Winters & Somers (13 page)

She’d never wear any of the Henley’s gifts.
Regretfully, she closed the box and shut out the gleaming fortune. She glanced
around the room that Margaret Henley had decorated especially for her
granddaughter. As Cíara grew up, she’d asked the girl to help her choose new
wallpaper and furnishings, and she'd always rudely declined.
But it was a
lovely room, especially when you compared it with the flat she shared with Mary
Margaret.

Sighing, she slipped out and closed the door
behind her.

She’d only taken a couple of steps before she
walked into a solid wall – a living, breathing solid wall called Jonathon
Winters. “Did you get lost? The bathroom’s that way!”

“I can go to the bathroom alone, you know, been
doing it since I was two!” she snarled back, but her mind was elsewhere.
Those
lovely jewels were wasted, lying in that box…

“So, what were you doing?”

“If you don’t want a rude answer to that, don’t
ask,” she snapped, and preceded him downstairs, head held high and dignity
intact despite a slight wobble in the new heels. Winters followed her and they
both said their goodbyes to the Henleys.

“What do you drive, Jonathon?” Mr. Henley asked.

Cíara rolled her eyes and yanked Winters through
the big front door.

“What is all this interest in my transportation?”
Winters asked, “Do you need a lift home?” Cíara sniffed at a distant memory –
one she'd no intention of ever sharing with Winters.

“Look, do you want a lift or not? I wasn’t sure
that rust bucket of yours would make the trip both ways,” he taunted, opening
the door of a gleaming new sports/recreation vehicle. Four wheel drive and all
accoutrements.

“Rented?” she asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“Yeah, but I might buy later.”

“Hardly worth it, if you’re only here
temporarily,” she stated sweetly. “Myself, I think I rather fancy the little
vintage MG – the red one over there.”

It happened every time. Guys got a look at the
sports car, and this drooling expression came over their faces. She wished she
could have the same effect.

“Jeez, that’s just gorgeous,” Winters said, drawn
towards the car as if on an invisible string. “Such a fabulous restoration job,
too.”

“Yes, it is.”  She enjoyed the expression on his
face as she slipped behind the wheel. The powerful engine purred to life at the
touch of the key, and Cíara gave Winters a gracious little wave as she shot off
down the driveway, spurting gravel all over his shoes.

She might have won that round, but Winters was a
cop
and
a writer, which meant that he knew a thing or two about
persistence. He had something he wanted to discuss with her and he was damned
if he was going to let her get away with swanning off like that.
And he’d
really like to know how she came by that fancy car….

It took a few minutes, but
she finally became suspicious of the headlights that followed steadily behind
her. Slowing down a little to get a better view of the vehicle behind, she
swore loudly and long, uttering words that would have had Granny Somers washing
her mouth out with soap and water, and Grandmother Henley in a dead swoon on
her polished oak floors.

She didn’t stop, though. She assumed Winters was
still staying in the swanky Dublin hotel where she’d taken those ill-fated
photographs, so he did have to return to the city, Maybe he’d get bored of
following her once they got into the traffic.

But it was a forlorn hope. When she finally found
a parking spot on Grosvenor Square, he pulled up right alongside her, boxing
her in. “I’d love to come in for a coffee, but I don’t want to block the street
and parking’s bad,” he told her as if she’d actually
invited
him.

Then he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from
one of his immaculate dinner jacket pockets. “I found this on your desk at the
office and thought it was really serendipity. I’m looking for a place to stay
when I’m working here, and you’re looking for a flat mate. Perfect, eh?”

Cíara nearly choked on the
words that struggled to climb out of her throat. When she was finally able to
put them in order, she croaked: “You’ve got to be joking? This stupidity is why
you followed me home?”

“Partly. Partly I wanted to see you safe back.
It’s not good for a woman to be out late and alone, especially in a vehicle
like that. It’s not exactly invisible, is it?”

Speaking slowly, as if to a young child, she
said: “I am a big girl. I can stay out late if I want, and I can handle any
Neanderthals with the wrong idea. Including you! Now, stay out of my way, out
of my flat – and preferably, out of my life!”

“I wonder if your good buddy Frank O’Keefe will
see it that way?” Jonathon said casually.

“What? Are you still on about…I thought we had a
deal….”

“So did I. A partnership.”

“But now you want my flat. You want to take over
my life….” She knew she was squawking, but couldn't help herself.

“Nonsense. The partnership is good for both of
us. And as for the flat, I’m looking for someplace for a few nights a week. I
don’t care for living in hotels. And I need to spend time at the cottage in
Dunmore East, as well – so you’ll hardly know I’m here!”

She slumped back in her seat. She knew when she
was outgunned, but did he have to make it all sound so reasonable? Slowly she
got out of the car, locked it, and walked, shoulders slumped, towards her own
front door.

He fell into step beside her, slipping an arm
around her. “You must find it chilly, wearing so little in this breeze,” he
excused himself.

 She didn’t even have the energy to shrug him
off. From her grandmother on the phone first thing, then Winters’ rearranging
her office and making her impossible bets, Mary Margaret's lunchtime
revelations, Harry’s behavior, the dinner party, and Wallace – now this!
Her
day had been a total washout. Besides, his arm was warm.
Then she had an
awful thought.

“You’re not wanting to come in now and look
around, are you?”

“Nah, I’ll give you time to get your underwear
off the shower rail. Tomorrow morning, though - early – before office hours.” 
He watched her climb the stone steps towards the huge front door.

She could feel his eyes on her and grinned evilly
as she remembered the short skirt would give him quite an eyeful as she reached
the top of the steps. She gave a little provocative hip wiggle before slipping
the key in the lock and pushing the door open.

Although she’d never let Winters know, it was
late and his presence did make her feel safe. Not that she had ever felt under
threat, coming home alone late at night. At least not that she would admit to,
anyway.

After all, if you start to feel like a victim,
you are a victim,
her martial
arts instructor had told the class. And no granddaughter of Granny Somers would
ever be a victim.

           
Cíara was
dreaming
a wonderful dream, featuring a tall, dark handsome hero whose very touch
brought her to the edge of the most incredible…
and then the damned doorbell rang. No amount of
struggling would win back that handsome dream hero's attention, and she
staggered to the door issuing curses on the head of whoever had disturbed her.

Of course, it just had to be Jonathon Winters,
true to his word, looking bright and cheerful and altogether too much like the
handsome hero she'd just been…well, never mind. The image dissolved as she saw
that Jonathan hoisted two big leather suitcases – the expensive kind that
always look as if they’ve traveled well – into her small living room.

            “You
know, you’re really jumping the gun with this one. Mary Margaret hasn’t moved
all her stuff out yet. She’s coming round this afternoon.” She spoke around the
yawn that bubbled out. “And more than that, I don’t remember actually agreeing
to have you as a roomie.”

Winters looked bright eyed and bushy tailed, even
after the late night, and she hated him.
Especially after the dream…

            “Would
it be safe to assume you’re not a morning person?” he asked, grinning.

            “Right
now, for you nothing is safe,” she snapped back.

            “Uhmm,
I like the sound of that. Exactly how unsafe am I? Might you, for example,
punish me by dragging me into that bedroom and….”

            “Go
to hell.” And she flounced back into her own bedroom, slamming the door loudly
and firmly. But as she fell back on the bed she couldn't shut out a brief image
he’d stirred, of falling onto the bed with him, their mouths locked together,
hands touching, sliding, caressing……….

            “Damn!
Damn! Damn!” She jerked upright and threw the nearest thing – fortunately a
small paperback book – at the wall. She swore again when she heard a deep
chuckle outside the door, before a firm knock.

“Whatever you want, go away,” she growled,
pulling a pillow to her and hugging it tightly.

            “I
just wanted to offer to buy you breakfast while we work out living expenses,”
Jonathon said, sounding so open and friendly that her hands twisted the pillow
as if she were wringing his neck.

            “No,
I don’t want breakfast!”

            “Well,
that’s the point – don’t you eat at all? There’s nothing in the cupboards but
some chocolate digestives and there’s an outdated yogurt in the ‘fridge!”

           
Cíara
leapt to the door and yanked it open. “The chocolate
biscuits are mine - touch them and die! The yogurt's Mary Margaret’s, she likes
them ripe!”

            “So
do I,” he said, eyeing the softly rounded shoulder that was exposed by the
neckline of her oversized sleep t-shirt.

            “Just
keep your hands off anything that’s not yours and maybe somehow we’ll get
through this,” she ground out as she savagely yanked up the offending neckline.
“I’ll be out in five minutes and I hope you’ve got wads of money, ‘cos
breakfast could be expensive.” Then she slammed the door on his grinning face.

             
Hell
hath no fury like a woman scorned – or should that be appetite?
  She chose
one of the most expensive restaurants she could think of, one of those places
where everything is actually fresh and a full Irish breakfast means just that,
with bells on. Knowing he was picking up the tab, she ate every little morsel
on her plate, and a couple of pieces of bacon snatched from under his nose as
well.

            “Aren’t
you expecting to eat again for a while?” he asked, but she had been taught her
manners by Granny Somers.
Never talk with your mouth full, girl.
So
Winters continued: “Listen up now. I sent a brief press release to the papers,
should be in today if we’re lucky, Monday if not. I talked to a couple of
editors and they seemed to find my working with you interesting enough….”

            “It’s
all me, me, me with you, isn’t it,” she said, around warm buttered toast,
piqued that he might get publicity she hadn’t been able to drum up for herself.

            He
ignored the remark. “So, we have the weekend to get ready and I need to go and
do a little bit of work or my publisher and agent will both be on my butt.”

Cíara
choked as her thoughts strayed to the butt in
question. The thought brought on a toast crumb-induced coughing fit and he
moved nearer so that he could pat her back – and her lonely little hormones had
a field day.

Winters grinned knowingly when she slurped down a
mouthful of water and then wriggled her chair away from his. He went on,
unperturbed: “So, how’s about you come down to Dunmore East, too? You can
finish up with Frank O’Keefe and spend some time sunning yourself on the beach,
or the back garden, or something – and in between times, we can discuss our
future.”

             She
didn’t like the sound of that.
Or maybe she liked it too much.
“We have
no future. You’re turning my life upside down to amuse yourself because you’re
bored on our little Emerald Isle. When your next book’s finished – or when your
sabbatical is over – you’ll head back to your comfortable job and your
comfortable life and leave me here to pick up the pieces.” She sounded
plaintive but she meant every word. Somehow the idea of him disappearing from
her life seemed almost as bad as him being in it. And she really hated herself for
feeling that way.

            “Maybe,
maybe not,” he said, looking at her with narrowed eyes. “I mean, it’s not like
we’re married, or anything.”

            “No,
you want to have a brief fling with me and with my business, and then you’re
outta here,” she replied, and felt tears prick at her eyes.

            “I’m
not quite playing that fast and loose. I want you in bed, yes – and don’t deny
it, you find me interesting, too. And yes, I find the idea of working with you
stimulating. But I won’t leave you in a mess – whatever happens.” It was said
with the quiet solemnity of a promise, and
Cíara
’s gaze jerked up to his face.