“Steven, wait—”
He spun around. “No, you wait, Pauline. Joe may be starry-eyed enough to overlook this, but I’m not. I’m sworn to uphold the law, and that’s what I intend to do.” He leveled a finger, warning twitching in every muscle in his face. “You best tread lightly, Miss O’Shea, because if I catch you or Nellie with alcohol again, I guarantee you’ll be doing your entertaining behind bars.”
He slammed the door and charged down the stairs, flinging the front door open so hard, it ricocheted off the brick wall. He was met with a blast of cool air that did little to temper the heat in his cheeks. “They’re all the same,” he muttered, thoughts of Pauline’s kiss burning as much as the taste of the alcohol. He plunged his fists in his pockets and headed home, wondering if he’d ever find a woman untainted by an era where pleasure came before morals. Sarcasm curled his lip as he rounded the corner. Maybe in a church or a convent. Unfortunately, that pious kind of woman didn’t appeal either. Because deep down he still craved a woman like Maggie—vibrant, alive, with a dangerous gleam in her eye. He scowled and kicked a rock, pinging it at a streetlamp with no little force. His jaw hardened. Too bad guilt had ruined him forever.
Arriving home, he unlatched the front gate and glanced at his watch, grateful the parlor window was blessedly dark. It was almost eleven, which meant his parents were in bed. Steven exhaled his relief. The last thing he needed was an inquisition from his mother.
Did you have a good time?
Why are you home early?
Was the young lady nice?
He grunted. Yeah . . . nice and loose. He slipped his key in the lock with a wry slant of his lips, thinking of his father’s persistent concern over Steven’s departure from women. He shook his head and opened the door. One moment they’re coming to blows over his lust for Maggie and life, and the next, his father’s worried he’s not living enough. He sighed. A no-win situation.
Squinting at the sliver of light beneath the kitchen door, Steven ambled through the dining room to investigate.
“What are you doing home?” he asked with a palm to the door. “I thought you shot hoops on Friday night with Murph and the guys.” He strolled in and snatched a piece of the brownie from Sean’s plate and popped it in his mouth. “Wow, is there any more?”
“Nope.” Sean chewed with cheeks full. “Emma made it, and this is all she sent.” He pushed the plate toward Steven. “Want the last bite?”
Pouring himself some milk, Steven sat down and gave Sean a sour smile. “No thanks, I’m afraid one more taste is going to make me want more.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Sean said with a scowl. He pushed the plate away, stretching back in his chair with legs propped up. “I wasn’t up to a game tonight. Too tired.”
Steven stared, glass midway to his lips. “Too tired for basketball? You sick?”
“Yeah, a terminal case of stupidity.” Sean scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands.
“Nothing stupid about you, not when you steer clear of women like you do.”
Sean rested his head on the back of the chair and folded his arms, eyes closed. “Sure, a real intelligent guy. That’s why I invited Rose Kelly to my playoff game tomorrow night.”
Milk spewed from Steven’s lips. “What? The dame who lost you your job? You crazy?”
“Apparently,” Sean said. “Crazy and stupid. You may as well lock me up now.”
“But why?” Steven sputtered, wiping the milk from his mouth and shirt. “I thought you hated her.”
“Nope, hate is a luxury I don’t have, evidently, according to Emma.” Sean opened his eyes and kneaded the bridge of his nose. “Rose came by the office tonight to apologize. Said she wanted to talk, ask my forgiveness, get a cup of coffee. I lost my temper and screamed. Practically threw her out, and Emma took me to task.”
“No joke? Emma called you on the carpet?” Steven could hardly believe his ears. First his easygoing brother loses his temper a second time and now sweet Emma pulls rank?
“No, nothing that drastic. Just a heart of gold that has a way of making mine look pretty black.” He sighed. “She shamed me into forgiving Rose, clearing the air over coffee.”
Sean would have been comical if not so depressed. Steven bit back a smile. “And?”
His brother glanced up beneath lidded eyes. “I let it slip I coach St. Stephen’s team on Saturday nights and told her she could come sometime. ‘How about tomorrow night?’ she says like the spider to the fly.” He spiked shaky fingers through his hair, wreaking havoc with the Brilliantine. “So I told her yes.” He sighed. “What else could I say?”
“Oh, I don’t know—no, maybe?” Steven shot a pointed look, then shook his head. “For crying out loud, Sean, you can’t say no to a woman? Not to mention the one who lost you your job?”
Blond brows slashed low over narrowed eyes as Sean shifted in his chair. “I don’t remember you being so all-fired good at saying no to Maggie, as I recall. Besides, you know what it’s like with women today—they practically throw themselves at you.”
“Tell me about it. Joe fixed me up tonight with his girlfriend’s roommate, and I had to pour a bottle of booze down their drain.”
Laugh lines fanned the edge of Sean’s eyes as humor lit his gaze. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Steven’s lips zagged into a droll smile. “Tasted it on her breath after she hauled off and kissed me.” He shook his head. “Do you honestly think there are any women out there who are really decent? You know, not in a fever to get friendly with every other guy? Some sweet, nice gal with morals who’s actually willing to let the guy wear the pants?”
Sean rose to carry dirty dishes to the sink. “So help me, I hope not. I’m having enough trouble staying away from the pushy ones who annoy me.” He washed his plate and utensils and stacked them in the dish rack, then turned to give Steven a tired smile. “Of course, there are our sisters, although Charity could be a stretch.” He paused, his gaze wistful. “And Emma, of course.” He folded his arms and leaned back against the counter, eyes trailing into a pensive stare. “I’ll tell you what—when it comes to marriage, I’d be long gone if there were more women like Emma out there. She’s truly one of a kind.” He blinked, suddenly breaking his reverie. “But, who knows? I’ll bet the perfect girl’s out there to put the fever in your eye.”
Steven snorted. “What a dreamer—I plan to stay on my guard more than you.”
A chuckle rumbled from Sean’s throat as he stretched. “Well, if I am going to stay on mine, I need sleep.” He gave his brother’s shoulder a sympathetic slap on his way to the door. “Looks to be a long, ugly day tomorrow, and I’m going to need all the energy I can get.”
A devilish grin eased across Steven’s face. “To fend the lady off?”
Sean laughed. “Trust me—there’ll be no fending, no friendship, and definitely no fever.”
“Never know . . . you may like it,” Steven said, a sly look in his eye.
The kitchen door squealed open as Sean paused, hand splayed against the wood. He hung his head and glanced up, eyes twinkling as they peered beneath weighty lids. He shook his head and laughed. “And you call me a dreamer.”
9
Bang! Slam! Groan . . .
Emma and Bert exchanged glances. “How long has he been like this?” Emma whispered, leaning over Bert’s desk with a nervous peek into Sean’s office.
“Since he came in this morning.” Bert’s mouth flattened. “I’m thinking of going home to yank the tail of my neighbor’s Doberman—more fun and way less risky.”
“Oh, my . . . ,” Emma said with a grate of her lip, wishing she hadn’t spent the morning catching up on paperwork behind closed doors. “Any idea what’s wrong?”
Bert grunted, shuttered eyes betraying her concern. “Says he’s fine and dandy. ’Course, the nasty scowl says he’s a liar, but he’s a man after all, so enough said.”
The creases at the bridge of Emma’s nose eased as she patted
Bert’s hand with a tentative smile. “Well, I brought in the last of the brownies, so maybe that will cheer him up.” She glanced at her watch and caught her breath, a hand to her cheek. “Oh, Bert, you need to go! It’s bad enough I drag you in on a Saturday, but now it’s past two, and the day’s almost gone.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” Bert said with a glower that made Sean’s mood appear almost tame. She dragged herself up with another caustic squint. “He’s startin’ to get on my nerves. Can’t stand anybody grouchier than me. Puts a real damper on my sunny mood, you know?”
“I know,” Emma said with a squeeze of Bert’s arm. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend—what’s left of it, anyway. And thanks so much for coming in today. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She wrestled a pretty straw cloche over wavy black tresses, then slapped a matching purse under her arm, giving Emma a thin-lipped smile that was more of a threat. “Tell him to cheer up or I’ll really give him something to moan about.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Emma said with affection. “Goodbye, Bert, see you on Monday.”
Bert’s grunt followed her out the door as she flopped a hand in the air.
Emma grinned and turned, her smile fading into a sigh at the slam of another drawer. She tiptoed over, absently chewing her lip as she peeked in his office.
Despite the vibrancy of a sunny September day, Sean O’Connor lay sprawled in his chair, eyes closed and looking as spent as if he’d tossed and turned all night in his bed. In his clothes. Clean-shaven when he’d arrived, a shadow of beard was beginning to emerge as he reposed, head back and legs crossed on his desk. His eyes were shaded with fatigue, nicely complemented by facial muscles that drooped as if in dire need of sleep. Even the shirt that he wore, usually so starched and so neat, seemed to sag along with the man, sleeves rolled and tie tugged loose. Wayward hair, the exact color of autumn wheat, fluttered against his tan forehead while a breeze rustled the paper held limp in his hand. Generous lips that usually sported a smile now bent in a frown, ratcheting Emma’s pulse along with her concern. With a deep draw of air, she inched into the room, arms hugged to her waist as she inhaled the scent of freshly mown grass from the park across the way.
“Sean, are you . . . okay?”
His eyes lumbered open and he gave her a smile that fell flat. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
“You just don’t seem yourself today. No energy, a bit worn, and maybe . . . a bit edgy?” She hesitated, noting the lack of humor in his eyes. “Even Bert noticed . . . and we’re worried.”
He scrubbed his face with his hand and slid his feet to the floor, tossing the paper he held onto his desk. “Well, don’t be, I’m fine. Didn’t sleep great last night, that’s all.”
She eased in, confused by the bite in his tone. “I have brownies . . . ,” she whispered.
He yanked a drawer open, then slammed it after finding what he wanted. “No, thanks.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do—”
“You’ve already done enough, thank you.”
The sharpness of his tone heated her cheeks. She took a step back, lips parted in hurt.
He huffed out a noisy sigh and looked up, eyes softening and voice contrite. “Look, I’m sorry, Emma, you don’t deserve my nasty mood.” His mouth slanted. “Or maybe you do.”
She cocked her head. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Rose, would it?”
He angled a leg against a drawer and peered up. “No, Emma,” he said dryly. “It has everything to do with Rose.” His gaze sharpened. “You forced me to have coffee with her.”
She blinked. “Forced?” She bit back a smile but somehow it escaped to her eyes. “I don’t remember firearms being involved, Mr. O’Connor.”
His piercing gaze glinted with a hint of his trademark humor. “Oh, they were, Mrs. Malloy, trust me on that, and I have the insomnia to prove it.” His smile was stiff. “Shot clean through the heart with both barrels, taking me down with a double blast of guilt and shame.”
“Sean, I—”
He raised a hand. “And now,” he emphasized, enunciating each word, “because of your expert marksmanship, Rose Kelly has finagled her way into coming to my game tonight.”
She what? Emma’s heart stalled in her chest, mouth agape. “You mean she came out and asked you?”
“Oh no, Mrs. Malloy, she’s far more devious than that. Gets me talking about myself, how I coach the St. Stephen’s team and then cries me a river about she’s an only child and never had a chance to experience things like that. Next thing I know, I mutter something about how she should come sometime and bam! ‘How about tomorrow night?’ she says with a bat of her eyes.”
Emma pressed a hand to mask a smile. “Oh, Sean, I’m so sorry.” Her eyes widened in a calculated innocence that would have made Charity proud. “But maybe she just likes baseball.”
His gaze narrowed. “This is not funny, Emma.” He leveled muscled arms on the desk, accusation thick in his tone. “Because of you, I have to deal with this headache one more time.”
With a gentle sigh, she slipped into the chair in front of his desk and gave him a sympathetic smile, affection warm in her voice. “It was the right thing to do, and you know it. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, my friend, it’s that you’re a man who always does the right thing . . .” Her teeth tugged at the edge of her lip. “Sooner or later.”
He grunted. “You can put the gun away, Emma, I’ve already gone down in flames.”
A chuckle bubbled in her throat. “I was only aiming at the unforgiveness, Sean, not your bachelorhood. After the game, just make it clear to Miss Kelly that you’re not interested . . .”
One blond brow shot high. “Clear? To Rose Kelly?” He grunted again. “The only thing that would be clear to that woman is a gold band on my hand . . . and in my nose.”
“I’m sure if you just tell her in no uncertain terms—”
His mouth sagged open. “Don’t you think I have? I must have told her in three or four different ways, but the woman just blinked at me like I was speaking Chinese. I practically painted a picture for her in living color, but she’s obviously color-blind too.”
“Well, it was you who asked, you know . . .”
His words ground out between clenched teeth. “As-a-blasted-courtesy, not-an-invitation.”
Emma squinted in thought. “Why not tell her what you told her before? You know, after she cornered you in the storeroom that time—that you’re ‘seeing’ someone.” Mirth laced her tone at his contrived defense at the time, claiming it wouldn’t be a lie, because he was, after all, “seeing” Emma at every family function, wasn’t he?
“Yes, but that was when she had Chester. Now she’s free as a bird—a vulture, to be exact—and she’s circling, I can feel it.”
Mischief tugged at Emma’s lips. “Then just tell her the truth, that it’s nothing personal, but you’re contemplating the priesthood.”
A harsh laugh erupted from his throat. “Oh, yeah, like that’s going to stop her.” He gouged his temples with the span of his hand. “I tell you, the woman is diabolical.” Dropping back into his chair, he blew out a ragged sigh. “I think she apprenticed under Charity.”
Emma couldn’t help it. She laughed and shook her head. Rising to her feet, she straightened her skirt and challenged him with a devious glint of her own. “Well then, Sean O’Connor, I suggest you get on the phone this instant to give Charity a call.” She strolled to the door and turned, a crooked grin on her lips. “Because if I’m not mistaken,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, “I suspect other than prayer, your only hope is to call in a professional.”
“For pity’s sake, Mitch, would you please sit down?”
Mitch Dennehy halted midstride to stare at his father-in-law, a sharp retort weighting his tongue. He swallowed it hard, unwilling to break his vow to curb his temper, especially with his editor. His frustration pulsed in his cheek as he plopped into the chair at the front of
Patrick’s burnished wood desk. He forced a tight smile. “Sorry, Patrick, but I’m having trouble understanding why Hennessey hauled us in on a Saturday and then makes us wait two blasted hours. Hours that could have been spent far more productively, I might add.”
Patrick glanced up from some galleys to give his assistant editor a sympathetic smile. “Both of us have had a chance to catch up on a few things while waiting, Mitch, and you could use the extra time to go over last year’s donor list, you know. That would be time well spent.” His lips shifted in irony. “Although not nearly as cathartic as pacing the floor, I’m sure.”
Mitch huffed. “You know I can’t concentrate when I’m riled. And nothing riles me more than Hennessey foisting some high-society soiree on us when he knows how swamped we are.” His mouth gummed in a tight line. “Especially when it keeps me from fishing with my son.”
With a slash of his pen, Patrick redlined a galley before sailing it into a bin on the corner of his desk. He laid the pen down and massaged his eyes. “I certainly understand—not to mention incurring the wrath of our wives. If Charity is anything like her mother—” he lowered his reading specs to deliver a wry look over the square rims, “and we both know she is—she’s probably still stewing. Marcy actually gave me the silent treatment this morning for working another Saturday. Which,” he said with a trace of humor in his tone, “given the highs and lows I’ve experienced during her change of life, is actually preferable at times. Silence is golden . . . at least when the alternative is a mood swing that unleashes anything from a rant to a crying jag.”
A smile wheedled its way to the corners of Mitch’s lips. “Yeah, mood swings—I remember them well with the twins—nine months of biting my tongue till I thought it would bleed. I’ll tell you right now I’m not looking forward to more of those if we have another child.” His smile faded into a grimace. “Or when Charity reaches the change, whichever comes first.”