Make-Believe Marriage

by CA Quigg

  “Who’s yer man?” Sammy jerked his head toward Ronan, who stood by the car with his arms crossed and legs in a wide stance, looking more like a bodyguard or a nightclub doorman than an event planner.

  “No one important.”

  “He looks like he thinks he’s important.”

  “You’re not wrong.” She laughed and pulled Sammy into a quick hug. “You have my number. Call me if you need anything, and I mean anything.”

  “Thanks a million.”

  “Come, Max.” The misshapen dog followed her through the concrete lobby, his overgrown nails clicking with every step. As soon as the wedding was over, she’d take him to a doggy groomer and maybe the vet. She couldn’t do much to help Sammy, but she could make sure his companion was healthy and safe.

  “Who was that?” Ronan fell into step beside her.

  “A good kid whose parents kicked him out because he’s gay.”

  “You serious?”

  “Wish I wasn’t.”

  The reek of stale garbage irritated her nose, and the pungent smell of cooking fish saturated the air. Rather than take the elevator, which sometimes doubled as a urinal, she picked up Max and ran up three flights of stairs to her floor.

  One of the fluorescent strips lighting up the narrow corridor hung by a wire, flickering on and off, and with every step, her heels snagged the frayed nylon filaments of the puce carpet lining the hallway. Showing Ronan where she lived should’ve embarrassed her. But since he meant less to her than the regurgitated mice the local cats sometimes left on her doorstep, she couldn’t care less what he thought about her home.

  She unlocked the triple bolt lock and disarmed the alarm to her shoebox apartment. “Wait in there.” She pointed toward the sitting room and set Max on the floor. “And don’t touch anything.”

  The dog scampered into the sitting room and flopped onto his makeshift teddy bear bed. Ronan stood at the threshold and glanced at several precariously stacked boxes.

  “Moving?”

  “They’re from my old office.” She shoved a wavering stack against a wall to prevent a flood of paper. “I haven’t had time to go through them.” Satisfied they wouldn’t fall, she turned to Ronan. “Give me a few minutes to get packed.”

  He nodded, his attention on the boxes she’d pushed against the wall.

  The damp bedroom, a few steps from the sitting room, held nothing to show the place was home. Torture would’ve been preferable to unpacking. Too many painful memories showing her failed business and failed relationship were wrapped up in old newspaper and stored inside cardboard boxes, and that was where they would stay until she had the courage to deal with them.

  She closed the door and flopped onto her unmade bed, slid her phone out of her purse, and Googled Ronan and Donovan Events. Hundreds of articles about him flooded the screen. Donovan Events were goliaths in event planning. She wasn’t even a gnat. Going up against him was moronic, but she had to try. With a resigned sigh, she threw her phone back into her purse and packed for the rest of the week.

  ****

  If there was an uglier dog alive, Ronan hadn’t seen it. The mutt, who now lay on his back snoring, was obviously at home in Quinn’s apartment. How often had she helped the kid and dog out? He hadn’t missed how she tucked the money the kid had refused into his backpack. Was she the Robin Hood of con artists? Someone who justified her actions of robbing from the rich to give to the poor? Ronan gave his head a quick shake. A scam artist with a heart of gold. There was a Lifetime movie somewhere in Quinn’s future.

  He leaned against the doorjamb and examined Quinn’s home. Her professional and sexy appearance suggested an upscale apartment in a trendy part of town. Instead, she lived in an old public housing building which was as impersonal and as welcoming as the DMV. Limp green and yellow plaid curtains hung by grimy patio doors leading to a small balcony. Bare cream walls held no pictures of friends or family, and piles of unopened moving boxes occupied every available space.

  A chipped Formica table drowned in paperwork beside a postage stamp-sized kitchen. He walked over to the table and used the edge of his phone to shuffle the papers around. Nothing but bills and threatened legal action. A few handwritten letters cursing her to hell. They explained the hissy fit in the car when she thought he’d open her mail. She was in it up to her neck.

  Based on the numbers scribbled on a legal pad, he calculated she owed half a million euros, maybe more—a hundred grand in back rent for an office. He needed a few more answers and to get those, he had to talk to Brady, because the femme fatale picture he’d painted wasn’t Quinn.

  He scrolled through his phone and redialed the number Brady had called him from. Disconnected. Not surprising. An uneasy sensation crawled up his spine. What the fuck was Brady’s plan and what was Ronan’s part in it?

  If he screwed this event up for Quinn, she’d be bankrupt by the New Year. A desire to jump on the next flight back to New York and let her sink or swim yanked at him. But he couldn’t do that. If he left now, she’d suffocate in shit creek. But maybe she was playing him for a fool. What if she’d planted the numbers and letters to make him think she was in trouble? Was he a pawn in a long con mapped out by Brady? Or was she the brains of the operation? With a shake of his head, he blew out a slow whistle and went to the balcony doors. She hadn’t expected him to come to her apartment, so the scribbled numbers and letters demanding money had to be genuine.

  He drew back the curtains and unlatched the lock. A small mezzanine overlooked the neglected, snow-covered street. He slid the door open and stepped into the cold. Swollen clouds loomed over the town and promised a heavy snowfall. In a few hours, no one would get in or out of the Dublin or Belfast airports. Even if he decided to go back to New York, his chances of getting there were slim and none.

  The five-hour time difference meant it was a few minutes past 8 a.m. in New York, and Caden was probably wondering why Ronan hadn’t stopped by the construction site on his way to the office for his usual cup of coffee. He pulled his cell from the depths of his coat pocket and dialed Caden’s number. His brother would accuse him of losing his ever-loving mind, and maybe he had.

  “So the invisible man reappears.” Caden’s voice crackled over the miles. “Where are you, you Muppet?”

  “Home.”

  “Home, home? As in the place we grew up home?”

  “A few miles from there.”

  “Ah, for feck’s sake. Does Ma know?”

  “She’ll know when I show up on Christmas Eve as planned.” Ronan slid his shoes over the snow and built a snowball between his feet.

  “She’ll throw a fit when she finds out you’re in the same country as her and haven’t called. She might even know you’re already there. She’s weird like that.”

  “She won’t know a thing if you don’t tell her.”

  “Why’d you fly in early?”

  “The wedding.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re still out to avenge the Donovan name?”

  Ronan sighed. Caden’s answer to everything was to take the piss. “Let me handle this. It’s not like I’m needed in the office. I have every confidence in my staff not to run the business into the ground.”

  “Let it go. You’re not a wedding planner, Ro. It’s like me moving from building hotels to building play sets.”

  He couldn’t, wouldn’t, let it go. Not yet. Quinn had weaseled her way into his consciousness, and he wanted to find out everything he could about her. “I’m staying for a few more days. See what happens.” Ronan kicked the snowball between his feet, sending a mini avalanche to the pavement below.

  “You’re a fecking eejit.”

  “On that professional and grown-up note, I’m hanging up.” He hit the end call button.

  He wished his brother wasn’t so laid back about everything and wished Caden understood Ronan’s need to stay on top. And if he wanted to stay on top, he had
to expand his business.

  There was one other person he needed to talk to, his cousin Shane. If there was any dirt on Quinn, he was the man who’d find it.

  On the third ring, Shane picked up. “How’s it going, stranger?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  After they’d caught up and promised to meet for a beer, Shane asked, “So what’s the real reason for this phone call?”

  Ronan laughed. “You’re a detective for a reason. Can you do me a favor?”

  “If I can, I will.”

  “Heard anything about a woman called Quinn Marshall?”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells. I’m not in my office, but I’ll have a look tomorrow. Anything in particular you want to know?”

  “Nah. I’ve been told a few things and want to find out if the information’s true.”

  “No bother,” Shane said. “I’ll find out what I can and give you a bell.”

  Part of him hoped Shane had a file on her a mile long, but a bigger part of him hoped she was as clean as the freshly fallen snow.

  ****

  Ronan needed an ice-cold beer. Fast. Snowmageddon meant the journey back to the castle took four tense hours. The heater in Quinn’s car spluttered and gave up the ghost twenty minutes in, and every radio station played “Last Christmas” on endless loop. There was only so much Wham! a man could take. He headed straight to the kitchen hidden in the bowels of the castle.

  The kitchen was nothing like the rest of the building. Old blended with new and whoever designed it had a deep passion for food. Dark woods and natural stone contrasted with stainless steel appliances, and above him, a beamed ceiling curved slightly with gleaming copper pots and pans hanging from a rack. His mother would move in here and never leave.

  Brendan stood by a thick butcher’s block dicing carrots and onions with quick, confident movements. The radio played more nerve-damaging Christmas music, but Ronan shut it out and warmed his hands by a roaring fire large enough to roast a pig.

  “You haven’t lost any of your skills.” Ronan nodded toward Brendan’s fast moving fingers.

  “And what do you know about my skills?” Brendan asked, not taking his eyes from the curved blade.

  “Everyone around here knows you’re one of Ireland’s best chefs.”

  Brendan nodded and exhaled slowly. “That was before my wife passed away. God rest her soul.” He stopped chopping and blessed himself. “It’s been a while. Thirteen years now. She had big plans for this place, but life got in the way and… well, plans change.” He continued with his work, not once losing his hypnotic rhythm.

  “Sorry for your loss.” Ronan watched in silence as the older man scooped up diced vegetables with the sharp edge of his knife.

  “Thanks. Like I said, it was a while ago.”

  “You were never tempted to sell the place?”

  “I won’t lie,” Brendan said. “I’ve had offers, and I got close once, but I couldn’t bear to part with it. It’s not much, but it’s home.” He gave a small smile. “Quinn badgered me daily for weeks until I agreed to open the doors. She practically camped on the doorstep. Convinced me the place could be great again.” He shrugged. “Maybe it could, but everything’s in a terrible state.” Brendan threw the last of the vegetables into a copper pot and covered it with a lid. “She’s…” He hesitated as if searching for the right words. “Quinn’s a great girl. I wouldn’t want to see her hurt.”

  “Are you warning me off?” Ronan raised an eyebrow. The older man’s fatherly concern for Quinn shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did.

  Brendan chuckled. “I might be getting on, but I’m not blind. She wasn’t exactly over the moon to see you. God knows relationships are hard. There were times when living with my Mrs. was like living on a rollercoaster. Some months we were climbing to the top. Some months we were hurtling to the bottom with a few loops in between that threw us upside down.” He gave a wistful smile. “Our fights would shake the windows.” A kettle on the gas stovetop whistled, and Brendan wiped his hands on a red dishcloth thrown over his shoulder. “Tea? Coffee?”

  “I’ll have a beer.”

  “There’s none till the delivery tomorrow. Only wine or whiskey for now.”

  “An Irish coffee would hit the spot.”

  “A man after my own heart.” Brendan went to the cupboard behind him and selected two flared glasses. “The shock on Quinn’s face when she saw you told me something wasn’t right between the two of you.” He filled the glasses with boiling water before emptying them in the sink.

  In mock horror, Ronan clasped a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt by whatever you’re accusing me of. What are you accusing me of?”

  “A lover’s tiff?” He poured steaming coffee into the heated glasses. “Whatever’s going on between you, you’d better not hurt her.” He spooned in sugar, and from beneath the butcher’s block, produced a half-empty bottle of aged Irish whiskey. “I don’t know her all that well, but I know she’s a great girl who works hard. It’d break her heart if anything went wrong this week. She’s been through a rough time what with her ex and the online trolls…”

  “I promise I won’t break her heart.” He wasn't convinced she had a heart to break. Ronan’s mouth watered at the anticipation of tasting the drink Brendan had prepared. The older man splashed more than one shot of whiskey into each glass and topped both off with a collar of thick cream. He pushed the glass toward Ronan.

  “Quinn and I are madly in love,” Ronan said, picking up the glass. “It’s fated. Painted in the stars. Written on the cards. A whirlwind romance. We’re soul mates.” He took a sip of the silky drink, savoring the bite of alcohol before swallowing. “By God, Brendan, that’s perfect.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Brendan sipped from his glass. “I’m going to say this, and I’m going to say no more. Watch your step where Quinn’s concerned. There’s many a secret place in this castle to hide a bod—”

  “Hello?” Quinn called from the stone staircase concealed by the walls.

  “Down here.” Brendan gave Ronan a quick nod that said he’d been warned.

  Quinn appeared with Max tucked under her arm. She’d changed into a pair of tight jeans tucked into her boots and a loose sweater, and had gathered her hair in a messy bun at the top of her head.

  Pins and needles pricked Ronan’s fingertips. The heat working its way through his body had everything to do with her and not the cup in his hand. He took another sip of coffee and watched her rush across the kitchen toward the fire.

  If he took a small step, his hand would brush against hers, and more than anything, he wanted to touch her, but before he got a chance to, Max yipped and barked and glanced around warily.

  “It’s minus a billion out there. The wind’s whipping the snow into a blizzard. I should try to litter train you.” She swept her fingers over Max’s back and Ronan half wished he was on the receiving end of her touch.

  “And who’s this ugly little fella?” Brendan wandered over to the fireplace and tickled the dog behind the ears.

  “Max.” She placed the still shaking dog at her feet. “He belongs to a friend. If I hadn’t taken him in, he’d have ended up on the streets or in the pound. I’ll keep him under control. He won’t get in anyone’s way, and he’s house trained.”

  Her cheeks and nose glowed with cold and drops of melting snow clung to her weather-frizzed hair. Ronan's arm moved of its own accord to pull her into his heat, but to stop himself, he tightened his fist and shoved the traitorous hand deep into his trouser pocket.

  Max cowered behind Quinn with his spindly tail tucked firmly between his legs.

  “I’ve seen bigger rats in the cellar.” Brendan hunkered down. Max poked his head between Quinn’s ankles and sniffed Brendan’s outstretched fingers. “You’ll be no trouble. Will you, wee man? Come here.” Max, deciding he could trust Brendan, followed him toward the butcher’s block. “Do you want a treat?”
He dropped a few pieces of beef into a bowl and set it on the ground for Max, who wolfed it down.

  “I would kill for one of those coffees.” Quinn scanned the kitchen and jigged from foot to foot as if trying to thaw her feet. “Where’s Lily? I can’t find her, and she’s not answering her phone.”

  “You mean the Rottweiler in red lipstick.” Brendan set about making Quinn’s coffee. “Hopefully sleeping. She was three sheets to the wind.”

  “Is she any nicer now she’s drunk?” Quinn asked.

  “She’s insisting she’s not drunk.” Brendan chuckled. “Thought she could drink two bottles of twenty-year-old red and not have it hit her. You should have seen her knock it back. Like water to her.” He passed Quinn her coffee, and she accepted with thanks.

  “She’s old school,” Ronan said, joining in the conversation. “Probably thinks she can drink a potcheen-soaked Irishman under the table.”

  Quinn ignored him and sipped her coffee. A small whimper of appreciation slipped from between her lips and sent a shock up his spine.

  “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. I could drink these all night.” She took another sip, and when she lowered the glass, a small line of cream coated her upper lip, which she removed with a flick of her tongue.

  His dick throbbed at the sight. Most women he’d dated would’ve used a move like that to tease and torture him, but not Quinn. Did she have any clue about the effect she had on him? That even the most innocent of her gestures had the potential to knock him off his feet.

  “I hope you don’t mind us staying here for a few days,” she said. “Lily thinks it’ll be easier if I’m nearby. I guess it makes sense with the weather and all. I’ll sleep in one of the old rooms out back with Max.”

  “You will, my arse.” Brendan, who was back behind the butcher’s block, gestured toward her with the sharp tip of his chopping knife. “You’ll sleep in the castle in one of the rooms with heat, or I should say one of the rooms that’ll have heat by tomorrow.” He stirred the pot of sizzling vegetables, dropped in chunks of beef, and then pointed the glinting knife toward Ronan. “Will your man be staying in the same room as you?”