A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2) Read online

  Charity thrust her chin out. "Are you suggesting I'm using you?"

  Rigan lifted a curl fallen loose from her topknot. He fondled it with his fingers as he studied her. A hint of a smile played on his lips. "I am ... and most happily so. I must admit I was disappointed it wasn't my charm that wooed you. But alas, I will take you, Charity O'Connor, any way I can. If I am to be the bait to entice some hapless suitor, so be it."

  Charity sank to her chair. "You would do that? Whatever for?"

  Rigan returned to his seat. "Call me a hopeless romantic. Or maybe I'm counting on you falling in love with me in the process. Either way, I'm willing to play the fool-for a price."

  Her gaze narrowed. "What price?"

  The waiter interrupted with steaming plates of shepherd's pie and Dublin coddle before dashing off again. Charity felt her stomach rumble. She picked up her fork. "What price?" she repeated, stabbing into her food.

  Rigan sipped his wine. He took his time while he watched her over the rim of his glass. He finally set it down and relaxed back in the chair, assessing her through hooded eyes. "The taste of your lips-anytime, anywhere."

  Charity's fork clattered to her plate. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop the nervous laughter from bubbling up. Impossible! Giggles rolled from her lips in unrestrained hilarity, bringing tears to her eyes and discomfort to her cheeks. The rogue! He couldn't be serious! She dabbed at the wetness with her napkin and took a deep breath, a shaky hand pressed to her chest. "Really, Rigan, I have a mind to leave right now and never see you again. You can't be serious."

  He never blinked. "Quite."

  Charity quickly reached for her wine, desperate to diffuse her shock. Her lips rested on the edge before sipping it while thoughts of Mitch Dennehy clouded her mind. She stared at the scarlet liquid glazing the glass and fought back the hint of impropriety that nettled her nerves. No! She couldn't do this ... could she? She swallowed hard and slowly looked up, careful to place the glass back on the table with steady fingers. Her chin lifted with resolve. "My lips? And nothing more?"

  She could feel the heat of his gaze from across the table.

  "Nothing ... until you beg."

  Heat flooded her cheeks. DearLord, whatam I doing? She picked up her fork and forced a smile she didn't feel. At least the tantalizing smell of the food, if not Rigan, had her salivating. She took a deep breath to dispel her discomfort and strove for a show of confidence. "Not a likely scenario, but I won't ruin your fun."

  She closed her eyes for her first taste of the pie, fighting the urge to emit a soft moan as she rolled it across her tongue. Opening her eyes once again, she hoisted her glass with a nervous grin. "Absolutely delicious ... and far, far better than the taste of my lips, I assure you. Nonetheless, feed me, kiss me, and turn a head in the process, and we, my good man, shall have a deal. After all, I'm a woman who usually gets what she wants-a trait I also admire in others."

  Rigan tipped his glass in a toast. "Well then, my dear Charity, I daresay, if admiration were love, we'd be well on our way."

  Mitch Dennehy glanced at the clock and groaned. He plowed his fingers through his short, cropped hair, then stood from his desk to stretch. "Come on, Bridie, I'll buy you supper. It's the least I can do after keeping you so late."

  Bridie O'Halloran looked up, and her gold-brown eyes reflected the fatigue of a long day. She slumped back in the chair and blew a wisp of silver hair out of her face. "Sweet angels in heaven, I thought you'd never ask! I'm no good dead from starvation, you know." She held up the latest edition of the Times and wagged it in the air. "Read all about it. Fifty-year-old Galway woman perishes at the Irish Times."

  Mitch laughed and reached for his coat. "And I'll do better than Brody's. How does Guinness stew and fresh-baked soda bread sound, hot out of the oven?"

  Bridie rolled her eyes in obvious ecstasy. "Like the gates of heaven itself ... or further south if you'll throw in a pint of ale."

  Mitch retrieved her coat and held it while she slipped it on. "Well then, Duffy's it is. Nothing but the best for my slave labor."

  Bridie grunted. "Keep that up and I'll be ordering scones and lemon curd as well."

  Mitch laughed and ushered her through the newsroom and into the lobby, nodding at those who worked the second shift. He opened the door, and a rush of cold air assaulted their faces. With it came the fumes of the city, from its gas lamps and motor lorries and faint whiff of manure. Bridie shivered as he led her around the corner to Duffy's, a favorite haunt he'd once frequented. Shouldering open the heavy, oak-carved door, Mitch allowed Bridie to enter before him. One foot on the threshold, and the onslaught of boisterous laughter and tempting aromas assailed his senses. The reaction in his gut was immediate. Everything-from the pungent smell of spiced beef and crubeens simmering on the stove, to the scent of lemon oil gleaming the bar and booths to a high sheen-all of it, dredged up memories he'd rather forget.

  Mitch slammed the door behind him. His lips stiffened in a frown as he surveyed the room, hunting for an empty booth or table, to no avail. What? They giving food away now?

  "Saints above, has it always been this busy?" Bridie asked, searching the room for some sign of an empty chair.

  "Didn't used to be. But I haven't been here in a while."

  Bridie wheeled to face him. "Aw, Mitch, I'm so sorry. I completely forgot-this is the place you and Faith-"

  Mitch pushed past her, hooking her elbow on his way to the bar. "Yes, it is, but it doesn't matter. It's been over a year and by thunder, if I want to eat in Duffy's again, I will." He glanced behind the bar, catching the eye of a portly, red-haired waitress toting a tray of foaming ales. At the sight of him, her mouth tilted into a toothy grin. She passed the tray off to another waitress and hurried over. Her blue eyes sparkled.

  "Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn't the man of me dreams." Clutching fleshy arms around Mitch's waist, she squeezed with a teasing groan. "Where on this fair isle of ours have you been keeping yourself, Mitch Dennehy? We've missed you! The rest of us thought maybe Duffy poisoned you." She grinned at Bridie. "Nice to see you too, Bridie."

  Mitch laughed and returned the woman's hug with one of his own. He chucked her double chin with his thumb and grinned. "Truth be told, Duffy told me of Harry finally pro posed. Near broke my heart, it did. Enough to stay away and nurse my wounds."

  Sally blushed. The folds of her full cheeks dimpled in delight. "Aw, go on with you now, you silver-tongued rake." Her smile faded. "We heard about Faith, Mitch. No tight lips in a place like this, you know. I kinda wondered if maybe that was why we hadn't seen ya. You okay?"

  Mitch sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, Sal, I'm okay." He leaned forward, ducking his head. "But I'd be a sight better if we had a booth."

  Sally tossed her head back in a giggle, causing her short, puffy curls to bob. "Well now, I can't toss customers out, even for a heartbreaker like you." She inclined her head with a saucy sway. "But I'm not without my influence. Why don't you and Bridie sit at the bar and get yourselves a pint. I'll see you get the very next one."

  Mitch planted a kiss on Sally's glowing cheek. "You're the best, Sal. Tell of Harry to treat you right or I'll hunt him down."

  Mitch steered Bridie to the nearest empty stool where she sank against the bar with a low groan. "Never again will you talk me into working this late. I'm starving. Hope you brought lots of cash."

  He gave her a wry grin. -1 always bring lots of cash when I feed you. What's your pleasure?"

  She perked up and squinted at the rows of bottles behind the bar. "I believe I'll have an extra stout porter."

  Mitch signaled the bartender and ordered a Guinness for Bridie and a ginger ale for himself. He turned and leaned back to survey the action.

  She swiveled on the stool and puckered her brow. "Ginger ale? You're reduced to ginger ale?"

  He frowned. "Lay off, Bridie."

  The bartender delivered their drinks. He gulped his like it was pure corn liquor, then wipe
d his mouth with his sleeve.

  Bridie shook her head. "I'll lay off when you get back to normal." She took a swig of her beer, eyeing him over her mug. "When you gonna get on with your life?"

  "Leave it be, I said." His lips cemented into a hard line as a clear warning.

  "No, I won't leave it be. You're miserable. When are you going to move on?"

  He shot up from his stool and loomed over her like a tree about to fall. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "I said, lay off! As your manager, my personal life is none of your business."

  She bristled. Her chin slanted up. "Yeah, but as your friend,' it's getting on my bloomin' nerves. It's been a year. Have you seen anyone else? Even taken another woman out to dinner?"

  Mitch turned away, a sour feeling in his stomach. "Not interested."

  She lifted her porter in a mock salute. "Mmmm ... not interested in drinking, not interested in women. Sounds like the old Mitch left when Faith did." She whirled to face the bar, two-fisting her beer like it was her long-lost mother.

  Mitch cuffed the back of his neck. He released a noisy sigh, fraught with frustration. "So help me, Bridie, I knew you'd give me trouble tonight. You have no talent whatsoever for minding your own business." He exhaled again, then turned to face her, his muscles fatigued from trying to fake it. "I've given up drinking because ... ," he closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingers, "... once she left, it got harder to stop." He leaned heavily against the bar and stared straight ahead. "And I gave up women because ... not one could even come close."

  Bridie rested her hand on his arm. "Let her go, Mitch. Faith wasn't for you. But someone is. Find her. Get out there and do what you do best-break a few hearts. Trust me, it will all make sense when you find the right one." She tilted her head and grinned. "Where's that annoying confidence of yours when you need it? Your faith in God?"

  A smile tugged at his lips. "Yeah, it did get me through the last year without losing my mind." He downed the rest of the ginger ale. "But I suppose you're right. Maybe it's time."

  "Kathleen might be a good place to start, you know. You two used to have a lot of fun before Faith. And you know she still cares for you, Mitch."

  He nodded, his gaze fixed on the empty glass in his hand. "I know."

  "Ready for a booth?" Sally flitted by, gesturing for them to follow.

  Bridie slipped off her stool. "The saints be praised! Another minute and I'd be but a faint heap on the floor. Get your wallet out, Mr. Dennehy. This is going to cost ya dearly."

  "It already cost me dearly," he mumbled. He followed the bounce of Sally's head as she led them across the room, menus in hand. He breathed a sigh of relief when she passed the frontcorner booth where he and Faith had often sat.

  She slapped the menus down on a booth at the back of the smoky pub. "How's this?" she asked with a perky smile. "And Duffy told me to go ahead and wait on you myself, even though I'm working the bar tonight."

  Bridie grinned. "Oh, that's a great big tip for sure, Sally girl." She winked at Mitch. "Very dearly, my friend."

  "Thanks, Sally," Mitch said, cutting Bridie a searing look. "I'll take another ginger ale, then we should be ready to order." Sally toddled away and he leaned back, stretching his legs. He picked up the menu, hoping he could assess it without drooling. "I swear, Bridie, I'm so blasted hungry, I could order one of everything."

  "The shepherd's pie is quite good and, I might add, quite filling."

  The sound of a familiar voice froze his fingers to the paper. Looking up, shock nipped at the heels of his hunger.

  "Charity ..." Her name solidified on his tongue, refusing to let another word pass. It was seconds before he realized his mouth hung open, allowing painful silence to fill the air. He cleared his throat and stood to his feet, angered at the heat she generated. "Charity ..."

  "You said that," she whispered, her smile almost shy.

  His jaw hardened in self-defense. "You're looking well." Well? She was heart-stoppingly beautiful and nothing less. "How's your grandmother doing?" he asked. He could feel his hands sweat.

  The smile faded from her full lips. "She's doing all right, I suppose, despite the fact that my great-grandmother is not." Her clear, blue eyes darkened with worry. She pushed a strand of honey blond hair away from her face. "Mima seems to get weaker every day. Grandmother and I are both concerned."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?"

  Charity blinked, the depths of her eyes drawing him in. "Mima would love to see you, Mitch. We all would."

  Something cramped in his gut, and he suspected it wasn't hunger.

  Bridie cleared her throat and held out her hand. "Hello, I'm Bridie O'Halloran. I work with Mitch at the Times."

  Charity smiled and extended her hand. "I'm Charity O'Connor. Nice to meet you.-

  "Faith's sister?"

  A blush crept into Charity's cheeks. Her gaze fluttered to Mitch and back. "Yes."

  "It's good to meet some of Faith's family. We loved her at the Times, you know."

  The color in Charity's cheeks deepened. "Thank you," she whispered. Her smile faltered as she withdrew her hand and turned to Mitch. "It's wonderful seeing you again, but we have to be going ..

  "We?„

  "My gentleman friend and I. We have tickets to the theater." She glanced over her shoulder, then returned her gaze to his. "Do come by, Mitch. We would love to catch up."

  "Ready, darling?" Rigan appeared behind her. He rested his hands on her shoulders and gave Mitch a cool smile. "Hello, Mitch."

  The blood drained from Mitch's face as his jaw calcified to stone. "Hello, Rigan. It's been a long time."

  Charity's hand floated to the flounce of silk on her chest. A pretty blush stained her cheeks. "Goodness, you two know each other?"

  "Yes, Mitch works for me." Rigan's hands slid to Charity's waist, resting comfortably. "Or should I say, my father?"

  Mitch ground his teeth behind a tight-lipped expression, biting back insults that lingered on the tip of his tongue. He forced a smile. "Definitely not you."

  Rigan laughed and swung his arm around Charity's shoulders, pulling her close. "No, not at the present, certainly. But perhaps the future?" With maddening ease, his fingers casually traced at the base of Charity's throat, sending another wash of color into her face. "Shall we be on our way, Charity? It wouldn't do to miss the first act. Good night, Mitch." He nodded his head at Bridie. "Ma'am."

  "Good night, Mitch," Charity whispered. "Stop by anytime, please." She extended her arm to shake Bridie's hand. "Bridie, it was a pleasure. I hope we meet again."

  Mitch watched while Rigan whisked her away. Heads turned as they made their way to the door. Mitch scowled. Nothing but trouble for any woman. Humph-a perfect match.

  Bridie's voice jarred him back. "My, oh my. So that's the infamous Charity O'Connor? Goodness, Boss, rumors don't do her justice. That one could turn the head of the Pope."

  Mitch frowned. "Where the blazes is Sally?" he bellowed, ignoring Bridie's remark.

  Her eyes narrowed. "And dangerous, too, from the look of that vein twitching in your head. Who's the guy? He looks familiar."

  "Rigan Gallagher III." Mitch all but bit the words out.

  Bridie's eyes popped. "No joke? So that's Old Man Gallagher's black-sheep son? Sweet saints above-handsome as the devil and all that money too."

  "He's no good."

  "For you? Or for Charity?"

  Mitch sneered. "He's nothing but heartbreak for any woman."

  Bridie paused, then took a deep breath. "But she's not just any woman, is she, Mitch?"

  Sally descended upon the table, her cheeks puffing with heat. "Sorry about the wait. There's some sort of company meeting in the back slamming away kegs of ale like it was sarsaparilla. Ready to order?"

  "Just bring me another ginger ale, Sally. I'm not hungry."

  Bridie looked up. "Sally, bring us two plates of crubeens, a side of champ, and some of your best brown soda bread. And I'll
have another Guinness."

  "Sit tight; I'll dish it right up for ye." She scooted away, disappearing through the maze of tables into the kitchen.

  Bridie crossed her arms and rested them on the table. "She's not, is she?"

  He looked up, the whites of his eyes burning. "Not what?"

  "Just any woman?"

  He leaned in. "She's a spoiled brat who uses her beauty to get what she wants. She ruined my life once. It won't happen again." He fairly spit the words in Bridie's face.

  "And you had nothing to do with it, I suppose."

  He slammed his fist on the table, causing her to jump. "So help me, Bridie, I'd fire you right now if I didn't think Michael would cinch me up."

  The burn in her eyes matched what he felt in his gut. "All I'm saying is, don't be laying all the blame on her for hanging you up. You're the fool who gave her the rope."

  "Stay out of it, Bridie; I'm warning you."

  "I will not. At least not until you admit she's under your skin."

  "You're out of your mind. No one's under my skin."

  "She was once. Enough to change the course of your life."

  "She's a kid."

  Bridie cocked a brow. "Not from where I was sitting. How old?"

  He glared. "Almost twenty ... going on sixteen."

  Her forehead puckered. "Oooh ... that is rather young. What are you again? Thirty-five, almost thirty-six?"

  Mitch looked up with a glare meant to singe.

  Bridie ignored it. "Faith was twenty when you fell in love with her."

  "She's nothing like Faith."

  Bridie reached across the table to take his hand in hers, her voice a near whisper. "Nobody is. But there's a reason it didn't work out."

  He grunted. "Yeah, there's a reason, all right. A goldenhaired vixen, five foot four."

  "No, I mean 'a reason,' like maybe Faith wasn't the one."

  Mitch rubbed his jaw with the side of his hand. "Yeah, well, apparently not." He looked up, his eyes shooting her a warning. "Don't get any ideas. That woman gives me cold chills."