by Iris Morland
I couldn’t comment on how common it was for someone from France to go work menial labor in Ireland, but I believed Mrs. Walsh. So that meant that nobody knew who Olivier was…which made me wonder—had he even been hired? Or had he just been posing as a worker to gain access to the estate?
I grabbed something to eat and headed back upstairs after thanking Mrs. Walsh, who kept looking at me with suspicion. I went straight to the library, where I waited for Olivier to arrive.
When it was close to eleven in the morning, I was almost convinced that he’d run off. It was a quarter past eleven when he finally waltzed into the library, looking both rumpled and deliciously handsome, the sunlight pouring from the windows giving him an angelic glow.
“Good morning,” he said. He raised a paper cup of coffee to his lips. When he saw me frowning, he added, “Bad night?”
“It’s nearly noon,” I ground out.
He glanced at a clock on the wall. “It’s not yet half past eleven.”
“It’s barely the morning. You said we’d meet in the morning.”
He shrugged and settled into the same chair he’d occupied last night. “I never get up before ten AM if I can help it.” He peered closely at me. “You do have rather large bags under your eyes. It must’ve been a bad night for you. Did the thought of me keep you up all night?”
“The thought of how I’m going to dismember you slowly did,” I said sweetly.
Olivier just sipped his coffee. He’d obviously been awake long enough to go into the nearest town to grab coffee, which grated on me. Not that he should’ve brought me something. No, it meant he hadn’t felt like this meeting was very important. That he didn’t see me as important.
Don’t get all weird about him, I said to myself. He’s only trying to bait you.
“If it makes you feel better,” said Olivier smoothly, crossing his legs, “I was awake early to think about the position we’ve found ourselves in. We both want the same thing. We both most likely have information the other wants.”
I nodded. “I think we established all of that last night.”
“The thing is, I was led to believe that your grandfather had this clock. That information must’ve been wrong.” Olivier scowled. “Or perhaps it was just old information. Who can know? But I’m at somewhat of a dead end.”
My palms were sweaty as I said, “I have documentation that shows that my father, not my grandda, is actually the owner of the clock right now.”
Olivier blinked in surprise. “Your father?”
“Yes.” I handed over the papers Mr. McDonnell had given me. “But for whatever reason, my father had these sent to the estate here.”
Olivier’s eyes narrowed. “It’s signed Sean Gallagher. That’s your grandfather, the name I was given. Is that also your father’s name?”
“Yes, kind of. But he never went by it. His full name is Sean Connor Gallagher, but he always went by Connor. As far as I know, he never signed as Sean to avoid confusion with his da. Except in this case.”
“I’ll be damned. I had the wrong man but the right name all along.” He returned the papers to me. “Where is your father? Is he alive?”
“That’s where things get dicey. I don’t know where my da is. I’ve actually never met him. I thought he was dead for most of my life, but it was only recently I was informed he was still alive.” I could feel nerves making me shaky—with fear? Excitement? Maybe both.
“And your father is the one that has my family’s clock.” Olivier leaned back heavily in the chair. “And you have no idea where he is.” He said something in French that even I could tell was a swear word.
“Of course that would be the case. Of course.”
“Sorry?”
Olivier was silent for a long moment, which I rather hated, because it gave me a chance to ogle him. In our previous encounters, I’d been so distracted with what he was saying that I hadn’t taken in quite how handsome he was. Now, watching him, I felt tingles up and down my spine just from looking at him. It was ridiculous.
He had the cheekbones of a model, his eyes were a piercing gray. And I was fairly certain his hair was naturally golden. But it was everything put together—the smile, the accent, the eyes, the confidence in the way he moved and spoke—that created a figure that seemed more god than man.
“Why do you want this clock so badly?” I said.
“I told you: it’s my family’s.”
“But why go to all of this trouble? Come all the way here to Ireland, play landscaper, snoop around a library…it must be worth something to you personally. Why?”
Olivier’s expression shuttered. “It was my mother’s,” he said grudgingly. “It means a great deal to her, and she wants it returned.”
“What happened to it in the first place?”
“It was stolen from her.”
I stared at him. “Stolen? Then how could my da have bought it from an antique dealer?”
Olivier shrugged. “Perhaps the dealer didn’t know it had been stolen originally. Perhaps the dealer didn’t care about its origins.”
When I’d looked over the documents my da had had mailed here, I hadn’t found any information on the dealer enclosed, which had been strange.
“Why would you tell me this information?” Olivier scowled at me. “What’s your angle?”
Did I have an angle? Well, besides wanting to find my father, I guess I had an angle in that regard. Rolling my eyes, I replied, “My only ‘angle’ is to find this stupid clock and in doing so, my da. That’s it. I told you about this because I thought…” I swallowed, the words drying up in my throat.
I thought what? That we’d team up? Now I realized that spilling the beans about my father maybe hadn’t been a great idea. I didn’t have much else to bargain with beyond that crucial piece of intel.
Trying to tame the blush that was creeping into my cheeks, I said, “If you want this clock, you’re not going to get it without my help.”
Olivier laughed. “And how do you figure that, mademoiselle?” He looked at his nails, appearing bored. “Now that I know who actually owns this antique, I can leave this damp, Godforsaken country—”
I stood up. “I’m going with you.” I pointed a finger in Olivier’s face. “I’m going to find my da. Even if it means stowing away in your luggage and stalking you across Europe, I’ll do it.”
Olivier gently pushed my hand aside. “Pointing is so gauche. Try to refrain from it.” He continued sitting; he gazed up at me, assessing me, I guess. “Then what do you have to offer me?” he said finally.
“Offer you?”
He gestured at me. “What should make me want to bring you along in this search?” He leaned forward now, and he cocked a golden eyebrow. “You’re not really my type, but I’m open to an arrangement. You’re pretty enough, at least.”
Oh, I wanted to slap him. I even raised my hand, palm open, feeling my face turning beet red. “Are you seriously asking me to bargain with sexual favors?”
“If you want to put it that way.” He shrugged.
I poked him in the chest. Well, maybe more like pushed him, if I were being honest. “I’m not sleeping with you. I have no interest in you whatsoever.” Liar. “I want to find my da. I’ve never met him, and I’ve always wanted to know why he left me and my brother. Why he left our mom when she was dying from cancer.” Hurt filled my voice despite my best efforts to tamp it down. “This isn’t about some antique, or a grift, or some scheme to get into your most likely gonorrhea-filled pants. I’m going to find my da, and you can either help me, or you can eat a bag of musty dicks.”
Olivier pushed my hand away a second time, standing slowly, forcing me to back up if I didn’t want our bodies to collide.
Before he could reply, I said, “And if you do find my da, do you really think he’s going to sell you the clock in the first place? He sent those documents here because he wanted to prove a point to my grandda. What, I don’t know. But I’m going to take a flying leap and say that
he’s not just going to hand the thing over.”
“I’m willing to pay a lot of money. Most people can be convinced if the price is right.”
“Maybe. But we’re Irish. We’re stubborn, and from everything I’ve heard about my da’s side of the family, the stubbornness is legendary.” I tipped up my chin. “But if it were me asking for the clock, I would have a better chance. Hell, I could guilt my da into just giving it to me.”
Olivier narrowed his eyes. “And what? You’d simply…gift it to me?”
“Yes. If you took me with you on this wild-goose chase.”
“I don’t know what this has to do with geese.”
“It’s an expression.” I waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. How about it? Do you want to team up and figure this out together?”
Olivier considered me. I nearly squirmed under his scrutiny. He assessed me, rather like how he’d assess a horse he wanted to buy. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.
“I do not know if I can truly trust you,” he said slowly, “but perhaps you cannot truly trust me, either.”
“I trusted you enough to tell you about my da.” Trusted enough—or was stupid enough, I thought. Same difference.
“Yes, you did. Then perhaps I can be truthful with you. When I said the clock was stolen, that’s not entirely true.” He pushed his fingers through his hair. “I stole the clock to pay off debts I’d made gambling.”
“You stole your mom’s beloved antique clock? That’s low.”
“I thought it was just another antique that had been gathering dust. She’d never mentioned it was important to her or I never would’ve taken it. She didn’t even know it had been missing until a year later.”
“Still not a great look there, dude.”
He ignored me. “I know who I sold the clock to, but it was five years ago. The clock has obviously been sold a number of times since then.” He rubbed his chin.
“Then we could talk to your guy. Follow the breadcrumbs that way,” I said.
“I wanted to avoid this, because it will take who knows how long. That’s why I came here, but since no one knows where you father is…” His gaze landed back on my face before he put out his long-fingered hand. “If you agree to give me the clock if we find your father, then I’ll agree to finance any travel we may do.”
I blinked. I hadn’t expected that. It seemed too good to be true. “For real?”
Olivier smiled. “For real.” His hand still was held out. “Shake?”
I took his hand, the feeling of his fingers against my own nearly electric. Something heated passed between us, even in that brief touch.
“Okay,” I said softly. “You have a deal.”
“Oh, and one other thing.”
“Yes?” I waited breathlessly, feeling my pulse hammering in my throat.
All suavity, Olivier said, “Never use the phrase ‘gonorrhea-filled pants’ in my vicinity again.”
Chapter Seven
Three days later, Olivier and I were off to Paris. He’d tried calling this antiques dealer he’d sold his mother’s beloved clock to, but the number had been disconnected. Despite our best efforts at Googling contact info, all we had was an address in Paris for a tiny antiques shop that might not even still exist.
Olivier had assured me he’d take care of booking the flights. Although I’d agreed to him financing this trip, I’ll admit, I’d expected that it would involve him paying for gas as we traveled to and from Dublin, not flying to fucking Paris! I’d told him that I’d find the money for the flight. The last thing I wanted was to feel like I owed him something.
But before I’d booked my own ticket, Olivier came into the library to tell me, “I booked our tickets.”
My face twitched. “Our? I told you I’d pay for mine.”
He shrugged. “You can pay me back if you want.” He looked at his phone. “Five hundred euros.”
My jaw dropped. “Jesus Christ, we’re just going to Paris! Did you hire a private jet or something?”
“No, of course not. First class will do.” He sounded completely serious, too.
And of course, that sum of money would be more in American dollars. I didn’t even want to look up the exchange rate. I’d need to ask Liam to send me the money, which meant I’d have to tell him what we were doing…
“Can you cancel my ticket?” Sweat was beading on my forehead at the mere thought of divulging this plan to my older brother. He’d probably show up and haul me back to Washington in a burlap sack.
“Why would I do that? Are you reneging on your promise?”
“No,” I ground out. “I just don’t want to pay that much for a plane ticket.”
His smile was so obnoxious that I was way too tempted to strangle him in the middle of the library. “Then shouldn’t you be thanking me?”
“Thank you.” I nearly snarled the words.
“De rien, mademoiselle.” He even bowed, the dick.
“But I am paying you back. I just can’t pay you back right this second.” I wanted to swallow my tongue and die right there on the spot, having to admit that. “But I will when I can.”
“Suit yourself.”
When we arrived at Dublin Airport at the buttcrack of dawn the next day, I couldn’t help but notice that Olivier’s passport wasn’t French. I mean, the language looked like French, but the country on it wasn’t one I’d heard of.
“Where are you from, exactly?” I asked him after we’d arrived at our gate.
He gave me a strange look. “France, of course.” He said something else in French, just to be annoying.
“Yes, I know you speak French.” I rolled my eyes. “But I saw your passport. It wasn’t a French one.”
“I’m from Salasia,” he said finally.
“Oh.” I counted to three in my head before asking, “And where is that?”
“Between France and Italy. It’s a small principality.”
I waited for more information, but he merely sipped his Americano and proceeded to ignore me until we boarded. When we got in line for first class, though, the flight attendant’s eyes widened when she looked at his passport.
She rattled something in rapid-fire French. I caught Olivier’s name but obviously nothing else. Olivier replied, the flight attendant said something else, and then I yawned loudly, making Olivier say, “Sorry to bore you so.”
“But you’re so good at it,” I said sweetly. I handed my passport to the attendant, whose entire focus remained on Olivier. She was way too excited to see his stupid, handsome face. Then again, he was handsome. Maybe she was just super thirsty for attractive men today.
Olivier and I were in our seats when an elderly couple boarded, the woman using a cane. They stopped at our row, the man saying that we were sitting in their seats.
“I’m so sorry,” the flight attendant told Olivier, me, and the elderly couple minutes later. “The flight has been overbooked in first class. We do have two seats in coach, and we’ll compensate whoever is willing to move. Please accept my upmost apologies to you all for the inconvenience.”
Olivier looked at me. Then he looked at the elderly woman resting on her cane. “Of course they can have our seats,” he said smoothly.
The flight attendant took us nearly to the back of the plane, right next to the engine. Great, they gave us the crappiest seats on the plane.
One person was already sitting in the row in the middle seat. He was a big guy. When he stood up to let me by, his head nearly touched the ceiling of the plane.
I took the window seat; Olivier took the aisle. Big Guy in the middle proceeded to spread his legs as far as he could, take up both armrests, and then promptly fell asleep and started snoring before we’d even gotten into the air.
Olivier made a face when his arm touched Big Guy’s arm. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing.
“Have you never ridden in coach?” I said.
“Of course I have.” Olivier pulled his tray table down, only to make another face when he found i
t covered in some mysterious, sticky substance.
“Business class doesn’t count.”
“I don’t know the difference.” Olivier pressed the call button. A different flight attendant than the one who’d been drooling over him came by. “May I have a menu?”
“We don’t serve meals in coach.”
I couldn’t see Olivier’s expression, but I had a feeling it was all surprise. “How is that possible? What kind of plane is this?”
The flight attendant, a no-nonsense Irishwoman, gave him a bored look. “Lad, you’re in coach. You’ll get a bag of crisps and be grateful.”
I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing so loudly that I’d wake our snoring neighbor.
“It’s not that funny,” growled Olivier.
“Oh, oh, oh,” was all I could say between snorts and guffaws. “You think you can get meals on coach! You’re adorable. What else? Do you think you get free cocktails and a hot towelette?” I nearly peed my pants laughing.
Big Guy’s right eye opened to look at me. “Loud,” he said.
“Sorry.”
He’d already fallen back to sleep.
“I never drink alcohol on flights,” groused Olivier. He then attempted to lean his seat back, but since our row was right in front of the restroom, he couldn’t. “Are you fucking serious—”
Big Guy opened his left eye. “Language!”
Olivier, for once, seemed cowed. “My apologies,” he muttered.
I, for one, wasn’t going to anger our neighbor. I put my headphones in and started reading, trying my hardest not to glance at Olivier out of the corner of my eye to see if he was going to do anything ridiculous again. Throughout the flight, he kept trying to cross his legs, but there wasn’t enough room. At one point, he’d put his feet somewhat into the aisle, only to have some poor sucker trip over them and cause Olivier to yelp in surprise.