Chapter One
Jesus. What a complete waste of time. Ronan Donovan’s head pounded as if he’d spent all day throwing back double shots of Jameson. He wished. He’d spent the last few hours scanning inane gossip blogs digging for information. Movie star Ella Harper planned to marry pop brat Kai Parks somewhere in Ireland on Christmas Eve—only a week away. If all had gone to plan, Donovan Events would’ve won the contract. But things hadn’t gone to plan. Far from it. And he wanted to know why.
He rubbed his gritty eyes and glanced out of his office windows. Rays from the setting sun flickered behind Manhattan’s dimming skyline. The fiery view suited his mood.
How had his company lost one of the biggest celebrity contracts of the year, and how had Making Memories, an insignificant Irish company, won it?
Nothing about how he lost the contract made sense. Per Google Quinn Marshall, the owner of Making Memories, had no offices or employees. No way could she pull off such a high profile event.
Why had two international stars hired her to coordinate their wedding when she had no more than a few z-list events to her name? It didn’t add up. One way or another, he’d discover how she’d succeeded where he’d failed. All bids for the job were supposed to be anonymous. He’d found out he’d lost the contract when lowlife Brady Gibson emailed saying they should chat about Quinn Marshall winning the Harper-Parks wedding.
Ronan grinned. Had the bastard’s nose healed from the last time they’d met?
If Brady said the sky was blue, Ronan would check to make sure he wasn’t lying. But when a quick online search showed social media photos of Brady’s hand groping a sexy brunette named Quinn, Ronan decided he’d give him ten seconds.
For the twentieth time in five minutes, he checked his cell to make sure he hadn’t missed Brady’s call. He hadn’t. If his family knew he was in contact with Brady without killing him, they’d kick him into next week.
Caden, Ronan’s younger brother, wearing his usual construction site uniform of worn jeans and a torn red flannel shirt, strode into the office and dropped onto a chair on the opposite side of Ronan’s pristine desk.
“Fancy a few beers at Kiernan’s?” Despite living in Brooklyn Heights for over fourteen years, Caden’s Northern Irish lilt was as strong as ever. It was as if he’d never left Derry’s narrow streets. “He’s expecting a few Christmas parties at the bar tonight. You know what that means?” Caden wiggled his eyebrows.
“Can’t play wingman this evening. Too busy.” Ronan minimized the gossip sites cluttering his browser. Any other night, he’d have jumped at the chance to toss back a few beers at Kiernan’s. Their brother’s bar was always good for a laugh and for picking up women, but he wanted to figure out how he’d fucked up before doing anything, or anyone.
“What’s up, sad arse?” Caden asked. “It’s not like you to refuse a few pints.”
“Nothing.” Ronan tapped his fingers against his phone. “I’m thinking.”
“Thinking? Don’t go giving yourself an aneurysm.”
“The Ella Harper wedding. I still don’t know how I lost the job.”
“Would you ever wise up and catch yourself on?” Caden leaned back in the leather chair and swung his steel-toed boots on top of Ronan’s desk, sending dried flakes of mud crumbling onto the polished surface. “You’re not going to have to close the doors over one lost event.”
Ronan reached over and shoved his brother’s feet off his desk. “I don’t understand how a Mickey Mouse company won the contract. Something about Quinn Marshall doesn’t add up.”
“Christ. You don’t even know her. You can’t—” Caden ran impatient fingers through his dark crew cut. “She’s not Abbey. Get over it.”
“I did. I have. A long time ago.” Ronan eyed his brother, daring him to bring up Abbey’s name again. Three years had passed, and while memories of their time together no longer sucker punched his solar plexus, they still touched a nerve. “I have to find out how I lost the contract.”
“Did you ever stop to think that maybe this Marshall woman is decent at her job?” Caden, not hiding his annoyance, pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I doubt it.” Ronan straightened the pens beside his ink blotter and blew out a breath. “There’s no way she can organize this wedding in a week. Even I’d find it tough, and I’m the best at what I do.”
“Chill, Ro. Weddings aren’t what you’re about. Forget it and move on. Stop with the whole Magnum P.I. thing.”
Ronan gripped a pen and clicked it repeatedly. “If I’d won the contract, do you know how many high profile events would’ve come my way? How many new clients and connections I’d have made? How much money?”
“There’ll be others. You’re not hurting for business. If you want my advice—”
Ronan gritted his teeth. “I don’t.”
“Too bad. Stick to corporate conferences. That’s where your bread-and-butter is and it’s what you know. I can’t see you arm deep in frilly dresses and cakes.”
“I’d hire someone. It’s called delegation.”
Caden jumped to his feet and drummed his fingers against the edge of the desk. “Enough of this depressing crap. I’m off to the bar. If you decide to pull the stick out of your arse, stop by.”
“Say hello to Kiernan for me.” Ronan’s cell rang, and an international number flashed on the screen. He accepted the call, and said, “Be with you in a second.”
“Who’s that?” Caden nodded toward the phone in Ronan’s hand.
“It’s personal.” Ronan pressed mute. If Caden knew he was talking to the man who’d left their sister Ashlen at the altar and then wiped her bank account, they’d end up in a brawl. Betraying his family this way was unforgivable, but he needed answers, and he’d get them any way he could. He swallowed back the guilt gnawing his throat. Sometimes business won over family.
“Secrets?” Caden raised an eyebrow.
“If there’s anything you need to know, I’ll tell you.”
Caden shrugged and walked toward the door. “Stop obsessing.”
“I’m not obsessing. Just keeping an eye out for my business.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.” Giving a terse wave, Caden left the office.
Ronan unmuted the call. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, it has.” Brady’s rough Southside Dublin accent hurt Ronan’s ear. “How’s ya sista?”
Ronan’s jaw clenched. If the piece of scum were in front of him, he’d break more than his nose. More like every bone in his scrawny body. “You said you wanted to discuss Quinn Marshall.”
“The lovely Ms. Marshall is as devious as she is beautiful. Isn’t afraid to use her face, tits, or her ass to get what she wants. One of the best swindlers I’ve come across.”
“Is that so?” Satisfaction rolled through Ronan. Quinn had won the contract by being devious and underhanded. He should have known.
“Compared to her, I’m a pickpocket. She’s an extortionist. Knows every con in the book. Lies fall from her lips like crap from a cow with food poisoning.”
Ronan leaned back in his chair. “Why should I believe a word you say? You and the truth aren’t exactly friends.”
“After we hang up, check your inbox for a video of her pitch. Everything she says is bull. All researched and planned to build trust, confidence. She doesn’t have a fiancé. No great love story.”
“Why not go to Ella and Kai yourself? The police?”
“The police? No way, man. Honor among thieves and all that. Besides, need to lay low for a few months. Biding my time is what I’m doing.” He gave a bitter sounding laugh. “She’s not as smart as she thinks she is. I can still get into her emails. When I read them and saw your name, thought you’d appreciate knowing she pulled one over on you.”
“All perspective vendors were anonymous. Why was my name in her emails?” Irritation chewed at his stomach, growing stronger by the second.
“Not as anonymous as you thought.” Brady gave a slow laugh as if he loved every second of knowing something Ronan didn’t. “I already told you, she’s good at what she does. She has a way of getting every piece of information she needs.”
“How does she think she’s going to get away with conning two international stars?” Ronan asked.
“Hidden cameras in the bedroom and bathroom. Moles planted as wait staff. I’ve never met anyone like her in my life.”
Ronan had. He knew her kind intimately. Money meant more to her than morals, and she’d do anything she could to get her hands on it. She saw people as stepping-stones, as things she could throw away when they’d fulfilled their use.
“What’s in this for you?” Ronan woke up his computer and clicked into his inbox.
“Think of this as an apology of sorts.”
Ronan resisted the urge to snort. Brady wouldn’t know an apology if it pulled down his trousers and kicked him up the arse. “Save the bullshit, Gibson. What do you want?”
“All in good time. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up.
Owing a favor to Brady was worse than owing a favor to the Russian mafia, but it might be worth it. A few seconds later, an email with a video attachment appeared in Ronan’s inbox. He pressed play and leaned back to watch.
Quinn’s face filled the screen. Wavy caramel hair streamed over her shoulders, and even in the pixelated excuse for a video, her aquamarine eyes shone with promised sensuality. Confidence oozed from her pores, and when she smiled, it was as if she smiled directly at him. Everything about her was stunning. Hell, even a blind eunuch would look at her and fall to his knees in adoration. If she appeared this stunning on camera, what would she look like in real life? But seduction was all part of her skill. Used to deceive unsuspecting people with a smile and empty promises.
The picture panned out. A tailored black suit gave her a professional appearance, but the skyscraper heels on her do-me boots were so high her backside wiggled when she walked. A lock of hair fell into her eyes, and when she brushed it from her face, a ring with a diamond the size of a grape glinted in the sunshine.
She jabbered on and on about romance and all that shite. How hers and her fiancé’s love was fated. How the age-old surroundings of Oak Castle would be the perfect backdrop for Ella and Kai’s wedding.
Oak Castle? Ronan sat up. Oak Castle was in County Donegal and about an hour’s drive from his parents’ house in Derry. The gates had closed thirteen years ago, and the last time he drove past, the place appeared as if it was on the verge of crumbling to dust.
If she could get the old chef who owned the place to open the doors, she was better than good. She was a mastermind.
He closed the video. More emails from Brady arrived. Ronan clicked through them. Most were from pissed-off brides all accusing Quinn of stealing their money and ruining their big day. Some from caterers demanding money and threatening legal action. Quinn Marshall was the worst kind of woman alive—breathtakingly beautiful and completely untrustworthy. Whatever her game was, she wouldn’t get away with it.
He booked himself on the next red-eye to Dublin.
****
Quinn sat in her rusted hatchback and rubbed smears of mud from her one pair of Louboutin boots with a baby wipe. Making the right impression was hugely important because she was about to meet Lily Crawford, Ella Harper’s public relations manager. Nerves danced in her stomach, but she’d done it. She’d won the job, and now all she had to do was make sure no one discovered her little white lie. If they did, she was screwed.
Ella had fallen in love with Quinn’s pitch. Who wouldn’t have? It epitomized head-over-heels dreamy love. And it was a great romantic story. Such a shame a story was all it would ever be. Ella wanted to meet Quinn’s fated fiancé, but she’d explained he was overseas on business and wouldn’t get home until New Year’s Eve. By then, Ella and Kai would have already ridden into the sunset, and Quinn would be swimming in money, clients, and contracts, with all thoughts of her mysterious fiancé long forgotten.
Christmas Eve was in six days, and getting everything organized meant living on caffeine and anxiety, but working twenty hours per day every day until Ella and Kai were married would be worth it.
If an over-the-top mythical wedding was what Ella wanted, then she’d get it. All Quinn had to do was continue plastering over the ever-widening cracks in her life for a few more days. No one needed to know her world teetered on the verge of collapse. When this year was over, she’d build a fortress no one could knock down. But before she could move on with her life, this job had to succeed. Lawyers and the bank demanded money, her stomach grumbled for more than buttered pasta, and the slumlord who’d sublet her an apartment threatened to change the locks if she didn’t pay the rent she owed.
If she hadn’t won Ella and Kai’s wedding, she’d have had to file for bankruptcy and say goodbye to Ireland, which meant going back to Long Island and admitting to everyone Brady Gibson—aka Mr. Perfect—had deceived and defrauded her. Facing that kind of humiliation wasn’t on top of her to-do list. Neither was failing. If it took her the rest of her life, she’d pay back every single penny to every single person whose dreams her blind stupidity had ruined.
She hit her clenched fists off her thighs. Why for the love of God hadn’t she changed the bank account information when she’d cut Brady out of her life? Business 101: don’t give your con artist ex access to the company bank accounts and remember to change your passwords before he reads every single email in your inbox. For the past few weeks, she’d changed her passwords every day, but she was sure he was still finding a way into her inbox because some of emails were always marked as read when she logged on.
How could she have been so gullible, so idiotic? Simple. His movie star looks and silver tongue had hypnotized her. For eight months, his Oscar-worthy performance had fooled everyone in her life. By the time his mask had slipped and showed his true face, it was too late. All her profits and savings were gone, and so was he. For as long as she lived, she’d never trust another man, especially a good looking Irish one.
No one had a clue what rock Brady was hiding under. The police were investigating, but even they said there was little hope of finding an experienced grifter like him.
She supposed she could’ve fled Ireland, but she loved her ancestral home too much. The legends. The history. The people. No matter what happened, she’d fight to the death before she left the life she’d built, or the life she’d rebuild after she paid off all her debts.
Screw him and his empty promises. He wouldn’t win. She drew in a deep breath. There was no time for this. Self-pity and violin playing could happen later over a glass of wine. There was a wedding to plan. She unclenched her fists and smoothed her palms over her skirt to iron out any wrinkles. The cubic zirconia diamond weighing down her ring finger twisted backward and caught a few threads, plucking them loose.
“Shit. Crap.” She wrenched the princess-cut bauble free, and then stretched the material taut to pull the nylon threads back into place, hoping she appeared somewhat professional. Since all of her old designer clothes and most of her shoes had found new homes via eBay and consignment stores, her current wardrobe came from discount warehouses and second-hand stores. She wasn’t as pristine or as put together as she used to be, but this would have to do.
With one last glance in the rearview mirror to check for out of place hairs and smudged lipstick, she grabbed her knockoff Birkin bag and laptop and stepped out of her clunker car.
The Derryveagh Mountains, already draped with snow, gave a postcard-perfect backdrop. Despite her being in a valley and surrounded by hundred-year-old Scots Pines, gnashing wind from Lough Veagh bit her cheeks and yanked her hair, leaving the beach curls it took over an hour to achieve a snarled bird’s nest of tangles. So much for looking put together.
Oncoming snow scented the air, and she sent up a silent prayer to the Universe and bloated gray clouds requesting rain. Ireland and snow weren’t a good mix. Six inches or more would cause an Irish Armageddon. The airports would close, people would ransack supermarkets, and the infrastructure would stall. Those kinds of headaches were something she didn’t need. Guests would arrive in a few days, and if the weather forecast was right and the end of the world was nigh, she’d have to figure out how to get members of the glitterati from various airports around the country to the castle. But fretting about what hadn’t happened yet was energy she didn’t have to spare. She’d take things one day at a time. What else could she do?
Ella wanted a small wedding and had invited fifty of her closest friends. Next year, she and Kai would have a Hollywood bash, and Quinn hoped with every cell of her being, if there were no major hitches this week, they would hire her to organize it. Their Christmas wedding would make her career in Ireland, but their second showbiz wedding would establish her career worldwide.
Her spiked heels crunched along the pebbled courtyard, and she gazed up in wonder, as she always did, when the clustered towers of Oak Castle came into view. History surrounded her, and she imagined the lords and ladies and kings and queens who once traveled the exact steps she now strode across.
Winter-stripped branches scarred the rough stone walls and knocked against arched windows, giving the castle a gothic feel. The serenity and stillness of the wooded estate filled her with hope and possibility. Christmas had always been her favorite holiday, but the wonder of the season combined with a wedding chased goose bumps up her arms.
Nothing could go wrong. Nothing.
Quinn hung her bag from the crook of her arm and walked toward the entrance.
Flames danced and snapped in the grand fireplace surrounded by thick, smoke-blackened stone, and the tick-tock of a grandfather clock echoed around the vast foyer. Two red renaissance style sofas sat on either side of the fire and rich tapestries depicting ancient battles hung on the walls. Apart from the dated and dusty décor, the castle couldn’t be more perfect. Most of the furnishings were original, ornate, and luxurious, and no way could money buy a finer or a more authentic atmosphere.
A damp, earthy smell infused the air, and in the distance, clanging tools sang as contractors fixed the antiquated electrical and plumbing systems. She’d kept the wedding venue top secret, and the construction companies she’d hired had no idea why they were fixing the castle up under such a tight timeframe. Everything was on a need to know basis. The FBI could interrogate and torture her, and she still wouldn’t reveal the secret. She’d signed her soul away when she’d signed the contract.
“What the fuck’s going on he-yah?” barked a brash New York accent.
Lily Crawford. For the past week, Quinn had spoken to her every waking hour on the phone and had received over sixty emails a day. Whenever Ella changed her mind, or had a random thought like should her guests do a body cleanse before the wedding, or should her bridesmaids go on a rice-cake diet, Lily emailed or called Quinn, even if it was 2 a.m.
Pasting on her most professional smile, Quinn walked toward Lily, who marched down the sweeping staircase at the back of the foyer. Her nerves jumped and jangled, but she refused to show it. Revealing her anxiety to Lily could get her eaten alive.
“I don’t care… Do this for me, you pathetic piece…” Lily acknowledged Quinn by holding up her finger in a one-minute gesture.
Quinn nodded in response and examined the ass-kicking woman in front of her. The face-fillers gave her face a pinched look, which disguised her age. Quinn guessed late forties to early fifties. The Valentino suit Lily wore was as dark as the ebony razor-cut hair skimming her chin, which contrasted with her ghostly skin, scarlet lips, and sharp steel-blue eyes that could flay the flesh from bones.
Lily stabbed the end call button and made her way to Quinn. The clicks of her Jimmy Choos popped like firecrackers against the stone floor. This was a woman who would take no shit.
Quinn held out her hand, which Lily accepted in a bone-crushing grip.
“Talk to me.” She stared over Quinn’s shoulder.
She dropped Lily’s hand and followed her line of sight. “Are you expecting someone else?”
“The rest of your team?” The exasperated look on the woman’s face said you’re freaking kidding me. “There’s no way one person can control this circus. And by your puke-inducing video pitch, I expected your fiancé here throwing rose petals at your feet.”
Heat filled Quinn’s cheeks and she fiddled with the strap on her bag. “Like I said in my email to Ella, he’s on business. There’s no entourage, only me. But as you can tell from my emails and phone calls, everything’s under control. And you’ll be happy to know the marriage license arrived this morning thanks to an acquaintance of mine rushing it through.”
“And that’s supposed to impress me?” Lily’s eyes narrowed to slits, and she opened her mouth as if to say something, but before she did, the cell clasped in her hand trilled like an old-fashioned rotary phone. Holding up her finger again, she marched away. Six days of Sergeant Crawford bawling orders was going to be a bundle of fun, but Quinn wasn’t fazed. She’d worked with enough bridezillas and monsters of the bride over the years to know how to handle anyone.
While Lily continued to suck the soul from whoever was on the other side of the line, Quinn made her way to the office behind the reception desk.
“Brendan, you in there?” She pushed the creaking office door open.
Brendan Moran, the castle’s owner, perched at the edge of his paper-strewn desk with a phone trapped between his thick cauliflower ear and wide neck. Sweat beaded across his flame red forehead and cheeks, and his usually flawless salt n’ pepper hair stuck up in weird angles as if he’d spent the last hour tearing it out. If he wasn’t one of the healthiest men she knew, Quinn would’ve said he was a sitting heart attack.
“You okay?” she mouthed.
He shrugged his broad shoulders and smashed the phone into its cradle. “Bloody reporters. So bloody much for it being a bloody secret. Someone’s only gone and leaked that Ella bloody Harper is getting married in a castle in bloody Ireland this weekend. The place’ll be crawling with paparazzi and fans before you know it.”
“Crap. No one working here knows, and I know you haven’t said anything.”
“Not a word.”
Brendan wouldn’t have gone to the media, so the blabbermouth must have been someone on Ella’s side looking for a quick buck. But it didn’t matter whose camp it came from because if Lily found out the press were sniffing around, the blame would stop at Quinn’s door. She sat beside Brendan, being careful not to send any of the stacked paperwork tumbling. “Did they say they knew for sure the wedding was here?”
“Not in so many words, no. They were fishing.”
“How many wedding castles are there in Ireland?”
“Too many if you ask me.”
“Exactly,” Quinn said. “They’re phoning every single castle searching for a scoop. No one’ll figure it out, and if they do, we’ll handle it. But to be on the safe side, I’ll arrange for extra security this weekend. Let’s keep this between us for now.”
Brendan nodded, seeming satisfied with Quinn’s solution, and slid from the desk. “I suppose you’ve met the T-Rex.”
“Lily?”
“Aye. That one’s a right piece of work.” He laughed. “Wanted me to paint the honeymoon suite pink. Can you believe that? Pink? Said it’s Ella’s favorite color. I said ‘A fourteenth-century castle with pink walls? You’re having a laugh.’”
“Don’t worry. I’ll veto the pink walls.” Quinn patted his hand. “As for the rest, it’s just for a few days. Imagine how many people are going to want to get married here next year, and then you’ll be able to afford the rest of the renovations and make this place a haven. Wait and see, people will flock to here.”
“I know, chicken, you’re right. But if this week doesn’t kill me—”
A pounding on the office door stopped their conversation.
“Ms. Marshall,” Lily called. “There’s someone out here who’s just dying to see you.”
“Be right there.” She wasn’t expecting anyone. All contractors had already arrived, and no one else was due. Puzzled, Quinn left the office and went into the foyer with Brendan in her wake.
A man fashioned from pure testosterone, dressed in a charcoal gray suit and a black wool overcoat, stood with his arms folded. His high cheekbones and full lips would make women all over the world drop their panties. Snow dotted his tousled brown hair. Snow. Shit. The Universe hadn’t answered her prayer for no snow, but had made up for it by sending some eye candy her way.
His ice-blue eyes were colder than frost, but when they caught Quinn’s gaze, tingles warmed her skin, and her vow of chastity packed its bags, waved goodbye, and slammed the door.
He flashed a lethal smile and strode toward her. She made a move to get out of his trajectory, but before she could, he trapped her in a bear hug and hoisted her from the ground.
“Sweetheart, I didn’t think I’d make it.” His Irish accent held a slight American twang and flowed as smoothly as a freshly poured pint of Guinness. “I rearranged my schedule so I could be here for you.”
“I’m sorry, I don—”
The stranger lowered her and twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. “By God, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I’ve missed you.”
A bead of sweat slid down the valley of her breasts, and hazy confusion swirled around her mind. Hysteria tickled her throat and an overwhelming urge to laugh worked its way upward.
He wrapped an arm around her waist and held out his free hand to Brendan. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Ronan. Quinn’s fiancé.”