Images of his face danced through her head. He would take her hand, and they would ride off into the mist. His sole purpose, he would say as he swept her into his arms, was to give her pleasure. And, God knows, she was ready for a little pleasure. Was it Yeats who had said that if you couldn’t find lasting love, transitory love wasn’t a bad idea? She could go for that, a little transitory, unlasting love. Not that she ever had, but she could. And what could be more transitory and unlasting than a fling with a guy whose name she didn’t know.
The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. An aberrant, unfamiliar version of herself seemed to have taken up residence. Tear off the bonds, it urged. Do something completely unexpected. Keep thinking along those lines, she told it, and you really will be pushing a shopping cart along Ocean Boulevard.
She shivered and pulled up the collar of her parka. Her hair billowing around her face, she looked out at the slate-colored ocean. A spot of rain hit her forehead. If Maguire wasn’t home, she would walk back through the town. She picked up her pace and tried to focus on the questions she wanted to ask him.
The sudden appearance of a large, shaggy and exuberant dog effectively sent all thoughts flying. In a blur of noise and motion, the dog bounded up to greet her, and she staggered backward under its assault. Paws on her shoulders, eyes level with her own, the dog panted happily in her face. With a grin, she returned it to all four feet and bent to pat its head. A moment later, she looked up and into the gray eyes of the dog’s owner.
It was him. The man on the cliff. Standing there in front of her as though she really had conjured him out of thin air. Hands in his pockets, long dark overcoat open and flapping in the wind. Kate felt the smile spread across her face. Neither of them spoke. He was smiling back at her as though they’d just pulled off the world’s biggest joke.
“After you rode off yesterday,” he finally said, “I couldn’t get you out of my mind. I left the note because—”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, either,” she broke in, unable to hold back the words. “I slept with your note under the pillow.”
“Did you?” His smiled widened. “Last night I sat in my car sat outside the Pot o’ Gold, watching you through the window and wondering what I was doing there.”
“Watching me?”
“The curtains weren’t drawn, and I saw your hair and a bit of your sleeve At one point, you crossed in front of the window. I tried using mental telepathy to get you to come outside.” He shrugged as though the revelation had embarrassed him. “My skills are a bit rusty, I suppose.”
Charmed, Kate smiled up at him, pictured him in his car thinking about her while she was just a few feet away, probably thinking about him. Suffused by a warm glow, she felt as though she’d been given a completely unexpected—but wonderful—gift.
“After I dropped the note through the letter box, though, I could have kicked myself for not asking you to meet me.”
She nodded. “I was scared I’d go back to the States without ever seeing you again.”
“I thought about that, too.” He glanced down at the dog who sat on its haunches, eyes expectant as though waiting for the action to begin. “Maybe it was a bit of fatalism, not leaving a note. Maybe I was thinking that if we were meant to meet again, we would.”
“And we did.” Kate watched her breath condense on the frigid air.
“Of course, fate might have nothing to do with it,” he said after a moment. “It could be that you just lost your way again. Taking the scenic road to Ballyconneely, are you?”
“Get out of here.” She poked a finger at his chest. “I’m not lost. I wasn’t lost yesterday, either.”
“Maybe that was a bit of fate, too.”
She kept smiling. Purple clouds began to form over the ocean. The wind picked up. They’d somehow moved closer as they spoke. Inches from his face, she saw the small scar above his upper lip, the beat of a pulse in his temple. She saw the tuft of dark hair at the open neck of his blue shirt. Wind whistled through the long grasses, blew streamers of red hair across his face, wrapped his long coat around her legs. She smelled the sea in the wind, felt it sting her skin in wet needlelike sprays. If she touched his hair, it would be stiff from the salty wind. His mouth would taste of it. Unconsciously, she ran her tongue over her bottom lip. She wanted to kiss him. Her breath felt trapped in her chest. If a justification ever existed for living purely in the moment, this was it. If she didn’t kiss him, she would regret it forever. She looked into his eyes. He leaned closer to brush away a strand of hair that clung to the corners of her mouth. She caught his hand.
The kiss rocked her like an explosion. Fire shot through her body, made her legs tremble. Briefly, they parted and then, as though survival depended on it, they were kissing again, awareness of everything else blotted out by a sensation she’d long forgotten. The knee-buckling intensity of being in the arms of a man whose desire matched her own. The waves lashing the rocks beneath them echoed the roar of blood in her ears. Another flurry of kisses and then, arms still entwined, they stood back to look at each other, laughing with relief, happiness and wonder.
“I don’t do this,” she gasped. “It’s not me at all.”
“It’s not something I make a practice of myself,” he said. “Though, I have a weakness for red-haired American women.”
“Really?” Absurdly, she felt jealous. “Is your weakness tested often?”
“It isn’t. At least, I’ve never succumbed before.”
She smiled. He smiled back at her. The dog, which had gone off on its own adventure, came galloping back. She patted its head. It was ridiculous how happy she felt. If this man suggested riding off into the sunset together, she had little doubt that she would willingly accompany him.
“By the way,” she said. “My name’s Kate. Kate Neeson.”
“Niall Maguire,” he said.
“WELL, YOU’VE NOT SPAT on the dirt yet,” he finally said. “Or scrubbed your mouth to get rid of all the traces but from the look on your face, you’d no doubt like to pretend the last ten minutes never happened.”
Arms folded across her chest, she stood a foot or so away from him. When he’d told her his name, she’d jumped back as though shot.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just blown away. It’s so…I’m here to write this piece about your wife and—”
“Wait. You’re what?” He suddenly recalled the blue airmail letters he’d thrown away. “You’re the one who wrote to me?”
“You didn’t answer either of my letters. I was coming to see you today. In fact, I’m on my way up to the castle.” She was looking at him as though she still couldn’t believe her eyes. “God, this is so incredible. Yesterday I was convinced that you’d killed…well, I intended to keep an open mind until I’d actually met you, of course.”
“Of course.” He decided not to ask what her opinion was now. A movement at his feet made him look down. Rufus, who minutes earlier had greeted her so effusively, had chosen camps and now almost sat on his boots. The silence lengthened. A gull swooped low, seemed for a moment to fix him with its bright, beadlike eyes, then flew off with a raucous screech.
“Anyway.” She shrugged, as though dismissing what had happened between them. “I still want to talk to you.”
“Look…”
“Kate,” she reminded him.
“Kate.” He studied her face for a moment. Kate. It suited her perfectly. He lost his train of thought. “Look,” he started again. “Obviously my identity is more of a shock to you than yours is to me, but I’d be happy to have you come back to the castle. We can talk about America or Ireland or your wildest dreams or whatever you feel like talking about, but I might as well tell you right now, I won’t talk about Moruadh.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“An excellent reason,” she said. “Very informative.”
“Maybe it’s all you need to know.”
“Maybe my ar
ticle could clear up all these rumors swirling around,” she said. “They can’t be easy to live with.”
“You’re assuming I’ve nothing to hide.” He watched as Rufus, suddenly alerted by a movement in the grass, galloped off into the misty rain. After a moment, he looked back at Kate. Her eyes were fixed on something beyond his shoulder. Rain had darkened her hair and it clung to her head in heavy strands. Drops trickled down her forehead, spiked her lashes. He wanted to take her home and feed her hot whiskey. “Well,” he said, “what’s it to be then?”
“God, I don’t know.” She looked at him. “I’ve only got a few days in Ireland to get the information I need. I mean, this isn’t a vacation for me, so if you’re not willing to discuss Moruadh, what’s the point of going with you?”
“What was the point of kissing me?”
Her eyes widened. The question had clearly caught her off guard.
“The truth?”
“I’ve always found it best.”
“You were an unknown quantity. A mystery man. I thought a fling in Ireland might be fun.”
He tried not to smile. “And is your thinking still along those lines?”
“No. When you were just this mystery man who I’d probably never see again, I could fantasize about you. Make you anything I wanted you to be. Now I know who you are and it’s different.”
“Because you believe I murdered my wife?”
She looked him straight in the eye. “Did you?”
“No. But what else would I say?”
“True.” She kept looking at him, her eyes unblinking. “Still, if you talked to me a little about things, I could form my own opinion.”
“Or you could just pretend you don’t know who I am, and we could spend a pleasant afternoon talking about whatever else we wanted to talk about.”
“Besides Moruadh?”
He nodded.
“It won’t work,” she said. “I do know who you are.”
“Maybe you don’t, though. Didn’t we both say just now that what happened wasn’t typical behavior for either of us?”
“It certainly wasn’t for me.”
“Or for me, but I have a theory about it. You know nothing of this, but yesterday, when you fell off your bike, you fell into a fairy ring. It’s perfectly clear that this caused a spell to be cast upon both of us.” He saw her trying not to smile and felt light with relief. “’Tis a frequent occurrence,” he went on, broadening his accent. “Fairies will fancy a mortal to carry away into their own country and they’ll leave a changeling in its place. This time, they left two.”
“So I’m not me and you’re not you?”
“Exactly.”
“And that would justify a fling because we’re both perfect strangers.”
“You’re a brilliant girl.”
She stared at him for a moment, clearly struggling to maintain a straight face, then lost the battle. She grinned and then they were both laughing. Rufus circled, barking. Beyond them stretched the watery horizon of ocean and sky.
“I’ve heard some inventive come-on lines, but that takes the prize,” she said.
“It’s an Irish specialty.” He wasn’t entirely sure he’d won her over. Her eyes searched his face as though an answer to his real character might be revealed there. “What is it?”
“I’m just trying to figure out why everyone I’ve talked to since I’ve been here describes you as cold and aloof.”
“It’s Niall Maguire they describe that way.”
“Seriously.”
“I think I could give you a more reasoned answer if we were sitting somewhere warm and dry.” He glanced around for Rufus, whistled, then turned back to Kate. “What do you say?”
CHAPTER SIX
GOD, THIS WASN’T FAIR. Head bowed, Kate, kicked at a clump of grass. Not, not, not, not fair. She looked up and into Niall Maguire’s amazing eyes that right now were regarding her with just the faintest hint of amusement as he watched her ponder his invitation.
“We could toss a coin,” he said. “Heads you throw caution to the wind and take your chances with the village bluebeard, tails you opt for prudence and the safety of Annie Ryan’s front parlor.”
“Don’t patronize me.” They were now locked in a stare-off, and she wasn’t about to be the first to look away. “Safety isn’t the issue. I was on my way to the castle to meet you when I…met you. Obviously I’d heard all the rumors, so if I wasn’t concerned for my safety then, why would I be now?”
“Good point.” He was clearly trying not to smile. “So why don’t we continue this inside where the skies won’t be emptying down on our heads?”
“Thank you, but no.” Rain had seeped inside the collar of her parka and through the soles of her boots. It trickled off her hair, down her cheeks. Pouring so hard that she had to squint through the deluge to see him. “I’m researching an article and if you can’t provide me with information, then I should be using my time more productively.”
“I’m sure you should.” He swiped the back of his hand across his face. “But if you do happen to find a spare moment that could be put to unproductive use, you know where to find me. And Kate,” he said as she walked off, “I make a very good bouillabaisse if you’d like to have dinner one unproductive evening.”
BOUILLABAISSE. Back in the village again, Kate stood under the awning of a newsagent’s shop to wait out the rain which was coming down even harder than it had five minutes earlier. What would an Irishman know about making bouillabaisse? God, she’d wanted to stay. Even as she’d walked back down the hill from the castle, she’d had to stop herself from turning around and accepting his invitation. She’d been this close. But how could she? She was in Ireland to write a piece that might prove he’d murdered his wife.
A voice behind her interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to see Hugh Fitzpatrick smiling at her.
“Kate. We meet again. After I left Dooley’s Monday night, I kept thinking of all the things I wanted to tell you. When you rang me from California, I was ecstatic to think that someone outside of Cragg’s Head was finally going to look at how Moruadh died and what do I do but rant on about my issues. What can I do to make amends? Can I buy you a pint right now?”
“No, but thank you anyway.” A little startled by the enthusiasm of his greeting, she took a step back. “If you have a few minutes, though, I do have some questions.”
“We couldn’t do it over a pint?” He read the answer on her face and grinned. “No? Right then, my office is just over there.” He pointed to a small storefront on the opposite side of the street. The sign painted on the window in peeling gold paint had lost a letter and read ragg’s Head Gazette.
“Probably reminds you of the Los Angeles Times, doesn’t it?” Fitzpatrick joked as he opened the front door.
Inside, they were greeted by a dumpy woman in a black raincoat who immediately collared Fitzpatrick. He motioned to Kate that he’d be with her momentarily, and she pulled out one of the wooden chairs that stood on either side of a large littered desk. An oil heater in one corner of the room filled the air with acrid fumes but did little to dispel the damp chill. A naked lightbulb swinging from the ceiling cast harsh shadows on the bare floor and on the yellowing newspapers stacked up around the walls.
She looked over at Fitzpatrick. Arms folded across his chest, he stood at the window, staring out at the rainy street, seemingly oblivious to the woman’s ranting.
“I’m saying you need to write something about how Cragg’s Head has become a honey pot for the tinkers,” the woman was telling him. “Filthy scum, all of them. They’ll rob you blind. Up there at Cragg’s Head Leap one of them was this morning, talking to two young girls. And what would the likes of him be wanting with young girls anyway? Up to no good, that’s what. Up to no good at all. You mark my words.”
Fitzpatrick said nothing. Kate wondered if he was even listening. He seemed distracted. A cigarette in one hand, the other in the pocket of his tweed jacket. She felt a wave of sympath
y for him. She’d spent a couple of years working for several small-town papers. Each of them had had a local citizen in a chronic state of rage over something or other and given to frequent visits to the editorial offices. The sight of them usually sent the reporters scurrying to keep appointments they’d suddenly remembered.
“They don’t get their money the way the rest of us do, by working for it,” the woman ranted on. “Make it off their women they do, sending them to beg in bars, babies swathed in rags. And what money they get they spend on drink. A decent woman can’t even step into a bar without being accosted by one of them. Trouble just waiting to happen, I’m telling you.”
After a while, Kate stopped listening and thought about Niall Maguire. The whole incident still astounded her. Last night she’d fallen asleep with his note under her pillow, dreaming of a gray-eyed man who’d turned out to be Niall Maguire. She’d kissed Niall Maguire. Going with him would have been asking for trouble. He told her he wouldn’t talk about Moruadh, and the chemistry sizzling between them suggested that they wouldn’t be talking much about anything.
She could imagine the conversation with Tom if she had stayed. “Yeah, I know I thought he murdered his wife, but he wouldn’t talk about it and anyway we were tearing each other’s clothes off, so—”
She glanced at Fitzpatrick and the woman who appeared to have run out of steam. With an abrupt good-evening to Fitzpatrick and a nod to Kate, she left. A bell jangled as the door closed behind her. After the sound of her plodding footsteps had faded away, Fitzpatrick rolled his eyes at Kate.
“Brigid Riley has her knickers all in a twist over the Travelers,” he said as he walked over to the desk and sat down. “First it was them keeping chickens in the house that sent her into a right tizzy. Now she’s got it into her head that they’re set on ruining the virtue of Cragg’s Head’s female population. Jaysus.” Elbows on the desk, head propped in his hands, he looked at Kate, his expression morose. “Is it nice in California?”
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