A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2) Page 6

  "I've changed my mind," she whispered, backing toward the door.

  "What?" Rigan turned, his eyes scanning her face. "Charity, you're white as a sheet." He jerked an empty chair from a nearby desk. "Here, sit down. Are you all right?"

  "I've changed my mind. It's not the time nor place for this, Rigan." She pressed a shaky hand to her stomach, willing its contents to stay put. It took everything in her to stifle a burp.

  He squatted to stare in her face. A slow curve formed on his lips. "Oh, no you don't. You're not sick. You're scared."

  Charity hurled his hand away, her tone clipped. "Of Mitch Dennehy? Don't be ridiculous. I just don't think this is the time or place. This is a business, not a battleground."

  Rigan's eyes narrowed. "Yes, it is a business. My business." He stood and stretched his arms down his side, adjusting the sleeves of his suit coat. "And my battleground." He pulled her up from the chair and hooked her arm over his with a firm grip.

  Charity blinked. "What do you mean your battleground'?"

  "It's simple. You want his heart. I want his head." He leaned close. "And your heart in the process, my dear."

  Charity stared. "Rigan, you know my heart is set. Why are you doing this?"

  "Short-term? To humiliate him and lord it over the man." He studied her through shrewd eyes. "Long-term? To be waiting with open arms when you tire of him turning you away.-

  Charity angled her chin. "And what makes you think he'll keep turning me away?"

  A low laugh rumbled from Rigan's throat. "Experience, my dear. Cold, hard experience. He's not a forgiving man."

  Charity gave Rigan a sideways glance. Challenge rose up in her like a feather caught in a breeze, buoying her resolve. "But ... he is a man. When it comes to forgiving, I suppose I don't have much experience. But when it comes to men, I like to think I'm somewhat qualified."

  Rigan chuckled. He pulled her toward Michael Reardon's office with a definite air of authority. "Yes, Miss O'Connor, I would certainly concur with that." He gave her a wicked grin and swung Michael Reardon's door wide open, not even bothering to knock.

  "Forget it, Michael, I won't do it!" Mitch slammed the cup on his desk. Plops of cold coffee skittered across a haphazard pile of galley sheets. He swore under his breath and reached in his pocket for a handkerchief to mop it up.

  Michael appeared to wait patiently while Mitch continued to mumble. Mitch glanced up at his editor, noting the thick arms folded across his barreled chest. A sheen of perspiration began right above Michael's thunderous brows, spanning up and over a bald spot. Mitch swore again.

  "You don't have a choice, Mitch. He requested you. And his name is on your paycheck."

  Mitch emitted a sound dangerously close to a growl. He crashed a fist on his oak desk. The force of the blow upset the coffee once again, spilling more of its contents across yesterday's news. With a snarl, Mitch righted the cup. "To the devil with my paycheck. He wouldn't recognize a hard day's pay if it bit him in the backside. He's nothing but a leech with a silver spoon in his mouth."

  Michael moved in, slapping his meaty hands on top of Mitch's desk. "Keep your voice down, or he'll have your carcass tossed clear across Abby Street. I can't afford to lose my best editor while the presses are hot keeping up with the Brits." The heat in Michael's eyes tempered. He stood and exhaled a hefty breath while his stubby fingers massaged his temple. "Just do it for me, will ya, Mitch? To the devil with Gallagher; do it for me. I can't afford to lose you."

  Mitch leaned hard against his knotted fist. He looked up at Michael, biting back the colorful commentary lodged deep in his throat. God help him, how he wanted to hurt Gallagher!

  "What d'ya say? Just tighten your lip and give him twenty minutes of your time. Will you do it? For me?" Michael's eyes seemed to plead, pools of weariness begging for mercy.

  Mitch slashed his fingers through the cropped curls on his head. "So help me, Michael, I have the mind to shove these galley sheets right down your throat and leave you high and dry." He sat up, aiming his finger within inches of his editor's nose. "You, my friend, are taking advantage of our friendship."

  The stress lines in Michael's forehead eased while a semblance of a grin shadowed his lips. "Not friendship, Mitch. More like a son."

  Mitch groaned and flipped the galley sheets over. "Yeah? Well, you owe me, Pop. Double time, and then some. Where is the royal prince?"

  "Waiting in my office. He and a lady friend."

  Mitch glared at Michael, the muscles in his neck straining tight. "His next victim, I presume?"

  Michael pressed his lips tight, draining them of color. "Forget the past, Mitch," he whispered. "Gallagher's not worth the emotion. Twenty minutes of your time. Get it over with and move on."

  Mitch stared, his eyes burning in his head. He snatched his handkerchief to sop up the spilled coffee. "Fine. Do what you have to do. Send Little Lord Fauntleroy in."

  "No need, Dennehy. He's here."

  Mitch froze, the stained handkerchief dangling in his hand. He looked up into the stone face of Gallagher, standing at the door with a lady on his arm. The breath died in his lungs.

  Charity.

  "Hello, Mitch." Her voice was soft and breathy, impacting his heart with the force of a Big Bertha cannon. The full lips parted ever so slightly with just a hint of a smile. He gaped at her, a vision in lavender crepe, its silky fit far too seductive for the light of day. Strands of pale gold hair peeked beneath a close-fitting cloche hat, making her blue eyes appear all the larger, all the more innocent. The muscles in his cheek tightened. He knew better.

  Rigan draped his arm around Charity's shoulder. "So, I understand you'll be showing us around today."

  Mitch looked up through slitted eyes, his hand clenched on his desk. "I'm busy, Gallagher. We have a paper to run."

  Rigan's smile was cold. "Yes, I know. My paper." His fingers caressed Charity's arm. "But Miss O'Connor's been quite anxious to see the inner workings of the Times, and who better to show her than an old family friend?"

  Michael cleared his throat, a hoarse chuckle cutting the silence. "An old family friend?"

  Mitch's eyes never strayed from Rigan's face. "Faith's sister."

  His editor began to wheeze uncontrollably, his ruddy face turning scarlet.

  Mitch handed him the last of the coffee. Michael lunged for the cup and bolted it down, sputtering out a few final coughs. "Er ... my apologies, Miss O'Connor."

  Charity smiled. "Call me Charity, please, Mr. Reardon. My sister spoke highly of you."

  The color in Michael's cheeks heightened and he nodded, the sweat on his brow glittering in the light. "We loved her around here. You can be sure of that."

  Her blue eyes widened the slightest bit, barely noticeable, except, perhaps, by Mitch, long familiar with every nuance of her face. She nodded, and her eyes shifted to meet his searing gaze. "Yes, I'm quite sure of that."

  "Well, shall we begin the tour? I know your time is valuable, and Charity and I have luncheon plans." Rigan slipped a hand neatly around Charity's waist.

  Michael glanced at Mitch and then hurried to the door, stopping to offer Charity his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I trust Faith is doing well?"

  A pretty blush skimmed into her cheeks. "Yes, Mr. Reardon. Quite well, thank you."

  Michael cleared his throat. "I'm glad to hear that. Rigan, stop by before you leave and I'll have those reports for your father. Enjoy the tour, Miss O'Connor." He hurried out.

  Rigan faced Mitch, his tone akin to an arctic chill. "Step outside for a moment. I'd like some privacy with Charity before we begin."

  Heat like a horde of fire ants crawled up the back of Mitch's neck. He stood, his jaw clamped as tightly as frozen steel. He headed for the door, fists clenched at his sides.

  "And close the door."

  Mitch slammed it hard on its hinges, causing Bridie and Kathleen to jump at their desks. Mitch whirled around, almost knocking his associate editor off his feet.

  "Sorry,
Boss," Jamie mumbled, jumping back to get out of Mitch's way. Jamie cocked a curious look in Bridie's direction.

  Bridie leaned over her typewriter and smiled, nodding toward Mitch. "It seems Mr. Dennehy is playing tour guide today, Jamie. To Mr. Rigan Gallagher III, no less."

  A spasm twitched in Mitch's cheek as he stormed past her desk. "Yeah, I'll give him a tour, all right. A tour of my fist." He kept going, making a beeline for the double doors.

  Bridie stood up, her mouth hanging open. "Mitch, wait! Where are you going?"

  He shot her a withering look over his shoulder. "Tell Michael I suddenly took ill. Just plain sick to my stomach."

  "But what about Gallagher?"

  Mitch slapped his palm hard against the glass door, flinging it open with a force that rattled the hinges. "Tell him I left to protect his health."

  Bridie looked at Kathleen and Jamie, her shock mirroring their own. "Oh, this is not good," she muttered, "not good at all." Bridie sighed and straightened her shoulders. She glanced in the direction of Michael's office and absently made the sign of the cross. "Dear Lord above, let him be stocked up on aspirin."

  Bridie tossed a stack of proofs on Mitch's desk. Her lips cemented in a stiff line. "Michael left right after you did. Something about a migraine." She frosted him with a cold gaze before turning on her heel to head out the door.

  "Bridie, wait. Was Michael mad?"

  She spun around, her hazel eyes glittering like topaz. "Mad? I haven't seen that many shades of red since my Wesley fell asleep on the Dingle seashore." She launched fleshy arms on ample hips. "He took a bullet for you, Mitch. Gallagher was all over him like summer blight on soggy spuds, screaming he'd have your job and Michael's too."

  Mitch sank lower in his chair, his anger warping into guilt. "Okay, okay, I lost my temper. I'll make it up to him."

  "I hope you get the chance."

  Mitch glanced up. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean Gallagher's gunning for you, Mitch. He made it crystal clear to Michael-and everybody in earshot-that your days are numbered. He'd like nothing better than to see your name in the obits. Swears he's gonna talk to the old man about sending you packing."

  Mitch leaned forward, sweat licking the inside of his collar. "Do you think he means it?"

  Bridie regarded him through narrowed eyes, casually lifting one hand to study her nails. Her lips twitched enough for him to notice. "Could be," she said. "All I know is Michael wants me to write the eulogy."

  Mitch sagged back in the chair with a grin easing across his lips. He fanned his fingers through his hair. "So help me, Bridie, you had my pulse going there for a moment."

  Bridie approached his desk and propped her hands on the smooth oak. "Mitch, it's nothing to let your guard down about. Gallagher hates you."

  "He's always hated me." He wadded a paper and tossed it in the can. "What's new?"

  Bridie straightened. "Charity's new. You made a fool of him."

  "So we're even." He shuffled through a stack of papers, giving Bridie a clear dismissal he knew she'd ignore.

  "Yeah, you're even, all right. Both hypocrites to the core."

  That got his attention. He jolted to his feet, heat sizzling his glare. "What the devil are you talking about? Don't ever put me in the same category with that lowlife."

  Bridie notched her chin, her smile conspicuously absent. "My mistake, Boss. You belong in a category all your own. The one with people who profess to live for God, then do whatever they blimey well please."

  She might as well have tossed cold coffee in his face. He wavered, shock rippling through his veins at the truth of her statement. His pride surged. She would not get the last word.

  "You're out of your mind, old woman. I answer to God, not you."

  Bridie sucked in a deep breath, releasing it slow and easy as she set her jaw. "Yeah, I know. Wonder what God thinks when he says 'forgive' and you tell him no."

  Bridie O'Halloran might be his subordinate in the workplace, but Mitch knew when it came to having the final say, she owned the place, lock, stock, and barrel. She spun on her heel and marched for the door, the last word safely tucked in her pocket. The door slammed behind her and Mitch ground his jaw. He knew she would do it-have the final say-she always did. He blinked. He hated being right.

  Charity propped a finger against her cheek and tilted her head, squinting to study the elderly gentleman before her.

  He repositioned a black bowler on his head and turned. His kind, gray eyes lit with a twinkle. "Well?"

  She pursed her lips and stepped forward, then reached to tug the derby a bit lower. Leaning back to assess, she finally grinned. "Why, Mr. Hargrove, I do believe you bring new meaning to the word 'dapper.'"

  Her playful tone elicited a chuckle from his weathered lips. "It's not too young for a man my age?" His eyes darted back to the looking glass, a crease hovering above snow-white brows.

  Charity joined him at the mirror, impressed with the striking image he cut for someone in his eighties. She smiled and patted his arm. "Maybe for a man your age," she teased, "but not for a man who looks twenty years younger."

  He laughed, a ruddy color lighting his cheeks. He lifted the derby from his head and held it to his striped silk vest, bowing slightly. Silver hair gleamed in the afternoon sun that shafted through the front window of Shaw's Emporium. "My dear Miss O'Connor, I'm not sure if it's the derby or the young woman selling it that puts a spring in my step. But either way, you've made yourself a sale."

  Charity plucked the hat from his hand and giggled. "Shall I wrap it up along with the double-breasted suit, the incredibly elegant morning coat, and the tweed Norfolk jacket?" She cocked her head and dangled the derby in the air. "Or do you want to wear it home to watch the ladies swoon?"

  The sound of his rich, throaty laughter turned several heads their way. He snatched the bowler from her fingers and slapped it on his head with two firm taps. He extended his arm to escort her to the front desk. "Charity, my girl, you alone are worth the obscene amount of money I spend in this place."

  Charity slipped her arm into his and released a contented sigh. "Why, thank you, Mr. Hargrove. And customers like you are worth the long, long hours I put in."

  He stopped abruptly, his brows bunched in a frown. "Does Mrs. Shaw realize what she has in you, young lady?"

  Charity laughed. "I believe she realizes she has a loyal employee with a fondness for some of her favorite customers." She took a step toward the register. He tugged her back.

  "No, my dear, I mean does she realize what a gold mine you are? That you're the reason that many a customer, myself included, comes into her humble mercantile?"

  Charity swallowed. "Why, Mr. Hargrove, that's so very kind-"

  "Poppycock, young woman, there's nothing kind about it. It's the raw, unadulterated truth. Why, you're a natural-born merchant, Charity, and I, for one, would like to see you reap the rewards." He leaned close to her ear. "I hear tell Mrs. Shaw is looking to sell. You would make an excellent proprietor, you know."

  Charity peeked at the register where Mrs. Shaw was attending to a customer. She touched Mr. Hargrove's arm, shocked at the mistiness that suddenly sprang to her eyes. "Goodness, Mr. Hargrove, you'll have me tearing up any moment if I let you go on. What a wonderful compliment. Thank you so much. I would love to have my own store, of course, but that's a dream for someone other than a poor shop girl."

  "Why?"

  She blinked. "Why, because I can't afford to buy this shop or any other."

  The abundance of wrinkles on Horatio Hargrove's face parted into a mischievous grin. "No, but I can."

  Charity felt the blood in her cheeks course all the way to her toes. What was he saying?

  He laughed and chucked a withered finger to her chin. "Think about it, Charity. I'm an old man with more money than years left to spend it. I could lend you the money to buy Mrs. Shaw out, and you could pay me back a little each month until the shop is yours. With your knack for business, you'll own it in n
o time. Until then, I'll reap a percentage of the profits from your extraordinary talent for making old men feel young again."

  Her mouth hung open like a simpleton, but she was too stunned to close it.

  Mr. Hargrove laughed again. "Really, Charity, it's the ideal business venture for both of us. Will you at least consider it?"

  "No, I ... I can't, Mr. Hargrove, as much as I would love to, I really can't. You see, I'll be returning home to Boston at Christmas-for good."

  One of his shaggy, white brows launched a full half inch. "Boston? You're leaving?"

  Charity attempted a smile. "Regrettably, I am. But Emma will still be here."

  Mr. Hargrove released a weighty sigh and put his arm around Charity's shoulder, continuing toward the register. "Ah, yes, Emma. I do like that young woman, as well. But I'm afraid I've gotten rather attached to you, my dear."

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Hargrove. Have you found everything you need?" Mrs. Shaw lighted on her best customer like a heavy mist on an early-morning bog.

  Charity slipped from beneath his arm and scurried around the register to box up his purchases. Mr. Hargrove planted one hand on the counter and tapped his derby with the other. "More than I need, Mrs. Shaw, thanks to the outstanding efforts of Miss O'Connor."

  Mrs. Shaw beamed, revealing oversized teeth the shade of pale butterscotch. "Yes, Charity has been our top sales clerk for a while now. We're quite proud of her."

  Mr. Hargrove displayed some teeth of his own. "I hope that pride is attached to a hefty raise, Mrs. Shaw, because this young woman certainly deserves it."

  Pink splotches in her cheeks and a raspy titter quickly replaced the butterscotch smile. "Why, yes, yes, she certainly does, Mr. Hargrove." She shot a nervous look at Charity. "I need to run in back for a moment. Will you finish with Mr. Hargrove, please?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Good, good." She spun around, her carrot-red topknot all afrizz as she bolted for the back room. One stubby arm flailed in the air. "Have a good day, Mr. Hargrove. Always a pleasure."