Kiss My Blarney Stone: War Games (Part 1 of a 3 Part Serial)

by Mimi Riser

  * * * *

  In the air over Eire, 1975…

  “Miss? Will you fasten your seatbelt, please?”

  Huh?

  Sharon lifted leaden eyelids to see a smiling stewardess. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “Fasten your seatbelt,” the young woman repeated good-naturedly. “We’ll be landing at Shannon shortly.”

  “Already?” Sharon blinked the sleep out of her eyes. “I must have dozed off for a while.” She started to look at her wristwatch, then remembered she’d inadvertently packed it in her large suitcase.

  “A while? Yes!” The stewardess laughed. “You’ve been dead to the world for hours. I couldn’t even rouse you for breakfast—but I’ve made you a sandwich so you wouldn’t be too hungry.” She pulled a neatly wrapped rectangle from her pinafore pocket and handed it to Sharon. “I hope you like roast beef,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, and with another bright smile was off down the aisle to see to some other passengers.

  “My, this is the friendliest service I’ve ever received on an airline,” Sharon said to no one in particular.

  “And why shouldn’t it be?” the man across the aisle answered in a hearty Irish brogue. Everything about him was hearty, in fact. Rugged but attractive. “This is the Irish airline, isn’t it? And the people of Erin are ‘notorious’ for their hospitality.”

  “Are they now?” Sharon brogued in return. She wasn’t really a flirt, but years with Kathleen O’Shaughnessy had taught her much about teasing, and the man made her grin. Anything Irish usually did.

  Beaming with delight, he exchanged his seat for the empty one next to her. “Ah, you’ve some Irish in you yourself. I can tell by the sparkle in your pretty blue eyes. Or are they gray?” He used the excuse to lean his shaggy blond head close to hers for a mischievous moment. “Both,” he decided. “Blue-gray.” Satisfied, he settled back and buckled himself in, evidently planning to stay. “And what would your name be now, darlin’? Bartley McCarthy is mine. But my friends call me Big Bart.”

  No shit.

  Sharon let her gaze slide over his muscular form—a long slide; there was a lot of him. “You don’t say? And why would they be callin’ you that, Bartley—seeing as you’re such a small, puny mite of a man.”

  “Ah, go on with ya!” The giant roared with laughter, bringing his meaty hand down on her knee in a bone-jarring smack. “A fine sense of humor you have, Miss…” He paused, eyebrows arched in question.

  “Sharon”—she resisted the urge to rub her leg—“Sharon O’Shaughnessy.”

  “I knew it! A good Irish name.” His eyes were sky blue, and filled with sunshine as he looked her over. “But tell me now, dear, what’s a handsome girl such as yourself doing traveling all by her lonesome? It’s certainly no credit to your boyfriend that he let’s you go traipsing about unescorted.”

  His concern was touching. And didn’t fool her for a minute.

  “I don’t have a steady boyfriend…if that’s what you were fishing for.”

  “That obvious, was I?” Bartley chuckled.

  So did Sharon. “To tell you the truth, I’m just here to see some property a great-aunt of mine left me. It’s over on the west coast, near Galway.”

  “Is that so? Well now, if that isn’t a coincidence. I’ve some friends living in Galway m’self. Not a bad place it is, not a bad place at all.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin, thoughtfully, striving for nonchalance. “Sure and I’ve a mind to pay them a visit someday soon. Perhaps”—a sly grin lit his face—“I could pay a call on you, too, seeing as I’d already be in the area.”

  “Bartley, are you being obvious again?”

  “Is it workin’?” The grin broadened. “So where will you be staying, Sharon O’Shaughnessy?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know, Bartley McCarthy.”

  “Oh, come now, dear, all I’m asking is a wee bit of address. You won’t deny me the chance of seeing you again, will you?”

  Sharon tilted her head to the side and studied him with mock seriousness. “Well now”—she copied her grandmother’s musical brogue—“I’m thinking it’s a wicked and sinful man you are, and I shouldn’t even be giving you the time of day or you’ll be breaking my poor heart the first chance that comes to you.” She heaved a theatrical sigh. “But I never was a girl who could resist the manly charm of a fine Irishman—even if it is half blarney—so I’ll be honest with you, Bartley. I don’t know for certain where I’ll be staying, but you’ll have as good a chance finding me here as anywhere else you might care to look.” She rooted in her purse and gave him a slip of paper.

  Bartley squinted at it. “Ramhaillim Manor, Spiddal; County Galway; Connacht, Ireland… Would that be the property your aunt, God rest her, left you? I hope you won’t be staying there alone,” he said, showing real concern this time, not fishing.

  “Like I said,” she began slowly, “I’m not certain. You see, I don’t know if I have any family left in Ireland, or if I do, where they live or if they’ll want me to stay with them, or what. I, um, left to come over here in kind of a hurry. The only person who knows I’m coming is Mr. Skerrett, the man who’s handling my aunt’s will. I sent him a telegram.” Sharon dropped her gaze beneath Bartley’s raised-eyebrow scrutiny, embarrassed at being forced to admit her impetuousness. “I guess maybe I have been a little…rash.”

  “Now whatever makes you say that?” he quipped, then broke into loud guffaws. “You’re a fine girl, Sharon—a bit daft maybe, but I like you for it, truly I do. Will you let me buy you a drink when we get into Shannon?”

  “It’s a little early in the day for that, isn’t it?” she countered, an amused smile twitching at her lips.

  “It’s never too early for a tall jar of stout,” he declared with solemn righteousness.

  “You’re a fine man, Bartley—a bit daft maybe, but I like you for it!” Sharon couldn’t help laughing.

  Bartley didn’t seem to mind. “Ah, go on with ya.” He glanced at his watch. “To be honest though, I suppose I should be heading straight to Dublin. I’m to fight there tonight, and I’d better be restin’ up for it. Unlike some people I’ve noticed”—he grinned—“I’ve never been one to sleep much on planes. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to visit with you a while longer, but—”

  “You have to fight tonight?”

  “Sure, didn’t I tell you? I’m a professional boxer. And not a finer heavyweight will you find in all the Isles.”

  “Why, that’s…marvelous.” I think. “And I must say I certainly admire your modesty,” she teased.

  He dismissed the joke with a wave of his hand. “Ah, it’s not braggin’ that I am, dear, just telling the simple truth.” He peered across her and out the window as the plane circled Shannon. “Will you look at that weather—a grayer day I’ve never seen the likes of. Do you have a way into Galway?”

  “Not yet. I figured I could rent a car…or something.”

  “Uh-huh.” Bartley shook his shaggy head. “I’m thinking I shouldn’t be leaving you all alone like this. What if—”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Really.” She spoke with considerably more confidence than she felt. Now that she was soon about to set foot on Irish soil, Sharon was almost beginning to regret her haste. What would it have hurt to have waited a few days and gotten things more organized? It wasn’t as though there’d been anything urgent in Mr. Skerrett’s letter.

  Still, he had made it clear that the odd terms of the will stipulated it could be read only after Sharon had been in Ireland for at least a week—and she was sooo curious to hear the whole document. Not that she was mercenary, or cared how large an inheritance it was or wasn’t—she’d never been the greedy sort, and didn’t like people who were. She was just impatient, always had been. Her impulsiveness had landed her in trouble more than once in the past, and now she realized it may have tripped her again.