Kiss Me, I'm Irish

by Roxanne St Claire

  Hmm. Nicole was surprised Taylor hadn’t put this man under lock and key in her bedroom, given her fondness for horizontal gymnastics, and the fact that sexuality rolled off this man in waves.

  With one smooth motion, he came to his feet, startling her anew because, granted, she was on the shrimpy side of average height, but he and his hardasgranite body had to top six feet by several inches.

  Which meant her head, if she lifted her nose to nosebleed height, maybe came to his broad shoulder. Between their height discrepancy and her sudden, startling attraction to him, she felt defensive. She hated feeling defensive. It tended to put her on the offensive. Taking one step back, she balanced her weight on the balls of her feet, once again ready for anything.

  “Wouldn’t have used that language if I’d have heard you coming.” A bit chagrined now, he cocked his head and scratched his jaw, which, judging by the dark shadow there, he hadn’t shaved in a few days. “Went and startled you, I see.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Yep, his accent was gone, but there was something stilted about how he sounded now, as if he were hiding something.

  She knew well enough about hiding secrets, but didn’t like it when others did the same. “Answer my questions, please.”

  As she’d raised an accusatory finger directed toward his very fine chest, he lifted his hands in surrender. “No need to shoot, I’m just the architect. Ty Patrick O’Grady at your service.”

  “You’re the…architect.”

  “For the building here. It’s going to be renovated.” As if to prove he was harmless—harmless, ha!—he propped up the wall with his shoulder and gave her a disarming little half smile that sent sparks of awareness shivering down her spine. “Needs an architect before anything else, you know,” he said. “Turns out this place is a historical monument, and is in desperate need of some serious structural repair.”

  As the place was smack dab in the middle of elegant, sophisticated South Village, where the rich came to play, and everyone else came to pretend to be rich, Nicole decided she could buy that. Especially since this particular building was the current eyesore of the entire block.

  Taylor had been having one expert or another through here for weeks in anticipation of a major renovation. “So you’re working up a bid for the owner? Suzanne?” she asked, watching him carefully.

  Now he smiled, slow and sure. “No, not Suzanne. Taylor, but good try. It’d take more than a peewee to trip me up, darlin’.”

  A peewee? He’d just called her a peewee? She’d give him peewee.

  He lifted one jetblack brow at the narrowing of her eyes, and dared to smile at her obvious temper. “Want to see my ID or are you just going to clobber me with that lovely smelling Taco Bell bag?”

  “What happened to your accent?”

  His face went curiously blank. “What accent?”

  “You had an Irish accent. Are you an immigrant?”

  “Yep, just got off the boat from Australia, mate.” He grinned. “Or maybe that was…” His accent went from Aussie to Austrian in a heartbeat. “From another continent entirely.”

  A smartass. “It’s awfully late to be working on a bid.”

  “You mean early, don’t you?”

  That might be; she had no idea whether she was coming or going. “Whichever. Why are you here now?”

  “I’m what you’d call a busy man…now, darlin’, you’ve got me so flustered, I’ve gone and missed your name.”

  Nicole crossed her arms. “It’s not darlin’, I’ll tell you that.”

  He let out another smile, which she had to admit could melt bones at fifty paces. “Do I have to guess then?”

  “Dr. Mann,” she grudgingly gave him. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got tacos to eat.” And a date with a bed.

  Alone.

  Where that thought came from, she had no earthly clue. She always slept alone.

  Always.

  She stared at him still staring at her with a little, knowing smile that made her want to grind her teeth for some reason. “What? You going to make a crack about me being far too young to be a doctor? I get a lot of littlegirl jokes. Go ahead, give me your best shot.”

  He took a good, long look down her body, then slowly, slowly back up again, stopping at the points that seemed to be connected to her loins, since they all came alive with a little flutter that annoyed her even more. “You look all woman to me.”

  Oh, definitely, she was too tired for this. She brushed past him and stopped at her door, slapping her myriad of pockets, looking for the keys she could never quite remember where she’d left.

  “Problem?”

  Scowling, she ignored him and switched her Taco Bell bag to the other arm to check her back pocket. No go. Damn, that was the trouble with cargo pants. Comfortable, yes. Practical, with their twelve million pockets to lose things in, no.

  “Dr. Mann—”

  “Please,” she said to that quiet, outrageously sexy voice as she closed her eyes. “Just…go away.” If she didn’t gobble the food and hit the bed, she’d fall asleep right here on her feet.

  She could do it, too. She’d slept on her feet before, during med school, during the long nights of residency....

  A sharp click had her blinking rapidly at her…opened door? Ty Patrick O’Grady, architect, sometimes owner of a sexy Irish lilt, man of a thousand curses and one incredible smile, held up a credit card. “Handy, these things, aren’t they now?”

  “You…broke in?”

  “Easily.”

  “Are you a criminal?”

  He laughed, low and sexily, damn him. “Let’s just say I’ve been around. You need a better lock.”

  “You can’t just—”

  “Did you find your keys?”

  “No, but—”

  “Just get inside, darlin’.” He gave her a gentle shove as he took the Taco Bell bag from her fingers just before the thing would have dropped to the ground. “Before you fall down.”

  She stepped over the threshold, reaching back to slam the door. Unfortunately he was on the wrong side of that door and ended up inside her very small place, which seemed that much smaller with his huge presence in it. “And I’m not your darling,” she said, turning away.

  “Nope, you’re Dr. Mann.”

  She sighed and faced him again. “Okay, so I’m stuffy when I’m tired. Sue me.”

  “I’d rather call you by your first name.”

  “Nicole,” she snapped, then grabbed her Taco Bell from his fingers and headed into the kitchen, which happened to be only about four steps in. “Feel free to let yourself out.”

  Naturally, and because she suspected he was as ornery and contrary as he was magnificent looking, he followed her instead.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Making sure you don’t fall down on your feet.”

  “We’ve already established I’m a grownup.”

  “You’re right about that. Um…” He watched her shove aside a pile of medical journals and rip into the bag with a wince. “How about some real breakfast?”

  “This is real.” And her mouth was watering. “Goodbye, Mr. Architect.”

  “You know, you’re very welcome,” he said when she grabbed a taco, leaned against the counter and took a huge bite. “Glad I could help.”

  “Yeah. Thank you for breaking and entering.” She nearly moaned when the food hit her tongue, but managed to hold it back, sucking down a good part of her soda before practically inhaling the rest of her first taco.

  When she reached into the bag for the next one, he sighed.

  She eyed him. “You forget where the front door is? Wouldn’t want it to hit you on your way out.”

  “You should really make yourself some healthier food—”

  “There’s meat, cheese, lettuce and shell here…I’ve got all the food groups represented.”

  “Yes, but—” He watched her lick a drop of sauce off her thumb. “I’m assuming you just got off some brutal shift at
the hospital?”

  “Yeah…” She paused for a long, amazingly refreshing gulp of soda. “Don’t take this personally, okay? But could you go away? I’ve got a date with my bed, and it doesn’t include anyone else but me and my pillow.”

  “Now that’s a crying shame.” He added a slow grin that upped her pulse.

  “Don’t get any ideas. I don’t play doctor with strangers.”

  “Who’d want to play with that attitude?” He grinned when she growled at him. “And I wasn’t propositioning you, Dr. Nicole Mann. I just think you should eat something that has more nutrients than…say a paper bag. Why don’t you let me cook—”

  He broke off when she burst into laughter. Feeling less like she was going to die on the spot now that she had something in her belly, she set down her taco and headed for the front door. While she was certain he could “cook” up something all right, she wasn’t interested. Yes, she enjoyed looking at a great specimen of a man such as himself, but she didn’t feel the need to do more than look. “Goodnight,” she said, holding the door open.

  “Let me guess…” He sauntered up to her with that loosehipped stride of his, all long, lean grace. His eyes, those amazing blue, blue eyes, seemed to see straight through her. “You have a thing against real food?”

  “No, I have a thing against strangers offering to cook for me. Let’s face it, Mr. Architect.” She offered him a nasty smile she reserved for the lowest forms of life—men on the prowl. “You weren’t offering to cook me food.”

  “I wasn’t?” He lifted a black brow so far it nearly vanished. “And what did you think I was offering to cook?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not interested, whatever it was.”

  With a slow shake of his head, his mouth curved. He wasn’t insulted. Wasn’t mad or irate. But he was amused at her expense.

  “Let’s just say,” he said, mocking her.

  “Goodnight,” she repeated, wondering what it was about him that made her both annoyed and yet so…aware.

  “Goodnight. Even though it’s morning.” He lifted a finger, stroking it once over her jaw before turning and walking out the door.

  When he was gone, she put her finger to her tingling jaw. It wasn’t until a moment later she realized his last few words, “even though it’s morning,” had been uttered in that same Irish accent he’d claimed not to have.

  THAT DAY TY PULLED his own long shift. He had three jobs going in downtown Los Angeles, two in Burbank, four in Glendale and, he hoped, the new one right here in South Village.

  It was odd, how fond he’d become of the place. Maybe because the city, just outside of Los Angeles, was a genuinely historical stretch of streets from the great oldWestern days. Thanks to an innovative—and wealthy—town council, most of the buildings had been rescued, preserved and restored, leaving the streets a popular fun spot filled with restaurants, theaters, unique boutiques and plenty of celebrities to spy on.

  Ty had little interest in the swell of young urban singles that crowded the streets on nights and weekends, but he did love the atmosphere.

  He especially loved all the work, for there were plenty of buildings still in the prerenovation stage, needing architects.

  Being a relatively new architect in town without the usual partners and office staff meant more work for him. It meant a lot of running around. It also meant lots of time holed up with his drawing table.

  He didn’t mind the extra hours or the hard work. In fact, that was how he liked it. If something came easy or was handed to him, he was suspicious of it.

  That came from his early years, when nothing had been either easy or handed to him, before or after he’d quite literally crawled, scratched and fought his way out of the gutter.

  Old times, he thought, and tossing his pencil down, he leaned back in his chair. He put his feet up on the drawing table and looked out the window at the San Gabriel Mountains. No doubt, California was beautiful. Not beautiful like say…Rio. Or Tokyo. Or any of the many places he’d been through on his quest to get as far away from where he’d started as possible, but beautiful in the way that he felt…at ease.

  Not that the feeling would last, it never did. Sooner rather than later the need to move on would overcome him…he thought New York might interest him. But for now, California, land of hot blondes, health food and sandy beaches, was good.

  It was also a great place for anonymity, and that, really, was the draw. Here, he could be whoever or whatever he wanted. It didn’t matter to anyone.

  And here, surrounded by the success he’d so carefully built, he was exactly that.

  Someone.

  Someone with a full bank account, thank you very much. And an office that spelled success, inside a huge, sprawling house with every luxury at his fingertips.

  Never again would he have an empty belly or the bonegnawing fear of the unknown, both of which he’d lived with during his beyondhumble beginnings in the seediest of areas in Dublin, Ireland.

  He rarely thought of it now, there was no need. He’d put it all behind him, years and years ago. He’d moved on.

  Now nothing could hurt him as he continued on his merry way to fill the bank account even more, to do the work that so pleased him. And if he managed to get lucky in between those two things with a California babe here and there, so much the better.

  He thought of this morning, and one Dr. Nicole Mann. Not the typical California babe, that was certain. But with her fatigues and tough takeitonthechin attitude, she was easily the sexiest little number he’d ever seen. And he did mean little, for she’d barely come to his shoulder. Still her body had been honed to a curvy, mouthwatering perfection by what he suspected was sheer will on her part—it certainly wasn’t a result of her diet if her “breakfast” was anything to go on. Definitely, the one thing the good doctor had in spades was will. She could kill with just her eyes, these longlashed, huge eyes, the gray of a wicked winter storm. Her hair, shiny, dark and cut short to her stubborn chin, made him think of silk.

  He would have laughed at the impression she’d made on him, if there was anything funny about it. She was different, and because of it she’d grabbed him on a level he didn’t want to be grabbed at. So he wouldn’t think about her or her perfect, meantforhotwildsex mouth.

  Straightening, he put his feet firmly on the ground. He liked his feet on the ground. To do that, he had to keep a certain distance from others, and that included sexy Dr. Mann. Spinning in his chair, he propelled himself the few feet to his computer and booted it up. To clear his head of stormy gray eyes and that kissable frown, he’d work.

  His email account opened, showing twentyeight unread messages. Skimming through, he deleted each as he took care of various work issues.

  And it was all work. Except the last one. He didn’t recognize the sender’s address, but didn’t think anything of it until he opened the mail.

  Are you Ty Patrick O’Grady of Dublin?

  Surging to his feet, he stared at the email. The words were still there. Stuffing his fingers in his hair he turned a slow circle. No one knew where he was from. No one.

  But when he bent to look at the screen again, the words hadn’t changed.

  Are you Ty Patrick O’Grady of Dublin?

  Hell, yes, he was. But who wanted to know? And why? There was nothing good about his past. In fact, there was so much bad, his stomach cramped just thinking about it.

  He reached toward the keyboard to delete the message, but his finger hovered just over the key.

  Who was asking?

  No. It didn’t matter. None of his past mattered, and with another low oath and yet another slow spin around the room he came back to his computer. Stared at the message some more.

  Then slowly reached out and punched Delete.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AFTER TWO STRAIGHT days of hell at work, Nicole drove home. She could tell it wasn’t her usual time to be doing so—the usual time being very, very late or very, very early—because there wasn’t a single parking
space to be found in all of South Village, much less on the busy street where she lived.

  Shops, galleries and restaurants were all hopping with activity, reminding her that everyone else but herself had a life outside of work. But then, she’d decided long ago that medicine was her life. All she needed now was a place to park her car. Finally, after circling the block—twice—swearing in a very satisfying manner and even getting flipped off in the process, she got a spot down the street. The walk to the apartment felt good. So did the bag of fresh croissants she purchased at a corner deli. They’d go splendidly with the takeout hamburgers in a bag in her other hand.

  Finally, she came to her building. It really was the wince spot of the area, though the turrets, mock balconies and many windows gave the hundred-year-old place its own charm and personality. Albeit a neglected, fallingdown kind of charm.

  The two storefronts on the ground floor were empty, though Suzanne planned to open a catering shop in one of them. Taylor was doing her best, working on the renovation day and night, gathering bids and selling off some of her antique collection to do it.

  There were plants hanging from window boxes in front of the two apartments on the second floor. Taylor’s boxes were effortlessly green and flowery, Suzanne’s looked a little wilted since she spent most of her time at Ryan’s now.

  Nicole could have bought her own place. Her mother often hounded her about it. After all, doctors made tons of dough, right?

  Ha! She was twenty-seven. Maybe by the time she was forty she’d have half her college loans paid off. Then again, given that she tended to spend her extra time working at clinics for free to ensure that the less fortunate got medical care, maybe not. Didn’t matter. Work was who she was, what she did and there wasn’t time left over to tend to so much as a single little plant, much less a house of her own.

  She liked things that way.