by Nora Roberts
“I’m the man you just offered yourself to as easy as if you were offering me a pint and some crisps.”
She’d caught up with him again, but his words struck her, drained the color from her face. “Is that what you think? That it’s nothing more than that? Then it’s you who should be ashamed.”
He could see the hurt in her eyes, and it only added to the mass of confusion he found himself tangled in. “Brenna, you don’t just go around saying let’s have sex to a man. It’s just not right.”
“But it’s fine for a man to go around saying it to a woman?”
“No. I don’t think that either. It’s a . . . it should . . . Mother of God, I can’t have a conversation like this with you. You’re all but family.”
“Why is it the men I know can’t speak of sex as a normal human function? And I’m not family.”
It might have been cowardice, he thought, but it was also discretion. He stepped back from her. “Stay away from me.”
“If you don’t want to go to bed with me, you’ve only to say that I don’t appeal to you in that fashion.”
“I’m not thinking about you in that fashion.” He took another step back, right through the little herb bed. “You’re practically my sister.”
She bared her teeth, a sure sign of temper about to snap. “But I’m not your bloody sister, am I?”
The wind caught her hair, sent it streaming so that he wanted to take it in his hands—something he might have done a hundred other times, when it would have been a harmless gesture.
Now he was afraid nothing between them would ever be harmless again.
“No, you’re not. But I’ve thought of you—tried to think of you—that way most of my life. How do you expect me to just flip that about and . . . I can’t do it,” he said quickly when his blood began to stir again. “It’s just not right.”
“You don’t want to have sex with me, that’s your business.” She nodded coolly. “Others do.” With this she turned on her heel and started to march toward home.
“Wait a damn minute.” He could move fast when he needed to, and he had her arm before she’d taken three full strides. He whirled her around and took as firm a hold on her other arm. “If you think I’m going to let you walk off with that in your head, you’re badly mistaken. I’m not about to have you go off and throw yourself at some man because you’re mad at me.”
The flash in her eyes should have been a warning, but her voice was so calm, so cool, he missed it. “You think far too much of yourself, Shawn Gallagher. If I want to be with a man, with him I’ll be. You’ve nothing to say about it. It may come as a shock to you, but I’ve had sex before, and I like it. I’ll have it again when I please.”
She might as well have plowed the business end of a sledgehammer into his gut. “You—who . . .”
“That’s a matter of my concern,” she interrupted with a smug look in her eye. “And none of yours. Now let go of me. I’ve nothing more to say to you.”
“Well, I’ve plenty more to say to you.” But he couldn’t think of a thing, not with images of Brenna wrapped around some faceless man burning into his brain.
She tossed back her head, and her eyes burned once more into his. “Do you want to have sex with me or not?”
Truth or lie? He was suddenly certain that either answer would send him straight to hell. But he thought the lie safer. “No.”
“Then that’s the end of it.” Humiliated, furious, she shoved away. Then—perhaps it was pride, or perhaps it was just need, but she acted before she thought.
In one easy leap, she was in his arms, her legs locked around his waist, her mouth fused to his. She thought she heard Betty bark—once, twice, three times in rapid succession, almost like a laugh. She clung like a bur when Shawn staggered, then bit, not so lightly, his bottom lip. Someone moaned, she didn’t know or care who, and she poured everything she had into that fierce and hot mating of lips.
She’d caught him by surprise. That was why he didn’t shake her loose. Of course it was. It was simply an instinctive reaction to grip that wonderfully tight bottom in his hands, then to let them slide up her back and get lost in her hair.
And that quick intake of breath had been shock. It wasn’t his fault that the scent and flavor of her assaulted him and because of it, made his head spin.
He had to stop. For her sake, he had to stop this now . . . in just a moment. Sooner or later.
The wind spun around them in chilly ribbons. The sun buried itself behind clouds, shimmering out fragile light as a soft, soft rain began to fall. He all but felt the blood draining downward out of his head, leaving it empty but for the image of carrying her back inside and up the stairs so he could tumble her into bed and have more.
Then she was shoving him again, jumping down. Through the lust clouding his vision, he saw her sharp sneer. “I thought you should have a sample of what you’ve turned away.”
While he stood there, aroused beyond speech, she brushed off the sleeve of her shirt. “I’ll have a look at your car when I have a bit of time to spare. You’d best get down to the village. You’re running late for work.”
He didn’t speak when she strolled away, and was still standing in the quiet rain when she and the yellow dog disappeared over the rise.
“You’re late,” Aidan said the minute Shawn came in the kitchen door of the pub.
“Then fire me or get out of my way.”
At the unusually surly response Aidan lifted his eyebrows, watching as Shawn wrenched open the refrigerator and started pulling out eggs and milk and meat. “It’s hard to fire a man who owns as much of the business as I do myself.”
Shawn banged a pot onto the stove. “Then buy me out, why don’t you?”
When Darcy pushed into the kitchen, Aidan held up a hand, shook his head, and motioned her back. She didn’t look pleased about it, but she stepped back out again.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter. I’ve things on my mind and work to do.”
“I’ve never known you not to be able to work and run your mouth at the same time.”
“I’ve nothing to say, and meat pies to make. What the hell’s with women, anyway?” he demanded, spinning away from the stove to scowl at his brother. “First it’s one thing, then it’s another, and you never know which way they’ll be coming at you next.”
“Oh, well, then.” Aidan’s concern melted into amusement. He helped himself to tea and leaned back on the counter while Shawn muttered and worked. “We could talk all day and half the night and not come close to solving that particular puzzle. ’Tis a thorny one. But it’s more pleasant to have a female causing you problems than to have no female at all, don’t you think?”
“No, not at the moment.”
Aidan only laughed. “Well, which one is it that’s causing you grief?”
“It’s no one. It’s nothing. It’s ridiculous.”
“Hmm, not saying.” Aidan sipped and considered. “Must be in the way of a serious matter, then.”
“Easy for you to smile and look smug,” Shawn tossed back with bitter annoyance. “All cozied up as you are with your Jude Frances.”
“I reckon it is.” Aidan nodded. “But it wasn’t always, and you gave me good advice when I was at my own wits’ end. Maybe you should take some time and give yourself some on this, if you don’t want to hear from me.”
“I don’t want a woman in my life just at the moment,” Shawn muttered. “And this particular one won’t do at all. Just won’t.”
He tried not to think of that wild and wicked kiss, or the way Brenna’s compact body had plastered itself to his.
“No, it won’t,” he said again, then adjusted the fire under the pot of meat filling with a sharp turn of his wrist.
“You’d know best what suits and what doesn’t. I’ll just say there comes a time when your head’s telling you one thing, and the rest of you just won’t listen. A man can be a child when it comes to a woman, wanting what h
e shouldn’t have and taking more than he can handle. Knowing something’s not good for you doesn’t stop you from wanting it.”
“I wouldn’t be good for her.” Calmer now, Shawn took out a bowl to make the pastry for the pies. “Even if there weren’t other factors involved, I wouldn’t be good for her. So that’s the end of it.”
With the flour and water mixed to a firm dough, he covered the bowl and stuck it into the refrigerator. “I’ll be making poundies,” he told Aidan while he creamed butter and suet for the next stage of the pastry. And I’ve some samphire that young Brian Duffy picked for me that I’ve pickled into jars, so we’ll have that tonight as well, as it goes nicely with the salmon you bought this morning. You tell Jude to come over so I can fix her a plate.”
“I will, thanks. Shawn—” He broke off as Darcy shoved through the door again, looking aggrieved.
“You ask me to come down early, then you push me back out the door. If the pair of you are going to stand in here and tell your little men’s secrets, I’m going back upstairs and do my nails, since we don’t open for nearly an hour as yet.”
“Let me pour you a cup, darling, for I’ve abused you something terrible.” Aidan gave her a little pat on the cheek, then pulled a chair out at the table with a flourish.
“Well, I’ll have a cup, but I want some biscuits with it.” She folded her hands on the table after she sat and gave her brother a challenging smile.
“Biscuits, then.” Aidan got down a tin and set it in front of her. “I need to talk to both of you, as it concerns the pub.”
“Then you’ll have to talk while I work.” Shawn retrieved the bowl from the refrigerator and began to roll out the pastry.
“Well, you were late, weren’t you?” Aidan said easily. “The man from New York, the Magee? It seems he’s interested in the idea of linking the theater he’s planning with Gallagher’s. It was my thought to lease him the land, long term, but he’s holding out to buy it outright. If we do that, we forfeit the land, and some of the control we might have.”
“How much will he pay?” Darcy asked and bit into a biscuit.
“We’ve only danced about the terms for the moment, but he’ll meet the price we set, I’m thinking. I’ll need to call Ma and Dad on this, but as the pub is in our hands now, the three of us need to decide what we want to do.”
“If he pays enough, I say sell it to him. We don’t use it for anything.”
“It’s land,” Shawn said, sending Darcy a glance as he covered the rectangle of rolled-out pastry with the mixture of suet and butter. “Our land. It’s always been ours.”
“And it’ll be money. Our money.”
“I’ve thought on both ends of that.” Aidan pursed his lips while he turned his cup of tea around and around. “If we don’t agree to sell, Magee could find himself another plot for his project. And the theater could be a benefit to the pub, if we keep some sort of handle on it. He strikes me as a sharp one, and one I’d rather deal with face-to-face than over the phone. But he says he can’t come here now, as he’s into some other business and can’t leave it until it’s done.”
“So send me to New York.” Darcy fluttered her inky lashes. “And I’ll charm him into opening his wallet wide.”
Aidan let out a quick hoot. “I don’t think charm is what works with this one. It’s a pounds-and-pence matter to him, to my thinking. I’ve a mind to ask Dad to take a trip into New York to meet with this Magee, as Dad’s as sharp as any Yank wheeler-dealer. But before we do that, what do we, we three here, want from this?”
“Profit,” Darcy said immediately and finished off a biscuit.
“That, yes, but what in the long term?”
“Reputation,” Shawn said, and Aidan looked up at him. “We’ve been working around to making Gallagher’s a center for music over the last few years. Have our name in the guidebooks, don’t we, as a place for good food and drink, and for the music we have or bring in? Haven’t you had bands calling you now, or the managers of them, inquiring about bookings?”
“Sure and we do well there,” Aidan agreed.
“If this man Magee has a mind to expand the entertainment, the music in Ardmore, and bring in more tourists, more customers, it’ll add to our reputation.”
Shawn folded the pastry into three, then sealed the ends before putting it back in the refrigerator to chill. “But it has to be done the Gallagher way, doesn’t it?”
Aidan leaned back in his chair as Shawn took potatoes from bin to sink and began to scrub them. “You’re a constant surprise to me, Shawn. Aye, the Gallagher way or no way at all. Which means traditional, understated, and Irish. We’ll have nothing flashy and foolish attached to our pub.”
“Which means you have to convince him we need to work together,” Shawn added. “As we know Ardmore and Old Parish and he doesn’t.”
“And for our input,” Aidan decided. “We’ll have a percentage of the theater. That was my thinking—and what I wanted to pass to Dad and have him work the Magee toward.”
Darcy drummed her fingers on the table. “So, we’ll sell him the land at our price or lease it long term, on the condition that we have a part in the building, the planning, and the profits of the theater.”
“Simply said.” Aidan gave her a wink. She had a cool and sharp brain for business, did Darcy. “It’s the Gallagher way.” Aidan rose from the table. “We’re agreed, then?”
“Agreed.” Darcy chose another biscuit. “Let’s see if this Magee can make us rich.”
Shawn slipped potatoes into boiling water. “Agreed. Now the pair of you get out of my kitchen.”
“Happy to.” Darcy blew Shawn a saucy kiss and sailed out, already dreaming how she’d spend the Yank’s money.
Because he considered that Aidan had it under control, Shawn didn’t give another thought to land deals and building and profits from either. He prepared the dishes he’d planned and had the kitchen warm and full of scent by the time the pub doors opened.
He kept up with the orders, fell into the easy routine, but the music that usually filled his head kept stalling on him. He’d start to play with a tune while he worked, let the notes and the rhythm go their own way. Then he’d be back in the soft rain, with Brenna wrapped around him, and the only music he heard was the hum in his own blood. And that he didn’t care for.
She was his friend, and a man had no business thinking about a friend in that manner. Even if she’d started it herself. He’d grown up teasing her as he had his own sister. Whenever he’d kissed her, and of course he had, it had always been a brotherly peck.
How the hell was he supposed to go back to that when he knew what she tasted like now? When he knew just how her mouth fit to his, and how much . . . heat there was inside that small package? And just how was he supposed to get rid of this hard, hot ball of awareness in his gut, an awareness he’d never asked for?
She wasn’t his type—no, not a bit. He liked soft women with female ways who liked to flirt and cuddle. And by God, women who let him make the moves. He was a man, wasn’t he? A man was supposed to romance a woman toward bed, not be told to jump into one because she had a—what had she called it? A yen. An itch.
He’d be damned if he’d be anyone’s itch.
He told himself he was going to steer well clear of Brenna O’Toole for the next bit of time. And that he wasn’t going to be looking around to see that ugly cap of hers or to hear her voice every time he walked from the kitchen into the pub.
Still, his eyes scanned the crowd, and his ears were pricked. But she didn’t come to Gallagher’s that Sunday evening.
He did his work, and those who sampled it walked home at closing with full bellies and satisfaction. When he’d put his kitchen to rights and headed home himself, his own belly felt empty despite the meal he’d had, and satisfaction seemed a long way off.
He tried to lose himself in his music again, and spent nearly two hours at the piano. But the notes seemed sour somehow, and the tunes jarring.
&
nbsp; Once, as he ran his fingers over the keys, shaking his head when the chords gave him no pleasure, he felt the change in the air. The faintest shimmer of movement and sound. But when he looked up, there was nothing but his little parlor and the empty doorway leading to the hall.
“I know you’re here.” He said it softly, waited. But nothing spoke to him. “What is it you want me to know?”
As the silence dragged on, he rose to bank the fire, to listen to the whisper of the wind. Though he was sure he was too edgy to sleep, he went upstairs and prepared for bed.
Almost as soon as his head settled on the pillow, he drifted into dreams of a lovely woman standing in the garden while the moonlight silvered her pale gold hair. The wings of the white horse beat the air, then settled as hooves touched ground. The man astride it had eyes only for the woman. As he dismounted, the silver bag he carried sparkled, shot light like little sparks of flame.
At her feet he poured pearls as white and pure as the moonlight. But she turned away from him, never looked at the beauty of the gems. Behind the sweep of her nightrobe, the pearls bloomed into flowers that glimmered like ghosts in the night.
And in the night, surrounded by those moon-washed flowers, Shawn reached for the woman. The pale hair had turned to fire and the soft eyes became sharp and green as emerald. It was Brenna he drew into his arms, Brenna he surrounded with them.
In sleep, where reason and logic have no place, it was Brenna he tasted.
SIX
“HAND ME MY crooked stick, will you, darling?”
Brenna picked up her father’s level—he had affectionate names for most of his tools—and walked across the paint-splattered drop cloth to pass it to him.
The nursery was taking shape, and already in Brenna’s mind it was the baby’s room rather than Shawn’s old one. Some might not be able to see the potential of the finished project beyond the clutter of tools and sawhorses, the missing trim and the snowy shower of sawdust. The fact was, she loved the messy middle of a project every bit as much as she did the polished end of it.