A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (24 page)

 “Ah, Kathleen,” Pat pleaded.

 “Shut up, I’m finished with you. I never want to see you or speak to you again. Wait till I tell Joyce about this stunt. You’ve done some stupid things in the past Pat, but this takes the biscuit.” Pat looked more fearful at the mention of Joyce’s name, than from anything the Gardaí had said. He glanced across at them, taking statements from Sinead and Father Gregory. The priest was holding Sinead’s hand, she was trembling.

 “I don’t want to go home,” she said quietly, flashing a look at Phileas sitting with his head bowed. Father Gregory smoothed a hand over her shoulders.

 “He won’t be there. It’s likely he’ll spend the night in the cells,” the priest told her.

 “I still don’t want to go home.” She said, plaintively.

 “There’s no way you can go back there, no way,” interjected the radar-eared Miss MacReady. “You stay here with me, love. You’ll be nice and safe with me, no hassle and no men!”

 Ryan came out of Miss MacReady’s inner sanctum.

 “Marianne reckons it’ll hit the papers anyway. It’s a big story for a small island.”

 “Was she shocked? What did she say?” Miss MacReady was anxious.

 “Concerned about you, obviously, but she didn’t seem surprised someone tried to steal the jewellery. It was general knowledge Angelique left a pile of stuff here. She did describe Pat and Phileas as a pair of shits though.” Ryan threw them a look. “Quite mild for Marianne.” He gave Miss MacReady a smile, the colour was coming back to her cheeks. “I’ll head back, if you don’t need me.” Ryan touched Dermot’s arm briefly as he left, “Good work,” he said.

 The other man winked, “Sure, we were always a great team.”

Dermot helped the guards bundle the unfortunate burglars into the secure cabin on the launch.

 “What do
you
think?” he asked the sergeant as they prepared to cast off.

 “It won’t be good for them, when all’s said, although they didn’t get away with anything. It’s serious and Pat already has a record. Not sure about Phileas though, thought he had a bit more about him.”

 “Do you think his wife knew what he was planning? She seemed very shook by the whole thing.” Dermot observed.

 “I think it was all spur of the moment, probably a result of a night on the gargle. Seemed like a good idea at the time, sort of thing.” The Sergeant gave a grim smile.

 Dermot nodded, then said, “I didn’t think Phileas drank?”

 “Maybe not in the pub,” was all the Sergeant replied.

 The engine started as the boat slipped away, turning towards the mainland winking in the distance. The wail of the siren made Dermot jump as the blue lights flipped on, flashing urgently into the night, blotting the blackness of the sea and sky with colour.

Chapter Twenty Six
Ring A Ding Ding

Marianne was pacing the kitchen when Ryan returned. The house was quiet, the children sound asleep after their first Halloween. Marianne was desperate to see Ryan and be assured everyone was unharmed and she was furious something so despicable had spoiled such a great day.

 She threw a lump of peat on the fire and went to make drinks. He stopped her on the way to the kitchen, catching her from behind, wrapping his arms around her, nuzzling her neck.

 “You took your costume off,” he said.

 “You’ve been gone hours,” she told him.

 “I really fancied you in that,” he said.

 “Thanks, I look better as one of the undead!” she laughed.

 “No,” he grinned back, “I’d fancy you in anything, even your grubby old robe, with those huge curlers in your hair, you know that.”

 “How dare you?” she whacked him with a tea towel. “My robe may be grubby but it’s not old!” He kissed her before she squirmed away.

 “Sit down and tell me all about it,” she said, bringing through drinks. When he finished the blow-by-blow account of the would-be thieves’ apprehension, Marianne was interested to know what was going to happen to the jewellery. Ryan took a sip of whiskey, stretched his legs towards the fire and shrugged.

 “Don’t know. Don’t really care, do you?” he said, eyes half-closed. She sat down beside him; she could smell peat in his hair. She pressed her lips against the soft skin of his neck, massaging his temples gently. He gave a murmur of pleasure.

 “I saw Miss MacReady wearing the most spectacular emerald and diamond ring the other day. I wondered at the time if it might go astray, conveniently ending up in her jewellery box.” Marianne smiled.

 “Hmm, quite a radical thought. How did you come to that conclusion?” he asked.

 “Something she said recently. ‘
Don’t be surprised if I’m robbed in my bed, now Larry’s told the world there’s a collection of jewels worth millions in the Innishmahon post office strongbox
.’ Almost flagging it up. Did she seem truly shocked about it all?”

 Ryan thought for a moment.

 “She seemed genuinely shocked it was Pat and Phileas alright, though she did babble on a bit, but she was delirious, bound to be, they’d been a bit rough with her, if truth be told.”

 “The bastards, a pair of chancers it sounds like to me,” she said.

 “You could be right.” He slid his arms around her, pushing his hands up her top, caressing her breasts gently. It was her turn to murmur with pleasure. He knelt before her, pulling the soft fabric over her head, freeing her breasts and then drew her to him in an embrace. He pushed his fingers through her hair, kissing her mouth, his tongue darting in and out of her lips. He stopped suddenly, stood up and dragged off his sweatshirt. She watched as he unbuckled his belt, sliding the fabric down his strong thighs, stepping out of his jeans. The light from the fire made his still-tanned skin gleam; shadows shaded the contours of the muscles of his arms, his hard, flat stomach.

She could see his growing arousal as he looked at her, she stood before him, longing to feel her breasts crushed against his chest. He held her tantalisingly at arm’s length, looking directly into her eyes. The slate-blue glittered with heat; she could feel his gaze burning into her. He bent to kiss her mouth and then ran his tongue from her chin, down her throat, along her collarbone and past the space between her breasts. She watched as his mouth pressed kisses against her stomach, drawing down her pants with his teeth. He nipped at the flesh at the inside of her thighs, she could feel his hot breath between her legs. Weak with desire, she dropped to the floor and, wrapping her legs around him, pulled him on top of her. He lifted his chin and grinned at her, a wicked flicker of lust in his eyes.

 “Take me
Count
,” she whispered in her dreadful Transylvanian accent, “I vont you inside me, all of you inside me, now!” The
Count
did not need asking twice, he lifted her hips and pushed himself gently inside her, as deep as he could go. She shuddered with pleasure and kissing his mouth, held onto him as he started to move rhythmically, making love to her, filling her with himself, right there on the rug, in front of the fire, the way they had, the very first time he had totally and completely seduced her, in what seemed a lifetime ago.

Later, snuggled together before the fire, he toyed with the replica weathervane at her throat - the exquisite platinum and diamond pendant he had commissioned for her - to remind her that whenever he was away, scattered to the four corners of the earth, she was his rock, his anchor and whatever life threw at them, he would be coming home, to Weathervane, Innishmahon and to her, his true love. Pulling her to him, he kissed her as she dozed.

 “And would you like a beautiful emerald and diamond ring my darling, more precious than anything anyone has ever seen?” he whispered.

 She was half asleep. She murmured, turning to nestle beneath his chin.

 “Would you? Shall I buy you a beautiful ring, a symbol of my love. Would you like that?” he said into her ear.

 She stirred, placing her fingers on his lips to quieten him.

 “Would you, my love?” he pressed.

 “I have plenty of jewels.” She tried to sound blasé, but he felt her tense.

 “Really? I thought all women loved jewels, especially spectacular ones, bought for them by their men.” He was curious.

 “Not me thanks.” She touched the pendant at her throat. “I love my weathervane, it’s very special. No, I’ve enough jewels to last a girl a lifetime.”

 “Not even a wedding band?” he asked. She squirmed away, wriggling free of the throw.

 “Ha,” she forced a laugh. “If that was a proposal O’Gorman, it lacked your usual dramatic flair, I have to say.” She pulled herself up, arranging the fabric around her, hiding her nakedness. “Anyway, you know my track record. Mention marriage and everything falls apart, enough said.”

 “But,” he caught her by the wrist, “surely it’s something we should discuss at some point?”  She turned away.

 “Not now though Ryan, the very word holds bad memories for me. Claude was a mistake. I thought we’d marry, but that ended in disaster and then, getting engaged to George, everything arranged just before ... he died. ” She let her shoulders droop, avoiding his eyes: they had both loved George.

 “Third time lucky?” he offered, squeezing her hand, giving her his lopsided grin.

 She looked at him, willing her eyes not to betray her heart. “It’s too soon to talk about marriage. I’m not sure it’s for me, can we just leave it there for now?”

 He pulled a face, then hugged her. She waited for him to mention the ‘no marriage’ clause in Angelique’s custody deal, wondering if something had come to light. She already felt guilty about reading his private papers, maybe he knew. But he made no other comment, just put some more peat on the fire and settled down beside her. She was soon fast asleep.

Ryan was restless. He pulled up the collar of his jacket as he walked along the coast road. It was pitch-black, a good hour before the first glimmer of dawn would be visible on the eastern horizon. He crossed the familiar track of sand down to the beach, found a clump of grass and sat down. He was exhausted and in seriously bad humour to boot.
Why had he mentioned a ring? What was he thinking?
He knew how anti-marriage Marianne was. He knew neither of them had particularly good track records where relationships were concerned, but he did know, deep down in his heart of hearts, how much he wanted things to work out with Marianne, always to be there for her and she for him. He wanted to bow out of his hugely successful career and return to make his life on Innishmahon with his son and yes, Marianne Coltrane his wife. He bounced the heel of his hand off his forehead.

 “Why do I never think anything through, why do I just open my big Irish gob and say whatever comes into my head?  No wonder I need a script to do the fecking day job,” he told himself wryly as he wriggled down into the sand, zipping his jacket up. Now the sea air had hit him,
e He
he was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open.

Further along the beach, Dermot Finnegan was talking into a handset. “So, looks like it’s going to be the week after next? You can’t give me anything more definite than that? Over.”

 “Not yet, but it’s definitely on its way. Over,” came the crackly reply.

 Dermot sighed, exasperated, he would never work with this fella again, talk about unprofessional.

 Dermot flicked the switch. “And how will I know it, any word on that? Over.”

 “It’s a fishing boat, I know that much. Over.”

 
Great,
thought Dermot,
that narrows it down then, fishing is the main occupation of the entire area.

 “Will it be flying
the skull and cross bones
? Over.” He was in no humour for ditherers.

 “No, she won’t be flying anything and
Captain Hook’s
not on board either. Over.” His contact sounded tetchy.

 “Look,” Dermot barked, “I need firm details, co-ordinates, timescales and, you know, something a bit more specific if I’m to intercept a vessel and arrest those on board, which is what I’ve been tasked to do. Over.”

 “On your own?” squeaked the other voice.

 “No, aren’t you supposed to be helping me? OVER.” Dermot was
really
frazzled now.

 “Ah no, sorry about that, I can’t make it.”

 “WHAT?” Dermot roared, “What do you mean you can’t make it? I thought you were supposed to be working with me?”

 “I am, but I’m on annual leave that week. I have to take it or I’ll lose it and I can’t do that, I need a break, this job is very stressful.”

 “JESUS CHRIST!” Dermot yelled, “OVER!”

Ryan stirred. He pushed himself up on his elbows. The merest slice of light across the bay had turned the beach to grey, he could see a dark figure striding towards him. It looked like Dermot. Ryan fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He lit one.

 “Hey, who’s there?” came his friend’s gruff voice across the sand.

 “
Count Dracula
,
who do you think?” Ryan responded. Dermot was beside him in a couple of strides.

 “What are you doing sleeping rough? Trouble ‘ut Mill?” Dermot asked in a perfect Lancashire accent; he had always been good at dialect.

 “Nah, just needed a breath of fresh air,” Ryan said, indicating the cigarette. “Everyone’s asleep. Yourself?”

 “Couldn’t sleep, mad day, weird ole night, what with one thing and another. Fancy a jar?” Dermot asked.

 “I’d love a good cup of coffee. Marianne never makes it strong enough.” He smiled, offering his friend a hand to haul him up.

 “She’s not perfect then?” Dermot asked cheekily.

 “Oh yes she is,” Ryan replied.

 “Isn’t she though?” Dermot said under his breath, letting go of Ryan’s hand at the crucial moment, so he fell back, landing on his arse. “Gotcha! You always fall for that one,” he said laughing.

As they clattered up the gangplank Ryan noticed the lettering picked out in navy edged with gold on the side. Dermot had named the boat
Dream Isle.

 “Nice one,” he said, “a play on words. Dream I’ll, I’ll Dream, is that it?”

 Dermot smiled. “Yeah, that’s right. Good isn’t it? Suits her?”

 “It does, certainly. Hope it turns out to be a dream isle for you, we all need one.” Ryan said.

 “Well, it has for you,” Dermot replied.

 “Still in the planning stages it would seem,” Ryan told him and then, “getting there though.”

 They were sitting down below, a mug of fresh coffee apiece.

 “Who were you shouting at over the radio back there?” Ryan asked. He had seen Dermot push the handset into his sailing jacket, when he came upon him on the beach.

 “Ah, someone I’m doing a bit of a job with.” Dermot stirred his drink.

 “Not going well?” Ryan asked.

 “It’s a two man job and he just told me he’s on
annual leave
so can’t make it.
Annual leave -
why doesn’t anyone take holidays anymore?”

  “Is this police business? I thought you’d taken early retirement?” Ryan asked him.

 “Sort of,” Dermot was serious. “This is my last job.”

 “Well, if you need a hand, I’m your man. I’m not required back at the studio for a few months, and as soon as Marianne starts on the holiday home project we won’t get a minute’s peace, believe me.” Ryan told him.

 Dermot frowned. “It’s very hush-hush, totally undercover. If I tell you I’ll have to kill you.”

 “No change there then.” Ryan looked him in the eye, “I
am
an
international super-spy,
you know, it really is an offer you can’t refuse.”

 Dermot took a deep breath. He knew Ryan. He trusted Ryan. They had been through a lot together.

 “Okay, here’s the scenario, purely fictional of course but here it is anyway.” And Dermot explained to one of his oldest friends, how his latest job was to intercept a consignment of cocaine disguised as a shipment of arms, destined for a drugs cartel masquerading as a breakaway gang of Freedom Fighters.