by JoAnn Ross
“No problem. Just a minute.” He tapped a few more keys on his laptop. “Sorry, I just wanted to save the new stuff about the Lady.”
“Rory said you’re changing the story.” That had surprised her. But then again, everything about the American had proved a surprise from the beginning.
“Actually I’m turning her back to the way I originally depicted her in the book.”
“Oh.” Since Nora still hadn’t read the novel that was responsible for Quinn living beneath her roof, there was nothing she could say to that. “I should be thanking you for giving him such a wonderful day.”
“It was my pleasure. He’s a great kid, Nora.”
“Aye. I believe so, too. Although I shouldn’t be so boastful. After all, what mother doesn’t think the sun rises and sets on her child?”
He laughed at that, causing her romantic heart to skip a beat. She wondered if he had any idea how appealing he was when he put aside his usual grim demeanor and allowed those little crinkly lines to fan out from his midnight eyes. His smile was surprisingly warm for a man who seemed unaccustomed to using it.
“You’re too hard on yourself, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Since it’s obvious you’ve done a great job with the kid, you shouldn’t feel the need to qualify the issue. Most women I know are better at accepting compliments.”
“I’ve no doubt of that.” She would not blush, Nora vowed firmly. No matter what the man said. Or how he looked at her. “However, I believe we’ve already determined that I’m not like most women of your acquaintance.” His kind of woman, she tacked on mentally.
“Point taken.” The smile faded, and the shutters slammed closed over his teasing dark eyes. “What can I do for you? From the lines in your forehead when you walked in, I’d suspect you didn’t risk confronting me in bed just to thank me for giving your son the VIP treatment today.”
“No.” The way he’d folded his arms drew her gaze back to his bare California-dark chest and made it even more difficult to concentrate. Nora considered asking him if he’d put on a shirt, then realized she’d only be letting him know exactly how much he unsettled her. Which, she thought on an inner sigh, he probably already knew. “It’s about the trek.”
“Ah.” He arched a dark brow. “Are you about to suggest you don’t trust Rory with me?”
“Oh, not at all.” Her first thought was shock that he’d even consider such a thing. Her second was a faint wonder why she was so certain that, despite his cautionary words to the contrary, Quinn Gallagher was, deep down inside, a good man. A man she could easily trust with her only child. “It’s just that I can’t be having him imposing on you in such a way.”
“It’s not an imposition. If you think I volunteered to take your son on a hike in order to win points with you—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be thinking that!”
“Good. Because I know how tough it can be to miss out on all that father-and-son stuff. Besides, I haven’t seen that much of the country since I arrived. This will give me a chance to do some sight-seeing.”
“And of course sight-seeing with eleven six- and seven-year-old boys is your lifelong dream.”
She couldn’t resist the pleasure she felt when she made him laugh again. Yes, Quinn Gallagher was a hard man to know. But somehow, Maeve and Rory seemed to have found the way beyond the barricades he’d erected. And, although she knew it was the most dangerous thought she’d had yet concerning her boarder, Nora wondered what it would take to send those barricades tumbling altogether.
“All right,” he allowed. “If the truth be told, given a choice, I’d rather go trekking with you, since despite what I said about you not being my type, the idea of sharing a sleeping bag with you beneath the stars has its appeal.
“But don’t go looking for ulterior motives, Nora. I’d never use a kid to get to his mother.”
“I know you’ll be thinking of me as just a backward country girl, but—”
“Ah, we’re back to you accusing me of accusing you of being a culchie.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” Making Quinn laugh was one thing. Nora hated the way she seemed to be a continuing source of amusement for him even when she was trying her hardest to be serious. Growing more self-conscious by the moment, she went to the window, put her hand on the cold rain-wet glass and looked out into the blackness beyond.
“I’ve no doubt that any number of women in America would willingly tumble into your bed without a second thought.” When he didn’t bother to respond to something that was so obviously true, she glanced at him over her shoulder. “But I can’t escape the way I was brought up. I can’t take such things casually.”
“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” When he pushed aside the quilt, Nora was both vastly relieved to discover he was wearing jeans and shaken by how the sight of that open metal button at the low-slung waist had her fingertips practically tingling with the need to touch.
In two long strides he was standing in front of her. Too close. She took a tentative step backward and realized those steady dark eyes missed nothing.
“You’re right to back away.” His voice was deep and low, like the rumble of distant surf. It also drew her as a silkie was inexorably drawn back to the sea. “After all, a woman like you would be crazy to get mixed up with a man like me.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” Unnerved but determined not to show it, Nora lifted her chin.
How could he possibly know what type of woman she was, she wondered, when she didn’t know herself? Ever since this man’s arrival in Ireland, she’d felt as if a stranger had slipped beneath her skin and taken over her mutinous body. A stranger whose wicked thoughts alone undoubtedly shattered more commandments and church tenets than Nora had ever dreamed of breaking.
“Just as I don’t know anything about you,” she added.
Quinn narrowed his eyes, then reached out his hands and thrust his long fingers through her hair, splaying them at the back of her head, holding her hostage to his steady gaze. Then he moved closer, trapping her between the cool glass and the heat of his body.
“And that would be important to you,” he said.
It was not a question, but Nora answered it, anyway. “Aye.” The single soft word sounded frail and shaky. Once again she considered how foolishly old-fashioned and parochial she must appear to this sophisticated American. “I told you, I can’t take—”
“Sex casually. I know.” He continued to look down at her for a long thoughtful moment. Just when Nora’s tightened nerves were on the verge of screeching like a wild banshee on a November eve’s Samhain night, he backed away.
“It’s late.” His voice was gruff and distant. “I know from experience that a farm day begins ridiculously early. You’d best be getting to bed.”
Any other woman might have been stung by such a curt dismissal. But Nora took heart from the realization he’d just given her a clue about his past. From the looks of him, she never would have guessed Quinn Gallagher knew anything about farming. But apparently he did.
Which meant, she thought with a burst of optimism, that perhaps the two of them had something in common, after all.
Sweet Mary, you’re a hopeless romantic, Nora Joyce Fitzpatrick, she imagined her mother’s scolding tone.
Aye, Mam, I fear you’re right.
Although life had taught Nora that leading with one’s emotions could lead to heartbreak, such behavior had also allowed her to experience a great deal of joy, as well. Just looking at her son’s face over the breakfast table every morning or gazing down at him asleep in his bed each night was enough to make her heart sing.
“Good night, Quinn.” His given name, which she was using for the first time, tasted as rich and sweet as freshly churned cream.
He’d backed away, granting her easy access to the door. Before leaving, she glanced over her shoulder. “Will we be seeing you for breakfast?”
There was more than the offer of porridge and scones in her question. Nora knew it. And obviousl
y Quinn knew it, too. She could practically see the stone barricades going up around him again.
He rubbed his night-stubbled jaw. “I can’t promise anything.”
Once again Nora understood they were not talking about breakfast.
“We’ll leave things nice and easy, then.”
Because her fingers itched to rub at the lines bracketing his tightly set mouth, because she felt an unruly need to soothe the tension from his brow, Nora gave him a smile she hoped appropriate for an innkeeper to share with a boarder. Then she left the bedroom before she got herself into more trouble than she could handle.
Quinn couldn’t sleep. His mind was tangled like the woven Celtic-knot tapestry hanging on the wall opposite the bed. He tried working on the outline for his new novel, but Nora kept intruding herself into the story.
Instead of being a dark-haired fey creature, his druidic witch possessed hair as bright as a California sunset and eyes the sparkling hue of polished emeralds. The one thing that didn’t change was the way the heroine bewitched the hapless hero, casting a spell on him that drew him to her like iron filings to a magnet. And even though his fictional witch-hunter knew her to be the most dangerous woman he’d ever met, he was powerless to resist her charms. A feeling Quinn, unfortunately, could readily identify with.
Finally, sometime after midnight, needing to cool off from the sexual images writhing in the dark depths of his mind, Quinn dragged himself out of the tangled sheets, dressed and went outside.
The rain had passed on, leaving a clear night sky studded with stars glittering as icily as diamonds on black velvet. A white ring encircled a full moon that floated overhead like a ghost galleon.
He looked up at the darkened window he knew to be Nora’s and told himself he was just imagining the way the lace curtains seemed to have moved ever so slightly. The damn woman had gotten beneath his skin and into his mind and he was beginning to suspect that the only way he was going to exorcize her was to take her to bed. Then, his sexual hunger satiated, he could get on with his life. As he always had in the past.
Even as he told himself that, Quinn suspected it would not be so easy. Wishing he still smoked, he was trying to decide which would be more satisfying, throttling Nora for messing with his mind this way or bedding her, when he heard the squeak of the kitchen door opening.
At first he thought it might be her. But the girl who slipped stealthily out of the house into the shadows was too tall and too slender to be Nora.
“Isn’t it a bit late to be going out?” he asked.
Mary obviously hadn’t noticed him. She jumped like a startled doe at the sound of his voice.
“Mr. Gallagher? Whatever are you doing out here?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I guess you were having the same problem.”
“Aye.” He heard her sigh. A not entirely comfortable silence settled over them. “Have you been out here long?” Mary asked.
“A while.” He folded his arms and leaned back against the fender of the rented Mercedes. “It’s a nice night. I believe I’ll stay out a bit longer,” he said, answering the unspoken question he suspected she was dying to ask.
“Oh.” The disappointment in her tone told him he’d guessed right.
“You know, I remember a few times, when I was growing up, when I’d sneak out of the house to meet my girlfriend,” he offered casually. It was, of course, a lie. By the time he’d been Mary’s age he’d been on his own, and no one had given a damn what he did or with whom.
Another sigh. “I was going to meet Jack,” she admitted.
“The guy who decided to take someone else to the dance?”
“Aye.” She looked away, pretending vast interest in the starry sky.
Quinn told himself he should just stay out of whatever problems Nora Fitzpatrick’s sister was having with her unfaithful high-school Lothario.
“You know,” he heard himself saying, “it’s none of my business, but if this Jack guy makes having sex a condition to dating, I’d say he’s not good enough for a bright pretty girl like you.”
“I’m not pretty.” She dragged her hand through her hair in a gesture that was a visual echo of her sister. Then again, Quinn thought, too damn much these past days reminded him of Nora Fitzpatrick. “I’m too tall. And too thin.”
“Most people consider that fashion-model material. And even if you weren’t going to grow up to be a beauty like your sister—which I’m sure you will—you shouldn’t feel you have to sleep with a guy to get him to like you.”
“Nora is beautiful,” Mary said, latching on to the wrong part of his statement. The part he’d never meant to admit out loud. “She was already the prettiest girl in the county when she married Conor. And she was barely two years older than I am now.”
Quinn wasn’t pleased at how much he didn’t want to think about Nora having been married to some hunk athlete who looked good on a horse.
“You’ve plenty of time to be thinking about marriage,” he said, trying to return this already uncomfortable conversation back to the topic of celibacy. Or, at the very least, safe sex.
“That’s what Nora says.” This sigh was deeper than the earlier ones. “But Nora doesn’t understand. She was a virgin when she married Conor.”
Quinn was not the least bit surprised by that little news flash. “There’s nothing wrong with saving virginity for marriage.”
“Not in her time, perhaps,” Mary allowed, making her sister sound far more ancient than her mid-twenties. “But things are different these days.”
“Are they?” It was his turn to pretend to study the stars. Quinn stuck his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his boot heels. “I’m not so sure about that. I’d suspect boys have probably been trying to talk girls into doing things they might not be ready to do since caveman days.”
It hadn’t been that way in his case. He’d lost his virginity in the back of a pickup truck to the oversexed adulterous wife of one of the potato farmers he’d been sent to work for when he was fifteen.
At first he’d thought he was the luckiest kid in the entire state of Nevada. By the time his sixteenth birthday rolled around, he’d begun to feel dirty and used. He’d also been terrified of being discovered by the woman’s beefy brutal redneck husband.
Other women had followed. More than he could count. But none of them had ever been virgins. Nor had any of them been as innocent as Nora.
“Jack says boys are different,” Mary argued. “They have certain needs.”
“Not every need has to be acted on.” Hell, Quinn was living proof of that. If he’d acted on his own personal hungers, he’d be upstairs in bed with Mary’s older sister right now.
“I read one of your books,” she revealed. “The one about the banshee. John’s right. It was very good.”
“Thank you.”
“And didn’t the man and woman in your story make love? And they weren’t married.”
He heard the challenge in the question and tried to answer it honestly. “They were a lot older than you. And besides, it was just a story. Not real life.”
“In real life would you still be interested in a girl if she wasn’t ready to have sex with you?”
The frankness of the teenager’s question surprised Quinn. But not as much as his own answer. “Absolutely.” It was, he realized, thinking of Nora again, the truth.
Another silence settled over them, this one a bit more companionable. In the star-spangled stillness of the night, Quinn could practically hear the wheels turning in the teenager’s head.
“I have a literature test tomorrow,” Mary said finally. “It’s an essay exam on The Children of Lir, in Gaelic, and the sisters like us to use plenty of quotations. I suppose I should be getting my sleep if I want to score well.”
“That’s probably an excellent idea. You’ll want to keep your grades up if you plan to go to college.”
“I was thinking of becoming a teacher. Like Nora was going to be before she had to leave the convent.”
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“Your sister was in a convent?” Somehow, when he’d been listing his daughter’s numerous charms, Brady had neglected to mention that salient little fact. Quinn reminded himself that it might not be how it sounded. After all, convent schools were common in this country.
“She was going to become a nun,” Mary revealed.
Hell.
“But then our mam died and Nora had to leave the order and come home to take care of us. Then she married Conor and had Rory, and she said she was happy she hadn’t taken her vows. But then Conor was killed in that riding accident.”
Quinn wondered what type of bastard he could be to be jealous of a dead man. “Sounds as if she hasn’t had an easy time of it,” he said with a great deal more casualness than he was feeling.
“She hasn’t. But it’s not in Nora’s nature to complain. Doesn’t Gran say she’s a natural-born caretaker?”
From what he’d seen, Quinn figured Fionna Joyce was right. He also reminded himself that he wasn’t in the market to have anyone take care of him. He’d been doing just fine all by himself for most of his thirty-five years.
“Well, good night, Mr. Gallagher,” Mary said. “And thank you.”
“The name’s Quinn,” he reminded her. “And you don’t owe me any thanks, Mary. I enjoyed our conversation.”
He watched her cross the yard and slip back into the house. First Rory. And now Mary. If he wasn’t careful, Quinn warned himself grimly, the damn emotional quicksand he’d stumbled into was going to close in over his head and suffocate him.
Unable to sleep a wink with thoughts of Quinn tumbling through her head like abandoned seashells in a stormy surf, Nora heard Mary slip out of her bedroom and make her way down the stairs with all the stealth of a thief in the night.
Remembering all too well how she’d stolen away to meet Devlin when she’d been Mary’s age and fearful that Jack wouldn’t be nearly as protective of her sister as Devlin Monohan had been of her, Nora went to the window and pulled the curtain aside, expecting to see the teenage boy who’d been causing Mary such distress.