by Callie Quigg
He caught up with her, laughter filling his blue eyes. “You’re too thoughtful.”
“Aren’t I?” Quinn opened the driver’s door as Ronan reached for it.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“What do you think I’m doing? Solving world hunger?”
“It’s snowing.”
“It is? Where?” With a deliberate widening of her eyes, she raised her hand and caught a few feathered flakes on her palm.
“We’ll take my rental. It’s safer and about twenty years newer than your rust bucket.”
“I’m driving my car.” She perched sideways on the driver’s seat, her feet firmly planted on the frozen ground. “By the twang in your voice, you don’t live in Ireland anymore.”
“Brooklyn, but what’s that got to do with anything?” He lifted the collar of his coat until it touched his ear lobes and then buried his hands inside the pockets. A pink blush from the cold highlighted his cheeks and nose. Snow spiked his eyelashes, and his hair fell over his forehead. He was a magazine cover come to life.
She stamped her feet to shatter the ice cubes enclosing her toes. “I bet you use cabs or the subway most of the time, or walk. I’m used to driving these roads—you’re not.”
“I grew up a few miles away. I know these roads like the back of my hand.” He hopped from foot to foot and hunched his shoulders. “The roads are going to be an icy mess. I’m not sure you can handle them.”
She rummaged through her bag, and when she found her cell, she held it to her ear. “Hello, 1950. One of your chauvinists managed to make his way here. Want me to send him back?”
He gave her an easy, slow smile. One that was way too dangerous and way too sexy. “You’re quite the comedian.”
She lowered her phone and focused her attention on the mountain peaks. “I live here. You don’t. When’d you leave? Five, six years ago?”
“Ten.”
“Long enough to forget what driving here’s like.”
Her insistence on driving had zero to do with who should or shouldn’t drive or whose car could handle the twisting roads better—hands down his could. It had everything to do with giving in and giving him what he wanted. If she caved over something as small as driving, Ronan wouldn’t merely walk all over her. He’d stomp her into the ground. Quinn swiveled her body into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. She switched on the ignition, blasted the heat, and winced when nothing but cold air hit her face. Once the car warmed up, the heat would kick in, she hoped. Ronan hadn’t moved, and she had a good mind to leave him there, but if she did, he’d jump in his rental and tailgate her the entire way home. She cracked open the window.
“Stay there, or get in. Either way, I’m leaving.”
He jogged around the car, opened the passenger door, and slid into the seat. She controlled the urge to punch the air in victory.
The tip of his nose and cheeks were now a delicious winterberry red, and the rich scent of his sandalwood cologne infused with snow filled the air. Why did he have to smell so goddamn delicious and why did she have a ridiculous desire to lick him from head to toe? She’d welcome a cold and a stuffy nose, anything not to spend the entire journey smelling his aftershave. There was nothing else for it. She’d have to spend the car ride breathing through her mouth. That, or stuff her nose with tissue.
“Don’t kill me,” he said.
“Wouldn’t that be a shame?”
While the car idled and warmed, Ronan occupied himself by skimming through his phone, and Quinn called Lorcan to rearrange the tasting for the next day at the castle. The culinary wizard’s expletive-laden response would’ve impressed Gordon Ramsey. After promising him the wedding would make him into a worldwide celebrity chef, she hung up and maneuvered her way over a rickety wooden bridge and out of the secluded grounds.
Thick hedges and tumbling stone walls hugged the narrow two-laned road, and bleating sheep huddled together in patchwork fields in a bid to keep warm.
The snowfall thickened and stuck to the roads, hiding the many pool-sized potholes scarring the asphalt, and despite the turmoil whirling inside of her and her foot wanting to put the gas pedal through the floor, Quinn forced herself to drive slowly. At their current zero-mile-per-hour speed, the drive to her flat would take more than an hour instead of the usual twenty minutes.
The repetition of driving the route for the past few weeks set her on autopilot. There was no doubt she was in a sucky situation. How to get out of it was the question. She could either use every ounce of her creativity and business acumen to fight for what was hers, or she could hand the job over to him and walk away with her pride somewhat intact, but maybe even that wouldn’t stop him blabbering to everyone. If he exposed her, no one would want to be associated with a liar. Ireland was a small place, the wedding and event community even smaller, and once the gossip started, nothing would save her already ice-thin career. Screw Brady fucking Gibson and his fucking empty promises. She smacked the heel of her hand against the steering wheel.
“Everything okay?” Ronan didn’t look up from his phone.
“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine.” Her irritation said the opposite. “Frustrated by this weather and the roads, is all.”
“I should have driven. You’re too timid.”
“And I suppose you get all ‘I am man, hear me roar’ and aggressive behind the wheel?” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
He leaned over the center console, close enough that his breath fanned over her cheek and his musky cologne invaded her senses. “If you mean I like to be in control, you’re right, I do.”
Desire shoved her irritation out of the way, and her breasts conspired with her nipples on the best way to bust out of her bra and get closer to him. Previously comatose hormones opened their eyes and fangirled, leaving her underwear more than a little damp, which, in subzero temperatures, wasn’t as fun as it sounded. His sexy accent and alpha male act would not turn her into a swooning simpleton. No way. That particular road was one she had no plans on traveling ever again.
“You’re an arrogant ass.”
“I would say confident.”
“I would say conceited.”
“I would disagree.” Ronan shrugged and shifted back into his seat. He shoved his phone into his pocket. “We should find out a wee bit more about each other, don’t you think?”
“Thanks, but no. I know all I need to know about you.” She switched on the radio and the sound of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” blasted from the speakers.
“You don’t know anything.” He switched off the radio.
“Exactly. Like I said, ‘I know all I need to know.’”
“I have three brothers and three sisters.”
“Don’t care.”
At a turn in the road, a tractor with monster-truck wheels bigger than her car swung around the corner and cut her off. Quinn slammed on the brakes and sent up a silent prayer thanking God she was driving so slowly and that her tires had enough tread to grip the road. The glove box fell open, and a landslide of unopened letters plummeted onto the floor and onto Ronan’s lap and feet.
“Great filing system,” he said. “Don’t you ever open your mail?”
“None of your business.” Quinn leaned over to pluck up the envelopes. The final demands inside would give him more ammunition. Not that he couldn’t already assassinate her with everything he already had.
“Drive.” He motioned toward the now clear road. His finger hovered over the back of an envelope as if undecided about opening the flap.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Her eyes darted toward the envelope in his hand. “It’s illegal to open someone else’s mail without their permission. And you, most definitely, do not have mine.”
“These all look like bills. Final demands, if I’m right. Hiding something?” Ronan swept the envelopes together and rammed them into the glove box
.
“Again, none of your business.” She gripped the steering wheel tighter. “You’ve invaded my life enough without sticking your nose in any deeper.”
“I haven’t even begun.”
With a flick of her hand, Quinn turned up Christmas FM and set the volume loud enough to drown out his voice and her thoughts.
Sammy, a homeless teen who sometimes slept outside her apartment building, sat huddled in a corner, with his grimy, and now wet, sleeping bag draped over his knees. Pour soul. He should be in a hostel, or somewhere warmer than a street corner, but Quinn guessed his dog Max had something to do with him still being on the streets.
“You live here?” Ronan glanced out of the car window and eyed the graffitied building with apparent distaste.
“What were you expecting, a penthouse overlooking the river?” Her neighborhood wasn’t the safest place to live, but it was all she could afford. When she’d paid off her debts, she’d move somewhere better, cleaner, more secure.
“It’s not in the greatest of areas.”
“It works for me.” She opened the door and went outside; admitting he was right wouldn’t happen. “Stay here. Make sure no one steals the car.”
“This jalopy? People are more likely to give you money out of pity to fix it than steal it.” He followed her out of the car. “I should know wherewe live and what our love nest looks like.”
“Whatever. Suit yourself.”
Not bothering to see if Ronan was behind her, she hunkered down in front of Sammy. “You need me to take Max?” At the sound of his name, the scraggy dog whose tongue was too big for his mouth and eyes too small for his head stuck his face from beneath the stained sleeping bag. Max’s breed was indeterminable, but perhaps the resulting cross-species love child between a Chihuahua and a possum.
“I was worried you wouldn’t be coming home.” Sammy shivered and wiped the back of his hand beneath his runny nose. “The thing is, they have a permanent bed for me, but I can’t take Max. They said I should take him to the pound.” He scratched the trembling dog behind its ears. “I can’t do that to the wee fella. He’s already been through the wars. Can you take him for me? Find him a home?”
The dog lifted his head and widened his eyes, as if trying to charm her into finding him a place to live.
“I don’t know, Sammy. I have a lot on at work right now.”
Max whimpered as if he knew he was seconds away from abandonment, but permanent beds didn’t come easy and it’d taken Sammy months to find one. More than once, she’d offered him her sofa, which, if the weather was bad enough, he took, but more often than not, he refused.
“No worries. I understand.” The sorrow in his eyes stabbed her heart.
There was no way she could let either of them down.
“Give him here.” Quinn reached for the dog. If she didn’t take care of Max, Sammy would stay on the streets, and she didn’t need yet another worry weighing down her conscience.
“You’re the best. I knew I could count on you.” Sammy handed over the dog, who slobbered kisses all over Quinn’s face.
“Stop kissing me, you mangy mutt.” She laughed and put the rat-sized dog on the ground. “I won’t be home for about a week, but he’ll be somewhere safe, and after that, we’ll see what we can come up with.” During the day, she’d keep him in the castle’s kitchen out of harm’s way, and at night, he could sleep in her room. Brendan wouldn’t mind.
Sammy gave her a beaming smile. “You’re a legend.”
“I don’t know about that.” Quinn dug into her coat pocket, pulled out a twenty, and held it out. “Get yourself something to eat.”
Sammy shook his head. “Keep your money. Taking Max is enough.” He stood and rolled his belongings into the sleeping bag, and when he wasn’t looking, she tucked the money into his backpack. He needed the money more than she did.
“Who’s yer man?” Sammy jerked his head toward Ronan, who stood by the car with his arms crossed and legs in a wide stance, looking more like a bodyguard or a nightclub doorman than an event planner.
“No one important.”
“He looks like he thinks he’s important.”
“You’re not wrong.” She laughed and pulled Sammy into a quick hug. “You have my number. Call me if you need anything, and I mean anything.”
“Thanks a million.”
“Come, Max.” The misshapen dog followed her through the concrete lobby, his overgrown nails clicking with every step. As soon as the wedding was over, she’d take him to a doggy groomer and maybe the vet. She couldn’t do much to help Sammy, but she could make sure his companion was healthy and safe.
“Who was that?” Ronan fell into step beside her.
“A good kid whose parents kicked him out because he’s gay.”
“You serious?”
“Wish I wasn’t.”
The reek of stale garbage irritated her nose, and the pungent smell of cooking fish saturated the air. Rather than take the elevator, which sometimes doubled as a urinal, she picked up Max and ran up three flights of stairs to her floor.
One of the fluorescent strips lighting up the narrow corridor hung by a wire, flickering on and off, and with every step, her heels snagged the frayed nylon filaments of the puce carpet lining the hallway. Showing Ronan where she lived should’ve embarrassed her. But since he meant less to her than the regurgitated mice the local cats sometimes left on her doorstep, she couldn’t care less what he thought about her home.
She unlocked the triple bolt lock and disarmed the alarm to her shoebox apartment. “Wait in there.” She pointed toward the sitting room and set Max on the floor. “And don’t touch anything.”
The dog scampered into the sitting room and flopped onto his makeshift teddy bear bed. Ronan stood at the threshold and glanced at several precariously stacked boxes.
“Moving?”
“They’re from my old office.” She shoved a wavering stack against a wall to prevent a flood of paper. “I haven’t had time to go through them.” Satisfied they wouldn’t fall, she turned to Ronan. “Give me a few minutes to get packed.”
He nodded, his attention on the boxes she’d pushed against the wall.
The damp bedroom, a few steps from the sitting room, held nothing to show the place was home. Torture would’ve been preferable to unpacking. Too many painful memories showing her failed business and failed relationship were wrapped up in old newspaper and stored inside cardboard boxes, and that was where they would stay until she had the courage to deal with them.
She closed the door and flopped onto her unmade bed, slid her phone out of her purse, and Googled Ronan and Donovan Events. Hundreds of articles about him flooded the screen. Donovan Events were goliaths in event planning. She wasn’t even a gnat. Going up against him was moronic, but she had to try. With a resigned sigh, she threw her phone back into her purse and packed for the rest of the week.
****
If there was an uglier dog alive, Ronan hadn’t seen it. The mutt, who now lay on his back snoring, was obviously at home in Quinn’s apartment. How often had she helped the kid and dog out? He hadn’t missed how she tucked the money the kid had refused into his backpack. Was she the Robin Hood of con artists? Someone who justified her actions of robbing from the rich to give to the poor? Ronan gave his head a quick shake. A scam artist with a heart of gold. There was a Lifetime movie somewhere in Quinn’s future.
He leaned against the doorjamb and examined Quinn’s home. Her professional and sexy appearance suggested an upscale apartment in a trendy part of town. Instead, she lived in an old public housing building which was as impersonal and as welcoming as the DMV. Limp green and yellow plaid curtains hung by grimy patio doors leading to a small balcony. Bare cream walls held no pictures of friends or family, and piles of unopened moving boxes occupied every available space.
A chipped Formica table drowned in paperwork beside a postage stamp
-sized kitchen. He walked over to the table and used the edge of his phone to shuffle the papers around. Nothing but bills and threatened legal action. A few handwritten letters cursing her to hell. They explained the hissy fit in the car when she thought he’d open her mail. She was in it up to her neck.
Based on the numbers scribbled on a legal pad, he calculated she owed half a million euros, maybe more—a hundred grand in back rent for an office. He needed a few more answers and to get those, he had to talk to Brady, because the femme fatale picture he’d painted wasn’t Quinn.
He scrolled through his phone and redialed the number Brady had called him from. Disconnected. Not surprising. An uneasy sensation crawled up his spine. What the fuck was Brady’s plan and what was Ronan’s part in it?
If he screwed this event up for Quinn, she’d be bankrupt by the New Year. A desire to jump on the next flight back to New York and let her sink or swim yanked at him. But he couldn’t do that. If he left now, she’d suffocate in shit creek. But maybe she was playing him for a fool. What if she’d planted the numbers and letters to make him think she was in trouble? Was he a pawn in a long con mapped out by Brady? Or was she the brains of the operation? With a shake of his head, he blew out a slow whistle and went to the balcony doors. She hadn’t expected him to come to her apartment, so the scribbled numbers and letters demanding money had to be genuine.
He drew back the curtains and unlatched the lock. A small mezzanine overlooked the neglected, snow-covered street. He slid the door open and stepped into the cold. Swollen clouds loomed over the town and promised a heavy snowfall. In a few hours, no one would get in or out of the Dublin or Belfast airports. Even if he decided to go back to New York, his chances of getting there were slim and none.
The five-hour time difference meant it was a few minutes past 8 a.m. in New York, and Caden was probably wondering why Ronan hadn’t stopped by the construction site on his way to the office for his usual cup of coffee. He pulled his cell from the depths of his coat pocket and dialed Caden’s number. His brother would accuse him of losing his ever-loving mind, and maybe he had.