Chapter 18
What had he gotten them into?
Bellamy jammed his fingers into his hair, his frustration mounting more with every passing second.
“Let’s see if we can find another way out.” Zaira started moving away from him but bumped into something that fell to the floor with a clatter.
He reached out a hand blindly for her but grasped only air. “Someone wise once told me if they hear the noise, they’ll come back and look for us.”
She released a scoffing laugh. “We can’t just sit. If we do, they’ll escape with the money.”
He liked that she wasn’t afraid or upset at their circumstances. She never seemed to let a situation bother her. And she was daring—another admirable trait.
“We have to get out and alert the police,” she insisted.
In the blackness of the basement room, he couldn’t see even his hand in front of his face. But he shifted to the door and this time swept his hand along the doorframe, checking for any way at all that he might be able to pry the door open.
His fingers skated over the smooth wood, then over the handle. The lock was on the outside . . . because the bank obviously wanted to prevent random people—like them—from browsing the rooms filled with private documents.
Maybe Zaira was right, though. Maybe he should make an effort to find another way out or an item he could use to break open the door.
For a short while, they bumped and felt their way around the room.
But it didn’t take long to discover that the walls were lined with tall drawers, and each drawer contained only papers.
Aside from a tin wastebasket Zaira had knocked over, they found papers, folders, and a few random pens, but nothing else except a vent high up in one wall.
He managed to take it off, but the space was too small for either of them to fit into.
At some point—after at least an hour of attempting to wiggle the door handle and hinges loose—he resigned himself to the fact that he and Zaira would be stuck in the storage room for the night. Zaira seemed to resign herself, too, and sat down with him against the door.
Bellamy didn’t know exactly where the safe was. But from the echo of hammers and chisels, he guessed it was on the opposite side of the door at the end of the hallway. The echo wasn’t loud, but he could feel the reverberations once in a while against his back.
Of course Zaira proved to be an easy conversationalist, and they talked about many topics—Seamus and Moya, the struggle with homelessness, the problems of the new immigrants, and the plan to connect children to families who could temporarily house them.
At some point they started talking more about their families, and though he didn’t like going into specifics regarding his relationship with Oscar and all that had happened with his mam and their marriage, he didn’t mind talking about Jenny and Gavin.
He shared with Zaira about their last year in Ireland before immigrating and about the adjustments once they arrived.
She asked him about Jenny not having any children and what that had been like.
Zaira shared equally about her family and what her life had been like growing up in such a large, affluent family.
Although she didn’t say so directly, he got the sense that she’d been somewhat overlooked as the middle child and that she’d done her best to keep the peace amidst all the other turmoil her family experienced.
Late into the night, after hours of talking—even about her writing and his painting—Zaira began yawning more frequently, and her whispers grew softer until they tapered off.
Her even breathing told him she’d fallen asleep.
When her head drooped to one side and came to rest against his shoulder, he didn’t move away, even though a warning went off inside him, especially because he couldn’t deny how many things he liked about Zaira Shanahan.
Had he ever talked with a woman as openly as he did her? He couldn’t remember anyone who interested him as much. He’d actually enjoyed the time with her and liked getting to know more about her. Underneath her sassiness, she had a tender and sweet heart.
Even so, he couldn’t let the attraction interfere with putting an end to their fake relationship. Just because he liked her didn’t mean he wanted to marry her, especially because their whole relationship had started on a lie. That didn’t bode well for the future.
At some point, he dozed too, even with the distant thudding of a hammer or chisel or both. When he startled awake, the grogginess of sleep had him utterly at sea for only a moment before he remembered where he was and what had happened.
The first thing he noticed was the silence. The hammering and chiseling seemed to have stopped. Had the robbers broken into the safe, stolen the money, and run off?
He wished he could gauge what time it was and if morn was at hand. But without a window or the ability to see his pocket watch, he didn’t know how many hours were left before the bank workers arrived for the day.
Once people were here, he and Zaira would have to find a way to alert them to their presence inside the storage room.
He could only pray that someone from his family or hers had been worried about them last night when they didn’t return and had started looking for them.
But it was possible everyone assumed they’d gotten delayed in Carondelet during their search for Mr. O’Reilly.
Whatever the case, he hoped they didn’t have to wait much longer. From his spot reclining against the storage room door, his back ached and his legs were stiff. Zaira was still resting her head against his shoulder and had also laid a hand on his arm.
From the steadiness of her breathing, he could tell she hadn’t awoken, and he didn’t want to bother her yet, not until he had to. One of them might as well get a wee bit of sleep.
Stifling a yawn, he shifted a little to take some of the pressure off his tailbone.
At his movement, she began to stir. Although he couldn’t see her, he could feel her lift her arm away from him and then stretch it above her head. When she brought it back down, she seemed to attempt to place her hand back on his arm, but instead it landed upon his chest right next to his heart.
After the past hours of talking and being so close, to listening to her breathing, to feeling her warmth, to having her hair tickle his jaw, he was much too keenly aware of her presence.
She yawned, then snuggled her head against his arm while at the same time flattening her fingers and gently patting him.
She’d patted him. Like he was a cat.
A strange protest swelled in him. Clearly she wasn’t affected by him the same way he was by her.
She released a soft sigh, as if she was settling in again to go back to sleep.
Before he could stop himself, he slid his arm around behind her, drawing her closer so that now she was leaning against his body with her head on his chest.
She seemed to hesitate, as if she wasn’t quite sure what to think of the new position.
She was even softer than he’d remembered, and her body fit so well against him. With her head tucked beneath his chin, more of her hair brushed his skin, and the silkiness of it brought an aching need to his chest.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he lifted his free hand and stroked the loose strands. After the long, restless night, her hair had fallen free of the usual knot. His fingers followed the trail of the hair downward, combing it gently.
Holy mother. Had he ever touched anything as exquisite as her hair? He honestly couldn’t think of anything that compared, and he had the overwhelming need to bury his fingers there, this time more deeply.
With it flowing over her shoulders, it was practically begging to be touched, so he delved his fingers in again, winding them until he had a fistful. Only when he brought the fistful of it to his mouth and nose and breathed her in did he realize she’d grown absolutely still and her body tense.
He pinched his eyes closed. What in the devil was he doing? Why was he giving in to this desire for her? Out of respect for her and to their pretend relationship, he had to put an end to any physical contact immediately.
“I’m sorry,” he started.
Before he could finish, she lifted her hand from where it was still resting on his chest and placed it against his lips, cutting off his apology. She held her fingers there with a gentle pressure that shifted his mind from her hair to her fingertips.
He wanted to kiss them. Rather than denying himself, he brushed a kiss against her fingers.
She sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t move away.
Should he issue another apology? He didn’t want to. Instead, he wanted to kiss her fingers, this time lingering on each one before moving to her palm or her wrist. Did he dare do it?
The thudding in his chest beat hard, demanding more.
Before he could gather his resolve, one of her fingers skimmed his lower lip. The touch was delicate, like a flower petal. She traced along the curve and then moved to his top lip, where she softly drew a line all the way across to the other side.
She was feeling whatever was building between them too. That was obvious.
As she began to lower her hand, he scooped it up and this time brought it to his lips. He kissed the tip of one finger, then the next, and the next until he reached the end.
With each kiss, she drew in a breath, as if each of his kisses surprised her—or delighted her.
What was he doing? He couldn’t kiss her, not even her fingers. It was too much.
He started to release her, but before he could, she drew his hand to her lips and began to kiss each of his fingertips the same way he’d just done to hers.
Her lips skimmed each one, softly, gently, but lingering long enough that he felt the imprint of her mouth.
It seared through his skin and branded him, marking him as hers.
Could he really be hers? Was that a possibility? Or was it only a dream?
As she reached his last finger and placed the kiss there, he didn’t want her to stop, wanted her to go on kissing him, not on his fingers, but on his lips.
Somehow during the finger kissing, she’d twisted around so she was facing him and almost sitting on him. Instead of lowering his hand, she placed it against her cheek, giving him permission to touch her face.
While he couldn’t see her beauty, he had no trouble imagining the lovely shape of her face as he cradled her cheek and rubbed his thumb over her jawline.
In the next instant, she brought her hand to his face, palming his cheek, letting her fingers explore the crinkles beside his eye, his eyebrow, then his forehead. She circled back around to his chin before her fingers once again grazed his lips.
The desire to kiss her fingers again pulsed rapidly. He started to reach for her hand but before he could, she guided his face forward so that her lips collided with his. The impact was forceful and thorough, leaving him no doubt that she wanted the kiss.
He had no doubt he wanted it too. He angled in and welcomed the kiss she was offering, giving back to her the forcefulness and thoroughness in turn.
Passion flared up almost instantaneously, like flames crackling between them and around them, consuming them with a heat.
She was on fire, and everywhere she touched him or everywhere he touched her ignited more flames.
But he didn’t incinerate. Instead, he only wanted more, needed more, burned for more.
This kiss wasn’t like the other two they’d already shared—the one in the pub and the one at the engagement party.
No, this kiss was unlike anything he’d ever known, one filled with a longing he suspected wouldn’t be sated by anyone else but her.
Oh aye, this kiss had unlocked something inside him, something he feared he wouldn’t be able to cage up again.
It wasn’t just passion toward Zaira. It was something deeper, something more encompassing, something more life-altering.
Was it love?
A swell of panic rose inside him. No, it couldn’t be love.
He gave a shake of his head, breaking their connection and pulling away. He was on his feet in the next instant and took a step back.
He didn’t want to be swept up into the feelings of being in love, didn’t want his heart to dictate his actions, didn’t want to be so passionate about her that he couldn’t think rationally about whether they were right for each other or not.
He’d already determined that passion would only cause him to rush into a marriage, perhaps with the wrong woman. Because how could he know that Zaira was right for him? That he was right for her? That they wouldn’t despise each other in a few years?
Oscar had always said those who were most passionate about each other often had the most beautiful highs but also the most tragic lows. No doubt he’d been speaking from personal experience.
She hadn’t moved from her spot on the floor. But her confusion hung in the air, and their heavy breathing filled the silence.
He needed to say something. But what could he? How could he possibly explain the complexity of relationships the McKenna matchmakers had? And that he had to be extra careful when it came to his own match?
If all the matchmakers had been blinded by their emotions, then maybe he couldn’t allow himself to have a marriage with any feelings—at least initially.
Maybe it was better if he entered into a relationship that was cordial and agreeable.
Something platonic. More like a business exchange.
Not this burning passion he felt with Zaira, a passion that made him lose his mind and all self-control.
Aye, that was it. In order to succeed where all the other matchmakers in his family had failed, he had to take an opposite strategy. He needed to be clearheaded and form a match based on logic—a logic that would put solid character qualities over feelings like the ones he was having with Zaira.
No matter how difficult such a strategy might be, especially with Zaira, he had to do it.