A Passion Redeemed (12 page)

Not likely.

"Well, here's the birthday girl." Bridget stood in the doorway, her arm braced around Mima's waist. "Look, Mother, Mitch came to celebrate with us."

Mitch jumped to his feet and pulled out a chair. "Happy birthday, Mima. Heard a rumor you're eighty-two, but that's impossible. You don't look a day over sixty."

She cackled, a surprisingly deep chuckle for so tiny a woman. "An Irishman to the core, you are, Mitch Dennehy, oozing more blarney than the blessed stone itself."

He laughed, and the tension eased in his neck. "Maybe a wee bit, but not by much. You look very pretty tonight."

She lifted a frail hand to pat her snow-white topknot, looking quite pleased. "Do I? Well, the credit goes to my greatgranddaughter who fusses over me like a favorite doll."

Charity adjusted the scalloped collar of Mima's navy blue dress before helping her into the chair. "You are my favorite doll, Mima, the perfect size to primp and pamper."

Mima's faded blue eyes quirked in Mitch's direction while her lips twisted in a smile. "See what I mean?"

He grinned and glanced at Charity. "Some little girls never grow up, I guess."

Charity's brows lifted in surprise. "And some do, but nobody notices." With an air of refinement, she elevated her chin as if to turn away, then stuck her tongue out instead.

Mitch blinked, then burst out laughing. "Thanks for proving my point." He sat down in the chair and shifted to converse with Mima, keenly aware of Charity as she and Bridget chatted and prepared food for the table.

Mitch felt Mima's soft touch on his hand and blinked up in surprise. A serene smile hovered on the old woman's lips.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" she whispered, her voice so soft and low he had to lean forward to catch it.

Heat roared to his cheeks.

She chuckled. "Inside and out, you know. But few people realize that."

Mitch swallowed, pressing his lips tight.

She tilted her head, her gaze penetrating his. "You don't, do you?"

Mitch jumped when Charity plopped a steaming bowl of dumplings on the table. "Almost ready." She darted back to help Bridget with the pot roast. Mitch's stomach growled.

He looked over to see Mima studying him once again, her nose wrinkled in thought. She smiled and leaned close, her voice barely a whisper. "She's an enigma, our Charity. A real puzzlement. She begrudges fiercely and loves fiercely. Seems to be no in between with her. Have you noticed that?"

A smile tugged at his lips. "Maybe."

Charity groaned as she hefted a heavy platter to the table. Mitch shot up to take it from her, setting it down with a thump. "Sweet saints above, Mrs. Murphy, who else is coming? You have enough here to feed the whole block."

Bridget turned at the sink with a grin on her face. "I know. I seem to get carried away on special occasions. And it's Bridget, not Mrs. Murphy." She wagged a wooden spoon at him. "And don't make me tell you again, young man."

Charity giggled and leaned close to pour more cider. She scrunched her nose at Mima. "Did she say young' man?"

Mitch stifled a smile and fixed her with what he hoped was a threatening glare. "I suppose anything seems old to someone your age ... little girl."

Charity smirked.

Bridget hurried to the table with a bottle of wine and corkscrew in her hand. "Will you do us the honors, Mitch? We have to have a birthday toast, after all."

He poured Mima's first, then Bridget's, bypassing his glass to move toward Charity's.

Bridget scowled. "Mitch Dennehy, this is a celebration and we must all clink on Mima's birthday. Is that understood?"

He hesitated before relenting with a smile. "Maybe just this once. In honor of Mima."

He poured wine for himself, then let the bottle hover over Charity's empty glass. He glanced at Bridget. "Are you sure she's old enough?"

Charity flicked the cuff of his sleeve, causing a dribble of scarlet to splash into her crystal goblet. "Grandmother, make him behave."

He grinned, his eyes challenging hers to a truce. "I will if you will."

Her smile softened into serious resolve. "I will, Mitch." The hope in her face plucked at his heart. Friends. She wanted to be friends. He smiled and poured her wine. So be it.

Charity eased back in the chair, legs comfortably tucked beneath her skirt. She studied the man who made her stomach flutter. She wasn't sure if it was the effect of the wine or Mitch regaling them with stories of his dear, old landlady, but either way, she was sure she was glowing. Her gaze drifted to Mima and Bridget, both rapt with attention and giggling like schoolgirls, then back to Mitch with his teasing eyes and heart-melting grin. She released a quiet sigh. Here she was, head over heels, and the man wouldn't reciprocate to save his soul. Instead, they would be friends. She took another sip of wine and smiled. For now.

She entertained the prospect. Gruff, solid Mitch Dennehy, a friend in need, a shoulder to cry on, a stabilizing force. A man who quelled her nerves by just walking into the room. A safety net, a father figure.

Charity silently gasped, startled by the thought. She observed his massive shoulders hunkered down, brawny arms planted firmly on the table, and a hard-chiseled chin shadowed by a day's growth of beard. Fatherly? She smiled. Hardly.

"What are you grinning about, young lady?" he asked.

She blinked, staring at three sets of blue eyes focused on her. A hot flush warmed her cheeks. "Why, your comments about your landlady, of course."

His left brow jagged high. "Which one? The fact she's been widowed for fifteen years or the one about her dog dying?"

Her cheeks scorched hot. "Oh, goodness, Mitch, I suppose I missed that. I apologize."

He chuckled and settled back in his chair. "Well, at least your grandmother and Mima find my company interesting, even if you don't."

"I think someone's just feeling the effects of the wine," Bridget said, stifling a yawn. "I know it certainly has relaxed me." She lifted the watch pinned to the lacey lapel of her best blouse. "Goodness, Mother, you must be exhausted. It's half past ten."

Mima chuckled, her paper-thin eyelids drooping noticeably. "So that's why I'm weaving in my chair. Thank you all for a wonderful birthday. And thank you for coming, Mitch, and for the lovely chocolates. Bridge, Charity-dinner was delicious."

"You're welcome, Mother. Now let's get you to bed before you fall asleep at the table."

Charity jumped up. "Grandmother, I'll do it."

Bridget leaned down to clasp an arm around Mima's shoulders, worry lines bunching her brow. "No, Charity, I'd like to, if you don't mind. I just hope we haven't overdone it tonight. Do you think you can stand, Mother?"

Mima nodded slowly, but it was Mitch who supported her as she rose, his strong arm fastened beneath her elbow. He glanced at Bridget. "May I?"

Bridget's smile was as drawn and tired as Mima's. "No, Mitch, I can manage." She patted his arm. "But I'm sure Charity would love help with the dishes, if you're so inclined. I doubt I'll be much good to her once I get Mima undressed and into bed."

Mitch nodded, glancing at Charity before putting his hand on Mima's shoulder. He leaned to press a kiss to her forehead. "Good night, Mima." He squeezed Bridget's arm. "Good night, Bridget. Dinner was wonderful. Thank you for inviting me."

"My pleasure. So good to see you again, Mitch. Please come back."

Taking her cue from Mima and Bridget's departure, Charity gathered dishes from the table while Mitch followed suit. His towering frame seemed out of place as he carried a lopsided pile of dirty plates to the sink. He stacked them on the counter and turned, pushing his hands deep in his pockets as if not sure what to do next. A crooked grin surfaced on his lips. "You're not going to make me wash, are you?"

She laughed, the warmth of his presence oozing through her like thick, hot molasses. He appeared blissfully relaxed, and she silently thanked Bridget for plying him with wine despite his objections. She cocked her head. "Not if I want you to come back."

She ratcheted the pump, and water spilled into an old, dented pot. She rolled the sleeves of her blouse. "Mind lugging that to the fire? I like my dishwater hot."

He lifted the pot with ease, transferring it to the stove while she reached for two more, filling each half full. She sensed him watching her while she scraped plate after plate, and the thought made her giddy and flustered at the same time. When the dirty dishes were stacked high, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled. "Why don't you pour us more wine? We have to wait for the water to boil anyway."

He cocked a brow. "Don't you think you've had enough?"

Enough? Of this glorious warmth? She turned and smiled a secret smile, her back to him once again. "Might as well finish the bottle."

He cleared his throat, and she knew she'd won when she heard the gentle glug of the wine being poured. She pushed the stacked dishes aside for the moment and whirled around to retrieve her glass. He handed it to her, filled to the brim, while his remained noticeably empty. Her fingers trembled as she took it, keenly aware of his overpowering presence. Desperate for some semblance of calm, she took a careful sip, studying him over the rim of her glass. "You didn't keep any for yourself."

He watched her, his eyes unreadable as he set the empty bottle on the table. "Gave it up. Tilltonight. But just for Mima." He turned abruptly to check on the pot. "It's steaming. Where do you want it?"

She set her wine down and hurried to the sink, snatching a dishtowel from a hook. She slung it over her shoulder. "Here ... half in the wash pot, half in the rinse." She stepped back, allowing him just enough room to pour. Vapor rose like a cloud of mist, delivering the faint scent of Bay Rum to her nostrils. His powerful back strained as he poured, his jacket pulling tightly across broad shoulders. He turned, pot in hand, dwarfing her with his height. "More?"

She swallowed hard. Her chin tilted up to meet his eyes. "More?"

A faint smile flickered at the edge of his lips. "Water. You said you like it hot."

Blood surged to her cheeks. "I ... no, that's fine. Just fine." She staggered back, lightheaded. Her hands were shaking when she reached for her wine. She gulped it too quickly. Settle down, Charity. He's just a man.

She took a deep breath and turned, patting the back of the nearest chair. "Why don't you just sit and keep me company while I do the dishes?"

He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, assessing her through hooded eyes. "Why? Too close for comfort?"

She blinked, and her lips parted in surprise. Ignoring the heat in her cheeks, she jutted her chin. "No. Is it for you?"

He grinned. A reckless gleam shone in his eyes. "You wash, I'll dry."

Charity took a deep breath and moved toward the sink, confusion and euphoria battling in her brain. She tried to focus on the task at hand, but her thoughts were tripping faster than the beat of her heart. What was he doing? It was as if a few glasses of wine had unleashed the rogue in him. He was baiting her, teasing her ... disarming her.

This is his idea of friends?

She drew in a deep breath and sliced her hands into the warm water, scouring plates like a madwoman before plunging them into the rinse. Fishing them out once again, she didn't bother shaking them off, just slapped one on top of another in a sloppy clatter, water sluicing onto the counter. After several silent moments, she tilted her head to chance a peek out of the corner of her eye. "You're not drying."

He gauged her through half -lidded eyes. "And you're not washing; you're drowning."

Her chuckle cleaved to her throat when he lowered his gaze to her mouth. The breath in her lungs shallowed, drifting out in short, raspy breaths. "You're still not drying," she whispered.

He moistened his lips, then slowly lifted his eyes to hers. "I need this." His fingers skimmed across the towel on her shoulder, causing the air to still in her throat.

Dear God, what was happening? It was as if he had no control over his hand as it strayed from the towel to the soft curve of her neck. A tilt of her head, the blush of her cheeks, and suddenly he was two different men. One whose every muscle, thought, and desire strained toward wanting her. The other, a distant voice of conscience and memory, quickly fading with every throb of his renegade pulse. Curse the effect of the wine! What else could explain this driving insanity pulsing through him right now? His fingers burned as they lingered, slowly tracing to the hollow of her throat. Against his will, Mitch fixated on her lips, lush and full, staggered at the heat they generated. What was he doing? He didn't want this.

Yes ... he did.

All night he'd felt it mounting, a desire in his belly that grew tight at the sound of her laughter, the lift of her chin, the light in her eyes. A woman with cool confidence around everyone but him. Call it the wine. Or the fact he hadn't been this close to a woman for well over a year. Or the intoxicating awareness that his very presence seemed to unnerve her. Whatever name it bore, it had him by the throat, taking him places he'd vowed he'd never go.

She blinked up at him, eyes wide and wondering. He was taking her by surprise and knew it. But no more so than him. He stared at her lips, feeling the draw and unwilling to fight it. His fingers moved up her throat to gently cup her chin, his eyes burning with intent. Slowly, carefully, he leaned forward, his mouth finally reaching hers, his breathing ragged as he tasted her lips.