She glanced up, released a tiny squeak, jerked back, and pressed a hand to her chest.
“Dear God, Luke! You gave me quite a start. How long have you been standing there spying on me?”
“Not nearly long enough,” he said laconically, striding into the room with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. He set the bowl on the desk. “For you and your children’s home.”
The home was a small place she was in the process of establishing with hopes of making life easier for orphans. She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Are these ill-gotten gains?”
“Of course.”
Snatching up the bowl, she smiled at him. The impish upward curve of her lips hit him as it always did, like a powerful punch to the gut. “Then I shall take them gladly and do good works with them to absolve you of your sins.”
Her voice held a bit of teasing, but a sadness marred her eyes.
“No one can absolve me of my sins, Frannie, you know that.” With a wave of his hand to stop her from even attempting to argue with him on the matter, he sat in the thickly padded chair in front of her desk. “You’re up rather late.”
“The amount of work necessary to keep track of Jack’s finances is unbelievable. His profits are astounding.”
“He’s always said if you wish to die rich, invest in vice.”
“Well, he shall no doubt die rich, and in a way that’s rather sad. He should spend the money on something that brings him pleasure.”
“I think he finds his pleasure in taking money from rich blokes.” His accent dipped at the end to reveal his street origins. It was always so easy to slip around Frannie, because they shared the same origins.
“But is he happy?” she asked.
“Are any of us?”
Tears welled in her eyes—
“Dammit, Frannie—”
She held up her hand. “It’s all right. I’m in one of my moods is all, and while I can’t claim to be happy, I do believe I’m content.”
Now was the perfect opportunity to promise her unending happiness. But her office suddenly seemed like such a ghastly unromantic place. Whatever had he been thinking to consider asking her here? The setting for the proposal should be as memorable as the proposal itself.
Tomorrow. He would ask her tomorrow. Clearing his throat, he came to his feet. “Well, it’s rather late. I’d best be off.”
She gave him another impish smile. “It was kind of you to stop by and visit.” She touched the copper bowl containing his winnings. “I thank you for your contribution.”
“I’d give you more—legitimate funds—if you’d take them.”
“You’ve done more than enough for me, Luke.”
Again, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to tell her that he’d not done nearly as much as he planned to do for her. But the words lodged in his throat. Why was he always so damned tongue-tied around her when it came to speaking from his heart? Was it because, as he feared, he truly had no heart, just a black hole that reflected the darkness of his soul?
Telling her anything at all should come easily. After all, they knew the worst of each other’s lives. Why was that so much easier to share than what should be the best?
He took a step back. “I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll let you know then exactly how I plan to use this money you’ve given me.”
“Use it however it pleases you, Frannie. It comes with no attachments. You owe me no explanations.”
“You’ve never been comfortable around orphans, have you?”
“Whatever are you about? All my best friends are orphans.”
“Feagan’s merry little band of ne’er-do-wells. We’re an odd assortment, aren’t we?”
