Bailey's Irish Dream

by Debby Conrad

  He could drive her home himself, except he had no idea where she lived. Although her address would be on her driver’s license, he thought, eyeing the little white purse. Maneuvering her body so he could open the handbag, he searched for her license but didn’t find it. Just a lipstick and a set of keys. “It figures.”

  Or he could take her upstairs to his apartment and let her sleep it off. “Great. Just great,” he mumbled, heading for the back stairway.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Bailey pulled the cool cotton sheet up to her chin and rolled over, feeling the beginning of a headache coming on. She couldn’t believe she’d actually had the nerve to ask Quinn to pose as her fiancé. She’d behaved so poorly last night in Gwen’s ridiculous too short and too tight dress, the man had actually thought she was trying to hustle him. And if that weren’t bad enough, she’d gotten plowed too. How embarrassing. She couldn’t even remember driving home. Uh, oh, that’s because she hadn’t driven home.

  Her eyes flew open and she jolted upright, thankful she and her dress hadn’t parted ways during the night. Her shoes and purse sat on a stool in front of the breakfast bar in the sparsely furnished room. Bright rays of sunshine fought their way between the cracks in the blinds at the single window, the narrow strips of light decorating the hardwood floor.

  Quinn lay sprawled in the leather recliner at the foot of the sofa bed, looking extremely uncomfortable. His head rested on his shoulder while he snored softly. Regarding him with somber curiosity, Bailey noticed he wore gray sweat pants and nothing more. Crisp, dark hair covered his broad muscular chest, and the shadow of his beard gave him an even more manly aura.

  The throbbing pain behind Bailey’s eyes served to remind her again of what a fool she’d made of herself last night, but she’d worry about that later. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to get out of there. Quietly, she slipped from the bed and tip-toed past Quinn.

  “Going somewhere?” he asked, startling her.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, turning to face him. “If I could have my check back I’ll get out of your hair.” His dark, unruly hair stuck out at odd angles, and she had the strangest desire to brush it into place.

  “What if I told you I’d planned to keep it?” He looked her over slowly, seductively. She tried to throttle the dizzying current racing through her. Surely it was the leftover alcohol, and not his gaze that made her feel that way.

  Smoothing her hands over the skirt of her wrinkled dress, she said, “I explained to you last night that the check was an act of good faith. Since you’re not interested in my offer, I expect you to give it back.”

  Pushing himself to a standing position, he loomed over her. At five-three, the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. “How’s your head?” he asked.

  Tilting her head back, she looked him squarely in the eye. “It hurts, so if I could just get that check.”

  His expression stilled and grew serious. “I’ll accept your offer.”

  She hesitated, blinking with bafflement. “But I thought--”

  “Do you want my help, or not?”

  Her voice rose in surprise. “Yes, of course I do. I think. I mean--”

  “You want coffee?” he asked, cutting her off as he headed toward the small galley kitchen. His profile was rugged, somber.

  “Yes, thank you.” A ripple of excitement ran through her, making her feel giddy. “What changed your mind?”

  “Hell if I know,” he said, removing the plastic lid from the coffee can. “Maybe watching you sleep. You looked so innocent, helpless.”

  Bailey swallowed. He’d watched her sleep. Forcing a smile, she said, “Well, whatever your reason, thank you.” She licked her dry lips and ran a hand through her tangled hair, almost afraid of what she must look like this morning. She felt something in the mass of knots and managed to dislodge it with her fingers.

  The paper umbrella. How embarrassing! As inconspicuously as possible she stuck the toothpick end of the umbrella in the dirt of a potted plant sitting on the bar.

  “You can keep that as a souvenir if you’d like.”

  The man didn’t miss a trick, she thought.

  “About the money . . . Gwen and I were sort of discussing it, and she thinks I’m being way too generous, and frankly, so do I.”

  He shrugged carelessly. “A deal’s a deal. You can’t renege now.”

  “Yes, but I feel you’re taking advantage of me, Mr. Quinn. One hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money for one night’s work. And besides, we were only speaking hypothetically. Remember?”

  His features held a strong sensuality as his eyes raked over her. “Honey, if I’d wanted to take advantage of you, I would have done so last night while you were passed out in my bed.”

  Bailey swallowed nervously. He had a point. “Yes, but still--”

  “Do you have any other prospects?” he asked, challenging her. “I suppose you could always ask Pete. He might be willing to lower his standards and take a cut in pay. But not me. I’ve got my pride, you know?” His smile was wide, his teeth strikingly white against his tanned face.

  And he was suddenly grating on her nerves. “Do you have any aspirin?”

  Opening a cupboard above the stove, Quinn grabbed a bottle of aspirin and tossed it to her. “Nice catch,” he said. He set a quart of tomato juice and a glass on the counter. “Great stuff for a hangover.”

  Bailey shook two aspirin from the bottle then filled the glass with juice. “I’m not hung over. I only had two drinks.”

  “But apparently you’re a one-drink girl.” He reached behind him and grabbed two mugs from the dish drain. “Anything else I should know about you before meeting your parents tonight?”

  Oh, God, she’d almost forgotten. Her parents would be at her place in a matter of hours. “I suppose I should write down some personal things about me, and maybe you should do the same. Although since you’re really supposed to be Stanley, and I’ve already told my parents all about you--or him, rather--then I guess you don’t have to. Unless, you think it would help.” She was rambling, but couldn’t stop. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

  “First drawer on your right.” Quinn filled the mugs with steaming hot coffee. “Cream and sugar?”

  “Yes, please.” She watched as he took a sugar bowl from the cupboard and a paper carton of half and half from the refrigerator and pushed them toward her. Quinn ignored the sugar, but poured a hefty amount of cream in his mug. “Cream, no sugar,” she said as she wrote it on the paper and etched it into her memory.

  He picked up his mug and walked around the breakfast bar into the main room. “While you’re making your list, I’m going to take a quick shower.”

  Bailey wished she had a toothbrush, but decided as soon as Quinn was done in the bathroom, she’d at least wash her face and use some toothpaste and her finger to clean her teeth. In the meantime, she sipped at her coffee and went to work on her list.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  As soon as Quinn emerged from the steamy bathroom, Bailey asked if she could freshen up. While she was behind closed doors, he used the opportunity to change into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. The one room apartment didn’t allow for much privacy.

  Seeing her list on the counter, he picked it up and scanned through it. “Cat’s name is Jade,” he read. “Mother’s name is Mimi, Dad’s name is Doyle, they’ve been living in Belfast for the past two years. Sister Kaitlyn and husband Mark live in Chicago.” He’s an attorney, she’s a mom, Bailey had written beside their names.

  He fixed himself a second cup of coffee and went back to the list. “Sister and hubby have three point five kids; Dillon, eight, Patrick, seven, Kelly, five and one on the way. The attorney and Fertile Myrtle have been busy,” Quinn murmured.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” Quinn said, looking up from the paper. She’d combed her hair and scrubbed the remains of last night’s make-up from her face, giving her skin a healthy pink glow. Soft wispy bangs s
wept across her forehead, making her look much younger than her twenty-eight years, and the wrinkled, green, halter dress suddenly looked out of place on her trim, lithe body.

  Smiling, she came toward him. “I thought of a few more things. I don’t know if it will help much, but my dad hates being called ‘old man’, and he hates when people don’t laugh at his jokes. And my mother gets dizzy very easily.” She lifted a shoulder. “Do you have any questions?”

  Quinn glanced quickly at the list again. “Well, there’s certainly plenty of information about your family here, but what about you? For instance, what do you do?”

  “Do? What do you mean?” She set her shoes on the floor, and her purse on the bar, then slid onto the seat.

  “I mean, do you jog? Do you like to cook? Do you always pick up strange men in bars?” The last question had slipped carelessly from his tongue.

  Folding her arms in front of her, and looking at him defiantly, she said, “No, no and no.”

  “Just curious. I’m supposed to know you pretty well, aren’t I?” Quinn drained his mug.

  “Yes, and you’re right. I’m sorry.” She dropped her arms and relaxed her shoulders. “Fire away, Mr. Quinn. Ask me anything.”

  “It’s just Quinn,” he said. “So, what did you and what’s-his-face do when you were together?”

  “Stanley,” she said. “Stanley Ernst Davenport.”

  Stanley Ernst Davenport. How in hell was he supposed to impersonate a guy with a name like that?

  “We did the usual things people do together,” she added, her face and neck suddenly flushing. “Well that’s not entirely true. I mean, Stanley and I weren’t sleeping together, if that’s what you wanted to know.”

  “That’s not--What I’d meant was, did you go to dinner? The movies? Play cards? What?” Quinn swallowed hard, leaned a hip against the kitchen counter and tried to keep his eyes off her lips, and her breasts. “Why weren’t you sleeping together?” he asked suddenly, already regretting it. What business was it of his?

  “Stanley didn’t believe in pre-marital sex.”

  “Why the hell not? What was wrong with him?”

  “Nothing.” She cleared her throat and averted her eyes. “Stanley used to play the piano for me,” she said, changing the subject. “He’s a concert pianist. I don’t think I mentioned that before.”

  “No, you didn’t.” A concert pianist. Already Quinn had no use for the guy. Surely he wouldn’t have to learn how to play the piano by tonight, would he? Nah. She’d said dinner. Nothing more. After she refused his offer for more coffee, he gathered the dirty mugs, put them in the kitchen sink, and rinsed them. “Anything else we need to rehearse before tonight?”

  She grew pensive, bringing her forefinger to her temple. “Well, there is one more thing.”

  “Yeah,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “What is it?” He picked up a dish towel, dried his hands and tossed it aside.

  “The fact that we’re virtually strangers could be a dead giveaway to my family.” She shrugged one shoulder briefly. “So, I thought, maybe we should get to know each other a little better before tonight.”

  “I thought that was what we were doing.”

  “I didn’t mean psychologically. What I’d meant was,” she said pausing momentarily, “that we should get to know each other in a more . . . physical way.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Quinn’s eyebrows shot up. “How physical?” he asked, anticipation and dread filling his senses at the same time.

  A faint light twinkled in the depths of her eyes. “Maybe we should kiss and touch. Couples who are engaged to be married usually feel comfortable kissing, touching, holding hands, that sort of thing. A person’s body language can say so much.”

  Quinn swallowed hard. “Uh, huh.”

  Chewing on her bottom lip, her gaze implored him. “I’d hate for you to touch me during dinner tonight and then have my family sense my awkwardness. They’d know right away that something wasn’t right.”

  He hadn’t thought about that. She was pretty smart. “You’re right. That wouldn’t be good.”

  “So, what do you think?” she asked, moistening her lips. “Do you want to give it a try?”

  “Sure.” The word had escaped before he had a chance to stop it. Of course, he wanted to kiss her. He wasn’t a fool. But rather than move around the bar, he stayed where he was, watching her as she squared her shoulders and sat up straight, her eyes growing huge with anticipation.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you want me to come over there?”

  “No!” he said, clearing his throat. “No, I’m coming.” He was behaving like a nervous teenager, and he had no idea why. It was just a kiss. Something he’d done hundreds of times, maybe thousands.

  Rounding the corner of the breakfast bar, he came to stand in front of her. Leaning forward he pressed his mouth to hers and kissed her gently . . . slowly . . . thoughtfully. Her lips were silky smooth, and he felt the flutter of her thick lashes against his cheek. The faint traces of some exotic perfume clung to her skin and worked its way into his system. Jasmine, he thought, reveling in the scent.

  When he broke away, Bailey’s eyes opened slowly, and she smiled. A pulse beat at the base of her slender throat. “That was pretty good. Do you think we should try it again?”

  “Most definitely,” he groaned, reclaiming her mouth, and burying his hands in her silky hair. Raising her arms she rested her hands on his shoulders. Quinn forced her lips open, and with his thrusting tongue explored the recesses of her mouth, tasting and teasing her.

  Moaning softly, the pressure of her hands grew firmer until she dug her nails into him. Occasionally her knee brushed his thigh, giving him a jolt, and her small breasts were crushed to his chest. He wanted to touch them in the worst way, but Quinn didn’t think that’s what she’d meant by “kissing and touching”. Feeling his jeans tightening in front, he knew he should stop before things got out of control. His lips left hers to nibble at her earlobe. “Do you think that was enough,” he whispered, “or should we go for broke?”

  With the palms of her hands, Bailey pushed at his chest. “No,” she gasped, “that was definitely enough for me.”

  Quinn gazed into her eyes, then stepping away from her, he dragged his hands through his hair. The more distance between them the better. He dropped into the leather recliner and watched as she scrambled off the stool and stepped into her white strappy sandals.

  “I should really be going. I have a million things to do today before my family gets here. And since I can’t cook, I have to order something for us to eat for dinner.” Looking flustered, she picked up her handbag, forced a smile and headed toward the door. “Well, it’s been . . . fun.”

  “Not so fast,” he said. “I have no idea where you live.”

  She spun around to face him fully. “How silly of me.” She rattled off her address. Bailey lived in one of the beachfront houses on the peninsula. She inched backward toward the door, then suddenly her face lit up. “I just had an idea.”

  Hopefully, it involved more kissing. And maybe touching this time.

  “Stanley’s house is next door to mine, and I have a key.” Shrugging her shoulders, she said, “It only makes sense that you sleep there tonight . . .”

  Quinn raised a hand. “I don’t think--”

  “But you have to. Mom and Dad will be expecting you to go home after dinner, and--Well, they might get suspicious if you just drive off somewhere.”

  “We’ll see.” Blowing out a long breath, he stood. “Why don’t you let me take care of dinner tonight,” he offered.

  “I couldn’t ask you to--”

  “You didn’t ask. I offered.”

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling and twisting her fingers together. “That would be such a relief.”

  “And, Bailey, if it’s any consolation, I plan to pay back the money, with interest. Consider it a loan.”

&nbs
p; She looked surprised. “But what about the deal we made?”

  “A loan. I insist.”

  “Okay.”

  They made a plan for later, and then Bailey took her leave.

  After she’d gone, Quinn tried to erase that kiss and the taste of her lips from his mind. He’d never planned on getting involved with the lady. It was a business deal, nothing more. Not that they were involved. Still, that kiss . . .

  “What the hell did I get myself into?” he muttered.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Quinn was a lifesaver, Bailey decided. He’d shown up a few hours ago armed with two bags of groceries and an expensive bottle of wine. He’d been in her kitchen ever since. If it weren’t for him, she’d be re-heating the contents of paper cartons right about now.

  “Mmmm,” she said, sweeping into the kitchen, recognizing the scent of fresh garlic and dill. “It smells delicious.”

  “Thanks.” Quinn glanced over his shoulder as he picked up a wooden spoon. “I hope everyone enjoys it.” He was dressed in faded blue jeans again, which seemed to be his trademark. Stanley would have worn a suit and tie to meet her parents for the first time, but since Quinn wasn’t supposed to make a good impression with her family--other than the meal he was preparing--she decided his attire was perfect.

  “I’m sure they will. What are we having?” she asked, trying to peek around his massive shoulders as he stirred the contents of a pot. It had a spicy aroma.

  With his back to her, he said, “Roasted red pepper soup, tossed salad with honey Dijon dressing, poached salmon with dill sauce, twice baked potatoes, and green bean almondine. Oh, and my famous key lime pie for dessert.”

  Bailey couldn’t believe it. “Wow! Where did you learn to cook like that?”

  He turned away from the stainless steel stove and faced her. “First from my grandmother, and then my mother. My parents used to own a little Italian restaurant downtown.”

  “Italian? I thought you were Irish, like me.”

  “Half. My father’s Irish, and my mother’s Italian.” He picked up a dishrag, stuck it under the faucet and began wiping off the white tiled counters where he’d been working. Bailey watched with interest the way his muscular arms and narrow hips swayed with his movements. “The pie is chilling, the potatoes are in the oven, and the soup’s done. I just need to toss the salad and cook the fish and beans once everyone arrives. Give me half an hour’s notice before you plan to eat.”