by Leslie Kelly
“It’s called the Star of Africa, and it reminded me of a snowflake. You were always complaining about the jungle heat, so I thought you’d appreciate this,” he said. “Here, let me help you put it on.”
Taking the necklace from her, he put it around her neck, his fingers brushing her skin as he fastened it. She smoothed her fingers over the star, admiring how the cut silver caught the light and reflected it back. Aiden stroked his knuckles along her jaw and down the side of her neck, until he lifted the star in his fingers.
“It suits you, but I think it would look better against your bare skin.”
Turning to him, she pressed a soft, moist kiss against his mouth. “I’m not sure...you’re still recovering. I don’t want to strain you.”
Aiden made a sound that was half laugh and half growl, and bent her over his arm, one hand sliding beneath the hem of her shirt to smooth over her torso. Lily reveled in the feel of his fingers against her bare skin.
“I’m already strained,” he rasped against her mouth. “I’m hoping you can relieve that strain.”
Lily gave a soft hum of approval and wound her arms around his neck. “It is Christmas...”
Aiden pulled back and searched her eyes. “You’re not sorry that you’re stuck here with me, are you?”
Lily stared at him. “Are you kidding? This is hands down the best Christmas I’ve ever had. Seriously.” She paused. “What about you, though? You were really looking forward to going home.”
His expression was so incredibly tender, Lily’s heart quickened.
“Lily,” he said softy, “don’t you know? Being here with you—like this—is something I only ever dreamed about. With you, I feel like I am home.”
“Oh, Aiden,” she breathed, too overwhelmed to express the many emotions she was experiencing. “I meant what I said—this is the most wonderful Christmas I’ve ever had. You’ve made all of my wishes come true.”
“Well, not all of them,” he said, and stood up, lifting her in his arms. He strode to the bed and laid her down on top of it, stretching out beside her and gathering her into his arms. “But I intend to, starting right now.”
“Oh, Aiden...”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE MIGHTY QUINNS: DEX by Kate Hoffmann.
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Prologue
“THE HOUSE LOOKS lovely, Sally. Just lovely.”
Aileen Quinn stood in the foyer of her Irish country house and gazed around at the festive holiday decorations. Though the first week in November was a bit early to put everything up for Christmas, she didn’t care.
Most people waited for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception on December 8 before bringing out the decorations. But this year, optimism filled her with the holiday spirit. This year, for the first time in her memory, she’d spend the holidays with almost her entire family, and she wanted to savor that joy for as long as possible.
“It does look grand,” Sally said. “I’ve missed all the holiday cheer.” The housekeeper slipped her arm through Aileen’s and smiled at her. “I believe this will be our best Christmas ever.”
“I was thinking we ought to put another tree upstairs,” Aileen said. “Just at the top of the stairs. We still have my collection of German glass ornaments, and they would fill a small tree.”
In years past, she’d made up for her lack of family by overdecorating the house, hoping that it might fill her with more Christmas spirit. But it had never worked. No matter how beautiful the decor, she had still been alone. So for the past twenty years, she’d just stopped, not bothering to acknowledge the holidays at all. It had been too painful, bringing up so many regrets.
The doorbell chimed and Sally left her side. “I suppose that will be Mr. Stephens.” She peeked out the door, then turned back to Aileen. “And he’s brought a guest. A young lady.”
Aileen’s eyebrow arched up and a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “Well, now, isn’t that a surprise? The last time I spoke with Ian, we discussed his rather dismal social life. I can’t believe he acted so quickly.”
Sally pulled the door open. Grasping her cane, Aileen moved to greet her guests. Her gaze fell on a pretty young woman with bright green eyes and dark hair that fell in soft waves around her face. “Hello there,” Aileen said, holding out her hand. “I’m Aileen Quinn.”
Two spots of color rose in the woman’s cheeks and she smiled. “Miss Quinn, it is such a pleasure to meet you. And thank you for welcoming me into your home.” She glanced around. “It’s just beautiful.”
By the accent, Aileen could tell the young lady was American. Aileen looked over at Ian. “Would you care to make the introductions, Mr. Stephens?”
“Ah, yes, yes. My apologies. Miss Quinn, this is Marlena Jenner from Back Bay Productions in Boston. She’s the producer I told you about. The one who wants to make a documentary about your life.”
Aileen chuckled softly. “I see. Well, Mr. Stephens, I admire your persistence. But as I said before, I’m not certain my life would be so interesting on film.”
“Oh, but I disagree,” Marlena said. “Yours is a rags-to-riches story. And your books are so popular worldwide that I’m sure all your fans would want to get to know you better. You’ve done so few interviews over the years, Miss Quinn.” She drew a quick breath, then quickly continued on. “And Ian has told me about your search for your brothers. Perhaps this documentary could help to find Conal.” She turned to Ian. “It is Conal, right?”
He nodded and forced a smile as she started to continue with her plea. But Aileen jumped in. “Miss Jenner, I—”
“Please, call me Marlie. We’re going to be working closely over the next few months, after all. At least I hope we are. I’m your biggest fan. I’ve read all your books. Some of them three or four times. They got me through a very difficult point in my life.”
Aileen glanced back and forth between Ian and Marlie. “Well, I suppose if you’re that determined, then we ought to sit down and talk. Sally, would you get us tea? We’ll have it in the library.”
Aileen started off in the direction of the library, then looked over her shoulder to find Marlie standing mute in the hallway, an expression of shock on her face. Starstruck—because she’d invited her to tea? “Come along, then.”
Maybe the pretty young woman was right. This might be the only way to find Conal and his heirs. A film about her life and her search for Conal and her other lost siblings would go much further than her autobiography ever would.
She didn’t have much time left to finish her search. At ninety-seven, she was grateful for every sunrise she saw. And she was busy planning a huge family reunion over the Christmas holidays, renting a castle and making arrangements for a wonderful time for all.
>
But it wouldn’t be complete without knowing what had happened to Conal. The clues to his existence, and any possible heirs, were out there somewhere, waiting for her to find them. And if she wasn’t willing to do absolutely everything to make that happen, then why bother with her search at all?
She waited for Marlena to catch up to her, then slipped her hand around the younger woman’s arm. “So tell me, Miss Jenner. How will this all work? When will we begin?”
“Next week,” Marlie said. “We’ll begin filming interviews with you, and we’ll finish by filming your new family at your holiday celebration, if they agree.”
The young lady seemed quite invested in this project. And she was a fan, so Aileen could count on the film being complimentary. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Conal. He was the only one still missing.
“Lovely,” Aileen said. “And how quickly will your documentary be finished?”
1
HE WOKE in a cold sweat, the darkness in the room swallowing him like a giant black vortex. Dex Kennedy gasped for breath, sitting up and throwing aside the covers on the bed.
His bare chest was damp with perspiration, yet the room had a chill. Where was he? What time was it? He drew a deep breath, searching for a scent that might give him a clue. He wasn’t in the desert; he wasn’t in the jungle. The smell of lavender clung to the sheets, and he realized he was in Ireland, in his sister’s flat in Killarney. There was no danger. He was safe.
Dex turned on the bedside lamp, then rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. When would the nightmares end? he wondered. It had been nearly a year now, and though his body had healed from the two gunshot wounds, his mind was still back on that landing strip cut out of the jungle in Colombia.
He and his filmmaking partner, writer and director, Matt Crenshaw, had gone there to get footage for a documentary about the drug wars that had plagued the country. With help from some locals, they had managed to film damning footage of one of the most powerful cartels. They were almost to the plane and to safety when the cartel’s thugs had pinned them down with automatic weapons fire from the surrounding bush.
Matt had been hit in the leg before they were able to get on the plane and make their escape. Hit in the femoral artery, Matt had bled out in front of Dex, a couple thousand feet above the jungles of southern Colombia.
It had all happened so fast. Matt had been alive and cracking jokes one moment and gone the next.
Dex drew another ragged breath and ran his fingers through his hair. A bottle of sleeping pills sat unopened on the bedside table. Maybe he ought to give in and take a few. The prospect of sleeping an entire night was almost too much to resist. He wanted to lose himself in that feeling of utter exhaustion again, to finally let his mind rest.
Dex reached for the bottle. Twisting open the cap, he dumped the pills into his hand and stared down at them. He could understand why someone might just toss back the whole lot of them. Sleep deprivation could do queer things to the mind, make you take desperate measures for just a few moments of peace.
Cursing beneath his breath, he hurled the pills at the wall and they scattered around the room.
“Dex?” The muffled sound of his sister’s voice came through the door. “Are you still awake?”
“Yeah,” he called.
“Are...are you all right, then?”
“Fine,” Dex said. He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, searching for the battered trousers he’d discarded earlier. The bloodstains were still there, but they had faded over the past months. Dex pulled them on, leaving the top button undone.
He ought to have thrown the trousers out. They were a constant reminder of what had happened. But Dex wanted to be reminded. Matt had been his best friend and the only partner he ever wanted to work with. Running his palm over the stain, Dex felt emotion tighten his chest. He wasn’t going to forget.
His twin sister, Claire, was standing outside the bedroom door, a worried expression on her face. Her cropped dark hair was standing up in unruly spikes and her face, usually made up with red lips and dark eyeliner, was freshly scrubbed.
“You look feckin’ awful,” she murmured as he walked past her. “Really, Dex. How long are you going to carry on like this before you get some help?”
“I went round to the chemist and picked up some sleeping pills,” Dex muttered, heading for the kitchen.
“Didn’t they work?” Claire asked.
“I didn’t take them.”
She threw up her hands. “Well, that’s probably why they didn’t work, then. You just have to get back into a routine and a few good nights’ sleep.”
Dex grabbed a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and returned to the living room, snatching up the remote for the telly and switching on the twenty-four-hour sports station.
Claire plopped down beside him on the sofa, her hands folded on her lap. She stared at him silently, and when he glanced over at her, he saw tears of frustration in her eyes and a tremble in her bottom lip. “Don’t,” he murmured. “I’ll be all right. It’s just going to take some time.”
“Maybe you should find something to do with yourself,” Claire suggested. “Hanging around my flat like some out-of-work bowsie isn’t doing you any good.”
“What do you propose I do? I’ve been a filmmaker since I was fourteen. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. I’m not sure I’m suited to sell cars or work the bar in a pub.”
“That’s not what I meant. I’ve peeked at your mobile. Your agent has all sorts of projects he’s been texting you about. I’ve been taking calls, too. Why don’t you just talk to these people? See what they have for you? It couldn’t hurt.”
Dex took another swig of his beer. He shouldn’t be surprised by her snooping. There had never been any secrets between them. “It wouldn’t be the same. I was a decent cameraman, but Matt was the one who made the stories work. I can tell a story with pictures, but I can’t do it with words. He had all the talent in the partnership.”
Claire grabbed a scrap of paper from a nearby table and held it out to him. “Ian Stephens. I’ve taken three messages from him. A lovely man, by the way, with a very sexy English accent. He sounds like James frickin’ Bond. His number is right there, along with the number of the woman he’s working with, Marlena Jenner. She’s the producer on the project.”
He stared at the two numbers. “What is the project? Did you ask?”
“It’s a film about Aileen Quinn.”
“The writer?”
Clare nodded. “My favorite writer. Ireland’s favorite writer.”
“That’s not the kind of work I do.”
“That might be a good thing. At least no one would be shooting at you.”
“I’m not ready to go back to work,” he said.
“But you just said it, Dex. It’s who you are.”
“Hell, I’m not sure who I am anymore,” Dex whispered, his voice filling with emotion. “I—I just don’t know what I want.” He shook his head. “Wait, I do know. I know exactly what I want—to sleep through the night. That’s my fondest wish.”
Claire put her arm around his shoulders and they sat next to each other for a long while. This was the way it had always been between them. They had weathered tough times in the past, but they’d always had each other to lean on.
Their parents had lived a gypsy life, both of them actors who’d garnered a fair bit of success in Ireland’s small film industry. As a family,
they’d lived in London, New York City, Toronto and then Dublin again. But when his father had been cast in an American television series, they’d all moved to California, an Irish family living amongst the movie stars and palm trees and the constant sunny weather.
It had been a difficult transition for Dex and Claire, at that point already in junior high, and they hadn’t made friends easily, preferring to spend time with each other. So when the series had been picked up for its fourth season and Claire and Dex were ready to enter high school, they decided to return to County Kerry and live with their father’s mother, a woman they affectionately called Nana Dee.
Dierdre O’Meara Kennedy had seen them through their teenage years, then sent them off to university—Dex to film school at UCLA and Claire to read history at Trinity in Dublin. Nana Dee had provided the only stable home they’d ever really had, and her little cottage on the Iveragh Peninsula was the place they’d always called home. Nana had passed away three years ago, and had left them her cottage filled with memories of her life.
“There is something you could do for me,” Claire said.
“I’m not going to help you mark your history exams,” he said. “Or untangle the mess you’ve made of your laptop. Or fix that banger of a car you drive.”
“We still have to clean out Nana’s house,” she said. “I know you considered staying there while you were home, but you’ve spent every night here. So I thought we could lease the cottage out. But to do that we have to go through everything and decide what we want to keep and what we’d like to donate to the parish for their tag sale.”
“She lived in that house for over fifty years,” Dex said.
“I know. But I trust you to go through it. It will occupy your mind,” she said. “And we could really use the extra money. My pittance as a history teacher won’t support your taste for beer and whiskey much longer.” Claire grabbed the bottle and took a long swig before handing it back to him. “Don’t misunderstand, I’m glad you’re here. But you’re starting to look a little pale and paunchy. You need to go outside. Get some sun and exercise.”
