by Zara Keane
She blushed and toyed with the handle of her coffee cup. “I guess you know all about my run-in with the law.”
He nodded, his gaze solemn. “I read your file when we were asked to look into your mother’s stalker. You got a suspended sentence for petty theft and possession of crystal meth.”
“Lar’s aunt…Lar’s family…well, you know who they are. Drugs were easy to come by, and I’d hit rock bottom.” An abridged version of events for sure, but she was keen to avoid elaborating upon what, precisely, the Delaneys got up to when the police weren’t looking. In comparison, Ray Greer was a candidate for sainthood. She’d met Ray through Lar’s aunt, Siobhan. Crazy as it sounded, taking a job with Ray was a smarter move than continuing to live with the Delaneys.
“One of the conditions for your suspended sentence was rehab,” Seán said quietly. The look of understanding in his eyes brought her to the brink of her self-control.
“Yes. After my sentencing, I went to rehab and Tammy was sent to live with a foster family.”
He took her hand in his, stroking the skin between thumb and index finger. “That must have been tough.”
“It was awful, but it was the best thing that could have happened. I got myself straightened out, and Tammy was cared for by a lovely family. I can’t say enough positive things about the Reillys. Despite having five kids of their own, they started fostering when their youngest was two. Tammy was their twenty-sixth foster child.”
“Wow. That’s impressive.”
“Despite my conviction and drug problem, they treated me with compassion. Officially, I was allowed one visit with Tammy each week, but Mrs. Reilly made sure I saw her more often than that. The only reason I regained custody as quickly as I did was due to the Reillys putting in a good word for me with social services.”
“They sound like decent folk.” He flipped her hand over and ran his thumb over her pulse. It beat wildly under his touch.
“I’m still in touch with the Reilly family. Actually, one of their daughters ended up becoming my closest friend. Funny how life turns out.”
“Yes,” he murmured, dropping a kiss onto her wrist. “The man upstairs has an odd sense of humor.”
The irony in his voice gave her pause. “What about your family? Are you close?”
He dropped her hand back onto her lap. “No.” The haunted look she’d noticed when he’d mentioned his mother’s death was back. “We’re not close. After my parents died when I was ten, my brother and I were sent to live with family in Dublin. My grandmother took me in, but because she didn’t feel able to look after two boys, my little brother was sent to live with an aunt and uncle.”
“After your parents died?” Clio blinked in surprise. “You mentioned your mother was dead, but I didn’t realize your father was too.” How horrible to lose both parents at such a young age.
An expression of raw pain froze Seán’s features. “It was a murder-suicide,” he said finally. “My mother discovered my father was having an affair and snapped.”
“Oh my God,” she gasped. “That’s awful.”
“They didn’t even own a gun.” His voice broke on the last word. “My father had borrowed one from a local farmer to get rid of a couple of foxes that kept wreaking havoc on our land. If my mother hadn’t had easy access to a loaded weapon, she’d probably have come to her senses and they’d still be alive.”
“I am so sorry that happened to you, Seán. It makes anything I’ve gone through pale in comparison.”
He gave a wobbly smile. “So you see why being back in Ballybeg isn’t easy. I went to all the trouble of changing my name and trying to bury memories only to end up being transferred to the very police station where my father used to work. The only saving grace is that both the building and the staff of Ballybeg Garda Station has changed since my father’s day.”
“You changed your name?” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Seán Mackey isn’t your birth name?”
He shook his head. “Mackey was my mother’s maiden name. Until I turned eighteen, I was Jonathan Fitzgerald. I started to go by Seán when I was in my early teens. Legally changing my name was a dramatic step, but I was young and dumb enough to think it would help erase the past.”
“It didn’t make a difference?”
“Not enough of a one,” he said grimly. “I’m sorry the conversation has taken a morbid turn.”
He stood abruptly and strode to the record player. A moment later, the Ramones started singing “Sheena is a Punk Rocker.” He turned and held a hand out to her. “Will you dance with me, Clio?”
“With pleasure.” And it truly was a pleasure. The sensation of his arms around her felt oh so right. Snuggling against his warm body, she traced a finger down the front of his shirt. She inhaled the twin scents of fabric softener and aftershave and leaned her head against his chest.
He was a good dancer. Way better than she was. After a couple of songs from the Rocket to Russia album, he switched from vintage punk back to seventies soul. After swinging her around to James Brown’s “Get Up (I Feel Like Being a) Sex Machine,” Seán slow danced with her to “Neither One of Us” by Gladys Knight & the Pips.
“Do you want to go to my bedroom?” he whispered into her ear.
The ache of longing that had been building since the moment she’d seen him standing outside his apartment door became a throb. She ran her hands through his short dark hair and murmured, “Yes.”
Tugging her by the hand, Seán led the way into his bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it was neat and tidy with colorful posters on the walls. “You’re a neat freak, aren’t you?” she asked with a laugh.
“I’ve been accused of being a tad excessive in my tidiness, yes. But right now, I have more interesting things on my mind than my housekeeping abilities.” He ran his hands over her shoulders and down her back, making her tremble. He tugged at the hem of her top. “How easy is this to remove?”
“Not as easy as your shirt.” She toyed with his collar and unfastened a button. “I see you opted for snap fasteners this evening.”
His laughter reverberated against her neck, sending her pulse into overdrive. “After our last encounter, I figured snap fasteners were a safer bet than buttons.”
He bent to kiss her, banishing all thoughts of buttons, snappers, and other fasteners from her mind. Not breaking the kiss, Seán pushed her top upward, finding her bra. They broke apart and she pulled her top off, discarding it onto the floor.
The sight of a light smattering of chest hair where his shirt was open sent her wild. Yanking the rest of the snappers open, she pulled his shirt off.
Her trousers were the next to go, quickly followed by his jeans. Not bothering with the niceties of a slow strip tease, they discarded their underwear and hit the bed.
Trailing kisses down her torso and over her abdomen, he located her clit with ease. Pushing her thighs apart, he teased it with his tongue. The twin sensations of his mouth on her clit coupled with his stubble grazing the tender flesh of her inner thighs had an electric effect.
She squirmed in pleasure, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He maintained the pressure, kneading her buttocks, massaging the small of her back, tugging her nipples. “Don’t. Stop.”
He didn’t.
Clio ceased to think of anything but the wave surging inside her, finally cresting in a tsunami of pleasure. When it subsided, she collapsed against her pillow and gave a sigh of intense satisfaction. “Wow. That was even better than the last time.”
Seán danced his fingertips around her navel, and trailed them upward. “That, my dear,” he murmured into the base of her throat, “was merely the appetizer.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
CLIO HEAVED THE LAST tray of champagne glasses onto the table and wiped sweat from her brow. “Did my mother’s guest list reproduce? This seems like a lot of glasses for eighty guests.”
“Eighty?” Olivia blinked in surprise. “She told me to prepare food for one hundred pe
ople.”
“Oh, no.” Phoebe, Helen’s mousy and long-suffering PA, whipped out her smart phone. “I have one hundred and fifteen people on the guest list.”
Olivia swore beneath her breath, caught Clio’s eye, and laughed. “How do you think your mother’s Dublin guests will react to being served store-bought bread sticks if I run out of food?”
Clio thought of the overnight guests already causing mayhem and issuing orders upstairs. “Not well. Judge and Mrs. Carroll are very particular about their food.”
The corners of Olivia’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Are they the snotty-nosed pair who waltzed in a few minutes ago?”
“Shh.” Phoebe pressed a finger to her thin lips and looked about in alarm as if the Carrolls—or Helen—would pop out of the wallpaper at any second. “Judge Carroll is a very important man,” she said in a stage whisper. “He was appointed to the High Court a couple of years ago.”
“Judge Carroll is a pompous git,” Clio said, placing a display bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. “And if we have to serve him bread sticks because my mother was too scatty to keep track of all the people she invited, then he’ll just have to deal.”
Olivia grinned. “I can’t believe Helen asked John-Joe Fitzgerald to perform at the party. Does she know what she’s letting herself in for?”
Phoebe dragged her attention away from her phone. “Is that the entertainer? Helen said she’d hired a local singer of note.”
Clio struggled to keep a straight face. “I haven’t seen his act, but I’ve heard it’s…original.”
Phoebe beamed. “Excellent. Helen loves crooners like Tom Jones and Daniel O’Donnell. I’m sure she’ll be delighted.” The PA’s phone beeped a reminder. “I need to check on the drinks delivery. See you both later.”
After Phoebe left, Olivia met Clio’s eye and they both dissolved into a fit of undignified giggles.
“A local singer of note?” Olivia asked between heaves. “Does your mother know what sort of entertainment John-Joe provides?”
“I doubt it. Seán Mackey booked him for her.”
“Did he now?” A curious expression settled over the woman’s pretty features. “I get the impression that Seán isn’t your mother’s greatest fan.”
“I get that vibe too. She’s very bossy with him.” Her eyes crinkled with mirth. “Mind you, she’s bossy with everyone.”
“And…” Olivia paused for dramatic effect. “I also get the impression that Seán is very fond of you.”
“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The butterflies in Clio’s stomach performed a little dance, erotic memories of last night flashing through her mind. True to his word, Seán had kept her busy—and satisfied—all night long. Leaving in the early hours of the morning had been a wrench.
“Oh, don’t give me that.” Olivia’s mouth curved into an amused smile. “Every time you look at Seán Mackey, or he looks at you, I think I’m in imminent danger of witnessing spontaneous combustion.”
Clio felt a fiery flush crawl up her cheeks. “Nothing as dramatic as that.” And yet it was—at least between the sheets. Or on the sofa. Or in the shower…
“Oh, I don’t think so. I think I’ve hit the target. I’m right, aren’t I?” The edges of Olivia’s eyes crinkled with mirth. “There is something going on between you and the sexy Sergeant Mackey.”
She laughed out loud. “You think he’s sexy? Does Jonas know?”
“The women of Ballybeg—and some of the men, I dare say—have been mooning over Seán since he moved here last February. He could be on the screen with those features. You agree, don’t you? Go on. Admit it.”
“You’re very nosy.”
“Only about people I like. Besides, Bridie thinks you and Seán would be perfect together, and she’s had some success matchmaking couples in the past.”
“I think Bridie’s matchmaking skills would be stretched finding the perfect man for me.” A sexual partner was one thing. A permanent companion wasn’t for her, at least not until she’d ironed out the wrinkles in her life. “Hey, can I ask you something?” Clio plunged on with the question she’d been angling to ask since Olivia had arrived earlier. The same questions she’d intended to ask Seán last night but hadn’t felt comfortable doing so once he’d confided in her about his parents’ murder-suicide. “I heard a rumor that the former owner of Clonmore House was involved in some dodgy dealings and that one of his partners ended up dead. What was that all about?”
Under her perfectly applied makeup, Olivia paled. She blinked several times before answering, and when she did so, her voice held a wobble of emotion that was far from the poised and confident woman Clio had grown to know over the past couple of weeks. “The man who died was my former husband.”
Clio’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“No, it’s fine.” The other woman’s chest rose and fell at a rapid pace, then she seemed to pull herself together. “You’d have heard about it eventually. Might as well be from me. As it happens, Aidan’s murder had nothing to do the dodgy dealings he and Bernard Byrne—Clonmore House’s former owner—were mixed up in.” With a wobbly smile, Olivia glanced at her watch. “I’d better get back to the kitchen and check on the food. Hope you enjoy the party.”
Clio doubted that “enjoy” was the accurate adjective under the circumstances, but she managed a nod. “My mother said she’d invited Jonas.”
Olivia’s serious expression gave way to a proper grin. “I think she wants to persuade him to be interviewed on her show before it goes off the air.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Helen,” she said in a tone dry as sandpaper. “She never lets an opportunity pass her by. Hey, if you and your staff need any help, just let me know.”
After Olivia went downstairs to the kitchen, Clio reflected on what she’d learned. She could scratch the dead partner off her list of subjects to discover more about. Next move was to approach Bridie and glean what she could about this Bernard Byrne dude. All she knew about him so far was that he was rich, a suspected crook, and Bridie’s brother. Perhaps she could persuade the older woman to divulge more details. She could only hope that this angle of inquiry would shed some light on whatever it was that attracted Ray to Ballybeg.
In the ballroom, the party was in full swing. Helen was in her element. The moment she spotted Clio, she beckoned her over, eyes sweeping over her outfit. “That dress looks lovely on you.”
Clio fingered the beads of her gown. Despite her reservations in the boutique, she had to admit the dress suited her. “Thanks for buying it for me.”
“Well, you couldn’t wear your usual jeans and T-shirt to an event like this.” Helen waved an imperious hand. “Now come and mingle with the guests. There are a couple of eligible single men present.”
Clearly, their brief moment of mother-daughter bonding was at an end. Clio suppressed a smile. “I’m not exactly a mingler, and I’m definitely not in the market for a husband.”
“Nonsense. You just haven’t met the right man.” Her mother slipped an arm through hers and dragged her across the room. “Judge and Mrs. Carroll have a son your age. Pity he couldn’t make it down to the party.”
The notion of being forced to talk to the Carrolls again had Clio looking wildly around the room in search of salvation. Her mother propelled them toward the table where the judge and his wife were seated. Both husband and wife wore matching expressions of haughty boredom.
“How did you enjoy your afternoon golfing at the Clonmore Castle Hotel?” Helen asked. With a snap of her fingers, she indicated to a hovering waitress that she should refill the judge’s glass.
“Splendid. Simply marvelous. Wonderful golf course, don’t you know,” the judge replied in his ponderous monotone. If a person could speak in beige, this was what he or she would sound like.
Helen’s tinkling laugh grated on Clio’s nerves. “Why don’t I introduce you to Major Johnson? The Earl of Clonmore, actually, altho
ugh he insists on not using his title. He’s a keen golfer and a wonderful bridge player. I think you’d have a lot in common.”
“Well, I—” Judge Carroll demurred, but Helen hauled him to his feet and dragged him off toward the table where Bridie and her husband were sitting with Jonas.
After flashing an apologetic smile at Mrs. Carroll, who seemed utterly disinterested in pursuing a conversation with Helen Havelin’s irrelevant daughter, Clio dashed off in pursuit of her mother. This was her opportunity to chat with Bridie and do her best to ferret out information that might give her a clue as to what Ray was really after.
Her path through the crowd was intercepted by a morose-looking Tammy. The girl was pale and drawn, an impression not alleviated by the long black velvet dress she was wearing.
Clio put a hand on her daughter’s arm. “Are you okay, pet? You’re chalky white.”
“Period cramps. Can I go up to my room and read? I swear the sight of Gran air kissing people is making them worse.”
Clio laughed. “Go on. I’ll cover for you. Besides, you’ve put in an appearance. I think that was all she wanted you to do.”
“Thanks, Mum. I’ll nick a couple of painkillers from your bathroom cupboard and head to bed.”
After Tammy melted into the crowd, Clio continued toward Bridie’s table. Raised voices on the other side of the room made her spin round to see who was causing the commotion.
Over by one of the indoor trees Helen’s gardener had bought to decorate the ballroom, an older man she didn’t recognize was in a police uniform, jabbing a chubby finger into Seán Mackey’s chest. Seán, in turn, was holding what looked like a hip flask and sniffing its contents suspiciously.
Clio strained to hear what the old man was yelling about, moving closer to the scene of the argument.
“That’s enough, O’Shaughnessy. If you’ve been imbibing this concoction”—he raised the hip flask—“I’m not surprised you’re off your head. That said, Helen is our hostess. Show some respect while you’re under her roof.”
“Show respect?” The older man spat on the floor. “Fuck that. She’s nothing but a Tinker-loving whore.”