Certain he had stumbled onto a critical piece of the puzzle, he threw back the covers, intending to go across the hall to wake her up. But a grunt came from the end of the bed, and a weight shifted beside him. Rising up on one arm, Finn turned, his night vision focusing. He had to shake his head to make sure he wasn't still dreaming.
Rooney was asleep on the foot of the bed and the daughter of Patrick O'Brien was asleep beside him. Now how in hell had she managed that? How had she gotten into bed without waking him up? Feeling totally discombobulated, Finn scrubbed his hand down his face, not at all happy about the circumstances he found himself in. Especially when he had already envisioned the daughter of Patrick O'Brien naked. Even more annoyed for remembering that slip, and determined not to let it go any further, he caught her shoulder and shook her. "Damn it, Mallory." She rolled on her back and smacked her lips, then opened her eyes and looked at him.
"What," she muttered groggily.
He had intended on telling her she couldn't crawl into his bed whenever she felt like it, that he was a red-blooded male. But that was just begging for trouble, so he changed his mind. "You can't let Rooney sleep in the house," he growled. "He's an outside dog, and it's not good for him. It's too hot inside—and he gets sores."
Bracing herself up on both her arms, she opened her eyes really wide, then glared at him. "Did you wake me up from a sound sleep just to tell me I shouldn't let the dog sleep in the house?"
"Yes." He snapped, then his honesty kicked in. "Well, no."
She continued to glare at him. "Which is it, Donovan? Yes or no?"
Lord, she looked so right in his bed, with moonlight streaming over her, one shoulder temptingly revealed, her hair begging to be touched. Jerking his thoughts away from that track, he said the first thing that came into his head. "It's no." Feeling a little as if he'd just been launched out of a cannon again, he turned to look at her squarely. "Who would benefit if you were to survive your father, then turn up dead?"
She glared at him, her tone huffy when she retorted, "You could have worded that a little more tactfully. Turning up dead sounds pretty darned callous."
She was right. It was callous. But how come he was always the one in the wrong here? Letting out an exasperated sigh, he stuffed two pillows behind his shoulders and folded his arms across his chest. "I didn't mean for it to sound callous, Red," he said with exaggerated patience. "I was just trying to make some sense out of what's going on. And I need a place to start."
Without responding, Mallory rose from the bed, snapping her fingers at Rooney to follow; then she left the room. Now what, he thought, staring after her. Talk about the vagrancies of a woman's mind. This one could wear him right out.
140 The Renegade and the Heiress
He heard the outside door close, and a flicker of humor surfaced. Maybe she'd gone out to cool off in the snow.
He was amusing himself with that image when Mallory reentered the room—without the dog—turned on the light and crawled up beside him. She had a bottle of rye in one hand and two glasses in the other. Finn hitched himself up higher so he was sitting up, the sheet firmly tucked around his hips.
Her face furrowed with thought, she opened the bottle, splashed a slug into one glass, then handed it to him. The thoughtful look still on her face, she repeated the process for herself before screwing the cap back on and wedging the bottle beside his pillows. Turning to face him, she drew her legs up to sit cross-legged. She took a sip from her glass, then looked at him. "What made you ask that?"
He frowned and rolled the amber liquid around in his glass. "You said something earlier, about why the order of killing was so important." He shrugged. "And I started wondering. Who would benefit if your father were to predecease you?"
She thoughtfully watched him, then tossed back the rye, shuddering as it went down. Finally she gave him a small, tight smile. "Have you any idea how much I don't want to start wondering about stuff like that?"
Understanding her reticence more than she would ever know, he stared into space. Hell, he didn't want to make it worse for her, but she had to realize it wasn't over yet. He swirled the amber liquid around his glass again, then downed it all. He waited for the heat to hit his belly before he looked at her, his expression somber. "You have to know that your life could depend on just that, Red. These aren't kids paying cops and robbers in the park. These guys are playing for real."
She ran her finger around the lip of her glass, sighed and looked at him. "I don't even know where to begin."
Drawing up one knee under the sheet, Finn rested his forearm across it, his expression thoughtful. "Okay. Let's start at the beginning." He looked at her. "Are you sole beneficiary to his estate?"
Mallory shrugged. "Well, there are other sizeable bequeaths, but yes, I'd inherit the bulk of his estate."
"Okay. Next step. If your father was to predecease you, where would the bulk of your estate go?"
Mallory studied the glass, then she began pulling at the frayed cuff of his sweat top, and he could swear she was deliberately avoiding the question. He prompted her. "Where, Red?"
Finally she shrugged, looking very sheepish. "Well, umm," she stalled, "actually, I don't have a will." She finally looked at him, making a little grimace. "Well, I had a will. I just don't have one anymore."
No will? Someone with that kind of fortune, and she didn't have a will? Finn didn't know whether to be appalled or amused by her admission, but one thing was for sure: he definitely wanted to hear this story.
She got all fidgety and evasive, and it was obvious she was trying to avoid something. Humor lifting his mouth, he prompted her again. "And?"
She heaved a sigh and looked at him. "Well, I sort of lost my temper."
Watching her, Finn allowed his amusement to show. "That's hard to believe."
She gave him a sharp look, and he grinned and prompted her again. "Go on."
She heaved another sigh and told him. "I was at my father's office for other reasons—or what I thought were other reasons. But then he insisted it was time I reviewed my personal affairs with his battery of lawyers. I didn't think it was necessary, so we got into this huge fight. Then this stuffy personal lawyer of his—the very stiff and proper Mr. Delleware of Delleware, Johnson, McGinnis and Fogalty," she rhymed off, her tone disparaging, "brought out another set of documents, insisting it was time I made some amendments to my last will and testament." She gave another shrug, avoiding his gaze as she picked at the hem. "My father is always trying to run my life—he always thinks he knows what is best for me. Anyhow, this really ticked me off, so I grabbed the stack of legal documents out of the very proper Mr. Delleware's hands, and I stuffed them through the paper shredder." She grinned suddenly and looked at him, a gleam of delight in her eyes. "It was one of the industrial-strength paper shredders, and it just ate that stack of paper up like nothing." Then she heaved a sigh. "I was so furious. I said that's what I thought of his amendments, and I stormed out of the office."
Finn couldn't help it. He laughed out loud. Looking at her, he shook his head. "Maybe I had it right all along. It crossed my mind that maybe it was your father who had you kidnapped, so he could get a little peace and quiet."
Mallory looked totally pleased with herself for making him laugh, and she sloshed another shot into his glass and hers. Clinking her glass against his, she grinned. "To my father."
Slouching down lower on the pillows, Finn stared into space and took a swallow from the glass, his mood altering. He wished he didn't have to make her dig through this. But if he was going to keep her safe, he had to know. He took another swallow, then looked at her. He didn't say anything, but the question was there.
She heaved another sigh. "Okay. The people who would benefit by my death." She started listing them.
Another idea occurred to Finn almost immediately, one that made far more sense. He held up his hand to stop her. "Whoa. Just a minute. I think we're on the wrong track." He frowned, looking for a hole in his theory, but c
ould see none. It would make sense—a whole lot of sense. He looked at her again, his expression intent. "Let's back up. Who would stand to inherit if you died intestate—and who could have found out that you had no will?"
Mallory stared at him, comprehension finally dawning in her eyes. She looked absolutely stunned for a moment; then she pulled herself together. She let her breath go in a rush. "God, that is so scary. But there are quite a few." Placing her glass in the cradle of her legs, she tucked loose hair behind her ears. "My father was an only child, and both his parents were only children, so there are only very distant relatives on his side. But my mother's side is a different story. She came from very old, old money." She smiled, a tone of amused cynicism in her voice when she explained. "And some very pedigreed blue blood. Frankly, I can't stand any of them. Snobs, every one."
Resting her forearms on her crossed legs, she frowned as she began to absently pleat the top sheet. "There are three remaining brothers—my uncles—on the Tyson-Reed side, along with several cousins." She looked up at him. "My grandfather disowned my mother when she married Dad. It was all very ugly, and they treated my mother like a leper while my grandfather was alive." Her chin came up and her tone turned hard. "I wouldn't give any of them the time of day, let alone leave them anything in my will." She looked up at him, wry amusement in her eyes. "But to be fair, after Grandfather died, my uncles went out of their way to effect a reconciliation with my mother. But I was always suspicious of that—I figured there were ulterior motives."
"So," Finn muttered, narrowing his eyes, thinking that maybe they had zeroed in on a motive, "is it safe to assume that they were also excluded from your father's will?"
Mallory actually laughed. "God, yes. He can't stand them, either. He thinks they're nothing but a nest of maggots."
He asked another question that had popped into his head. "If you were to predecease your father, where would the bulk of his fortune go?"
She shrugged. "The same bequeaths would remain in place, but the bulk would go to various international charities and scholarships. No one could touch his will if I predeceased him. It's ironclad."
She finished her drink and handed him her empty glass. He set it, and his own, on the night table. Then he laced his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling, thinking how her information lined up. But with that kind of money up for grabs, it could be anybody.
Swiveling his head on his stacked hands, he turned to look at her, a funny feeling surfacing when he saw how abjectly she was folding and refolding the corner of the sheet.
As if sensing his gaze upon her, she looked up, her expression bleak. "Could we not talk about this anymore tonight?" she whispered unevenly.
He wanted to reach out and touch her, but he kept his hands safely anchored under his head. "No," he said, his own voice husky, "we don't have to talk about it anymore."
Before he had time to react, she curled up beside him, resting her head on his shoulder, her hand flat against his chest. She might as well have stuck him with a live wire.
And just like that, he found himself holding her, his one hand cupping the back of her head, his other arm around her back. Finn closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, an enormous feeling unfolding in him. He was exhausted and his defenses were down, and right then, he didn't have what it took to pull away, to suggest she go back to her own bed. He wanted her there. And he wanted a whole lot more.
The muscles across her back contracted as she rose up on one elbow, her breasts pressing against his chest as she leaned over and turned off the light, the softness of her setting off a chain reaction in him. Letting go a long sigh, she snuggled closer, tucking her arm tightly around his chest. Just as if she had done it a hundred times before.
Her settling in like that set off another reaction in Finn, and feelings he didn't even know he was capable of rushed in on him. But of all the things that got to him, it was the comfortable familiarity that got to him most. It was as if this was the most natural thing in the world, for her to snuggle down and go to sleep in his arms.
Easing in a deep, unsteady breath, he carefully cradled her head just a little tighter against him, his chest so full it was hard for him to breathe. God, he had been alone so long. So long. And it was almost enough to simply hold her. Almost. Turning his head as if changing positions, he brushed his mouth against her forehead, the feel of her assaulting his senses. If he wasn't careful, he could end up in big trouble here. Very big trouble. He had never met anyone like her. Never. And she made him feel things he thought he'd never feel again.
Mallory sighed and settled deeper into his embrace, pressing her head more firmly against his mouth. And if Finn didn't know better, he would have sworn he felt her smile. He closed his eyes tighter and tried to swallow. He must be out of his mind, allowing her to get this close. But could he make himself pull away?
Not a chance. He adjusted his head and tightened his hold. Not a damned chance.
* * *
Chapter 7
«^»
When Finn woke up the next morning, daylight was already seeping in around the closed blinds, the sharp brightness piercing his closed eyelids. He was lying spread-eagled facedown on the bed, his whole body aching, his head thick and throbbing. He felt as if he'd been run over by a compactor.
Groaning slightly, he slowly rolled over on his back, his stiff, aching muscles protesting. Served him right for sitting out on a damned log, getting another bloody chill, just so she could see the northern lights. Wetting his mouth, he forced his eyes open, squinting at the clock on his bedside table. He squinted harder. Not possible. He massaged his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then looked again. 9:23. He'd seen right the first time. He hadn't slept in that late in his entire life.
Bracing himself, he glanced over at the other side of the bed. Neat. Tidy. Blankets straight, as if she'd carefully covered him up. Nobody had ever covered him up. Nailed with a sudden ballooning sensation in his chest, he picked up a long red hair off the smoothed pillow, his heart giving an odd little falter when he wound it around his finger. It felt just like silk.
Swearing under his breath, he tossed the hair on the floor and levered himself out of bed, every muscle and bone protesting. All right. He had to get a grip. He should have never let her stay in his bed last night. It was a dumb thing to do, and he had to be more careful in the future. Mallory O'Brien could be damned hard on a man's mental health. Among other things.
He pulled on his jeans, his head so thick it felt as if it was stuffed with wet cement. He'd had two drinks last night; his head felt like he'd had a dozen.
Focusing on a spot straight in front of him, Finn made his way out to the hallway, feeling decidedly hung-over. Diffused sunlight blazed through the windows in the great room, and he squinted against it, the smell of coffee reeling him in toward the kitchen. Coffee. He needed coffee.
Mallory was seated at the big round kitchen table, her long, long legs wound around the chair legs, her elbows hooked on the edge of the table, a book open in front of her. There was an empty plate off to one side and a steaming cup of coffee by her elbow. Her hair had been shampooed and was drying in thick curls around her shoulders, the sunlight streaming in through the windows making it shine like polished copper. She had obviously raided his closet again and had on another pair of his sweatpants and his favorite green plaid shirt.
Feeling unaccountably cranky, he spoke, his tone surly. "If you stick around much longer, we're going to have to get you some clothes of your own."
Propping her head on her hand, she turned to look at him, not at all intimidated by his sour attitude. Instead, there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "And a good, good morning to you, merry sunshine," she said, watching him as he sat down, the sparkle of amusement intensifying. Unable to cope with either sunshine or morning, Finn tipped his head back and closed his eyes, hoping that the blood pounding around in there would run someplace else. He made a mental note not to do or say anything that might get her Irish
up—he was sure his head would explode if she slammed so much as a dishcloth on the table.
He heard her push her chair back, then a few seconds later he felt her brush against his arm. Now what was she up to? Taking care not to set off the throbbing, he lowered his head and opened his eyes. Not only had she brought him a cup of freshly made black coffee, but she had also set a basket of steaming biscuits on the table in front of him. Fresh biscuits? She made fresh biscuits? He wanted to kiss her. No. No. He didn't want to do that. Just the thought made his blood heat up.
The fog finally cleared out of his mind, and he almost smiled as he watched her do the dish towel, paper towel, cutlery thing again. He was also going to have to clean up his act if she stuck around much longer—he couldn't remember the last time he'd bought napkins, and he didn't even own place mats. He glanced at her face as she brought the butter and a container of warmed honey to the table. She placed the butter and honey by the basket of biscuits.
Her tone was businesslike. "We're going to have to get groceries. There's hardly anything to cook with."
Right then, Finn couldn't have cared less about the state of their larder. All he cared about was that basket of steaming biscuits. "This looks really great," he said, his voice still rusty from sleeping so long.
She sat back down and started reading again, and Finn literally tore into the biscuits. He felt as if he hadn't eaten in a week, and he had nearly eaten his way through the entire lot when he decided it wouldn't kill him to be halfway sociable. He turned his head to look at her. She was engrossed in the book, and as she continued to read, she wound a long strand of hair around her finger. There wasn't anything remotely sensual about that preoccupied habit—but there was, and Finn got a rush of heat in his middle, which immediately spread lower. The sensation nailed him so hard, he just about choked on the last bite of biscuit. Fixing his gaze on the table, he blew out his breath, his heart going like a locomotive in his chest. He closed his eyes, and willed in some common sense. She was Patrick O'Brien's only daughter, for Pete's sake. And the whole thing was insane. And he was not going to let this happen. He was not. Come hell or high water, he was going to keep his mind from slipping below his belt buckle. If he'd been wearing a belt buckle.
THE RENEGADE AND THE HEIRESS Page 13