The Irishman's Christmas Gamble: A Wager of Hearts Novella

by Nancy Herkness

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  The Irishman’s Christmas Gamble

  A Wager of Hearts Novella

  Nancy Herkness

  Red Car Press

  The Irishman’s Christmas Gamble

  A Wager of Hearts Novella

  Having risen out of the Dublin slums to build a multinational chocolate business, Frances “Frankie” Hogan is convinced that nothing can ruffle her well-ordered, though lonely, world…until European soccer sensation Liam Keller shows up at her door like the ghost of Christmas past. Youthful ambitions had launched them in different directions, and now the years apart have added secrets and complications. Liam believes it’ll take a Christmas miracle to convince the woman he has always adored to finally gamble on love.

  Praise for the Novels of Nancy Herkness

  “Be it an emotional moment or an erotic encounter, Nancy has the ability to tie your emotions and heart-strings in knots.”

  —Karen Laird, Shade Book Tree Reviews

  “Of course, you’ll be reading the book again, anyway. It’s a Nancy Herkness, after all.”

  —Kathy Altman, USA Today HEA

  “Bestseller Herkness shines with…catchy dialogue, memorable characters, and top-notch writing.”

  —Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

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  Read other books by Nancy Herkness

  Wager of Hearts Series

  The CEO Buys In (Book 1)

  The All-Star Antes Up (Book 2)

  The VIP Doubles Down (Book 3)

  Whisper Horse Novels

  Take Me Home (Book 1)

  Country Roads (Book 2)

  The Place I Belong (Book 3)

  A Down-Home Country Christmas, a novella (Book 4)

  Single Titles

  A Bridge To Love

  Shower Of Stars

  Music of the Night

  Chapter One

  “Ms. Hogan, there’s a gentleman waiting to see you in the reception area.”

  Frankie raised her eyebrows at Vincent, her head of security, as she stepped out of the elevator from her penthouse apartment in the Bellwether Club. “I don’t have an appointment this afternoon,” she said, surprised that her protective staff members would let an unknown, non-member into her ultra-exclusive club.

  “Donal vouched for him.”

  Frankie’s curiosity stirred. Her head bartender wouldn’t override her head of security without a damned compelling reason. She strode across the hallway and into the waiting room. It was empty, which meant the mystery man had entered her office without permission.

  She stalked through the door to see the silhouette of a man standing with his back to her as he gazed through the French doors at the snow-covered garden.

  “My office is private,” she snapped. “You may enter it only at my invitation.”

  “That’s not the greeting I had hoped for.”

  Shock crackled through her, making her stomach flutter with nerves. She knew that dark voice with the lilt of Ireland flowing in it. It rippled through her like a tide, sucking her back into places she didn’t want to go.

  “Liam,” she whispered.

  Sun-glare from the snow dazzled Frankie’s vision, so even though Liam turned, she couldn’t see his face. But she recognized the coiled energy of his athlete’s body, ready to explode in whatever direction the football—no, in her adopted country, it was a soccer ball—flew. But he was broader now, his muscles filled out and solid, rather than lean and ropey like a boy’s. The flutters in her stomach settled and warmed and moved lower, setting off sensations inside her that she’d forgotten she’d ever felt.

  “Good to know you recognize an old friend,” he said.

  “I couldn’t see you against the light from outside,” she said, forcing her voice to remain normal.

  He glanced toward the window, and she saw the strong lines of his profile limned against the light. His blade of a nose with the bump partway down the bridge from the break he’d gotten when he’d come to her rescue in a dirty Dublin alley. The clean jut of his chin, signaling the determination that had hauled him out of the slums of their childhood and into international glory as Arsenal’s star center midfielder.

  “I was admiring your view.” He started around the desk with that long-legged grace that sent a shudder of remembered desire through her.

  His movement seemed to unlock her muscles so that she could take a step toward him, her hands held out in affectionate greeting, as though she didn’t want to hurl herself into his arms. “Sure, and it’s good to see you, Liam,” she said, letting the full Irish into her voice.

  She had only a brief glimpse of his face before he took her hands and drew her against the warm, solid wall of his chest, wrapping his arms like iron bands around her back. “A stór,” he said, his voice husky.

  My treasure. He’d called her that the day he’d left for the football…soccer academy in England. The day he’d kissed her with all the frustrated arousal in his 18-year-old body. Her 26-year-old body had answered with a leap of ecstasy, as his big, powerful hands roamed over her back and his hot, firm lips slanted against hers. She’d yearned to give in to the pleasures of his beautiful muscles and sinews, wanted to feel his skin slide naked against hers. But he was still a boy in years, if not experience. And they both had grand plans, without any room for love in them.

  Yet she felt the same searing hunger now, the liquid desire spreading when he shifted against her. More than two decades evaporated as she pressed against the hard, curving muscles beneath the layers of suit and shirt. “Prince,” she breathed the nickname she’d given him for his pride. The neighborhood kids had picked it up because it suited him so well.

  She felt a shiver run through him. “No one’s called me that in years,” he said.

  She turned her cheek to rest against him for just a second more, inhaling the scent of clean cotton and warm male and hearing the deep, even rhythm of his heartbeat. Then she wedged her hands between them and pushed until he released her.

  She stepped back and looked up, bracing herself for the slash of his high cheekbones, the deep auburn of his waving hair, the dark blue burn of his gaze. She forced her voice to remain level. “Are you in New York to meet your new team?”

  Disappointment flickered in his eyes. “Aye. And to inspect the facility. There are some changes that need to be made. I’m looking at apartments as well since I’ll be settling here now.” He surveyed her. “You look grand, Frankie. Beautiful.”

  She looked as she did every day, dressed in her usual uniform of a pantsuit custom-tailored for her short figure, her silver hair smoothed into a conservative pageboy style. Today’s suit was dark red in a nod to the holiday season. She smiled a careful smile to hide the flush of pleasure that surged through her. “You look more like a king than a prince now. As befits the new head coach of the New York Challenge.”

  His smile deepened the lines etched around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. “As befits an old man in the world of soccer. I’m learning to call it that instead of football.”

  “You’re only forty-one. That seems young to me.”
<
br />   The smile vanished. “So we’re back to that again.”

  “Unless you’ve found a way to warp time,” Frankie said. She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. One of the reasons she’d pushed him away over and over again in their youth was that she was eight years his elder. Of course, she’d felt about a century older in experience, despite the fact that he lived in the same slum neighborhood she did. But he didn’t have a drunkard for a father nor did he have seven younger siblings to take care of. For all that Liam’s mother, Kathleen, complained that his father had bolted so she had to raise her son alone, Frankie thought Kathleen was lucky in her solitude.

  Pushing the ugly memories away, she moved to the sleek, built-in bar. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Would you be havin’ some good Irish whiskey?”

  “Redbreast 21,” she said, setting out two cut-crystal tumblers and splashing the golden whiskey into them.

  She handed him one glass. “Here’s to the future,” he said, holding her gaze as he touched his glass to hers with a musical clink.

  Her chest went hollow as she recognized the toast they always drank while they plotted their paths away from their dismal beginnings. Away from each other.

  “We made it out, Liam,” she said, savoring the warmth of the spicy, single-pot still liquor. “We made a damned good future.”

  “It could be better.” He tossed back the whole drink. “Have dinner with me tonight. We can catch up on the twenty-three years since we last saw each other.” There was that edge in his voice again.

  She should say no, partly just to douse his assumption that she would be available on such short notice. “Seven-thirty,” she said. “We can use the private dining room here at the club.”

  “No, Frankie, I’m going to treat you, just like I promised back then. We’re going to the most expensive restaurant in New York City. I’ll pick you up at seven.” He leaned down to brush a kiss across her lips, the gossamer touch igniting the blood in her veins again. “A stór.”

  And he was gone.

  Frankie sank into the nearest chair, staring out at the sinuous snow-dusted curves of the modern sculpture in her garden. Trying to separate the memory of Liam from the reality of him.

  All the photographs she’d collected as his athletic career skyrocketed hadn’t prepared her for the way his youthful arrogance had transformed into a confidence that he wore like a second skin. He moved as though the world would get out of his way.

  And he’d reduced her to a hungry young girl again.

  She hated that.

  Chapter Two

  Liam jogged up the stone steps of the Bellwether Club. At least this time he didn’t have to call his old friend Donal to get him through the well-guarded portal adorned with lush pine wreaths. The door swung open as he reached the portico, revealing a lean man dressed in a dark suit. He had the cold, blank stare of one of the thugs from the old neighborhood in Dublin.

  “Welcome, Mr. Keller,” the man said, in an entirely American accent. “I’ll take you to Ms. Hogan’s office.”

  It was intimidating, the Bellwether Club. Not because he hadn’t been in plenty of other grand places with miles of mahogany paneling and fancy Oriental rugs, but because his old pal Frankie had created it, paid for it with her own money. It reminded him all too vividly that even the enormous sum of money his agent had wrung out of the mad Americans was peanuts compared to Frankie’s fortune. Which was going to make his task that much harder.

  His cold-eyed escort gestured him through the door into the waiting room outside her office. She was standing by the garland-draped fireplace, staring into the flames. The firelight turned her silver hair to molten gold and sent light and shadows flickering across the sharp, clean lines of her face. Her beauty was achingly familiar, yet the years had changed it in subtle ways. As a girl, she had burned like a wild, blazing torch. Now her intensity was as sharp as a cutting laser.

  Yet when she turned, warmth lit her gray eyes. “Liam,” she said. “I can’t quite get used to the sight of you. It’s like seeing a ghost.”

  “Then let me convince you that I’m flesh and blood,” he said, moving quickly to place a kiss on her soft lips, the contact brief but firm.

  There was a tiny hitch in her voice as she said, “Proof positive you’re human.”

  “And you as well. Not just a dream anymore.” He let his eyes skim down the simple black dress she wore that hinted at dangerous curves underneath. She’d always had gorgeous legs and that hadn’t changed. All the boys in their slum neighborhood of Finglas had wanted her, drawn to her fiery brilliance like moths to a flame. But she would have nothing to do with any of them.

  Except for him. Because his plans were almost as big as hers. She’d shown him how to use his raw talent to leave the burnt-out cars and graffiti-scarred walls far behind. She’d researched which soccer leagues attracted the scouts from the English clubs and pushed him into them. When he needed to practice extra hours, she’d done his schoolwork for him. In the glorious moment when the Arsenal Academy had recruited him, she’d filled out the scholarship forms. Finally, she’d forced his mother to give her blessing to his departure, although he’d only discovered that years later.

  Yet Frankie had refused to be anything more than his friend.

  He brought his gaze back to her face, looking for a reaction to his blatantly appreciative survey, but she had her guard up now. She wasn’t going to be surprised into letting him hold her in his arms again. When she had laid her cheek against his chest for that brief, stunning moment, his heart had stopped. It was more than he had expected, less than he had hoped for.

  She reached for the coat draped over a chair by the fire, but he swept it up first, holding it so that he had an excuse to brush his fingers against the nape of her neck and feel the silk of her hair on the back of his hands.

  “Your reflexes haven’t slowed,” she said as she picked up her purse.

  “On the soccer pitch they have. That’s why I’ve been coaching these last five years.”

  “Was it hard to stop playing?” Her gaze was locked on his face.

  “The hardest thing I’ve ever done but for one.” He knew he could play soccer. But when he retired, he’d had no idea if he could lead a team from the sidelines. “Was it hard to sell your company?”

  “It was my goal from the day I started it.” She headed for the door.

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  She stopped, her back to him. “I had no idea what to do after I signed the contract.”

  “They didn’t have you stay on for the transition?”

  “I told them I wouldn’t.” She pivoted back to him. “Can you imagine me taking orders from an outsider who knows less about the business than I do?”

  “I thought you might have mellowed over the years.”

  But of course she hadn’t. Even when she was young, she’d been tougher than the boys who followed her around like panting dogs. Thank God they did because when she’d been dragged into an alley by a drug dealer, a knife to her throat, one of the boys had seen the grab. The lad had run to tell Liam, thank Mary and Jesus. He’d sprinted as though he was trying out for Team Ireland, and hauled the thug off Frankie before her attacker had been able to pry her naked and bruised thighs apart.

  The memory of her curled into a ball on the filthy cement littered with broken glass still made his gut clench. She hadn’t cried. She just lay there as he tore the tee shirt off his back and draped it over the shreds of her clothing, begging her to tell him where she was hurt.

  It wasn’t until the blood from his broken nose dripped onto her cheek that she stirred. “You’re bleeding. We need to get you taken care of.” She had sat up and pulled his shirt on over her head as though it was an everyday occurrence. Taking his hand to rise to her feet, she looked him in the eye and said, “Thank you for saving me from my own stupidity. I’ll never let happiness make me careless again.”

  He still didn’t know what good fortune h
ad made her forget her dangerous surroundings.

  As the big limo glided to a stop, Frankie tried to peer out the window to see what restaurant Liam had chosen, but he flung open the door and leapt out before she had a chance.

  On the ride to dinner, she’d been too focused on the man seated beside her to track their progress through the city. Being closed into the dark, private space with her oldest friend had brought back a rush of feelings and memories she had a hard time swimming through. It also brought a physical awareness that had her noticing every shift of his weight on the leather seat, every brush of his shoulder against hers, every rise and fall of his rumbling voice.

  When he’d walked into her office in his dark, well-tailored suit, his auburn hair and blue eyes catching glints of firelight while shadows emphasized the hard angles of his face, she’d felt the pull of him low in her gut, not as a friend but as a powerful, sexual man.

  He was Liam and not Liam. She would fall into a relaxed camaraderie with him and then he would say something to remind her that he had worked at an elite level on the international sports stage for many years. It unbalanced their old relationship where she was the wise, experienced mentor and he the eager, young follower.

  The first time she’d seen Liam playing on the mudhole that passed for a local soccer pitch, he’d made every other player look like they were moving in slow motion. But it had been the desire and drive he telegraphed in every pass, every fake, every kick that snagged her attention. He burned with the passion to win. That was the moment she decided she would do everything in her power to get this brilliant kid out of the pit of despair that was Finglas. Maybe she wouldn’t make it, but he would.

  “Where are we?” Frankie said, setting her high heels on a gritty cement sidewalk and allowing Liam to help her out of the car. A curved stone wall rose up beside them and she tilted her head back to look up at it. The shape and texture were familiar but she had no way to orient herself after her inattention during the drive.