A Passion Denied (21 page)

If ever there were a night for Patrick to sleep on the couch, this would be it. With barely contained fury, Marcy waited for Sam to return from the washroom. She folded her arms and tucked them close to her body, vowing to lock her husband out of their bedroom for the first time in over twenty-six years.

She exhaled and began tapping her fingers on the table, then glanced at the front for some sign of Patrick. Her hand fidgeted with the base of the water glass before she finally reached for her purse. Her fingers were itchy to keep busy, so she applied a coat of lipstick and powdered her nose. Seconds ticked by as she fumed, reflecting back on the evening—the evening Patrick had insisted they attend. Against her wishes.

“For old time’s sake,” he had said. But “old times” weren’t all that he supposed them to be, and now here she was, face-to-face with her past. While that stubborn Irishman was, once again, putting the
Herald
before her.

Her insides had been a jumble as she dressed, angst bubbling in her stomach like vinegar in a fry pan. She slipped into the new butter-yellow frock Patrick had helped her pick out. “It brings out the blue of your eyes, Marcy, and the glints of gold in your hair,” he said, ignoring the cost. He flashed his heart-melting grin before finalizing the decision with a kiss. “I want to show you off, darlin’,” he had whispered.

But he hadn’t realized to whom.

When he had called to say he’d be late, some of her anxiety had edged into anger. “I’ll meet you at the restaurant,” he promised, and she had begged him to hurry.

“I will, Marcy, as quickly as I can. Just one crisis to avert, and I’ll be on my way.”

She had hung up the phone in the hall with a lump in her throat, desperate to avert a crisis of her own. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Sky-blue eyes stared back, etched with concern. Anxiety had paled her cheeks, so she’d blotted her lipstick and rubbed in a bit of the color. She scrutinized her hair and wrinkled her nose. She was so tired of chignons, despite the pretty mother-of-pearl comb she wore, and had been sorely tempted to get it bobbed for ease of care. But Patrick had pleaded, and she had succumbed. She sighed and leaned close to the mirror to study her face with a critical eye, grateful for the creamy skin inherited from her mother. Even with her fair share of laugh lines and faint wrinkles, it glowed as softly as Charity’s in the right light. Some said she looked closer to thirty-five than forty-three. Her lips tipped into a faint smile. Mmmm . . . maybe in a dark room.

She returned to the present to see Sam heading her way and quickly took a drink of water. He strode to the table with a confident air that had been one of his many hallmarks, and she found herself wondering why he never married. Although not as handsome as Patrick, he had a definite charisma that had never left him wanting for a woman on his arm. Even now his easy smile lit his ebony eyes with an almost roguish glint, turning female heads as he crossed the room. He eased into the booth and teased her with a grin, looking so much like the pirate he was—dark hair slicked back and hard-chiseled features.

He nodded at her uneaten dessert. “You’ve changed. The Marceline Murphy I knew would never leave that on her plate.”

She laughed, and it dispelled some of the edginess she felt. “I suspect we’ve all changed a good deal. Hopefully, for the better.”

He leaned back in the booth and studied her through lidded eyes. “You haven’t. Other than your appetite for desserts.” He paused before leaning in to rest his arms on the table. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You still take my breath away, you know.”

It had been years since she blushed to the roots of her hair, and his low chuckle did nothing to help.

“Well, I can see I’ve embarrassed you, Mrs. O’Connor, so I do apologize. But as you know, I’ve never been a man to mince words.”

She fumbled for her napkin and dipped it in her water glass, then closed her eyes and patted her face. She was certain the breath in her lungs had seldom been so shallow.

He touched a gentle hand to her arm, and she jolted. “Don’t tell me you’re not used to hearing such things, Marcy. Knowing Patrick as I do, I would think you’d hear them warmly and often. I know if you were my wife—”

“Well, I’m not and well you know it, Samuel O’Rourke.” Her chest heaved with ragged breaths as she pressed the cool cloth to her cheek. Her glance skittered to the door. “Where in the world is Patrick?”

Sam picked up the check and reached into his suit coat. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? That phone call I took at the front desk was from him. He’s running late and said he’d meet us back at the house.”

The cool napkin adhered to her skin. “The call you took more than an hour ago? That was Patrick?”

He placed several crisp bills on the table and gave her an intimate smile. “I know your fondness for dessert, my love. I didn’t want to ruin it for you.” He stood and offered his hand. “Patrick has had you for over twenty-six years, Marcy. I only have tonight.”

She shot to her feet and slapped his hand away. “Keep your hands to yourself, Sam O’Rourke, and I am
not
your ‘love.’ ”

He blocked her path. “You were once, or have you forgotten?” She butted him out of the way with her purse. “I haven’t forgotten what a wolf you were, and apparently you haven’t changed, either.” She stormed toward the door.

He cupped her elbow before she exited the front entrance. “Marcy, please . . . forgive me. I was way out of line.” He offered her the thin wrap she’d left in the booth. “Truce?”

She snatched it from his hands. “I want to go home. Now!”

“Yes, ma’am.” He turned to hail his driver, and within minutes, he was ushering her into the back of his private car, extending his hand to help her in. Ignoring him, she climbed inside, then scooted to the far side of the seat. He eased in beside her and gave the glass partition two hard raps, indicating for the driver to go. He sat back and she wedged her purse neatly between them. With a grin, he casually placed his arm along the back of the seat. She turned and fixed her gaze out the window, all but holding her breath as they jostled along cobblestone streets.

The tips of his fingers lighted upon her shoulder, almost searing her skin through the chiffon of her sleeve. “Marcy, for the sake of our past, let’s not fight. I’m leaving in the morning and may never see you again. Won’t you give me these few precious moments?”

She turned sharply and saw the loneliness in his eyes. She expelled a soft breath and gently removed his hand from her arm. “All right, Sam, for the sake of our past and your friendship with my husband—truce.”

He sloped back in the seat and visibly relaxed. “I came here this weekend for one reason only—to see you and Patrick and set things straight.” He reached inside his suit coat and withdrew a piece of paper. His gaze locked on hers as he tucked it in the pocket of her clutch. “Here’s a check for the money I owe you, every dime.”

He looked away and threaded a hand through black hair grayed at the temples. “You know, I never intended to say those things to you at the restaurant back there, truly. But when Patrick didn’t join us and I found we were alone . . .” His gaze returned, stifling her air. “I suddenly remembered things I’ve missed. Like that lopsided tilt of your smile when you’re teasing, or that little-girl glow when you laugh.” A grin creased his lips. “The look of panic in your eyes when I would get too close . . .”

She laughed and he took her hand lightly in his, his eyes suddenly serious. “It all came rushing back, Marcy, and I found myself wishing . . . that you’d married me instead of Patrick.”

“You weren’t the marrying kind, as I recall.”

“I was a fool.”

She squirmed and tugged her hand free. “Sam—”

“No, hear me out, please. I know you love him, and there’s nothing I can do about that. You belong to him, and rightly so. But he’s not here now, and I am. And I can’t help but wonder . . . what might have happened if I hadn’t ruined it between us.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he stroked a calloused thumb against her cheek. “Can’t help but wonder . . . what it would be like to kiss you again.”

His words caught her by surprise, and her lips parted in shock. In the catch of her breath, he took full advantage and drew her close, mating his mouth with hers. Panic seized in her chest, and she tried to push him away, but his grip tightened as he deepened the kiss. She managed to bite his lip and he jerked away, retaining his hold. A glint of anger shone in his eyes.

“Still the hellcat, I see. I imagine Patrick must enjoy that immensely.”

He tried to kiss her again, and she wrenched to the side, struggling to get free. “Let me go, you lout, or I’ll tell Patrick everything.”

His laugh was bitter. “No, I don’t think you will, Marcy. Because somehow, someway, it would all slip out, and you can’t afford that. It wouldn’t do for Patrick to know I was the reason you played so hard to get, the reason you took so long to say yes. He may have won your hand, my love, but at the time, I had your heart, remember? And I don’t think you would want him to know that. Sometimes it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

Her chest heaved with indignation. “Sleeping dogs? Or lying ones?”

He grinned. “Perhaps a bit of both, my love.” He immobilized her arms so she couldn’t move and nestled his lips along the curve of her ear. “Either way, there’s no sense in dredging the past.”

“You mean, along with the slime?” She jerked a knee hard into his gut and twisted away. He released her with a grunt. Her pulse raced frantically as she groped for the comb from her hair, finally jerking it free. Loose curls spilled in defiance as she brandished the comb in his face. “So help me, Sam O’Rourke, if you lay one more finger on me, I will gouge out that lecherous look in your eye! You haven’t changed one bit, which is exactly why my name is O’Connor.”

The car lurched to a stop, and she turned to fling the door wide. In a flash of his thick arm, he heaved it closed again, butting her hard against the back of the seat. “I suggest you hear me out, Mrs. O’Connor, if you value your marriage. You and I may not part on the best of terms, but your husband is my friend. If you so much as breathe a word of this to Patrick, I’d be forced to do the same. I’m sure he’d be shocked to learn he wasn’t the first man his wife kissed on the morning of her wedding.”

With a set to his chin, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. He bent to retrieve the comb she had dropped and pushed it in her hand. “I suggest you make yourself presentable. We wouldn’t want Patrick to wonder what’s kept us.”

She turned away, unwilling for him to see the tears in her eyes. With shaky fingers, she wound her hair into a semblance of a chignon and gouged the comb in until it hurt. She flailed at the door handle, relieved when it swung open. The brisk night air helped to cool the humiliation in her cheeks as she stepped out onto the dark street. This time he didn’t stop her. She slammed the door, and her hands trembled as she adjusted her dress.

He got out on the other side and rounded the car. He assessed her in the shadowed light, then lowered his voice to resume a teasing tone. “Your hair is a bit disheveled, my love, a wee bit like you just rolled out of bed, but nothing that would give suspect, I don’t think.”

He smiled and latched her arm firmly onto his. She tried to break free, but he tightened his hold.

“It’s a pity you and I didn’t end up together, Marcy. I could have tamed a bit of that stubborn streak in you. Not all, mind you, but enough.”

A shadowy figure rose from the swing on the porch. “I was beginning to think you ran off with my wife, O’Rourke.”

Marcy caught her breath and pressed a hand to her chest. “Patrick! You scared me.”

Sam ushered her to the steps and released her arm with a chuckle. “I certainly gave it my best effort, old man, but I daresay the woman is set on you.”

She was grateful for the dark that hid the fire in her cheeks and hurried to where Patrick stood on the porch. He smiled and circled an arm to her waist. Relief ebbed through her like a tidal wave.

“So, did you two have a good time, darlin’?”

Sam’s eyes locked on hers. “I don’t know about Marcy, but I certainly did. Your wife is a beautiful woman, Patrick. I’d think twice before not showing up again.”

Patrick squeezed her waist. “Yes, no doubt there will be penance to pay for this latest infraction of mine, Sam, but thank God Marcy is a forgiving woman.”

Sam grinned. “Is she, now?”

“Come on in. There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the stove, and we’ve got years to cover.” He herded Marcy inside while holding the screen door for Sam. He closed the door and turned, hand suspended on the knob. She could feel the heat of his gaze. “Marcy, are you all right? You look tired.”

She attempted a smile and took a step back, then brushed a hand to her forehead. “I . . . am tired, Patrick. If you and Sam don’t mind, I believe I’m going to head up and let you two catch up.”

Patrick moved to her side and pulled her into his arms. He kissed the top of her head. “Of course we don’t mind, do we, Sam?”

“Not at all. I’m afraid I’ve worn her out, Patrick. My apologies, Marcy. It was wonderful seeing you again. Good night.”

Patrick lifted her chin to bestow a quick kiss. He hesitated for a split second before retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket. He gently wiped the side of her mouth. “You must have brushed up against something. Your lipstick is smeared.” He shoved it back into his suit coat and smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He gave her a gentle kiss on the lips. “Good night, darlin’.”

“Good night, Patrick. Sam, thank you for dinner.”

Her legs felt like lead as she mounted the steps, well aware that two sets of eyes burned a hole in her back. She braced herself against the need to shiver, then reached the landing and fought the urge to run. Once hidden in the safety of the hall, she flew to the bathroom and scoured her mouth with a soapy washrag, desperate to purge her lips of the residue of Sam’s mouth. She brushed her teeth three separate times and gargled with lilac water, but the stain of his lust still burned like the fear in her throat.
Dear God, please protect Patrick from
the truth.