Saints and Sinners (4 page)

Moira shifted and tried to collect her wits despite her desires. Something wasn’t right. Moira covered his nipple with her palm and tugged at the reddish-brown hairs. One glance into his eyes told the tale. Eyes flashing a wild blue fire that held her captive.

The eyes of devilish Reilly Dunne. What was he up to playing like this?

He nipped her left earlobe. “Come into my arms, beautiful queen and never, ever leave.”

His words left her giddy, and she longed to hear more. What a crazy accent he spoke. She quivered at her discovery and emerging sexuality. “I cannot leave my world, my kingdom for a mere man.” What possessed her to say such a thing?

Feverish from his touch, she moaned as his hands again cupped her bottom and parted the chiffon material. Strong, hot fingers stroked the sensitive spot where her leg met with the curve of her backside. Ripples of pleasure ran down her spine. His fingers stroked, teased. Oh, the way of you, Reilly. Suddenly, they massaged the sensitive mound at the base of her belly. Moira flushed at the carnality of their embrace. Her veils and loincloth failed to prevent this passionate man from having his way with her. Had he no shame acting this way in front of Flossie?

“I have ways, ways to persuade you otherwise.” He nuzzled her neck and muttered something else, but the words became lost in her wig.

She met his gaze and held it. Lush red lashes skimmed his cheeks as he blinked. He was playing his part well, but with a bit too much enthusiasm.

“I cannot surrender my kingdom for passion,” she said and kicked the script out of their way.

“The queen must have a good memory as she’s just made a mess of our lines.” His smile changed to a scowl.

Should she call his bluff? How much could she take before losing all control? Resist as she might, his callused fingertips persuaded her to play along. Before she could reply, he flipped her over his leg and slapped her nearly naked bottom. She cried out, surprised when his warm wet lips brushed against the spot he’d just struck. Unable to control her own body, Moira raised her backside against his bold hand.

“What a bad girl you are, my naughty nymph of the Nile.”

Fire flashed through her loins. What might he do next? Another playful slap revealed his desires.

“Unhand me, you, you...”

“What, Cleo? What do those lovely lips long to tell me?”

Breathless by this time, she gasped when he pulled her into an upright position straddling his leg. Over the swell of her breasts, he trailed the rubber snake, finally bringing it to rest between her legs. Moira’s body melted against his, and she lost all control of the situation.

“That you’re not a sheik after all.”

White teeth appeared between his lips, and a heart-stopping smile made its way across his mouth. “If I’m not, then who am I?”

Above, the stage lights beamed down with unrelenting brightness. Every pore on her body seeped sweat. Her hand slipped and came to rest against his left nipple. Like a tiny flower bud, it puckered against her palm.

“You’re Reilly Dunne. And evil.”

His nostrils flared at her recognition. This man was a dangerous sort, but she couldn’t take her eyes off his handsome face. What a dream come true.

He ignored her remark. “What treasures do you possess?”

The wetness between her legs intensified, and Moira shifted her weight. Her sheik stretched, and she studied his muscled body.

In a fit of fancy, she twisted one of the scarves and placed it between her legs. Slowly, she pulled the free end, allowing the piece of silk to slip upward while holding his gaze. The musk from his body mixed with the scent of leather from his belt. She inhaled deeply to capture his maleness. Slung low over his hips were a pair of tan pantaloons. A gold buckle on his sash flashed and drew her attention to the bulge directly below it.

“Care to see more of what makes me that way?” he teased.

She averted her gaze. Applesauce. He knew. She writhed against his lap as his fingers tugged the thatch of coarse curls below her belly. A man like Reilly had his way with women despite the fact they were still clothed. Moira strained toward him, drawn by her own emerging desires.

Suddenly, she remembered her vow and removed her hand from his chest. “T-treasures never to be found by most men.”

“Care to let me have a look at the map?” he asked, drawing her face between his hot, damp hands.

“I can’t tell the secrets of my treasure to such a rogue,” Moira said. Reilly prevented her from airing further sentiment. His lips found hers, and his tongue teased them apart.

Held captive by his embrace, she allowed herself to be swept away by the fantasy. Oh, to tell her friends of this moment.

“Are you sure you won’t give me a hint?” he coaxed, stroking her inner thigh until she could stand it no longer.

Moira’s senses screamed and her body betrayed her. Under his heated gaze, she might as well be naked. Blood pounded in her brain. Unable to finish their act, she fled, but not quickly enough. The soft rasp of her ripping veil was followed by a tight tug against her coin belt. Reaching safety behind the curtain, she watched him play with the pretty coin he’d plucked from her sash.

Into the air, he tossed the trinket, catching it with his eyes closed. “You’d better be careful, Cleo. This leprechaun might claim your pot of gold for his lusty self.”

Chapter 3

“Moira! Come help me with supper,” her mother called from the kitchen.

Moira traced her finger along Clara Bow’s profile. The picture, torn from a movie magazine, curled at the edges. Oh, to be so carefree like the ‘It Girl’. Every man loved her laugh and looks.

She examined her reflection in the mirror. Auburn hair framed her face in a bobbed style, something of which her mother fiercely disapproved. Moira recalled their conversation.

“Too trampy. You look like a no-good. You’re always wastin’ money. Hell has a place for women who don’t keep their minds on things pure and simple.”

Moira wiped away a tear and tried to blot out the memory. Her mother had said many other things and refused to speak to her for three days after that fateful visit to the hairdresser.

From the bottom of her jewelry box, Moira removed a tube of lipstick and a pot of rouge. Really Red and Fire Flush. She puckered her lips into a pout worthy of her favorite screen idol. Reilly Dunne was a redheaded Rudy Valentino. Oh, to fall into that forbidden man’s arms and be swept away into a world filled with seduction and satisfaction. He’d love her covering his cheeks and mouth with reddish-orange kisses.

Moira went to the closet and pulled her newest purchase from the back of the rack. A gorgeous dress fit for any Flapper.

Red like Reilly’s heart.

Again, her mother’s voice carried upstairs to the smallest bedroom. “Are you havin’ trouble hearin’ me, girl? Come on, now, before your father gets up here.”

Resigning herself to kitchen work, she replaced the dress in the dark recesses of the closet and closed the door. Her black wool winter coat would cover that naughty thing. How swell, her first drop-waist dress. A daring number that skimmed the bottom of her knees.

* * * *

Moira tried to concentrate on the Irish soda bread she was preparing. Her thoughts drifted to the Continental Club and Reilly Dunne. To her, Reilly was the handsomest man in Manhattan. Sullivan Street didn’t boast any real stunners, except for the Manucci’s. Sicilian twin brothers who lived up the street. Gossip had it that they were hung as well as the policemen’s horses that clopped about the neighborhoods of Lower Manhattan.

Moira licked her lips. She’d never seen a male completely naked. No, not true. The memory stirred in her mind. Not unless she counted the time her brother Aidan, two years her senior, ran screaming from the bathtub when her father tried to wash his ears. She leaned back against the stove and relived the day.

Aidan, in all his rust-haired scrawniness, ran from the bathroom. All legs and lungs. His mouth opened wide, he hollered so loud he woke up the O’Riordan twins.

“No, Papa! No!”

He collided with Moira on the staircase. Between his legs flapped a strange appendage and a pouch of skin. Moira followed him downstairs and asked her mother about the difference. For her efforts, she ended up with a mouthful of lye so
ap.

“Ouch.
Damnu ort
.” Moira staggered away from the oven and sucked her index finger. Carried away by daydream, she’d neglected to gauge the proximity of her hands to the oven. Even worse, she’d failed to keep her mouth closed and wished damnation on the bread.

“That’ll do!” Her mother stirred the vegetables with more vigor than usual. “Are you wantin’ a taste of that soap again?”

Her mother would treat a woman of twenty-three the same way as a child? Moira winced at her use of Irish profanity and the blister forming on her finger. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That’s all the time anymore. I don’t know what you have to be dreaming about so much.”

“Hallo.” Reamonn Monaghan’s Irish bass boomed throughout the dwelling. “Smells like I landed in Heaven tonight.”

Oh, yes. Shepherd’s Pie was his favorite dish. It usually graced their table every Friday night. Tired, yet still smiling after a long day on his feet, the head of the Monaghan clan planted a hearty kiss on her mother’s cheek before going in search of the evening paper.

Reamonn Monaghan put his all into running Monaghan’s Market. Every ounce of his sweat went into stocking those shelves. Moira regarded her surroundings. Their upstairs apartment was small and drafty, but clean. Ever mindful of the ways of a successful greengrocer, his profits were more than enough to keep food on the table.

“Remember the days when Alma and Aidan ate at the table with us?” Moira accepted the steaming dishes from her mother and arranged them on the table.

“’deed I do. Guess they’re busy with their own in Brooklyn. Never catch me livin’ there. Too far away. Might as well live on the other side of the world.”

Moira missed her older sister Alma and brother Aidan. Her gut burned. She wouldn’t become an Old Maid sitting around Sullivan Street and waiting for someone to notice her half-decent looks. No. Not if she could help it.

Suppertime proved the same as always. Some conversation, but mostly mouths filled with food. Moira smeared the mashed potatoes around her plate. Someday she’d have her own dress shop and a husband to share her bed.

“Are you having sweets with us tonight?” Nola Monaghan pushed a section of graying hair from her face.

Sweets? How could she concentrate on custard when her position at The Continental Club called?

“No.” She rose and kissed her parents goodnight. “My duty isn’t yet done. Don’t wait up.”

“Nasty grippe going around. I hope Janet’s mending fine.” Her mother brandished the serving spoon, slicing the air around her with it as she spoke. “Even Mrs. Mueller came down ill the other day. I say the Devil’s set up shop on Sullivan Street and there’s no getting rid of him.”

If no other explanation existed, her mother always blamed everything that went wrong on the Devil. Last week, she’d accused Satan of snapping the thread in her needle several times during one mending session. Moira shook her head. Dear Mother. She works so hard and takes such pride in those mending jobs. Countless tenants in their block counted on her to stitch their threadbare clothes, as money to buy new ones was scarce.

Moira went upstairs and changed. Behind her bulky wool coat she wore the red indiscretion. Carefully, she made her way to the front door and slipped out. So far, so good.

Outside, five o’clock shadows hung heavy over the street. Silent and secretive. Most people who lived on Sullivan Street preferred it that way. Better no one passed judgment on something better left unmentioned.

* * * *

Moira blinked in discomfort at the lash pearls she’d applied. Last week, Janet showed her how to place melted wax on the ends of her lashes with one of her mother’s straight pins. So glamorous. If only she could keep them on for the whole weekend.

Already at the corner of Houston and Sullivan, she quickened her pace. Only one more turn of the corner remained between her and McDougal Street. There she’d find the most swell speakeasy in all of Manhattan, at least according to Janet.

Wind whipped against Moira’s body and face, and she struggled to keep her bearings. Snowflakes floated from the sky and shimmered in the glow of the streetlamps. Slowly, they fell to the ground. Something clean on the otherwise dirty sidewalks. Halfway down the block, she noticed a wrought iron railing.
Hurry
.
Get there before you freeze
.

She rushed ahead and soon reached a set of narrow steps leading below street level. No lettering adorned the front entrance or announced the establishment’s name. Secrecy? For some reason, this club wanted it that way.

She pursed her cracked lips. Why had she applied that bold persimmon lipstick? It always irritated her mouth. A faint cherry fragrance lingered on her lips. She sported a cupid pout, just like Clara. All men loved Clara.

Moira raised a gloved hand to knock but noticed a recessed cavity containing a bell. Her hand trembled as she pressed the button. Immediately, a pair of beady eyes peered through a peephole slot in the door.