“For pity’s sake, doesn’t he know what that ring on your finger means?”
Heat broiled her cheeks as she twisted the ring and looked away, afraid that Sean would see the shame and guilt in her eyes. Apparently not. But then it didn’t mean what I thought either. Fingering the menu, she glanced up, relieved to see Guiseppe making his way to their booth. “Of course, although I wouldn’t put it past Bert to tell him I’m a widow—she tells that to everybody.”
Guiseppe arrived with pad in hand, and the knot in her stomach began to unravel.
“Oh, good—I’m starved.”
Once the waiter had taken his leave, she forced a bright smile and perked up her tone, determined to steer the conversation in another direction. “So . . . what’s it been now . . . four dates, going on five? Sounds as if Miss Kelly may be on her way to taming the bachelor in you yet.”
Sean scowled and downed half his water in one nervous tilt. “Five, going on six, and this is why I’ve avoided women all of my life, Emma. They seep into your system like alcohol, skewing the way that you feel, think . . . changing you.” He gulped another swig of water and put the glass back down with a clunk, grinding his jaw. “Just like this guy I used to work with at Kelly’s who was an alcoholic—the poor man did everything in his power to quit, but the alcohol had a hold on him that wouldn’t let go.” He gouged a hand through his hair. “Like Rose.”
She took a sip of water, then cupped the glass in her hands, thumbs grazing its sides as she studied him through teasing eyes. “So you’re a Rose-aholic now, are you?”
He exhaled again and sagged back against the booth, peering at her with a sheepish smile. “I guess, because I sure can’t seem to say no. What is it with women, anyway, Emma? How do they manage to get under our skin? It seems like the more I—” he paused, eyelids heavy as color stole up his neck—“see her, the more I need to see her.”
“That’s just how it is when people fall in love,” Emma said with a half smile, unsettled by a sudden stab of jealousy. She took another drink. God, please—help me to be happy for him.
He grunted. “Nobody’s falling in love here, Emma, trust me. Unless it’s Rose.”
Relief flooded, followed by guilt. She frowned. “Well, you must care for her, don’t you?”
“Of course, but I’m not ready for anything more, and that’s the problem—Rose is.”
“Do you . . . think you could love her? I mean, eventually?” She held her breath, achingly aware of just how much this could change the closeness they shared.
He studied her, forehead wrinkled as if the question were giving him a headache.
“Ah . . . here we are—ravioli for the lady, and a spicy meatball sandwich for the gentleman.” Guiseppe set both of their plates down with a flourish, and the heavenly aroma watered Emma’s mouth. He clicked his heels. “Will there be anything else?”
“Not for me, Guiseppe, thank you,” Emma said with a polite smile, positioning her napkin. She glanced up at Sean. “You?”
“No thanks, this looks wonderful.” Sean slapped his own napkin across his lap before taking a bite of the sandwich with a low moan. He quickly chewed and swallowed, washing it down with a drink of water. “Sweet saints, this is one of the best things I’ve ever eaten! Too bad you’re already married, Mrs. Malloy, because this guy sure can cook.”
Another sling of shame heated her cheeks as she quickly picked up her fork. She stabbed a fat ravioli while regret did the same to her, and nibbling on the edge, she studied Sean from across the table, hoping to deflect her thoughts. “So . . . you never did answer my question.”
He looked up and swiped sauce from his mouth with the tip of his tongue. “What?”
She took a deep breath and suddenly the ravioli wasn’t as good as she remembered . . . but then, maybe the question soured the taste. “Do you think you could love her? Rose, that is? In time?”
His blue eyes were pensive as he chewed, watching her as the idea apparently rolled around in his head. He swallowed his food, took a quick drink, then released a quiet sigh, one hand splayed to the table. He hesitated. “Maybe.”
Her heart dipped, but she countered it with a bright smile before reaching to cover his hand with her own. “Sean, that would be wonderful!” she said, her heart clearly not as euphoric as her tone. “Because if ever God intended a man to be a husband and father, it’s you.”
His gaze settled on her hand as it straddled his before slowly rising to meet her eyes, causing her stomach to swoop. “Not all of us are meant to marry, Emma,” he whispered, the intensity of his look racing her heart. “You should know that.”
Yes, I do . . . Cheeks burning, she awkwardly slipped her hand from his, well aware of the truth of his statement. She hadn’t been meant to marry, certainly, but somehow she suspected it wasn’t the same for him. She studied him now, this man with a heart more tender and caring than any she knew, and prayed he would never have to be alone. Poking at another ravioli, she vowed to do everything in her power to make it so. “Yes, I agree, not all of us are meant to marry, Sean.” She took another bite and chewed slowly before swallowing her food, eyeing him while she sipped at her water. “But I happen to think you are.”
“And why is that, Mrs. Malloy?” he asked, a slow grin chasing all solemnity away.
“Because you fight it too hard,” she said, a twinkle warming her gaze. “That’s a dead giveaway. You see, you’re a man blessed with an abundance of love—” she patted her mouth with her napkin, unable to obscure a smile—“matched only by his fear to avoid it.”
“Maybe it’s just intelligence—ever think about that?”
“Or obstinance,” Emma said with a hike of her jaw.
He laughed and pushed his empty plate away. “Well, I’ll admit I’m attracted to Rose, but I’m not sure that’s enough for a lifetime of bliss.”
“Well, as Charity would say, ‘it’s a start.’”
He paused, scrutinizing her through lidded eyes. “And what would Emma say?”
She blinked, the subject as uncomfortable as Mario’s unwanted attention. She coughed into her napkin. “Well, I’m hardly the one to ask.”
“On the contrary,” he said with renewed interest, “you’re the perfect one to ask—a woman who’s experienced the worst in a marriage.” His gaze softened. “So, tell me, Mrs. Malloy, if you could start all over again—would attraction be enough?”
Her eyelids weighted closed as she remembered the desire in Rory’s eyes before she’d said yes, the tingle of his touch before they’d become one. “No,” she whispered, “. . . never.”
“What, then?” he asked, curiosity lacing his tone.
Her eyelids lifted, and she stared into the blue of his eyes, eyes that were open and honest and true, a constant caress to those he loved. Tender eyes that offered a glimpse into the soul of a tender man—one who elicited trust, respect, and love. A smile lighted upon her lips. “Someone like you, Sean O’Connor, who puts others before himself.”
His smile faded. “Don’t canonize me just yet, Emma, especially when it comes to Rose.” He exhaled loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not exactly a knight in shining armor who puts her needs before mine, you know.”
“I don’t believe that—I know you.”
He glanced up, the blue of his eyes suddenly dark with challenge. “You know me with you, Emma, not with Rose. Which is what scares me. You have this unique talent of bringing out the best in people. I’ve seen it with everyone you touch—Charity, Katie, Bert, Alli, even Casey from what I saw today. So when I’m with you, I . . . ,” his jaw shifted while a muscle twitched in his cheek, “I like who I am. I’m decent and hardworking, a man you can trust.”
“Because that’s who you are!”
“No!” His voice was sharp. “Not with Rose. Never with Rose.” He looked away, head bent. “She loves me, Emma . . . and I . . .” He drew in a deep breath. “Well, I take advantage of that.”
Her breathing slowed. “What
do you mean, you take advantage of that? Just because she wants to get serious and you don’t is no reason to think—”
His head jerked up. “Yes . . . it is. Because I know better.” He exhaled a breath that seemed to drain the usual life from his eyes. A knot jerked in his throat as he averted his gaze. “I’m not proud of myself because I feel like I’m . . . leading her on.” His fist suddenly slammed on the table, causing her to jolt. “But blast it all, Emma, the woman makes it so blamed easy! Which I resent because I’m a decent man . . . or I used to be. Which is why I never wanted to get involved in the first place—I knew this would happen.” He put a hand to his eyes, voice trailing off into a pained whisper. “So help me, Emma, it’s so hard to say no. To do the right thing. To keep a clear head.” He released a sigh fraught with frustration, then looked up, a lock of sandy hair tumbling over his forehead. The half smile on his lips was at odds with the regret in his face. “So much so I’m almost willing to consider marriage to ward off the guilt.”
The impact of his meaning struck, warming her cheeks and stabbing her chest. She swallowed hard. “Then maybe you should.”
Sharp furrows bit into his brow. “Consider marriage?”
She nodded, feeling the pound of her pulse in her ears. “You like her, you have fun with her, and something tells me that underneath all that fear of marriage, you also care for her.”
“I do, but—”
She leaned in, fervor burning in her eyes. “Then pray about it, Sean, and see where your heart goes—please. Because sometimes fear can deter us from happiness meant to be.”
“But—”
She gripped his hand, her desire for this man’s happiness as intense as the chaotic thudding of her heart. “Listen to me—you’re a man with a conscience whose needs have been awakened by a woman who loves him. Don’t let the pain of your past rob you of your future.” Drawing in a harsh breath, she slowly released it again, desperate to secure God’s best for this friend that she loved. She forced a smile. “Besides, haven’t you heard ‘it’s not good for man to be alone’?”
He paused too long. “You are,” he whispered, his quiet tone pricking her eyes.
She nodded, her smile melancholy as she patted his arm. “Well, we’re not talking about me, now are we? Please—promise me you’ll pray long and hard about Rose.”
The muscles in his face relaxed, as if her touch had somehow left him with peace. He cradled his palm over hers, and his smile warmed her as much as the heat of his hand. “I will, Emma, I promise.” His smile veered to the side. “Heaven knows I could use some divine intervention right about now. Rose is too attractive for her own good—and mine.”
She withdrew her hand. “That would be wise. She’s a beautiful woman.”
The humor in his eyes melted into affection. “So are you, Emma, inside and out.”
No. His words were meant in kindness, she knew, but they only lanced her heart. She’d once been adept at accepting compliments for her beauty, but that talent had long since come and gone. Her eyelids weighted closed and she absently touched a hand to her cheek. No, hers was a scarred face and a scarred soul, where the only beauty to be found was in her obedience to a vow she’d sworn to keep.
She jolted at his touch on the hand she now held to her face, her eyes opening wide.
“They still bother you, don’t they?” he whispered. His voice was gentle as he caressed, both her hand and the scars beneath, before slowly pulling away.
Her breath caught in her throat as shame seared her cheeks as thoroughly as hot grease had once seared her face. Hands shaking, she clasped them in her lap, eyes fixed on the knot of tangled fingers. Bother her? Her scars? Her vision honed in on the ring on her left hand, and she knew he would never understand that both her scars and the ring on her finger were just punishment for a woman who’d more than earned it.
Pushing a strand of hair from her face, she looked up, her piercing gaze begging him to understand a secret she could never share. “Bother me?” Her smile was sad. “No, not anymore,” she said, hoping to alleviate the concern she read in his eyes. “‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,’ as they say. So, unlucky to most, I suppose, my scars have taught me that true beauty comes when we see ourselves through the eyes of him whose image we bear.” Reaching for her purse, she scooted to the edge of the seat, then rose, her chin edging up with the strength of her convictions. “So no matter my scars or failings, inside or out,” her lips trembled into a smile, “—and God knows they are many—he is the lover of my soul, and to him, I will always be beautiful.”
Their gazes bonded as he rose, and the tender look in his eyes warmed her more than the woolen coat he now slipped over her shoulders.
“Well, then,” he said with a firm hand braced to the small of her back. “It appears that for once, God and I are in sound agreement.” His fingers rose to playfully tweak the nape of her neck as he guided her to the register. “Because you’re not just beautiful to God, Emma Malloy,” he said with a wink that sent a blush to her cheeks. “But to me and Mario as well.”
Mitch scanned the list of donors and emitted a deep growl that rivaled the rumbling in his stomach. At least ten high-rolling donors from last year had failed to respond, which meant more blasted phone calls he didn’t have time for. His fingers made another pass through his already tousled hair to rub at the back of his neck, easing muscles that were as tight as the clamp of his jaw. He glanced at his watch and groaned, noting that Marjorie was late—again—then exhaled his frustration and returned to his notes.
He bent over the conference-room table and focused hard, unwilling to allow the woman to unnerve him. A little over two months—that’s all he had left—of her seductive ways, her provocative dress, her not-so-subtle suggestions that were wearing him thin. Not to mention what it was doing to his marriage. Thursdays were sheer torture—from the tension in Charity’s manner in the morning, to the stiffness of her body when he came home at night. And to make matters worse, he’d forgotten the sandwich she’d packed for his dinner, causing his stomach to churn along with his mood. Heaven help him, he was literally starving—for food, for Charity, and for this fiasco to be over. He pressed a hand to his eyes and wished he were home, where the touch of his wife always soothed him, calmed him. The taste of her lips—warm, soft, inviting . . .
The press of someone’s mouth—also warm, soft, and inviting—suddenly grazed the back of his neck, and he jerked up in the chair and spun around. “What the devil are you doing?” he rasped, staring at Marjorie as if she were the devil himself.
Her face was a mask of innocence. “Just making sure you’re awake, Mr. Dennehy. It quite appeared as if you’d fallen asleep.”
He scoured the back of his neck with his handkerchief, cheeks burning with fury. “I thought I told you to keep your hands off me.”
“You distinctly said ‘hands,’ not lips.” She pushed his chair out of her way and moved in close, trailing a finger down his arm. “Or fingers, for that matter.”
He fisted her hand, fury pumping as he raked her with a hard gaze—from her shadowed eyes and scarlet lips to the satin blouse that draped a suggestive swell of breasts. “Then let me be perfectly clear, Mrs. Hennessey,” he said through clenched teeth. “Keep your hands, your lips, your fingers, and your body to yourself—I couldn’t be less interested.”
“Why, Mr. Dennehy, you’re blushing! And I do believe your breathing has accelerated.” Gripping his waist, she molded herself close. “Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”
He distanced her with two iron fists that gouged into her arms. The scent of her expensive perfume rose to taunt him, exhausting his control. His voice could have bruised if his grip didn’t. “Get yourself another boy, Marjorie, this one’s going home to his wife.” He turned to collect his things.
Heels clicked as she moved to the head of the conference table and smoothly slid into her seat. Her manner cooled as she studied him through narrowed eyes. “Leave now, Mitch,
and don’t bother coming back.”
He rammed his papers into his briefcase and snapped it shut. “Don’t worry, I won’t.” He stormed for the door.
“I mean ever, Mr. Dennehy.”
He stopped to give her a withering stare that had no effect. “I’m fired? For refusing your advances? I doubt even you can accomplish that.”
She eased back in her chair and slowly crossed her legs, affording him a generous view of her very short skirt. “Try me,” she whispered.
“No, thanks, I’ll take my chances.” He opened the door.
“I own 50 percent of the stock, and I chair the board. Unless you want to cause serious problems for yourself and Patrick . . . I suggest you close that door and sit down. Now.”
A tic vibrated in his cheek and he ground his jaw hard, teetering on the edge of slamming the door in her face. He wheeled around and strode to the table, flinging his briefcase down with a sharp slap of leather. He turned and barreled for the exit.
“Where are you going?” she demanded, her manner as impervious as a queen.
“To the men’s room,” he said with a heave of the door, suddenly feeling dirty. “May take awhile, Mrs. Hennessey, so why don’t you just start without me. I have a sudden urge to scrub my hands raw.” Mitch slammed the door with a deafening bang, rattling both the wall and the door, not to mention his nerves.
And it wasn’t nearly hard enough.
“I am not going to dance.” In a rare show of the mule, Sean’s jaw hardened as he peered up at Emma in the doorway of his office. He jerked the Snickers candy bar from his shirt pocket, unwrapped the paper, and bit down hard, the taste of his favorite candy powerless to chase the sour taste from his mouth.