoman before plunging them into the rinse. Fishing them out once again, she didn't bother shaking them off, just slapped one on top of another in a sloppy clatter, water sluicing onto the counter. After several silent moments, she tilted her head to chance a peek out of the corner of her eye. "You're not drying."
He gauged her through half -lidded eyes. "And you're not washing; you're drowning."
Her chuckle cleaved to her throat when he lowered his gaze to her mouth. The breath in her lungs shallowed, drifting out in short, raspy breaths. "You're still not drying," she whispered.
He moistened his lips, then slowly lifted his eyes to hers. "I need this." His fingers skimmed across the towel on her shoulder, causing the air to still in her throat.
Dear God, what was happening? It was as if he had no control over his hand as it strayed from the towel to the soft curve of her neck. A tilt of her head, the blush of her cheeks, and suddenly he was two different men. One whose every muscle, thought, and desire strained toward wanting her. The other, a distant voice of conscience and memory, quickly fading with every throb of his renegade pulse. Curse the effect of the wine! What else could explain this driving insanity pulsing through him right now? His fingers burned as they lingered, slowly tracing to the hollow of her throat. Against his will, Mitch fixated on her lips, lush and full, staggered at the heat they generated. What was he doing? He didn't want this.
Yes ... he did.
All night he'd felt it mounting, a desire in his belly that grew tight at the sound of her laughter, the lift of her chin, the light in her eyes. A woman with cool confidence around everyone but him. Call it the wine. Or the fact he hadn't been this close to a woman for well over a year. Or the intoxicating awareness that his very presence seemed to unnerve her. Whatever name it bore, it had him by the throat, taking him places he'd vowed he'd never go.
She blinked up at him, eyes wide and wondering. He was taking her by surprise and knew it. But no more so than him. He stared at her lips, feeling the draw and unwilling to fight it. His fingers moved up her throat to gently cup her chin, his eyes burning with intent. Slowly, carefully, he leaned forward, his mouth finally reaching hers, his breathing ragged as he tasted her lips.
A soft mew left her throat, and the sound ignited him. He pulled her close, his mouth demanding hers. She moaned while he pressed her to the counter, holding her there as he deepened the kiss. With a deep groan, his arms swallowed her up, drawing her small frame tightly against his. He pressed his lips to her hair, allowing her scent to flood his senses ... to consume him.
Just like before.
His heart seized. What was he doing? The more he touched, the more he wanted. But she had ruined his life. Dashed his hopes. Destroyed his dreams. Dear God in heaven, he wanted her ... but he didn't want her.
Charity stood in a daze, eyes closed and chin raised, every nerve in her body quivering. The sound of her own breathing vibrated in her ears, rasping through parted lips as she waited for more. She felt the heat of his fingers as he clutched her arms, and the silence between them overflowed with the pounding of blood in her brain. Joy surged inside like an adrenaline rush. Dear Lord, how she loved him!
All at once he dropped his hold. Her eyes fluttered open, and his look chilled her more than the absence of his touch.
The heat in his eyes cooled to guarded, and his jaw turned to stone as he backed away. "Charity ... I ... please forgive me."
Fear squeezed in her stomach. "There's nothing to forgive. I love you-"
He groaned and began to pace, muttering under his breath. When he spoke out loud, his voice was a near growl. "You don't love me. I took advantage of you, plain and simple."
"No, you didn't. I want you, Mitch." She took a step forward. "And you want me. Because you love me."
He turned, his eyes piercing hers. "Lust isn't love."
"It's a start."
"Not for me."
She angled a brow.
He glared. "Yes, this was my fault, all right? I can't hang this one on you. But I can see to it that it never happens again."
She honed in, standing before him with heat in her eyes. "Prove it. Take me in your arms and tell me it will never happen again."
A muscle jerked in his jaw, and she could hear his uneven breathing. Taking a chance, she reached to stroke the inside of his palm with her thumb, her smoky gaze fused to his.
Swearing under his breath, he hurled her hand away and stormed toward the door. "I'm leaving."
"Wait, please!" The crack in her voice made him stop.
She had no choice but a change of tactics. Drawing in a deep breath, she shuddered and sagged into a chair. "You owe me, Mitch. You know how I feel about you, but you toyed with my emotions anyway."
The guilt hit dead on. She heard him suck in air before his lips leveled in a tight line. He threaded his fingers through his hair, his breath hissing through clenched teeth. "I know, Charity. I'm sorry."
She stared hard at the floor. "Sorry's not enough. Kind of like lust, I guess."
"It's all I have."
She looked up. "No, it's not all you have. You have feelings for me, Mitch. Virtuous or not, they're there. Give me a chance to make them grow. Please!"
He exhaled loudly before dropping into a chair across the table. "Yes, I do have feelings for you. I care about you ... as a friend."
Her lips barely formed a smile. "Oh, I see. You kiss all your friends the way you just kissed me?"
He didn't back down. "No, only you." He squared his jaw and stared at his hand, clenching it, flexing it. "Look, Charity, it's no secret to either of us that as a woman ... ," he looked up, meeting her gaze head-on, "... you drive me wild. But as a woman I could spend the rest of my life with ... it just won't work. The past won't let it."
She released a shaky sigh, turning so he couldn't see the moisture in her eyes. "So we're reduced to friendship, then."
He paused. "We both know that won't work."
She spun to face him, her eyes wet with alarm. "It can!"
He softened. No, it can't. I couldn't handle it and neither could you." He rose from the chair. "I need to go."
She jumped up, blinking back the tears. "Tell me we'll be friends, Mitch. Tell me I'll see you again."
"I can't, Charity. We both need to move on. If you need me, you can call. But we can't do this again." He glanced at the hallway. "Will you explain to Mima and Bridget for me, please?"
She nodded, no longer fighting the tears that streamed her face.
"Thanks for dinner." He hesitated, his voice low. "I wish you well, Charity."
She squared her shoulders, no recourse but one. "Don't go, Mitch. I need you. I'm afraid of Rigan."
His expression froze before coagulating into rage. He slammed the chair out of his way and rounded the table, gripping her by the arms. "What did he do?"
"N-nothing yet," she said, "but he ..."
He shook her. "Tell me! Has he hurt you?"
"Mitch, you're scaring me!"
"Has he?"
"No, nothing like that. It's just ..."
He sucked in a breath. "Just what?"
She rubbed her arm, avoiding his gaze. "Well, he ... he pressures me ..."
His face paled. The blue of his eyes darkened. "Are you sleeping with him?"
A hot flush shot to her cheeks. She stumbled back. "No, never! How dare you? How can you even think that? That would be wrong! And I don't love him."
"Because I know Gallagher. And your reputation with me hasn't exactly been pristine."
Anger stung her eyes. "Nor yours with me."
He grabbed her arm and pushed her in the chair, then yanked out another to sit beside her. "We've already established that. What we haven't settled is why you're still seeing him. He's no good, Charity. You're a fool."
She glared. "Apparently. Although Rigan hardly bears the
blame for that."
Mitch groaned, scouring his face with his hand. "You see this? This is exactly why it wouldn't work between us. I have no room in my life for a stubborn, calculating woman who I can't trust. Not to mention one with questionable moral values."
"You can trust me."
He dropped his hand on the table with a thud, studying her with a wary eye. "Prove it. Stop seeing Rigan."
She matched his gaze. "Done. If we remain friends. Dinners and all."
She watched the tight press of his lips, the slight movement of his jaw, and waited, breath suspended in her lungs.
He forced out a noisy sigh as his eyes stared her down. "I want your solemn promise you'll never see him again."
She nodded, joy pumping in her chest.
He leveled his finger at her, not a trace of a smile to be found on his face. "Friends. The first time either of us steps over that line, you'll never see me again."
She took a deep breath, releasing it with a shiver. "Done."
He stood and strode to the foyer, retrieving his coat from the rack by the door. He slipped it on and reached for the knob, not even bothering to turn around. "Thanks for dinner."
She trailed behind, sweet satisfaction pervading her soul. "My pleasure. It was fun."
He turned, a wary look in his eye. "Yeah. Fun." And lifting his collar to brace against the cold, he stepped out into the night.
She watched until his car disappeared down the street, then quietly closed the door, sagging against it with eyes weighted closed.
Friends. Better than "never," she supposed. She smiled. And almost "forever."
Mitch was in a sour mood when he stormed across the threshold of Duffy's. He bulldozed through the crowd and the smoke to make his way to the bar. Looming over an empty stool, he pressed his lips into a tight scowl and scoured the pub. Where the blazes was Sally?
She suddenly came into view, red curls bobbing as she delivered a hefty tray of ales to the end of the bar. He stared at her back, willing her to turn around while he huffed out an impatient sigh. She turned and saw him, and a broad grin lit her face. She bustled to where he stood, fuming. "Why, Mr. Dennehy, you look fit to be tied. Are you alone tonight?"
He glared. The daggers that shot from his eyes would've strewn bodies on the floor. "Quite alone. Give me a bottle of your best whiskey."
The pink, freckled skin between Sally's auburn brows puckered in a frown. "I thought you were off the stuff."
He seared her with a look meant to make her flinch. She didn't budge. "Blast it, Sally, not tonight. Wrap it up. I'm taking it with me."
Her lower lip protruded. "It didn't help before, Mitch. It won't help now."
He slapped both palms on the bar and leaned in, his breath hissing through his nostrils. "Don't argue with me, Sally, just give me the blasted bottle!"
She blinked and backed down, her eyes never leaving his. "All right, Mitch. If that's what you want. I'm just trying to do what you asked me to do, keep you accountable." She took her time reaching for a bottle of Bushmill Malt under the counter before thudding it on the bar. "So much for accountability. And so much for your future."
He reached in his jacket and hurled a wad of bills on the bar. "To the devil with my future. It might as well burn with the past."
He wheeled around and bludgeoned his way through the crowd, riling customers on his way out. Outside, the bitter cold assailed him, tinged with the smells of burning peat and the slight whiff of horses. He could hear the faint sound of laughter and singing drifting from the various pubs tucked along the cobblestone road. His anger swelled.
He hurled his car door open and tossed the bottle on the passenger seat. Mumbling under his breath, he rounded the vehicle to rotate the crank, gyrating the lever with such ferocity that it rattled unmercifully. The engine growled to life, its vicious roar rivaling the angst in his gut. He got in the car and slammed the door, slapping the headlights on with a grunt. With a hard swipe of the steering wheel, he jerked the car away from the curb and exhaled a loud breath.
It was happening again. He was finally past the pain of one sister and now it was beginning with the other. He gunned the vehicle down Lower Abbey Street, nearly hitting a pedestrian who probably wouldn't have felt a thing, given the near-empty bottle in his hand. Mitch gritted his teeth. That's what women did to you-drove you to the bottom of a bottle where you drowned in your own liquid travail. He yanked his tie off, loosening his shirt to let the frigid air cool the heat of his anger. Thoughts of Charity suddenly surfaced, and a heat of another kind surged through his body. He swore out loud, the coarse sound foreign to his ears. He turned the corner on a squeal. The bottle careened across the seat and slammed into his leg.
He'd been without a woman way too long. Once, his appetite had been voracious. But Faith had changed all that. Her sincerity, her purity, her honesty. She had ruined him for other women. Since she'd left, he'd had no inclination, no interest. No desire.
Until now.
He pulled up in front of his apartment building and silenced the engine, closing his eyes while he slumped over the wheel. Why her, God? Why Charity? She was poison. Just like Anna. And nothing like Faith. Faith had been the first woman he'd trusted in a long, long time. He snorted. The only woman he'd trusted. Other than Kathleen and Mrs. Lynch. And the line was a long one, circling several blocks for sure, beginning at his mother's door.
Mitch grabbed the bottle and climbed out of the car, taking extreme care to press the door closed quietly. The last thing he wanted was to encounter Mrs. Lynch. Not like this. Not now. He lumbered up the steps like a man twice his age, praying she would be asleep. He let himself in as gingerly as possible, tiptoeing up those polished maple stairs she was so proud of. For once the lock to his apartment complied, and the door swung open with ease. Tucking the bottle under his arm, he carefully closed it again, flipping the lock with a satisfying click.
He didn't bother to light a lamp. Moonlight shafted through the window, illuminating Runt's jubilant motions as he pressed his snout and jiggled his tail. Mitch squatted, allowing him to lick his face. Runt's warm tongue lathered against his scruffy jaw.
"Hi, big guy. Yeah, I missed you too."
He stood, massaging the dog's ear with one hand while the bottle of whiskey hung limp in the other. He was grateful Mrs. Lynch had already taken Runt out. He moved like a sleepwalker to the kitchen to hunt for a glass in the near-empty pantry, knocking over cups as his hand fumbled in the dark. When he found one, he filled it with whiskey and downed it before replenishing it and heading for the parlor. He took a swig as he walked to the fireplace. With one hand, he stirred the embers of the peat fire he'd made before leaving, then took another drink. It felt good going down, burning his throat with a warm, rich tingle that he hadn't tasted in a long time. He wiped his mouth with the side of his hand and moved toward the couch. He stopped. His Bible lay open on the table where he'd left it. Even in the dark, the open page burned in his memory.
"Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak. "Matthew 26.41
Mitch growled and flipped the Bible closed, shoving it to the edge of the table where it toppled over and landed on the floor with a clunk. It usually brought him such solace and peace, but not tonight. He had purposely chosen that Scripture earlier, before he'd left, to guide him, strengthen him. So much for guidance. So much for strength. He guzzled another drink. Tonight he had, indeed, found out-for a second timethat his flesh was weak. Particularly when it came to Charity O'Connor.
He dropped onto the couch and laid his head back, closing his eyes. Why, God? After a year of hell getting over Faith, why draw me to the woman who took it all away? The woman who lied, cheated, and deceived with onegoal in mind: tempting me so she could destroy her sister.
He poured more whiskey into his mouth, licking the excess from his lips. A haze settled over his mind, inviting his thoughts to drift. Why not Kathleen instead? He pictured the woman w
ho'd been his ready companion before Faith, devoted to him despite his insatiable appetite for other women. A loyal employee whose only goal was to please him. Safe, warm, honest Kathleen, always there, always waiting.
He felt the whiskey dulling his senses and took another swig, his body relaxing into the sofa. All at once, Kathleen's sweet face distorted into Charity's sensual body. Heat jolted through him that had nothing to do with the alcohol in his bloodstream. A curse slurred from his lips. Just one flash of a thought, and the want was so strong it made him dizzier than the drink in his hand. He drained the whiskey and dropped the empty glass by his side, his hand falling limp on the couch. Images swam in his mind: the loving granddaughter, the hard-working clerk, the innocent little girl, the flirt. Sometimes shy, often nervous, always seductive.
"She's an enigma, our Charity. A real puzzlement," Mima had said.
Mitch groaned through the fog in his brain. She was, indeed. A puzzle he had no inclination to solve. Friendship or no.
A knock startled him. He jolted on the sofa. Where was he? It sounded again, and Mitch stared at the door, his body sluggish and heavy. He put his hand to his head, as if to still the buzzing in his brain. Where was Runt? The third knock sounded, and the door swung wide in surreal motion.
Shestood on the threshold, a vision in blue, thegolden curls rippling over her shoulders. "May I come in?"
"What are you doing here, Charity?"
She brushed past him, the scent of lilacs drifting in the air. "I came to say goodbye. "
His eyes traveled the length of her, from the blue of her eyes to the curve of her hips. Against his will, heat infused him, and the buzz in his brain droned louder. She turned away, and he rose, moving to stand behind her. He hesitated for only a moment before lifting her flaxen tresses to expose her graceful neck. He pressed his lips to the softness of her skin while his other hand slipped to her waist. "Why?" he whispered.
A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2) Page 9