“No. Yes. Yes. Love. I think so.” Amy Leigh let out a long breath. “You see, it’s a lot of things.”
“Can you explain your answers because I am not sure what you said?” Trent wiped his hand over his face. “Please, Amy Leigh, talk to me.”
She cupped his face and kissed him then pulled back. “No, I don’t care about you losing your family money, but I don’t want to be the cause of it. Yes, your father is snobby, but he loves you and is trying to make sure who you marry is worthy of you.” She stopped talking when he kissed her, then pulled away and put her finger to his lips. “Although your ex is a bitch, she made me understand you could do better than a party planner from Sweetgum. What I feel for you is love, and it’s strong enough to let me step back and allow you to find happiness with the right person.”
“Wow.” Trent stared into her face seeming to search for an answer to what she said. “You love me?” The crooked smile grew to a grin. “Really?”
Amy Leigh fought the urge to smile back at him. This was the time to be strong and not allow her feelings free reign. “Yes I do, Trent, but that changes nothing. We cannot be together.”
“Like hell.” The intensity in his tone made her mouth fall open. “Listen to me, Amy Leigh. You are far superior to most of the so-called classy women I’ve dated. None of them would ever marry me if I were disinherited, which by the way I’m not. Secondly, my mother loves you and my father admitted that he admires you. Lastly, I love you too, so therefore as your husband I refuse to allow our marriage to be annulled. If you want to leave me then you’ll have to divorce me…after Jamaica.”
“Don’t you see, Trent,” Amy Leigh said placing her palms flat on his chest to keep him back. “I am not going to be a good rich wife. I don’t want to stop working and play tennis all day...wait did you say Jamaica?”
Trent stood, took her by the shoulders and looked down at her. He smelled of sex and expensive cologne. She wanted to push her nose into his throat and forget about everything but them. “Yes, I did. I owe you a honeymoon.” His mouth found hers. His sentiments pushed past her lips, straight into her heart. She fell against him allowing his strong arms to lift her feet from the floor. He broke off the kiss and smiled at her. “Is that a yes?”
“Oh, what the hell, yes. I will stay married to you and go to Jamaica. There will be no tennis and I still want to work my party planning business.” He walked toward her bedroom.
“In Columbia.” His lips pressed against the corner of her mouth.
“Yes, in Columbia,” she murmured and kissed his chin.
“I have your ring.”
“You do?” Her heart melted at spotting the huge rock on his pinky. “Oh, you do.”
Trent lowered to one knee, the corner of his mouth lifted in an endearing smile. “Will you stay married to me Amy Leigh Paisley Mulherin?”
Amy Leigh sniffed and wiped her nose with the sleeve of his shirt. “Yes, I will.” It was hard to hold back the wide smile and a short happy dance.
He stood and slid it onto her finger and pulled her into him, his mouth seeking hers.
“I love you, Trent.”
“I love you, Amy Leigh.”
“We need to get bands to go with it. You should wear one too.” She looked up to find him looking at her with so much warmth, her eyes got teary all over again. “You really do like me don’t you?”
“More than that,” he replied. “I haven’t been the same since first spotting you in that tight dress that one night in Vegas.”
“It’ll be a great story to tell the kids...or maybe not.” A giggle escaped when he scooped her up.
“How about we talk about it in bed?” Trent carried her toward the bedroom.
“Are we really going to Jamaica?” she asked.
“Yes, but no diving instructions.”
“Scuba.” Once again he covered her mouth with his.
“Mmmmm.”
The End
About the Author
Hildie McQueen is my pseudonym. Writing is my dream come true. There is nothing I love more than bringing my characters and stories to life and sharing them with you. I live in a small town in Georgia with my husband and two unruly Chihuahuas.
Make sure to look me up online:
http://twitter.com/HildieMcQueen
http://facebook.com/HildieMcQueen
http://www.hildiemcqueen.com
If you enjoyed One Night In Vegas please recommend it to your friends and family. I would appreciate a review on Amazon or Goodreads.
I answer all emails: [email protected].
Additional Titles by Hildie McQueen
In reading order
Heading West series, Western Historical
Where The Four Winds Collide
Westbound Awakening
Shades of Blue series, Western Historical
Big Sky Blue
A Different Shade of Blue
The Darkest Blue
Every Blue Moon
Montana Blue
Contemporary
Concealed Carry
One Night In Vegas
One Night with The Boss
Protector series, Paranormal
Desperate Choices
Desperate Betrayal
Desperate Surrender
Desperate Possession
Highland Historical Erotic Novellas
Highlander’s Captive
Seducing Her Laird
Enticing her Highlander
Ravished by the Laird
In the Warrior’s Arms
~~*~~
The Irish Lover
A Glenncailty Castle Short Story
Lila Dubois
Mary Callahan doesn’t remember Glenncailty, or the handsome Michael Baker, yet she’s connected to both by a dark, dangerous past.
Returning to Ireland for the first time since she was a baby, Mary sets out to learn more about her parents, who died in a car bombing, and the small Irish town where she was born. Her first night at the Glenncailty Castle hotel is full of magic when she stumbles into the pub and meets Michael.
Wary of her sudden and intense feelings for him she tries to keep Michael at arms distance even as he introduces her to people who knew her parents. But there are dark forces at play in the castle, and Mary can’t shake the feeling that she’s being watched by someone…or something. When confronted by the past, she must decide if she’s willing to risk her heart for a chance at love and a place to call home.
Published by:
Farm Boy Press,
Los Angeles,
CA.
First electronic edition February 2013
Copyright © 2013 Lila Dubois, all rights reserved
Cover by Valerie Tibbs
ISBN: 978-0-9889107-0-6
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Publisher’s note:
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Prologue
Ghosts come in all forms—memories that linger, déjà vu in a child’s smile, and occasionally, when the combination of death and pain is just right,
they appear as human forms made of smoke and shadow that walk among the living.
They wait and watch, looking for themselves in the living. Some mean harm, some want to help, to prevent others from making the mistake that condemned them to roam the earth. The lessons the dead have to teach are not always heard, but those who ignore the ghosts’ warnings do so at their own peril.
Chapter One
A view like this inspired either romantic longing or bitter loneliness.
For Mary Callahan, it was both.
She rolled down the window of her rental car, letting in the cool, wet Irish air. She’d cranked up the heat when she got in and now the windows were fogged, making the misty morning seem downright gloomy. But the gloom didn’t dampen the romance of the view—rolling emerald green hills dotted with fat white sheep and quaint stone cottages. She took a breath, tasting the loam of the earth. The scents and landscape were foreign to her, and yet felt familiar.
Little by little the windows cleared. Outside, the silvery light fell over the small white flowers that dotted the foliage beside the road. The rain made the land sparkle, as if it weren’t raindrops, but diamonds, that fell from the sky. Resisting the urge to jump out and take yet another photo, Mary keyed her destination into the car’s GPS system.
“Glenncailty.” She typed in the location, talking to herself to push away the loneliness. “Birthplace of one Mary Callahan.”
She’d been in Ireland a few days and painful experience had taught her that in a country without ZIP codes, and sometimes without street numbers, the best way to get somewhere was to ask, not to rely on a piece of electronic equipment the way she would have at home in Chicago. But on this deserted stretch of road there was no one to ask. And she wasn’t in the mood to approach a stranger and have a ten minute conversation about the fact she was American—a dead giveaway once she opened her mouth—or where in America she was from. She especially didn’t want to answer questions about whether or not she had family here in Ireland.
With the GPS ready, and more importantly a printed list of directions on the passenger seat, Mary put the car in gear and headed deep into the Irish countryside in search of Glenncailty—the valley of the lost.
With each kilometer she found herself more enchanted by the Irish countryside. But that enchantment brought on melancholy. She was falling in love with something that was a part of her past, not her future.
She’d come to Ireland for The Gathering—the year when the Emerald Isle called all of her children home. And despite her protests that home was, and always would be, Chicago, Mary could not deny that some part of her belonged here. She was an Irish citizen.
Mary and her grandparents had emigrated after the death of Mary’s parents during the Troubles—a kind euphemism for the violence, bombings and murders that rocked the country in the latter decades of the 20th Century. She’d been raised in Chicago since she was two, and until now had never set foot in her native Ireland. When she was younger she hated her homeland, because every time her grandparents talked about it sadness settled over their little house. Mary was a proud American and had never planned to return to this place she didn’t even remember. Now, at her grandparents’ request, she was back, one of the hundreds of thousands of Irish emigrants and descendants who had “come home.”
And here she was, probably lost, looking for the tiny village where her parents had met and married. How appropriate that it was called the valley of the lost. Mary was feeling more than a little lost lately.
Michael Baker smiled as the glen came into view. The valley was hidden away out in the Meath countryside, rural as could be despite its location only a few hours from Dublin. Narrow at the far end, it opened like a fan into an area a few miles across. The village of Cailtytown spread across the flat land. From the ridge where the road ran he could see the patchwork of fields with their dry-stack stonewalls, the too-narrow roads that wound through clusters of houses and shops. Farmland surrounded the town, making it seem like a little island of people amid a sea of green. As the glen narrowed, the fields grew wild, and at the narrowest point sat the castle.
Gray shadows fell over the old fortified manor house. Whatever it may have been, it was now and always had been known as Glenncailty Castle. When he was a child, Michael and his mates’ most daring adventures had been sneaking over to the castle and exploring crumbling buildings and peering in broken windows. It wasn’t until he was older that he realized the true danger they’d put themselves in. People, many of them children, had died wandering through Glenncailty Castle. For that reason it had been boarded up, and the fear of God put into the children of Cailtytown so that they wouldn’t go near it—not that it had worked.
All that had changed two years ago when Seamus O’Muircheartaigh, the owner of the castle, reopened it and started turning it into a posh hotel. The old stable had been converted into a nice venue for music and dancing, and there were rumors that the mews would become a spa.
It seemed strange to Michael that Glenncailty Castle might be anything other than an old, haunted ruin, but for the sake of those who lived in the glen he was glad. The recession had hit hard here. Most people in Glenncailty were farmers, and the fluctuating price of milk and grain had cut their incomes, threatening the whole village.
As he was about to turn left onto the road that led down into the valley, he caught sight of the car behind him, which was driving on the wrong side of the road. He honked and the car jerked into the left-hand lane. He turned off, then looked over his shoulder, a little worried about the other driver. He caught sight of a sticker from a rental company in the car window.
Maybe the parish council should put up signs reminding drivers from America which side of the road they should be on. Cailtytown had seen its share of people leave in the recessions—including the current one—so they were expecting more than a few of the diaspora to return home to their little part of Ireland for The Gathering.
Once he hit the town he waved at nearly every car he passed. Though he’d lived in Dublin since attending Trinity College, Cailtytown would always be home.
Pulling in to a little parking spot behind his family’s house, he took flowers off the seat and headed for the kitchen door.
“Ma, I’m here.” Michael shut the door, wiping his feet.
“Well, Lord love you, there you are.” Rose Baker rose from her seat at the table in the kitchen. It was comforting to see his mother, who was still young and beautiful in the eyes of her son, sitting in the same seat at the kitchen table she’d occupied all his life. “You’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you?”
“I’ll make it.” Michael’s words were brushed aside as she filled a kettle and set it boiling.
“These are for you.” He held out the thing he’d been hiding behind his back.
She accepted the flowers, turning the bouquet in her hands to admire the lilies. “And what are these for?”
“For you, because I love you.”
“Just like your father, a charmer.” She set to cutting the stems under running water and arranging them in a vase. “I’ll trust nothing you say now, as I’m sure you’re up to something.”
“Is that the thanks I get for bringing you flowers?”
“Enough out of you.” Her scolding was softened by a smile. “Do you want me to iron your shirt for the party?”
Tonight was a ceilidh—a party—to raise money for the son of a local family. The boy was in medical school and traveling to Africa to do relief work as a doctor while on holidays. As worthy as the cause was, the anticipated massive turn out had more to do with where the party was being held than its purpose. The ceilidh would take place in Finn’s Stable—the massive stone stable at Glenncailty Castle. Once a haunted ruin, it had been renovated and revamped, becoming a beautiful performance and party space. In the past months it had hosted some very high profile concerts and events. This ceilidh was the first event hosted there by someone from Cailtytown, and it was a fair bet that most of the town would be i
n attendance.
Michael was going with his mother, at her request, but he had to admit that he might have come back on his own, as curious to see the place as anyone else.
“I was going to wear this.”
His mother cast a critical eye over him. “That’s fine, but I’ve got a shirt for you in the hot press. Let me just give it a quick iron.”
Michael’s lips twitched as he took a seat at the table, cup of tea in hand. There was little point arguing with his mother. Though he was a grown man, certainly capable of dressing himself, he’d never been able to convince his mother of that fact. He’d stopped protesting, knowing that she liked to take care of him, and with his father gone Michael was the only one she had to take care of.
An hour later, after a light supper—to hold them over until they got there, where they’d be eating again—and a change of shirt, Michael cocked his elbow.
“Would you accompany me to a dance, fair maiden?”
His mother scoffed at him, but she was smiling as he led her out the back door to the car.
She couldn’t sleep.
Mary rolled over and bunched her pillow under her head. She thought she’d be over her jet lag by now, but it was two in the morning and she was wide-awake. After arriving at Glenncailty Castle—she was staying in a castle!—she’d been too tired to do more than go to her room and crawl into bed. Now she was up and couldn’t get back to sleep.
Part of her wanted to explore the castle—a big, stately structure that was actually three buildings. The main wing was the largest, and according to the website there was a library and billiards room the guests could use. She was staying in the east wing, on the second floor. The main building—or at least the foyer and hallways she’d been in—had been elegant and stately. Her room was a standard hotel room, though everything was of the highest quality. Mary had been somewhat hoping she’d be staying in an old drafty room complete with stonewalls and spooky noises. Her grandmother always teased her about her “American ways” and Mary bet wanting to stay in a ruin instead of a lovely, well-appointed room was her American upbringing coming out. Irish people were famously sentimental, but practical, and a drafty room was one in need of fixing, not a suitable place to spend the night.
Contemporary Nights Volume One Page 23