A Passion Denied (7 page)

“Oh, I just love a good fight!” Charity notched her chin, blue eyes twinkling. “Especially the part where we make up.”

Mitch shook his head and laughed. “God help me, I married a vixen.”

Sean chuckled as he reached for a glass from the cupboard and poured himself some milk. “Well, I’m no expert, sis, but I agree with Mitch. Why scheme to get Brady’s attention when other guys are lining up for a chance with you? Besides, Brady’s obviously not looking for anything more. As far as I can tell, he seems pretty content the way things are.”

Charity tossed her head and commenced with mashing the potatoes. She grunted with each thrust in the pot. “Only because he’s too stubborn to know when he’s not happy. If women didn’t use their God-given feminine wiles, most men would spend their lives alone and miserable”—she looked up at her brother and smiled—“like you.”

Milk sputtered from Sean’s mouth in a near choke. “Hey, I’m not miserable, and neither is Brady.”

“Well, just for the record,” Faith said, hoisting the roast from the oven, “Brady isn’t happy. He needs a woman like Lizzie.”

Collin reached to snatch a piece of meat. “Who says Brady’s not happy?”

Faith whirled around, her eyes as wide as the hole Collin had just put in the roast. “Why you did, last night, remember? You wanted to pray for Brady because he wasn’t happy.”

A pink haze colored the back of Collin’s neck. He gulped the meat down in one large swallow and tried to cover with an innocent grin. “What I meant was, Little Bit, that he’s obviously not as happy as we are.” He leaned in to nuzzle her neck before snatching more roast.

“Don’t you dare try to bamboozle me, Collin McGuire! You’ve told me more than once that you wished Brady would find a woman he could love because he wasn’t happy. Well, Lizzie’s a woman he could love.”

Charity bludgeoned the potatoes for good measure. “Well, I love Brady like a brother and you all know that. But if Lizzie’s the one God has for him, then we intend to do everything in our power to make it happen.” She smirked at her husband. “Whether Brady likes it or not.”

“Well, I can tell you right now, he won’t like it, will he, Mitch?” Collin asked with a wad of roast in his mouth.

Mitch drained his ginger ale and set the glass down. He leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. “Nope. And neither do I. But that won’t stop ’em. You should know that by now.” He glanced at his mother-in-law. “How does Patrick feel about this? Is he comfortable with all the female plotting going on around here?”

Marcy hefted a tray of biscuits from the oven. Wisps of blond hair, loose from a pretty chignon, feathered the neck of her pink percale housedress. She placed the tray on hot pads and wiped her hands along the contour of her slim, high-belted waist. “I’m afraid Patrick’s been a bit preoccupied with business at the
Herald
to be fully aware of what these three have been up to. You know how busy he’s been since taking the editor position.” She sent a tired smile in Mitch’s direction. “But I suspect he’d side with you men, being the stubborn Irishman he is.”

“Speaking of Father, why isn’t he home yet? It’s Saturday, for pity’s sake. I thought he intended to go in for just a few hours.” Faith pulled a carving knife from the drawer and handed it to Collin with a quick kiss. “Here, earn your keep by carving the roast.”

Marcy glanced at the clock. “He did, but you know how that goes.” She lifted her chin and hardened her tone. “But he did promise to be home by dinner, which I fully intend to put on the table in ten minutes, Patrick or no.”

Lizzie and her sisters exchanged glances. “We can wait, Mother, really. Brady’s not here yet, either.” Lizzie hesitated. “Are you . . . feeling okay?”

Marcy sighed. “Yes, I’m just tired. I think I’ll run upstairs for a moment and freshen up, if you girls don’t mind. Hopefully your father will be home by the time I’m done.”

“You do that, Mother.” Lizzie gave her mother a hug. “We’ll get dinner on the table.”

“Thanks, Lizzie.”

Marcy left and Lizzie frowned. “You think everything’s okay? She seemed quiet.”

Faith sighed. “She did at that, but then she has been cooking all day, which is enough to wear anybody out. And I know she doesn’t like it when Father works on Saturdays.”

The doorbell rang. Lizzie startled and slapped a hand to her chest. “It’s Brady. I’ll get it.”

Charity clamped a hand on her sister’s arm. “Oh no you don’t. For the last four years, you’ve run for that door every time Brady’s come to dinner. Not tonight.” She gave Sean a pointed look. “Mind letting him in, Sean? Lizzie’s busy.”

“Unbelievable,” Mitch said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, she’s busy all right—spinning a web,” Sean said with a tease in his tone.

Lizzie blinked. “But I’m not busy.”

“Oh yes you are. Sean, stall Brady at the door a few moments, will you? Lizzie needs to make a quick phone call to Peter Henly.”

“Peter Henly? Why on earth am I calling him?”

Charity parked a hand on her hip. “Because if you hope to have a prayer of turning Brady’s head, you’ll have to incite his interest with a bit of jealousy. And Peter called earlier about a homework assignment, so we may as well take advantage. When Brady walks through that door, I want you talking to Peter in your most hushed but charming tones, understand?”

Collin paused with knife in hand. The expression of shock on his face mirrored Mitch’s. “A
prayer
of turning Brady’s head? You don’t really think God is going to sanction this . . . this female trickery, do you? Are you crazy?”

Faith looped an arm around Lizzie’s waist and shot her husband a mischievous grin. “Maybe a little crazy, but if it’s meant to be, then Brady will be crazy too—about our very own Lizzie. Care to join us?” She wriggled her brows.

Collin chuckled and turned to slice the roast clean through. “Nope, you go right ahead, Little Bit, but leave me out of it. The name’s Collin McGuire, not Benedict Arnold.”

Patrick listened to the table chatter with half an ear, barely tasting the pie he methodically shoveled from plate to mouth. His favorite, he suddenly noticed—coconut cream. The realization unleashed a burst of pleasure to his taste buds and a sudden swell of gratitude for his wife. He glanced at her, but she seemed as preoccupied as he, absently pushing at the uneaten cream filling on her plate as she hunted for pastry, the only part she liked.

He smiled and touched a hand to her arm. “Thank you, Marcy, for making my favorite. I know how you can’t abide coconut, and it’s a special treat after the week I’ve had.”

She startled the slightest bit and stared up at him, the blue of her eyes wide with an innocence that never failed to draw him in. Suddenly his focus stilled to only her. Collin’s laughter and Charity’s droll comments and Katie and Steven sparring over whose turn it was to do dishes—all faded away as he searched his wife’s face. Seldom did she seem as tired as she did tonight, rare lines of fatigue more pronounced despite the soft glow of candles flickering across her features. He thought he saw a glaze of wetness in her eyes, and his stomach tightened.

“You’re welcome, Patrick. I know how hard you’ve been working, so I wanted to make something special.” Her eyes flitted back to her plate. She patted his hand, which was still draped on her arm. “Will you need to do this much longer . . . working on Saturdays?”

His concern for her evaporated at the mention of work. He sighed and pushed his plate away with a frown. “I don’t see any way around it. At least not for the foreseeable future. I could work seven days a week and not put a dent in it, it seems.”

“Patrick . . .” Her voice was so low he had to strain to hear it.

“Yes, darlin’?”

“I . . . we . . . we need to—”

“Father, it’s Steven’s turn for dishes and he won’t do it!” Katie’s high-pitched shriek rattled his senses.

“Father, no! We traded last week because she had play practice, and now she’s trying to weasel out of her turn.”

Patrick ignored the viselike grip of tension at the back of his neck and slowly rose to his feet, his conversation with Marcy forgotten. His eyes flicked from the sober face of his fourteen-year-old son to the bulldog stare of his ten-year-old daughter. He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to demoralize someone—anyone—in a game of chess. He jagged a brow in Katie’s direction. “Katie Rose, did you trade dishes with Steven last week?”

Katie blinked, and Patrick could almost hear the wheels turning behind those batting blue eyes. “Yes, Daddy, but—”

He pushed his chair in with enough force to shimmy the table and quiver the candles. The family’s chatter died to a hush. “No yes-buts, Katie Rose. You’ll do the dishes this week without another word or you’ll be doing them a lot longer than that.”

“But, Daddy—”

Patrick shot her a look that sealed her lips. “
Two
weeks and not another word. Or would you care to make it three?”

She blinked, the mulish line of her jaw matching his. “Does ‘no’ count?”

Patrick stared her down, battling the urge to smile. “You’re a handful, Katie Rose, and God knows if I don’t keep you in line at the tender age of ten, some poor man will shoot me later.” His gaze traveled the table. “Anybody up for blatant humiliation? I intend to vent every frustration from work in a ruthless game of chess.”

Collin chuckled. “Then I’d say Mitch is your man. He’s got the same bleary-eyed look of blood in his eyes as you. Something to do with the
Herald
, I suppose.” Collin draped an arm around Brady’s shoulder. “And this
is
Brady’s first dinner here in a while, so common courtesy says he’s off the hook.”

Patrick squinted at Mitch. “It does make perfect sense, I suppose, although I hate to debase my best editor.”

Mitch grinned, stood, and pushed in his chair. “Debase away. I’m married to your daughter. I have no pride left whatsoever.”

Patrick winked at Charity and headed to the parlor with restrained vengeance flowing in his veins. “Then let the carnage begin,” he muttered, allowing Mitch to lead the way.

Patrick’s laughter, which echoed from the foyer, sounded almost predatory. Brady elbowed Collin as he rose to his feet. “Close call. I’m not up to a beating tonight. All I want to do is sink into the sofa and bury myself in the newspaper.” He glanced at Marcy. “Mrs. O’Connor, dinner was wonderful. I wouldn’t know what a home-cooked meal was if I didn’t come here.”

Marcy’s smile seemed tired. “You’re more than welcome, Brady. We love having you, you know that. And you can come every night of the week, if you like. Not just when Collin’s here, you know.”

He returned her smile, then sensed that Beth was watching him. Heat stung the back of his neck. “Thank you, Mrs. O’Connor, but I work late a lot. I never know when your son-in-law is gonna overload us. You may not know this, but he has a problem saying no.”

“Hmmm, I’ll vouch for that.” Faith grinned and stacked dishes on the table.

Collin arched a brow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

She gave him a quick peck on the lips. “Nothing, my love, except you could do with a little restraint from time to time. You don’t have to be so driven in everything you do.”

He pulled her close and nestled his lips at the crook of her neck, causing her to giggle. “I’m not driven in everything I do, Little Bit. Just work and—” His tease faded off into a kiss that lasted several seconds.

Brady nudged his shoulder. “Let the woman breathe, will ya, Collin? I’m going to the parlor.” He ambled into the next room and snatched the newspaper from the sofa before settling into his favorite spot on the far edge of the worn paisley couch.

“By the way, did Mrs. Tabor get a hold of you last week?” Collin strolled in behind him. He wrestled a section of the paper from Brady’s lap before he plopped on the other side. “Said she wanted to thank you for designing the program for her ladies’ auxiliary. Hate to tell ya, ol’ buddy, but I think she’s gunning for ya. Says you have a real . . . let’s see, what did she call it? ‘A real flair for design.’ ” He grinned. “I’m guessing she’s got a flair for design herself—involving you and her unmarried daughter.”

Brady chuckled and adjusted the newspaper in his lap, refusing to give Collin the satisfaction of a glance. He rattled the page and scanned the headlines. “She did. And she does. Invited me to dinner next week.”

“I swear, you could eat out every night of the week if you had a mind to. You going?”

Brady grunted and turned the page. “Nope. Can’t afford the indigestion.”

“Gotta be better than loneliness.”

Brady shot him a one-sided smile. “That was your problem, Collin, not mine. I don’t need a woman to make me happy.” Collin laughed. “No, I guess not. I gotta give it to you, though. You’re a stronger man than me, that’s for sure. Before Faith, I couldn’t say no to save my soul. And here you are, a flesh-and-blood male with enough females batting their eyes to cause a stiff breeze, and temptation is not even a word in your vocabulary. I’d like to know how you do it. I’d market it and make a small fortune.”

Brady grinned and snapped his paper back up. “It’s called willpower, ol’ buddy, something you knew almost nothing about before Faith. While I, on the other hand, have perfected it to a fine art, steeled by the grace of God and the power of prayer.”