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Joseph Giarello paused on the stoop of his aunt and uncle’s palatial mansion, his gaze over his shoulder at the packed soil of the long street. A light breeze ruffled the dried fronds of a row of cabbage palms lining the roadside, creating a musical rustle.
The town had grown since he was here last. It was almost civilized now.
He puckered his lips and contemplated the doorway again. Now, if only his aunt didn’t smother him while he was here. He loved her, but she could be overbearing, and he didn’t intend to pander to her every whim.
He lifted his bag from its place at his feet and poised his knuckles over the giant door. A grimace crept over his face. If he wasn’t so broke now, he wouldn’t even be here, especially not in a town this small. Where would he possibly satisfy himself? It’d been days since the redhead in Jacksonville.
His knock boomed surprisingly loud in the early morning light and he cast a look at the pre-dawn sky. He was most likely waking them up.
The door swung open to reveal a sour-faced maid. Gray curls framed an angular face set with beady eyes and thin, pale lips.
“H-hello,” he stuttered. “I’m Joseph?”
He cleared his throat. No, that sounded wrong. He wouldn’t let this woman intimidate him. “Joseph,” he stated more strongly. “My aunt and uncle are expecting me.”
The maid nodded and backed up in the entrance.
Amber was avoiding everyone, but Patrick couldn’t figure out why. The last time he’d toted her food, she’d pleaded a headache. He hadn’t wanted to pressure her, so he’d simply nodded and left.
However, more and more he was confident something had happened that he wasn’t privy to. Michael’s reaction when he’d brought up her withdrawn behavior was equally puzzling. He’d acted close-mouthed, blowing it off. “Pat, you’re becoming a worry wart.”
Well, maybe he was, but things weren’t right somehow.
Patrick gazed down at the Bible in his hand, his decision weighing on him. Hopefully, this was the right thing to do. If she’d read it, she’d find encouragement. But a doubt crept in. What had seemed like a good idea this morning, now as he neared her bedroom, was not so much.
His heart pounded and he calmed himself by counting his footsteps. He’d done that as a boy whenever he’d anticipated his father’s wrath. Pacing his bedroom floor, he’d count the distance around the walls. He could still remember the distance—fourteen long and twelve wide.
He paused outside her door and inhaled. Then gingerly, he knocked.
“Come in.”
At the sound of her voice, he took another cleansing breath.
She seemed startled to see him. He made no motion into the room. That wouldn’t be proper. But poised himself right outside.
“I want to give you something,” he said.
She rose from the armchair beside the bed and walked to the door. Her fragrance rushed up his nose, heady, provocative.
“It’s not a gift you’d expect to receive perhaps, but I wanted you to have it.” He extended his Bible, the pages fanning open in his hand.
“Your Bible?” She didn’t take it, but instead, stared at it as if it might explode.
“Please,” he said. “I can speak to you of God all day long; I can pray for you until my lips are sore, but the best source of strength is for you to read the words for yourself.”
Her cheeks turned crimson. “Patrick, I ...”
She’s refusing? He’d misjudged things, and now he was—
“I can’t read.”
He halted his thoughts. She can’t read. Why didn’t he think of that? “Amber, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel ...”
She interrupted. “Don’t. You didn’t know.”
“That’s why Grace reads to you,” he said. Always, it was Grace reading and not the other way around. He should have seen it.
She nodded gently. “I like to hear the stories.”
He looked at the Bible still extended in his hand and reached out further. “I’d like you to have it anyway. You can have Grace read it to you.”
She hesitated. “What will you use then?”
“I can get another. Please, take it.”
She lifted the Bible from him, her fingers brushing his and pressed it to her chest. Then leaning over she kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you. It’s a sweet gesture.”
The spot on his cheek tingled from the contact, and his words died on his tongue. He fishtailed, swaying inwardly from one thought to the next, unable to hold any one of them concretely. She turned away.
“Wait,” he said.
She halted, her clear gaze focused on his face.
“I ... I have to say this, and you might think me a fool. But I’ve thought on it a lot; I’ve thought on you a lot. If our circumstances were different ...”
Her expression fell.
“No, please, let me finish.” She misunderstood him. “I simply want to say if things were different and we were two people, a man and a woman, living in a city in separate houses with separate lives and we chanced to meet, I’d not hesitate to speak to you. I’d still ask you to dinner.”
Her smile returned. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Patrick Finnegan, a man who feels the need to explain things.”
He offered her a wobbly smile. “I wanted you to know that it isn’t because I was forced to ask or because we happen to be here in this house together, it isn’t even because I’m a man and you’re so ... so beautiful.”
She turned back to him, stopping right in his face, the Bible hugged to her chest.
He caught his breath.
“You think I’m beautiful?”
She was sincere, an inquisitive look on her face. How could it be she didn’t know that? He’d said before she hid behind her sexuality. But how at the same time did she not know how truly lovely she was?
“Hasn’t someone told you that before?”
“No. I guess no one cared.”
He took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips. “I care.”
Amber ran her fingers over the Bible’s cover. Even if she couldn’t read it and didn’t believe in it, the mere fact Patrick had given it to her made it precious. It smelled like him somehow, a musky scent of books, paper and soap.
“What do I make of this?” she said to herself.
The last day and a half in her room had given her a lot of time to think. She’d made a huge mistake with Michael. Kissing him hadn’t given her the security she’d expected. Instead, it had stirred up strife in this peaceful household. Now, she avoided them, and they avoided her.
As a result, she saw her behavior for what it was. Pathetic. She’d reacted to him that night. He’d always had that effect on her. His strength, his ability to be what other men around her were not was always his greatest attraction.
What about Patrick Finnegan? Like Michael, he was opposite of the type of men she’d known. Patrick was quiet, thoughtful, and generous. He’d given her his Bible. What should she make of that? And what of Grace’s words that he loved her?
He couldn’t possibly love her. Love was reserved for people better than her. She didn’t deserve love, not from a man, not from some unknown God.
Why then did Patrick’s compliment keep hope alive that she was wrong? Why did he make her wish for things she’d never thought she could have?
She set the Bible aside and raised the burgundy dress to her chest. It was all so confusing—her incorrect feelings for Michael, the kindness of his wife, Anne, and now, Patrick. He asked so little of her and that was nice for a change.
She had this dinner to attend tomorrow. She’d never been to dinner with anyone formally. How exactly was she supposed to behave? Surely, it wouldn’t be that bad. One meal, a few hours at a couple’s house, and she could return and reassess.
She’d never thought that night she ran away that things in Florida would become so very complicated.
Joe leaned over and kissed his aunt’s flabby cheek. “You’ve outdone yourself, Aunt,” he crooned. Seriously, she had outdone herself.
She’d decorated the dining table with her best china, sparkling crystal glasses, and a gleaming silver service set. An enormous vase of flowers filled with cut roses and stalks of lavender sat center table, their perfumed spray cascading onto the starched white table cloth.
The guests on opposite sides of the table would see past it.
Joe tried not to inhale the deluge of floral scent emanating from the folds on his aunt’s neck. One night here and already she was trying to drown him. Then there was this blasted dinner party.
“I want you to meet some special friends of mine,” she’d said.
What could possibly be so special about anyone living in this hole of a town? He’d humor her, wear the penguin suit she’d procured from who knows where and suffer through a long evening with people he didn’t care to meet.
She bustled across the room, her dress, itself a fantastic creation complete with a pink feathered braid encircling her rounded neckline, fluttering in her wake.
He wrinkled his nose. She looked ridiculous.
“You look wonderful dear,” his uncle murmured as she stepped past him into the foyer.
She hesitated, her hands clasped before her, and beamed at his praise. “I do hope I haven’t forgotten anything.” Her gaze darted to and fro around the room.
It wasn’t possible for her to have forgotten anything. Any more “things” and he’d be tempted to say he was ill and excuse himself. He was tempted to do that anyway.
“It’s fine. Fine,” his uncle reassured her. Hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his vest, he puffed out his bombous belly.
She rushed to his uncle’s side and brushed her hands down his sleeves, picking away invisible lint. “I do wish you’d worn the other one. I like the other one.”
He smiled at her, his mustache trembling on his lip, and patted her shoulder. “I explained about that one. It needs repairs.”
Joe snorted. More like, it’s too small.
She wrung her hands together. “I suppose you’re right. I should have attended to it.”
At the clang of the door knocker, she jumped. “They’re here!” She shouted the words as if no one else in the room could hear the sound and puttered to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob.
Joseph restrained a laugh—Mustn’t appear too eager. He stood in place, biding his time. He couldn’t see the door from his vantage point, so whoever these people were, he’d find out soon enough.
The knock resounded again, and his aunt opened the door.
“Mrs. Compton,” said a male voice.
“My dear, thank you for coming, and your wife ... Don’t you look lovely!” She embraced the neck of a female, the creamy skin of a youthful arm coming into view.
Joseph’s attention perked.
“You look lovely yourself,” the female returned.
His aunt backed up from the entrance, and a couple appeared. The man, in his early twenties, had fair hair and two amazing green eyes. Joseph startled. It couldn’t be. “Michael O’Fallen?”
Michael lifted his head, and their gazes clashed. “Joe?”
The female, a pretty blonde, glanced up at Michael’s face.
“Joe Giarello,” Michael stated. “I can’t believe it.”
Joseph crossed the room. Lifting the woman’s hand, he kissed her fingers. “And who is this enchanting creature?” A pink blush swept over her cheeks. Michael had good taste in women.
“This is my wife, Anne.”
Joseph canted his head. “Your wife. How charming.” He released her hand.
Michael wrapped a possessive arm around her shoulders. “Joe and I go way back,” he said to her.
She didn’t respond to this but leveled her gaze at him.
A smart one. That’d be like O’Fallen, to pick an intelligent female. He’d have to watch her.
His aunt spun back to the doorway and extended her hands. “Reverend,” she cooed, clasping the slender fingers of a studious-looking man. “I’m so glad you came.”
Amber stared at the women, her insides in a knot. Reverend? She glanced over at Patrick. Why did she address him that way?
Patrick smiled and returned the woman’s effusive greeting. “Mrs. Compton, thank you for inviting us.”
Amber took in the sight of him, his wavy hair, already slightly mussed, and his placid expression. He was ordained? Her hands grew cold and clammy. It made sense. He’d given her the Bible. He was more patient and gentle than any man she’d ever met. Not to forget how he’d taken her in without question or judgment.
Reverend. Reverend Patrick Finnegan.
“And who is this beautiful, young lady?” the rotund woman said.
Patrick rested a hand on Amber’s arm and opened his mouth to speak, but a deep male voice called from inside the house. “Amber?”
Amber blinked to adjust her eyesight in the lighted interior, and a chill whisked up her spine. Who called? No one knew her here. No one. But her vision crossed with his, and her mind emptied. Please, God. No.
“Amber. It is you,” the man said. He stepped up before her, the depths of his chestnut gaze somehow penetrating her clothing.
“I take it you’ve met?” Mrs. Compton asked.
His gaze never left her face. “In New York. Let’s say under different circumstances.”
Amber’s mouth went dry.
“Amber? Are you all right?” Patrick sought her gaze.
“Q-quite,” she said, but her voice broke in the middle. She forced herself to smile. “I think I’m just hungry.”
A lie. She wasn’t hungry. In fact, her appetite was gone. Joseph Giarello was as smooth-talking a womanizer as had ever purchased her services. And regularly for a time. She shoved down the memories. How could that girl, the one who’d led him on to get a dime in her pocket, be her?
She’d found him entertaining then because he wasn’t rough like some. He wanted to move slowly, have a good time. Her stomach lurched, and she clung tighter to Patrick’s arm.
I have to get out of here.
“Mrs. Compton,” Anne spoke. “Do you think Amber and I could use the washroom?”
Mrs. Compton threw her hands up. “Of course, dear. I should have suggested it. Right this way.”
Anne took her arm and steered her through the hallway in Mrs. Compton’s wake.
Amber collapsed onto a stool before an ornate vanity table, her head in her hands. She was ruined. How could this have happened?
“You want to tell me about it?” Anne asked.
An image of Joe’s lurid gaze flickered into view, and a sob crammed in her throat. “He was a regular. He came three, sometimes four, days a week, always asking for me. And now he’s here. What if he says something? What if he tells ... what if he tells ... Patrick ...” She gasped.
Anne wrinkled her brow. “Patrick?”
“Y-you didn’t tell me he was a minister. Oh, Anne, he’s so good and clean, and I’m ... I’m soiled and dirty. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be near any of you.”
Tears watered her cheeks. She was of the lowest sort, someone to be cast away and forgotten. How could she have ever thought she could escape her past? It’d always be there, always appearing when she didn’t expect it. No honorable man should ever come near her.
“Amber,” Anne said. “Jesus died for all sin, the little ones—the white lies—and the big ones as well. He didn’t pick and choose. He didn’t do half a work. He cleansed everything, every sin anyone has ever done.”
She pulled Amber to her feet and wrapped her arms around her. “You have to start forgiving yourself and accept the gift of life God has given you.”
Amber looked in her eyes. “I don’t understand. How can you speak to me of forgiveness when I ... I did what I did?”
“Because that is what Christ would do, and I think you’ve been hard enough on yourself.”
Amber blotted her cheeks with her hands. “I know Joe, Anne. I saw the look in his eye. There’s no telling what he’ll do or say. How am I going to make it through this dinner? And what about Patrick?”
“First of all, you have to relax. Your past hasn’t changed Patrick. Give him some credit for being intelligent enough to make his own choices.”
But that was small reassurance given the ever-present guilt that ate at her insides, and now here, in this house, was living proof of who she’d been.
Anne took her arm and steered her toward the door. Amber held her breath.
Joe stared at Amber from across the table and cursed the confounded flower arrangement. Funny how she’d managed to seat herself with the flower between them.
He cocked himself in his seat for a better view. What a tasty bite she was. She’d been by far his favorite. Talent. That girl had special talent. And here she was all curvy and scrumptious on the arm of a preacher. A preacher of all things.
He followed the dip of her head, and a smile pulled at his lips. Delectable. Worth the entire trip.
“Mr. O’Fallen?” His aunt’s voice broke into his thoughts. “I don’t suppose I could entice you to sing? I know you said, ‘the throat’, but it would be so marvelous ...”
Joe’s eyes widened. “You sing?”
Michael cleared his throat. “So they say.”
“Oh, my dear,” his aunt purred. “He has the most heavenly voice. He’s known all over for his Irish songs.”
Irish songs. Heavenly voice.
“Wait!” Joe snapped his fingers. “I’ve heard of you. ‘The Irish Tenor. The man with the golden voice.’ It was in the paper when I left. That’s you?”
Michael gave a half-hearted smile. “It seems so.”
“So will you?” his aunt begged.
Joe cocked an eyebrow. O’Fallen sang, but apparently reluctantly.
Michael sucked in his breath. “I’d love to.”
His aunt leaped from her chair. “Marvelous! Marvelous!” she cried. “Then let’s adjourn to the drawing room where it’s more comfortable.”