Chapter Three
Bloated snowflakes looped and swirled down in a rush to turn everything white. Puffs of Quinn’s chilled breath misted the air, and she wobbled down the icy stone steps at the castle’s entrance, clutching the frosty wrought-iron railings to stop herself going ass over boobs.
Chaotic thoughts about Ronan tumbled over one another like a group of sugar-high three-year-olds jostling for their mom’s attention. He had to get the fuck out of her life. How had he found out about her pitch, and how had he found out about her not so little white lie? None of that mattered right now, though, because thanks to however he’d found out, she had to hop aboard his crazy-train to crazy-town and pretend he was her fiancé. If her life hadn’t crumbled to crap, and if he wasn’t such a bastard, falling into bed with someone as hot as him would be a no-brainer.
Nope. Not going there. She gave her cheek a mental slap. She wouldn’t imagine what he looked like naked. Wouldn't imagine what kissing those full lips of his felt like, and she most definitely wouldn’t imagine his strong hands moving over her body.
What other choice did she have except keep up the façade of him being her fiancée? None. Saving her business and paying off her debts was her number one goal, even if it meant going along with a farce of a relationship. One stupid lie and now her dream job and a chance at redemption were turning into one epic fail after another.
She shuffled along the snow-covered pebbles and made it to the parking lot and her car without too much slipping and sliding.
“Leaving without me?” Ronan asked from a few steps behind, his lilting accent muffled by the falling snow.
“Not at all. I came out to warm up the car. Wouldn’t want my fiancé freezing his balls off, would I?”
He caught up with her, laughter filling his blue eyes. “You’re too thoughtful.”
“Aren’t I?” Quinn opened the driver’s door as Ronan reached for it.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“What do you think I’m doing? Solving world hunger?”
“It’s snowing.”
“It is? Where?” With a deliberate widening of her eyes, she raised her hand and caught a few feathered flakes on her palm.
“We’ll take my rental. It’s safer and about twenty years newer than your rust bucket.”
“I’m driving my car.” She perched sideways on the driver’s seat, her feet firmly planted on the frozen ground. “By the twang in your voice, you don’t live in Ireland anymore.”
“Brooklyn, but what’s that got to do with anything?” He lifted the collar of his coat until it touched his ear lobes and then buried his hands inside the pockets. A pink blush from the cold highlighted his cheeks and nose. Snow spiked his eyelashes, and his hair fell over his forehead. He was a magazine cover come to life.
She stamped her feet to shatter the ice cubes enclosing her toes. “I bet you use cabs or the subway most of the time, or walk. I’m used to driving these roads—you’re not.”
“I grew up a few miles away. I know these roads like the back of my hand.” He hopped from foot to foot and hunched his shoulders. “The roads are going to be an icy mess. I’m not sure you can handle them.”
She rummaged through her bag, and when she found her cell, she held it to her ear. “Hello, 1950. One of your chauvinists managed to make his way here. Want me to send him back?”
He gave her an easy, slow smile. One that was way too dangerous and way too sexy. “You’re quite the comedian.”
She lowered her phone and focused her attention on the mountain peaks. “I live here. You don’t. When’d you leave? Five, six years ago?”
“Ten.”
“Long enough to forget what driving here’s like.”
Her insistence on driving had zero to do with who should or shouldn’t drive or whose car could handle the twisting roads better—hands down his could. It had everything to do with giving in and giving him what he wanted. If she caved over something as small as driving, Ronan wouldn’t merely walk all over her. He’d stomp her into the ground. Quinn swiveled her body into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. She switched on the ignition, blasted the heat, and winced when nothing but cold air hit her face. Once the car warmed up, the heat would kick in, she hoped. Ronan hadn’t moved, and she had a good mind to leave him there, but if she did, he’d jump in his rental and tailgate her the entire way home. She cracked open the window.
“Stay there, or get in. Either way, I’m leaving.”
He jogged around the car, opened the passenger door, and slid into the seat. She controlled the urge to punch the air in victory.
The tip of his nose and cheeks were now a delicious winterberry red, and the rich scent of his sandalwood cologne infused with snow filled the air. Why did he have to smell so goddamn delicious and why did she have a ridiculous desire to lick him from head to toe? She’d welcome a cold and a stuffy nose, anything not to spend the entire journey smelling his aftershave. There was nothing else for it. She’d have to spend the car ride breathing through her mouth. That, or stuff her nose with tissue.
“Don’t kill me,” he said.
“Wouldn’t that be a shame?”
While the car idled and warmed, Ronan occupied himself by skimming through his phone, and Quinn called Lorcan to rearrange the tasting for the next day at the castle. The culinary wizard’s expletive-laden response would’ve impressed Gordon Ramsey. After promising him the wedding would make him into a worldwide celebrity chef, she hung up and maneuvered her way over a rickety wooden bridge and out of the secluded grounds.
Thick hedges and tumbling stone walls hugged the narrow two-laned road, and bleating sheep huddled together in patchwork fields in a bid to keep warm.
The snowfall thickened and stuck to the roads, hiding the many pool-sized potholes scarring the asphalt, and despite the turmoil whirling inside of her and her foot wanting to put the gas pedal through the floor, Quinn forced herself to drive slowly. At their current zero-mile-per-hour speed, the drive to her flat would take more than an hour instead of the usual twenty minutes.
The repetition of driving the route for the past few weeks set her on autopilot. There was no doubt she was in a sucky situation. How to get out of it was the question. She could either use every ounce of her creativity and business acumen to fight for what was hers, or she could hand the job over to him and walk away with her pride somewhat intact, but maybe even that wouldn’t stop him blabbering to everyone. If he exposed her, no one would want to be associated with a liar. Ireland was a small place, the wedding and event community even smaller, and once the gossip started, nothing would save her already ice-thin career. Screw Brady fucking Gibson and his fucking empty promises. She smacked the heel of her hand against the steering wheel.
“Everything okay?” Ronan didn’t look up from his phone.
“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine.” Her irritation said the opposite. “Frustrated by this weather and the roads, is all.”
“I should have driven. You’re too timid.”
“And I suppose you get all ‘I am man, hear me roar’ and aggressive behind the wheel?” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
He leaned over the center console, close enough that his breath fanned over her cheek and his musky cologne invaded her senses. “If you mean I like to be in control, you’re right, I do.”
Desire shoved her irritation out of the way, and her breasts conspired with her nipples on the best way to bust out of her bra and get closer to him. Previously comatose hormones opened their eyes and fangirled, leaving her underwear more than a little damp, which, in subzero temperatures, wasn’t as fun as it sounded. His sexy accent and alpha male act would not turn her into a swooning simpleton. No way. That particular road was one she had no plans on traveling ever again.
“You’re an arrogant ass.”
“I would say confident.”
“I would say conceited.”
“I would disagree.” Ronan shrugged and shifted back into his seat. He shoved his phone into his pocket. “We should find out a wee bit more about each other, don’t you think?”
“Thanks, but no. I know all I need to know about you.” She switched on the radio and the sound of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” blasted from the speakers.
“You don’t know anything.” He switched off the radio.
“Exactly. Like I said, ‘I know all I need to know.’”
“I have three brothers and three sisters.”
“Don’t care.”
At a turn in the road, a tractor with monster-truck wheels bigger than her car swung around the corner and cut her off. Quinn slammed on the brakes and sent up a silent prayer thanking God she was driving so slowly and that her tires had enough tread to grip the road. The glove box fell open, and a landslide of unopened letters plummeted onto the floor and onto Ronan’s lap and feet.
“Great filing system,” he said. “Don’t you ever open your mail?”
“None of your business.” Quinn leaned over to pluck up the envelopes. The final demands inside would give him more ammunition. Not that he couldn’t already assassinate her with everything he already had.
“Drive.” He motioned toward the now clear road. His finger hovered over the back of an envelope as if undecided about opening the flap.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Her eyes darted toward the envelope in his hand. “It’s illegal to open someone else’s mail without their permission. And you, most definitely, do not have mine.”
“These all look like bills. Final demands, if I’m right. Hiding something?” Ronan swept the envelopes together and rammed them into the glove box.
“Again, none of your business.” She gripped the steering wheel tighter. “You’ve invaded my life enough without sticking your nose in any deeper.”
“I haven’t even begun.”
With a flick of her hand, Quinn turned up Christmas FM and set the volume loud enough to drown out his voice and her thoughts.
Sammy, a homeless teen who sometimes slept outside her apartment building, sat huddled in a corner, with his grimy, and now wet, sleeping bag draped over his knees. Pour soul. He should be in a hostel, or somewhere warmer than a street corner, but Quinn guessed his dog Max had something to do with him still being on the streets.
“You live here?” Ronan glanced out of the car window and eyed the graffitied building with apparent distaste.
“What were you expecting, a penthouse overlooking the river?” Her neighborhood wasn’t the safest place to live, but it was all she could afford. When she’d paid off her debts, she’d move somewhere better, cleaner, more secure.
“It’s not in the greatest of areas.”
“It works for me.” She opened the door and went outside; admitting he was right wouldn’t happen. “Stay here. Make sure no one steals the car.”
“This jalopy? People are more likely to give you money out of pity to fix it than steal it.” He followed her out of the car. “I should know where we live and what our love nest looks like.”
“Whatever. Suit yourself.”
Not bothering to see if Ronan was behind her, she hunkered down in front of Sammy. “You need me to take Max?” At the sound of his name, the scraggy dog whose tongue was too big for his mouth and eyes too small for his head stuck his face from beneath the stained sleeping bag. Max’s breed was indeterminable, but perhaps the resulting cross-species love child between a Chihuahua and a possum.
“I was worried you wouldn’t be coming home.” Sammy shivered and wiped the back of his hand beneath his runny nose. “The thing is, they have a permanent bed for me, but I can’t take Max. They said I should take him to the pound.” He scratched the trembling dog behind its ears. “I can’t do that to the wee fella. He’s already been through the wars. Can you take him for me? Find him a home?”
The dog lifted his head and widened his eyes, as if trying to charm her into finding him a place to live.
“I don’t know, Sammy. I have a lot on at work right now.”
Max whimpered as if he knew he was seconds away from abandonment, but permanent beds didn’t come easy and it’d taken Sammy months to find one. More than once, she’d offered him her sofa, which, if the weather was bad enough, he took, but more often than not, he refused.
“No worries. I understand.” The sorrow in his eyes stabbed her heart.
There was no way she could let either of them down.
“Give him here.” Quinn reached for the dog. If she didn’t take care of Max, Sammy would stay on the streets, and she didn’t need yet another worry weighing down her conscience.
“You’re the best. I knew I could count on you.” Sammy handed over the dog, who slobbered kisses all over Quinn’s face.
“Stop kissing me, you mangy mutt.” She laughed and put the rat-sized dog on the ground. “I won’t be home for about a week, but he’ll be somewhere safe, and after that, we’ll see what we can come up with.” During the day, she’d keep him in the castle’s kitchen out of harm’s way, and at night, he could sleep in her room. Brendan wouldn’t mind.
Sammy gave her a beaming smile. “You’re a legend.”
“I don’t know about that.” Quinn dug into her coat pocket, pulled out a twenty, and held it out. “Get yourself something to eat.”
Sammy shook his head. “Keep your money. Taking Max is enough.” He stood and rolled his belongings into the sleeping bag, and when he wasn’t looking, she tucked the money into his backpack. He needed the money more than she did.
“Who’s yer man?” Sammy jerked his head toward Ronan, who stood by the car with his arms crossed and legs in a wide stance, looking more like a bodyguard or a nightclub doorman than an event planner.
“No one important.”
“He looks like he thinks he’s important.”
“You’re not wrong.” She laughed and pulled Sammy into a quick hug. “You have my number. Call me if you need anything, and I mean anything.”
“Thanks a million.”
“Come, Max.” The misshapen dog followed her through the concrete lobby, his overgrown nails clicking with every step. As soon as the wedding was over, she’d take him to a doggy groomer and maybe the vet. She couldn’t do much to help Sammy, but she could make sure his companion was healthy and safe.
“Who was that?” Ronan fell into step beside her.
“A good kid whose parents kicked him out because he’s gay.”
“You serious?”
“Wish I wasn’t.”
The reek of stale garbage irritated her nose, and the pungent smell of cooking fish saturated the air. Rather than take the elevator, which sometimes doubled as a urinal, she picked up Max and ran up three flights of stairs to her floor.
One of the fluorescent strips lighting up the narrow corridor hung by a wire, flickering on and off, and with every step, her heels snagged the frayed nylon filaments of the puce carpet lining the hallway. Showing Ronan where she lived should’ve embarrassed her. But since he meant less to her than the regurgitated mice the local cats sometimes left on her doorstep, she couldn’t care less what he thought about her home.
She unlocked the triple bolt lock and disarmed the alarm to her shoebox apartment. “Wait in there.” She pointed toward the sitting room and set Max on the floor. “And don’t touch anything.”
The dog scampered into the sitting room and flopped onto his makeshift teddy bear bed. Ronan stood at the threshold and glanced at several precariously stacked boxes.
“Moving?”
“They’re from my old office.” She shoved a wavering stack against a wall to prevent a flood of paper. “I haven’t had time to go through them.” Satisfied they wouldn’t fall, she turned to Ronan. “Give me a few minutes to get packed.”
He nodded, his attention on the boxes she’d pushed against the wall.
The damp bedroom, a few steps from the sitting room, held nothing to show the place was home. Torture would’ve been preferable to unpacking. Too many painful memories showing her failed business and failed relationship were wrapped up in old newspaper and stored inside cardboard boxes, and that was where they would stay until she had the courage to deal with them.
She closed the door and flopped onto her unmade bed, slid her phone out of her purse, and Googled Ronan and Donovan Events. Hundreds of articles about him flooded the screen. Donovan Events were goliaths in event planning. She wasn’t even a gnat. Going up against him was moronic, but she had to try. With a resigned sigh, she threw her phone back into her purse and packed for the rest of the week.
****
If there was an uglier dog alive, Ronan hadn’t seen it. The mutt, who now lay on his back snoring, was obviously at home in Quinn’s apartment. How often had she helped the kid and dog out? He hadn’t missed how she tucked the money the kid had refused into his backpack. Was she the Robin Hood of con artists? Someone who justified her actions of robbing from the rich to give to the poor? Ronan gave his head a quick shake. A scam artist with a heart of gold. There was a Lifetime movie somewhere in Quinn’s future.
He leaned against the doorjamb and examined Quinn’s home. Her professional and sexy appearance suggested an upscale apartment in a trendy part of town. Instead, she lived in an old public housing building which was as impersonal and as welcoming as the DMV. Limp green and yellow plaid curtains hung by grimy patio doors leading to a small balcony. Bare cream walls held no pictures of friends or family, and piles of unopened moving boxes occupied every available space.
A chipped Formica table drowned in paperwork beside a postage stamp-sized kitchen. He walked over to the table and used the edge of his phone to shuffle the papers around. Nothing but bills and threatened legal action. A few handwritten letters cursing her to hell. They explained the hissy fit in the car when she thought he’d open her mail. She was in it up to her neck.
Based on the numbers scribbled on a legal pad, he calculated she owed half a million euros, maybe more—a hundred grand in back rent for an office. He needed a few more answers and to get those, he had to talk to Brady, because the femme fatale picture he’d painted wasn’t Quinn.
He scrolled through his phone and redialed the number Brady had called him from. Disconnected. Not surprising. An uneasy sensation crawled up his spine. What the fuck was Brady’s plan and what was Ronan’s part in it?
If he screwed this event up for Quinn, she’d be bankrupt by the New Year. A desire to jump on the next flight back to New York and let her sink or swim yanked at him. But he couldn’t do that. If he left now, she’d suffocate in shit creek. But maybe she was playing him for a fool. What if she’d planted the numbers and letters to make him think she was in trouble? Was he a pawn in a long con mapped out by Brady? Or was she the brains of the operation? With a shake of his head, he blew out a slow whistle and went to the balcony doors. She hadn’t expected him to come to her apartment, so the scribbled numbers and letters demanding money had to be genuine.
He drew back the curtains and unlatched the lock. A small mezzanine overlooked the neglected, snow-covered street. He slid the door open and stepped into the cold. Swollen clouds loomed over the town and promised a heavy snowfall. In a few hours, no one would get in or out of the Dublin or Belfast airports. Even if he decided to go back to New York, his chances of getting there were slim and none.
The five-hour time difference meant it was a few minutes past 8 a.m. in New York, and Caden was probably wondering why Ronan hadn’t stopped by the construction site on his way to the office for his usual cup of coffee. He pulled his cell from the depths of his coat pocket and dialed Caden’s number. His brother would accuse him of losing his ever-loving mind, and maybe he had.
“So the invisible man reappears.” Caden’s voice crackled over the miles. “Where are you, you Muppet?”
“Home.”
“Home, home? As in the place we grew up home?”
“A few miles from there.”
“Ah, for feck’s sake. Does Ma know?”
“She’ll know when I show up on Christmas Eve as planned.” Ronan slid his shoes over the snow and built a snowball between his feet.
“She’ll throw a fit when she finds out you’re in the same country as her and haven’t called. She might even know you’re already there. She’s weird like that.”
“She won’t know a thing if you don’t tell her.”
“Why’d you fly in early?”
“The wedding.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still out to avenge the Donovan name?”
Ronan sighed. Caden’s answer to everything was to take the piss. “Let me handle this. It’s not like I’m needed in the office. I have every confidence in my staff not to run the business into the ground.”
“Let it go. You’re not a wedding planner, Ro. It’s like me moving from building hotels to building play sets.”
He couldn’t, wouldn’t, let it go. Not yet. Quinn had weaseled her way into his consciousness, and he wanted to find out everything he could about her. “I’m staying for a few more days. See what happens.” Ronan kicked the snowball between his feet, sending a mini avalanche to the pavement below.
“You’re a fecking eejit.”
“On that professional and grown-up note, I’m hanging up.” He hit the end call button.
He wished his brother wasn’t so laid back about everything and wished Caden understood Ronan’s need to stay on top. And if he wanted to stay on top, he had to expand his business.
There was one other person he needed to talk to, his cousin Shane. If there was any dirt on Quinn, he was the man who’d find it.
On the third ring, Shane picked up. “How’s it going, stranger?”
“Can’t complain.”
After they’d caught up and promised to meet for a beer, Shane asked, “So what’s the real reason for this phone call?”
Ronan laughed. “You’re a detective for a reason. Can you do me a favor?”
“If I can, I will.”
“Heard anything about a woman called Quinn Marshall?”
“Doesn’t ring any bells. I’m not in my office, but I’ll have a look tomorrow. Anything in particular you want to know?”
“Nah. I’ve been told a few things and want to find out if the information’s true.”
“No bother,” Shane said. “I’ll find out what I can and give you a bell.”
Part of him hoped Shane had a file on her a mile long, but a bigger part of him hoped she was as clean as the freshly fallen snow.
****
Ronan needed an ice-cold beer. Fast. Snowmageddon meant the journey back to the castle took four tense hours. The heater in Quinn’s car spluttered and gave up the ghost twenty minutes in, and every radio station played “Last Christmas” on endless loop. There was only so much Wham! a man could take. He headed straight to the kitchen hidden in the bowels of the castle.
The kitchen was nothing like the rest of the building. Old blended with new and whoever designed it had a deep passion for food. Dark woods and natural stone contrasted with stainless steel appliances, and above him, a beamed ceiling curved slightly with gleaming copper pots and pans hanging from a rack. His mother would move in here and never leave.
Brendan stood by a thick butcher’s block dicing carrots and onions with quick, confident movements. The radio played more nerve-damaging Christmas music, but Ronan shut it out and warmed his hands by a roaring fire large enough to roast a pig.
“You haven’t lost any of your skills.” Ronan nodded toward Brendan’s fast moving fingers.
“And what do you know about my skills?” Brendan asked, not taking his eyes from the curved blade.
“Everyone around here knows you’re one of Ireland’s best chefs.”
Brendan nodded and exhaled slowly. “That was before my wife passed away. God rest her soul.” He stopped chopping and blessed himself. “It’s been a while. Thirteen years now. She had big plans for this place, but life got in the way and… well, plans change.” He continued with his work, not once losing his hypnotic rhythm.
“Sorry for your loss.” Ronan watched in silence as the older man scooped up diced vegetables with the sharp edge of his knife.
“Thanks. Like I said, it was a while ago.”
“You were never tempted to sell the place?”
“I won’t lie,” Brendan said. “I’ve had offers, and I got close once, but I couldn’t bear to part with it. It’s not much, but it’s home.” He gave a small smile. “Quinn badgered me daily for weeks until I agreed to open the doors. She practically camped on the doorstep. Convinced me the place could be great again.” He shrugged. “Maybe it could, but everything’s in a terrible state.” Brendan threw the last of the vegetables into a copper pot and covered it with a lid. “She’s…” He hesitated as if searching for the right words. “Quinn’s a great girl. I wouldn’t want to see her hurt.”
“Are you warning me off?” Ronan raised an eyebrow. The older man’s fatherly concern for Quinn shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did.
Brendan chuckled. “I might be getting on, but I’m not blind. She wasn’t exactly over the moon to see you. God knows relationships are hard. There were times when living with my Mrs. was like living on a rollercoaster. Some months we were climbing to the top. Some months we were hurtling to the bottom with a few loops in between that threw us upside down.” He gave a wistful smile. “Our fights would shake the windows.” A kettle on the gas stovetop whistled, and Brendan wiped his hands on a red dishcloth thrown over his shoulder. “Tea? Coffee?”
“I’ll have a beer.”
“There’s none till the delivery tomorrow. Only wine or whiskey for now.”
“An Irish coffee would hit the spot.”
“A man after my own heart.” Brendan went to the cupboard behind him and selected two flared glasses. “The shock on Quinn’s face when she saw you told me something wasn’t right between the two of you.” He filled the glasses with boiling water before emptying them in the sink.
In mock horror, Ronan clasped a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt by whatever you’re accusing me of. What are you accusing me of?”
“A lover’s tiff?” He poured steaming coffee into the heated glasses. “Whatever’s going on between you, you’d better not hurt her.” He spooned in sugar, and from beneath the butcher’s block, produced a half-empty bottle of aged Irish whiskey. “I don’t know her all that well, but I know she’s a great girl who works hard. It’d break her heart if anything went wrong this week. She’s been through a rough time what with her ex and the online trolls…”
“I promise I won’t break her heart.” He wasn't convinced she had a heart to break. Ronan’s mouth watered at the anticipation of tasting the drink Brendan had prepared. The older man splashed more than one shot of whiskey into each glass and topped both off with a collar of thick cream. He pushed the glass toward Ronan.
“Quinn and I are madly in love,” Ronan said, picking up the glass. “It’s fated. Painted in the stars. Written on the cards. A whirlwind romance. We’re soul mates.” He took a sip of the silky drink, savoring the bite of alcohol before swallowing. “By God, Brendan, that’s perfect.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Brendan sipped from his glass. “I’m going to say this, and I’m going to say no more. Watch your step where Quinn’s concerned. There’s many a secret place in this castle to hide a bod—”
“Hello?” Quinn called from the stone staircase concealed by the walls.
“Down here.” Brendan gave Ronan a quick nod that said he’d been warned.
Quinn appeared with Max tucked under her arm. She’d changed into a pair of tight jeans tucked into her boots and a loose sweater, and had gathered her hair in a messy bun at the top of her head.
Pins and needles pricked Ronan’s fingertips. The heat working its way through his body had everything to do with her and not the cup in his hand. He took another sip of coffee and watched her rush across the kitchen toward the fire.
If he took a small step, his hand would brush against hers, and more than anything, he wanted to touch her, but before he got a chance to, Max yipped and barked and glanced around warily.
“It’s minus a billion out there. The wind’s whipping the snow into a blizzard. I should try to litter train you.” She swept her fingers over Max’s back and Ronan half wished he was on the receiving end of her touch.
“And who’s this ugly little fella?” Brendan wandered over to the fireplace and tickled the dog behind the ears.
“Max.” She placed the still shaking dog at her feet. “He belongs to a friend. If I hadn’t taken him in, he’d have ended up on the streets or in the pound. I’ll keep him under control. He won’t get in anyone’s way, and he’s house trained.”
Her cheeks and nose glowed with cold and drops of melting snow clung to her weather-frizzed hair. Ronan's arm moved of its own accord to pull her into his heat, but to stop himself, he tightened his fist and shoved the traitorous hand deep into his trouser pocket.
Max cowered behind Quinn with his spindly tail tucked firmly between his legs.
“I’ve seen bigger rats in the cellar.” Brendan hunkered down. Max poked his head between Quinn’s ankles and sniffed Brendan’s outstretched fingers. “You’ll be no trouble. Will you, wee man? Come here.” Max, deciding he could trust Brendan, followed him toward the butcher’s block. “Do you want a treat?” He dropped a few pieces of beef into a bowl and set it on the ground for Max, who wolfed it down.
“I would kill for one of those coffees.” Quinn scanned the kitchen and jigged from foot to foot as if trying to thaw her feet. “Where’s Lily? I can’t find her, and she’s not answering her phone.”
“You mean the Rottweiler in red lipstick.” Brendan set about making Quinn’s coffee. “Hopefully sleeping. She was three sheets to the wind.”
“Is she any nicer now she’s drunk?” Quinn asked.
“She’s insisting she’s not drunk.” Brendan chuckled. “Thought she could drink two bottles of twenty-year-old red and not have it hit her. You should have seen her knock it back. Like water to her.” He passed Quinn her coffee, and she accepted with thanks.
“She’s old school,” Ronan said, joining in the conversation. “Probably thinks she can drink a potcheen-soaked Irishman under the table.”
Quinn ignored him and sipped her coffee. A small whimper of appreciation slipped from between her lips and sent a shock up his spine.
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. I could drink these all night.” She took another sip, and when she lowered the glass, a small line of cream coated her upper lip, which she removed with a flick of her tongue.
His dick throbbed at the sight. Most women he’d dated would’ve used a move like that to tease and torture him, but not Quinn. Did she have any clue about the effect she had on him? That even the most innocent of her gestures had the potential to knock him off his feet.
“I hope you don’t mind us staying here for a few days,” she said. “Lily thinks it’ll be easier if I’m nearby. I guess it makes sense with the weather and all. I’ll sleep in one of the old rooms out back with Max.”
“You will, my arse.” Brendan, who was back behind the butcher’s block, gestured toward her with the sharp tip of his chopping knife. “You’ll sleep in the castle in one of the rooms with heat, or I should say one of the rooms that’ll have heat by tomorrow.” He stirred the pot of sizzling vegetables, dropped in chunks of beef, and then pointed the glinting knife toward Ronan. “Will your man be staying in the same room as you?”
“No.” Quinn moved away from Ronan.
Ronan caught Quinn’s hand and entwined his fingers with hers. A tremor of something passed between them, and by the way Quinn’s eyes widened, she felt it too.
“Your man will be staying with you.” Ronan held her seething gaze, her eyes the color of a raging whirlpool. “We wouldn’t want to put Brendan to any more trouble by messing up two guest rooms so close to the event, would we, snookums?”
“I’m… I’m sure it’s no trouble.” She tore her eyes from his. “I’ll clean them myself. You know we, ehm, promised each other we wouldn’t sleep together again until our wedding night.”
“For God’s sake, spare me the details,” Brendan said with a roll of his eyes.
Ronan lowered his lips to her ear and whispered. “Afraid of what you might see if you walk in on me in the shower?”
“Get over yourself.” She looked him up and down, but he didn’t miss the way her eyes lingered on his crotch. “Think you have something I haven’t seen before?” She snatched her hand from his and walked to the butcher’s block. “One room it is.”
“I’ll go up and light the fire.” Brendan set a lid on top of the pot of simmering stew.
“No need. I will,” Ronan offered.
Quinn snorted. “It’s an easy light log. Any idiot can light it.”
“It’s a good thing I’m an idiot then, isn’t it?”
“Your words…”
“You two are giving me a bloody headache.” Brendan threw his knife into the farmhouse sink. “I’ll light the fire.” He washed and dried his hands, pulled an old-fashioned brass key from his pocket and slid it across the countertop. “Stay in the Áine suite on the second floor. It’s not that bad. There are fresh linens in the laundry room. Grab some on the way.” Without a backward glance, he left the kitchen.
“Why are you such a jerk?” Quinn grabbed the key and shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans.
“What can I say?” He leaned his back against the butcher’s block and cradled the still warm but empty glass in his hand. “It’s my cross to carry.”
She paced in front of the fire, followed by Max, and blew damp straggles of hair out of her face. “You infuriate me like no other man I’ve ever met. I’ve a thousand things to do before this day is over. Then I plan on a long soak before curling up in front of the fire with my laptop and Netflix. I don’t want you anywhere near me. I don’t want to think about you. I don’t want to see you. And don’t even think we’re sleeping in the same bed.”
Quinn crouched and tickled between Max’s ears. “I’ll come back for you later. Be good. Don’t pee on anything.” She started toward the steps leading up to the foyer and Ronan followed. The sway of her hips and the stride of her long legs drew his gaze. The curve of her backside in her tight jeans was a sight he didn’t think he’d ever tire of.
“Getting a good enough look?” she asked, walking upstairs.
“At what?”
“Don’t even pretend.”
“You’re walking up a set of stairs in front of me. Where else am I supposed to look?”
“Typical man, thinking with his dick.”
“I can assure you, I’m anything but typical.”
She spun around and a kaleidoscope of emotions shifted over her face. “You just proved my point. You’re a typical man who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”
Her defiant tone taunted him, and if she’d thrown down the gauntlet, he was more than willing to pick it up.
“Are you trying to get me to prove something? Because if you are, I have no problem doing exactly that.”
“In your dreams.”
There was zero conviction behind her words. Without thought, Ronan stepped forward until he was close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. A squeak of protest sounded from her throat, and as if to push him away, her hand flattened over his racing heart, but then her lips parted as if inviting him in.
He accepted the invitation and lowered his head. The softness of her lips defeated him, and his body flew a white flag of surrender as blood surged south. He reached for her hair, and tugged her messy bun loose, his fingers tightening around the mass of caramel waves as they fell. Their lips molded together, and he pulled her deeper into their embattled kiss. When their tongues touched, his mind blanked, thoroughly erasing any need for her to fail. The taste of coffee and whiskey coated her lips, and the scent of sweet apples and vanilla from her hair left him woozy. It was all he could do not to throw Quinn over his shoulder, find one of the secret rooms Brendan had mentioned, and explore how out of control things between them could get.
She moaned into his mouth and crushed herself against him. The feel of her breasts pressing into his chest sent all common sense packing. A week of this, of her, wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He nipped at her lower lip and ran his hands over her lush curves, but before he could investigate any further, she broke away, gasping for air.
Her fingers flew to her lips. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“I thought you wanted…” He ran a hand through his hair.
She took half a step back and pressed herself against the stone wall, her throat working hard as she swallowed.
“You took me by surprise. I didn’t have time to think. You’re so not staying in the same room as me.”
“Frightened you won’t be able to control yourself, sweetheart?” He didn’t mean his words to sound as caustic as they did—he should take them back, apologize—but right now he wanted to push her, argue with her, see the fire in her eyes.
“It’s not me I’m afraid off.” Her neck flushed crimson, and confusion laced her voice. “Do you do that a lot? Kiss women you’ve just met?”
“But we haven’t just met, have we? How did you sell it? Like Tristan and Isolde, we were destined to be together. Branwen, the goddess of love and beauty, helped us find each other. We met in a pub, and even though we lived on different continents, our paths overlapped many, many times. Before your granny immigrated to Queens in the ‘50s, she lived two streets away from where I was eventually born and raised. I know all of your Irish relatives. I even went to school with your second cousins. The thin red thread of fate brought us together. We moved in after a week because we couldn’t live without each other.”
Quinn crossed her arms again and locked them in place with a white-knuckle grip. A tight-lipped smile slashed a scarred line across her beautiful face. “Someone really screwed you over. God, I feel sorry for you.”
“Sorry for me? Are you for real?” Could she read the past in his eyes, see the cynicism and betrayal lingering there? Was her ability to read people the reason she was such a good con artist? And to think he wanted to help her. More fool him.
For a brief second, he closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids. “You might think I don’t know you, but I do.” He stared her down. “You’re like every other woman who lies and cheats to get what she wants. A master manipulator who’s so entrenched in her own lies she doesn’t know what’s fact and what’s fiction.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
What was wrong with him? His emotions swung faster than a pendulum on a clock. He was acting like an arsehole. She was right. He was a jerk and everything else she’d accused him of. He wanted to pull her to him, to apologize, to say he’d do all he could to help, but the words disintegrated on his tongue.
“Who’s being typical now?” His words went from sharp to soft. “Tears don’t work on me.”