Bailey's Irish Dream

by Debby Conrad

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I don’t believe this!” Quinn swore again, raking his hands through his hair while Bailey scrambled into her bra and fastened it. He didn’t want to look at her, but he couldn’t help himself. She was so slender. So fragile. And a virgin for chrissakes!

  Resting a hip against the breakfast bar he buried his face in his hands. “Ouch!” he yelled. He’d almost forgotten about his swollen face.

  “I’m a virgin, for God’s sake,” Bailey said, bending over and reaching for her blouse. “It’s not like I have some contagious disease.”

  “Why, Bailey? You’re twenty-eight years old. Nobody is a virgin at twenty-eight.”

  Buttoning her blouse with trembling fingers, she shrugged and said, “I’d just never met anyone I wanted to make love with before.”

  “You were engaged three times! How could you not want to make love with the men you’d planned to marry?”

  Her voice rose an octave. “I don’t know, okay?” She lifted her chin and glared at him. “But I’d just never had the urge . . . before now.”

  “I don’t believe this,” he said again. “In another minute I would have been inside you.” She looked away, clearly embarrassed. “Why me, Bailey?”

  Slowly, she turned her head toward him. “I don’t know. Maybe because I felt . . . sorry for you.”

  That did it! The anger came bubbling out of him like hot lava from an exploding volcano. “You felt sorry for me? What was this supposed to be?” he shouted, moving toward her. “Some kind of mercy fu--” He stopped short of saying the word.

  “Stop it! Stop shouting at me!” She balled her hands into fists and planted them on her hips. “And you don’t need to be vulgar.”

  “I’m not the one who’s vulgar.” He pointed a finger at her turned up nose. “What you did, that was vulgar. Why don’t you just admit why you almost let me--” Quinn broke off, choosing his words more carefully this time. “Why don’t you just admit you have the hots for me? That you can’t control yourself when I’m anywhere near you?”

  “You are so full of yourself.”

  “Am I?” he taunted. Tracing a finger along her bare arm, he smiled satisfactorily when she quivered.

  Shoving his hand away, she crossed her arms over her chest, and shot him a cool haughty look. “I don’t feel like discussing this any further.”

  Well, neither did he.

  Finally, suppressing his anger, he said, “Let’s get out of here, before we both do something we’re liable to regret.” Because Quinn knew, if he had to look at her a moment longer, he was going to finish what they’d started. And that could be the biggest mistake of his life.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  They’d taken Bailey’s car downtown to FBI Headquarters and were immediately met by an agent. Agent Tanelli was a stocky man, close to fifty years old, with short black curly hair. He listened intently to both she and Quinn, but after a barrage of questions, she wasn’t sure the agent believed their story.

  Tanelli removed the gold wire-rimmed glasses from his face and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Now, let’s see if I have this straight,” he said, putting his glasses back in place. “These two men said they were looking for your fiancé, Stanley Davenport. Is that correct?” He looked pointedly at her from across the scarred mahogany desk.

  “My ex-fiancé,” Bailey corrected.

  “Oh, that’s right. Mr. Quinn here,” the man said, glancing at Quinn, eyebrows raised, “is now your fiancé.” Quinn narrowed his eyes at the man.

  “My pretend fiancé,” she said.

  Tanelli nodded as he wrote something on a yellow legal pad. “Pretend fiancé.” Looking up again, he said, “And you offered to pay Mr. Quinn a large sum of money to impersonate another man, right?”

  “Yes, but then Quinn said he didn’t want any money.” Why was he making this so darn difficult? she wondered.

  “Uh, huh,” he said, writing again. “Because you’re old friends, he decided to help you out of a tough situation with your family. Was that it?”

  “No,” Bailey said, wringing her hands in her lap and moistening her lips. “Mr. Quinn and I are not old friends. I barely know him. I only met him two days ago. The day I asked him to help me.” How much simpler could she make this for him? She thought FBI agents were supposed to be smart, but she wondered about this guy.

  “So, you asked a complete stranger to help you, and offered to pay him one hundred thousand dollars if he’d come to dinner at your house?”

  “Yes.” Bailey smiled at Quinn, who shook his head and refused to look at her.

  “I’ll bet he jumped at the chance.”

  “Look, Agent Tanelli,” Quinn said. “I’m not the bad guy here. I’m just trying to protect Ms. Maguire.”

  “By extorting money from her?” the agent asked.

  “I never extorted any money from her. I tore up the check she gave me.”

  “I thought you said earlier she never gave you any money?”

  Quinn leaned forward in his chair and swallowed so hard, Bailey could hear him. “Look,” he said, punctuating the word, “There are two thugs out there who tried to rearrange my face today. Now are you going to help us, or what?”

  Bailey tapped Quinn’s shoulder, and he jerked his head toward her. “What?” he snapped.

  “Quinn, it wouldn’t be fair to blame those guys--as much as I didn’t care for them--for smashing the right side of your face.” Bailey turned her attention to Agent Tanelli. “That side was already damaged before the bad guys arrived.”

  “I see. Who was it that tried to take out your right eye, Mr. Quinn?”

  When Quinn didn’t answer, Bailey nudged him in the arm. “Tell him. Tell him about the dissatisfied customer.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched, but still Quinn didn’t answer.

  Agent Tanelli zoomed in on Quinn. “So how long have you known Stanley Davenport?”

  “I don’t know him. I never met the man.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re just impersonating him.” He made another note.

  Quinn surprised Bailey, pulling her to her feet. “C’mon, let’s go. This guy thinks we’re a couple of crackpots.”

  Bailey shrugged him off and whirled on Agent Tanelli. “We’re not crackpots. Or at least I’m not,” she said, glancing at Quinn. “We just want you to help us find the diamonds, so we can give them to the bad guys.”

  “Well, I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Ms. Maguire.”

  “Sorry we wasted your time,” Quinn said to the agent, then picked Bailey up, tossed her over his shoulder, and hauled her out of the office.

  Once outside, Bailey punched him in the shoulder. “Put me down before you get arrested for abducting me.”

  He set her on the curb next to her car and glared at her. “Why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut, and let me handle it? I told you not to say anything.”

  “Well, excuse me, but I don’t have to listen to you.”

  “You don’t listen to anyone apparently. You’re so damn headstrong.” He lifted a finger and pointed it at her. “If you would have taken my advice that day at the bar and told your parents the truth, none of this would have happened today. Or maybe you should have listened to your friend Gwen when she told you to buy a vibrator and swear off men for good. Obviously you have no need for them.”

  “I knew it! I knew you were eavesdropping that day!” Pulling her keys from her pocket, she started around the front of the car.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, rounding on her. “I’m not letting you drive again. You almost got us killed twice on the way here.”

  Rather than argue, Bailey tossed the keys at him, got in the passenger side and buckled up. Quinn hopped inside, jerked away from the curb, and sped away. “Nice car,” were the only words he said on the way home.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  After stopping at the bar for Quinn’s bike, he followed Bailey to her house. It was all she could do to keep her ey
es on the road and off the motorcycle behind her. Or rather the man on the motorcycle.

  He infuriated her. So, how could she have behaved so shamelessly in his apartment? Maybe because ever since she’d met the man, she hadn’t been herself. That’s why.

  Maybe her mother was right, and she needed to see a psychiatrist. But what would she tell a shrink? I met this man . . . a man I’m not even sure I like very much. And ever since then I’ve had this strange desire to lose my virginity?

  She pulled into her drive, Quinn directly behind her. Getting out of her car, she slammed the door and headed toward the house just as he hopped off the bike.

  “Wait a minute,” Quinn said, catching her by the arm. He sucked in a huge breath, releasing it slowly. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” she asked.

  “For everything.”

  “Fine,” she said, refusing to look at him.

  He didn’t release her. Instead, he lifted the sunglasses from her face and gazed into her eyes. “Fine? Not I’m sorry too?”

  She straightened herself with dignity, her lips twisting into a cynical smile. “I have nothing to be sorry for. If you expect me to apologize because I’m a virgin, then you’re sadly mistaken.”

  “I wasn’t mad because you’re a virgin,” he said between his teeth.

  “Well, that’s so noble of you.”

  “I was angry at myself for almost . . .” He paused a moment. “You could have told me.”

  “I did tell you.”

  “I meant a little sooner.”

  “What did you want me to do? Wear a sign across my chest, advertising it?” She streaked her fingers across the front of her blouse. “I’m a virgin,” she yelled, “in big, bold letters, just in case anyone was wondering?”

  “Damnit, Bailey, I’m trying to--”

  “There you are!” Mimi opened the screen door, stuck her head out and smiled at her. Turning her attention to Quinn, she asked, “What’s wrong with your face?” and stared at him like he had some kind of deformity.

  “I’m accident-prone.”

  Mimi raised her eyebrows, then looked at Bailey. “Where have you been all afternoon? I was getting worried. You should come in out of that heat and lie down. I’ll get you a nice cold glass of milk.”

  Before Bailey had a chance to tell her mother she didn’t want any milk, Mimi spoke again. “And while you’re resting, Stanley and I are going to have a little chat.”

  Bailey’s eyes drifted toward Quinn, silently apologizing for her mother.

  “Great,” she heard Quinn mumble.

  “Why don’t you pour the milk, and I’ll be right in,” Bailey suggested. “I just need to talk to Stanley alone for a minute.”

  She tugged him to the side of the house, out of hearing range. “Quinn, please behave yourself. My mother isn’t well. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but she’s been seeing a psychiatrist.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me? Maybe you should go with her. They might have a two-for-one special.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You don’t need a special rate, because you have so damn much money to throw around, it doesn’t matter.” There was a bitter edge of cynicism in his voice.

  Bailey stiffened, momentarily abashed. “Are you through insulting me?”

  He at least had the decency to look ashamed. “Why does your mother want to talk to me? And when are you going to tell her the truth?”

  “I don’t know. Just do this for me. Please,” she begged, swallowing the despair in her throat. “Please, Quinn.”

  His answer was a strangled sigh. He handed the sunglasses back to her. “I know I’m going to regret this.”

  “Thank you. I owe you.” Standing on her tip-toes, she kissed his mouth quickly and then, taking his hand in hers, dragged him inside the house.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I wanted to speak to you alone?” Mimi Maguire began, once she’d shooed Bailey out of the kitchen.

  For the second time that day, Quinn knew he was about to be reprimanded by another Maguire for his so-called sins. Shrugging, he said, “The thought crossed my mind.” He picked up the glass of lemonade Bailey had poured for him and chugged it down.

  “Well, I’ll tell you why.” Mimi Maguire pulled out the chair across from him and sat. “I decided that my daughter would never have agreed to marry you if you weren’t a decent man. In spite of how hard you tried to make us think otherwise last night.”

  She was pretty shrewd, he thought.

  “I finally came to the conclusion that since you’re a performer, that maybe you were a comedian as well. And that maybe most of the things you’d said last evening weren’t really true.” Her face was full of strength, her lips parting in a stiff smile. “Am I getting warm?”

  Quinn sighed. “Pretty warm.”

  That brought a full-fledged smile to her face. “I thought so.” She took a sip of lemonade from her own glass and set it down carefully. “So, you don’t really have four children. Do you, Stanley?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And you never married a teenager by the name of Bambi. Did you?”

  “No,” he said.

  She crossed herself and mumbled something that sounded to Quinn like “Thank you, Lord.” Smiling again, she said, “I’m certainly happy to hear that. Now then . . . I’ve been trying really hard to like you since you’re Bailey’s choice.”

  “Thank you,” he said simply. He wished he had the nerve to just tell her he wasn’t Stanley, and he was not Bailey’s choice. But right then the only thing on his mind was keeping Bailey safe. Those thugs had threatened her, turning Quinn’s blood cold. And that was the only reason he was here playing this little game. The other reason was that he’d promised Bailey he would behave himself in front of her mother.

  “I want my daughter to be happy.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Quinn squirmed in his seat, wondering what was coming next.

  “I’m delighted she’s pregnant. Although I would have preferred to find out after the wedding. But I’m not a prude, Stanley. I was young once too. And I understand how difficult it must have been trying to . . . restrain yourself.”

  No, I don’t think you do, he wanted to say, his memories of that afternoon in his apartment clear and vivid.

  Quinn watched as she blotted the moisture beads from her glass with a napkin. “I want you to promise me something.”

  Uh, oh. “I’ll try,” he said, already regretting his words.

  “I want you to promise me that you’ll listen when Bailey talks to you.”

  That wasn’t so bad. And besides, how could he not help but listen to Bailey when she talked? She was the type of woman who got right in your face and made sure she had the last word. “Okay, sure.”

  “I mean, really listen to her. Don’t go dragging her off to another country to live just because she happens to say it’s beautiful there. Listen to what’s in her heart.”

  Quinn looked at her, confused. “I take it you don’t like Ireland?”

  Her chin popped up. “I love Ireland. I just don’t want to spend the rest of my life in exile, away from my daughters and grandchildren.”

  “So, why don’t you tell your husband this?”

  She waved a hand at him. “Because that thick-headed Irishman doesn’t listen to a word I say.”

  Well, finally they agreed on something. “But--”

  She stayed him with a hand. “This isn’t about me, and what I want. This is about Bailey, and what she wants.”

  “What is it you think she wants?” Quinn hoped he was treading lightly.

  “I think she wants you. That’s obvious. And I know she wants this baby.”

  Quinn nearly choked. There was no baby. And Bailey certainly didn’t want him. Not for her husband, anyway. “How do you know that? Have you listened to what’s in her heart?”

  “I know my daughter,” she said firmly, refusing to budg
e an inch.

  “I don’t mean any disrespect, ma’am, but what if you don’t know her as well as you think you do?”

  “Don’t be silly.” She smiled, almost laughing.

  Pushing forward, he asked, “What if Bailey doesn’t really want marriage and babies? What if what she really wants is a career?”

  Mimi Maguire’s mouth dropped open. “There you go again, Stanley, with that comedian stuff. But you seemed to have forgotten something.”

  “Yeah? And what is that?”

  Her pale face flushed. “I saw the way Bailey looks at you. And believe me, she has never looked at another man that way before. I know true love when I see it.” After that eloquent speech, Mimi got up from the table, apparently done with her lecture, and left Quinn speechless.

  Just how in the hell did Bailey look at him that would make her mother jump to such a ridiculous conclusion? No wonder Mimi was seeing a shrink. The woman must be psychotic.

  But then, why should he be surprised? Like mother, like daughter, he thought.

  CHAPTER NINE

  For the second night in a row Quinn cooked dinner for the Maguires. Fajitas this time, because Dillon had suggested it. The boy had even surprised Quinn by eating three of them.

  After dinner Quinn persuaded Dillon to help him with the kitchen mess. “I hate doing dishes,” Dillon complained as he wedged a glass in the top rack of the dishwasher. “This is girl stuff.”

  Quinn raised a brow and handed the boy another glass. “Yeah? Says who?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, lifting his shoulders.

  ‘The way I look at it is, you eat, you help clean up. Simple as that. When I was growing up, I did the dishes every night.”

  “You did? I bet that sucked. Is that why you like cooking and all that stuff? Because you had to do the dishes so much?”

  Quinn smiled at the boy. “I like it because it’s therapeutic. When I’m cooking I reflect about my life.”

  “Oh,” he said, sounding as if he had no idea what Quinn meant.

  “Which reminds me,” Quinn said, drying his hands on a dishtowel and passing it to Dillon. “Have you been watching your mouth around your little sister?”