Swiveling, she fed the folder into the high-powered paper shredder, wincing as the razor-sharp blades chewed through the papers she’d pored over when she craved the sight of her old friend.
The next folder was a little easier to handle because it covered the time Liam spent coaching in Europe. There were fewer photos and they were older. It went into the shredder before the blades had finished destroying the first one.
When she reached the folder covering Liam’s years on Team Ireland, she couldn’t stop herself from turning over each article and photo. They were arranged in reverse chronological order by the service she paid to track every mention of Liam Keller. There was the photo Paddy’s Pub had on their wall, but the one she loved best was of his debut on the team, when he’d scored his first goal for Ireland on a penalty kick. The camera had captured the moment he’d fallen to his knees, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. She knew he wasn’t praying because neither of them had believed in heavenly intervention, so she’d always assumed he was imprinting the moment on his memory.
As she took one last look at the picture, she drew in her breath on a gasp. She’d never noticed before that one of his hands rested on his hip but not in the typical location. It was just enough lower to look odd. She dropped the folder on the desk and grabbed the computer mouse to open the file of game videos. The service had edited them to highlight Liam’s position on the field. She clicked on a different game where she knew he had taken a penalty kick.
The camera followed him as he placed the ball and then backed away to wait for the referee to blow the whistle. As he stopped, he raised his fingertips to his lips and then touched them to his hip. She found another game with a penalty kick and saw him do the same. And another.
Leaning back in her desk chair, she pivoted to stare out into the garden while she pictured the sculpted planes and curved muscles of his body stretched out on her bed, marked only by scars and a single tattoo low on his hip. The shamrock with her initial at the center of it. She closed her eyes as the knowledge washed through her like the warmest, bluest Caribbean Sea chased by the bitterest, grayest salt ocean.
Just as she’d carried him with her, he’d carried her with him.
She deleted the folder with the videos in it before she jerked out of the chair, making it spin so hard it slammed into her desk and left a dent in the exotic Bolivian rosewood.
“Frankie.” Gavin Miller’s voice carried surprise as she walked up to the table in the Bellwether Club’s bar.
Three men, all members, rose to their considerable heights, making her feel like an elderberry bush among redwoods. These were her three gamblers, who’d made a drunken bet on love three months before. They’d been strangers to each other then, but had been drawn into friendship by their wager.
Gavin, wearing his customary black sweater and jeans, was the bestselling author of the Julian Best novels, his super spy eclipsing James Bond as a cultural icon. Nathan Trainor, standing military straight in his custom-tailored navy suit, was the CEO and tech genius who’d founded Trainor Electronics, a Fortune 500 company. The golden-haired Luke Archer, his blue polo shirt and khakis stretched over a massive, but well-tuned athlete’s frame, was the all-star franchise quarterback of the New York Empire, leading them to four Super Bowl wins thus far in his career.
“Gentlemen, I thought I’d buy you all a drink,” she said. It was something of a joke at a club whose membership was limited to billionaires.
“We’d be honored,” Luke said in his low Texas drawl. He pulled one of the massive, leather-upholstered club chairs to the table as though it weighed no more than a wicker basket.
As they settled back into their seats, her head bartender, Donal, brought another glass and a bottle of her usual drink, the same Redbreast 21 she’d served to Liam. That sent a ripple of pain through her but she stopped herself from wincing. She raised her glass. “Sláinte.”
Jesus, she couldn’t stop herself from being Irish today.
The three men did a respectable job of echoing the Gaelic toast before they returned to the discussion of politics she’d interrupted. The exchange was lively because these were intelligent, worldly men, but she couldn’t summon up enough interest to contribute to the debate.
Gavin, of course, noticed her distraction. “Frankie, I fear we’re boring you.”
“Not at all,” she said, before sipping her whiskey. “I came to listen.”
“And drink,” Gavin said, as she refilled her glass for the second time. He was far too astute an observer. She should have avoided him.
“I can drink all of you under the table,” she said. “It’s in my DNA.” There she went with the Irish thing again.
“Didn’t I see you on the news with the new coach of the New York Challenge?” Nathan asked.
The remembered happiness of that day sent a jab of loss through her. “I know Liam from Dublin.”
“I hear good things about him as a coach. I wish him luck.” Luke smiled. “Wrong kind of football, but I won’t hold that against him.”
“He said the same thing about you,” Frankie said.
“What did you think of Suicide Hill?” Nathan asked. “Was it as dangerous as it sounds?”
“Suicide Hill?” Gavin asked.
“That’s what they call the sled run at Riverside Park and 91st,” Nathan explained.
Gavin’s gaze turned to Frankie. His gray-green eyes saw too much. “Frankie Hogan went sledding?”
“I was reliving my childhood in Ireland.” A lie. She’d never once ridden a sled in Finglas.
“Ah, childhood. A dangerous time. No wonder you chose Suicide Hill to relive it on.” Gavin’s voice had turned sardonic.
“Let the lady enjoy her sledding,” Luke said. “Not everyone has such a jaundiced view as you do.
“Because your youth was idyllic. All those picturesque longhorns and bouncy, blond cheerleaders,” Gavin needled.
“I’m no more a poster child for a happy past than you are,” the quarterback said.
Nathan swirled his Scotch in his cut crystal glass. “I suspect that our childhoods brought us to where we are, so maybe we shouldn’t regret them. We certainly can’t change them.”
“I detect the hand of a woman in this sudden philosophical bent,” Gavin said.
The CEO remained unruffled. “Chloe helped me make peace with my father. Now I can move forward.”
“Can you?” Frankie asked, her voice sharp. “Can you leave your past behind?”
She felt the weight of their gazes.
Luke frowned as he considered her question. “You can learn to live with it. Not to let it make your decisions for you.”
“How do you do that?” Frankie asked.
“Face it,” Nathan said. “Understand how it formed you, so you can control your reactions now.”
Gavin made an abrupt gesture with his hand. “Pretty words, but the past can be a slippery beast, slithering out of its cage and winding its coils around you like a boa constrictor.”
He was a writer so it shouldn’t surprise Frankie that he described her feelings so vividly.
“That’s when you reach out.” Luke’s famous icy blue eyes warmed, and Frankie knew he was thinking of the woman he had declared his love for on national television. “The past is tough to handle without an outside perspective.”
“And there you have it.” Gavin lifted his glass high, his eyes flat with cynicism. “Love conquers all.”
Frankie touched her glass to Gavin’s before she swallowed the entire contents, hoping the burn of the liquor would counteract the chill that ran through her.
She loved Liam with every ounce of her being, but even he couldn’t save her from her past.
Chapter Ten
“Ms. Hogan, there’s a gentleman here to see you.” Vincent’s voice came from behind her where she stood at the French doors in her office, feeling the cold seep through the plate glass as she stared at the swirling snow.
“On Christmas Eve?” Sh
e turned to catch a look of concern on her security chief’s usually impassive face.
“He didn’t want me to give his name, but it’s Mr. Keller,” Vincent said. “I’ll escort him off the premises if you say the word.”
“I’d like to see you try.” Liam’s voice came from the doorway, his tone pure gutter Finglas. He strode into the room, his long legs encased in charcoal gray trousers, his wide shoulders outlined by an open-necked shirt of the same deep blue as his eyes. A long, snow-dusted overcoat billowed around his legs.
She’d heard that a heart could leap, but she’d never felt it until now.
“We look down on brawling at the Bellwether Club.” She kept her voice cool and controlled, despite the frantic dance of her pulse. “It’s fine, Vincent.”
As he left, her head of security threw Liam a look that would chill a lesser man’s blood, but Liam shrugged it off as he focused on her.
“I’m sorry I left without saying good-bye to Owen,” Frankie said, standing behind her desk.
“What about me?” Liam pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “Did you think this was enough?” His voice had an edge like a razor blade.
She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away from the blaze of his blue eyes. “It was the best I could do at the time.”
A flash of movement made her glance back at him to find he was circling around the desk. She stepped to the other side of her chair to keep something between them.
He stopped as he saw her withdrawal and ran a hand through the thick auburn waves of his hair in a gesture of frustration. “What made you run?”
“Ghosts.” She shuddered as the memory clawed its way out of the dark corner where she’d shoved it.
“I’m your friend, even if you won’t let me be anything more,” he said. “I can help if you’ll talk to me.”
Despair dulled her voice. “The ghosts are here because of you.”
She hated herself as soon as she saw the stricken look cloud the concern on his face. Her honesty was cruel but necessary.
“We’ll fight them together then,” he said.
She shook her head. “I lied to you about why I didn’t let you know I was leaving Dublin twenty-three years ago. I wasn’t afraid that you’d screw up your chances by leaving the training academy. I was afraid that if I saw you again, I wouldn’t be able to go to America. You were my one weakness.”
He shoved the chair aside and wrapped his fingers gently around her upper arms, his eyes alight with hope. “It’s not a weakness to love someone.”
She kept her arms crossed, even as the warmth of his touch infused the silk of her blouse.
He gave her the tiniest shake. “Give me your ghosts and I’ll drag them out into the sunlight so they can never frighten you again.” His gaze went a little wild as she stood silent. “Frankie, tell me!”
Maybe she owed him that. So she would let them rise up in her mind for his sake. “My sisters and brothers. We didn’t have enough food because Da drank all his money and my mother was so broken she let him drink up hers too. All of us were always hungry.” Their desperate voices echoed in her mind, begging her for something to eat. “I couldn’t do anything. I felt powerless.”
Liam’s arms went around her and he pressed her against the solid comfort of his chest. But she couldn’t yield to the temptation. She had to hold herself together as she told him her shameful secrets.
“I tried to get Ma to stand up to him, to keep at least the money she earned for the kids, but she just cried. That’s when I knew it was all on me.” Frankie could still remember the feeling that a heavy wet blanket had fallen over her, shrouding her in dark hopelessness. And helplessness. She’d been twelve at the time with no ability to earn the necessary money.
“Jaysus, Frankie, I had no idea it was that bad at your house. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What could you do? You went short of food too.”
“I would have shared everything I had with you.”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you. By the time I’d come to know you, I was earning enough so we always had something to eat, even after Da had taken his cut.”
She felt him pull in a breath. “So you quit school and got the job at Balfour’s to buy food. Not because the teachers had nothing more to teach you, like you always told me.”
She tried to shrug out of his arms but he kept her close. “Now you know what made me run, Liam. I can’t be around Owen. It sends me back to being that child filled with helplessness and rage. I panic.” She tilted her head back to see pity in the softness of his mouth and eyes. She had to kill it. “I never want to be responsible for a child again.”
Instead of backing away, he cradled her head with one gentle hand. “And who could blame you? I find it terrifying myself and I’ve only got the one, not to mention more than enough resources to buy him anything his heart desires. You had to raise seven children on a gofer’s wages and you were just a child yourself. I’ve always thought you were an incredible woman, but this…this makes me feel awe.”
“Don’t you understand?” She slapped her palms against his chest, sensing the implacability of it. “I’m broken, just like my mother.”
“Broken? Don’t be daft. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. All seven of your siblings are alive and well today. I can’t say that about more than a quarter of our former neighbors. You saved your family.” He moved one hand to cover hers where they rested on the fine cotton of his shirt. “You’ve bought your sisters and brothers houses, found them jobs, given them money. They’ve told me how good you’ve been to them.”
“But I’ve never been to visit them. I’ve never invited them to visit me. I don’t know any of their children.” She swallowed, but her voice still came out as a harsh whisper. “And I can’t bear to be around your son.”
“I pushed too hard and fast. Because Christmas was coming and I wanted—” He closed his eyes for a moment, the angles of his face taut with longing. “I wanted the three of us to be together, like a family.” He shook his head. “But that was my dream, not yours. Forgive me. I won’t force it again.”
His understanding brought a burn of tears to her eyes. “You need to be with Owen.”
“Today, I need to be with you. It’s Christmas Eve, Frankie. The night of miracles. We can make ours happen.”
She kept her hands wedged between them as she felt a yearning to believe a miracle was possible. “I don’t doubt your love. Or mine. But we both love a memory. We’ve walked different paths for so many years. We’re not the same people.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. We’ve become the people we plotted and planned and worked our arses off to be. I didn’t love just you. I loved the person you would be.”
All her defenses reared up in a last-ditch effort to keep her in her lonely, safe cocoon. She thought of the moment in Yankee Stadium when she’d seen him as her equal for the first time. “But we’re different together. The dynamic has changed.”
He smiled down at her, the heat of desire turning his eyes an intense sapphire. “And I’m liking it.”
She was lost, overwhelmed by the feel of his body against hers, by the wanting in his eyes, by his answers for every one of her objections. No, she was overwhelmed by the power of the love that had been forged in the despair and stink of the slums, had endured through their single-minded climbs to the top, and had brought them back together now.
One deep fear held her in its grip. “What if I can never stand to be near Owen?”
She saw the pain in his eyes, but also the willingness to accept it for her sake. “Owen won’t be a child forever.” Then he smiled in a way that she felt to the marrow of her bones. “But I believe you can conquer anything you set your mind to, a stór.”
“It’s a big risk.”
“And when did a risk ever stop either one of us? Consider it a Christmas gamble. The chance of a lifetime.”
The warmth of his belief soaked into every dark corner of her
soul.
His eyes burned as blue as a blowtorch. “Now I intend to give you a kiss that will wipe out all your doubts. And I came prepared.” He rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out a single sprig of mistletoe tied with a tiny red bow. “Just in case you needed more persuading.”
Taking the mistletoe from his grasp, she held it high as she slipped her other hand around the back of his neck to pull him down to meet her mouth.
She let all the love she’d fought against so long and so hard roar through her as she kissed him, the Liam of her past, present, and future.
Epilogue
Ten months later
Frankie walked back into Nathan and Chloe’s wedding reception to find Liam leaning against the wall, waiting for her. He looked so gloriously sexy in his cream-colored linen suit that she wanted to take him back to the jet and strip his clothes right off. But she couldn’t leave the wedding before the bride and groom did.
So she contented herself with sliding her arm under his jacket to trace her fingers up his spine while she whispered what she wanted to do when the reception ended.
His blue eyes turned hot as he bent to murmur beside her ear, “You read my mind, a stór.” He held out his hand and twined his fingers with hers as soon as she took it. “Let’s take a walk away from the crowd.”
He led her out a side door into the soft caress of the autumn air in North Carolina.
“Nathan says this is one of the three days it’s bearable to be outdoors at Camp Lejeune,” Frankie said, as they strolled across the grass toward the bank of the New River. The scent of brackish water—part sea, part earth—filled her nostrils.
“Did your three gamblers burn their wagers?” Liam asked as they stopped to take in the view of water and trees.
“All ashes now. I left them toasting their new wives in champagne.” Nathan had been the first of the three men to get engaged—thus winning his portion of the bet—but the last to get married, so his wedding had been chosen for the ceremonial burning of the men’s written forfeits, marking the successful completion of their wager of hearts. For a while, Frankie had been worried that Gavin Miller would fail, but even the darkly cynical writer had found a soulmate. “I owe them all a debt of gratitude,” she said. “They knew something important was missing from their lives, something that made them desperate enough to bet on love. If I hadn’t seen that, I might not have been as willing to take the risk with you.”
The Irishman's Christmas Gamble: A Wager of Hearts Novella Page 9