A Passion Redeemed Read Online Free PDF Page A

perchance. Or perhaps you exposed him, something dark and sinister from his past. Or maybe, just maybe, seduction ..." He traced his finger along the curve of her jaw, pausing beneath her lips. "That would be my personal favorite, of course. A temptress." He lifted her chin with his finger, his gaze upon her mouth. "I'm quite partial to temptresses, you know." He leaned to kiss her.

    Charity pushed him away. "Rigan, stop! What are you doing?"
    "Extracting payment," he whispered. The warmth of his words feathered her cheek.
    "Oh," she breathed, swallowing hard. He leaned in to nuzzle her neck, and the heat of his lips burned like fire. She twisted away. "Lips, Rigan, only lips. Our bargain, remember?" She stared, wide-eyed, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.
    He grinned. "So it was, Charity, so it was." He stroked her cheek with his fingers. "I see our 'temptress' is nowhere in sight. Pity." He sighed and took her hand in his. "But temptress or innocent makes little difference to me. Either way, payment is long overdue."
    Cupping her chin in his hand, Rigan brushed her lips with his own, a gentle sway of his mouth against hers before pressing in. A shiver of heat traveled her spine as he pulled away, and her hand fluttered to her chest. She blinked, surprised he'd left her breathless.
    "I'll walk you in." He opened his door, swung out, and circled the car to open hers on the other side. He extended his arm. "I do believe, Miss O'Connor, we've struck a bargain that will serve us well."
    Charity blinked and took his hand. "I do believe ... ," she whispered and clung to his arm for the trembling of her legs on the final few steps to the porch.

    "How's it going, Jimmy?" Mitch scrounged in the pocket of his woolen suit coat. He tossed a punt into a battered can next to a tall pile of newspapers on the street in front of the Irish Times. He took a paper off the top, the stack taller than the toothless man hawking them.

    "Oh, not too bad, I suppose." Jimmy squatted, warming stubby fingers over a pitiful firepot at his feet. He cocked his head and looked up with a grin. "Let's just say me and the missus won't be going on a seaside holiday anytime soon."
    Mitch dug back in the coat. He tossed another punt in the can. "Give Mary my love."
    "I will at that, but I'll wager she'd rather have it from you."
    Mitch attempted a smile and shoved the newspaper under his arm, yawning as he headed to his Model T. He should kick himself for coming back to work after taking Bridie home. What had possessed him? The work could wait. He reached down to rotate the crank. After several tries, the engine sputtered to life. He clenched his jacket closer and got in the car, slowly weaving into the flow of traffic. A weighty bloke on a bike darted in front of him, forcing him to skid to a stop. Mitch blew through his teeth. You're testing my limits, mister. I'm in the perfect mood to run somebody down.
    His foul disposition stayed with him all the way home. He parked the car and got out, flinging the door shut before shuffling up the steps to his grey-stone flat on Cork Street. The window flowerboxes spilled over with leggy impatiens and trailing ivy, stubborn survivors of Dublin's temperate October nights. Mitch yanked on the curve-handled knob and opened the heavy Georgian door with its arched window and sunny yellow paint. It slammed behind him with a noisy thud. He mounted the gleaming wood staircase and noted that Mrs. Lynch had been busy-the warm maple flooring was buffed to a sheen. Where in the world did the woman get her energy? She was almost eighty, but her vitality left him in the dust.
    Mitch jammed the key in his door and jimmied the lock with too much agitation. It might as well have been a fortress. He rammed the door with his knee. "Open up, you blasted thing." He jangled the knob until the wall vibrated.

    "Easy does it, Mitch." Mrs. Lynch peeped around the corner of her door across the hall, silver tresses trailing beneath