“That’s a good pup,” Cait said, tossing a treat over the bar. Rosie caught it in mid-air and then circled the room as the people whistled for her, to be petted and congratulated on her fine job of protecting her mum.
“We’ll stop him,” Cait said, meeting Grace’s eyes dead on.
“Aye, that we will. DK Enterprises has no idea who they are messing with.”
Chapter 7
Dylan Kelly surveyed the storm ravaging the wide harbor at the base of Grace’s Cove. He’d spent much of his life on the water, and a bit of weather never fussed him much. The suddenness of this storm surprised him, though; it was as if it had appeared from thin air. He made a note to look at the weather patterns for Grace’s Cove and see if this was a usual occurrence, as it could affect his future plans here.
Grace’s Cove, Dylan thought, as he pressed his palms to the window and let his gaze sweep over the little village nestled in the hills on the water. If he were a fanciful man, he’d have said this place had called to him his whole life. While the sailor side of him appreciated whimsy and lore, for the most part Dylan remained a pragmatic and driven businessman. It suited him to do what he loved for a living – being on the water – but having decided to forego the struggles of a fisherman’s life, Dylan had also followed his other love.
Making money.
He had married his two loves into a successful sailing enterprise – which ran everything from cargo vessels that shipped all over the world to luxury charters that cruised through the Mediterranean – and Dylan was a man who was content with his life.
Content, Dylan thought as he pursed his lips, until he hadn’t been. His mother had repeatedly reminded him that a successful life was nothing without love. Typically, Dylan would distract her with stories from his latest travels before she moved on to pointing out her lack of grandchildren. Though he loved his mother dearly, he knew that she wasn’t entirely fond of his admittedly playboy ways. She’d tolerated it in his twenties, but now that he was well into his thirties, she’d decided enough was enough.
In his own way, so had Dylan. The excitement of a new woman each month or in different countries had quickly worn off and now he yearned for something else – a deeper commitment, he supposed. Or at the very least, being able to trust the woman he chose to bed.
Dylan raked his hand through his tawny blond hair, left to grow too long once again, and moved away from the window of the house he’d rented in the hills overlooking the village. The last woman he’d dated longer than a few months had turned out to be much like the rest, interested in what his money could buy her and nothing more than that. Sure and he was a generous sort – having a great love of women and believing they deserved frivolous gifts – but after a time he’d begun to wonder if anyone enjoyed his company simply for who he was as a person. It had been ages since he’d brought anyone new into his confidence, and even longer since he’d properly dated.
Though his mother had been delighted to see him giving up his dalliances with the model of the month, she’d grown more concerned over the past eighteen months as he had ceased dating altogether.
“Not dating at all certainly isn’t the way to find love,” Catherine Kelly’s words echoed in his mind.
“Dating hasn’t found me love either,” Dylan had parried, kissing her cheeks to soften his words.
“I worry for you,” Catherine had said, allowing her son to embrace her.
“Don’t worry. I’m just spending time focusing on my business.” Dylan had kissed her once more on his way out.
Her words had followed him. “A lonely pursuit!”
Perhaps he was lonely, Dylan mused as he crossed to the bar tucked in the corner of the living room. In lieu of staying at a hotel, he’d rented an entire house, and was utterly charmed with his choice. Wood beams crisscrossed the ceiling, a beautiful stone fireplace hugged one wall, bookshelves lined another, and a beautifully woven rug in a brilliant shade of red was tossed across the wide planked floors. Deep leather couches and a state-of-the-art sound system completed the room and Dylan allowed himself to relax as he switched some music on and poured himself a whiskey, neat.
His eyes landed on the fireplace and then tracked back to where the storm continued its assault outside. If ever a day called for a whiskey, a fire, and a good book, it was this one. Crossing the room, he bent his tall frame before the fireplace, and in moments the first cheerful spurt of flame signaled he was well on his way to a delightfully comfortable lazy afternoon.
Pleased with himself and his decision to come here, Dylan bypassed the folder of papers for work – he’d deal with those in the morning. Instead, he pulled a Steinbeck novel off the bookshelf at random and soon lost himself in the words, allowing the restlessness that had been his companion of late to ease from his body.
It was that same restlessness that had led Dylan to Grace’s Cove and to his latest venture. For the first time in ages he was truly excited about a new business project. If all went well, he’d be knee-deep in mud and building in a matter of weeks.
With any luck, this project should at least keep him too busy to think about his lack of a dating life, let alone about the strange pull he had to this town. The sailor in him would call Grace’s Cove his destiny. The businessman in him would call it a smart decision.
Either way, Dylan hoped he was in for a fun ride.
Chapter 8
Still worked up after her time at the pub, Grace pulled in front of her Aunt Aislinn’s gallery to see if she was still in the shop. Word had traveled quickly after Grace’s bombshell, and the pub had filled as the story was repeated and more information on DK Enterprises was brought to light.
Which turned out to not be all that much, Grace thought with disgust as she turned off her motor and peeked through the wall of rain to see if any light shone from the wide front window of the gallery. The most the villagers had been able to agree upon was that the company ran sailing charters, was building something here – likely condos – and that none of the villagers would work for the man if he was truly tearing down Fiona O’Brien’s cottage. Grace wondered if that last part was true, for a decent living wage was something that came dear to many of the people of the village. While Grace’s Cove was relatively well-functioning, it relied largely on tourism and the fishing industry. Grace knew that many of the families struggled over the long cold winter months, when tourists rarely ventured this far west and fisherman struggled with near impossible conditions. It was one thing to make a promise of turning away work after downing a pint in the pub, and another to turn away work when there were mouths to feed at home.
Still, just the thought of any of the villagers knowingly trying to bulldoze her cottage had lightning shocking across the sky and thunder rattling the gallery. When the door swung open and an angry Aislinn glared at her through the curtain of rain, Grace hunched her shoulders and mouthed “Sorry” through the glass. Calming herself, she waited for the rain to dissipate slightly before whistling to Rosie and making a dash from her truck to the front door.
“I don’t think so with that wet mutt. Around back,” Aislinn ordered, slamming the door in Grace’s gaping face.
“Shite, I had to make it storm,” Grace swore, and splashed through puddles until she reached the back gate that surrounded a little courtyard. She pushed herself inside and raced through the back door until she stood, rain streaming from her hair, in the back room of Aislinn’s gallery.
Aislinn eyed Grace critically before handing her a towel and motioning for her to join her in her office. An acclaimed artist, Aislinn’s office was anything but conventional; her flowing dress, tumbling hair, and the riot of necklaces and bracelets that jingled as she walked echoed that. Grace followed her, being careful to dab away the wet, and ran the towel over Rosie for good measure. The last thing she needed was Aislinn squealing at her if Rosie shook water on some precious artwork or relic that she had tucked away in her office.
“Hi, Gracie.” Morgan, who had been a team with
Aislinn for as long as Grace could remember, called to her from where she worked behind a laptop at the wide dining table that was being used as a desk. Aislinn and Morgan shared a special bond – as much best friends as they were family. Taking Morgan under her wing years ago as a shop girl had been one of the best decisions Aislinn had ever made. Together, they’d made their business blossom and now ran one of the most acclaimed galleries in all of Ireland.
And both were magick.
At home here, Grace plopped into a wide leather chair with worn cushions and pretty paisley pillows. Crossing her legs, she let out a long beleaguered sigh.
“Hiya, Morgan and Aislinn. I’ve had a hell of a day,” Grace said.
Morgan nodded toward the little iPhone sitting by her computer. “We’ve just heard. Cait rang us from the pub. We were going to come out to the cottage after the storm, but got the message you were on your way.”
It wasn’t Cait who had given them the message, Grace mused, as she’d told no one where she was going. But living with magick and the flow of the natural rhythms of the universe with her friends and family made it easy to communicate in other ways than via telephone.
“I should probably get back there before the bulldozers roll up,” Grace grumbled, though she knew it would be some time before a digger showed up. If only she could wrap her mind around just how she would handle this situation.
“You don’t really think they’ll level the cottage, do you? There has to be way to stop this,” Morgan protested, her gorgeous face creased with concern.
“I have Martin Sedgewick working on it. He said he’ll try and file an injunction to stop any of this nonsense, at least until we can get it sorted out,” Grace said.
“I like him,” Aislinn noted as she poured tea at the sideboard. “He’s fussy, but diligent. I suspect he’ll handle things well.”
“I caught him kissing Anne,” Grace said, delighted to have a reason to gossip now. She was safe here – she’d never spread that type of gossip in the pub. But with family, they could have a good chat and keep her mind off of her troubles.
“No!” Morgan’s eyes lit up with excitement. “I never would have guessed.”
“That’s… Why, actually, I think they’d be perfect for each other,” Aislinn mused as she delivered tea in chunky mugs, glazed in a misty blue color, which Grace knew she’d made herself.
“I thought the same. I gave him a little nudge to take her out to a real dinner instead of hiding behind doors. I heard him asking her on my way out,” Grace said, feeling slightly cheered at the thought of two people on the brink of finding love.
“You look tired,” Morgan said, her beautiful eyes searching Grace’s face. “When did you find out about this? Has it been keeping you up at night?”
“I found out just today, so no, it hasn’t been keeping me up. I… I don’t know. I keep having those dreams again. They seem to be intensifying. I wish there was a way to magick my brain to forget them – to forget him. Despite my best efforts, I’ve come up with nothing. Fiona’s only given me the advice on asking what I’m supposed to learn in the dream. So far she refuses to give me a way to actually get rid of the dreams. I swear the old woman takes joy in watching me suffer,” Grace said, rolling her eyes at the women though they knew she was just joking. They all knew that Fiona had never liked to watch her chicks suffer, but if there were lessons to be learned – well, they had to learn them.
“You haven’t found the answer, then,” Aislinn said, her hand toying with an amethyst amulet that hung low at her waist. “What are you ignoring?”
Grace shrugged a shoulder and sipped her tea as she considered the question. The storm continued to blow outside, but she was cozy and comfortable here, so she settled into silence for a moment and let her mind wander.
“My guess is that I’m supposed to believe in love, since the dreams all focus on me reliving love and then losing it.”
“Or maybe it’s about the fact that you can’t always get exactly what you want?” Morgan piped up, then flushed when they turned to look at her. Even after all these years and all the confidence Morgan had developed, she still had moments of insecurity when all the attention turned to her.
“How so?” Aislinn demanded.
“It just seems like this constant cycle of Grace reliving this beautiful time in a past life and then having it torn from her. She’s repeatedly stated that she wants that love or wants this man in her life… one way or the other. And nothing changes. But she hasn’t changed her approach and her dreams haven’t changed. So I’d say, from a bird’s-eye view, it comes across to me as Grace wanting things done her way and she’s on this hamster wheel of dreams until she relinquishes… something. Perhaps her demands that the dream be over? Or that she have this love? I’m not completely sure and that’s the truth of it,” Morgan said and then took a slug of tea to shut herself up.
“I... Well, hmmm. That could be true. I suppose. Fiona does like to say I’ve always gotten whatever I’ve wanted in life and someday I’ll run up against something I can’t have,” Grace said, dropping her hand down to scratch Rosie’s ears. “But that still doesn’t make sense because it’s just a dream about a past life. I can’t go back and change that life; I can only fix this one. Anyway, to be totally honest, the dream doesn’t even matter right now. The only thing that matters is what’s about to happen with this DK Enterprises.”
“Why does this worry me?” Aislinn asked, sliding a glance to Morgan as Grace got up, her face set in mutinous lines.
“Because I think our great pirate queen is about to go into battle,” Morgan murmured as Grace disappeared into the storm.
Chapter 9
For the first time in ages, Grace didn’t dream of Dillon. Either it was the sheer rage that kept her tossing and turning and never falling fully into a deep sleep, or it was the storm that thundered through the night keeping her up – either way, Grace rose the next morning with the blood of battle in her eye.
Fiona had been surprisingly absent when Grace had returned home the night before, which had only served to annoy Grace even further. Sure, the old woman liked to pop in whenever she felt like – but when Grace needed her most? Not a peep. That just figured. Ghosts – finicky beings, they were.
She glanced out the window and was surprised to find that the weather had actually calmed down – not following her mood for once. A light breeze kissed the soggy grass and a few cotton-puff clouds graced the horizon. All in all, it should have been a lovely morning for Grace to make a cup of tea and get on with her work. Instead, she stood listlessly in front of the sink, idly pushing the window open to catch the breeze, her face creased in a frown as her mind refused to quiet. At the moment, she saw no way out of the problem that currently presented itself to her.
Grace hated not having a way out.
In a concession to the chill in the air, Grace tugged a loose grey sweater over her tank and filmy sleep shorts, letting her hair tumble loose over her shoulders almost to her waist. It wasn’t like she always had to have her way, Grace mused, as she put the kettle on to boil. She was more than capable of working with a team, and she’d had her share of boyfriends who would willingly have stayed with her if she hadn’t danced lightly away from their offers of commitment. It was more about freedom – freedom of choice and freedom of movement. The fear – of not having a voice in her life or her choices – might have her labeled as a difficult woman.
It wasn’t a label Grace minded.
The slamming of car doors and the sound of voices carried to her through the open window and had Grace’s head going up as if she scented prey. Eyes narrowed, she edged to the window to find a trio of trucks, one towing some sort of construction machinery behind it, along the cliff road that led to the cove. Without a second thought, Grace bolted from the house, recognizing the outlet for her rage.
The group of men turned at Rosie’s bark, signaling the arrival of an infuriated, barefoot, and half-dressed woman, her hair streaming behind he
r in the wind as she skidded to a stop in front of them. Assessing the look on her face, as one, the men turned to their leader.
Cowards, Grace thought, seeing the silent agreement pass between the men as they decided to hand her off to the man who stood a bit apart from them, his back to her as he studied the waves that crashed far below where they stood. Broad shoulders covered by a worn leather jacket, ragged denim that hugged long legs, and blond hair – just beginning to curl – dancing in the wind. Grace could appreciate the build of the man while simultaneously wanting to throw him off the cliff.
“We’ll start here then…” The man turned when his men remained silent and the shock of him caused Grace to lift a hand to her heart.
She couldn’t see him. Not at first. The sun had risen far enough in the sky that it silhouetted his form, seeming to light his blond hair as it haloed around his head, his face momentarily lost in shadow. She caught it, just for a moment: the searing blue of his eyes – the ocean at dawn – before his face dropped back into shadow. The punch of him, of who he was, made her want to drop to her knees.
Instead, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, leveling her gaze at him and swallowing past a throat that had gone achingly dry.
“Miss O’Brien, I presume?” The man stepped forward until he stood close to her, forcing her gaze to trail up a loosely-buttoned plaid to examine the face that she unequivocally wanted to kiss.
“Aye, ’tis me.” Grace was distraught to hear her voice come out but a whisper on the wind. She wanted to scream the words. ’Tis me. Couldn’t he see?
His eyes narrowed as he studied her, and Grace frowned when annoyance flashed across his handsome features. With a jaw made for breaking a man’s hand and soulful eyes that could make a weaker woman than Grace swoon, the man had the look of a fallen angel. A highly annoyed fallen angel, who glanced quickly at the neat wristwatch he wore and then back to where she stood, gaping like a lunatic, in her pajamas.
Wild Irish Grace: The Mystic Cove Series, Book 7 Page 4
