He jumped up from the chair and stormed to the door. In a huff, he wrenched his black woolen coat from the hook. The loop tag inside the collar snagged. Bridie heard the fabric tear and bit back a chuckle. Mitch muttered something under his breath. She was pretty sure it was another colorful word from his vocabulary of old.
She followed him out. "What is your problem? Wait, she doesn't love you, is that it? Is that why you're such a crank?"
Mitch pushed her out of the way and barreled for the door. She stayed glued to his heels, sprinting to keep up with his long legs. Spurting around him, she beat him to the double doors, flinging herself in front with arms pasted to either side to block his way. He slammed to a stop like a locomotive screeching on its rails. Any moment, she expected to see smoke billowing out of the crop of blond curls on his head. She was breathing hard. "You love her and she doesn't love you. That's it, isn't it?"
His lips were white, his eyes red, and a vein in his temple throbbed a dangerous blue. Not a good color combination. The few employees on the nightshift were gawking, but Mitch didn't seem to care. He glared at her, the fire in his eyes all but cauterizing her to the door. "Get out of my way," he said through clenched teeth.
Bridie revamped her strategy. "Mitch, I'm worried sick about you. Talk to me, please."
Not the slightest chink in his armor. "So help me, I will rip you from that door-"
"It's not good to stay bottled up like you do. Didn't you prove that last night?"
He sucked in a deep breath, then huffed it out. Some of the fight must have drifted out as well. His shoulders suddenly sagged while he scoured his face with his hands. "What do you want to know?"
"Does she love you?"
"Yes."
"And you love her?"
He turned around and slogged back to his office. She followed, closing the door behind. He dropped into his chair with a thud and stared, eyes resigned. She returned to her chair and perched on the edge, her hands cupping the edge of his desk. "You love her, don't you?"
"I don't love her, Bridie. I'm in lust with her." He sighed and snatched a pencil from his desk, staring at it as he twirled it in his fingers. He continued, his voice low. "There was a timebefore Faith-when I would have enjoyed this, toying with her affections, carefully leading her down the path where I could satisfy every urge she provoked in me. And God knows she provokes. When I'm around her, it's ... it's like . . ." He shuddered. "Like she possesses me. I lose control. I crave her lips, her body, her soul ..."
"Why is that bad? Why does that scare you if she's in love with you?"
He tossed the pencil on the desk. It ricocheted off and skittered to the floor. "Because she's no good for me. She's nothing like Faith. No faith in God, a minimal sense of right and wrong. She lies, she manipulates, she coaxes. Anything to get what she wants."
Bridie leaned forward. "You can teach her. Like Faith taught you."
He shook his head. "No, it's not just that. I don't trust her, not one golden strand on that beautiful head of hers. Every time I think of her, I get this heat, this desire. And then right on its heels slithers this cold, paralyzing fear so strong, my stomach turns."
Bridie expelled a deep breath and slumped back in the chair. "Anna really inflicted some damage, didn't she?"
A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "Yeah. She kind of picked right up where my beloved mother left off."
"I'm sorry, Mitch." She hesitated. "But Charity may not be Anna."
"True. But you know, Bridie, I'm just a bit skittish about going down that road to find out for sure."
"So, what are you going to do? Even the best Irish whiskey won't dull the effect she obviously has on you."
"No, but she's leaving Ireland before Christmas, thank God, so I'll just have to keep my emotions in check until then."
"You weren't serious about marrying Kathleen, were you?"
He released a weighty breath. "I think I am. I'm a thirty-fiveyear-old man with needs and a conscience. A wife will do me good. And Kathleen will make one of the best."
"Don't hurt her, Mitch."
He glanced up, his gaze locking with hers. "I won't, Bridie. Once I commit to Kathleen, there will be no turning back."
"It might be wise to wait till Charity's out of the picture."
He nodded. "Yeah, I thought of that. I'll wait till Charity's just a speck on the horizon, sailing home. And then I'll court Kathleen like I should have years ago."
Bridie stood up. "You'll make her the happiest woman in the world, you know."
He nodded, a shadow of a smile lifting his lips. "Yeah. That's something, anyway."
The bell over the door jangled, delivering a blast of cold air and another shivering patron into the cozy confines of Shaw's Emporium. Emma glanced up and elbowed Charity. "Don't look now, but our favorite customer is here."
Charity peeked out of the corner of her eye and spotted Rigan chatting with Mrs. Shaw. She groaned under her breath. "Not my favorite customer-Mrs. Shaw's." She kept her gaze glued to the receipts in her hand, tallying numbers she no longer saw.
Emma chuckled softly. "That's what I meant. But we all know he's not here for Mrs. Shaw, now don't we?"
Charity swallowed. Yes, she knew. All too well. She'd been dreading the encounter for days. Since she'd promised Mitch she wouldn't see him again. Emma patted her arm. "Why, Mr. Gallagher, so nice to see you."
Charity looked up, feigning surprise. "Rigan! What are you doing here? Out slumming?"
Rigan propped his arms on the counter and leaned in, a lazy smile on his handsome face. "Hello, Emma, Charity. I'm in dire need of a new suit." He winked at Emma before giving Charity a seductive grin. "I want to look my best when I take a particular lady to the theater on Saturday night."
Charity chewed at her lip. "Rigan, I ... I'm sorry, but I won't be able to accompany you."
The smile died on his face. "Charity, I've had tickets for months. It's Shaw's Pygmalion, a limited engagement at the Abbey Theater."
Emma quietly slipped away while Charity drew in a tight breath. "I know. Everyone's been talking about it, but I can't go. Please forgive me." She attempted a teasing smile. "Now you can ask one of the scores of other women vying for your attention."
He stood to his full height, his umber eyes deepening to brown. "Why?"
She fidgeted with the receipts in her hand. "I ... I'd rather not go into it here ..."
A muscle twitched in the hard line of his jaw. "You better go into it here."
Charity glanced around. "Rigan, I'm working."
She felt the heat of his stare before he turned. "Mrs. Shaw? Would you mind if I spoke with Charity privately in the back room?"
Mrs. Shaw looked up from another customer, a hesitant smile on her lips. "Why, no, Mr. Gallagher, not at all. Charity, you may take your break now."
Rigan's gaze shifted back. He arched a brow and extended his hand. "Shall we?"
Charity nodded and made her way to the back. Rigan followed, yanking the curtain closed behind him. She turned. "Rigan, I'm truly sorry."
He ambled to a chair and kicked it out with the tip of his shoe, his eyes never straying from hers. He sat and hiked his leg up, the heel of his boot propped on the lower rung of another chair. His voice was calm, almost matter-of-fact. "I want to know why."
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His bold eyes penetrated hers like gold fire. A muscle flickered somewhere in that swarthy complexion of his that always reminded her of a pirate. She stared at the deep cleft in his chin, already shadowed with a midday growth of dark beard, and swallowed hard. If it weren't for Mitch Dennehy, she might have very well fallen in love with this man. Every other woman certainly did.
He cleared his throat. "Why, Charity?"
She sighed and sank into a seat, twiddling her thumbs on the table. "Well, you see, our plan worked." She looked up and forced a bright smile. "We were quite successful in getting Mitch's attention."
Rigan never blinked. "If it's working, why quit?"
She hesitated, then steeled her jaw. "Because I promised I wouldn't see you again."
"I see. Well, I suppose congratulations are in order. Have you set a date?"
She could feel the heat in her cheeks clear down to her toes. "No. It's nothing like that."
The chair scraped as he shifted forward. He cocked a brow. "Then what, exactly?"
She bit her lip. "Friends."
He threw back his head and laughed, the husky rumble inflaming her cheeks even further. "Friends? And he dictates whom you may see?"
"Rigan-"
"Charity, you're a fool."
She stood and squared her shoulders. "Thank you for the unsolicited opinion."
He grinned. "You're welcome. Now sit down and hear me out."
She crossed her arms in defiance. "No, thank you, Mr. Gallagher. I believe my break is almost spent."
He rose to his feet and rounded the table. He gently pushed her back into the chair and squatted before her, his eyes earnest. "Charity, now is the time to turn up the heat, to go for the kill."
She glanced up through narrowed lids. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, he obviously cares enough to rid you of me, so let's put it to the test. Marry me."
Charity gasped. "What?"
He laughed and pulled her to her feet, skimming his hands up the sides of her arms. "Make him crazy. Marry me. Or at least say you will."
She tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. "You're joking."
He lifted her chin with his finger. "I wish I were. But, alas, you've stolen my senses, Miss O'Connor, leaving me little recourse of the heart."
"Rigan, I-"
He drew her in his arms and pressed his mouth against her cheek, his breath hot on her skin. "I need you, Charity."
She pulled away. "I ... I can't. I don't love you."
"I can remedy that if you allow me more than bargained kisses."
She sighed and sank into her chair. "Rigan, you have no idea how many times I've wished I'd fallen in love with you instead. But I didn't. You've known all along how I feel about Mitch." She glanced up. "For your sake as well as mine, I think it's best we end it now."
He studied her. "You're serious."
"Yes."
He moved to stoop beside her, taking her hand in his. "I can't accept that. I knew when we struck our bargain that I was taking a risk, so I accept that I've lost. But I can't accept losing your friendship. I care about you."
"I care about you too, Rigan, but I'm leaving Dublin in a month anyway."
"Then what's the harm of friendship till you leave?"
She bit her lip. "I promised."
He stroked the knuckles of her hand with his fingers. His voice was low. "And you promised me you'd go to the theater on Saturday night."
"I know. But I was hoping you'd be a gentleman and understand."
He stood. "I do. You're a woman of your word. So keep yours to me."
She assessed the seriousness of his manner and sighed. "All right. You win. I'll accompany you on Saturday night. But our bargain is over. We go as friends."
"Agreed. I'll pick you up at six for dinner." He moved to the door and turned. "As friends." Bending at the waist, he bowed and flashed a grin before disappearing through the curtain.
She shook her head, realizing she would probably miss his ardent attention when it was all over. She bit her lip. One night at the theater. Surely there was no harm in that. She stood and adjusted her skirt, her fingers as cold as the apprehension that slithered her spine. No harm, indeed. As long as Dennehy the Tyrant never found out.
"But you promised you would stay the night." Charity paused, her fingers buried deep in the golden curls piled high atop her head. Her brow wrinkled as she peered in the mirror at Emma, perched on the bed behind her.
"I promised I would by to stay, Charity. But Rory-"
Charity jabbed several hairpins into her hair and spun around. "I don't want to hear it, Emma. It's always Rory this, Rory that. The man does nothing but abuse you."
"He's my husband, Charity."
Charity slapped a stray curl out of her eyes. "Then let him act like it instead of drinking your paycheck and sleeping around. He's no good. Can't you see that?"
Emma sighed and slumped against the headboard. Her voice was barely a whisper. "Yes, I can see that." She looked up, the soft gray of her eyes as gentle as doves. "But it doesn't change the vows I took."
"Oh, Emma, I don't understand you." Charity plopped down beside her friend. "Rory's not concerned about his vows. Why are you?"
A quiet sigh drifted from Emma's lips. "I answer to a higher power than Rory. Besides, he was a good man before the drink poisoned him."
Charity glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, her lids slanted in warning. "You're not going to start spouting God stuff again, are you?"
Emma actually smiled. She looped an arm around Charity's shoulders. "It's who I am, Charity, and well you know it. But, no, I think you need to finish getting ready, and I need to see if Bridget needs my help. What time is Mitch coming?"
"Saints alive, he'll be here in fifteen minutes," Charity said with a glance at the clock. She bolted up from the bed. "Emma, tell Grandmother I'll be down as soon as I finish my hair. Oh ... it would be so much easier to leave my hair down. But no, saintly Mr. Dennehy seems to prefer this overly modest, holier-than-thou type of woman, so I'm forced to fiddle with pinning it up."
"It worked last time, didn't it?"
Charity smiled over her shoulder. "Like a charm."
"Well, then, you best get busy pinning, and I'll get busy praying. Between the two of us, Mr. Dennehy should end up more lovesick than you."
"Not possible, but oh, I'd give anything to make it so."
Emma turned at the door. "Anything?"
Charity pinned a curl in place and grinned at Emma's reflection in the mirror. "Anything."
Her friend chuckled and nodded her head toward the ceiling. "Good. He's listening."
It irked him beyond belief that he didn't want the night to end. He watched from across the candlelit parlor as Charity took her turn at charades. Full lips pressed into a beautiful pout and eyes squinted with determination, she looked like a little girl pretending to pry a lid from a jar. His gaze strayed to the shapely curve of her fitted cotton blouse tucked into a dark tweed skirt that hugged her body. All thoughts of a little girl suddenly bolted from his mind. He swallowed hard. She was too beautiful for her own good.
And his.
"Twist! Oliver Twist!" Emma flew up from the faded flamestitch sofa, gesturing wildly in the air. Charity shook her head, and more golden strands dislodged from the knot of curls pinned at the back of her head. She tugged on her ear.
"Sounds like ..." Mima edged precariously close to the edge of her seat.
Balling her fists to her eyes, Charity pretended to cry.
"Cry ...
She tapped her index finger on her nose and pointed to Mima before continuing to twist a lid from a make-believe jar.
"Pry. Pride and Prejudice!" Emma shouted.
Charity squealed. "We win, we win! Losers have to serve dessert, as agreed." She shot a cocky look in Mitch's direction. "An ample piece of Mrs. Lynch's apple duff, if you please, Mr. Dennehy. And don't skimp on the cream in my coffee."
He seared her with a half -lidded gaze and a smug smile of his own, noting with satisfaction that her cheeks tinged pink. "At your service, Miss O'Connor." He scanned the parlor. "Mima, Emma, would you like coffee with your dessert?"
"Oh, no, Mitch, thank you. I need to be getting home, so I'll pass." Emma stood.
Charity whirled around. "No, Emma, not before dessert! Please stay."
"I wish I could, but Rory's expecting me home, and I have a long walk."
"Mitch will run you home right after dessert, won't you, Mitch?"
"Absolutely. Besides, Emma, you can't be walking home alone in the dark and the cold."
Emma smiled. "I do it all the time, Mitch.
Shaw's Emporium is about the same distance from my flat as Charity's grandmother's house. No, I refuse to disrupt your evening. I'll be fine."
Mitch angled a brow in Emma's direction. "I'm not arguing with you, Emma. I'll drive you home after dessert, and that's the way it will be."
"Very well, if you insist. I don't suppose I'd have much success arguing with the likes of you, anyway. I hear you possess all the stubbornness of a small clan of Irishmen."
He chuckled, his gaze roving to Charity's face, which now sported a lovely shade of rose. "Really? And would the clan's name be O'Connor, by chance?"
Emma giggled. "I think it just might be."
"I can certainly vouch for that," Mima chimed in. "At least the O'Connors I know are inclined toward a mulish bent. Inherited, no doubt, from their grandmother."
"Mother! That's certainly the sot calling the lush tipsy." Bridget laughed and grabbed Mitch by the arm. "Come, Mrs. Lynch, Mitch. I believe we have dessert to serve."
"And mouths to stuff with something other than cocky comments," Mitch mumbled.
Bridget giggled as she led the trio to the kitchen. "Oh, dear me, yes."
Mitch glanced over his shoulder before easing into the thin stream of traffic outside of Emma's ramshackle apartment building. He shifted and glanced at Charity. "What happened to Emma's face?" He caught the stiff set of Charity's jaw before he returned his gaze to the road.
"Rory happened to Emma's face. Like a fatal disease."
"He beat her?"
A hoarse laugh erupted from her throat, thick with scorn. "If only that were all."
"What do you mean?"
Charity stared out the window, emotion trembling in her voice. "He tried to kill her."
Mitch clenched his teeth. "How?"
"Tried to strangle her. Right before he threw hot grease in her face."
A curse parted from his lips before he could stifle it. "Sorry. For the love of God, why does she stay?"
Charity turned her gaze to his, her face distorted by the headlight glare of a passing vehicle. "For that very reason."
A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2) Page 11