Kiss of the Irish (Foreign Fling)

by Lauren Hawkeye

  The silver in his brow winked again, and Sarah felt her belly tighten even more—which was simply because she was hungry and standing in a restaurant where the scents of fried fish and potatoes hung heavy in the air. Shaking her head at herself, she crossed the room to the bar, toward the only one person currently working in this pub. She remembered that her friends who’d visited Ireland tended to reminisce about their favorite pub. A lot.

  Finding that she was shaking a bit from fatigue, she seated herself awkwardly on a stool at the bar. She flushed when the rain-soaked fabric of her pants squeaked on the worn leather. How embarrassing. In fact, this entire scene was distressing. She was lost, something that had never happened to her in her life; she was far too organized for it. She was exhausted—she’d been so wired for her trip that she hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep all week. And she hadn’t looked in the mirror, but she was pretty sure that she resembled a wet chicken, or possibly a hedgehog. It certainly wasn’t the smooth, polished appearance she usually strove to present.

  “It doesn’t matter, Sarah. Get a grip.” Sarah lectured herself. No, it really didn’t matter how she looked, and it didn’t matter that the bartender had a raw, sexual appeal that compelled her to sneak glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. She’d never seen anyone who looked quite the way he did, with the confidence of owning that lean body and quite possibly any woman who was lucky enough to be underneath it.

  She would ask for directions, and then she’d never see him again. Because she was not the type of woman to approach a man she found attractive. Especially not one with an eyebrow piercing.

  How deliciously…bad.

  Then that hauntingly blue stare turned her way. The eyebrow with the piercing arched as the man took her in, his lips quirking as though he liked what he saw.

  Her mouth went dry, adrenaline surging—was he going to head her way?

  He didn’t, turning instead to help another customer.

  “Idiot.” She cursed herself as she fumbled for her purse. Well, he’d get here eventually. She was actually quite thirsty. She’d ask for a glass of juice. That would hold her until she got where she was going.

  She could be honest with herself, right? She felt like staying here for a while, settling into the fabric of the scene. Maybe enjoying a pint of her own, and a meal.

  Taking in the mouth-watering view.

  She’d never ordered beer in public before, though she’d always had a secret taste for it. The women in her circle would never have been caught drinking something so unrefined.

  The realization very nearly had her ordering one, just because. In his messages, Cian had said that Wild Irish was right down the street from her flat, so driving wouldn’t be a worry. But the exhaustion clawing at her limbs, and the fuzziness in her head, told her it wasn’t the wisest idea.

  “God damn it.” She wanted a drink. A glass of wine—no, a beer. A beer because it wasn’t something she could drink around her colleagues back home without raising eyebrows—professional women like her drank fancy wine or cocktails.

  “Would you like a partner in the conversation, or are you content on your own?”

  Startled, Sarah looked up from her purse, right into the deep blue eyes of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tattooed. Those eyes sparkled with a wicked twinkle that made her mouth go dry.

  “I—uh…” Her skin felt too tight for her body, and that was ridiculous. Sure, he was a good-looking man, but she’d met good-looking men before. The heat blooming in her belly just from having him look at her was… Well, it was completely uncalled for.

  “Let’s try another question, then.” The bartender grinned, and Sarah felt—actually felt—her stomach do a slow roll when that hoop in his brow caught the light. “What would you like to drink?”

  “I…oh. Well. Um.” It was the accent. It had to be the lilting Irish in his voice scattering her wits. The wits that were in short supply already, after that unnerving drive in the rain.

  “Beer? Wine? Whiskey?” His voice reminded her of the fire, low and smoky and utterly compelling, inviting her to curl right in. Unbidden, she imagined what it would sound like rumbling over dirty, dirty words.

  “Juice!” She blurted this out, blushing furiously as her consciousness caught up with her thoughts. Lord, but she was tired. She needed sleep. So much sleep. “Juice, please. I’d like juice. And directions.”

  “Juice it is, then.” He made no comment on her drink choice, simply pulling out a carton and holding it up for her approval. “Do you fancy orange?”

  “Orange is fine, thank you.” The room wavered a bit, and Sarah caught herself, clutching the bar with both hands. “And those directions. I’m lost. Oh, and the room is spinning.”

  “Drink that.” Firm hands caught her by the shoulders, hauling her back onto the bar stool and waking her up. Sarah blinked, a bit confused, as the tall glass of juice appeared in front of her nose.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Weary, she stared into the liquid before taking a large gulp. “I was feeling fine just a minute ago.”

  “Let me play doctor here for a moment.” Her companion came around the corner of the bar, seating himself on the stool next to her. He took a leisurely perusal of her body. In another lifetime, Sarah might have felt embarrassed. Now she felt little points of heat sparking to life, though they were somewhat dampened by whatever fog had just rapidly descended.

  “Play doctor?” She frowned. “I don’t even know you.”

  The man smiled lazily, the eyebrow with the ring arching. Strangely, Sarah found herself wanting to run her fingers over the cool, smooth loop of metal.

  Ross hadn’t liked touching outside of the bedroom.

  “Well, we can play doctor the fun way later, if you’re so inclined.” Eef you’re so eenclined. Surely if he were American, she’d be able just to look right through him, like she did most men. “But right now, I’m thinking I can put some other pieces together.”

  He nudged her juice to her lips before continuing. “You’re American and need directions. I’m guessing you got off the plane in Dublin just a few hours ago and have driven straight here. You’d be Miss Sarah Mercer, then, and you look even prettier in person than in your picture, though, I do believe you’re a bit jet-lagged.”

  “Are you Cian?” So the sexiest man she’d ever seen was her new landlord, then. Her body tensed with excitement, forcing her to suck in deep breaths to calm herself down.

  She’d exchanged a few flirty emails with the man—that was absolutely no reason to get all worked up now that she’d definitely connected that flirtation to this mouth-watering Irish bartender. “I’ll be fine. Jet lag isn’t terminal.”

  Not terminal, no, but in front of her the crisp image of Cian’s face—the full, wicked lips, the straight nose, the angular bones topped by those velvety blue-black eyes—started to waver. She blinked, and he came back into focus, but it was a struggle. She thought she was sitting up straight, but then again, maybe not, because he sighed heavily before hoisting her right off her stool and bracing her against his side. His deliciously hard side, where she could feel all kinds of rippled muscles.

  This had to be a dream. She’d wake up soon and be back in her bed on Newbury Street, not in an Irish pub contemplating copping a feel of some Irish bartender’s abs.

  The man smiled down at her again, and the low hum of attraction that had been burning under her skin flared into a bright, wild flame. That smile—it was just a smile, but it promised all kinds of things.

  Things she’d only dreamed about, and never experienced.

  “Well, Miss Sarah Mercer, you’ve made it, and you’re certainly welcome.” The hand not holding her up reached out for her free one, and Sarah felt her mouth fall open when, rather than shaking it, he brought her fingers up to his lips for a slow brush of a kiss.

  “My name is Cian Murphy, and I’m your new landlord.”

  Chapter Two

  If Cian thought his newest t
enant had been attractive blinking up at him in confusion, then she was downright gorgeous when she blushed—a sweet, warm tinge of pink that traveled from her throat, which was displayed by the round-necked sweater she wore, all the way to her cheeks.

  He’d known who she was the moment she walked in—he had been waiting for her, watching for her all evening, his stare flickering to the door every time it opened to admit a new customer and a wet blast of rain.

  In truth, he’d had her hanging about in the back of his mind since she’d first messaged him on the house-swapping website. That, in itself, was odd.

  He didn’t consider himself conceited, but ever since he’d figured out that he had a cock, and more, what to do with it, he’d never lacked in female companionship. Even tonight, Shannon McNair, a woman he’d gone to school with, had made it quite clear with her flirtatious smiles and low-cut blouse that she’d have been happy to keep him warm on this cold, rainy night.

  But something in those messages from Sarah, and the tug he’d felt when he looked at her picture, had snared in his brain like a fishhook and wasn’t letting go. Yes, it was the picture, he mused as he propped her up, entertained by the light growl she made under her breath.

  That picture on her page—he hadn’t been lying, hadn’t been casting her a line. She looked so terribly professional in it, gleaming blond hair pulled back tightly, cheekbones painted onto a face that was naturally soft and creamy smooth. And those big eyes—a clear, pale blue that had radiated sadness.

  He’d wanted to know what had made her so sad. And then, her shifts between very proper lady and self-doubting flirt in those messages—that had intrigued him further still. And now she was here, and he fully planned to work past those barriers and get to the core of this woman who had been weighing on his mind.

  Now, though? Now wasn’t the time to do it, not when she was frazzled from travel and the jet lag had her fading fast.

  “You’re Cian?” He liked the way his name sounded on her tongue, liked that she pronounced it correctly—KEY–in. At any rate, she didn’t seem surprised, more like she was just making sure.

  He couldn’t help but chuckle as he looked down at the pretty face that had haunted his thoughts. “Aye, seems that way. You are Sarah Mercer, yeah?”

  “Of course!” At that moment, she seemed to realize that he still held her hand a hairbreadth away from his lips, and she snatched it away, the flush in her cheeks deepening.

  Nervy little thing. That was a detail to tuck away for later.

  “Lucky me.” Cian winked at her winningly. That hint of pink on her skin looked awfully tasty. He wondered just how far he could make it spread.

  Not that he’d be able to see much more—her sweater covered her collarbone, the sleeves ending at her wrists. Her jeans were snug, all the more so because they were soaking wet, but even still, they covered her up.

  Damn shame. He’d only had a quick glance when she’d come in, but she had a very fine ass.

  She wobbled a bit against him, and he gave his head a shake—there would be plenty of time to check out her ass later. The poor thing wasn’t only exhausted, but probably needed a good meal as well. He’d seen her eyeing several of the dishes the kitchen sent out, looking like a ravenous wolf.

  He liked that almost as much as he liked the flush on her skin. A woman who enjoyed her food was a pleasure to behold.

  But she was half dead on her feet, and he needed to get the blood out of his cock and back to his brain. He could always get her a plate of something after he’d made sure she was settled into her flat. He’d never been into Sleeping Beauty role play, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to start now.

  “Now let’s just get your things and see you to your place, shall we?”

  When Sarah sagged back toward the table, Cian’s strong arm helped to keep her against him. “But I haven’t finished my…juice.”

  Her eyelids were drooping with fatigue, and he grimaced to himself. Reaching out with his free hand, he retrieved the half-full glass of juice from the table and pressed it into her hands before helping her sit once more. “All right, then. You finish this.” He held out his hand, and Sarah looked up at him in exhausted confusion. He’d felt that way himself, countless times, as he’d traveled the world over during his twenties. Even if a body could force itself to stay awake, at some point logical thought simply shut down.

  “Car keys.” He spoke succinctly and authoritatively, careful to keep his volume quiet, for her sake. “And the make and model of your car, please. I’ll get your bags.”

  Much to his chagrin, she immediately tried to stand again. “Oh, no. I’m the only one who signed onto the insurance for the rental and—”

  “Keys,” Cian repeated, his smile made to charm. “You’ll not be going back out in this downpour, Sarah.”

  He could see the internal struggle in her eyes. She wanted to assert herself but she was far too tired to do so. No matter, he admired independence in a woman—as long as they were alert enough to uphold it.

  After almost a full minute, Sarah finally sighed in defeat, reaching into her bag to rummage for her keys. A moment later, she plopped them into his hand. “It’s a 2012 Prius. Silver.”

  Leaning over her, Cian touched her cheek lightly. Her skin was warm and inviting beneath his fingers, but when she sucked in a deep breath, he yanked his fingers back. Clearly he hadn’t been the only one to feel that bolt of electricity passing between them.

  He wondered at it, might have commented on it, but she was obviously far too weary to deal with that. Instead, he smiled again and kept his hands to himself. “Good girl.”

  Unlike Sarah herself, Cian was in possession of quite a few umbrellas. He kept them stowed behind the bar in the pub for occasions just like this one. Within five minutes, he had retrieved both of her suitcases from the trunk of her car and brought them back inside.

  When he returned, he found the woman slumped over the bar, her face nestled on her arms. He cleared his throat, hoping she wasn’t passed out. She lifted her head and blinked at him, slow and owlish-like, and he couldn’t hold back a small smile.

  In her photo, she’d been pretty, with something haunting and compelling hanging around her like a halo.

  Now? She was delightfully cute.

  He imagined she’d resent the word when she was awake and firing on all cylinders, because his gut was telling him that she was a no-nonsense kind of woman, but right now, yes, she was cute.

  After making his way behind the pub’s bar and into the small office he kept there, he retrieved the keys to the tiny flat she’d rented from him online. At this time of year, there were no other tenants in the building—much as he’d heard that people in the northern part of America flocked south for the winter, a cold, rainy Ireland wasn’t a very popular tourist destination in the winter months.

  Once Cian returned to Sarah’s side, taking a moment to be amused by the way her eyelids would droop, close, then jerk open as she jolted herself awake, he dropped both her car keys and one set of flat keys into her purse before helping her to her feet once more. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  Yeah, with her damp heat pressed to his side, her ripe curves tempting his hands, he acknowledged that he’d like to get her to bed—his bed, her bed, any bed.

  There would be time for that later. Even if the heat of their bodies pressed together caused a hint of something sweet—her shampoo, maybe?—to drift to his nose.

  How could something smell so innocent and yet so like sin at the same time? Eyeing the top of her honey-blonde head from the corner of his eye, he found himself frowning, just for a second.

  Since when did he care what a woman smelled like?

  Before he could chew too hard on it, she turned the tables, surprising him.

  As she sighed, Sarah’s head drooped against his shoulder. She took an exaggerated sniff of the front of his plaid shirt. “You smell wonderful.”

  Arching an eyebrow, Cian did his best to hide his grin. Yeah, he di
dn’t think she’d be thrilled in the morning, not with these kinds of confessions. Then again, as her head rolled against him, he was pretty sure she’d have no memory of it all.

  Not that he minded having her snuggled against his side. She fit there nicely, all delicious-smelling curves.

  Taking her duffle bag over one shoulder, Cian hefted it, surprised at the lightness. His sister packed so much when she went somewhere that her bags felt like they were full of bricks, but this one didn’t tax his muscles at all. He glanced at the remaining suitcase, wondering if he could manage to haul it down the street, too, but noting the drowsy woman at his side, he decided to retrieve it later. This turned out to be a good thing, because he needed a free hand to keep Sarah on course. Now that he had an umbrella, their five-minute trip through the rain was at least dry.

  Again, not that he minded seeing her all wet. Still, she had to be freezing, and since she was renting his place, the least he could do was make sure she got out of the wet and into the dry.

  At the opposite end of the street from Wild Irish was his building. A simple square composed of red brick, it housed four units—two up and two down. It was nestled close to the center of the village, with gorgeous views of the green-swathed mountains beyond. Those spectacular views had influenced his buying of the building in the first place—as had the rock-bottom price. The first piece of real estate he’d ever purchased, it had been half a step away from being condemned. He’d collected scrap wood, old windowpanes, anything he could find on a bargain to fix the place up and make it livable again. As a result, it was eclectic and, he liked to think, reflected the charm of his home country.

  As a teen, he’d been more than a bit rebellious, breaking every rule his parents set, just to prove that he could, talking every pretty girl he came across out of her panties and onto his cock. No one had been surprised when bad boy Cian Murphy had left home days after his eighteenth birthday, ready to see the world. And he had—he’d climbed stairs at Mayan temples until the muscles in his legs burned, he’d studied the classics at the Louvre in Paris, and he’d had some funny brownies with a gorgeous redhead in Amsterdam. Questionable meat dishes in China, sunstroke in Brazil, and a terrifying—to him, at least—encounter with a Tasmanian devil in Australia.