“Mr. Mc … McVain … w-what are you d-doing here?” Liberty rasped, fire blasting her cheeks over the slip of her own personal nickname for the pest from her past. Her question came out more of a croak as she attempted to secure her hat with pins that quivered as much as her stomach.
One thick, dark brow jagged high as a smile played on his full lips. “McVain?”
More blood surged into her face, so hot that her hands broke out in a sweat along with her brow. “I … I m-mean, Mr. McShane. Are you here to see Director Finn too?”
That languid smile went to work as he strolled in. He bypassed her altogether to take the seat behind the desk with a twinkle in light brown eyes a shade lighter than her suit. “No, ma’am, I’m afraid I am Director Finn.”
She stared, barely able to string two coherent thoughts together. “I … I d-don’t understand. Instead of McShane?”
“Nope.” Gaze fused to hers, he slowly removed an impeccable sack suit jacket and draped it over his chair before taking his seat, rolling the sleeves of his pinstripe shirt to reveal corded forearms matted with hair. A faint smile hovered on his handsome face while he loosened his string tie and the top two buttons of a silk waistcoat, his relaxed manner in total contrast to her own paralysis. Mouth twitching, he lounged back in his chair with hands propped behind his neck. “Instead of Griffin.”
All she could do was blink.
A mischievous flash of white teeth took her years back to toads in her lunch pail and worms in her inkwell. He ducked his head in tease, tumbling several dark curls over his forehead while those hazel eyes sparkled with mischief. “As in Grif-fin?” His sculpted nose wrinkled in jest. “Not sure that fancy college helped all that much, Libs—you seemed a whole lot smarter back in high school.”
Fire scalded her face, igniting her temper. “Wish I could say the same for you, Mr. Finn.”
His husky laughter ricocheted off the walls as he plopped long legs on his desk, pressed charcoal trousers somehow at odds with leather boots in dire need of a polish.
Like their owner.
“Now that’s what I was shooting for,” he quipped with that maddening twinkle in his eyes, “a little sound and fury from my Liberty Bell.”
Libby slapped two hands on her hips and stepped forward. “For your information, Mr. McVain, I am not your Liberty Bell, and I’ll thank you to stop calling me that.”
The grin eased into a crooked smile as he idly scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know, Miss Bell. You’re cold as steel and make an awful lot of noise, so if the bell rings …”
She stamped her foot, feeling all of fourteen again. “The only ‘ringing’ going on here, Mr. McShane, will be around your neck if you continue this juvenile behavior.” Snatching her notebook and reticule from the edge of the desk, she hugged both to her chest, chin in a jut. “When will Superintendent Yerington be in the office?”
“Well, let’s see now …” He glanced at his pocket watch, then peered up with a hint of humor in eyes that may have softened a hair. His brows tented with a touch of sympathy. “His office is actually in Carson City, so … Fourth of July?” He sighed and dropped his feet to the floor with a thud, hands resting on the arms of his chair as he studied her intently. “Looks like you’re stuck with me, Miss O’Shea, since I am the one and only representative for the Virginia & Truckee Railroad in all of Virginia City.”
Libby’s jaw dropped a full inch. Blue blistering blazes!
She bit her tongue, gripping her pad and reticule so hard, her fingers were now as bloodless as her face. “I’ll just have to take the stage to Carson City, then.”
He peeked at his watch again and grimaced. “Wellllll, the next stage doesn’t leave till tomorrow morning, and over and above the four hours you’d have to travel one way—barring any holdups or Indian raids, of course—I’m afraid Superintendent Yerington is back East for his sister’s wedding.”
Dirty drawers of the Devil! All hope seeped out along with the air in Libby’s lungs, sagging both her shoulders and her morale.
He rose and extended a remarkably calloused hand for a man in a suit, his voice suddenly gentle as he nodded toward the chair beside her. “Look, Liberty, have a seat, please, and let’s start over, shall we? I think it’s time we both put the past behind, don’t you?”
She assessed the sincerity of the man before her, who now offered a handshake over his desk, and wondered if she could trust him. Whenever she’d tried in the past, she’d found herself locked in an outhouse or washing ink out of her hair.
Or a laughingstock when he’d jilted her for Jo Beth.
Still, those light brown eyes were suddenly as rich and warm as Papa’s Best Irish whiskey—almost amber in the light that streamed through his side window. And, no doubt, just as capable of making her dizzy. Like the summer of her senior year when they’d actually gotten along as festival volunteers for a brief period of time.
Till he broke my heart …
She sucked in a deep draw of air, and the scent of Bay Rum and peppermint flooded her senses. Her gaze flicked to his hand and back while those caramel-colored eyes locked on hers with a depth and honesty she’d never seen in him before. Expelling a silent breath, she slowly reached out, emitting a tiny squeak at a spark of static electricity when his hand swallowed hers.
Grip firm, he offered a smile that warmed her more than the lock of his palm. “Hello, my name is Griffin Alexander McShane, but my friends call me Finn, a nickname coined by my niece at the age of two, who had trouble pronouncing ‘G’s.”
As natural as breathing, her lips tipped into a smile. “And my name is Liberty Margaret O’Shea, and all I can say is the saints preserve us if the niece is half the scamp as her uncle.”
He grinned, and two dangerously deep dimples winked, imparting a woozy sensation in the pit of her stomach. “‘Scamp?’” His low laughter filled the small room, surrounding her like a hug, husky and warm. “I think the words you may be looking for are scoundrel and scalawag, Miss O’Shea, which brings me to a long-overdue apology for being less than chivalrous in school.” He released her hand with a wink that weakened the tendons at the back of her knees, conveniently, if not gracelessly, plopping her into the chair.
Still standing, he leaned forward with a brace of palms to the desk and a smile that dazzled as much as the boyish twinkle in his eyes. “So … am I forgiven?”