A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series)

by Adrienne Vaughan

  “She’s asking you all about him. Who is he? Where’s he from? Is he staying?” Marianne stroked the boy’s head.

  “You’re probably right,” Ryan said, as Bridget turned to burble at Joey, stretching out towards him. The boy’s lips parted in a near smile. Marianne caught Ryan’s anxiety.

  “They’ll be friends, you’ll see,” she said. They locked eyes. He looked tired. She tried a smile. “You okay?” she said. He nodded.

  “Just a bit of a rough ride,” he replied, “and things haven’t been so smooth here either, I gather. Miss MacReady told me about the forged death certificate and you and she having matching photos of you as a newborn. Can it be true? Is she really your mother?”

  Marianne nodded. “It would seem so, bizarre or what?”

  “But in a good way?” Ryan was unsure, so much had happened in such a short space of time.

  Marianne’s smile warmed. “In a great way really, just going to take some getting used to, for both of us.”

  Padar pushed open the door.

  “I’m desperate for a hand out here,” he glanced behind him towards the bar. “Word’s gone round yer man’s back.” He nodded at Ryan. “So the whole island has piled in to see the prodigal son returned for themselves. There’s stuff on the telly, you know the showbiz bit, photos of himself sopping wet down at the jetty and you walking off in a huff.”

  “Great,” Ryan groaned. “Smart phones and the internet, nothing’s sacred.”

  “You’re hot news at the moment Ryan, what did you expect? We can handle this, we’ve been through a lot worse.” Marianne stood and handed Joey to Ryan, he took the boy in the crook of his arm. “Can you get these guys settled for the night,” she indicated the children. “I’ll give Padar a hand. If you don’t appear they’ll soon get bored and drift away.”

  “I’ll have to face my public at some point,” Ryan said.

  “In your own time, when you’re ready,” she touched his hand briefly. “It’s been a long journey.”

  He gave her a weary grin, “In more ways than one.”

  “Right, let’s see the whites of their eyes,” she laughed, following Padar back out to the bar.

  “There’ll be questions,” Padar warned.

  “Yes there will,” she said, more to herself. Then, emulating Padar’s late wife, she painted on a streak of lipstick and her biggest smile.

  Larry knew his journey to Innishmahon would take the best part of two days. He hated flying, loathed travelling and usually refused to leave New York full stop, but he had broken all his own rules when Ryan won the blockbusting film role for which he was now famous. When the offer came through, Ryan was nowhere to be seen. His relationship with the actress Angelique de Marcos was over and his career was on the slide. Larry finally found him languishing on the remote isle of Innishmahon, the wild Irish landscape providing the perfect setting for retreat and contemplation. Now Larry was heading there again, to negotiate another deal with his client and hopefully prevent them all from being sued to within an inch of their lives.

  Running the past few months’ dramatic events through his mind as the cab headed for John F. Kennedy Airport, Larry marvelled at how much mayhem one, very handsome, quite talented, yet totally unpredictable actor could cause. Larry rubbed at his temple, remembering Ryan’s initial disbelief at being offered a film part which would make him world-famous, and them all rich. What was even more unbelievable, Larry had to convince Ryan to take the job.

  And now this. Reneging on a contract with Franco Rossini was more than bad form, it was downright stupid. Rossini might be one of the world’s most influential film producers, but it was not how the family fortune had been amassed. To say the Rossini’s had ‘underworld’ connections was putting it mildly. Franco Rossini was no pushover, and the fact that Angelique, Ryan’s estranged wife, was also Rossini’s beloved niece, gave the whole scenario a sinister veneer.

  Larry felt the bile rise in his throat. He rummaged in his holdall for his stomach medicine. He may not be looking forward to the journey, but if he did not achieve his objective he would probably decide not to bother with the return trip at all, choosing instead to throw himself off the nearest cliff, helpfully eradicating the need for the movie mogul to commission a hit man.

  It was one o’clock in the morning when Padar finally bolted the huge oak door of the pub. The locals, disappointed not to welcome Ryan, their adopted superstar, back into the bosom of the island clan, accepted Marianne’s explanation of weariness, resolving to catch up once he and the other new celebrity on the island, his baby son, were rested. In time-honoured Innishmahon style, there had still been a session, with songs and tales, as Marianne and Padar pulled pints until way past midnight.

  Finally jaded with tiredness, Marianne wiped the last of the pumps as Padar called from the landing to say the little ones were fast asleep and he was going to his bed. Dragging on her coat, she poked her nose through the kitchen door. Ryan was out cold, stretched the length of the settle, legs dangling over the end with Monty nestled snugly under an arm.

  Picking up her scent Monty’s black snout appeared. She nodded at him and he leapt over Ryan, trotting towards the door. Ryan stirred, a flop of shiny grey-black hair fell across his forehead and his lips parted in a half-smile. She took a step towards him, longing to push the hair from his eyes and brush his warm mouth with her lips. He moaned, flung himself onto his side and pulled a cushion to his chest in a warm embrace. Lucky cushion, she thought, and driving the desire away, swept Monty up and headed for the door leading to the lane and Weathervane’s gate. All was still.

  “Feels like the quiet before a storm,” she said to Monty, wondering if this was indeed the last peaceful night they would enjoy for some time.

  Larry was dreading the journey, the memory of his last trip to the Emerald Isle seared on his brain like a brand, the six-hour flight to Shannon, followed by the connection to Knock, a windblown airfield in the middle of nowhere. The stewardess, alternating between heavily accented English and an ancient foreign language, pointing out local attractions: a white sausage made of offal, apparently delicious when fried; a drink allegedly made of red lemons and a nearby miraculous shrine where the Virgin Mary had made an appearance in the late eighteen hundreds. Larry sighed, these people seemed nice enough, but sometimes came across as either insane, inbred, inebriated or all three. By the time they landed, he was badly disgruntled.

  Based on his last experience, he also knew he would be so weary from the journey, if he continued straight to Innishmahon, he would make little or no sense and would probably end up bawling out his client and achieving absolutely nothing. So he had Mimi telephone ahead and book him into Joyce MacReady’s comfortable bed and breakfast. The guesthouse was a long drive from the airport but only a short distance from the ferry and although Larry hated boats, the bridge to the island had been washed away in a storm, so ferry it had to be. Further proof, if any were needed, that if a person wanted to remain cut off from civilisation for the foreseeable future, Innishmahon was yet again the perfect destination.

  Unrolling his raincoat ahead of venturing outside, a shrill voice cut through the hubbub about him.

  “Larry, Larry Leeson, yoo-hoo!”

  He turned to find Kathleen MacReady, native of Innishmahon and the island’s resident postmistress, waving at him enthusiastically from behind the arrivals barrier. Unsure why, he was immediately delighted to see her. They had met before, and as guardian of the island’s erratic telephone system had spoken on numerous occasions, usually when Larry was in search of Ryan. Despite her somewhat eccentric dress sense, he found her intelligent and engaging, and right now, her smiling face was a very welcome sight indeed.

  He strode towards her, arm extended for the traditional handshake. Miss MacReady threw herself at him in an enthusiastic embrace, kissing him on both cheeks in what she hoped was a suitable greeting for one of the most successful theatrical agents on the planet.

  “Great to see you Mr
Leeson, how was your journey? Pleased to be on terra firma I shouldn’t wonder.” She busily helped him into his raincoat, her shrewd eyes taking in the greenish pallor of the far from seasoned traveller.

  “A nice surprise Miss MacReady, but surely you’re not here to meet me? How the heck did you know I was coming?” Larry asked.

  “Well, with all the excitement of Ryan’s announcement live on the telly and then his arrival with the little fella yesterday, I had a pretty fair idea you wouldn’t be far behind. You’re either here to get him back on track or finish with him altogether.” She swished towards the exit.

  Intrigued, Larry stopped and placed a hand on her arm.

  “You surmised all that and came to meet an airplane you were only guessing I would be on?” He was amazed.

  “Not at all, Mr Leeson,” Miss MacReady laughed, “sure didn’t Joyce ring and tell me you were on your way. I’m good but my crystal ball is a little rusty.” They swept through the doors.

  Larry was dismayed to find Miss MacReady’s brother, the taxi driver Pat grinning at them toothlessly from the window of his battered cab. Pat had chauffeured Larry the last time he had travelled from the airport to the bed and breakfast and it had been one of the most harrowing excursions the New Yorker had ever encountered. Realising he had no choice, Larry hoped, with his elder sister on board, Pat might navigate the vehicle in a more considerate fashion. Miss MacReady slid into the rear seat beside him.

  “Have there been any improvements to the road since I was last here?” Larry asked anxiously.

  “Not at all,” said Pat, flicking his cigarette butt out of the window. “Worse if anything,” he said smiling at them through the rear-view mirror.

  “I tell you what, let’s take the scenic route.” Miss MacReady was enthusiastic. “It’s a little longer, but sure the views make up for it, don’t they Pat?” Pat looked quizzically at his sister. There was only one road to the bed and breakfast, the same road which led to the ferry port. There were a couple of ‘off the beaten track’ pubs along the way, alright.

  He nodded. “Scenic route it is, so,” he grinned. There might be a pint and bite to eat on the agenda.

  Larry looked out at the rain-swept car park, the rolling grey of the hills beyond.

  “A spot of lunch and a glass of something will put a whole different complexion on things,” she said, squeezing Larry’s knee, “you see if I’m not right Mr Leeson.”

  “Please call me Larry,” he said, trying to smile.

  “And you must call me Kathleen,” she beamed into his face. “We must get to know each other better, you being so close to Ryan and he being almost my son-in-law.”

  Larry nodded and then, realising what she said, “What?”

  “Oh, I’ve loads to tell you. You wouldn’t believe how much has happened on the island while you’ve been over there in sleepy old New York.” She batted her lashes, as Pat lurched the taxi into the oncoming mist. Larry felt his irritable bowel syndrome kick in big time.

  Ryan watched the thin streak of dawn stretch to a slice of silver-grey over the eastern cliffs from one of the guest bedrooms at Maguire’s public house. He could just make out the sign - Maguire’s Purveyors of Game and Quality Victuallers. He craned his neck to look down the lane towards Marianne’s cottage but outside was just an inky murk, too early for any lights signalling someone was up and might be willing to share tender words of welcome over hot tea and warm toast. He could hear the gulls rising, calling their sharp cries as dawn broke, the Atlantic cold and blank in this, the last hour between night and day.

  The door creaked behind him, he let the curtain fall. Padar stood there, hair on end, blinking into the room. He rubbed his chin and looked at the cot, Joey was fast asleep.

  “Go,” Padar whispered. “I’ll look after things here.”

  Ryan did not need telling twice. He was already showered and shaved. He pulled his battered leather jacket over his sweatshirt, looked briefly at this sleeping son and touching Padar on the shoulder in thanks, slipped down the stairs and out into the lane.

  He knew the spare key hung behind a grinning gargoyle on the terrace. He let himself in quietly, moving swiftly to the terrier’s basket under the stairs. Monty opened his eyes and growled softly. Picking up Ryan’s scent he wagged his tail. Ryan signalled for him to stay, and, undressing down to his shorts and T-shirt, tiptoed bare foot up the stairs, pushing open the bedroom door at the top.

  The light was just beginning to seep into the room, oozing through the gloom it fell on a sheen of satin, edged with velvet thrown across the bed. He stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping across the sleeping form, her russet mop of hair on the white pillow, the soft curve of her cheek, sweet, slightly smiling mouth. She had pushed the cover away, the strap of her nightdress fallen from her shoulder, the skin glowed smooth and pearlescent.

  He held his breath as he watched her, the rise and fall of her chest as she slept, the smooth hollow at her throat. As he leaned against the door frame, he gave his body permission to release all the passion and longing he had been suppressing for so long. He felt it bubble inside him, and as his desire rose to the surface, he could bear it no longer. He wanted her, he needed to make her his once again.

  He knelt on the bed, taking the hand she had flung across the covers in his and putting her fingers to his mouth, kissed them playfully, running his nails like butterfly wings along her arm. She murmured and turned towards him, eyes closed, still sleeping. He slipped beneath the covers and slid his hands upwards, under the cool silk of her nightdress to her thighs, stroking her skin until her legs parted. She made a purring sound and turned away from him, pulling her knees together. He smiled, his lust was too strong to be so gently rejected. Gripping her waist he pulled her to him, pressing his erection against her bare buttocks. She murmured again. He brought his hands up to her breasts, cupping them in his palms as he pulled gently at her nipples with his fingers. She moaned. He lifted her hair and nuzzled the back of her neck, nibbling her earlobe, breathing soft, hot breaths at her skin. She threw her arms up, wriggling backwards against him. She stilled, her eyes opened.

  “Ryan?”

  “It had better be,” he said, deep in her hair. She caught her breath, waited and then, turning abruptly, straddled him in one swift movement. Her eyes were laughing. He caught her by the wrists.

  “Not so fast my little minx,” he said, grinning up at her. “My turn, I think.” He pushed her backwards, pressing her flat onto the bed, and holding her hands above her head, was on top of her in an instant. She screamed.

  “You bastard,” but she was giggling.

  He leaned forward, lifting her chin with his fingers, to look directly at her.

  “I’m desperate for you, I can’t wait another second.” He pushed his tongue through her smiling lips. She looked slyly under her eyelids at his face as he kissed her: she wanted to eat him.

  “Have me then,” she said, relaxing back, guiding him into her. She shuddered with pleasure. He did not move inside her, staying still, savouring the deepness. She wrapped her legs around him; locking them together. “Make love to me,” she whispered.

  He started to push against her, first slowly and rhythmically, then harder and faster. She clamped him to her, holding him with every fibre of her being, taking him in, bringing him to where he belonged. She filled herself with him, with their lust and their love. She looked up into his flinty eyes, half-closed with desire and she thought she would explode with happiness. He was home.

  Chapter Three

  The Postmistress Always Rings Twice

  Joyce MacReady was delighted to welcome the weary American into her elegant Georgian farmhouse. Having shared the house with a famous ballerina for many years, she still had friends from the world of stage and screen and was hoping to enjoy an interesting evening in his company, as the last time he visited he had been far too tired for conversation. Joyce’s life would have been very different if it were not for her guests, the large house em
pty and isolated without a constant stream of globetrotting visitors.

  She pumped his hand firmly, greeting her sister with a brief hug and her brother with a glare. She had prepared a sumptuous dinner of smoked fresh cod with leek sauce to start, slow braised brisket of beef served with colcannon and shallot gravy and then the lightest, most delicious lemon meringue known to man.

  Joyce kept a good cellar too. She had always enjoyed the finer things in life and loved hunting, shooting and fishing. Miss MacReady often said her sister should have married gentry, but Joyce had never been the marrying kind.

  They talked long into the night, the focus of the conversation being Larry’s plight in the light of Ryan’s resignation. Joyce considered herself an expert in the legal department, having helped the ballerina disentangle herself from a number of inappropriate fund-draining charitable arrangements. Miss MacReady also considered her knowledge of law extensive and was preoccupied with the rights of her ‘adopted grandson’, as she referred to Joey. Would the little boy be able to stay in Ireland, where he would receive a proper education and be allowed to lead a normal life?

  Larry’s head was buzzing. His client’s predicament was complicated enough. The abduction of the child, albeit his own, had exacerbated the situation intensely. Pat had been fairly circumspect throughout, for which Larry was grateful. His sisters aired their opinions most vociferously, but Larry could not understand a word Pat said. Add a full mouth of food to the equation and he stood not a chance.

  Crumbling some delicious Irish Brie onto a cracker, Joyce forced a small cigar on each of the menfolk, while she went to fetch the port. Larry and Pat stood companionably in the porch, puffing sweet tobacco into the night.

  “Better weather than las’ time you came, anyway.” Pat said, checking his cigar was alight.

  Larry nodded. At least it was not raining.

  “A lot’s happened since that night, that’s for sure,” Pat continued, “good and bad. Your fella’s not much help though, always seems to bring bad luck with him. Well, that’s what the locals think.”