Sean

by Kate Hoffmann

  "Maybe not," she said with a weak smile. Laurel picked up her purse from where she'd thrown it on the floor, then pulled out her checkbook. "I guess I'd better pay you."

  "I don't want your money," Sean said, his anger flaring. Was this so easy for her? To just push him out of her life without a second thought? He'd thought they'd made a connection, something stronger than could be broken with just a shrug and a check.

  "I want to. I'm afraid I don't have enough for the whole month. I was expecting a windfall and that didn't come through."

  "I wasn't here for a month. Let's just call it even."

  "But we had an agreement," she argued. "I can give you two thousand now. Once I get settled and get back to work, I can give you more."

  Sean reached in his pocket and withdrew his wallet. He found Laurel's original check inside and handed it to her.

  "What's this?"

  "I want to make a donation," he said. "To the Louise Carpenter Rand Center for the Arts. Keep your money. Just send me a receipt when you get up and running so I can deduct this on my taxes," he said with a wink. Laurel stared down at the check, her lower lip trembling. When she looked back up at him again, her eyes had filled with tears. "I'm going to miss you, Sean Quinn."

  Sean slipped his hand over her nape and pulled her close, kissing her softly. To hell with his resolve. If this was the last time, then he wanted one good memory to carry with him. "We had a pretty good marriage."

  She smiled through her tears. "It was good. Maybe it was so good because we weren't really married."

  He gently stroked her cheek, trying to memorize the feel of her skin. "If you need anything at all, I want you to call me, Laurel." He pulled his wallet from his pocket and withdrew a business card.

  "That has my phone and cell phone number and you can always reach me at the pub. They'll know where I am."

  "I'll remember that."

  He wanted to tell her right then, to wrap his arms around her and to murmur the words, to beg her to make a life with him. But Laurel was right. They'd lived in a fantasy world this whole time, a place where they only had to think about eating and sleeping and making love. The honeymoon was over and Sean couldn't be sure that what they'd shared would last.

  His brain screamed at him to take the risk, to surrender his soul. But instinct held him back. "I should go," he murmured, knowing that if he stayed a minute longer he might be lost.

  Laurel reached up and slipped her arms around his neck, giving him a hug. "I guess I'll be seeing you."

  "Not if I see you first," Sean teased. He hoisted his bag over his shoulder and walked to the door. He didn't look back, certain he'd forget all his resolve and find an excuse to stay.

  As he walked down the stairs, he saw Alistair waiting at the bottom. He stopped, held out his hand, and the butler shook it. "Thanks for everything, Alistair. You know your beer and you make a helluva breakfast."

  "Thank you, Mr. Sean."

  "It's just Sean." He glanced up the stairs. "Keep an eye on her, all right?"

  "That should be your job," the butler said.

  Sean shook his head. "I wish it was, but I'm not sure I'm the guy to do it."

  "I think you're the only guy to do it, sir."

  Sean clapped the butler on the shoulder, then strode to the door. He considered making a stop in the library to give Sinclair Rand a piece of his mind. But in the end he walked out, walked away from the Mighty Quinn curse, away from the woman who was supposed to be his destiny. Sean wasn't sure if he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life or had saved himself a broken heart. But he figured he'd know soon enough.

  Chapter 9

  " As you can see by this map, the location for the Louise Carpenter Rand Center for the Arts is two blocks off Dorchester Avenue and within easy walking distance of two bus lines. Within a ten-block radius, census figures show nearly one thousand school-age children who would benefit from our programs. Working parents would know that their children are safe after school and they'd be assured that their children were participating in an enriching variety of artistic endeavors including dance, music, theater and the visual arts." Laurel pointed nervously to the map, then gave a tremulous smile. "How was that?"

  Alistair clapped excitedly. "Oh, very good. I must say I was quite impressed, Miss Laurel."

  "I should have pointed to the map when I was talking about the location. I have to remember that."

  "No, I thought that was fine. It emphasized your information about the location at the very end."

  Laurel had put her final presentation together last night and had brought everything over to the house to show Alistair when she stopped by to pick up more of her clothes. The butler had offered to serve as a practice audience and she'd been grateful for the input. Her displays and charts and floor plans were propped up around the dining room, some on the floor and some on easels that she'd brought along.

  "I get so flustered with all the facts and figures," Laurel said. "But I know they're important. Amy says her board of directors likes facts and figures. I have all of it in the handout, but I think they'll want to hear it from me."

  "What time is the presentation tomorrow morning?"

  "Ten o'clock at the foundation office," she said. "In their boardroom. Amy showed me. There'll be at least ten people there, maybe as many as fifteen." Laurel fussed with the papers she'd laid out on the dining room table. "Would you come? For moral support?"

  "Of course I will," Alistair said. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew an envelope, holding it out to her.

  "What's this?"

  "I wanted to be the first to make a donation," he said.

  "Oh, you don't have to make-"

  "No," Alistair interrupted. "If you're going to make a success of this, you have to learn to accept every donation graciously."

  Laurel smiled and plucked the envelope out of his hand. "Thank you very much. Your donation will be put to good use." She opened the envelope and looked at the check inside. Her eyes went wide. "Thirty thousand dollars?"

  "Your uncle has paid me very well over the years," Alistair explained. "And I've been lucky with my investments. I can't think of a better cause than this."

  Laurel hurried over to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a fierce hug. "Thank you."

  He patted her back. "Now, why don't you come to the kitchen and I'll fix you a sandwich. You've been working so hard, you probably haven't eaten anything all morning."

  "I am a little hungry."

  She slipped her arm through Alistair's and walked with him through the butler's pantry to the kitchen. After pulling up a stool, Laurel sat at the kitchen worktable. "Thanks for letting me come over and practice in front of you. I really appreciate your input."

  "How's the hunt for an apartment going?"

  Laurel shrugged. "I'm still sleeping on Nan's sofa."

  "And have you seen Sean lately?"

  Her stomach did a little somersault at the mention of his name. Sean Quinn. She'd thought about him at least a hundred times a day since they'd parted a month ago. She'd even driven past the pub three or four times, hoping that she'd find the courage to stop in for a bowl of soup and a chance to see him. "We haven't talked."

  "Why not? You have two men in your life who love you, Laurel. And you're not talking to either one of them."

  "Sinclair doesn't love me." She let the sentence hang in the air, her thought unfinished. She wasn't really sure how Sean felt.

  "I think Sinclair misses you. He regrets what happened."

  "It's his fault," Laurel said.

  Alistair cleared his throat. "No… actually, it's my fault."

  "Your fault?"

  He set down the jar of mayonnaise that he'd retrieved from the refrigerator and met her questioning gaze. "While I was in New York with your uncle, I let it slip that you and Sean weren't really husband and wife."

  "Alistair! Why would you do that?"

  "I wanted to prove to your uncle how far you wer
e willing to go to secure your happiness and to get your trust fund. I thought he needed to know what he was putting you through. And I also convinced him of the fact that you were in love with Sean Quinn."

  "Why would you do that?"

  "Because I thought you were in love with Sean Quinn."

  Laurel sighed. "I was. I am." She moaned softly. "Oh, God, I do love him."

  "Imagine my surprise when your uncle told me he thought Sean would make a good husband for you. So the two of us hatched a little plan. We decided to find a way to keep you two together until you both realized how you felt."

  Confusion muddled her brain as she tried to understand what Alistair was saying. "And… and everything that happened that night was part of your plan?"

  "We didn't expect you to get angry and walk out. Sinclair was crushed. He thought he was doing the right thing and it only served to drive you away. I tried to convince him to call you, but he's so stubborn. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

  Laurel braced her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her palms. "I can't believe this."

  "We managed to make a real mess of it. And I'm sorry for being the source of it all. But you have to know, we only wanted your happiness."

  As Laurel considered all that Alistair had revealed, she tried to make sense of what her uncle had done. Why hadn't he just come out and told her how he felt? Why did he constantly have to manipulate her? Was that the only way he knew how to show his love?

  "Now, about Sean…" Alistair prompted.

  "I think he cares about me. But I don't think his feelings run as deep. It's so hard to tell with him. He keeps so much hidden. He has trouble trusting, and even if he did love me I think he'd deny it for fear that he might get hurt."

  Alistair put the ham sandwich he'd made on a plate and handed it to her. "You know him pretty well, don't you?"

  "Sometimes I think I do. And other times, I think there's a whole lot more behind that handsome face that I don't understand."

  "And you haven't wanted to see him since the two of you left here last month?"

  "I figured if he really cared, he'd find me."

  "Maybe he figures the same," Alistair suggested.

  Laurel slid off the stool and picked up her plate. "I need to get back to work."

  Whenever she found herself dwelling on what might have been, she went back to work, focusing her thoughts on the children's center and on her presentation. She shook her head and tried to clear her mind, but talking about Sean hadn't done her any good. Questions that she'd put aside rushed back into her head.

  Laurel wandered into the dining room, then stopped short. Sinclair stood in front of one of the easels, staring at a huge photo of Laurel's mother she had brought along. Laurel had decided to use the photo in the presentation to put a face to her dreams, to make it clear why she'd had the dream in the first place.

  "You loved her, didn't you?" she said.

  Sinclair's shoulders stiffened and he slowly turned to face her, his ivory-handled cane clutched in his hand. His eyes were wistful and his face showed nothing of the hard expression it usually wore. "She didn't love me."

  Laurel slowly crossed the room. "That must have been so difficult for you. To live in this house with her and my father. To see their happiness every day."

  He shook his head. "No. I considered myself lucky to be able to look at her beautiful face every morning and every evening. And after she died, I was reminded of her when I looked at you. You look very much like her." His eyes misted over for a moment and Sinclair turned away, focusing his attention on the other easels she'd set up along one side of the room.

  "This seems like a very ambitious plan," he said, walking down the line of charts and photos.

  "It is," Laurel replied. "I'm doing my presentation for the Aldrich-Sloane Family Foundation tomorrow morning. I'm hoping that they'll decide to fund the project."

  Sinclair was silent for a long time. "You've grown up," he murmured.

  "I'm twenty-six years old," Laurel said. "I know what I want to do with my life."

  "And you don't let anything stand in your way to get it, do you? Not even a foolish old man."

  Laurel reached out and placed her hand on his arm. "You're not a foolish old man," she said. "You just know what you want and you don't let anything stand in your way. We're alike in that way. It must be a Rand family trait."

  "Can you forgive an old man for his selfishness?"

  Her gaze met his and for the first time in her life she saw how much he cared about her. Sinclair was family and the least she could give him was her forgiveness-and her love. "I can."

  He nodded, patting her hand as he did. "Good. And I think I can admit that I was wrong about your trust fund. This is a fine use of your inheritance. In fact, it might do me some good to put a little of my own money into this project."

  Laurel couldn't believe what she'd just heard. "You're going to give me my trust fund?"

  "I'll have the bank transfer it to your name in the morning. You'll have to sign some papers, but that shouldn't take long."

  Tears flooded Laurel's eyes and she grabbed her uncle and gave him a quick hug. He sputtered slightly, surprised at her show of affection, then reached out and patted her shoulder. "There is one thing I'd like you to consider. Two things, actually."

  Laurel's breath caught in her throat. Was he about to lay down another condition? "What is that?"

  "First, I'd like for you to move back into the house. It's your house and you belong here. I'm going back to Maine soon. And, second, I'd like you to go find that young man of yours. I enjoy him. He doesn't take any crap from a rich old man. And I've got some new corns I want to show him."

  "No more conditions?" Laurel asked.

  "No more conditions," Sinclair agreed.

  They strolled out into the foyer and Laurel walked with him to the library. "When I was younger, I fancied myself quite the painter," Sinclair commented as he settled himself into his huge wing chair.

  "Really? A painter?"

  "I was quite good, but my parents insisted that I take up something more practical. An artist couldn't make a good living unless he had a great talent."

  "Maybe you should take up painting again," Laurel suggested. "You have the time and we could go out and buy some paint and brushes. It's not too late. It's never too late to make your dreams come true, Uncle."

  "No, I suppose it isn't," Sinclair said.

  As Laurel sat in the library, sharing a brandy with her uncle, her thoughts drifted to dreams of another kind. Every night since Sean had left, he'd come to her in her sleep, a strong, certain presence that she found herself longing for in the morning when she awoke.

  Now that all her other dreams were falling into place, maybe it was time to make one last dream come true.

  * * *

  Sean stared at the office door, then reached out and ran his hand over the block letters painted on the window. "Quinn Private Investigations," he murmured.

  He'd found the small office space in Southie last month. The building was on a main thoroughfare and his second-floor office had a window that also boasted the name of his new business, a nice way to advertise that he'd moved in.

  Sean hadn't expect to rent the office so quickly. Though his savings had barely covered the first three months' rent, he hadn't let that stop him as it had in the past. He'd learned an important lesson from Laurel. Waiting until the perfect moment for your dreams to come true was a waste of precious time.

  He and Laurel were so different. She met life head-on and fearlessly, unafraid of making mistakes. And he'd always been so careful, so measured and wary. She'd shown him how to go out and take a gamble, accept the risks and just jump off that cliff. There would never be the perfect time to start building the life he wanted, so why not start right away?

  Sean sat at the desk he'd salvaged from the basement of Olivia's antique store and kicked up his feet. He'd already found one new client, a small armored-car company that n
eeded independent background checks done on its employees. And he'd had a few walk-in clients since he'd opened his doors, two deadbeat dads to track down and a runaway daughter.

  But there was one part of his life that he hadn't quite squared away yet. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Laurel. He knew from Amy that her grant had been approved and that she'd purchased the building in Dorchester. He also knew that she'd moved back to the mansion. But all his information was secondhand or hearsay. He hadn't talked to Laurel since the day he'd walked out of the house in Cohasset.

  The first week after his "marriage" had ended, Sean was sure he'd done the right thing. Though he'd spent all of his idle time thinking about her, he'd hoped those thoughts would gradually fade. But when they hadn't by the third week, he began to realize that maybe they never would. Hell, if this wasn't love, he didn't know what was.

  A soft knock sounded on his office door and he swung his feet off the desk and stood. When he pulled the door open, his mother stood on the other side, a huge plant in her arms.

  "Ma," he said, grabbing the plant. "What are you doing here?"

  "I brought you an office-warming gift. A plant always brightens up any decor."

  "How did you know where to find the place?"

  "It's all everyone's been talking about at the pub. Your da's been passing out your business cards like free beer on St. Paddy's Day."

  Sean grabbed a stack of newspapers from the seat of an old wooden chair and dusted it off with his hand. "Have a seat."

  Fiona smiled, pleased by the offer. "This is a nice office. Lots of light." She glanced around. "When your da and I first moved to Southie, there used to be an accountant's office here." She shook her head. "That was a lifetime ago. So, this is a big step, isn't it? Your own office."

  Sean nodded and sat. "I have stationery, too. When I do my reports they'll look really official. And look at that." He pointed over his shoulder. "I've got a fax machine and a computer. I bought the fax secondhand from Rafe, and Brian gave me his old computer. I'm even thinking about getting a Web site. And when I have enough money, maybe a secretary."