Page 78 of If Looks Could Kill
“But you have an ambition of your own that you fearwoulddisappoint him.”
“Madam Tabitha’s Mind Readings, two cents,” he said. “Palms, a penny extra.”
“You’re blustering to dodge my question,” I told him. “Butwhat?”
“I do have an ambition,” he replied, “but it’s one a poor potato-farming lad from Ireland’s got no business having.”
“What is it?”
“That will have to wait,” he said, “for this, if you please, is your block.”
So it was. And there was my building.
I took off toward it, then stopped in my tracks.
“Um,” I said, “this is very awkward.”
“What is?” he asked. “You don’t want me to come in?”
“It’s not that,” I told him. “I do. I just… I need to introduce you to Emma and Carrie.”
His face darkened. “I see. You’d rather not.”
“No!” I cried, seizing both his arms. “I do, I do!”
He held back, uncertain. “I’m Irish, and it’s—”
“Would you stop that?” I cried. “Mr., er, Mike. I don’t know your name.”
He gaped at me.
“Your surname,” I explained. “You’ve never told me.”
He started to laugh. “I suppose I haven’t. Though you’ve never told me yours, either.”
“You never asked.”
“Nor did you,” he pointed out.
“It’ll be quite the scandal,” I said, “to present you indoors without your full name.”
“By all that’s holy, let’s not have a scandal,” he agreed, “Miss I-Drag-Dead-Bodies-Away-from-Brothel-Doors.”
“Oh, dear.” I bit my lip. “Was he dead?”
“I hope so, for his sake.” There he was, laughing at me again. “If not, when he comes to, he’ll die of embarrassment.”
“Look,” I said, failing to swallow my own laughter, “we don’t have time for this. I’m Tabitha Woodward. Who are you?”
“Tabitha Woodward,” he repeated. “I call that a very fine name. It has a solid ring to it.”
“I’ll give a solid ring to the side of your head,” I told him, “if you don’t tell me yours.”
He held his fists up, protectively, like a boxer. “I’m Michael Finnegan O’Keeffe.”
Michael Finnegan O’Keeffe. It was a lot of name. He’d always been just Mike.
I glanced up and caught him watching me, as if he was curious to see my reaction.
