Authors: Glenys O'Connell
She'd really
hoped to use the key she'd picked up from the rack in the kitchen when she'd
been a dinner guest there the previous week but hadn't reckoned on the dead
bolt. The howling gale made the thought of shimmying up the ivy to the second
floor bathroom an unattractive prospect, but she'd be damned if she was going
to go empty handed after her long drive out here.
That the open
window was a lucky break, sliding up with the slightest whinge of the sashes.
And people wondered why they got burgled! She slid over the kitchen counter
below the window, cracking her elbow on an electric can opener and swore loudly
enough that the old Irish Wolfhound dozing on the kitchen mat looked up and
wagged his tail.
Cíara went over
and rubbed the big beast's ears.
Wish all males were as easy-going as
yourself,
she told the dog, slipping him a sausage she'd saved from her
chip shop supper.
Shadowlike, she moved
through the sleeping house, stopping in the hallway to enjoy the soothing tick,
tick, of the big Grandfather clock, one of the many beautiful things she'd admired
in this house. She wished she could slip some of them into her pockets, but you
couldn't do that with furniture. Not like precious stones.
Wraithlike, she
ascended the sweeping staircase. The thick carpet buried her footfalls, and she
jumped at a sound from the kitchen below.
Was someone
else up and wandering around this night? Or was her querulous conscience
playing tricks?
Then she heard
the dog's sharp toenails clacking as the he strolled across the slate kitchen
floor. Then a sharper click and the sound of the dog flopping back down onto
the floor and licking something.
Probably a
midnight doggy snack.
She relaxed and
continued upstairs, slipping silently into the room at the end of the corridor.
* * *
The dog was a bit of
a shock.
He'd just slid
through the window and the mutt had appeared out of nowhere. It was the size of
a horse and had the teeth of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, breathing ancient dog breath
in his face. It nearly gave him a heart attack as his hand reached for the gun
tucked into his ankle holster. He uttered a little prayer of thanks that he’d
been granted a special permit as a visiting police detective, especially in
view of the vengeful crooks he’d arrested in his last case.
Never leave
home without it,
he thought, as his fingers closed on the gun’s grip.
* * *
The jewels were smooth
and coolly welcoming beneath her fingers. Cíara held an emerald and diamond
choker up to the light, admiring the sweet sparkle of the stones in their rich
red Irish gold setting. But she only allowed herself a moment to savor their
beauty before tucking the precious gems into the fanny pouch she wore around
her waist and returning to rummaging in the velvet lined walnut burl box. The
jewelry box was a valuable antique in itself, but not what she wanted. She knew
a little about antiques and a lot about jewels, and soon she'd found exactly
what she was looking for.
Two more
precious items – diamond drop earrings and a matching solitaire drop pendant in
a simple gold setting – were tucked away in her pouch. Her fingers touched a
small item at the bottom of the box – a tiny teddy bear brooch. The exquisite
piece, made for a spoiled Victorian child, had a ruby for its tummy, ruby chips
for eyes, and tiny, perfect diamonds made its plump body sparkle.
Should
she? She'd already got what she'd come for, but this piece was so…
And then a big hand
grabbed her wrist, making her jump and stab herself with the open pin of the
brooch.
“What the hell
are you doing!” Cíara whirled around, slamming into a hard muscled body that
was so achingly familiar…
* * *
“I could ask you the
same question – what the hell are
you
doing?” It wrenched his
guts to see her there, the evidence of her intentions grasped in her hand, the
glint of other diamonds winking at him from the open pouch around her waist.
She tried to yank her
hand away from him, and a small table lamp clattered to the floor. She was no
match for his strength but that didn't stop her being ambitious. Her free hand
swung through the air, fisted, clearly intent on causing him pain, but he
easily caught it. Ruefully remembering her upraised knee technique, he dragged
her hard against his body to prevent a repeat performance.
She struggled
harder and he was ashamed of the delicious way his body responded to her soft
nearness. Distracted, burying his face in her lemon-scented hair, he didn't
hear the door behind him swing wide until something jabbed at him and he turned
to find himself looking right down the barrel of a hunting rifle.
Behind the rifle stood
Liam Henley, apoplectic red, and behind him, his wife trembled, white as the
wrap she wore. “Unhand my granddaughter this moment!” Henley demanded, the gun
barrel aimed steadily between Winters' eyes.
He complied
immediately, narrowing his eyes at the look of triumph that flashed across
Cíara's face.
“Eejit,” she
whispered, rubbing her wrist and looking the picture of innocence.
He wanted
nothing more at that moment than to put her over his knee and spank her. A
delectable thought, but the heavy gauge rifle made him think twice about
carrying it through. Although it could be worth the risk…
And then the old man's
words got through to him. Granddaughter? Somers was the Henley's
granddaughter?
“You hired me to catch the Diamond Darling. I've caught her,” he told the
couple brusquely. And felt like a fool as they roared with laughter.
“Our Cíara? The Diamond
Darling? That girl doesn't have any appreciation of good jewelry. Cheap baubles
from the second hand shops is more her style.” Margaret Henley laughed until
tears ran down her cheeks.
Winters at least
had the pleasure of seeing the fury that reddened Cíara's cheekbones – and was
glad it wasn't directed at him.
“I'll have you know I
studied jewelry, I know a lot about this stuff – and I never wear cheap
baubles!” She caught the meaningful look at the big enameled ring on her
forefinger, and snarled: “This is genuine Art Deco!”
“Yes, dear, of course
it is. If you say so,” Liam Henley placed his hand on his granddaughter's arm.
A
braver man than me,
Winters thought, watching the way Cíara's narrowed eyes
glared at the offending hand.
But Henley just
gently tugged her out of the room, shooing his wife ahead of him, and told
Winters over his shoulder to follow them down because they could all use a good
glass of something warming.
In the big kitchen,
with the heat from the wood burning Aga cooker combining with the glasses of
good Irish whiskey to warm them, he began to relax a little. The old wolfhound
came and nudged him, and then nudged again, refusing to be ignored. Finally, he
shrugged and pulled out his gun.
“Don't you dare
hurt Waggers!” Cíara screamed, launching herself across the room, only to stop
short as the dog began to lick at the grey-black metal barrel.
“Waggers, if
that's his name, scared me half to death as I followed you in through the
kitchen window. I drew the gun just in case – and the fool animal began to lick
it,” he told her.
Liam Henley laughed.
“Have you cleaned the gun recently?”
“Always keep it
clean,” Winters retorted.
“Waggers used to
be a gun dog in the days when we had hunting parties here. He got a taste for
gun blue – it's a wonder the eejit dog wasn't poisoned.”
“Come on,
Waggers,” Margaret said as she hauled the huge animal away and Winters replaced
his gun. Waggers slurped and slobbered over a plate of leftovers, and peace
descended on the comfortable kitchen.
Old habits die hard. He
was soon questioning the Henleys – as politely as possible – about their
relationship with Cíara. She was for sure their granddaughter, although she
didn't seem to want to admit it, the only child of their beloved only son who'd
died in a car accident after she was born.
“She's head strong, of
course, like her own father – he crashed his car after leaving here in a fury
because….”
“Because you wouldn't
accept his wife and child!” Cíara interjected angrily. Winters could see this
was a hurt that had long simmered.
Henley's eyebrows
raised in surprise. “Why no, not at all. We weren't happy about the marriage,
that's for sure – they were both so young and my son hadn't established himself
in a career, hadn't a penny of his own…”
“It's all about money
with you, isn't it!” Cíara spat at him.
“Cíara, we asked him to
bring yourself and your mother to live with us, but your mother was happy where
she was and we didn't press it. We gave your father money, every month, more
than his trust fund allowance from his grandfather. But he gambled, you know.
That's what the row was about – he wanted us to foot the bill for a racehorse
he wanted to buy, a nag I thought was little more than material for the
knackers' yard…”
Cíara was staring at
them horrified, feeling the foundations of old hates if not exactly crumbling,
then definitely shaken. But she was still able to turn a nasty glare on Winters
as he asked: “And was it? Bound for the knackers' yard?”
Henley took a deep
drink of his whisky, and sighed. “Actually, no. The nag was nothing to look at,
spindly and close to sway backed, but she could run. Outrun the rest of the
field, in fact – went on to win in major events.”
“He knew horseflesh,
that's for sure. He was right about this one – it would have made his fortune.”
Mrs. Henley brought four mugs of cocoa over to the big kitchen table. Cíara was
shocked to see that her grandmother's eyes were wet.
“You regret not lending
him the money, don't you?” She couldn't keep the amazement out of her voice.
She'd never heard them once admit to being wrong about anything.
“My dear, if it would
have kept your father – our son – alive, we'd have mortgaged this whole damn
place and bought him as many horses, crippled, lame, swaybacked or whatever –
as he wanted,” Liam Henley said.
Then he put down
his glass and walked out of the kitchen.
“He'll never get over
it, you know,” Margaret Henley said, watching her husband's departing back.
“You never get over losing your only son, one you've loved so much and pinned
so many hopes on. Cíara, dear, take whatever you want. You know everything in
that room is yours. Goodnight, Jonathon, it was nice meeting you again.”
Winters followed the
perky taillights of Cíara's MG sports car and again his mind was filled with
questions. He'd never met a woman who – what was it the Irish said? –left him
so gob smacked.
A word that said it all.
Somers left him gob smacked.
Why would a
woman who came from the wealth of landed gentry like the Henleys want to make
her home in a Dublin flat and make her living on the streets? Had she been
abused as a child, made insecure and unable to cope with normal relationships?
His hands tightened into fists on the wheel as he thought of anyone causing
pain to the child Cíara had been.
He pondered the
revelations of the evening – both the spoken ones and the unspoken that had
buzzed in the air around the Henleys and Cíara. He guessed that a lot of what
she was hearing was new to her – and she was shaken by it. Yet why did she deny
her relationship to the elderly couple, especially when their eyes announced so
graphically that they loved and wanted this last remaining kinswoman?
And why the hell did
Cíara Somers have to sneak in to the mansion like a thief in the night and
steal jewelry that was her own? Was it an insurance scam? He found it hard to
imagine the strait-laced Henleys being involved in a fraud of such pettiness –
or of needing to be.
So what did Cíara need such a chunk of money for?
Drugs? Was she being blackmailed because of her lifestyle?
He was blessed with
finding an easy parking spot again, right behind Cíara's car, and sat for a few
moments in the quiet dark as he considered the evening's events. Getting more
confused and angry, he felt like beating his head against the drivers' wheel.
Instead, he gritted his teeth, pushed a lock of black hair out of his eyes and
got out of the SUV, determined to get the truth from Cíara, even if he had to
shake it out of her.
But the thought of her
street fighter ways and her reaction to physical bullying had him smiling. Then
he remembered the way her body had felt, jammed against his, in the bedroom at
the Henleys, and he swallowed hard as the smile faded away.
Yes, the woman
left him gob smacked!
She was sitting on the
top step of the stairs to her flat, obviously expecting that he would follow
her, her head resting against the wall, moonlight streaming through a landing
window and casting her hair to copper in its silver light. He had the weirdest
feeling as he mounted the stairs, as though there was an invisible thread
pulling him up towards her.
All his years of
police experience had trained him to be constantly alert, but this was one
ambush he wasn't prepared for. She melted into his arms as he reached the step
below her, her mouth capturing his and her soft scent disarming him. Jonathon
Winters, who'd never backed down from a fight in his life, surrendered with a
soft groan to the force of her need.