Mulligan Stew

by Deb Stover

  His face darkened. "Wait." He came toward her and gripped her wrist. "Ask yerself..."

  She struggled against his hold, needing desperately to distance herself from this man of her heart. Now they were both old, their lives spent. "Ask meself what?" She held his gaze in the semi-darkness. "What, Fergus?" She saw him wince at hearing his given name from her lips. She should hate him for not loving her enough.

  "How much of this madness is..." He leaned closer, his warm breath fanning her face. "Is because of me? Us?"

  "Ye flatter yerself." But his words had hit their mark. "'Tis for Bronagh."

  "I baptized her, watched her grow into a beautiful lass. I mourn yer niece, too."

  "Then allow the child to be buried on hallowed ground."

  "I cannot." He dropped his hands to his sides, his expression filled with helplessness. "I cannot defy the laws of God."

  "Not God. Man." Her breath hitched. "So bloody blind."

  "Ye will be damned, Sinéad," he said, his expression pleading. "Forgive the Mulligans. Aidan grieves, too. He only did his father's bidding. His duty. Come to confession. Save yerself."

  "Do not speak to me of duty." She heard the desperation in his voice, but would not let it sway her. "'Tis too late for me." Only karmic rebirth could cleanse her now.

  "No, 'tis too late for Bronagh."

  "Not yet."

  Something shiny dangled from his fingertips—the silver crucifix she had given him so many years ago—a pledge of her love and devotion. Her promise to love him always. And something more... If he had ever guessed that she placed a protection spell on it, he never would have accepted it. Her heart stuttered to see that he had kept her gift these many years.

  Turning her back on him she threw herself back into the storm. The doors of the church slammed symbolically behind her. Rain pelted her head and shoulders; she welcomed its power, for she had cast her spell in anger.

  Would her lack of focus spill other energies into the curse? She never should have thought about Fergus today. Her battle was for Bronagh—the child Sinéad had conceived in love and borne in secret.

  But Fergus had turned his back on Sinéad and sworn himself to his church. Bronagh was dead now, and her own father would never know the truth.

  Chapter 1

  Real men don't apply for rent-a-pig jobs.

  Nick Desmond squirmed in the soft waiting room chair. Whoever "Mrs. F" was, she'd been insistent about meeting him—had promised him top pay with important perks.

  As her bodyguard...

  Just thinking about it made him shudder. Well, he was here, but he hated being here. Hated what he'd become...

  Since his third birthday, all he'd wanted was to be a cop—one of New York City's finest. It was in his blood, just like his old man and his old man's old man. He needed a frigging family tree to keep it straight.

  John Desmond had been proud enough to burst the day

  Nick—his only child—had received his gold badge. Dad never finished college, and though he was a well respected police officer, he would never be a detective. Nick couldn't remember ever wanting anything as much as that gold badge, or ever being as happy as he was that day. He'd worked hard for it. Earned it. Deserved it, dammit.

  Sure, he wanted a wife and kids someday—a home. Dad would've made a terrific grandpa. Nick's breath hitched and he cleared his throat.

  Fate had other ideas. His second day as a detective, he was added to a special task force assigned to put an end to the Fazzini drug empire. His third day as a detective, he received an anonymous threat—either look the other way, or lose what was most important to him.

  The fourth day, John Desmond was gunned down on the sidewalk outside their apartment building....

  Nick arrived while Dad was still alive. The old man's last words had been about family, and about how proud he was of his son.

  The department called it a random, drive-by shooting, but Nick knew better. He'd been warned. He tried for six months to prove his father's death had been murder, but for every step forward he took, three new barriers appeared.

  Someone in the department was on the take. Someone important. And that someone had planted Nick to give the task force some credibility—the new detective with a clean nose. Whoever was in charge didn't want to take Nick out the same way they'd eliminated John Desmond, because that would have raised suspicion of an inside job. So, instead, they'd framed Nick. Planted evidence that he was a cop on the take.

  After that, the world Nick Desmond knew and the future he'd dreamed of were gone forever. Even now, the irony, the unfairness, brought bile to his throat.

  Shit. He needed a drink. Seemed as if he needed a drink more often than he wanted one these days. And Nick didn't like needing anyone or anything. He'd been there, done that, and set fire to the damned T-shirt.

  Acid churned in his stomach and he forced his thoughts in another direction. Get a job—get a life. Even framed ex-cops had to eat. He'd spent every waking moment and most of his nightmares trying to pin Dad's murder on Fazzini. He'd lived and breathed revenge, revenge, revenge.

  What did he have to show for that? Not a damned thing. But he wasn't about to quit now—or anytime. He just had to have an income, too.

  After adjusting his attitude, he worked on the strangling tie, and gave his collar another tug, for all the good it would do. Who the hell had invented neckties anyway? Probably a woman.

  "Damn." He swallowed the lump in his throat and let his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud.

  A blonde—a direct descendant of the inventor of neckties, no doubt—emerged from the inner office. A distraction just when he needed one most.

  She eyed him over the rim of her black-framed glasses. "Mr. Desmond, thank you for waiting. Mrs. F will see you now."

  Nick gritted his teeth as he stood. Time to face my shitty future.

  Nick straightened his tie again and tugged at the hem of his sport coat. "Ready as I'll ever be. Lead me to Her Majesty."

  The blonde arched a brow and pursed her lips. She looked like she'd been sucking lemons down at Martinaro's Fruit Stand.

  "A word of advice, Mr. Desmond." The blonde's voice took on an uppity, nasal quality.

  "Yeah?"

  "Treat Mrs. F with respect."

  "I treat everybody with respect, unless they give me a reason not to." He flashed her a grin as she spun around and marched through the door ahead of him.

  "Detective Desmond, I presume?" a soft voice with a faint Irish lilt greeted as he entered the inner office.

  Nick sucked in a breath and held it, forcing himself to face the owner of the voice. He'd come this far, so he'd damned well follow through.

  A diminutive woman sat in a huge leather chair behind a massive desk, the epitome of little old lady—matriarch and Queen Mother rolled into one. A cap of curly white hair crowned a face delicately marked by the passage of time, but he'd be willing to bet his first paycheck that she'd been a real babe a few decades ago.

  The old lady peered at him with piercing blue eyes. "My, but you are a tall one. I believe you'll do quite nicely, Detective."

  Confused, he held up an index finger, prepared to question the woman, but hesitated. After all, he'd come here for a job interview, and she'd practically hired him on sight. "I'm a little confused. And, in case you missed it, I'm not a detective anymore."

  "Tall, strapping, ice blue eyes, gleaming black hair." She gave a satisfied nod. "Hollywood would call you Black Irish."

  Nick held himself rigid. He'd sunk low enough to even discuss this position. The least he could do was hear her out, even if she didn't make sense. "Yeah. So?"

  The old woman's eyes narrowed and an intensity shot from them and right through Nick. "Blood will tell," she said.

  Nick tilted his head at an angle, studying her. "Whose blood?"

  The ghost of a smile parted the woman's lips, revealing papery fine wrinkles in her fair skin. "No one's, if you do your job right."

  Nic
k had to laugh. Shaking his head, he said, "You want a bodyguard?" It's just a job, Desmond. Just a job. He held his hands out to his sides, palms up. "I'm your man."

  "So you are." She folded her hands on her desk. "You're dismissed, Trish," she said to her assistant.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  A moment later, Nick was alone with the most unusual woman he'd ever encountered. She seemed downright royal, sitting across from him in that oversized chair. A frigging throne.

  "Have a seat, Mr. Desmond," she said, indicating a chair much smaller than her own. "We'll discuss your duties."

  Nick arched a brow as he lowered himself onto the soft and, no doubt, insanely expensive leather. "I haven't heard a job offer yet," he said. "Ma'am."

  Again, the regal nod. "True. I reviewed your credentials and checked your references before contacting you. You're the man I want for the job." She drummed her meticulously manicured nails on the desk's surface for a few minutes, then added, "Your salary will be five thousand to start."

  "Five thousand a month is sixty grand a year. As a bodyguard?" He held his breath, trying to act cool when he really wanted to pump the air with his fist and shout Yes! Instead, he sighed, realizing this fell into the too-good-to-be-true category. "What do I have to do for that much money? If you have something illegal in mind, you're talking to the wrong guy."

  "I know that, too."

  She smiled and he realized she wasn't as frail as she appeared. Her brain was razor sharp. The old woman was manipulating him, and definitely up to something. Something big. The gut instinct he'd relied on while on the force kicked into full gear.

  "You misunderstood me." Her expression was bland—deceptively so, no doubt. "Your position will be twenty-four and seven. Live in, if you wish. Therefore, I'm offering you five thousand per week, Mr. Desmond."

  "Holy shit." He shot out of the chair. To hell with cool. "Lady, you must be high on some kinda drug."

  "Not at all."

  "That's... over a quarter million bucks a year." He sank into the chair again, the sound of a cash register ringing in his ears.

  "I'll make a note that you're adept at mathematics, and I hope I won't need your services for the full year," she said, smiling like the proverbial cat that had caught the piss-ant canary. "Will you accept the position, Mr. Desmond?"

  Nick steepled his fingers beneath his chin, trying to remain calm and rational while visions of dollar signs danced through his mushy brain. He had to clear his name—keep his nose clean. "You're sure nothing illegal is involved?"

  "Probably not."

  He snorted. "What, exactly, does 'probably not' mean?"

  The woman fell silent for a few moments, obviously contemplating her next words with great care. "Some facts must remain confidential. You might consider that unethical. I consider it sacred."

  Nick chewed his lower lip and stroked his five o'clock stubble with his thumb and forefinger. The rasping sound in his head wasn't loud enough to drown out the sound of money. Lots of money. More importantly, he'd be paid for doing something similar to police work. All right, so that was a stretch, but this was as good as it could ever be again until he nailed the bastard who'd destroyed him.

  And murdered Dad.

  He drew a deep breath, forcing calm, cool logic to his mind. It's too good. He closed his eyes for a moment, then pinned Mrs. F with his cop-after-answers look. "Why?"

  "Why what?" She lifted her chin a notch, her expression emotionless.

  And that made him even more suspicious.

  "Why me?" He drew a deep breath. "And what do you expect for five grand a week? I'm not exactly your typical boy toy."

  Her cheeks pinkened and she stiffened. "I assure you, I am not after a... a boy toy." Her expression softened. "However, if I were, I think you would do quite nicely."

  Heat flashed in Nick's cheeks. The old broad had made him blush. Jeez. He'd seen it all and done most of it. No one—especially not a little old lady—should be able to make Nick Desmond blush.

  "Well..." He combed his fingers through his hair again, knowing she probably realized by now it was a nervous habit. "So what do you want for all that dough?"

  "I believe we get what we pay for." She lifted one shoulder and an innocent smile curved her lips. "I want discretion, loyalty, and the best bodyguard money can buy. I believe that's you."

  "Hmm." She could've hired him as a simple bodyguard for a lot less, and he had a hunch she knew it. It wasn't as if he'd kept his dismissal from the police force a secret. In fact, he'd mentioned it when her assistant first called him to arrange this meeting. Honest to a fault. "Someone threaten you?" he asked, holding her gaze as he watched for any sign that she could be lying. He found none. Yet.

  "Not directly. Let's just say the threat is implied." Her expression hardened, but she still didn't look away.

  "Again, why me?"

  "Because I can meet your price."

  "I'm not for sale."

  "I have something you want."

  "What?"

  "A man of many words, I see." She pursed her lips and folded her hands on the desktop. "Do you want to know who I am, Mr. Desmond?"

  He shrugged, feigning disinterest. Damn straight I want to know who you are, Granny Warbucks. "What's the F stand for?"

  She hesitated. "A name that shall live in infamy, I'm afraid." Something resembling regret clouded her eyes. "My husband was..."

  Nick stiffened, sensing some serious shit was coming down. "Who?" He kept his voice steady, though the sudden urge to shout and slide into Bad Cop mode struggled for supremacy. "Who was your husband?"

  "Angelo Fazzini."

  Fingers of ice burst from a frozen lump in Nick's gut and spread outward. Surely he hadn't heard her correctly. "Float that one by me again," he said, his voice as steady as he could manage.

  "You heard correctly." She pressed her lips into a thin line. "I'm not proud of who and what he was. I didn't learn the true extent of his villainy until after his death."

  "Villainy?" Nick hissed through clenched teeth to stave off the fury. The hatred. "Talk about your classic understatement."

  She inclined her head for a few seconds, then finally met his gaze again. "Forty-two years ago, Angelo Fazzini swept me away from Ireland with romance and pretty words. He was powerful and worldly. I was young. Innocent. Foolish." She rolled her eyes. "Now I am none of those things."

  "Yet you stayed married to him." Nick gnashed his teeth. "You must have known about his connections." Say it, Desmond. Say it. "Mob connections."

  "I denied it to myself. And, Mother Mary help me, I loved him. At least, I loved the man I thought he was." Self-deprecation etched itself across her face, furrowing her brow. She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "I looked the other way, because I was raised to believe marriage was forever. The church would never have seen it any other way."

  "So what changed your mind?"

  A haunted look came into her faded eyes. "When I discovered our son had followed his father into the... business. By then, it was too late to prevent the inevitable."

  Nick snorted again. Fazzini Junior's New York drug operation was one of the most profitable and deadly in the whole damned country. The real culprit who had murdered Dad and destroyed Nick's career had gone free. Angelo Fazzini, Junior. Free.

  The Fazzini operation had friends in high and low places. Cops on the take, politicians in their beds, and their thumbs on the national media. One dead officer and a destroyed junior detective didn't amount to shit compared to the big picture.

  And now... he pinned his gaze on Junior's mother. The irony of it tasted bitter. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees, elbows locked, every muscle in his body ready for action.

  He tried to think of one good reason why he should accept the offer. Besides the money.

  Bad money. Drug money. Blood money. The guilt would gnaw at him, and his ancestors would rise from their graves and hunt down any Desmond on the take.

  Of course, Ni
ck wasn't a cop now. Might never be again...

  "I need a bodyguard who's as desperate as me. Someone I can trust," the woman said, her voice revealing some of the tension she'd managed to hide earlier. "For myself... and my granddaughter."

  "You think I care what happens to Junior's kid?" Nick barked a derisive laugh and pushed to his feet. He had to get the hell out of here before he told the old lady all the horrors her husband and son had caused.

  "Yes, I think you care," the woman said on a sigh. "Like I was four decades ago, my granddaughter is an innocent. My daughter-in-law found her escape from reality in the bottom of a bourbon bottle until she died." Mrs. F stared into the distance, then swung her gaze back to Nick and stood. "Help me save my granddaughter from her grandfather's evil legacy, Mr. Desmond. It's too late for me. My life is all but over, but I'll do anything I can to protect Erin. Anything."

  The woman's words reverberated through his head. There was something wrong with her story—something he should remember. "Wait..." He rubbed his temples and stared at her. "How many kids does Junior have?"

  "Only one." The old woman shifted her gaze just enough to alert Nick that she was hiding something.

  "What are you up to, lady?" he asked as he remembered the case in question. "Angelo Fazzini's only grandchild was kidnapped and never found. I was fresh out of the Police Academy when it happened."

  The woman lifted her chin a notch. "That is correct."

  "Well, gosh," he said, his voice dripping sarcasm, "color me confused."

  "Erin wasn't kidnapped. Exactly."

  "Holy..." Realization made him cough, but he couldn't prevent the seeds of admiration germinating in his brain. This woman had grit. "You?"

  "Indeed."

  "Why?"

  She drew a deep breath and released it very slowly. "I asked my son to give up his life of crime for his child. He refused."

  "Let me get this straight." Nick held up one finger. "You kidnapped your own granddaughter and have kept her hidden all these years?"