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

by Nancy Herkness

  “The most expensive restaurant in New York City.” His smile flashed white in the streetlights. “This is the private entrance to the Owner’s Box in Yankee Stadium.”

  Frankie laughed. “You always could surprise me.”

  “When no one else could.”

  She didn’t want to feel this bubble of delight expanding in her chest. “Don’t you have to own the Yankees to eat here?”

  “Or you can work for the owners, like I do.” He held out his elbow and she put her hand through it. “In the off-season, they were willing to allow their newest hire to borrow it.”

  He led her toward a polished steel door with the New York Yankees logo set into the sidewalk in front of it. It opened at their approach, held by a balding man in a blue coverall. They walked to an elevator where the door keeper inserted a key and sent them soaring upwards.

  The elevator opened onto a hallway with walls covered in blue suede and a floor paved with speckled granite. Liam led her to a double set of steel-and-glass doors. On each hung a wreath of entwined holly and ivy, adorned with a red velvet bow.

  She slid a quick glance toward Liam. The holly and ivy were an Irish tradition, but were also not uncommon in her adopted country. He met her eyes but said nothing.

  Pushing open the door, he bowed her through into a foyer before hanging her coat in the closet. When she stepped into the next room, Frankie gasped. Dozens of candles were lined up along the counter in front of the huge plate glass windows that formed one wall of the owner’s box, their flames casting a flickering golden light.

  “Mary and Joseph candles,” Frankie whispered, her throat too clogged with tears to say it any louder. “To light their way to the stable on Christmas Eve.”

  “I saved one for you, even though it’s not Christmas Eve.” He brought her to an unlit candle at the end of the counter. The tall pillar of white wax was a foot tall and at least three inches in diameter, with raised golden angels molded into its sides. He picked up a long, fireplace match from the counter and handed it to her. “I figured because you were the eldest daughter in your family, you never got to light the candle.”

  As she took the match, memory yanked her back to the day the priest had given her a half-burnt church candle to place in the window of their flat on Christmas Eve. They didn’t have the money to spend on useless decorations, so this was a magical gift. But tradition held that the youngest daughter was given the task of lighting the beacon for the weary travelers seeking an inn. Frankie was ten years old, with three younger sisters by then. She’d watched in envy as five-year-old Shauna’s face had been illuminated by the glow of the flame when she kindled it to life.

  Suddenly, tears painted warm tracks down Frankie’s cheeks. She tried to hold the tip of the match to the nearest candle flame, but her hand shook. Liam took the match from her, his long fingers brushing hers. “I didn’t expect this to upset you,” he said, his voice tight with concern.

  “Not upset, touched.” She wiped at the wet streaks with the back of her hand. She’d never told Liam that story, just as she’d never told him so many of the squalid secrets of her family life. Yet he’d seen her gaze longingly at the candles flickering in the windows of the rich people’s houses they’d walk past. “You were sweet to remember how much I loved the candles.”

  He put one of those long fingers under her chin to tilt her face up, his dark blue gaze locked on her. “I remember everything about you, Frankie.”

  “So the wreaths….”

  “Just like the one on the door of the posh house in Ballsbridge you loved. The one that you said you were going to buy when you made your fortune.”

  She swallowed, searching his face for a clue as to why he was doing this. All she saw was the drama of his slashing brows, the strength of his square chin, and the lines etched at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Lines that hadn’t been there when they parted twenty-three years before. Lines that only made him more beautiful because they showed he was a man, not a boy.

  “Why, Liam?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  She gave her head a tiny shake so he wouldn’t need to release his hold on her. She loved the feel of his finger on the fragile skin that stretched over her jaw.

  “I told you when we said good-bye that I would find you—”

  “You were a kid then.”

  “I was no more a kid than you were. We grew up too fast because we had no choice.” His eyebrows pulled downward, putting a furrow between them. “I said I would find you, wherever you were.”

  She held her breath because she remembered what he had said after that.

  “I told you I’d find you,” he continued, “and convince you to love me.”

  Chapter Three

  His words sent a thrill of longing and denial shivering through Frankie. “You were eighteen. It was a long time ago.” She took a step backward.

  He matched her step, moving forward to stay near her. He ran his hands up her arms to grip her shoulders. “You can’t use my age as an excuse now.”

  She closed her eyes, savoring the power of his hold on her, letting the heat of his hands sink deep into her body, wishing she didn’t feel a hundred years older than the man touching her. “Yes, I can,” she whispered. “You deserve a family.”

  The silence made her open her eyes again. His eyes were lit with tenderness. “You are my family. You always have been.”

  She started to shake her head.

  “Give me a chance, a stór. You owe me that.”

  “I don’t owe anyone anything,” she said. “All that I have, all that I am, I made myself.”

  “Don’t you want someone to be sharing it with?” His voice was all Irish, a music soft as velvet.

  The yearning his words stirred up nearly choked her. She forced her voice past the tightness in her throat, making it sound strong and certain. “I prefer my solitude. I don’t compromise well.”

  Instead of being put off, he laughed. “Now that would be an understatement, if ever there was one.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “I’m going to change your mind about solitude, Frankie. I swear it.” He released her. “You still have to light the candle.”

  This time she held the match steady, transferring the flame to the wick so it flared into light. For a moment, she just watched the flame, letting the sweetness of Liam’s gesture wash over her like a warm sea.

  “Our dinner’s waiting for us.” He pivoted.

  Following his motion, she saw the table set in the middle of the room, draped in green linen and lit by more of the pillar candles, their bases wreathed in garlands of holly and ivy. A plate covered with a silver dome sat at each of the two place settings. Champagne flutes sparkled in the candlelight, and a silver wine cooler stood on its own pedestal.

  Liam held the chair for her. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stirred with pleasure at his nearness. He lifted the cover from her plate and walked to his own seat.

  By the time he sat down across from her, Frankie had her armor firmly strapped on again. She touched the jewelry she wore, her favorite gems: black opal and diamond earrings and a triple strand of perfectly matched Mikimoto pearls. She had taken on men just as intimidating as Liam with these talismans and come out the victor.

  A waiter in a white jacket materialized at the side of the table. When he plucked out the bottle to fill the paper-thin flutes, she saw that the champagne was Dom Pérignon. Memory flooded her again. When she’d begun to experiment with developing her own chocolates at Balfour Chocolatiers, she’d dreamed of flavoring them with champagne, but couldn’t afford the key ingredient. She’d told Liam that she’d know she had made it to the top of her profession when she could use not just any champagne, but Dom Pérignon.

  “Your Dom Bombs are my go-to gift,” Liam said, proving that his choice of beverage was no accident. “Although my personal favorite is your Black-and-Tan bar.” He swirled the champagne in the glass. “The taste of your chocolate makes me feel you
ng.”

  The urge to plunge a wooden spoon into a vat of rich, thick, melted chocolate made her fingers curl with longing. “I don’t make chocolate anymore. Not since I sold Taste of Ireland to Giacometti International.”

  He set down his glass and pulled his wallet out of his jacket pocket, the movement sending glints of candlelight waltzing along the waves of his thick hair, turning it copper. He extracted a folded newspaper clipping from a compartment in the dark leather billfold and handed it to her.

  It was the Wall Street Journal article, worn along the creases, announcing the sale of her chocolate business to the Italian firm. She had the same article framed in her penthouse office. It was the day when the world found out that she was a billionaire.

  “I tried to send you roses,” he said, “but no one would give me your address. I finally sent them to the corporate headquarters of Taste of Ireland, but they said you were already gone.”

  Something in her chest warmed at the knowledge that he’d tried to celebrate with her.

  “Of course, you’ve always been good at a quick exit.” His tone was dry.

  “I didn’t leave you.” He had been the one to go. To the premier league soccer academy that launched him into the stratosphere of his sport. “It was lonely after you were gone.”

  “Is that why you flew off to America without a word?”

  “I had an opportunity and I took it.” She looked down at the plate in front of her. “I was afraid you’d leave the academy just to say good-bye. I didn’t want you to screw up your opportunity.”

  She risked a glance at him. He sat back in his chair, his broad shoulders framed by the blue leather upholstery. It was hard to read his expression in the wavering candlelight. One moment he looked angry, the next he seemed sad.

  “You were always more worried about my career than I was.” He gave her a crooked smile. “And I thank you for that.”

  “You had a great talent, and the passion to go with it. I didn’t want you to squander it in Finglas.”

  “Did you ever think you’d fail?”

  She took a sip of champagne, enjoying the fizz that tickled her tongue. “Fail to do what? Get out? No. I knew that I would haul myself out of that pit, but that was setting the bar low.” She shrugged. “Anything else was a bonus.”

  “Bollocks. You always had your sights on world domination.”

  “All I wanted was so much money that I would never, ever have to think about it again.”

  “So you don’t think about your money?”

  “You know the answer to that. Money brings its own burdens.” Even though she’d given half her fortune away by putting it into a charitable foundation, it still required substantial attention. “But you have an extra layer of pressure. You have to win.”

  “Always.” His tone held undercurrents that seemed to extend the meaning beyond soccer. But his next words were light. “Neither one of us likes to lose. It’s worse than dying because you have to live with it.”

  She laughed at the sports cliché and then sobered. “Has it gotten any easier, Liam?”

  “On the soccer pitch, no.” He frowned into his champagne. “But there are certain situations that require patience and tolerance, so I’m learning to be less…intense.”

  “What situations would those be?”

  He nodded toward her plate. “Eat your caviar.”

  If it were twenty-three years ago, he would have blurted out his secret to her. Liam had always been open with her, even while she had hidden the darker parts of her life from him. So it was strange to have him withhold anything, but he was a grown man now, in more ways than just the physical.

  She picked up the tiny mother-of-pearl spoon and scooped up the black beads from their glass dish, dropping them onto the perfectly round, bite-size blini. Popping the blini between her lips, she let the aroma fill her mouth and then pressed her tongue upward to pop the firm eggs against her palate. They released their rich, buttery flavor of salt. Definitely Ossetra, one of the best.

  “You still eat the same way,” Liam said. “With your eyes closed to concentrate on the taste.”

  “Only when the food is worth the effort.” After the deprivations of her childhood, she’d had to train herself not to gulp down food. So now she chewed slowly and with attention.

  He looked pleased. “I told the chef to make sure the flavors were unique and interesting. He seemed confident about everything except the dessert. I insisted on chocolate.”

  “You told him who I am.”

  “It will inspire him to up his game.” He took a bite of caviar, chewed, and swallowed. “Tell me about the Bellwether Club.”

  She started to give him her well-rehearsed tale about the fancy clubs rejecting her because she was a woman, Irish, and new money. How she’d resolved to found her own ultra-exclusive place and make it the clubbiest damned club in New York City, open only to those who had made their ten-figure fortunes entirely from scratch. But Liam wouldn’t let her laugh about it. He drew out the pain of those rejections, took only honesty from her. And she felt lighter once she’d made the confession to him.

  “What about you?” she asked, as they ate a salad of papaya, beans, and crushed peanuts with a tangy coriander dressing. “What did you thumb your nose at?”

  He shook his head, making a curve of thick auburn hair fall onto his forehead. She wanted to brush it back, as she had in the old days, when she allowed herself only small touches so she wouldn’t be tempted to more. “It wasn’t sports that hurt me. For all that I hate to lose, I know that someone has to in every game.” He trapped her in the blaze of his deep blue eyes. “I kept hoping I’d hear from you. But you never answered my calls or my emails.”

  “I had an international business to run in the U.S. You had an elite sports career in Europe.” It took all her willpower to keep her voice firm, just as it had taken all her willpower not to answer his calls. But she’d been afraid to talk with him, fearful that her self-discipline would collapse under the weight of her feelings for him. “What would have been the point?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Friendship?” His tone was pure sarcasm.

  “You wanted more, and I didn’t have it to give.”

  He leaned forward. “I’d have settled for a word every now and then. Just to know you remembered your oldest mate.”

  “I have a box in my safe of every news story ever written about you, every photo ever taken, every magazine cover you were on. I know all the teams you played for, the championships you won…or lost, the contracts you signed.” The wags he’d dated, but she wouldn’t admit that to him.

  Surprise and gratification danced across his face.

  “I kept watching for an engagement announcement, too. You’re wealthy, famous, and good-looking. I was sure you’d be married by now.”

  He seemed to flinch before he forced a smile that was meant to be wicked. “I’m glad you noticed the good-looking part.”

  “I’m not dead, just disciplined.”

  “Why the discipline? Don’t throw the age difference at me again. We’re both old enough so it doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters because you can and should have children. You always wanted them.”

  He turned to stare at the windows that reflected the flickering candle flames. “And you didn’t because you felt that all those babies destroyed your ma and took away any hope she had of a better life.”

  He didn’t know how much deeper it went. She’d never told him about how she lay awake listening to her little sisters and brothers crying with hunger at night. She’d taken to giving them as much of her own food as she could without starving herself. Even being careful, she’d blacked out from hunger a few times in school. The nurse had been kind enough to blame it on low blood sugar, giving Frankie a few graham crackers to wolf down.

  She’d dropped out of school to work at Balfour Chocolatiers because she couldn’t bear to see the children’s huge hungry eyes staring at her, pleading, as she ladled out the tin
y portions of the dinner she’d scraped together. She didn’t tell her da about the job so she could keep the money to buy food for all of them. And every now and then she got to bring home rejected chocolates, a treat that made her siblings look upon her as nothing short of an angel.

  But she still heard their thin, desperate voices, crying, in her nightmares, and it brought back the old, throat-clutching feeling that her siblings were starving, and she couldn’t save them.

  She was grateful when Liam’s voice broke into those memories. “But you made more than enough money to hire all the help you needed,” he said.

  “Do you know how many hours a day I spent at home while I was running Taste of Ireland? Maybe six and most of that was to sleep. In fact, I often slept in my office.” She toyed with a slice of papaya. “If I’d had children, they’d never have seen me. I wouldn’t do that to a kid.”

  “You’d have a husband.”

  “And he wouldn’t have seen me either.” All the familiar frustration vibrated through her. “You can’t have it all. You have to make choices in life, especially if you’re a woman.”

  He had the grace to look sympathetic. “I don’t deny it. But if anyone could have managed both work and family, it’s you.”

  “Don’t be a bloody gobdaw,” Frankie said, weariness blunting any edge in her insult. “I had to work twice as hard as any man, just because I don’t have a Y chromosome.”

  He held up his hand in surrender. “It’s a man’s world. God knows I work in a sea of testosterone.”

  “I’d rather not fight with an old friend. Let’s talk about your team,” Frankie said, tamping down her anger. “You’ve got a solid midfielder in Graham Bradley.”

  Liam hesitated a moment, as though he was going to argue with her change of topic. But then he gave a half-shrug. “Graham certainly thinks so. I’m more interested in Kyle Hyndman. He’s going to be a standout with the right coaching.”

  “So it’s your coaching that will be making him great, is it?”