The Wild Sight (5 page)

“Absolutely not!” Outrage flooded his voice and face.

“Look, Donovan,” she cut in. “I already know the name of the place, so I’m going to find it anyway. Do yourself a favor and
chill out.”

He spluttered helplessly for a moment, and then shot her an atomic fusion glare. However, his voice had all the warmth of
nuclear winter as he spoke between clenched teeth. “Fine and dandy.” He fumed for several long moments while Rylie steered
the car along the rutted track. Finally, he spoke again. “When you reach the main road, turn toward Dungannon.”

Crossing his arms, he slouched down and stared stonily ahead. If he wanted to give her the silent treatment, Rylie didn’t
care. She was on her way to see her biological father face-to-face. She might not confront him, but at least she would see
him. The enormity of the situation was beyond her ability to process, much less put into words.

Most annoying little git he’d ever had the misfortune
to encounter.
Rylie Powell won the prize, hands down.

So why did one touch from her get him all hot and bothered? A right feckin’ mess, to borrow Michael Carmody’s phrase. And
the longer he stayed in Ireland, the worse everything grew.

Now this latest, a dead man with a kitchen knife still in him, and his own mother’s kitchen the only one within miles. It
didn’t take The Sight to put that one together. The last thing Donovan needed was Rylie and her outrageous paternity claims
added to the mix, but here she was.

After almost an hour of driving, the city came into view and he directed her to follow the signs to the hospital.

“I don’t expect there’s any chance you’ll wait outside, so I’ll tell you this only once,” he ground out. “You shall be seen
and not heard.”

She shot him a sidelong glare. “I’m not a child.”

“Then don’t behave like one. Or I’ll bodily remove you and have you barred from seeing my father. And don’t think I won’t.”

“Why are you acting like this?” she demanded, equal amounts of indignation and hurt in her tone. Then her voice dropped, “Do
you think Dermot killed that man?”

“No.” His denial sounded too quick for even him to believe. He took a deep breath, “But if the news upsets him half as much
as I suspect, then I’ll not have you heap one more thing on him.”

A string of conflicting emotions crossed her pretty face. Pain lingered in her voice, “Look Donovan, I didn't come here to
hurt anybody. I just want to see Dermot O’Shea, talk to him, ask him why.”

The hospital looming ahead on their left stopped him from replying. She turned the car, and he directed her down two streets
and over one more. “Holy Family Board and Care” proclaimed the black letters on the side of the single-story building. She
eased the car into a parking space opposite the front door.

Feeling guilty, Donovan cleared his throat, “I’m sorry. I’m only trying to protect my father.”

“I understand.” Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper. She got out of the car and followed him inside.

Perhaps when she saw what a nasty old bugger Dermot could be, she wouldn’t be so insistent. The thought cheered Donovan as
he strode down the hall, the ever-present smell of disinfectant and urine assailing his nostrils. His father’s room was the
third on the left, facing the parking lot. At the moment, he had no roommate, one small thing for which Donovan could be grateful.

One of the nurses gave him a nod of recognition.

“He’s just finished his lunch,” she said.

Rapping on the door, he shot Rylie one final warning glance. She looked tense, both hands clenched around the strap of her
purse.

“Da,” he called, and poked his head in the door.

Dressed in blue and white striped pajamas and a beige robe, Dermot sat in the half-upholstered chair beside his bed. His eyes
widened in surprise as Donovan stepped into the room, and he struggled to purse his lips.

“Boy?” he questioned, using his abbreviated name for Donovan. However, since the right side of his lips didn't coordinate
well with the left, it came out more like “boh.” With his good left hand, he grappled to pull his tray table closer and reached
for the spelling device he used to communicate. His right arm hung limply at his side as he manipulated the stylus on the
device with his left.

By the time Donovan reached him, the screen read, “Wrong?”

“Yes,” Donovan confirmed. “I’m afraid something is wrong.” Before he finished speaking, the word “who?” flashed on the screen.
“Don’t worry, it’s not Doreen.”

“Nuh.” His father grunted and shook his unruly head of white hair at the same time. Then he pointed the plastic stylus at
Rylie, who stood motionless beside the door.

“She’s just a friend who drove me here.” Donovan positioned himself so that he blocked his father’s view of Rylie and vice
versa. “Listen to me, Da. You remember the archeologists who were digging on the old place? Today, they found a dead body
in the fens.” The old man’s eyes widened in horror and Donovan quickly added, “A man’s body, dead for at least twenty years.”

Though the look in his eyes lessened, Dermot’s grip on the plastic stylus remained tight. The image of a hand plunging a knife
into the man’s stomach flashed through Donovan’s mind.

Donovan took a deep breath, “He was stabbed to death. There was a knife still sticking in his ribs, a kitchen knife.” He saw
the knuckles on his father’s left hand whiten. “The PSNI are investigating, of course, and they want to talk to you.”

“Nuh!” Dermot spat, the left side of his face twitching in agitation. He made a series of grunting and gurgling sounds while
he punched at the communication board. “FECK PSNI” flashed on the screen.

Dropping his voice low, Donovan urged, “Da, if you know anything about this, you’d better tell me or Doreen straight away.
Seems to me that knife probably came from Mum’s kitchen, and the police are likely thinking the same.”

Visibly more distressed by the moment, Dermot’s grunts grew louder and red splotches mottled his features. “DONT SPEAK UR
MUM” flashed on the screen, followed by “U DONT NO.”

Shaken with memories, Donovan felt his own face heating up. “Just because
you
never told me doesn’t mean I don’t know.” He bent down nose to nose with his father and uttered what he’d never dared before.
“People whispered for years that she ran off with another man.”

“Nuh!” Dermot cried, rearing backward in his chair, his mouth twitching with fury. “Eee-jit!” he finally managed to fling
out, then another string of nonsense syllables.

“Donovan!”

He jerked around at the sound of his name, wiping his father’s spittle from the side of his face. He’d forgotten all about
Rylie, who had witnessed the whole unpleasant scene. She took a step toward him, her gray eyes wide in her tense face.

“Boh!” Dermot shouted at him, and took a swipe at his arm. “WHO?” demanded the screen, then “OUT.”

Close enough to read the angry demands on the communication device, Rylie extended an unsteady hand toward the old man. “I’m
Rylie, Jennifer’s daughter . . . ”

“Ow!” Dermot shouted, a vein throbbing in his forehead.

Before anyone could react, the door of the room flew open and a stout, middle-aged nurse bustled inside.

“What’s all this then?” she demanded, her eyes raking over the three of them. She stepped between Donovan and Dermot and laid
a firm hand on the old man’s left arm. “Calm yourself now, Dermot.” She cast a stern glance at Donovan. “Mr. O’Shea, I’ll
not have you upsetting your father, so I must ask you to leave.”

Dermot shook off the nurse’s hand and launched out a string of unintelligible sounds. His father’s verbal abuse was nothing
new, and Donovan had more than a fair guess at what he was saying. Old anger thrummed inside him.

“There’ll be a sight more than me here disturbing him,” he retorted, hands clenched tightly at his sides.

“Not today, there won’t,” the nurse declared. “Now out with the pair of you.”

“Please, ma’am,” Rylie’s voice squeaked like a small child’s. “May I have just a minute with Mr. O’Shea—Dermot O’Shea?”

The nurse gave her a skeptical look. “Are you a relation?”

Rylie drew in a deep breath and her chin jutted out in defiance. “I’m his daughter.”

“Nuh!” shouted Dermot while the nurse’s eyes went round with surprise. “Nuh! Nuh! Nuh!”

“Is this true, Mr. O’Shea?” the nurse gasped at Donovan, ignoring Dermot’s protests.

“So she claims,” Donovan’s tone sounded harsh to his own ears. “Though I can’t imagine why.” His father never failed to push
his buttons, make him lose his hard fought control, lash back. He couldn’t stop from adding, “But why don’t you ask him? He
ought to know his own flesh and blood.”

More half-comprehensible invectives came from Dermot.

“That will be enough!” The nurse had evidently reached her own boiling point and shook her finger first at her patient, then
his son. “Come back tomorrow,
if
you can behave better than a pair of snarling beasts.” She herded Donovan and Rylie to the door and bellowed, “Tommy! Put
Mr. O’Shea back in bed whilst I get him a sedative.”

Awash in guilt and self-loathing, Donovan stumbled down the hall and out to the car. Behind him, Rylie fumbled with the keys
and dropped them on the ground. Instinctively, he bent to retrieve them, and so did she. As they both reached, he saw that
her hand still trembled. Looking up, he saw her eyes brimming with tears, and felt even more despicable.

“I’ll drive,” he said, pulling the keys from her grasp.

She didn’t protest, just shuffled to the passenger door and got in. He slid into the driver’s seat.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

He was truly sorry he’d let her come along. Sorry she’d heard those ugly family secrets. Sorry she’d seen him provoked and
losing control.

But he wasn’t about to try and tell her any of that, so he just repeated, “Sorry.”

Rather than going back the same way and having to backtrack through Dungannon, Donovan took the road east toward Portadown.
Rylie didn’t question him. In fact, she hardly seemed to notice anything. The few glances he stole in her direction, she was
wiping her eyes with a tissue, or staring mutely at nothing. He only hoped that once they reached Ballyneagh, she would be
sufficiently recovered to drive herself back to her B&B.

When he turned off the main road to head north, it started to rain. While Donovan mused on the uncanny parallels of weather
and mood, the large intermittent drops increased to a downpour. Soon, he was forced to slow the car to a crawl over the pothole
filled country lane. Then a loose flock of sheep forced him to stop altogether.

As he fumbled with the windscreen defroster, Rylie spoke at last. “Why did you lie?” She was peering out the fogged window,
not at him. “Dermot did kill that man, and you know because you have The Sight.”

Donovan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before he replied. “No, The Sight or whatever ’tis I have doesn’t work that
way.”

She turned and looked at him. Her eyes, red from crying, searched his face for answers.

Reluctantly, Donovan continued, “I know the man was stabbed, but I don’t know who he was, or who killed him.”

With a little nod of acknowledgment, she accepted his explanation, but she wasn’t finished questioning him, even though she
glanced nervously away. Donovan beeped the car horn to urge the last of the sheep off the roadway.

Clearing her throat, Rylie spoke again, “Do you think your mother left because she found out about my mother and me?”

He paused for a heartbeat before he said, “No, because my father is not the same Dermot O’Shea as your father.”

She moistened her lips, “Did The Sight tell you that?”

“No, but I know it’s true nonetheless.” Then he cut off her protest by adding, “Just like I know my mother is dead. Somewhere
in the fens.”

Chapter 5

THE RAIN DECREASED TO A DRIZZLE BY THE TIME DONOVAN parked the car behind the pub. The remainder of the drive had passed in
strained silence, and he was glad it was done.

“I need to use the bathroom,” Rylie announced, as he handed her the keys.

Together, they dashed the short distance from the car to the back door of the pub and went inside. While Rylie disappeared
into the WC marked Ladies, Donovan’s growling stomach reminded him that they’d missed lunch and it was now tea time. He ducked
into the pub’s kitchen and grabbed two thick wedges of potato farl from the tray inside the fridge. Gruff laughter from the
main room told him that eating there would be far too public. Stacking both hunks on a single plate, he nuked it in the microwave
for a minute before he slipped back out to the vestibule.

Rylie stood at the foot of the stairs, her hair free from its ponytail and freshly combed. She’d put on some of that mauve
lipstick, too.

“You must be hungry,” he said, holding up the plate. “Come upstairs and I’ll fix us a cuppa.”

The smooth skin around her gray eyes looked a bit puffy, but her wide mouth curved into a half-smile. “Thanks, that’d be great.”

However, her voice sounded about as wrung out as he felt. She followed him up and into the kitchen, where Donovan placed the
plate on the counter, put water in the electric kettle and plugged it in.

“I’ll just go and wash up,” he said, shrugging off his jacket. “Turn on the telly if you’d like.”

He hit the knob on the radiator as he headed into the loo. This day had been one ordeal after another. And unfortunately,
it wasn’t over. Once his sister learned of his row with Dermot, she would be calling to give him a good tongue-lashing. Not
that he didn’t deserve it, but he certainly didn’t relish the idea.

After washing and drying his face and hands, he went back into the sitting room. Rylie’s purse and hooded sweatshirt lay on
the floor beside her, while she lounged on the couch, chewing on a large bite of the potato bread. Two plates and forks sat
on the coffee table.

She swallowed hastily. “Sorry I didn’t wait, but I was starving.”

“Not a problem.” Donovan hadn’t noticed before how the long-sleeved black T-shirt she wore clung to her slim torso and molded
around her breasts. His sudden pang of hunger had nothing to do with his stomach.

He hurried into the kitchen to brew the tea. By the time he came back, carrying a tray with two mugs, the teapot and some
McVities Digestive cookies, he’d reined in his rebellious libido. Rylie, who had polished off her portion of farl, scooted
over and patted the sofa cushion beside her. He set the tray down, then seated himself before he filled the mugs.

“Here you are, tea straight up.” He reached for his own plate. “Do you take your coffee the same way?”

“Actually, I like something called a Cappuccino Blaster from this little place down by Santa Monica pier called Jabba’s Java
Hut.”

Donovan chuckled. “How very Hollywood,” he said between bites. “So you live in Santa Monica. And what is it you do, acting?”

She gave him a big eye roll while she chewed a McVitie, then took a gulp of tea before she replied. “I’m a dental assistant.”

“Ah, that explains the lovely smile then.”

Blushing a bit at his compliment, she finished off her cookie then picked up another. “That and three years of braces, followed
by four of retainers. What about you? Where in the States do you live and what do you do?”

“First, promise me you won’t laugh.”

He shoved the remainder of his food into his mouth while she held up two fingers and murmured, “Scout’s honor.”

After he swallowed, he took a sip of tea then admitted, “If you must know, I live in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, and I’m a CPA.”

Rylie gave a half-snort and quickly covered her mouth. “You’re kidding, right?” she mumbled behind her fingers. “I’d never
kid about something so serious.” Donovan crossed his arms and tried to look severe, but his mouth quirked in spite of his
best effort. “No, seriously. My Aunt Fee’s husband, Uncle Isadore, founded one of the biggest accounting firms in Philly and
I work for him. Cherry Hill is a nice little bedroom community just across the way in Jersey.”

Trying hard to contain her mirth, Rylie snorted again.

“Stop that. You promised.”

“Sorry,” she giggled. “But if all the single women I know thought they could find such a hunky CPA with an adorable accent
in New Jersey, there’d be a mass exodus from California.”

Donovan took a turn at rolling his eyes. “Very funny. Now I know for certain you’re part Irish with that load of blarney you’re
handing me.”

Suddenly, her pretty face went serious. “I know you don’t want to believe me, but Dermot
is
my father. After my mother died, I hired an investigator to find him.”

He blew out a frustrated breath. “Your investigator is wrong, Rylie, and so are you. You’re not Dermot’s daughter. You can’t
be.”

“Why not?” she demanded, clutching his sweater sleeve. “Because I don’t have this Sight thing like you?”

“No, because—” His eyes dropped to her hand, now lying flat on his forearm. A jolt of heat seared through him and scrambled
his brain. “Because . . . ”

He hooked his unencumbered arm around her slim waist and pulled her against him. His lips sought her tempting mouth. Sucking
in her breath, she stiffened for a moment and flattened both her palms on his chest.

All he could think was how warm she felt. How soft her lips would be. Cradling the back of her head with his free hand, Donovan
fitted his mouth over hers.

With a long sigh, Rylie moved her hands around his neck and went boneless, her lips parting under his. Pulse pounding loud
in his ears, he plunged his tongue into the warm, moist recesses of her mouth. A breathy little moanescaped her as her tongue
met his, then flicked inside his mouth, hot and sweet.

Even through the layers of clothing, the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest sent desire flashing straight into
his groin. His fingers encountered bare flesh beneath the hem of her top, and he shoved his hand under her shirt to caress
the silky skin of her back. She jerked at the sensual contact, and broke the kiss.

“Oh God!” she panted. “Donovan, oh my God!”

While Donovan sat momentarily stunned, she flung herself away and leapt to her feet. Snatching up her purse, she darted to
the door. He scrambled to stand, banged his shin on the coffee table, and muttered a curse under his breath. “Rylie, wait!”
he blurted, but she was already out the door, her shoes clattering on the stairs.

“Rylie!” he shouted again, and pounded down after her. But by the time he reached the bottom, she was outside. And when he
jerked open the back door, she’d already started her car.

Swearing, Donovan smacked his palm on the door frame, then turned and trudged back up the stairs, leaving the back door open.
Inside the apartment, Rylie’s red hooded sweatshirt lay in the middle of the sitting room floor. He picked it up. The material
still felt damp from the rain and carried a trace of the sweet flowery scent from her hair.

Could he have possibly screwed this up any worse?

He doubted it.

Donovan laid the sweatshirt over the arm of the couch then sank down on the saggy cushion. Resting his head in his hands,
he tried to think.

Several long minutes later, when all his mind kept replaying was the taste and feel of Rylie Powell, his mobile rang. He knew
even before he glanced at the number on the screen—his sister, Doreen.
Time to take his lumps and
do his penance.
With a sigh of regret, he answered.

Holy freaking hell!
The words screamed inside Rylie’s skull as she careened onto the main roadway, car tires squealing on the wet pavement.

She’d kissed her brother! With tongue! Her brother!

Except Donovan O’Shea didn’t feel like her brother in any way, shape, or form. And even now, that nasty, dark corner of her
mind was shouting for more.
What was
wrong with her?

An oncoming car laid on its horn and she jerked the wheel as she realized she was driving on the wrong side of the road.

“Knock it off, Rylie!” she ordered herself aloud. “Get a grip!”

Taking several deep breaths, she willed her hands to stop shaking, and she eased up on the accelerator. She needed to wipe
every other thought from her mind until she got safely back to her B&B in Dungannon. It didn’t work that way, of course. When
she finally dashed inside Cavanagh House, she was still too upset to return the greetings of the manager and two other guests
having tea in the parlor.

Later, Rylie lay stretched across her bed with her pictures in front of her but not really seeing them when the manager, Mary
Cooke knocked on her door.

“Miss Powell, someone’s calling for you,” the kindly middle-aged woman said through the door. “Sounds like a Yank, but he
says his name’s O’Shea.”

Panic gripped her. She couldn’t talk to him. Not now.

“T-tell him . . . ” she choked back a sob. “Tell him I’m in the tub and can’t talk.”

“All right, dear. If that’s what you want.”

Rylie listened to the sound of shoes tapping away while she squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the hot prickling tears.

What she wanted?
How about curl up and die of humiliation? But since that wasn’t going to happen, what she really wanted was to go home. Forget
everything that had happened since she’d arrived in Ireland. But that wasn’t going to happen either. She heard the footsteps
coming back down the hall and a moment later Mrs. Cooke rapped on her door again.

“Miss Powell, he insisted on leaving his number.” Several long seconds ticked by and when Rylie didn’t answer, the woman sighed.
“All right then, I’ll just slide it under the door. He asked for you to call him so that he could apologize. He didn’t say
for what.” After several more long moments, the woman sighed again and her footsteps receded.

The last thing Rylie intended to do was talk to Donovan O’Shea, though she wasn’t going to say that to nosy Mrs. Cooke. Whatever
the B&B manager could imagine would pale in comparison to the truth anyway. Still feeling sick and disgusted with herself,
she put her pictures and birth certificate away, and studiously avoided looking at the piece of paper lying by the door. Instead,
she went over to the window and watched the rain drizzle down onto the hedge-lined garden, the pretty little picture of Ireland
concocted for tourists.

Too bad it wasn’t genuine. In the real Ireland, men left their families and started new ones. Then they left those and went
back to the originals. Mothers disappeared and twenty years later, their kitchen knives showed up stuck in long dead corpses.
And pub owners who didn’t drink had The Sight, but couldn’t tell you one damn thing of any use.

An hour later, Rylie stopped staring into the darkness. She’d made up her mind. The only way to know for sure whether Dermot
O’Shea was or was not her biological father was a DNA test. First thing tomorrow morning, she would go back to the facility,
talk to the charge nurse, and convince Dermot O’Shea to provide her with the truth. And if he really wasn’t her father, as
Donovan insisted, then what?

Her disastrous affair with her boss Joel Davis had left her heart and ego so badly battered that in the eight months since
she ended it, she’d gone out exactly once. Joel’s betrayal coupled with the grief of losing her mother had left her dazed
and numb. Her sudden, unexpected attraction to Donovan had been confusing enough without the added incest factor. She didn’t
have the strength to deal with any of it.

Rummaging in her cosmetic bag, Rylie found the sleeping tablets the doctor had prescribed for her the week after her mother’s
death. She’d brought the half-dozen remaining pills in case she had problems with jet lag. Gulping down two, she put on her
pajamas, set her travel alarm for 6 a.m., and crawled into bed.

A full night’s sleep and a hearty Irish breakfast gave Rylie the strength and purpose she needed to face the man she believed
to be her father. At five minutes after eight, she parked her car in the lot of Holy Family Board and Care, got out in the
persistent drizzly rain, and hurried inside.

The same nurse who’d threatened to bodily toss Donovan and her out was once again in charge. Rylie introduced herself and
asked to speak with her privately. Mrs. Kathleen Garvey, as the woman introduced herself, led Rylie to a private office behind
the nurses’ station and asked her to wait until they’d finished serving the residents breakfast.

Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Garvey reappeared and Rylie told her everything, showed her the photos, her birth certificate,
even the gold ring. By the time she finished, a deep furrow creased the skin between the nurse’s pale auburn brows.

“’Tis quite a compelling tale, Miss Powell,” she said, steepling her fingers. “And surely as wild as any I’ve heard.” Rylie’s
shoulders slumped in defeat. “Then you don’t believe me either?”

“On the contrary,” the nurse replied. “I do. If you were lyin,’ you’d have picked a far easier mark than Dermot O’Shea. And
certainly one with more money.”

“Then you’ll let me talk to him?” Sudden hope pumped through Rylie’s veins.

Mrs. Garvey gave a resigned sigh. “Yes, but only briefly and I’ll stay in the room. His daughter will be right vexed when
she finds out. And as for the son . . . but then, you already know what he’s like.” She shookher head and muttered, “Oil and
water,” under her breath.

Steps light with anticipation, Rylie followed the nurse down the hall. Brown envelope clutched tight in her right hand, she
nearly bumped into Mrs. Garvey when the nurse halted and rapped on Dermot O’Shea’s door.

“Dermot, ye’ve a visitor,” she called, then after two seconds, she thrust open the door.

Dermot O’Shea pinned Rylie with an annoyed stare as soon as she stepped over the threshold. With his bed cranked into a sitting
position, he wore the same blue pajamas as yesterday. His pure white hair drooped across one eye and stuck out at odd angles
in back. White stubble bristled on his jaw.