confident smile. "Absolutely. Since Mr. Dennehy isn't in a hurry to see me again, perhaps you and I need to jog his memory as to what he's missing."
Rigan grinned, hazel eyes glinting as he assessed her head to foot. "Oh, I'm quite sure he knows what he's missing. Trust me, any man who looks at you knows what he's missing."
A rush of heat flooded her cheeks and he laughed, the sound of it grating her nerves. She pulled away with her chin erect. "I don't appreciate your coarse humor, Rigan."
His teeth gleamed white. "Perhaps not my coarse humor, but certainly my coarse conspiracy."
Charity pulled away and shivered. He made her feel dirty, as if she were one of the vulgar women from Mountgomery Street who lured men for a price. She wasn't! She was a woman in love and nothing more. "Your tone, your words, they make me feel as if I'm doing something wrong. I don't like it."
Rigan cocked a hip and smiled, his face contrite. "It comes with the territory, Charity. You can't play the game of seduction without snagging other men in the process, myself included."
Charity fought a faint wave of nausea. "But I'm not a seductress. That sounds so ... so cheap, so tawdry ..."
Rigan's eyes softened the slightest bit. "No, you're not, actually. Oh, you certainly look the part and act it at times, but you'll never make the grade, my dear. Deep down, beneath that voluptuous body and those deadly eyes, I detect a frail echo of a conscience."
Charity released a slow breath, her nausea abating ... or maybe it was her conscience. "Sorry, Rigan. I'm nervous, I suppose. I'll try not to let my scruples get in the way."
He grinned and bowed, offering his arm once again. She took it. "See that you don't. The stakes are too high-for both of us."
Charity leaned close as Rigan escorted her into the building, her mind suddenly far away. The image of an irate Times editor invaded her thoughts, causing the churning in her stomach to return, along with an ache in her heart. For pity's sake, she didn't want to deceive Mitch Dennehy, but what choice did she have?
"Good morning, Mr. Gallagher." The crisp tone of the Times' receptionist startled Charity out of her thoughts.
"Good morning, Miss Boyle. It's good to see you again. Is Michael treating you well?"
The young woman batted her nondescript eyes. Her professional demeanor was lost in a sea of pink flooding her cheeks. "Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Reardon is fine. He's a wonderful editor." Her lips trembled into a shaky smile. "A wee bit cranky, perhaps, because of the Brits, but fine."
Rigan smiled, sending more color into Miss Boyle's full cheeks. "Good. I'm here to give Miss O'Connor a tour. Is Michael in? And Mitch Dennehy?"
She bobbed her head, her gaze flitting to Charity's face. "Yes, sir, both of them. May I announce you, Mr. Gallagher?"
"No, that won't be necessary." He glided past, ignoring the receptionist's curious stare as he guided Charity through a set of double doors.
It was another world altogether. Miles away from the calm of her grandmother's cozy kitchen or even the busy pace of Shaw's Emporium. It was a dizzy whirl of action where rockjawed editors loomed over cowed copywriters and wide-eyed errand boys. Charity swallowed hard. Sounds and scents assailed her senses-the clicking of linotype machines and the tapping of typewriters shrouded in the smell of pungent ink and stale cigar smoke. A harried pace that spoke of import and deadlines and purpose. Charity paused, ignoring the tug of Rigan's arm.
What am I doing here?
"I've changed my mind," she whispered, backing toward the door.
"What?" Rigan turned, his eyes scanning her face. "Charity, you're white as a sheet." He jerked an empty chair from a nearby desk. "Here, sit down. Are you all right?"
"I've changed my mind. It's not the time nor place for this, Rigan." She pressed a shaky hand to her stomach, willing its contents to stay put. It took everything in her to stifle a burp.
He squatted to stare in her face. A slow
Rigan grinned, hazel eyes glinting as he assessed her head to foot. "Oh, I'm quite sure he knows what he's missing. Trust me, any man who looks at you knows what he's missing."
A rush of heat flooded her cheeks and he laughed, the sound of it grating her nerves. She pulled away with her chin erect. "I don't appreciate your coarse humor, Rigan."
His teeth gleamed white. "Perhaps not my coarse humor, but certainly my coarse conspiracy."
Charity pulled away and shivered. He made her feel dirty, as if she were one of the vulgar women from Mountgomery Street who lured men for a price. She wasn't! She was a woman in love and nothing more. "Your tone, your words, they make me feel as if I'm doing something wrong. I don't like it."
Rigan cocked a hip and smiled, his face contrite. "It comes with the territory, Charity. You can't play the game of seduction without snagging other men in the process, myself included."
Charity fought a faint wave of nausea. "But I'm not a seductress. That sounds so ... so cheap, so tawdry ..."
Rigan's eyes softened the slightest bit. "No, you're not, actually. Oh, you certainly look the part and act it at times, but you'll never make the grade, my dear. Deep down, beneath that voluptuous body and those deadly eyes, I detect a frail echo of a conscience."
Charity released a slow breath, her nausea abating ... or maybe it was her conscience. "Sorry, Rigan. I'm nervous, I suppose. I'll try not to let my scruples get in the way."
He grinned and bowed, offering his arm once again. She took it. "See that you don't. The stakes are too high-for both of us."
Charity leaned close as Rigan escorted her into the building, her mind suddenly far away. The image of an irate Times editor invaded her thoughts, causing the churning in her stomach to return, along with an ache in her heart. For pity's sake, she didn't want to deceive Mitch Dennehy, but what choice did she have?
"Good morning, Mr. Gallagher." The crisp tone of the Times' receptionist startled Charity out of her thoughts.
"Good morning, Miss Boyle. It's good to see you again. Is Michael treating you well?"
The young woman batted her nondescript eyes. Her professional demeanor was lost in a sea of pink flooding her cheeks. "Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Reardon is fine. He's a wonderful editor." Her lips trembled into a shaky smile. "A wee bit cranky, perhaps, because of the Brits, but fine."
Rigan smiled, sending more color into Miss Boyle's full cheeks. "Good. I'm here to give Miss O'Connor a tour. Is Michael in? And Mitch Dennehy?"
She bobbed her head, her gaze flitting to Charity's face. "Yes, sir, both of them. May I announce you, Mr. Gallagher?"
"No, that won't be necessary." He glided past, ignoring the receptionist's curious stare as he guided Charity through a set of double doors.
It was another world altogether. Miles away from the calm of her grandmother's cozy kitchen or even the busy pace of Shaw's Emporium. It was a dizzy whirl of action where rockjawed editors loomed over cowed copywriters and wide-eyed errand boys. Charity swallowed hard. Sounds and scents assailed her senses-the clicking of linotype machines and the tapping of typewriters shrouded in the smell of pungent ink and stale cigar smoke. A harried pace that spoke of import and deadlines and purpose. Charity paused, ignoring the tug of Rigan's arm.
What am I doing here?
"I've changed my mind," she whispered, backing toward the door.
"What?" Rigan turned, his eyes scanning her face. "Charity, you're white as a sheet." He jerked an empty chair from a nearby desk. "Here, sit down. Are you all right?"
"I've changed my mind. It's not the time nor place for this, Rigan." She pressed a shaky hand to her stomach, willing its contents to stay put. It took everything in her to stifle a burp.
He squatted to stare in her face. A slow
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