Chapter 4
Even though it was the dead of winter, the grounds were a lush, deep forest green, with shrubs in so many shades of green, she couldn’t count them. And the flowers she couldn’t even begin to identify; she’d never seen anything like them in America, anywhere. “How do the flowers survive in the winter?” she asked, finding it odd.
“Some only grow in the winter,” Marty said. “The fall is our best time for color, though. It’s a mighty sight to b’hold.”
Claire couldn’t begin to imagine just how beautiful the grounds were in the fall. Mesmerized by the site of the castle, the mountains in the background, the complete and total enormity of this place Mr. Flynn called home, she couldn’t wait to see the inside.
There was a circular drive at the side of the castle, and Claire knew full well that this hadn’t been here in the 1700s, but it appeared as though it had. The stones were an exact match to those on the castle, the small garage-like area where Marty parked the car was also an exact match to the rest of the castle’s stone. Claire wondered if this had been a carriage house of sorts back in its day.
Marty opened her door and took her by the hand, helping her out of the car. “Tilly will be wantin’ to feed ya as soon as ya walk through the doors. She’s Mr. Flynn’s chef, and she’s a fine one, too. But if you don’t wanna eat any o’ that fancy stuff she puts out, she makes a mighty fine Irish stew. I saw Quinn’s motorcycle. He must’ve arrived while I fetched you from the airport, but don’t pay him no mind either.”
Claire laughed. “Does this mean I’m to ignore everyone but Mr. Flynn?” she asked, her tone light and teasing.
Marty chuckled. “I’ll let ya decide that for yourself. Now let’s get inside outta this cold. Me old bones are aching from the chill.”
Claire couldn’t agree with his proposal more.
The door they used led them to the kitchen. Claire didn’t have a clue what the aroma that she smelled was, but all she knew right then and there was that she had to have whatever it was, and it was absolutely heavenly. She entered a kitchen that reminded her of something they used on Iron Chef, a popular TV show in America that aired weekly on the Food Network. She stared at all of the chrome appliances; pots and pans of every shape and size hung from a giant rack from the ceiling. A bay window that faced the sunshine, when there was sunshine, Claire imagined, held dozens of colorful pots filled with aromatic herbs. Rosemary, thyme, and cilantro were just a few that she recognized. She wasn’t much of a cook but did appreciate a well-stocked kitchen. From the looks of it, Mr. Flynn had it all in the food department.
“Told you it was pretty nice in here,” Marty said.
Claire smiled. “You did, you just didn’t say how pretty it was.” She walked around the kitchen amazed that she was actually inside of a castle. In all the fairy-tale books she’d ever read, castles did not have kitchens that looked like this, but she supposed that could be part of her fairy tale.
Claire had to remind herself that she was not in Ireland, in this castle, to admire the kitchen and call up fairy tales from her childhood. She was here as an attorney, a financial advisor to one of Ireland’s wealthiest men, who just so happened to be at death’s door, or so he had said. Not wanting to waste another minute, Claire spoke up. “So where is Mr. Flynn? I really need to see him.” About that time, a tiny little Asian lady appeared from around the corner. Claire thought she couldn’t have been much over four feet tall and might weigh eighty pounds, and that only soaking wet. Her jet-black hair was cut as though a bowl had been placed around the circumference for a guide. Her bangs, or at least what there were of them, were cut so short, they barely covered her forehead. Tiny, almond-shaped eyes focused on hers, then a grin as big as the castle lit up the little woman’s face. This must be Tilly, Claire thought.
“Mr. Flynn was right,” Tilly exclaimed to no one in particular. “You are perfect for the one. And you are tall like him, too.” The little woman spoke as if Claire were in another room and not there to observe and listen as the diminutive woman stared at Claire as though she were an object to be admired.
“Tilly,” Marty admonished the little woman. “You’re here to make sure Miss Claire has a nice hot meal waiting for her as soon as she’s had a chance to clean up.”
Claire would’ve sworn Marty was giving Tilly the evil eye. She observed the two of them together, and that is when it clicked.
Donald Flynn was not sick; nor was he dying. He was probably looming above them somewhere in this giant castle, looking down at the scene below him, laughing. Claire clinched her hands in a fist, completely ticked off.
Tilly chose that moment to acknowledge that Claire was actually in the room with them.
“You want dinner now? Or do you want to wait for the men?” Tilly asked.
Claire actually had to close her eyes for a couple of seconds. Then she opened them again just to make sure she wasn’t living in some fantasy fairy tale of a dream. She looked around the kitchen. No, this was very real, too real. Could it be possible that they still lived by the rules of etiquette from another century? Possibly the seventeenth century? No, that was too much.
“So, which you want?” Tilly asked again.
Marty cleared his throat, shook his head, walked across the kitchen, and placed a caring hand on Claire’s shoulder. “Tilly sometimes forgets her manners, thinks she’s back in China, where women are ruled by their men.”
That explains it, Claire thought. She mentally forgave the little woman her faux pas.
“And isn’t that as it should be?” said a deep male voice.
Claire directed her gaze in the direction from where the words came. She blinked once, then twice, and yet again, sure what she viewed was just another part of this fantasy world that she had stepped into when her feet touched the green grass of Ireland. Because, nowhere in her world, and her world was quite the fantasy land living in Los Angeles, California, did men look like the one that bracketed the doorway with lanky yet muscular arms, extending from an equally broad chest that led to a narrow, but not too narrow, waistline. He wore faded black denim that looked as though it choked the muscular legs encased inside and clung in other places that it shouldn’t. Claire felt her cheeks flame as she stared just below the man’s belt. Quickly raising her eyes to his chest, she saw that it clung too tightly to a worn-out black T-shirt. When she was able to take her eyes away from his massive chest, she swallowed quickly, then turned her eyes away.
“So you’re that attorney who flew all night long to get here before Donald kicks the bucket?”
Claire took a few seconds to gather herself. She had to remember she was a professional woman used to dealing with men of all kinds. “I’m Claire O’Brien,” she stated firmly, confidently. “And you are?” She let her words hang in the air.
The man chose to fully show himself. He walked across the giant kitchen as though he belonged there. It would be funny, Claire thought, if a man’s life wasn’t hanging in the balance. Well, she didn’t really know that, not yet. She reminded herself that she was about to find out. She looked at Marty and Tilly, who watched the two of them as though they were both animals about to pounce on their prey.
“I guess he doesn’t speak. Possibly you’re a younger version of Liam Neeson, maybe a stand-in?” Claire couldn’t help but notice the strong resemblance between the two. And she would never admit it to the man who stood before her, but he was much better-looking than Liam Neeson, and certainly much younger. Raw power and a keen intelligence emanated from him, despite his good looks.
The guy had the audacity to laugh, loudly. “I hear it all the time, but no, that isn’t my chosen profession. Like you, I’m an attorney.”
It was then that Claire remembered Quinn Connor and where she’d met him. “We’ve met before,” she said, using her best attorney voice. Firm, commanding, and no-nonsense.
All six-foot-four of him walked across the room, stopping a couple of feet in front of her. He held out his hand to her. “I’m sure I would have remembered,” he said with barely a trace of an Irish accent.
Claire was sure he was speaking the truth. It had been during her last year of law school, and though their introduction was only a brief one, she’d never forgotten him. And looking at him now, she realized he had only gotten better with age. Like a fine wine, maturity had only made him sexier, more appealing to the opposite sex. Now the question was, did she remind him of that long-ago meeting or should she let it go? Deciding on the latter, she spoke. “You’re probably right; I must’ve mistaken you for someone else.”
If he suddenly remembered their chance meeting, she would simply use time and age as an excuse. Though something told her, by the glint in his eye, that he knew exactly when they’d met, and where. Los Angeles, a cocktail party when, fresh out of law school, the firm at which she had begun her career, Visco, Walsh and Mack, opened a second office in a new high-rise they’d built. The managing partner had invited attorneys from across the globe, and a few of the clerks who were in their last year of law school and had been offered associate positions in the firm, Claire being one of them. Quinn Connor was the legal golden boy that day, as was mentioned numerous times throughout the evening. He had garnered a perfect score on the bar exam. She remembered watching him throughout the evening, smiling at him. The few times his eye had caught hers across the room, he really hadn’t paid much attention to her, and for some reason, even now, she remembered feeling rejected by him. She wasn’t the girl she’d been back then. Now she was a powerful professional woman who could hold her own against men like Quinn Connor.