A Passion Most Pure (34 page)

Her smile at the receptionist was shaky, at best. "I'm here to see Mr. Michael Reardon, please," she managed with no more damage than a slight blush to her cheeks. The woman smiled coolly and pointed her to the newsroom through a set of double doors. Once inside, Faith felt somewhat better as she encountered the familiar buzz of a newsroom. It was certainly not as hectic as the Herald, to be sure, but bustling nonetheless, alive with the frenzy of publishing the most important paper in Ireland. Faith stood there, entranced by it all, her nervous fear giving way to an edgy excitement at the prospect of what this building might hold for her.

"Hello! You must be Patrick's girl. Welcome, young lady."

She turned to look into the kindly face of Michael Reardon. Any trepidation she may have felt was ousted by the welcoming smile spreading across his broad face. He was older than her father, she guessed, by as much as twenty years, but his eyes had a youthful sparkle when he smiled, which immediately put her at ease. He was heavyset but somewhat small of stature, and Faith had the distinct feeling he garnered as much respect from his colleagues as a man ten feet tall. She liked him immediately.

"Yes, hello, Mr. Reardon. Thank you so much for allowing me to work here. I promise I will do my best not to disappoint you."

"I have no doubt whatsoever, young lady, that you will prove your father proud. Shall we step into my office and chat?" He held the door as he beamed at her, his pin-striped vest straining at the buttons.

An odd mix of anticipation and affection bubbled in her chest. "I'd like that, sir," she breathed, and sank into a chair as he closed the door behind.

Michael Reardon lounged in the chair, idly tapping a pencil against his lips. He observed her striking auburn hair pulled back into a neat chignon and her glowing enthusiasm, and immediately a sense of dread invaded his soul. She seemed so young, so fresh, so innocent-inevitably the type Mitch found himself attracted to before discarding as easily as yesterday's news. Perhaps Mitch had been right. Perhaps she should have been assigned to Brune. Michael thought about Patrick and wondered what he would want him to do. He blinked, suddenly aware Faith had stopped speaking.

Her brows crimped in concern. "Are you all right, Mr. Reardon?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Faith. I'm afraid I wandered off, thinking about your father. He was a great friend of mine at the Herald, you know, and I was quite distraught to learn he went to fight in this nasty war. Have you heard from him yet?"

"No, sir, not yet. It's only been a month since he left, so we didn't expect to for a while."

"Yes, of course. Now, dear, what were you saying?" Michael gave her his undivided attention for a brief moment before his mind strayed once again. His arm swung to scratch the back of his balding head with a pencil. Patrick had written that she had just turned twenty, but she had this air of wide-eyed innocence that made her appear more like sixteen. Michael could tell she was going to bring out the father in him, especially where Mitch was concerned. The thought produced an immediate pain in his head.

"I'm very excited to have the opportunity to work here, Mr. Reardon. I'll do anything, anything at all. No job is beneath me, sir. I'm just so grateful for the chance to write. I'll do my very best, I can promise you that."

Michael stood and smiled as he extended his hand to help her up. "I don't have any doubt, my dear. Come, follow me." He steered her toward a group of colleagues gathered at the back of the newsroom. "You're just in time for your department meeting. I'll introduce you to the people you'll be working with."

"Good morning, Michael. You running the meeting this morning?"

Michael cocked his brow as he eyed Jamie, the man who addressed him. "What do you mean? Where's Mitch?"

"You tell me, Boss," Jamie said, his gaze traveling past Michael to Faith. Michael snorted. He pushed past Jamie, who leaned against the door, observing through hornrimmed glasses.

Heat crept up the back of Michael's neck as he peered into Mitch's empty office. He turned to the group with a low growl. "Okay, everybody-inside. Does anybody know where His Highness is this morning? Bridie? Jamie? Kathleen?"

Michael surveyed the group, all of whom shrugged their shoulders and averted their gaze on anything other than his face. Hands on his hips, Michael zeroed in on Kathleen, whose gaze was, for the moment, completely captivated by a crumpled piece of paper on the floor.

"Kathleen?"

Her eyes flicked up, as if startled, and a soft blush oozed up her cheeks that came close to matching the rose-colored blouse she wore. "Honestly, Michael, I don't know where he is. Haven't seen him," she uttered softly, her gaze returning to the fascinating trash on the floor.

"Not since last night, anyway," someone muttered.

Michael shot a searing glance at Bridie, whose remark sent another shot of color into Kathleen's cheeks.

Bridie's hazel eyes flashed before they congealed to ocher-green. She smoothed a trembling hand against silver hair haphazardly flung into a makeshift topknot. "What? It's true now, isn't it? Everyone knows she was with Mitch last night at Brody's. He's probably just hung over, that's all."

Fatigue seeped into Michael's bones as he stared, first at Bridie, then at Kathleen, who still avoided his gaze. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with the palm of his hand and sighed. He could feel a headache coming on. "Kathleen, darlin', can you at least tell me if he's planning on gracing us with his presence today?"

"I think so," she whispered.

Bridie rolled her eyes.

"Okay, then, let's get this meeting over with so we can all go back to work." Michael pushed his way into Mitch's office and plopped into his chair. A high-pitched squeal sounded as he sloped back and propped his short legs on Mitch's desk, ignoring the galley sheets strewn across it. The rest of the crew filed in and dispersed around the small office, the ladies occupying the few chairs in the room while the men lumbered to the perimeter.

"The first order of business this morning is to introduce our newest staff member, Faith O'Connor. Faith comes to us from the Boston Herald, where she was a copywriter, and a mighty good one," Michael said, stretching the truth a wee bit. He nodded at Faith, which prompted a blush to burnish her cheeks when all eyes focused on her.

"She and her family are staying in Dublin with her grandmother while her father and brother are fighting in France. I don't know how long Faith will be with us; that depends on the war, I suppose. But we can certainly use some stretching in the special-interest department, what with the gloom of war on everybody's mind. And that's where we intend to use her. Any questions?"

"Special interest-that's my territory, Michael. Just exactly what is she going to be writing?" Bridie bristled.

"Now, don't go getting uppity on me, Bridie. You're my feature writer, and nothing's going to change that. All I'm asking is you show Faith the ropes and give her anything you don't want to do. She's willing to start anywhere."

"Yeah, well the loo could certainly use a good scrubbing," Bridie mumbled. Several of the men snickered.

Faith's cheeks continued to flame as she stared at the floor.

Michael's demand for respect was about to be engaged as he swung his legs off the desk and leaned forward in the chair, eyes locked on Bridie's face with deadly precision. "You presently work on one of the finest newspapers in the world, Mrs. O'Halloran, and it would behoove you to act like it. You're not slumming at Brody's, and I'm not an editor who takes kindly to petty jealousies. Do I make myself clear?"

It was quite obvious to everyone in the room that he did. Bridie nodded.

"Good. Now, let's move on with the introductions. Faith, this is the motley crew you'll be forced to work with. They may seem rough around the edges, and trust me, they are, but I think you'll soon discover why we keep them around. In this room are some of the finest journalists in Ireland, and I have no doubt whatsoever that you'll learn from each and every one of them." Michael turned and pointed to an elderly man leaning against a cabinet. "That's Aiden McCrae, our hard news and financial genius. Keeps us on top as one of the finest financial papers in the world."

Aiden nodded, and Faith smiled. Michael continued the introductions, wagging his hand next at Jamie, who was in charge of editorials and book reviews and one of the few in the room whose face reflected a genuine welcome. Several of the men grunted as they were introduced. Faith nodded politely at each while Michael went down the line, pointing out the names, talents, and sometimes humorous flaws of the ten employees in the room.

Michael introduced her to Jack and felt a quickening in his gut when Faith nodded abruptly. He noted that she quickly dropped her gaze to the floor. The young pressman lounged against the door frame, lips curled as he assessed Faith through hooded eyes. Michael cleared his throat and waved his hand at the women who sat on either side of her. "Kathleen is the proofreader for Mitch's department, and then, of course, you already know Bridie, our 'senior' feature writer."

Kathleen managed a shy smile as she coiled a thick strand of chestnut hair around her finger. Bridie merely grunted in the grand fashion of most of the men in the room.

"And that's everybody, except, of course, the man they all answer to ... that is, when he's here." Michael had a habit of rubbing his head every time he spoke of Mitch, as he did now. "Mitch Dennehy is department editor for news, editorials, and features, and regrettably, one of the best in the business, or I would have fired his sorry-" Michael blinked, a colorful word stuck in his throat. "Well, let's just say he wouldn't be punching a clock at the Times." He slanted back in the chair with a loud screech, hands behind his head, and surveyed the room. His feet were back on the desk. "So, Aiden, on the McGettigan scandal-any new leads?"

Aiden proceeded to update them on the financial woes of one of Ireland's most prolific companies when the door flew open, causing a breeze-and according to rumor, a dangerously attractive man-to blow into the office. Michael frowned as all conversation and action came to a halt, not an uncommon thing when Mitch Dennehy entered a room. Michael's eyes flitted toward Faith, then back to Mitch. He squinted, attempting to see what others saw when confronted with Mitch for the very first time. He was tall and muscular, an obvious fact despite the stylish single-breasted sack suit he wore over a starched white shirt. He appeared to border on burly, rather like an overgrown man in a child's playhouse, and his black necktie was loosened as if it were the end of a day rather than the beginning. He carried himself with such an air of authority that people were prone to step back and let him pass, like the parting of the Red Sea. Michael's nerves itched as he glanced at Faith. She, too, was staring along with the rest at this charismatic man whom Bridie had once proclaimed "far too masculine a creature to have eyes so amazingly blue."

"Sorry I'm late," he stated without the least bit of repentance, "but I had to work late last night and needed to sleep in."

Michael regarded Mitch through narrowed eyes, struggling to keep his lips from twitching into a smile. In some ways, Mitch was like a son to him. Unfortunately, in many others, he was the bane of his existence. Michael elevated his chin in an effort to ward off the inclination to shake his head. So pervasive was Mitch's influence over his subordinates that not one of them was willing to utter the clever comments that surely rested on the tips of their tongues. Instead, each simply nodded their acknowledgment of his presence.

Michael coughed. "Mmm ... yes, well, you were late and I'm running this meeting now, so lean back and listen. Maybe you'll learn a little something about managerial style." His tone had an acidic edge that stopped Mitch in his tracks as he crossed the room. It did nothing, however, for the look on his face, which was clearly annoyed.

"Michael, I'm here now. I'll take over," Mitch insisted.

Michael leaned forward in the chair, his eyes pure granite. "I said, I'm running the meeting now. You abdicated that responsibility when you came through that door forty-five minutes late. Sit down!"

Nobody breathed as Mitch propped enormous hands on the desk, his blue eyes volatile as he loomed over Michael like a plague. Their gazes locked for several seconds while friction sizzled in the air. Neither man blinked. With a ragged breath, Mitch slowly rose, towering to his full height. A low growl rumbled in his throat as he stabbed through his short blond hair in frustration, causing the natural curl to look even more disheveled. He sulked all the way to the back of the room, and Michael savored the victory with a silent sigh. It was a standoff that could result in only one winner. And other than Faith, everyone in the room knew that when it came to confrontation with Mitch, Michael was one of the few men who could walk away with the title.

Michael calmly continued on, conducting the business of the meeting to its completion while Mitch scowled in the back of the room. At its conclusion, Michael looked up and nodded toward Faith. "Mitch, this is your new copywriter, Faith O'Connor. I want her to tag along with Bridie this first week or so, just to get her feet wet." He turned to Faith. "Faith, this. .." Michael said with a touch of drama, "is your manager, Mitch Dennehy."

Faith turned in her seat to acknowledge Mitch, whose frosty gaze shifted from her face, down to her new leather shoes, and back up again. His blue eyes assessed her so completely that her cheeks bruised crimson as she stiffened in the chair, chin thrust high. "Hello, Mr. Dennehy," she said, her tone polite but cool.

Mitch didn't say a word, only eyed her with practiced superiority, and the blush on her cheeks spread like blight in the rainy season. Michael watched in fascination as a smile fluttered on his department editor's lips. Mitch's penetrating blue eyes drifted from the tiny hands pinched white in Faith's lap to the soft tendril of hair that curved the nape of her neck.

"Michael tells me you were a copywriter at the Boston Herald, is that right?"