by Ava Miles
“But he didn’t listen, did he?” Trevor said, grabbing another scone because what the hell. Who was counting?
“My mum would say it was just like a man,” Aileen said, “but since I’m married to one of the best ones in the world, I can’t say that.”
The man he’d met earlier in the dining room had wanted to knock his block off, no surprise. “Your Cian clearly isn’t Oisin,” Trevor said, polishing off the scone and eyeing the last one. Should he? Oh, why not?
“No, he’s not,” Aileen said. “So Oisin crosses the sea on that beautiful white horse and returns to the land of his forefathers. Only nothing is familiar. His home is gone. His family and friends seem to have vanished from the face of the earth. With great sorrow, he travels the land, looking for them. When he comes across some men on the road, he asks after his people. Sadly, he discovers they’re all long dead and buried.”
“Because the time passes differently in fairy land,” Trevor said.
“But Oisin didn’t know it,” Aileen said, shaking her finger at him.
Trevor wondered why in the hell Niamh hadn’t told him. “Poor guy.”
She nodded. “Prostrate with grief at the news, the poor man fell off his horse and became the old man Niamh had warned him he’d become. He died there, alone, on the land of his birth, separated from his true love for all time.”
Because he couldn’t follow simple instructions, he could almost hear his mom say. “It’s a grand tale, Aileen. Thank you for telling it.”
Beaming, she walked to the door, and he followed. “Don’t think I didn’t see you polish off all those scones. Goodness, me. I know you’re a giant of a fellow, but that’s seven scones. It might be a record.” She laughed. “Come now. I’ll show you to Becca. It’s getting late for me, and I need to be up early. We’re baking bread tomorrow. You’re going to be a happy man, let me tell you.”
“If the bread is anything like your scones, I’ll be in food heaven. All right, let’s find Ms. O’Neill.”
He felt a little weird saying her name like that, but Aileen didn’t comment on it. She just handed him his room key and watched as he locked the door for good measure.
“Your Mr. Hargreaves is down the hall with the gray door in case you need him,” she said.
“Good to know,” he commented. Hargreaves was still a mystery in some ways. The man was a tad older than Uncle Arthur, yet he’d been with Aunt Clara since the late 1950s if Trevor recalled correctly. They were friends and companions, but Hargreaves took care of everything from driving his aunt’s limo to making meals to arranging travel plans. His dry wit was an acquired taste, and he didn’t say much in mixed company. Trevor had given up trying to talk to the man at dinner tonight. The butler had seemed uncomfortable to be joining them at the table, in fact, and had begged off early to get back to his reading. Arthur had teased him about the book he was reading, even suggesting it might be that Fifty Shades series that had been all the rage some years back. Hargreaves’ icy stare had caused his aunt to fall into giggles.
“Anything else you like to eat?” Aileen asked as they walked back down the stairs to the main hall and then off to the right down another long hallway. The house looked large outside, but it felt even bigger inside.
“We don’t have enough time for me to tell you all my favorites,” he said, waggling his brows.
“Oh, you’re a smooth talker, for sure,” Aileen said. “I’m glad you and Becca formed a truce.”
He was too, in fact, and not simply due to the promise of what the night had in store. Trevor had stayed in a lot of hotels around the world, and The Wild Irish Rose had something extra special going on.
They walked to the end of a brightly lit corridor and stopped at a dark green door. “This is Becca’s quarters. I’ll let you do the knocking. See you in the morning.”
“Thanks again, Aileen,” he said, flashing her a smile as she left.
Standing in front of the door, he found he was oddly nervous. Unusual for him. He shook himself. There was nothing to be nervous about. They’d agreed to be Becca and Trevor and have a good time. Nothing more. Everything that awaited them at the end of his visit could go into a box and be shoved into a corner.
He knocked on the door and waited. When the door opened, he felt his breath stop. Becca had changed into a form-fitting green dress that made him long to have his hands on her. Her hair was freshly brushed, and a lock of it trailed over her right breast. There was a shine of pink gloss on the full lips he’d kissed earlier.
“You took your sweet time,” she said, tapping her foot. “I almost fell asleep.”
“Aileen was telling me a story.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, no wonder. Glory. When she gets going, there’s no stopping her.”
He met those wide blue eyes. Earlier, she’d gone all soft and sweet in his arms, but this was an assessing look.
“I thought you’d changed your mind,” she said in a low voice.
Now he understood the reason for her pique. “Not at all. Can I come inside?”
She stood there like she was taking his measure again, and he heard Boru bark softly somewhere out of sight. “All right, but if I don’t like the way things are going, you have to leave. I want your promise.”
Something in her tone made him study her more closely. Had someone she’d invited to her room in the past done something untoward and then hurt her? She seemed oddly vulnerable under the hint of aggressiveness. “Of course. But I need your promise too.”
She crossed her arms. “What is it?”
“If things aren’t going the way I want, you’ll let me leave. No tying me up or any weird psycho girl shit.”
She laughed like he’d hoped and let him inside, locking the door behind them. Boru stood at the top of a flight of stairs in what looked like a sitting room. His tail wagged madly as they made their way up.
“How long have you had Boru?” Trevor asked as he stooped to rub the dog under the ears.
“Since he was a pup,” she said, taking him into her sitting room.
He stopped at the edge, looking around and trying not to be too obvious. Like the rest of the house, it boasted an abundance of bold colors. The walls were a Tuscan yellow, and the plush purple velvet sofa boasted a hand-knitted teal throw and some embroidered pillows of cream Irish lace and orange silk. A landscape of what looked like a Moroccan city overlooking the sea hung over a marble fireplace, and he noted the painting of a wild desert at sunrise on the far wall. Large windows provided a view of the moonlit sea, the waves a lush, rolling white as the tide flowed in. There were lamps everywhere with velvet shades in deep purple, navy, and maroon. A leather-studded chest sat beside the sofa, clearly Moorish, and there was a red accent cabinet against the wall. Despite the array of colors, they worked together.
Being inside her room was like stepping back in time into a pirate’s cabin in the best way possible, what with the view of the sea and the lush fabrics and furnishings around him.
“Are you into antiques?” he asked, trying to get his feet under him. She seemed more cautious now. Even in her own space, she was keeping her distance. Maybe she was trying to find her footing too.
“I mix and match,” she said, crossing her hands over her stomach. “There are some fine new pieces on the market for a fraction of the cost. I mostly buy what I like. I figure, if you like something, what does it matter if it’s new or old or by someone famous or not?”
“I feel the same way,” he said. “Becca, we don’t have to do this.”
“What?” she asked immediately.
“Anything,” he said, not sure how to classify it. “How about we have a drink? Or I can leave?”
She rushed to a caddy by the windows. “I can do a drink. Is whiskey okay? I noticed you liked Red Breast at dinner.”
He nodded. “According to Aileen, you also noticed that I pocketed a couple of your delicious scones. Thank you for leaving some in my room.”
“I thought you might l
ike to have them around,” she said, splashing whiskey in two crystal highballs and bringing them over.
Her hands were shaking, he realized. This was unexpected.
“I ate all the scones,” he said, hoping to make her laugh.
She was taking a healthy drink when he said it and started to cough. “You did? My heavens! Did you eat the scones from dinner too?”
He grinned unabashedly. “I told you I like to eat.”
“And you were starving,” she said. “The Stag’s Head really is a fine establishment. They were only treating you poorly…out of loyalty to me.”
“I see. You have a lot of people on your side from what I can tell. But we’re not supposed to talk about that. I know it’s a gray line.”
“No, you’re right,” she said, punching one of the pillows on the lush sofa. “Please sit down.”
Boru was pacing as nervously as his mistress. “Becca.”
She finally stopped beating the poor cream pillow. “What?”
“We don’t have to have sex. Tonight or any night.” God help him, he made himself say it, and he wanted to kick himself when she quickly looked away.
She sat down with a thud, and Boru gave a worried whine. “Why ever not?”
Was she kidding?
This was not going to be a simple seduction, and they both knew it.
Chapter 8
Her plan wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d thought.
Becca stared into her whiskey, kicking herself for her nerves. Maybe she’d been caught up in the moment, but kissing him earlier had filled her with wonder. Her mind had gone blank and even her toes had curled. “Maybe you should just kiss me,” she decided. “It was easier earlier. I feel like I should apologize. This can’t be what you were imagining.”
He sat down next to her and took the glass from her hand. Then he cupped her cheek, and she fell into those intent green eyes.
“I’m usually good at small talk,” she found herself saying, and Boru gave a healthy bark in support.
Trevor’s lips twitched. “This isn’t exactly the usual forum for small talk. Besides, you said you were doing this because you liked my mind. I’m paraphrasing, but why should we limit ourselves to small talk? Oh, and you said that I wasn’t bad to look at.”
His teasing made her feel more grounded. “Your paraphrasing could use some work. Besides, you already know you’re good-looking.”
He shrugged as if it were simply a matter of fact, which it was.
“But you’re not a preener. I personally can’t stand men who preen.”
“Me either,” he said, dropping his hand but scooting closer to her. “I noticed you have artifacts and objects from all around the world. Of course, I didn’t see a fake Sphinx anywhere. Where did you get them all from if you don’t have time to travel?”
She didn’t want to mention some of the objects were from her parents’ travels before they died. That would invite questions that would lead to a discussion of her condition and, eventually, to him looking at her like she was mental.
“Online shopping is a wonderful invention. When my grandma was dying, she made me promise on her deathbed to make The Wild Irish Rose mine. She said every proprietress should remake it her own image. So I thought about it, and I felt that since most of our guests like to travel, they would like to be surrounded by international art alongside crafts native to Ireland. We have our folklore, but seriously, how much Irish lace and replicas of the Blarney Castle can one person take?”
“I personally like my blinking replica of Blarney Castle.” He shifted a little so he was facing her and put his hand on her knee.
As a touch, it was gentle and unobtrusive. She decided she rather liked it. “So you went there and kissed the stone, I take it?”
He reared back and laughed. “Heck yeah, I did. Who doesn’t want the gift of the gab? Also, it’s not the easiest thing to do. Nowhere in America would you have a tourist attraction that requires a paid guide to hold people’s legs while they stretch across a hole to kiss a wall. Talk about liability! Have you done it?”
Even if she could leave her land, would she visit Blarney Castle? No, there were dozens of other places that would precede it on her list. “I’m Irish. We’re born with the gift of the gab. Clearly, you needed the gab rather badly to put your life at risk.”
“I had plenty of gab before I kissed it,” he said with a grin. “You seem to be doing fine in the department as well.”
“It’s in our blood,” she said, looking down at the hand covering her knee. She wanted to lay her hand over his, but should she? Was it too bold?
“Are you good at telling stories? Aileen certainly knows how to spin a tale.”
“Aye, I am,” she said, finding it easier to relax into the sofa. Boru laid on her feet as if finally sensing she wasn’t going anywhere. She wondered where Hatshep had gone off to. Well, she’d make an appearance if it suited her.
“What’s your favorite Irish tale?” he asked her, rubbing her knee in a delicious way.
She gave in to temptation and let her hand fall onto the thigh he’d angled on the sofa so he could face her. “Oh, that’s like asking me to pick my favorite star. But off the top of my head, I’d say the Pirate Queen.”
His smile grew wicked. “Color me surprised. Grace O’Malley’s story is one of my favorite tales too, but who doesn’t like the idea of a female pirate? In fact, your chamber here reminded me of a pirate’s cabin in some ways.”
A tingle of pleasure shot up her spine. “When I was choosing Irish heroes and heroines to go with the rooms, I thought I should have one too. This is the Grace O’Malley Tower, but we don’t publicize that online. I didn’t want guests to ask to stay here.”
He took the hand she had on his thigh. She held her breath for a second, waiting to see what he would do, but he simply held it, and she found her fingers curling around his. “I won’t tell a soul. Your grandma would be proud of what you’ve created, Becca. I was thinking earlier that this is one of the most unique places I’ve ever stayed in, and trust me, I’ve stayed in a lot of hotels.”
Oh, to travel like that. “What is your favorite place in the whole world?”
“That’s like asking me about my favorite star,” he said with a teasing grin.
“First one to come to mind.”
“Honestly, it’s Ireland,” he said. “I came to Dublin with my brother Flynn for a pub-crawling weekend three years ago, and I fell in love with the place and the people.”
She’d heard such stories before from other outsiders who’d made Ireland their adopted home. “Where were you living before?”
“San Francisco,” he said. “My parents live in Napa Valley, and I went to school at Stanford. The main corporate headquarters for our family business is there, and it was easy to travel to wherever I wanted or needed to go.”
“I’ve always wanted to visit San Francisco,” she said. “Is it really as beautiful as it seems?”
“Yes,” he said, “but it can’t compete with all of Ireland’s shades of green or the…”
When he trailed off, he looked almost sheepish. “The what?”
“You’re going to think me a real sucker if I say it.”
“The women?”
He laughed. “That too. No, the rainbows. My brothers tease me about it, but they’re not unaffected. Of course, my sisters, Caitlyn and Michaela, gush like crazy over them. But they liked My Little Pony when they were kids.”
She didn’t know who this pony was, but she liked the way his voice filled with warmth as he talked about his family. “How many brothers and sisters do you have then?”
“We could compete with the Irish back in the day,” he said, rubbing his thumb over the back of her palm. “Seven. Two girls and the rest boys. My twin brother, J.T., and I are in the middle, right after Connor and Quinn. Then it’s Caitlyn, Flynn, and Michaela.”
Good heavens. That was quite a big family.
“Of course, my mother is Irish
American from Chicago and proud of her heritage. Her people came to Chicago during the potato famine like so many families did. Hearing her talk, her old neighborhood sounds a lot like mini-Ireland minus the green hills and rainbows. Coming here was like coming home for me in some ways.”
What a surprising and lovely thing for him to say.
“Oh, forget I said that. My brothers would rag on me if they could hear me talking like that. Whenever they catch me at it, I always blame it on the water. I say it makes a man wax poetic. Like all that stuff about rainbows.”
She let her fingers caress the hand holding hers. “I like to say it’s in the mist. When I’m looking out that window and I see it come up across the sea, it feels like an invisible hand is grabbing my heart tightly and whispering about white horses coming out of that mist or other such grand sights.”
He was looking at her with such seriousness, almost like he was studying her anew.
“We Irish have a good imagination for such things, I expect,” she said, noticing how his eyes had turned a deeper shade of green, much like the hills right before the sun went down.
“I like your theory on the mist, and I like your imagination, Becca O’Neill.”
Her heart started beating wildly in her chest. Was he going to kiss her? “I’m glad. I like your theory on the water. We have all kinds of water here in Ireland, everything from waterfalls to bubbling streams populated by the fairy people, so your theory has merit.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, much like it had when he’d kissed her before. The low, husky tone made her shiver. “Now how about I show you another one of my theories?”
Oh, suddenly she knew he wasn’t talking about the Pythagorean theorem. “I’d love that.”
“Come a little closer,” he said, leaning his head toward her.
She did, watching how the golds in his eyes winked as she drew near. He took the hand he was holding and guided it over his shoulder, and she shifted until she was kneeling in front of him. His hand came around her waist.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, drawing her closer until their bodies touched. “I like the way your hair curls and trails down your back, and I like the way your eyes widen or narrow depending on what I’ve said, but do you know what I’m really loving right now?”
