Secret Santa

by Fern Michaels

“Aye, it’s what I’m used to, don’t know nothin’ else, Miss Claire. I’ve never traveled across the pond to America, and don’t mean to be rude, but I ain’t never wanted to. I love ma country.”

  “A man should be proud of his country. There is certainly no shame in that. My ancestors are of Irish descent, yet I’m the first one in my family to have the opportunity to travel to Ireland. I can’t wait to see the countryside, all the shades of green.”

  “Aye, there’s about forty of ’em, maybe more. It’s a grand old place to be,” he said as he maneuvered his way out of the line of traffic. “If you want to see the countryside, I’ll drive as slow as I can. Though it’s cold, and we’ll see fog all over, it’s still unlike any beauty ya’ve ever seen, lass.”

  Claire wrapped her arms around her waist, unused to the biting cold. “Is it always this cold this time of year?” she asked.

  “Aye, and it’ll get colder, too. Am used to it, though, as are most Irish. That’s why we spend sa much time in the pubs. A tall Guinness or a hot whiskey warms the soul.”

  After her experience with alcohol yesterday, there was no way she was going to imbibe any form of booze while in Ireland. After all, she was here on business. At least that’s what she’d been led to believe. She now suspected Donald Flynn had called her across the pond for reasons that had nothing to do with his supposed imminent death. And if he’d called her away from her family at Christmas unnecessarily, she would show him her Irish side. She grinned at the thought, but still, if Donald hadn’t been truthful, she wasn’t going to let him get away with it, wealthy client or not.

  Chapter Three

  Once they were out of the city, Claire took the time to view Ireland’s great beauty. Though it was foggy, she was still able to view the green farmland, some of it filled with dairy cows, others dotted with sheep, some shaved and others waiting for their turn at the shears. She’d get the family some good wool socks while she was here, she thought, as they passed yet another farm. Colorado winters were brutal.

  Man-made stone walls separated areas of each farm they passed. Often, in the middle of a lavish field of green, there stood more of the man-made stone fences, with a small bit of what once might have been a small cottage, or possibly a church. Ancient cemeteries, some she knew were hundreds and hundreds of years old, dotted the countryside, with the occasional Celtic cross. Claire knew a bit of the cross’s history, but in her mind now she summed it up as a cross surrounded by a ring. When and if the opportunity presented itself, Claire would return to Ireland, maybe even bring her family along, and together they could explore their homeland together as a family. Powerscourt Gardens, the Blarney Castle, and the Cliffs of Moher were just a few of the places she wanted to visit when time permitted.

  “So how long will ya be here?”

  Good question. If Donald Flynn wasn’t dying, she might leave tomorrow, but she wasn’t going to tell this to Flynn’s employee. “I’m not sure at this point. I promised my family I’d be home for Christmas.” And she would do her best to keep that promise.

  “Aye, you don’t want to be away from the wee ones, especially this time of year.”

  “No, I don’t have children. I live in California, one of my brothers and his wife and children live in Colorado. My brother manages a ski lodge there, and I was planning to spend Christmas with them this year, or at least I was until Mr. Flynn called.”

  “Got that stiff-headed nephew on his back for something. Won’t tell me what it’s all about, but I can tell ya, Quinn Connor ain’t a happy man.”

  Quinn Connor? She’d heard his name before but couldn’t recall where at the moment.

  “I’m sure Mr. Flynn will keep me informed if there is a situation,” she said though now she didn’t believe anything Mr. Flynn had said. If he were truly on his deathbed, would his nephew be on his back? And if he were dying, what kind of man was this nephew? Heartless? She would avoid any preconceived notions just yet. She would wait and see for herself.

  “Aye, I hope so, miss, I sure hope so.”

  For the next hour, they traveled in silence. Claire strained to see as much of the countryside as possible through the fog, which had gotten even heavier since they left the airport in Dublin.

  Breaking the silence, Claire asked, “How far to Glendalough?”

  Marty glanced at his watch. “Another half hour. With this fog movin’ in, I’m not wantin’ to drive too fast.”

  “No, of course not. I just assumed it was a short distance from the airport.” The roads were so small, she couldn’t believe two vehicles could drive either way without scraping against one another. Twice they’d had to practically take to the ditch when a tour bus zoomed down the road as though they were on the freeway. She didn’t want to drive in Ireland, or at least not this trip.

  “You just sit back an’ relax, lassie, so when we arrive at the Flynn estate, you’ll be all rested up, ready for whatever it is that old Donald’s got up his sleeve.”

  Relax, right. She wouldn’t be able to relax until she had a hot shower, a good night’s rest, and at least one pot of coffee. She felt crummy because she hadn’t showered in almost twenty-four hours. And how could she forget her upchucking episode at JFK? Once she’d settled in for the long flight, she spent a bit of time in the airplane’s restroom. She managed to stick her hair under the meager stream of water, which she had to hand pump, then used the hand soap to wash the vomit completely out of her hair. She had managed to clean herself up a bit more with the baby wipes Kelly gave her. She’d added a bit of lipstick and combed her hair before they landed. Lucky for her, the Betty Boop slippers were an item much desired by Kelly. When they landed she’d actually offered to buy them from her. When Claire explained her broken-heel situation, Kelly whipped a pair of gently worn black leather ballet flats from Paddy’s diaper bag and offered them to her. She’d gladly accepted them, giving the Betty Boop slippers to Kelly. They’d exchanged phone numbers, and again Claire made another promise to visit her before she returned to the States. She’d made lots of promises, commitments, and she hoped she would be able to keep them.

  The soft lull of the engine and the narrow winding roads forced her to recline against the plush headrest. Her eyes were gritty from being awake so many hours. Closing them for a few minutes, she fell into a deep and troubled sleep.

  “No!” she shouted in her dream, only to realize she’d screamed aloud.

  “Nightmares?” Marty asked.

  Claire took a deep breath, trying to clear the cobwebs from her head. She never remembered her dreams, but whatever this one was, she must’ve been frightened and running because her heart continued to pound even after she came fully awake. “No, not that I remember. I’m just overly tired.”

  “We’re turning down the road leading to the estate now. You might want to have a look as we round the corner. The Flynn place is a sight ta behold, especially with the fog hoverin’ above.”

  Claire nodded. “I’m sure it is,” was all she could come up with.

  Marty was right. As soon as they went around a sharp curve, she saw the Flynn estate. The mountains behind the estate were stunning. Claire drew in her breath as they made the final round, where she had a bird’s-eye view of the Flynn estate . . . This was not an estate!

  “Good heavens! This is a castle,” Claire exclaimed.

  “Aye it is, lassie. Been in the Flynn family since the 1700s, though it’s been modernized several times.”

  For a minute, Claire was truly awestruck. A castle. Why didn’t she know this about her client? Why hadn’t she been made aware of his . . . living arrangements? She was quite aware of his financial status, knew he was one of Ireland’s wealthiest men. But a castle? No, she truly hadn’t a clue.

  “Wait till ya see it tonight when it’s all lit up. It’s all decorated for Christmas. People from all across Ireland drive by to have a look. Mr. Flynn even opens the gates so they can get a close-up. Old Flynn’s a good fella, just a bit ornery at times.”

&n
bsp; She stared at the castle. She had actually been summoned to a castle. A week before Christmas. It reminded her of one of those cheesy Lifetime movies she loved to watch. No, this was real. She couldn’t wait to hear what Mr. Flynn had to say. It was becoming more and more obvious that he wasn’t dying. Marty didn’t have a clue, and when he’d called her, he’d sounded just fine. No, there was something more going on at the Flynn estate, rather castle, and she planned to find out exactly what as soon as she entered. I won’t be the least bit surprised if there’s a moat, she thought, as they reached the end of the winding lane leading to the front of the castle.

  Chapter Four

  Even though it was the dead of winter, the grounds were a lush, deep forest green, with shrubs in so many shades of green, she couldn’t count them. And the flowers she couldn’t even begin to identify; she’d never seen anything like them in America, anywhere. “How do the flowers survive in the winter?” she asked, finding it odd.

  “Some only grow in the winter,” Marty said. “The fall is our best time for color, though. It’s a mighty sight to b’hold.”

  Claire couldn’t begin to imagine just how beautiful the grounds were in the fall. Mesmerized by the site of the castle, the mountains in the background, the complete and total enormity of this place Mr. Flynn called home, she couldn’t wait to see the inside.

  There was a circular drive at the side of the castle, and Claire knew full well that this hadn’t been here in the 1700s, but it appeared as though it had. The stones were an exact match to those on the castle, the small garage-like area where Marty parked the car was also an exact match to the rest of the castle’s stone. Claire wondered if this had been a carriage house of sorts back in its day.

  Marty opened her door and took her by the hand, helping her out of the car. “Tilly will be wantin’ to feed ya as soon as ya walk through the doors. She’s Mr. Flynn’s chef, and she’s a fine one, too. But if you don’t wanna eat any o’ that fancy stuff she puts out, she makes a mighty fine Irish stew. I saw Quinn’s motorcycle. He must’ve arrived while I fetched you from the airport, but don’t pay him no mind either.”

  Claire laughed. “Does this mean I’m to ignore everyone but Mr. Flynn?” she asked, her tone light and teasing.

  Marty chuckled. “I’ll let ya decide that for yourself. Now let’s get inside outta this cold. Me old bones are aching from the chill.”

  Claire couldn’t agree with his proposal more.

  The door they used led them to the kitchen. Claire didn’t have a clue what the aroma that she smelled was, but all she knew right then and there was that she had to have whatever it was, and it was absolutely heavenly. She entered a kitchen that reminded her of something they used on Iron Chef, a popular TV show in America that aired weekly on the Food Network. She stared at all of the chrome appliances; pots and pans of every shape and size hung from a giant rack from the ceiling. A bay window that faced the sunshine, when there was sunshine, Claire imagined, held dozens of colorful pots filled with aromatic herbs. Rosemary, thyme, and cilantro were just a few that she recognized. She wasn’t much of a cook but did appreciate a well-stocked kitchen. From the looks of it, Mr. Flynn had it all in the food department.

  “Told you it was pretty nice in here,” Marty said.

  Claire smiled. “You did, you just didn’t say how pretty it was.” She walked around the kitchen amazed that she was actually inside of a castle. In all the fairy-tale books she’d ever read, castles did not have kitchens that looked like this, but she supposed that could be part of her fairy tale.

  Claire had to remind herself that she was not in Ireland, in this castle, to admire the kitchen and call up fairy tales from her childhood. She was here as an attorney, a financial advisor to one of Ireland’s wealthiest men, who just so happened to be at death’s door, or so he had said. Not wanting to waste another minute, Claire spoke up. “So where is Mr. Flynn? I really need to see him.” About that time, a tiny little Asian lady appeared from around the corner. Claire thought she couldn’t have been much over four feet tall and might weigh eighty pounds, and that only soaking wet. Her jet-black hair was cut as though a bowl had been placed around the circumference for a guide. Her bangs, or at least what there were of them, were cut so short, they barely covered her forehead. Tiny, almond-shaped eyes focused on hers, then a grin as big as the castle lit up the little woman’s face. This must be Tilly, Claire thought.

  “Mr. Flynn was right,” Tilly exclaimed to no one in particular. “You are perfect for the one. And you are tall like him, too.” The little woman spoke as if Claire were in another room and not there to observe and listen as the diminutive woman stared at Claire as though she were an object to be admired.

  “Tilly,” Marty admonished the little woman. “You’re here to make sure Miss Claire has a nice hot meal waiting for her as soon as she’s had a chance to clean up.”

  Claire would’ve sworn Marty was giving Tilly the evil eye. She observed the two of them together, and that is when it clicked.

  Donald Flynn was not sick; nor was he dying. He was probably looming above them somewhere in this giant castle, looking down at the scene below him, laughing. Claire clinched her hands in a fist, completely ticked off.

  Tilly chose that moment to acknowledge that Claire was actually in the room with them.

  “You want dinner now? Or do you want to wait for the men?” Tilly asked.

  Claire actually had to close her eyes for a couple of seconds. Then she opened them again just to make sure she wasn’t living in some fantasy fairy tale of a dream. She looked around the kitchen. No, this was very real, too real. Could it be possible that they still lived by the rules of etiquette from another century? Possibly the seventeenth century? No, that was too much.

  “So, which you want?” Tilly asked again.

  Marty cleared his throat, shook his head, walked across the kitchen, and placed a caring hand on Claire’s shoulder. “Tilly sometimes forgets her manners, thinks she’s back in China, where women are ruled by their men.”

  That explains it, Claire thought. She mentally forgave the little woman her faux pas.

  “And isn’t that as it should be?” said a deep male voice.

  Claire directed her gaze in the direction from where the words came. She blinked once, then twice, and yet again, sure what she viewed was just another part of this fantasy world that she had stepped into when her feet touched the green grass of Ireland. Because, nowhere in her world, and her world was quite the fantasy land living in Los Angeles, California, did men look like the one that bracketed the doorway with lanky yet muscular arms, extending from an equally broad chest that led to a narrow, but not too narrow, waistline. He wore faded black denim that looked as though it choked the muscular legs encased inside and clung in other places that it shouldn’t. Claire felt her cheeks flame as she stared just below the man’s belt. Quickly raising her eyes to his chest, she saw that it clung too tightly to a worn-out black T-shirt. When she was able to take her eyes away from his massive chest, she swallowed quickly, then turned her eyes away.

  “So you’re that attorney who flew all night long to get here before Donald kicks the bucket?”

  Claire took a few seconds to gather herself. She had to remember she was a professional woman used to dealing with men of all kinds. “I’m Claire O’Brien,” she stated firmly, confidently. “And you are?” She let her words hang in the air.

  The man chose to fully show himself. He walked across the giant kitchen as though he belonged there. It would be funny, Claire thought, if a man’s life wasn’t hanging in the balance. Well, she didn’t really know that, not yet. She reminded herself that she was about to find out. She looked at Marty and Tilly, who watched the two of them as though they were both animals about to pounce on their prey.

  “I guess he doesn’t speak. Possibly you’re a younger version of Liam Neeson, maybe a stand-in?” Claire couldn’t help but notice the strong resemblance between the two. And she would never admit it to the
man who stood before her, but he was much better-looking than Liam Neeson, and certainly much younger. Raw power and a keen intelligence emanated from him, despite his good looks.

  The guy had the audacity to laugh, loudly. “I hear it all the time, but no, that isn’t my chosen profession. Like you, I’m an attorney.”

  It was then that Claire remembered Quinn Connor and where she’d met him. “We’ve met before,” she said, using her best attorney voice. Firm, commanding, and no-nonsense.

  All six-foot-four of him walked across the room, stopping a couple of feet in front of her. He held out his hand to her. “I’m sure I would have remembered,” he said with barely a trace of an Irish accent.

  Claire was sure he was speaking the truth. It had been during her last year of law school, and though their introduction was only a brief one, she’d never forgotten him. And looking at him now, she realized he had only gotten better with age. Like a fine wine, maturity had only made him sexier, more appealing to the opposite sex. Now the question was, did she remind him of that long-ago meeting or should she let it go? Deciding on the latter, she spoke. “You’re probably right; I must’ve mistaken you for someone else.”

  If he suddenly remembered their chance meeting, she would simply use time and age as an excuse. Though something told her, by the glint in his eye, that he knew exactly when they’d met, and where. Los Angeles, a cocktail party when, fresh out of law school, the firm at which she had begun her career, Visco, Walsh and Mack, opened a second office in a new high-rise they’d built. The managing partner had invited attorneys from across the globe, and a few of the clerks who were in their last year of law school and had been offered associate positions in the firm, Claire being one of them. Quinn Connor was the legal golden boy that day, as was mentioned numerous times throughout the evening. He had garnered a perfect score on the bar exam. She remembered watching him throughout the evening, smiling at him. The few times his eye had caught hers across the room, he really hadn’t paid much attention to her, and for some reason, even now, she remembered feeling rejected by him. She wasn’t the girl she’d been back then. Now she was a powerful professional woman who could hold her own against men like Quinn Connor.