Killian's Passion

by Barbara Mccauley

  “Hey, Blondie,” he whispered in her ear.

  She opened one sleepy eye. “We here?”

  “We’re here.”

  She amazed him. Any other woman would have been in hysterics, or gone to pieces after a day like she’d had. But she’d hung in there, was still hanging in there. She’d nearly lost her life; her clothes and expensive camera had been destroyed; and the only thing that had seemed to upset her was that Julianna’s dress and shoes had been ruined.

  There’d been no time to stop after picking up Cara’s rental car from Walt, so they both still wore the same clothes they’d had on this morning. They smelled like smoke, and his flannel shirt had tiny black holes where flying embers had burned through. In general, they were both pretty ragged, but he thought she’d never looked more beautiful to him. He wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her, make love to her again and again.

  But that, he thought with a sigh, would have to wait.

  “If you’d rather, we could do this in the morning,” he offered.

  Shaking her head, she sat up and dragged her hands through her tangled hair. “Margaret’s anxious to meet you. She’s been waiting since I called her from the Dallas airport and told her you were coming.”

  He nodded and opened his door. “Let’s do it, then.”

  The porch light was on over Margaret’s front door. Cara paused and looked up at Ian, then reached for the shiny brass knocker.

  Ian felt a strange twist in his stomach. His palms were damp. I’m tired, he told himself. That’s all. Just tired.

  A slender man answered the door. About thirty-six or seven, five-nine, Ian guessed. Short brown hair, thick, wireframed glasses. Custom-made white button-up shirt and tailored black dress slacks. Manicured hands.

  “Cara.” The man smiled broadly.

  “Hello, Peter.” Cara returned the smile.

  The man—Peter—pulled Cara snugly into his arms. A little too snugly, Ian thought irritably when he didn’t release her right away. Ian felt his shoulders relax when the man finally stepped away.

  “Good God, what’s happened to you? Are you all right?” Peter took in Cara’s rumpled appearance.

  “I’m fine, but I’ll explain everything later.” She glanced at Ian. “Peter, this is Killian Shawnessy. Killian, Peter Muldoon, your cousin.”

  “A pleasure to finally meet you.” Peter’s smile was friendly, his handshake firm. “We’ve been waiting for you. Please, come in.”

  They stepped inside the entry. The floor was white marble, the staircase polished mahogany. Nineteenth-century paintings of Victorian life and landscapes covered the walls, and the scent of red roses on an oak entry table filled the air.

  “Where’s Margaret?” Cara asked as Peter led them through a set of double doors to the left of the staircase.

  “She’s been a bundle of nerves since your call this morning,” Peter replied. “I thought she should rest in her room until you got here.”

  Cara frowned. “Has she been taking her medication?”

  The room they entered was dark wood with hunter green carpet. Two leather chairs faced an antique desk, and a massive grandfather clock beside the fireplace ticked loudly.

  “As long as I stand over her and watch. Even then, I think she spits it out when I’m not looking. The woman is stubborn down to her toes.” Peter smiled apologetically at Ian. “Sorry. That’s no way to introduce you to your grandmother. I’ll be right back.”

  Ian glanced at Cara when Peter had left. She shifted restlessly, nibbling on her bottom lip. She was worried, he realized, and moved beside her. When she looked up at him, he cupped her chin in his hand. “In spite of what you might think of me,” he said softly, “I’m not a heartless bastard.”

  She gave him her first real smile since the cabin had exploded. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. That’s so.” He rubbed his thumb along her soft cheek and was delighted at the light that sprang into her eyes. He wanted to see that light there again, later, with her naked body under his while he—

  “Just like a Muldoon. Can’t keep his hands off a pretty woman.”

  At the sound of the woman’s deep voice, Ian dropped his hand and turned abruptly.

  She was tall, looked remarkably young for her age. She wore white linen slacks and a chocolate-brown silk blouse that matched the color of her eyes; sharp, clear eyes that moved over him, assessed him with quick intelligence. Eyes that felt strangely familiar. Her hair was silver, short and thick and swept back from her angular face.

  She moved into the room, keeping her gaze steady with his, and that’s when he noticed she had a cane, the only sign of frailty that Ian could see. She stopped two feet away and frowned suddenly.

  “Why on God’s Good Earth do you look as if you’ve been chewed up and spit out?” she asked briskly. “Are you homeless?”

  He couldn’t help but smile. “No, ma’am. But I’m afraid it’s a long story.”

  “When you’re old, all stories are long.” Glancing at Cara, Margaret’s brow furrowed deeply. “Are you all right, my dear? You look absolutely tattered.”

  “I’m fine.” Cara smiled and moved into the embrace Margaret offered. “It’s just been a busy day.”

  “Indeed.” Margaret turned to Peter, who’d been standing by the doors. “Peter, take care of Cara while I speak with my grandson, will you? She looks as if she’s starving. And ask Emily to make sandwiches and coffee and send them in here. We’ll be occupied for a while.”

  Ian looked at Cara and nodded for her to go ahead. Still, when he watched Peter put his hand on Cara’s back and lead her from the room, he felt a muscle twitch in his jaw.

  “You needn’t worry about Peter,” Margaret said firmly when the door had closed. “He’s tried every which way to catch that girl’s attention, and she hasn’t even blinked. It’s going to take someone much more—” she hesitated “—robust, shall we say?”

  The woman didn’t miss a thing, Ian noted with a lift of his brow. “Mrs. Muldoon—”

  “Try Margaret for now, see how that feels.” Her eyes softened as she took his chin in her hand and studied his face: “You look exactly like your father, especially the eyes. Dark and dangerous and a little wild. But you have your mother’s hair, the same color, the same texture. She was a beautiful girl. Only seventeen when you were born.”

  “You can’t be certain your son was the father of her. baby,” Ian said.

  She reached behind him and pulled a photograph from the mantel. “Oh, but I am.”

  The man in the photograph was younger, but they had the same chin and angular cheekbones, the same expression. And she was right about the eyes, too. It was like looking into a mirror, he thought in stunned amazement. They could have been brothers, twins, even.

  Or father and son.

  He stared at the picture, then slowly lifted his gaze to Margaret. He had to clear the tightness in his voice before he could speak. “I don’t know what to say.”

  She smiled, then gestured to the chairs beside the desk. “Right now, let’s just start with that long story of yours. Something tells me it’s going to be fascinating.”

  After eating a light dinner prepared by Margaret’s housekeeper, Cara asked Peter if he’d mind driving her home. She’d decided that it would easier for both her and Ian if there were no goodbyes. She couldn’t imagine standing there shaking his hand while Margaret and Peter stood by watching. What would she possibly say? “Thanks, Mr. Shawnessy, it’s been swell?”

  She’d have ended up in a puddle at his feet, crying her eyes out like a baby. And that was one humiliation she couldn’t bear.

  Her goal had been to bring him to Philadelphia to meet his grandmother and cousin, and she’d accomplished that. What she needed to do now was put everything that had happened between her and Ian behind her and get on with her life.

  And while she was at it, she might end world hunger and teach a pig to sing.

  Sighing, she glanced over at Peter as he parked h
is Lexus in front of her apartment building and cut the engine.

  “I can come up with you, if you like,” he offered.

  Cara saw the hope in Peter’s eyes and wished she could feel even a little for him of what she felt for Ian. How easy that would make life. How simple. But she couldn’t. It just wasn’t there. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t be very good company right now. Tell Margaret I’ll call her in the morning.”

  She kissed his cheek, then got out of the car, glad that he hadn’t insisted on coming up with her. Not that Peter would have insisted, of course. It simply wasn’t in the softspoken man’s nature to be pushy.

  Unlike some men, she thought as she headed up the stairs to her second-story apartment. Some men—one in particular with the initials KS—were downright bullies when it came to getting their own way.

  She’d had four big brothers telling her what to do her entire life, and she’d naturally rebelled. But for the first time, with Ian, she hadn’t minded someone telling her what to do. In fact, she’d actually welcomed it. She’d been in a daze since the cabin had exploded, and she’d desperately needed someone to lean on. Someone to take charge. And he had, with a calm and a resourcefulness that had amazed her.

  It was strange, she thought as she slipped her spare key from her hiding cubby behind a modified piece of door molding and opened her door. Strange just how calm and resourceful he’d been. As if he handled bombs exploding every day. Not to mention getting new ID and last-minute travel arrangements.

  Very strange.

  An odd sensation rippled through her, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but she shrugged the feeling off and slipped her key back into its hiding place. She was tired, and it most certainly had been a long day. All she needed was a long, hot shower and a good night’s sleep. First thing tomorrow she’d start a file search in her computer. By a simple process of elimination, she should be able to come up with a list of individuals who might be after her.

  She sorted through the mound of mail her landlady had collected for her, then listened to her phone messages before heading to the bathroom where she stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower. The water was hot, the blast strong, and she closed her eyes with a sigh as she dumped raspberry-scented shampoo over her head and scrubbed.

  At the click of the shower door opening, Cara drew in a breath to scream, but gasped instead at the sight of Ian standing there.

  “Damn you, Shawnessy!” She grabbed a bottle of conditioner and threw it at him. “You scared the hell out of me!”

  “Sorry.” He ducked the missile, then grinned at her and let his hot gaze slowly rake over her wet, naked body. “You deserve it for walking out on me without so much as a word.”

  “You needed to spend time alone with Margaret,” she insisted, and as much as she wanted to know how their meeting had gone, this hardly seemed the time. She tried to cover herself with her hands, but when her efforts proved futile, she turned her back to him instead and glared at him over her shoulder. “Do you think we could discuss this later?”

  He folded his arms and gave equal attention to her backside. “I want to discuss it now.”

  “Ian, I’m taking a shower, for God’s sake!”

  “Good idea.” He dragged off his boots, then started to unbutton his shirt. “I’ll join you and we can talk at the same time.”

  “I didn’t ask you to join me.” She watched him strip off his shirt, then unzip his jeans. Her knees went weak when he shoved the denim down. “And I don’t want to talk, either,” she snapped.

  “Okay.” He stepped into the shower and closed the door behind him. “We won’t talk then.”

  He hauled her into his arms, buried his hands in her wet hair and dragged her mouth to his. His kiss was deep, hungry. Urgent. Desire pulsed through her veins as he pressed her back against the cool tile, thigh to thigh, torso to torso, skin to skin. The feel of his hard, powerful body against hers made her heart pound.

  “Ian.” She pulled her mouth from his, struggled to catch her breath. “How did you get in here, anyway? I know I locked my door.”

  He bent and nuzzled her neck while his rough hands moved over her shoulders, down her slick, wet sides. “Margaret gave me a key. When you didn’t answer my knock, I let myself in.”

  “Margaret gave you a key?” she sputtered. “Margaret knows that you came over here?”

  He raised his head and frowned at her. “Of course she knows. Where else would I be sleeping tonight?”

  “At Margaret’s, of course.” She felt her cheeks burn, and as his hand rounded her bare behind, her blood burned, as well. “What will she think?”

  “She’s a very bright woman, Sinclair, and she’s not blind.” He lifted her hip to fit more snugly to his. “It’s obvious we’re sleeping together.”

  Cara groaned at that, or maybe she groaned because his hands had moved up to her breasts. “How will I face her? She sent me as her friend to find you, not seduce you.”

  His laugh was husky and deep. “Is that what you did, seduce me?” He kept his dark gaze on hers while his thumbs circled the hardened peaks of her breasts. “And here I thought it was the other way around.”

  “I let you think that,” she said breathlessly, arching into his hands. “Male pride is such a delicate thing.”

  “Delicate?” He lifted her, pressed her tightly against the shower wall, then slowly brought her back down onto his arousal. “Surely you can come up with a better word than that.”

  Several came to her mind, not one of them was close to delicate. This man was strong and tough, virile. The dark stubble of his beard, the wild, intense look in his eyes, the hard, square set of his jaw. Everything about Ian was powerfully, incredibly male.

  Steam swirled around them, hot water pounded their bodies. Shampoo still lingered on her shoulders, and the scent of raspberries filled the damp air.

  She gasped his name, wrapped her legs tightly around his waist and held on to his wet shoulders while he moved inside her. Need, as sharp as it was urgent, shuddered through her. She wanted this man, only this man.

  She loved him. With her heart, her mind, her soul. Nothing had ever felt so right before. She was certain nothing ever would again.

  As if he’d read her thoughts, he went still. His breathing was ragged, his gaze intense. His hold on her tightened almost painfully as he stared deeply into her eyes.

  “Cara,” he whispered her name as he never had before. With such tenderness, she thought she might cry. But there were no promises, no words of love. She saw the sorrow in his eyes, knew that he wanted her to understand. He cared about her, but that was all he could offer.

  And if that was all he could offer, then that’s what she would take. But he’d never forget her, she resolved. She’d make certain that he remembered her, that every minute they were together would be etched in his memory.

  She cupped his face in her hands, felt the scrape of his beard on her palms. “Kiss me,” she demanded, and brought his mouth to hers.

  Hot water sluiced over their joined bodies as he moved inside her, slowly at first, increasing the rhythm with each pleasure-building thrust. She moved with him, murmuring his name and trembling with need.

  “Hurry.” She dragged her nails over his strong, wet shoulders. “Please hurry.”

  The sound he made in the back of his throat was raw and wild, desperate. Her heart thundered in her head, and she felt as if she’d been turned inside out, with every nerve open and exposed. She held on tightly, clamped her body to his and rode the pleasure upward, higher, faster, until she reached the crest with a shattering cry.

  His hands tightened on her; with a deep, guttural groan, he shattered, as well.

  Eleven

  He woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of traffic from the street below. Sunlight streamed in, hot and bright, through the lace curtains, blasting his face with the force of a laser gun. Groaning, he sat on the edge of the bed and scrubbed a hand over his face.

&nbs
p; The bedroom came into focus after several moments, and he glanced curiously at his surroundings. It had been dark last night when they’d tumbled into bed, and he hadn’t been interested in Cara’s decorating scheme. He’d been much more interested in the room’s green-eyed, long-legged occupant, and the feel of her body when he’d made love to her in her bed.

  The walls were a pale pink, with a stenciled border of colorful flowers that matched the bedspread. Dried flowers spilled out of a basket on top of a white-washed pine armoire, and glass-framed water colors of English cottages and gardens brightened the walls. Everything about the room was feminine, including the delicate fragrance of lavender that drifted from a crystal bowl filled with potpourri.

  “Good morning.”

  She stood at the bedroom door, wearing satin boxer pajamas the green of pistachios, a cup of steaming coffee in her hand.

  “Morning.”

  Smiling, she crossed the room and handed him the mug. “Looks like you could use this.”

  “Only if it’s thick as mud and black as grease.” He took the cup and downed half of it. When the hot liquid began to seep into his bloodstream, he could have cried from the pleasure. “Woman, you do know how to bring a man to his knees.”

  “You mean to tell me that all I ever needed to get you here was a strong cup of coffee?” She cocked a fist on one satin-covered hip. “And to think of all the time I wasted up in those mountains trying to reason with you.”

  “It wasn’t all wasted time.” He smiled when her cheeks turned the same color pink as the roses on the bed sheets. “I never figured you for the pink floral type, Sinclair.”

  “There’re a lot of things you don’t know about me, Flash. And it’s not pink. It’s dusky mauve.” Her gaze swept over his naked body, lingered where the “dusky mauve” sheets covered the middle part of his anatomy. “By the way, that color looks great on you.”

  He took another swig of coffee, then frowned at her as he set the mug on the nightstand. “Pink does not look good on me.”