A Woman's Heart

by JoAnn Ross

  But, dammit, there was more. He also wanted to hear that John had aced his science exam; he wanted to find out how Mary had done on her Gaelic test and whether the foolish Jack had come to his senses and realized the pretty teenage girl’s true worth. He wanted Rory to tell him more about the Lady, he wanted to look down into Celia’s young face, surrounded by that wild cloud of fiery hair and wonder if Nora had looked like that when she was a little girl.

  And, God help him, he was even willing to put up with more of Fionna’s sly matchmaking.

  And because he wanted all that—so much it terrified him all the way to the bone—Quinn was determined to stay away from the farm tonight.

  Brady had launched into an old folktale about a beautiful Irish maiden kidnapped by a Norman king. He was a natural orator; his lilting rhythm, timing, phrasing, extravagant gestures, as he related his tales of battles, courtships, tragedies, saints, hermits, fairies and magic, all harkened back to the ancient days when the ability to spin a tale earned a man property, privilege and a seat at the table with the king.

  The recital of the king’s attack of lust when he’d first caught sight of the young woman while riding through the countryside reminded Quinn of his own reaction to Nora.

  He liked looking at her. What man wouldn’t? He wanted her. Again, what man with blood stirring in his veins wouldn’t? He wanted to make love—have sex, he corrected swiftly—with her all night long. So what?

  That only proved he was a normal healthy male.

  Unfortunately everything about the lissome widow Fitzpatrick defined permanency, while his life was anything but. There was, after all, certainly nothing permanent about sex. Nothing constant about his career, which right now was burning as bright and hot as a star. But Quinn understood all too well how stars could explode and turn themselves into black holes. Even his house on the Monterey coast was leased, with a thirty-day out clause that allowed him to pull up stakes anytime he wanted.

  It wouldn’t be difficult to win Nora’s warm and generous heart. She’d already let him know, in so many ways, that it could be his for the taking. But didn’t she understand that when he left Ireland—and her—he’d be handing it back to her in tatters?

  Of course she didn’t, Quinn decided. Because, although the necessity of running a farm and keeping her family on the straight and narrow required her to be practical, the fact remained that the woman was a starry-eyed romantic to the core.

  That idea reminded him of something Laura had said to him in the airport. Something about their being two of a kind. Not expecting happily-ever-afters. Realizing he’d just found the perfect hideout, Quinn downed the last of this latest Guinness and left the bar, then headed the two blocks down the street to the Flannery House Hotel.

  “Well, well.” Laura’s smile, as she opened the door to him, reminded Quinn of a cat who’d just caught sight of a dish of cream. “This is a surprise.”

  “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in.” Belatedly realizing that she was dressed—just barely—for bed, he glanced in the direction of the closed bedroom door. “If I’m interrupting anything…”

  “Don’t be an idiot.” She took hold of his arm and urged him expertly across the threshold. The fingernails on his sleeve were uncharacteristically unpainted, as her role of Shannon McGuire demanded. Like too much else these days, they reminded him of Nora’s. “I just got out of the tub and was thinking of going to bed with a good book.” Her eyes handed him a gilt-edged invitation. “I’d much rather go to bed with a good man. Or even better, a bad one.”

  Quinn stopped midway across the living room. “Do you have a minibar in here?”

  “Of course.” She eyed him with what appeared to be actual concern. “Are you sure you want anything else to drink?”

  “I don’t recall hearing your joining the temperance police.” His tone warned her to back off.

  “Darling, you know I’ve never been a fan of temperance in anything.” She lifted a hand to his cheek, in much the same way Nora had at the lake, but surprisingly, Laura’s touch stirred not a single need to touch in return. “I just didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

  “You’ve never disappointed me, Laura.”

  “Well, of course I haven’t.” Blond waves that had spent most of the day covered by an auburn wig bounced as she shook her head. “I’m merely concerned that if you add any more alcohol to your bloodstream, you might have difficulty…well, you know…”

  “Performing?”

  “Exactly.” Her smile reminded him of the gold stars his third-grade teacher in San Antonio used to put on his spelling papers.

  “You’ve never had any complaints before.”

  “You’ve never shown up at my door three sheets to the wind before.”

  True enough. Back home, in what Quinn had come to consider his “real life,” the most he ever drank was an occasional beer or glass of wine with dinner.

  “Why don’t you let me worry about my performance level?” His tone was mild, but his eyes had hardened to obsidian.

  “Whatever you say, darling.” Knowing him well enough not to push, Laura flashed the quick smile he’d come to recognize as her professional one.

  She opened the bar with a small brass key and bent over it in a way that lifted the hem of her robe to the top of her thighs, just high enough to assure him she wasn’t wearing anything underneath the ivory silk.

  “We seem to have Guinness, Harp, a selection of Irish whiskeys—”

  “Any scotch?” Since his troubles had all begun when he’d landed on this damn green island, Quinn was determined that the rest of the night be a reprieve from everything Irish.

  “Let me see.” She skimmed a finger over the miniature bottles. “No. But there’s some gin.”

  Quinn hated gin. It was what his mother had always drunk, and even after all these years the smell of juniper berries could make his stomach heave. “That’ll do.”

  When he experienced more anticipation watching her pour the clear liquor into a glass than he did the provocative sight of silk-draped breasts, Quinn knew he was in deep trouble.

  After a bit more consideration, she settled on Baileys Irish Cream for herself. Then she crossed the room again with her long-legged stride and settled down beside him on the sofa.

  “To old friends.” She handed him the glass of gin and lifted her own. “And good times.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” He downed the gin in long thirsty swallows like a bitter-tasting medicine, enjoying the burn.

  “Gracious. Aren’t we in a hurry?” She circled the crystal rim of her glass with the tip of her finger. “I do hope that’s not a precursor of things to come.”

  “I told you.” Quinn stood up and went over to the bar, pulling out the first bottle within reach. “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”

  “Well, aren’t you the old grouch tonight.” She put her drink down on the coffee table and rose in a smooth lithe movement. “What’s got into you, sweetheart?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The only reason he didn’t complain when she took the bottle of Power whiskey from his hand was that he didn’t want her to know how desperate he was for the mind-dulling effects of the alcohol.

  “I’ll bet you’re just horny.” She looped one arm around his neck and deftly slipped the palm of the other between them, caressing his groin in a way that caused his body to respond exactly as she intended. “I was thinking about you while I was in my bath.”

  Her voice turned throaty as she looked directly into his eyes. “While I was running the sponge over my breasts, I kept remembering the way you love to lick your way from tip to tip. And when I was washing my legs, I thought about that first time, when we went to that party at Jeremy’s house in Bel Air and you dragged me into the bathroom, told me to wrap my legs around your waist and took me right there against the marble sink.”

  “I was crazy that night.” Crazy with lust.

  “Yo
u were wonderful.” Her fingers squeezed his growing erection with a practiced expertise. “I nearly came just thinking about it.” Her mouth touched his, warm and oh so willing. “Thank goodness I didn’t give in to impulse and start without you.”

  The kiss was wet and deep and involved a great deal of the tongue action Laura was so good at. The familiar taste, tinged with the sweet Irish Cream, created a curl of lust that sent the blood rushing from his head to other more vital organs.

  A very strong part of Quinn—a throbbing primal male part—wanted Laura. Even as he told himself he owed Nora nothing, he knew that to take what the sexy actress was offering would only leave him feeling guilty afterward.

  He took his hands from where they seemed to have landed on her hips and captured both of hers. “I can’t do this.”

  “Of course you can, darling.” Her smile echoed the feline purr of her voice. “You’re doing rather well, so far.”

  “It’s not that.” Calling himself every kind of fool, he eased a little away from her. “You know you’ve always been able to turn me on—”

  “Believe me, Quinn, the feeling’s mutual.”

  How the hell was he going to explain the unexplainable? Especially to this woman with the seemingly one-track mind.

  “You’re going to think I’m nuts.”

  She surprised him by laughing at that. “Of course you are. That’s one of the things I’ve always liked about you. Most of us run away from our monsters, Quinn. You embrace them, make them part of you, until it’s difficult to tell where you stop and they begin. It gives you an edgy dangerous quality not many women can resist.”

  Quinn had a choice. He could deny her unflattering accusation. Or, since he’d already decided he wasn’t going to sleep with her, he could at least acknowledge that there was some truth to her words.

  “I never would have suspected you of being a student of human nature.”

  “A slick shallow woman—an actress—such as myself?” she asked with a careless toss of her blond head.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Of course you did. And believe me, you’re not the first male to only take the time to look at the surface glitz. But you see, darling—” she slipped a hand free of his and trailed it down his cheek “—that’s precisely the point. You’re also not the only person in the world who prefers keeping private things exactly that. Private.”

  It was yet another surprise in a week full of surprises. “And here I always thought I was good at characterization.”

  “You are. But the one thing you overlooked is that I’m a much better actress than people give me credit for.”

  And apparently, he thought, a much deeper person. “Hell.” Quinn turned away and picked up the bottle of Powers again. He needed a drink and he needed it now. “Now I feel as if I’m just some creep who’s been using you.”

  “Well, of course you have.” She plucked the bottle from his hand once more. “You’ll thank me in the morning for this,” she assured him before returning to the original topic. “We’ve always used each other.” Her sigh caused her breasts to rise and fall in a way that had Quinn telling himself he had to be either a lunatic or a fool to turn down what this woman was offering. “Now I’m afraid we won’t be able to do that anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not our little sex game anymore, silly,” she said with the trademark pout the cameras—and her legion of male fans—adored. “I have this horrible feeling I’m about to do something really stupid.”

  “What’s that?” Quinn figured that after tonight he probably owned the world title for stupid human tricks.

  “I’m going to tell you how to seduce your little Irish farmer’s daughter.”

  “What?” Quinn stared at her. “How the hell…”

  “It’s common knowledge, darling. Ever since you went out of your way to practically adopt the woman’s son.”

  “I don’t believe this!” He raked a hand through his hair. “The kid’s into sea creatures, like a lot of those dinosaur-loving kids that made Jurassic Park such a hit. So I let him hang around while we shot some of the Lady scenes. What’s the big deal?”

  “How about the fact that you’re going on a father-and-son trek with him?”

  Damn. Quinn decided he’d have to kill Jeremy Converse. All he’d done was inform the director he was going to be away for a weekend, and the next thing he knew, his life was fodder for location gossip. Hell, next he’d find himself on the front page of the damn tabloids. Undoubtedly with a photo of the mechanical monster accompanying a headline that the Lady of the Lake was pregnant with his love-creature.

  “It’s just a camping trip,” he grumbled. The Guinness buzz was beginning to wear off, the gin had made his stomach roil and he could feel the distant twinges of a hangover beginning to build like a thunderhead behind his eyes.

  “Well, I for one think it’s very sweet of you. But if you think sleeping on the wet ground with a bunch of first-graders is going to get you an invitation into the boy’s mother’s bed, you’ve miscalculated.”

  “I didn’t volunteer to go on any bloody trek to seduce anyone’s mother, dammit!” It was the same thing he’d told Nora. It was also the truth.

  “You’ve no idea how relieved I am to hear that, Quinn. Because I’d really begun to fear you were slipping.” She returned the miniature bottle of liquor to the bar, closed the door and locked it, slipping the key into the pocket of her robe for safekeeping.

  “Nora Fitzpatrick might be different from the women you’re used to. But believe me, darling, there’s not a female in the world who can resist the Prince Charming treatment.”

  “Prince Charming?” He had to laugh at that. The one thing no one had ever called him was charming.

  “I’m talking grand romantic gestures.”

  “Aw, Christ…”

  “Don’t scoff. They work. The problem with you is that sex has always come so easily you’ve never had to work at it like a normal guy. Since you’re a screenwriter these days, it shouldn’t be that big a leap to think of Bogie and Bacall. Bogie and Bergman. Bogie and Hepburn—”

  “Don’t look now, sweetheart, but you seem to be stuck in a rut.”

  “I happen to think Bogart was the sexiest man God ever plunked down on the planet. And believe me, darling, I’m not alone, which, since the two of you are so much alike, has always worked in your favor.”

  “I’ve never seen myself as Humphrey Bogart.”

  “I’m not surprised, since men seldom see themselves clearly. It’s one of your sex’s most endearing little flaws. And if you can’t imagine Bogie, then I suppose Gable will always do in a pinch. Just the thought of Rhett and Scarlett is guaranteed to make any female’s heart go pitter-pat.”

  She gave him a small smile. “Sweep Nora Fitzpatrick off her feet, Quinn, then once you’ve got her in your arms, carrying her off to your bed will be a cakewalk.”

  Quinn hated to admit it, but the idea of carrying Nora up a curving antebellum staircase, then spending a long lusty night ravishing her held more than a little appeal.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Of course you will, sugar.” Her voice had turned magnolia sweet, revealing the Confederate roots that had won her the Miss Georgia tiara before she’d packed her Gucci bags and decided to try her luck in Hollywood. “Tomorrow, at Tara.”

  She patted his cheek again, this time in the fond way a mother might a child. “Meanwhile, since we’re friends now, and everyone knows friends don’t let friends drive drunk, you might as well spend the night here. On the couch,” she said pointedly.

  That was probably the best damn idea she’d come up with yet. Quinn felt on the verge of crashing. “Maybe just a nap.”

  “You’ll spend the night,” she repeated. “And don’t worry about the widow Fitzpatrick. Even an Irish convent-bred girl isn’t immune to the green-eyed monster. You staying away the night is bound to pique her interest.”

  Quinn wonder
ed if she could possibly be right. Then again, he reminded himself, despite Laura’s claims to the contrary, Nora wasn’t like other women.

  And there he was, he thought later as he lay on his back on the too-short couch and wished like hell his head would stop spinning, right back where he’d started when he’d dropped into The Rose with the stupid cockeyed plan to hide out from Nora Fitzpatrick.

  What the hell was the woman doing to his mind?

  Chapter Twelve

  In Search of a Heart

  He hadn’t come home. Hadn’t been lured by the leg of lamb. Or her. After reading The Lady of the Lake last night, Nora realized she’d been foolish to believe he might. Kate had been right when she’d insisted that beneath his horror stories Quinn had, indeed, been writing about families. The problem was, of course, it was also more than a little obvious that his view of a family unit was not a reassuring one.

  He’d warned her not to try to get inside his barriers, that she wouldn’t like what she’d see. Well, hadn’t it turned out that he was right? She’d gotten a glimpse of the man behind the stony facade, but rather than frighten her away, as he’d undoubtedly expected, it had only made her heart ache for anyone forced to go through life so alone.

  Quinn was not an easy man to know. He would be an even harder man to love. And in truth Nora still wasn’t certain she was falling in love with him. But she did know that if she didn’t take the risk—if she didn’t reach out to him—she’d spend the rest of her life regretting her fearfulness. For her own sake. And for his.

  She was at work pouring grain into individual troughs, thinking that if the roof repairs didn’t prove too dear, she’d be able to use the rest of Quinn’s rental money to buy that automatic feeder she’d seen at Murphy’s Grain and Supply, when Brady entered the milking barn.

  “Well, isn’t this a surprise,” she said. “Good evening.”

  “And a lovely evening to you, daughter.” Brady gave her a peck on the cheek. “I thought I’d drop by to offer my help.”