Mitch peered up from his desk, the scowl on his face diminishing considerably. “No, of course not, Emma—my door is always open to you.” He removed the wire spectacles perched on the tip of his nose and leaned back in his cordovan leather chair, splayed finger and thumb kneading both his temples. “What can I do for you?”
She opened the door wider, taking in the sea of disheveled galleys strewn across a desk where coffee cups and glasses hovered precariously close to the edge. Her eyes scanned the room that reflected the personality of the man she respected and admired—simple but warm. A massive cherrywood desk presided over a large oval rug of deep russet hue distinguished by a thin band of gold circling the edge. A set of barbells and weights rested on a table in the corner, underscoring the solid strength and resolve of the man before her. The quiet and calm of a library emanated from a formidable floor-to-ceiling bookcase beyond, where endless volumes of literature bespoke a love for the written word. Despite the elegance of the room, there was nothing ornate or complicated about Mitch Dennehy, a man who preferred his surroundings—like his life—simple, direct, and without the clutter of knickknacks or formality. Dark, rich hardwood floors reflected the glow of a crackling hearth where cedar logs spit and popped in an angry fire, infusing the room with the fresh scent of cedar and . . .
The air stilled in Emma’s throat as her pulse slowed to a crawl. Her gaze flicked to a half-empty glass of amber liquid she’d just assumed was iced tea, but the unmistakable scent of whiskey and an open bottle on the bookcase confirmed it was not. Her heart cramped in her chest. Oh, Mitch, no . . . not after all this time . . .
Stepping inside, Emma carefully closed the door. “I was hoping I might have a moment of your time . . .” She paused to draw in a deep swallow of air. “To talk about Charity.”
The smile on his face compressed. “If she sent you to plead her cause—”
“No,” Emma said quickly, “she didn’t, I assure you. I come of my own accord because I’m concerned about Charity, yes . . .” Her gaze flitted to the whiskey on the shelf beyond before returning. “But more so about you.”
His sideways glance followed hers to the bottle and back, and ruddy color worked its way up his neck. With a grinding of his jaw she recognized all too well, he cocked his head and picked up his glass. “Why? Because I choose the comfort of whiskey over that of my wife?” He held it aloft with a defiance she’d seen only one time before. In Dublin, before he and Charity were married—when he’d gone off the wagon following Charity’s betrayal. He emptied the glass in one hard swallow before clinking it back down with a weighty expulsion of air. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice fatigued. “Go to bed, Emma, this is not a habit I plan to continue, so there’s no need for alarm. Just enjoying a gift from Marjorie Hennessey for a job well done.” His eyelids lifted half-mast while his lips twisted in scorn. “Of course, that was before my wife humiliated me in front of my superiors, peers, and subordinates.”
Emma silently moved to one of two leather club chairs that flanked the front of his desk, and studied the man that Marjorie Hennessey—and scores of other women from his past—had attempted to possess. But only one had succeeded, and Emma knew from the shadows beneath blue eyes spidered with red and a hard-sculpted face now marked by fatigue, that Charity possessed him still. Perching on the edge of her seat, Emma leaned forward, her eyes soft with compassion. “Mitch, Charity is sick about what she did—”
“Yeah? Well, that makes two of us. Only my nausea grows every day in the workplace where I’m branded a fool.”
Emma’s gaze met his over the fold of her hands, voice gentle. “Along with your pride?”
Blood gorged his cheeks and he shot up, slanting forward with a tic in his jaw. “Look, Emma, I respect you more than most, but if you think I’m going to let you walk in here and—”
“Tell you the truth?” she said quietly, her words halting him midair.
He jerked around and fisted the whiskey, sloshing more into his glass before he slammed the bottle back down. “What do you want from me, Emma? Blood?”
“No, Mitch,” she whispered, “just sorrow over a sin that’s robbing you blind.”
He blinked, the glass of whiskey halfway to his mouth. His throat shifted and he looked away, slowly placing the glass on the desk. His fury seemed to dissipate as he lowered into his chair, sagging back with a hand to his eyes. “For a quiet and gentle soul, you sure pack a punch.”
The semblance of a smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. “Only when I see someone I love make the same mistakes I did.”
He huffed out a sigh and gouged blunt fingers through rogue blond curls already badly tousled, then looked away. “She scared me,” he whispered. “Shades of the old Charity returning to haunt.” He glanced up, tired eyes laden with regret. “I lost respect for her, and my fury took over. Fury over the fool she made me to be, over the disrespect she displayed, over her total lack of judgment.” His eyes trailed into a hard stare. “Over destroying the love and trust I thought that we had.” He inhaled deeply, gaze settling on the bottle of whiskey once again. “She’s not a stupid woman, Emma, and yet what she did was the most harebrained stunt I have ever seen.”
Her lips tilted into a gentle smile. “Oh, surely not . . .”
He looked up, and a grin slowly surfaced on his face. “No, I guess not. The old Charity pulled things that would curl one’s hair.” He huffed out another sigh, giving Emma a slatted look that held definite tease. “Mine used to be poker straight, you know.”
It was Emma’s turn to grin. “The curls are quite becoming, I think.”
Hands propped to his neck, Mitch sloped back in the chair and studied Emma in a squint. “So, if Charity didn’t put you up to this, why did you—take me to task, that is?”
Her palms smoothed the arms of the chair before she eased back and rested her head like his, assessing him through sober eyes. “Because sin robbed me of the one true love I was meant to have, Mitch, and I don’t want that to happen to you.”
Mitch’s gaze softened. “You’re speaking of Sean, aren’t you?”
Heat rose in her cheeks and she looked away. “I see Charity told you.”
“No,” Mitch said quietly. “You did—just now.” His tone turned dry. “One does not live with Charity and remain oblivious to the interplay between a man and a woman.”
She nodded and smiled. “You and Charity have been given a gift, Mitch.” Moisture pricked her eyes. “Do you have any idea how blessed you are?”
He stared, sadness shadowing his features. “Yes, but I’d forgotten . . . until now. I’m sorry for your pain, Emma, both yours and Sean’s. I wish there was something I could do.”
“You can,” she said quietly. “Forgive my best friend.”
He hesitated before releasing a quiet sigh. “I’ll try.”
“Good. Then my work here is done.” She rose, trailing a hand on the polished surface of his desk. Her lashes lifted with the barest of smiles. “I haven’t wasted my breath, I hope.”
“No, ma’am,” he said, lips slanting.
“Thank you.” She headed for the door, turning only when her hand met the knob. “It’s your wife’s birthday, you know.” She tilted her head, as if deep in thought. “I wonder . . . what does one give a woman who wants for nothing but the love of her husband?”
He shot her a hooded smile. “Good night, Emma.”
“Good night, Mitch.” She opened the door and slipped out, shutting it quietly behind her. Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the cherrywood door, the faintest of smiles warm on her lips.
“Happy birthday, Charity,” she whispered, her heart swelling at the love of a God who taught how to forgive. “And may it be your best one yet.”
Mitch stared long and hard at the study door, knowing full well that Emma was right. It was time. Time to forgive his wife, time to ask her to forgive him, and time to deal with this blatant sin in his life. He rubbed his eyes, feelin
g the effect of both the whiskey and weeks of poor sleep on a sofa that had served his pride but not his body.
His pride. The same pride that bucked like the devil every time a woman had ever attempted to control him—whether it had been his negligent mother or his adulterous first wife or even Marjorie Hennessey with her lure of seduction. The image came to mind of Charity straddling Marjorie with a fistful of hair, and a semblance of a smile curved on his lips for the very first time. His wife . . . the woman upstairs who wielded the ultimate control.
Despite ten years of keeping a very tight rein on the woman who possessed him, shades of the brat she’d been before they’d married had suddenly surfaced again, scaring him silly. From her seduction years ago when he’d been engaged to Faith . . . to the outrageous shenanigans she’d pulled to become his wife, Mitch had known marrying Charity would be a challenge. But never in ten years of controlling the woman whose love controlled him, had he expected this, and his blindness in a situation that had obviously driven her over the edge shook him to the core.
Lumbering to his feet, he moved to the hearth to scatter the fire and narrow the flue, casting a final glance at the leather couch responsible for more pains in the neck in two weeks than his wife had given him in ten years. His mouth crooked. Almost.
He returned to the desk and turned off the lamp, tucking the bottle under his arm while he gathered dirty glasses and cups. Depositing the dishes on the kitchen counter, he poured the whiskey down the drain, the amber liquid swirling away along with the anger at his wife. He closed his eyes and for the first time in two weeks, remorse slashed like a physician’s knife, bringing the healing of repentance. “Forgive me, God, for my stubborn pride. I’m called to cherish my wife, and yet I’ve failed miserably. Help me make it up to her.”
Tossing the empty bottle into the trash, he turned out the light and checked the front door before scaling the steps with more energy than he’d felt in weeks. He paused on the landing, heart racing as he listened to the stillness of the house, marked only by the sound of clock chimes signaling the eleventh hour. His lips shifted. Appropriate timing for a thickheaded Irishman, he supposed. His pace quickened as he moved down the hall, eyes fixed on the room where his wife slept alone. Easing the door open, he stared in the dark, his own breathing suspended so he could listen for hers , but the only sound was the jingle of Runt’s collar as he ambled over to lick Mitch’s outstretched hand. Seconds passed before he broke the silence with a hoarse whisper.
“Charity?”
He heard her rustle in the bed before she flicked on the light and blinked, eyes foggy with sleep and rumpled hair grazing bare shoulders. He swallowed hard. Heaven help him, she looked more beautiful in the dead of night than any woman had a right, and his pulse accelerated as he moved into the room. Gaze welded to hers, he sat down on the bed and took her hand in his, ignoring the drop of her jaw.
“I’m ready to talk,” he said quietly, circling her palm with the pad of his thumb. He sucked in a harsh breath and blew it out again. “Charity, I should be horsewhipped. I’ve treated you poorly these last few weeks, and I apologize.”
She blinked, her beautiful features going from sleepy to stunned.
“What you did was outrageous, but my response was more so. Will you forgive me?”
Her lips parted, but no sound came forth.
A sheen of moisture shone in her eyes, and his throat ached with love. Yes, she was a handful and challenging and infused his life with more drama than any woman he’d ever known, but life with Charity was never boring, never dry, and always an adventure. She was the most passionate woman he’d ever met, loving her family, her friends—him—with an intensity that took his breath away. She took his breath away, and Mitch drew in a halting breath as gratitude swelled in his chest. He caressed her face with tender hands, grazing her jaw with his thumbs. “I love you, Charity, and I don’t deserve you.”
The whites of her eyes expanded, prompting a low chuckle from his throat. He grinned. “And then again, maybe I do. We’re both stubborn to the bone, and I suspect God knew what he was doing in matching us up. You definitely keep me honest . . . and on my toes.”
She placed her hands over his. “Like iron sharpening iron?”
His lips slanted. “That’s an understatement, if ever a Scripture was.” He tugged her into his arms, resting his head against hers. “Am I forgiven . . . for putting my pride before you?”
She pulled away, tears welling as she stroked his cheek. “Oh, Mitch, of course I forgive you.” Her brows tented as she worried her lip. “And you forgive me? For what I did?”
He bundled her close and sighed. “What choice do I have, little girl—my life is totally empty without you . . . not to mention dull. I won’t say you didn’t make me crazy, because you did. You triggered my temper like never before, and I literally needed time to cool down.”
She angled a brow. “But two weeks?”
He huffed out a sigh and took her hand in his. “You trampled my pride, Charity, and you threatened my trust in you. But as your father so wisely pointed out, in your own misguided way, you were proving how much you love me.”
“Father said that?”
He lifted her chin with his hand. “Yes, but I’m warning you, little girl—don’t ever do anything like that again if you value our marriage, do you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” she whispered, leaning in to brush her lips against his.
He kissed her back with a hoarse groan. “Oh, and he said I should thank you too.”
“Thank me?” She jerked away in surprise.
The barest of smiles lifted at the corners of his mouth as he studied her through lidded eyes. “For getting me pulled off the auction. Apparently you scared the daylights out of Mrs. Hennessey—a first, I believe, in the history of the Herald.” He planted a soft kiss to her nose. “Thank you, little girl . . . but don’t ever do it again. Talk to me first, okay?”
Her smile wavered. “So . . . was it my imagination or not?”
A weighty sigh expanded in his lungs before he exhaled. He looked her straight in the eye. “It wasn’t your imagination, but I thought I could handle it.” His mouth zagged up. “But apparently not as well as my wife.”
She lowered her gaze as she picked at her nails. “So . . . nothing happened?”
His palm cupped her face, pulling her gaze to his. “No, Charity, nothing happened—ever. There’s only one woman I love, one woman who turns my head, and one woman who drives me to distraction.” He bent to nuzzle her mouth. “And I think we both know who that is.”
“Mitch?”
“Mmmm?” He wandered to the lobe of her ear.
“There was more to it, you know . . . than just my imagination . . .”
He kissed her neck, intoxicated by the scent of her. “And what’s that, little girl?”
She paused, her body shivering beneath his lips. Her voice was a whisper. “I was worried . . . and not just over Marjorie.”
His lips froze to her skin. He pulled away, a crimp in his brow. “What do you mean?”
“I worried that you—” she glanced up, eyes skittish—“aren’t as attracted to me as you used to be.”
He blinked, the notion as foreign to him as affection for Marjorie Hennessey. A slow grin eased across his lips before he slowly prodded her back on the bed, devouring her with his mouth. The blood pumped in his veins as he nuzzled her throat, his breathing shallow and warm in her ear. “Now I ask you, little girl, does this feel like I’m not attracted to you anymore?”
He felt her shiver beneath him before she pushed him back, two palms to his chest. “No, not at this precise moment,” she whispered, her breathing as ragged as his, “but in the last six months, your interest in me—” a lump dipped in her beautiful throat as she gave him a frail smile—“in this, seems to have waned. And to be honest, Mitch, that’s never happened before. So I just thought that . . . well, that maybe you didn’t want me as much.”
He sat up with a n
oisy sigh, pulling her up to level firm hands on her shoulders. “Charity, let’s get something straight right now. I want you all the time, but the reality is that in this dismal economy, not only is work getting more demanding, but you forget that I’m getting older too, not able to keep up with both it and you like I used to.” He grazed her jaw with the pad of his thumb. “Trust me, little girl, there are times during the day when all I have to do is think about you, and I want you so badly that I can taste it, but I have to force myself to focus on work instead, driving myself all the harder.”
“So . . . ,” she said, her tone suddenly light. “I actually help you at work, do I?” There was a tease in her eyes, her smile definitely smug.
He hooked the nape of her neck to pull her close, pulse pumping as he nibbled on the lobe of her ear. “Oh, yeah,” he whispered with a low chuckle. “You’re the carrot dangling at the end of my day, you little minx.”
“Mitch?”
“Mmm?” He worked his way down the side of her throat, the taste of her driving him crazy.
“Can we . . . make a deal?”
He paused, lips hovering over the crease of her collarbone. “What kind of deal?” he said, suspicion edging his tone as he lifted his head.
She leaned in to feather his jaw with soft, little kisses before he groaned and forced her back to the bed. Her giggle tickled his mouth. “I agree to be more understanding when you’re too tired to . . . well, you know . . .”
“Make love to you?” he whispered, the very sound of the words chasing his pulse.
She nodded. “If you promise to love me, want me a little more so I don’t jump to stupid conclusions like I did with Marjorie. You see, I prayed with Faith and Lizzie about it—”
He groaned. “For pity’s sake, Charity, do you have to drag our bedroom through the mill?”
She squeezed his hand. “I had to, Mitch, because you know how I’ve always measured your love by how much you want me, so when you’re too exhausted, I tend to get crazy, needy. Besides, the prayer worked in keeping me calm and rational while you shunned me these last two weeks.”