Diarmid entered the house near on six in the morning and was greeted with silence. He owed Lita more of an apology and an explanation. He had gone for a walk and had found himself in Astoria Park, sitting on a bench watching the East River and freezing his a*s off. Guilt and shame had kept him from coming back.
He had kissed his best friend’s daughter, in the man’s kitchen, out of nothing more than his own lack of control. He grimaced at the lie he told himself. Since arriving Saturday, he had been more aware of Lita O’Malley than he should have been. The chatter around them had been s****l in nature, she was a creature of stunning beauty and, if he were honest with himself, the fact she was damaged made him gravitate to her like a moth to flame.
Damaged women and fire. Two things which
