She curled her hand into a fist and Jack wasn’t sure whether or not she was going to take a swing at him. Part of him hoped she did. Then he’d have every reason to sling her over his shoulder and drag her back to his hotel.
“Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat.”
May the cat eat you, and may the cat be eaten by the devil. Or her figurative meaning, screw you.
She trembled, though, despite her bravado, despite her hard words. He’d unnerved her. And, he wondered, what bothered her most—him, or the Banshee? “The curse ends with us, Sinead. With you becoming my bride.”
She laughed. Really laughed. “You really are mad as a hatter.”
Band members began moving towards the stage. The electric guitarist tuned his instrument, all but drowning their conversation.
Sinead unclenched her fist then clamped her hand on his wrist. “Your two minutes are up, Quinn bastard. I never want to see you again.”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I’ll be here when you’ve finished.”
“I’ve no use for you, sir.”
Was that the slight dig of her fingernails in his skin?
“Go home.”
“Aye. And when I do, you’ll be by my side. Mark my words, Sinead. You’ll be Mrs Quinn.”
“When my ancestors roll in their graves.”
Her fingernails sliced into his skin. The woman had claws.
“This is no longer about you and me, lass.”
“Sinead!” Brandon called.
“I’ve finished with you.” She pulled her hand off his wrist.
She flipped her hair over her shoulder as she moved away, defiant and delicious.
He moved back to the bar.
“This one’s on the house.” The bartender slid acomplimentary pint in Jack’s direction. “I told you she was a tough one.”
Jack looked at his wrist and studied the half crescents carved into his skin by his fiery opponent. “You warned me.”
“She’s only been here a few times, but we already call her the Titanic.” The man swiped a white towel across the shiny wood. “Men see her lovely smile and think they’re in for smooth sailing. Then afore you know it, you hit the ice—the ice in her veins.”
Jack hoisted his glass in her direction.
Round one to the lovely lass from Westport.
Chapter Two
Sinead kept her gaze on Jack Quinn throughout the set.
Despite her blasé attitude, the damned comb and the man himself both unnerved her. It took all her concentration to remain focussed on the music.
She wanted to call Westport and check on her family. She wasn’t as fanciful as the rest of her family, but the fact his máthair Chríona has supposedly found a comb bothered her. According to legend, he was correct. The Banshee followed the O’Malleys, not the Quinns.
He could be lying. Or his grandmother could have dropped the comb herself.
But there’d been something familiar in the design.
She’d seen a comb like that before, in her own máthair Chríona’s home, shortly before the death of one of her aunts. She’d been a child, and after that, her grandmother had banned all combs from the house. No one, including Sinead, believed that getting rid of a comb could stop fate, could stop the Banshee.
She hadn’t seen his comb clearly enough to be sure the etching was the O’Malley crest, but damn it, it could be.
No matter what she’d said to Quinn, she was unsettled.
She passed up the opportunity for the scheduled snare drum solo and remained at the back of the stage. She wanted to remain hidden from his prying eyes—even though the colour was a startling, inviting blue. Hiding from him was difficult, though. Jack watched her as intently as she watched him.
Ever since she’d been a little girl, she’d heard stories of the hated Quinns. According to the Annals of the Four Masters, a Quinn had kidnapped an O’Malley woman almost a thousand years ago, beginning a long feud that resulted in bloodshed.
The O’Malley family Bible had a drawing of a frightful devil, thin and red with a forked snakelike tail. She remembered crawling onto her great-grandmother’s lap to look at the ancient pages. The woman had pointed to the picture and whispered, “That’s what the Quinn men look like.”
Sinead had outgrown her fanciful notions, or at least she’d thought she had.
When Jack had started trying to contact her, she’d imagined him as an odious little gnome, squat and balding. For good measure, she’d thought he might have a pair of spectacles resting at the end of a misshapen nose.
But in truth, the reality was much, much more disturbing.
Jack Quinn was tall and broad. His hair was dark, and perhaps a bit too rakishly long. Those piercing eyes seemed to see straight through any lie or subterfuge.
A hint of darkness shadowed his jaw. And if he’d been telling the truth, he’d been too busy chasing her across the world to stop for a shave.
He was muscular and tough, as she’d discovered when she’d dug her fingernails into his wrist. A lesser man would have objected or at least winced. Not Jack Quinn.
It had been his scent, though, that had really got to her. He smelt fresh and crisp, like the untamed wild coast of home.
He was everything she desired in a man and her damp knickers were proof of that.
Why, why, why did her body have to betray her? Why did she have to have such a feminine reaction to him? And when he’d threatened to give her a good hiding, she’d frozen on the spot. She hadn’t doubted for a moment that he was serious and a searing white flash of desire had raced through her as she’d pictured herself upended over his knee.
She’d always dreamt of being with a man who was masculine enough for her. The men she knew were… She missed a beat on the snare drum… Brandon turned and looked at her quizzically. She nodded and found her rhythm again.
Most of the men she’d been with had been boring. There’d been one man in her past who had introduced her to the darker delights of sex. She’d had enough of a taste to whet her appetite. But she’d learned most men had no interest in the same things she wanted. Their idea of a spanking was a gentle tap. As if that would get her anywhere.
But in this man, Jack Quinn, hated enemy with his promises of a good hiding, a man willing to chase her halfway around the world, she might have met her match. The idea scared her as much as it fascinated her.
She noticed that the barkeep was speaking to Jack. Seizing the opportunity, she signalled to Brandon. She twisted her lips and pointed to her stomach, pretending to be ill.
When he responded by nodding, she put down her drum, snatched up her handbag that was the size of a small piece of luggage, and made a mad dash towards the toilets. She stayed inside for only a few moments then joined a group of laughing women who were leaving together. She was grateful women often travelled to the loo in small herds.
As short as she was, she didn’t stand out among the women. She glanced over at the bar to make sure Jack was still occupied then she ran for the kitchen. She got several strange glances from the chefs, but she waved and called out, “I have a crazy fan after me. Don’t tell him I came this way!”
One of the men brandished a paring knife. She rewarded him with a cheeky grin. “You’re my hero!”
She headed out the back door.
She could count on the people in the kitchen to lie completely or to at least slow Quinn down, and she would send Brandon a text message. He’d be unhappy, but if she apologised and offered to buy him a drink the next time she saw him, he’d take good care of her instruments.
She hadn’t been kidding when she’d told Quinn that Brandon was among her admirers. If he had his way, they’d be intimate. Sidestepping his concern and his advances was a constant challenge and one of the reasons she didn’t always tour with the band.
Outside in the chilled evening air, she caught her bearings. The Rocky Mountains were always to the west, she’d been told. Using the snowcapped peaks as a guide,
she turned right. She figured she was about four blocks from the Sixteenth Street Mall and she needed to take another right here.
She glanced over her shoulder before rubbing her arms against the cold and hurrying towards the pedestrian mall’s free shuttle bus.
She kept a wary eye on the people walking along the street, and she got off the bus a stop early and took a detour to her hotel.
Fifteen minutes after she’d rushed out of the pub, the hotel’s doorman greeted her by name.
The elevator was waiting, and thankfully she had no problems with the electronic cardkey in her door.
Now, her entire body collapsed against the door, pulse pounding, she exhaled deeply. That was as big a celebration as she was going to allow herself. Sinead O’Malley wasn’t exactly the great escape artist.
After she caught her breath, she pushed away from the door. A hasty departure and dash through downtown was easier when you weren’t at this altitude.
Sinead was smart enough to realise she’d only earned a reprieve.
She had chosen, as usual, not to stay with the rest of the band. She always chose this small, personal, funky boutique hotel rather than one of Denver’s bigger hotels.
Even though she made unconventional choices when she could, staying ahead of Jack Quinn wasn’t going to be an easy matter. He’d chased her for nearly two weeks with his insane idea that they should marry. When she’d read his first, formal letter, she’d scoffed. Marriage? Not now, not ever, and definitely not to a Quinn.
Still and all, she was learning he wasn’t a man likely to give up easily.
Eventually she’d be back in Ireland and he would, too. No matter how clever she was, she couldn’t hide forever.
Her pulse still faster than normal, she crossed to the small octagonal-shaped table near the door and dropped her handbag on top. The oversized bag had enough cargo capacity for her to make a quick escape if needed.
She dug in the cavernous depths of her bag for her mobile phone. After she located it, she checked the time back home. It was very early morning in Ireland, which meant she might wake up people.
She scrolled through her address book and dialled her mother’s number. She had a calling card so ringing wouldn’t cost a small fortune, but truthfully, at this point, peace of mind was worth almost any cost.
After ten rings, she punched the ‘off’ button. Then she rang her cousin in Murrisk, a small town in the shadow of Ireland’s holy mountain, Croagh Patrick. She got a perky, annoying voice mail. Her aunt in Westport didn’t answer, either. So she left another message.
Sinead told herself not to worry. Her mother might be getting on in age, but she walked every day, and was as hale and hearty as a north wind. Her aunts were in fine health, and her few cousins were young and vigorous, even if none of them had yet to produce a child. Quinn had been right. As it stood, there weren’t many of her line left.
She knew rationally that if there were bad news, someone from home would ring her. She was learning, though, that when it came to worry, rational thought didn’t matter. It was always possible her family might decide not to bother her while she was so far away.
If she didn’t get a return call by the time she’d finished her bath, she’d start dialling again.
That settled, she sent text messages to Brandon and the rest of the band members to let them know she was safe. After dropping the mobile on the table, she pulled her shirt over her head then unzipped her kilt and wiggled out of it. In her usual manner, she left both articles of clothing in an untidy heap on the bright purple carpeting.
She was glad she’d been booked into this hotel. Its unique designs suited her. The chairs and settee were oddly shaped. The lamps and table decorations were crafted from bold geometric designs. The walls were painted primary colours, and their contrast worked surprisingly well with the carpet.
It was a good thing the pub was footing the bill. She was on tour to earn much-needed funds for her family. Her bankbook would never stretch far enough to cover this sort of expense.
Once she’d toed off her shoes and taken off her socks, she padded into the bathroom, enjoying the sensation of cool ceramic beneath her feet.
One had to love any place that actually had a bidet, she thought. Orgasm in a bowl.
It’d been so long since she’d had a climax, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Almost, but not quite. And after a day like today, a rush of endorphins was exactly what she needed.
For now, ignoring the bidet in favour of a hot, relaxing bath, she cranked open the bathtub’s faucet and adjusted the temperature from warm to scalding. As the tub filled, she stripped off her bra and knickers.
Then, standing in the bathroom naked, she reconsidered the bidet.
How long had it been? Her schedule left her tired. When she wasn’t on tour with the band, she ran her family’s bed-and-breakfast. Turning their home into overnight accommodations and adding self-catering cottages had been the only way to save their ancestral estate. Every penny she made on the road, she sent home. So far, her family was managing, but the personal cost to her was great. She was as tired as she was lonely. But honestly, the unrelenting demands left her without much of a craving for sex.
Even if that hadn’t been the case, she’d taken enough verbal lashings from her former fiancé to last a lifetime and make her wary of letting another man so close.
Donal had been everything she thought she wanted in a man. He was rich, successful, dedicated to the land and a shared heritage. He made it clear they’d live at her ancestral home, raise their children on the grounds. She wouldn’t have to worry about anything ever again, and neither would her mother or other family members.
Her family had loved him; she’d loved him. They’d seen him as more than a knight in shining armour—they’d seen him as lord and saviour rolled into one.
She’d tried. Heaven knew she’d tried.
But sex had been totally, completely, mind-numbingly boring.
One night before bed he’d come out of the bathroom. He’d looked sexy, fresh from the shower, dark blond hair damp, a few drops of water still glistening on his body. He’d asked what she was reading and she’d shyly showed him the BDSM novel. The cover had a woman’s bare buttocks on it, and it was clear she was turned over a man’s knee.
Donal had gasped in outrage.
“Don’t be filling your head with that nonsense.”
She’d been embarrassed by his reaction, but she’d persevered. “Don’t you ever get a bit bored by the sex we have?”
“Certainly not. And it should be good enough for you, as well.”
It wasn’t and it never would’ve been. She’d learned to fantasise and pleasure herself while he was already asleep.
A few months later, he’d got on one knee and presented her with an engagement ring and asked her to marry him immediately. Her heart had pounded wildly with dread when the oversized diamond had winked in the light.
She couldn’t accept.
Despite her family’s plight, despite his warning that she’d never find another man to tolerate her ridiculous ideas, she’d closed the box and returned it.
She couldn’t live with his bucolic expectations. In bed, out of bed, he didn’t allow her to be who she really was. Seeing the ring made her realise she couldn’t pretend any longer. She didn’t want to.
She had naughty urges and wouldn’t settle for a life of missionary ‘are you done yet’ sex. She’d rather go without than endure like a martyr.
He had been clear that he wanted marriage and children and he’d wanted her to be a good little wife and raise them while he provided for his family’s needs.
He’d told her to forget dancing, drumming, piping, wild, screaming, blow-your-head-off sex. On the other hand, he’d be pleased and life would be grand if she could spend a wee bit longer perfecting her Yorkshire pudding recipe.
Since then, there’d been an occasional one-night stand. The one man she’d explored BDSM with had been the only on
e who came close to giving her the kind of climax she wanted.
She’d told Quinn the truth of it earlier. She rarely had sex. She’d learned that one-night stands were emotionally draining. She hated the morning-after awkwardness. Over the past few years, she’d dated a few men, but rarely for longer than a couple of weeks. Her travel schedule and familial obligations made relationships even more complicated. She’d taken to wearing cheeky T-shirts as armour. Still, some men initially thought the printed sayings were a joke.
They weren’t. For the right man they were an invitation.
If he could see past the wording, see what she really wanted…
She wanted a man who was persistent enough to crack her reserve, see the flaws beneath and not let it matter while she experienced the crazy carnival of lust.
Dreamer.
That’s what her mother, as practical as Sinead herself, would have said.
Sinead had responsibilities and obligations, a family business to preserve. She had to be focussed, she reminded herself. Practical. None of that ridiculous man nonsense for her.
The bathtub finally full, she turned off the tap and sank into the depths. She rested her head on the tub’s rim, letting the water cover her up to her neck.
And from where she was lying in the tub, she had a perfect view of the bidet.
With a sigh, she closed her eyes to block out the sight.
And she saw images of him, the obnoxious, overbearing, handsome Quinn.
Damn it; damn him.
She hated him, and yet she was mortifyingly aroused.
After a second sigh, she opened her eyes again.
What could it hurt?
If she had an orgasm, maybe she could stop thinking about him, stop thinking about sex, stop thinking about being across his knee while he flipped up her skirt and yanked down her knickers.
Yielding to the tempo of need drumming inside her, she climbed from the bath and turned on the bidet’s tap. She dried off with a towel as the water warmed.
She checked the temperature, knowing she liked it warm. She made an adjustment then rechecked the heat before dropping the towel.
Bound and Determined Page 2