Midnight Hero - By Diana Duncan Page 0,9
following day.
No funds disbursed. She groaned. She’d forgotten it was payday. She’d have to wait until tomorrow for her money. Oh well. She wasn’t going anywhere except home. A hot bath and a good cry were the only items on her agenda.
Her decision to let Con go had cost her everything. But grief was free.
Carrying the cash bag stamped with the store’s name and account number, she exited the storeroom. A gasp punched out of her and she jerked to a halt. Con stood beside the counter, his face solemn, hands clasped behind his back.
Memories of the first time she’d seen him flooded her. He’d strolled into the store, a modern Lancelot exuding confident grace and power. He’d asked for an antique book of Celtic verse, a birthday gift for his mother. Bailey had been struck by lightning. It was the only explanation for the flash of blinding sparks and overwhelming heat. She’d fumbled through the special order in a daze. She’d spent the following week thinking of nothing but Conall O’Rourke and his breath-stealing grin. And counting the minutes until he returned to pick up the book.
He’d accepted the volume with a smile that had kicked her pulse into the stratosphere. Cradling the book in his big, capable hands, he’d flipped through the pages. Then, his gaze holding hers, his eyes as warm and lustrous as polished mahogany, he’d recited:
“Read these faint runes of Mystery,
O Celt, at home and o’er the sea.
The bond is loosed; the poor are free.
The world’s great future rests with thee!
“Till the soil; bid cities rise.
Be strong, O Celt, be rich, be wise.
But still, with those divine grave eyes,
Respect the realm of Mysteries.
“Would you like to know the realm of mysteries, Bailey?” he’d asked in a voice as rich and tempting as a caramel sundae.
The most contagious case of charisma she’d ever seen. She’d succumbed. Fallen hard and fast, with no known cure. She’d accepted his invitation to the mall’s coffee shop after her shift. Two hours and three cups of peppermint tea later, her heart was irrevocably under his spell.
“Bailey?” Con said gently. The past merged into the present and she jolted back. He had on the snug, faded jeans, work boots and long-sleeved dark blue T-shirt under the black leather jacket he’d worn at breakfast. But his dark spiky hair was sleek and wet, as if he’d just come from the shower. He must have been working out. He hit the gym whenever he was troubled.
She’d caused his troubles today. Bailey steeled her resolve. She would not go there. She had to stay strong. For both their sakes. “How did you get in? The mall is closed.”
“Syrone let me in.” He inclined his head toward the counter, where her coat rested. “You forgot your coat this morning. I didn’t want you to be cold.”
She was cold, clear to her soul. However, the coat wouldn’t help. She’d never be warm again.
“And these.” He produced two dozen pink roses from behind his back. “You’re a fair woman. Let me have my say.”
Her favorite flowers. “Oh, that’s not fair.” A suffocating lump wedged in her throat. “Con, please don’t do this.”
“All’s fair in love and war, sweetheart. This is both.” He held out the vibrant bouquet.
Afraid she was already losing the battle, she accepted the flowers and walked to the storeroom. Con followed as she found a pitcher used to water the store’s plants and shakily filled it at the sink. She nestled the fragrant blooms inside, set them on the storeroom counter and then snatched up a paper towel. She blotted the water she’d spilled with nervous, jerky movements.
Con took the towel and settled gentle hands on her shoulders. He turned her to face him. “Talk to me, Bailey.”
His touch was as electric as it had been the first time. As it was every time he touched her. A startling connection of mind, body and soul. She should pull away, but her ravaged heart craved his hands on her, no matter how brief. “Okay.”
His shoulders hitched, the barest movement, and he exhaled a quiet, relieved sigh.
The small, vulnerable gesture nearly destroyed her. Bailey couldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she glanced around the dim storeroom, crowded with boxes. The room seemed too tiny to contain Con’s formidable energy. Though the words stung like acid in her mouth, she’d say them as many times as necessary. “We have to break up. We’re too different—”
He cut her off. “Not the rehearsed version. You sound like a politician stumping