A Heart Revealed (41 page)

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.

Emma appeared rooted in place, arms folded to her waist as if to protect herself from his wrath. With the slightest lift of her chin, she gave him the same tight-lipped look Bert always did whenever he pilfered the last lemon drop from the crystal dish on her desk. “It’s a wedding, Sean, you have to dance—it’s an unwritten rule.”

He shot up, muscles twitching beneath tightly rolled sleeves as he stood, palms and candy bar propped hard to his wooden desk. A silent growl vibrated in his throat, giving his voice the same grinding tension he’d noticed in Mitch when Charity pushed too far. “So-un-write-it, Em-ma,” he said in a clipped tone as foreign to him as the notion of dancing. “Rose is lucky I’m going at all as much as I hate weddings. Heaven knows the garter will find me, even in the restroom, so the woman needs to count her blessings and let it go.”

The steely look in Emma’s eyes softened, which meant she was obviously rethinking her approach. Two little puckers formed above her nose as she slowly entered his office, and her brows sloped up in that sad-eyed stare that always signaled his doom. Because unlike Charity who often employed the same little-girl-lost technique with Mitch, this was pure, unadulterated Emma Malloy, heart bleeding over someone else’s misfortune.

Sean blew out a heavy breath and put a hand to his eyes. “Please don’t look at me like that, Emma, you know I can’t handle it.”

She moved to his side, her light touch trapping a groan in his throat. Her voice was the whisper of an angel—gentle and caring and wringing the starch from his conscience. “That’s because you hate it as much as I do when you disappoint someone, Sean,” she said quietly, “and you’ve already told me how much it would mean to Rose if you danced.”

He didn’t answer, hoping she’d go away.

“Please?” She ducked to smile into his eyes, and his groan escaped into a full-fledged growl. She chewed on her lip, apparently in an effort to bite back a grin. “I can teach you the fox trot and the lindy hop right in my office,” she said softly, “which would help a lot in getting you through the night.” Without waiting for his answer, she carefully disarmed him of his candy bar and tucked it back into his shirt pocket before tugging his hand. “Come on, you big baby, just thirty minutes. That’s all I need to make Rose the happiest woman alive. Please?”

He huffed out a sigh as she dragged him toward the door, lips leveled in a tight line. “No, it’d take a rock the size on Charity’s finger to make Rose the happiest woman alive.” Jerking free, he strode into Emma’s office ahead of her, turning with hands locked on his hips and a scowl on his face. “What? Is she paying you or something, for you to badger me like this? Well, I’ll tell you what—you’re lucky everybody’s gone, or I wouldn’t be doing this.”

“I know,” she said meekly, the twinkle in her eyes belying her solemn manner. “But if you could have seen the look on Rose’s face when she said how she wished you could dance . . .”

“I’ve seen it,” he said in a terse tone, “and apparently it had a greater effect on you than it did on me.” He huffed out a sigh. “Close the door, Emma,” he ordered, rather enjoying making her pay for forcing his hand. She had way too much influence on him as it was and sometimes it ruffled his Irish. He folded his arms and perched on the edge of her desk, experiencing a sudden twinge of sympathy for both Mitch and Luke in dealing with women like his sisters—strong-willed, stubborn, and bent on getting their way. Emma Malloy certainly hadn’t fit into that category until recently, he thought. His lips slanted. Until he’d started dating Rose.

With barely the sound of a click, she closed the door and turned, hands tight on the knob while she stared at him with those soft, gray eyes that always reminded him of a deer about to bolt.

His jaw set. To the devil with the deer—
he
wanted to bolt, but the shy, hopeful look in her eyes had him by the throat, a talent that Emma Malloy seemed to master without even trying.

He blew out his frustration on a wave of noisy air. “You’ve got thirty minutes, Malloy, but I’m gonna warn you right now—Fred Astaire I’m not.”

Her lips curved into that innocent way that always melted his heart, and he found himself relenting—
as usual
—with a reluctant smile. He lumbered to his feet with a groan. “Okay, Ginger, let’s put your foot where your mouth is.”

“I promise this will be fun,” she said in a rush, hurrying to the cherrywood buffet against the wall where an RCA Victor phonograph stood ready and waiting. His mouth went flat. Further evidence of her plot to goad him into making Rose happy.

He shook his head and watched her while she bent over the phonograph, his gaze traveling the length of her before he realized what he was doing. Heat ringed his collar and his pulse notched up a degree when he suddenly realized Emma Malloy had a beautiful body. How had he never noticed before—those long, willowy legs that slid up to gentle hips and a small waist? Fire scorched his cheeks as he admired generous breasts all the more obvious in a new pale yellow sweater that brought out a touch of green in her eyes. He cleared his throat and looked away while she carefully lifted the needle into place with a scratchy sound before it glided into the record’s groove. The mellow sounds of Duke Ellington’s “Three Little Words” suddenly floated through the air, and oddly enough, his muscles began to relax. He closed his eyes to enjoy the magic of one of his favorite songs, by an artist Emma
knew
he loved.

“I know what you’re doing, I see it all too clear . . .”

He inhaled deeply, and all of his resistance fled, because he knew exactly what Emma was doing and why. Her mission in life seemed to be to make those she loved happy, and for whatever reason, Emma desperately wanted to see him happy, to make a go of it with Rose, to walk down that aisle into a life she believed would bring him much joy. The air in his lungs released in a slow, tranquil sigh at the gift of Emma in his life. He had never felt this close to a friend, much less a woman, and he marveled at the fact that when he was with her, contentment seemed to purl through his body as languidly as the Duke’s music now oozed through his mind.

His eyelids opened, and there she stood, arms outstretched and an impish grin on her face.

“I knew the Duke would work his magic,” she said, taking his left hand in hers and clasping it at eye level. “Which I must admit, has me feeling a wee bit like Charity.” Absently nibbling her lip, she placed his right hand on her shoulder blade and rested her arm on his. “Now relax, because you’ll find the fox trot to be a smooth, easy dance very similar to the waltz.”

His mouth angled up. “Oh, that helps a lot, since I know how to waltz too.”

She lifted her chin, apparently striving to be professional, but the twitch of her lips gave her dead away. “First, left foot forward, one-two, then right foot forward, three-four . . .”

Without a word, he followed her effortlessly, as if he had Astaire blood in his veins. It should have felt strange, holding her this way, but somehow it didn’t and Sean wondered why. Maybe because he was from an affectionate family that hugged all the time, he reasoned, so naturally closeness and hugs had already become a part of their friendship.

“Left foot to the side, five-six . . . ,” she said, gaze intent on their feet.

Their proximity allowed him to study her close up . . . the way one side of her mouth tilted when she scraped her teeth against her lip, like now, indicating she was focusing hard on the lesson. For the first time he noticed an almost invisible sprinkling of tiny freckles across her nose, subtle and shy like Emma herself. He caught a faint whiff of the perfume Charity had given her—Shalimar—with its hint of lemon and vanilla, and he breathed it in, the scent teasing his senses with the same innocence and beauty of the woman he held in his arms.

“Then left foot forward, one-two . . .” She glanced up with a smile. “Good . . . good, you’ve got it, now. Then turn your right foot one-quarter angle, three-four . . .”

He wasn’t surprised that he picked it up quickly—athletics had always come easily for him, and apparently dancing was no different, but to say he was shocked he enjoyed it was an understatement. The music seemed to flow in his limbs and in no time, he was whirling her in his arms, hand firm against her back as he drew her close with confident ease. He gave her a crooked smile. “Look out, Fred Astaire!”

A breathless giggle escaped her lips as the music stopped, and she put a hand to her chest. “Goodness, you’re a natural, although I should have expected that with your affinity for sports.” She dashed back to the phonograph to reset the needle, shooting a grin over her shoulder. “Once more, and you’ll be giving me lessons, I promise. And then it’s the lindy, and your life will be complete.” She returned, clasping his hand.