Page 76 of A Whim and a Prayer

When nothing happened, she opened her eyes with a scowl, shoving his hands from her waist. “Okay—you had your chance. I’m leaving.” Jumping up, she headed for the door.

A squeal eeeked from her lips when he spun her around and jerked her close, the sound of it completely swallowed up by a kiss that stole all the air from her lungs. His mouth dominated hers with a possessive passion that was becoming all too familiar, silencing any denial she might have had. She wanted to push him away, but her arms and legs refused to comply as he nuzzled her throat. With shocking skill, he skimmed up to toy with her ear before recapturing her lips, sealing the deal with a groan that tangled with hers, leaving her breathless.

“So …” he whispered, a smile in his voice as he gently brushed the hair from her eyes. “Before I go … what do you want for Christmas?”

“Our friendship b-back.” Her voice was hoarse and more than a little shaky as she pushed him away. “I have a poker game to win, mister, so see you at Christmas.”

He tugged her back like a yo-yo, bouncing her off his chest with that exasperating smirk she both loved and hated. She was especially irritated when the husky tenor of his voice fluttered her stomach. “I thought you hated gambling, Dennehy.”

“When it comes to romance, Campbell—not M&M’s.” She patted his cheek with a droll smile before she managed to break free, distancing herself so she could finally get away. “Good-night, my dearest friend—I love you, but please, please”—she jutted a brow—“stay away till December 25th.”

“Hey, you never asked me what I want for Christmas,” he called, a definite tease in his tone that she completely ignored. She grunted as she opened the front door.

Unfortunately, I already know.

Chapter Fifty-One

You would think that after 26 years of marriage and editorship over hundreds of employees at one of the country’s most prolific newspapers, Mitch could handle his wife. Especially when it came to her harebrained ideas—of which, unfortunately, were many. And usually he could, and prided himself on his expertise in doing so. But for once, he hated to admit, he actually agreed with her latest crazy idea.

Which is why he was leaving his cushy office on the fourth floor of The Boston Herald—and a mountain of paperwork—to head to The Herald docks, where Beck Campbell worked, and diligently so. At least according to Stu Mulvaney, dock foreman for the last twenty years. Mitch’s lips jabbed into a scowl. Who didn’t work in a week as hard as Beck Campbell did in a day.

He took the four flights of stairs down to the rear of the multi-story brick building because heaven knows he needed the exercise since his long hours at The Herald of late—compliments of Marjorie Hennessy and her almighty Harvard/Radcliffe fundraiser. His mouth tamped down as he loped down the steps, missing both his biweekly workouts in the gym and his wife, but not in that order. His hackles rose at the thought of the CEO of The Herald, his new “boss” since her uncle retired last year. His jaw calcified. The she-devil who had almost destroyed his marriage some 15 years ago.

But today he had other problems to ponder, so foremost on his mind was talking to Beck. Because he and his wife wanted to know why in the devil the neighbor they all loved had abruptly sent Charity an ambiguous note the day after Thanksgiving. A note with various reasons why he had to postpone dinners and chess lessons with Julia until after Christmas.

Pushing through the large metal double swinging doors that opened directly from the bundling area onto the dock, he was instantly met by the pungent scent of printer’s ink and the potent smell of the city with its never-ending exhaust fumes and fishy scent of the sea. Bundles of freshly printed newspapers tied with twine were stacked high on dollies, practically still warm from the press and ready to be loaded into several large delivery trucks backed up to the dock.

Dock hands in ink-stained work clothes bustled back and forth loaded with bundles. Their muscles bulged as they hefted them into the truck while drivers waited, their cigarette smoke lending a foggy air illuminated by overhead incandescent bulbs in metal cages.

Mitch spotted Beck instantly, his tall stature and lean build cutting an authoritative image despite rolled sleeves, a shadow of late-day beard, and a work shirt smudged with ink. Definite managerial material, he stood straight and strong near a battered table and chair next to the street-access stairs at the side of the dock, cash box open and clipboard in hand. He greeted both Herald truckers and independents with a congenial, yet professional air, obviously performing the foreman’s job of handling payments and checking manifests.

Mitch’s mouth went flat as he spied Mulvaney lounging in his small, glassed-in office with feet propped on the desk, a cigarette dangling from his lips and an open newspaper in his lap. Smoke billowed up while he perused the latest edition of The Herald, no doubt, as long lines of newsies in flat caps lined up by the steps, vying for Beck’s attention to pay for their bundles.

Tapping on the open door of Stu’s office, Mitch buried a grin when the foreman bolted up from his chair so fast, it almost tipped over, his deep flush clear-cut evidence that his boss had caught him shirking his responsibilities.

“Mr. Dennehy!” Quickly rubbing out his cigarette, Stu nervously retucked his shirt, his smile as half-hearted as his work ethic. “This is a surprise, sir. What can I do for you?”

Mitch gave a curt nod to where Beck was dutifully absorbed in Stu’s job, offering Stu a cool smile that gave credence to his no-nonsense reputation. “I need to talk to Beck privately, Stu, so take over your duties and send him in.”

“Yes, sir, right away, sir.” The foreman darted for the door, only stopping to toss a sheepish smile over his shoulder. “Beck always takes over during my break, sir, but it’s just about over, so I’ll send him right in.”

Mitch sat down on the corner of Mulvaney’s desk with a shake of his head, wishing he could promote Beck to Foreman and demote Mulvaney, but his hands were tied. Mulvaney was the cousin of the Hennessys’ beloved butler, so he was pretty much grandfathered in. A heavy exhale drifted from his lips as he watched Mulvaney relieve Beck, who looked his way with an almost imperceptible flare of his eyes, obviously wondering why the devil Mitch was paying him a visit.

And right now, Mitch was wondering the same thing.

“Mr. Dennehy, hello.” Beck strode forward to offer a shake of his hand. “What a nice surprise.”

A surprise? Yes. Nice? Not even close.

“Hello, Beck.” Mitch offered a nod and a smile. “Close the door and take a seat. This won’t take long.”

I hope.

Mitch locked his arms in a formidable fold, wishing he could have just told Charity no. That if she wanted information out of Beck, she should call him directly. Problem is, she had—a number of times—and Beck’s mother always said he “wasn’t available” at the time, but that she would tell him to call back.

Which he never did.

So, it fell to Mitch to not only calm down his anxiety-prone wife, but to find out for himself just why Beck was avoiding them.