A Woman's Heart (11 page)

“Aye. And the girls all think he's good-looking.”

“Really?”

“Denise Brennan has had a crush on him forever,” Mary surprised Nora by revealing. “And Kathleen Ryan is always trying to sit next to him on the bus to school, but his head is always so buried in his stupid schoolbooks, he never notices.” She sighed. “He's a terrible dancer, though.”

That was one point Nora wasn't even going to try to argue. Their brother had many talents, but dancing definitely wasn't one of them.

“That shouldn't prove a problem since, once you arrive, you'll undoubtedly have all the unattached boys standing in line for the privilege. More than you would if you'd had Jack hovering over you all night.”

Feminine speculation rose in Mary's previously bleak eyes. “Jack was the jealous sort, even though he felt free enough to look at other girls.”

“Like Sharon.”

“Aye.” Nora knew they'd turned a corner when her sister didn't burst into tears at her rival's name. “Can we afford a new dress?”

“Absolutely.” Even if the income from the room rental hadn't filled the family coffers and Brady had spent a good chunk of it on a headstone, if a new dress would lift Mary from the doldrums and keep her from Jack's clutches, it was well worth it. “And shoes, as well. Foolishly impractical ones with high heels that will show off your lovely long legs.”

“Quinn says that I'm model material.”

“He should know. Being a man of the world and all.”

“That's what I was thinking.”

With the crisis seemingly over, they went back upstairs. A while later Nora heard Quinn return to his room, too.

And as the farmhouse finally settled down for the night, Nora lay alone in the dark, wondering how many glamorous long-legged supermodels her rich American boarder was personally acquainted with.

The Rising of the Lark

P
leasure was like a lark, singing its sweet morning song in Nora's heart when Quinn entered the kitchen the following morning.

“Well, if it isn't our mystery boarder,” Fionna said, lifting her teacup in welcome. “And hadn't I just begun to think you were a figment of my imagination?”

“And a good day to you, too, Mrs. Joyce.” He glanced past the lace curtains to the gray drizzle streaming down the window glass. “I decided there wasn't any point in leaving too early. Since we can't shoot until the rain stops.”

Not a single soul in the room mentioned the salient fact that it had rained during the early hours nearly every morning since Quinn's arrival.

“It's a soft rain.” Nora placed the steaming mug of coffee she'd brewed, just in case, in front of him. “It should clear in time for you to get in a good day's work.”

“One can always hope. The director told me yesterday we're already in danger of running over budget.”

He neglected to mention that Jeremy's explosion of temper had come after Quinn's suggestion that they might consider changing the looks of the creature—making it more the benevolent sea-horse Lady than the smoke-breathing dragon that had cost the studio a small fortune.

Forgoing the cream and sugar already on the table, Quinn took a drink of the black coffee and felt the welcome jolt of caffeine. “This is terrific.”

“Oh, our Nora's a wonderful cook,” Fionna said with a meaningful look toward her granddaughter. “You should try her scones. They're sweet enough to make a host of angels sing.” She pushed an ivy-sprigged plate piled with golden-topped biscuits toward him.

“Gran,” Nora warned softly.

“And isn't the man paying for two meals a day?” Fionna asked with exaggerated innocence. “He might as well be getting his money's worth, after all.”

Steam burst forth in a fragrant cloud as Quinn cut the top off the currant-studded scone. One bite was all it took to convince him that, matchmaking aside, Fionna wasn't exaggerating her granddaughter's culinary talents.

“Delicious.”

“And didn't I tell you?” Fionna nodded her head.

Feeling the now-familiar matchmaking noose tighten ever so slightly around his neck, Quinn turned toward John, who was seated across the table, nose buried in a thick textbook.

“That doesn't exactly look like light reading.”

Serious blue eyes lifted from the pages. “It's advanced biology. We're having a test today on the skeletal system. It's in preparation for our Leaving Examination.”

“Our John's the top student in the class,” Celia informed Quinn with the pride of an adoring younger sister. “When one of the barn cats died last winter during a snow, he wired its skeleton together. After boiling the flesh off the bones
first of course. Brother James, who's taught the sciences practically forever, said it was the best senior project he's ever seen.”

“Certainly the least acceptable to discuss at breakfast,” Fionna warned sharply.

“The university admissions committee was also very impressed,” Nora said as she refilled Quinn's cup. Obviously Celia was not the only proud sister in the family.

“So, you'll be headed off to college in the fall?”

“Yes, sir. Trinity.”

“There was a time when a Catholic boy wouldn't have been allowed to walk those hallowed Protestant halls,” Fionna said huffily before taking a long drink of bark brown tea.

Quinn saw John stiffen, then watched Nora lay a calming hand on her brother's shoulder. “Times change,” she said mildly.

“And isn't the university at Galway good enough?”

“It's a fine university, Gran.” John's tone remained measured. Respectful. And definitely at odds with the frustration in his eyes. “But Trinity's medical school is one of the best in the world.”

“You want to be a doctor?” Quinn asked.

“I
intend
to be a doctor,” John corrected politely, but firmly. He stood up. “I'd best be getting down to the crossroads before I miss the bus.”

“You haven't eaten,” Nora said worriedly.

“I'll take a scone with me.” He grabbed one from the plate. “Wish me luck.”

As Nora reached up and brushed a shock of dark hair from his forehead, Quinn caught the pair's familial resemblance. “You don't need luck,” she said fondly to her brother. “But I'll be wishing it, anyway. Since you asked.”

Watching the grin brighten the usually serious thin face,
Quinn was impressed by the way she'd soothed the teenager's rising frustration with merely a touch. Even the obviously strong-minded Fionna appeared to acquiesce to Nora. He understood that while she may no longer carry the Joyce name, Nora Fitzpatrick was the heart of this family. Which was, of course, one more reason to keep his distance.

His relationships with women had always remained un-complicated, based mostly on sex, with mutual respect and sometimes, as with Laura, even a bit of humor thrown in. But never had they involved more than the two people who found enjoyment, if only for a brief time, in bed together.

Nora Fitzpatrick, Quinn warned himself, came with more baggage than he cared to deal with. From what he'd been able to tell during his brief time in Castlelough, her life was just one big complication after another.

Celia pulled on a tomato-hued slicker and followed her brother out the door. Quinn heard the clatter of shoes on the stairs, and a moment later Mary rushed through the kitchen, calling out a goodbye as she grabbed up a slicker and umbrella from the row of hooks by the door. For a girl who'd been considering surrendering her virginity only a few hours earlier, she looked remarkably prim and conservative in her schoolgirl uniform—starched white blouse and plaid skirt.

Quinn watched as she joined the others, including Rory, who'd run from the barn, the hood of his jacket flapping down around his shoulders. When Mary bent to tug the hood up, tying the cord beneath his chin, Quinn found himself wishing he had a camera so he could freeze the Hallmark-commercial family scene he'd never believed in on film.

“Would you be liking some bacon and eggs, Mr. Gallagher?”

Last night, alone in his room, she'd called him Quinn. Now apparently they were back to formalities. “Thanks, but the scones are fine.”

“If you're certain.”

“Positive.” She'd gotten that now-familiar concerned look in her eyes again. Quinn wasn't accustomed to anyone taking care of him and wasn't sure he liked the idea. “Your brother's a bit on the serious side.”

She sighed, poured herself a cup of tea, stirred in some sugar and, as if deciding to abandon her role of innkeeper, sat down in the abandoned chair across the table from him.

“He wasn't when he was a child. Of all of us, John was probably the most like our father. But our mother's death changed him.”

“Death changes a lot of things.” Quinn's mother's death had sure as hell changed his life. Which hadn't been any great shakes before Angie had been murdered by a violent man she'd made the mistake of bringing home from a honky-tonk one fatal night, he reminded himself grimly.

“Doesn't it just,” she agreed, making Quinn think about what Mary had told him about Nora giving up the convent life to return to Castlelough to take care of her family.

They fell silent. Lost in their own thoughts, neither noticed Fionna leave the kitchen, a satisfied smile on her face.

Quinn could have stayed in the cozy kitchen with Nora all day. Which, of course, made it imperative that he leave. He was almost to his rented Mercedes when the kitchen door opened and Nora dashed out into the rain that had, as she'd predicted, softened to mist.

“I thought you might be liking some biscuits for your afternoon tea,” she said, holding the brown paper bag toward him. “Or, as you Americans say, cookies. I hope you like oatmeal raisin.”

“Who doesn't?” Never, in his entire life, had a woman ever baked him cookies.

“They're Rory's favorite. And Celia's, as well.” She hesitated. “Mary prefers chocolate.”

“I've found most women do. Not that she's quite a woman yet, but—”

“No,” Nora interrupted on a little rush of breath. “And I believe I may have you to thank for that.”

So she
had
been watching him last night. “It wasn't that big a deal.”

“Perhaps not to you. But it would have been to Mary if she'd gotten herself pregnant.”

“It takes two,” Quinn reminded her.

“Aye. And I worry that Jack's far too willing to do his part.” Her eyes momentarily darkened with that professed worry. Fascinated by the way her face revealed her every thought, Quinn watched the clouds of concern get chased away by the sunny warmth of her smile.

“Someday, hopefully a very long time from now, when she does make love with a husband who adores her, she may look back on last night and remember another man who cared enough to take the time to talk to a confused young girl.”

Appearing to act on impulse, she went up on her toes, intending to brush his cheek with a quick kiss. But Quinn proved faster, turning his head and capturing her mouth.

Oh, Lord! The taste of her was as potent as Irish whiskey, slamming into him like a fist in the gut, then hitting his bloodstream with a force that sent his head reeling and nearly buckled his knees.

He tangled one hand in her hair while the other skimmed down her back, cupped her bottom, clad again in those snug blue jeans, and lifted her off her feet.

As he deepened the kiss, Quinn heard a faint ragged moan and wondered if it had escaped her throat or his; he felt trembling and wasn't certain which of them it was. It had to be her, he told himself as he nipped at her satiny lower lip and drew a sound remarkably like a purr.

Women had made him ache; they'd made him burn. But no woman had ever made his body pulse and vibrate with a need so strong it made him feel as weak and powerless as the “before” guys in those bodybuilding ads in the back of the comic books he'd filched when he was a kid.

Her hands were in his hair. Beneath the onslaught of his mouth her lips opened like pink rosebuds to the sun. Her breasts were crushed against his chest so tightly there was no way a single raindrop could slip between them.

Quinn couldn't think. Could barely breathe. When he realized he was actually considering ripping the car door open and taking her on the leather seat, where anyone—her father, her grandmother, a passing neighbor—could see them, he knew it was time to back away.

He lowered her feet to the ground, but unwilling to release her just yet, skimmed his mouth up her cheek. “You taste like rain.”

“So do you.” She sounded every bit as shell-shocked as Quinn felt.

“Perhaps. But I'll bet it tastes better on you.” When he touched his tongue to the slight hollow between her bottom lip and chin, she sighed with ragged pleasure, then closed her eyes and tilted her head back, offering her throat.

Quinn willingly obliged, nipping lightly, seductively, at the pale flesh. “Another minute of that and we would have been the ones in need of a safe-sex lecture.”

Her answer was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I don't understand any of this.”

She needn't have said the words. As soon as she'd opened her eyes again, he'd read the confusion—along with a lingering unwilling desire—in those swirling sea green depths.

“That makes two of us.” Because he still wanted her, dammit, still needed her, he took his hands off the body he'd dreamed of claiming and bent down to retrieve the
brown paper bag that had fallen unnoticed to the ground at their feet.

“There'll be nothing left but crumbs,” she said.

She was nearly right. He dipped into the bag, pulled out a decent-size piece and popped it into his mouth.

“Best crumbs I've ever tasted.” Knowing he was playing with fire, but unable to resist, he traced her lips with a fingertip. “Almost as sweet as the taste of the cook.”

His words earned the intended smile. “I do believe you've been kissing the Blarney Stone, Quinn.”

“The only thing in Ireland I want to kiss is you, Nora. Again and again.” He skimmed a glance over her. “All over.”

Her expressive eyes turned somber again. “You don't sound very pleased about that.”

“You're right.” His finger glided down the slender throat he'd tasted earlier. Quinn felt the little leap in pulse beneath his touch, experienced a similar leap himself, then continued tracing her collarbone out to her shoulder. “Having always prided myself on my control, I'm not wild about the way something I've worked so hard to develop could disintegrate the way it does whenever you get within kissing distance.”

“I feel the same way. Which, I have to confess, worries me. Since I have Rory to think of,” she reminded him. And herself.

“There's no reason he should enter into it. We're two adults, Nora. If anything were to happen between us, it wouldn't have any effect on your son.”

“But don't you see?” She dragged her hand through her hair. “If I get involved with you—”

“Don't look now, lady, but it's too damn late. Because whether we like it or not, whether we planned it or not, we are involved.”

“Aye. I'm afraid you're right.” She sighed. “Which con
fuses me, because I'm not accustomed to responding so recklessly to a man.”

She was so damn earnest. So sweet. God help him, he was beginning to actually like her. The idea of relating to a woman on some basis other than sex was something Quinn was going to have to think about. After he got away from here and his blood cooled and his head cleared.

“That's the idea,” he said, flashing her another of the rare grins that seemed to please her so. “I expect women to throw themselves at me. It's this uncharacteristic urge I keep having to grovel whenever I'm alone with you that's got me feeling on edge.”