Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5

by Zara Keane

  “Wow,” he said, discarding the condom.

  “Wow, indeed.” Orla rolled over and propped her head up with her elbow. She ran her fingers down his chest. “Could you be persuaded for a second round?”

  He laughed. “I might be.”

  “Then I’d better do my best to convince you.” Trailing her fingertips over his penis, she bent to take it into her mouth.

  Orla’s powers of persuasion proved to be most effective. Seán was on the verge of another orgasm when his phone rang.

  And not just any ring, either. A particular ring designated for a particular person.

  The boss.

  Damnation. Seán raised his head and stilled his hands on her shoulders. He wanted to ignore the call, let it go to voice mail. Already, he felt himself deflating. A call from the super at this hour on his night off didn’t herald good news.

  He swore under his breath. “I’m sorry, Orla. I have to take this call.”

  She looked up at him, her lips forming a small O of surprise before drooping into a frown.

  Her expression of hurt and disappointment was like a sucker punch to the gut. He raised himself off her, hopped off the bed, and began rooting through his trouser pockets for his phone. He wanted to hurl the damn thing against a wall.

  “Don’t move a muscle,” he said over his shoulder with a forced grin. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  At least he hoped he’d be able to continue where he’d left off. It depended on whatever the super had to say. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. Finally silencing the insistent tone of Meatloaf’s “Bat Out of Hell,” he said, “Sir?”

  “Seán?” The super’s voice was grave, confirming Seán’s hunch that this call wouldn’t bring good news. “There was a fire at the halting site. The fire chief says it looks like arson. A couple of the Travellers are at Mercy Hospital with smoke inhalation and burns.”

  He let out a sharp breath. “Any leads?”

  “No. The Travellers are keeping tight-lipped, as per usual. You said you were in Cork City for the weekend. Any chance you’re near the hospital?”

  “I’m at the Sheldon Hotel. Not far to walk.”

  “Then I’d like you to go by the hospital. Try to get the family to talk to you.”

  Seán paced the narrow parameters of the bathroom. “What makes you think I’ll have more luck than the Guards on duty?”

  “You’re not from this part of the country. The Travelling community has less of an issue with Dubliners.”

  In his experience, that was debatable—as was the super’s assumption about Seán’s origins—but he let it roll.

  He placed his fingers to his temples. “All right. My uniform is at home. You’ll have to take me dressed in civvies.” Then he remembered the flying buttons. “Actually, could you lend me a shirt? Mine is…buttonless.”

  The super laughed out loud. “Did I call at an awkward moment?”

  “Yeah, sir, you did.” Why the hell couldn’t the super call Brian? Or Tom Doyle? They mightn’t have been in the middle of hot foreplay with a gorgeous woman.

  “Sorry, lad,” the super said, sounding not the least bit contrite. “I’ll have one of the local Guards leave a shirt for you at the reception desk.”

  Great, thought Seán, sitting on the hard edge of the bathtub. They’ll laugh their arses off. “One more thing, sir,” he said slowly, “I’m not exactly sober.”

  The super fell silent for a moment, then gave another laugh. “In that case, I’ll tell the Guards to serve your shirt with an extra shot of espresso.”

  Ha, ha. No, he’d never live this one down.

  “Seriously, Seán, I need you there. Brian’s on another case, and I can’t get hold of Doyle.” The super pronounced Doyle’s name with a snarl, making his opinion of the reserve policeman clear.

  Seán massaged his temples and cursed the collapse of the Irish economy. Cuts had left the Irish police with a skeleton staff and made them reliant on reservists like Tom Doyle, some of who were next to useless. “I’ll be there in ten, sir.” If he sprinted, he’d make it in five.

  “You sure I shouldn’t send a car?”

  “No need. I’m not far from Mercy University Hospital. I’ll get there quick enough.” The walk wouldn’t make the missing buttons magically reappear on his shirt, but the cool evening air would cure him of his erotic regrets.

  He hung up and went back into the bedroom. Orla was sitting on the bed, putting on her bra. She glanced up when he shut the bathroom door and started pulling on his own clothes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for her bare shoulder. “I have to go.”

  “No need to apologize.” Her casual tone was belied by her wobbly smile.

  “It’s work,” he said, surprised by his genuine regret. “I’m…”

  She pulled her T-shirt over her head. “No need to explain. Thanks for a fun evening.”

  Seán dropped his hand. “Right. Can I have your phone number? I’d like to invite you for dinner. Make it up to you for taking off like this.”

  Her face was a blank mask. “Sure.” She rattled off a series of digits.

  As he typed them into his contacts and pressed Save, he wondered if the number was genuine or if she was fobbing him off with a fake. “I’ll call you tomorrow, once I’ve checked my work schedule.”

  Orla nodded and scrambled for her shoes. He spotted one by the door. Retrieving it, he handed it to her, their fingers brushing for an electrical instant.

  The heat of sexual awareness coursed through his veins. He closed his hand around hers and dropped a kiss onto her wrist. The throb of her pulse sent a lightning bolt of arousal direct to his groin. “I’d have liked to spend the night with you, Orla. I’m sorry I have to leave.”

  She nodded, eyes shuttered, the flirtatious demeanor of earlier replaced by an air of awkward distraction. She tugged her hand free and scrambled for her handbag.

  “Where are you staying while you’re in Cork? I’ll call you a taxi.”

  “Oh, no.” Her eyes met his—calm, cool, direct. “There’s no need for a taxi.”

  Seán frowned, his eyes sliding over her worn jeans and T-shirt to the red heels. “You have somewhere to go, right? I don’t want you wandering round town this time of night. It gets rough down by the quays.”

  “No worries. I’ll be fine.” The quaver in her voice said otherwise.

  He wrinkled his brow, a suspicion forming. “You didn’t book accommodation before you came down to Cork?”

  Her eyes darted to the side. “I was going to look for a room but then I got…distracted.”

  Distracted by him. She was unlikely to find a vacant bed at the Sheldon. Even if they had a spare room, it was probably more than she could afford, if her clothes were anything to go by. Hell, if they didn’t discount for law enforcement officials, it was more than he could afford on a cop’s salary. “Stay here,” he insisted. “I doubt I’ll make it back, but you’re welcome to have the room in my place.”

  She hesitated a fraction of a second before answering. “I can’t take your reservation.”

  “Of course you can. Knowing you’re safe in a warm bed will make me feel less of a heel for taking off like this.”

  “Well…thank you.” She tugged at neckline of her T-shirt, reminding him of the silky skin of her cleavage.

  “No problem,” he said, keeping his voice even. He placed the key card on the dresser. “Breakfast’s included. Just drop the key at reception when you leave.”

  She blinked, drawing attention to the eyes that had riveted him when he’d first seen her in the hotel lobby. “Bye, Seán.”

  “Bye, Orla. Thanks for a fantastic evening. Hope to see you again soon. In the meantime, enjoy your stay in Cork.”

  He clicked the door shut.

  Chapter Five

  Clonmore House, Ballybeg, Ireland

  CLIO LEANED ONE HIP against the granite kitchen counter of her mother’s new weekend home, surrounded by moving b
oxes and bad vibes. She downed the last dregs of cold coffee and wished her hangover to Hades. This was why she’d sworn off spirits. From now on, she was sticking to the odd glass of wine and avoiding the hard stuff.

  She massaged her aching temples with her free hand and fought a wave of nausea. Last night, she’d tried to forget her crazy situation using gin and Seán as distractions. This morning, she was plagued by reality and regret.

  She placed her coffee cup on the counter and squeezed her sore eyes shut. Thank goodness Seán had been kind enough to let her stay in his hotel room. To her amazement, she’d managed to sleep in until it was almost time to collect her daughter from the train station.

  When she woke up, her first act had been to call Emma. She’d poured out the whole sordid story, starting with the phone call to Ray six weeks ago and its unforeseen consequences. To her credit, Emma hadn’t said, “I told you so.” She’d simply agreed to transfer two thousand euros from her bank account to Clio’s so that Clio could replace the cash she’d taken from her mother’s safe. Emma was the best friend any woman could ask for. Plus she was a private investigator. She’d promised to try to ferret out a nugget of information Clio could use to get Ray off her back and out of her life.

  Looking for a part-time job in Ballybeg hadn’t been on Clio’s immediate agenda. She’d been hoping to put out feelers for translation work she could do from home. However, paying back Emma meant she’d need to pick up work as soon as possible, preferably a job in a pub or a restaurant where the pay came weekly and could be augmented by tips.

  In addition to finishing unpacking moving boxes, today’s to-do list included figuring out a way to stall Ray over the burglary. That was going to be a lot more complicated than replacing the missing cash. Oh, God.

  A crash jolted Clio back to the present, sudden as whiplash. Her eyes flew open.

  Shards of broken glass lay scattered across the terracotta kitchen tiles, shimmering defiantly in the pale sunlight. Framed by a mountain of empty moving boxes, Helen and Tammy stood on either side of the broken vase—her mother regal in a tailored suit, her daughter channeling Marilyn Manson on a bad day.

  “You stupid girl!” Helen’s screech was like a banshee on acid. She dropped a small traveling case onto the kitchen floor and pointed a scarlet-lacquered talon at the slivers on the floor. “Vintage Waterford Crystal. Vin. Tage.”

  Tammy shrank inside her oversized shirt, shoulders hunched. Clio’s stomach muscles clenched to see her daughter so nervous. Harsh memories surfaced of a childhood spent weathering Helen’s glacial gibes.

  “Sorry, Gran.” Tammy’s normally strong voice was low enough that Clio had to strain to discern her words.

  “Hello to you too, Mother,” Clio said dryly. “Given your mood, I take it filming in Galway didn’t go well?”

  Ignoring her daughter, Helen danced a five-inch heel against the hard stone floor. “Do you have to be so clumsy, Tamara?”

  “I’m not clumsy.” The girl crossed her arms over her thin chest and ran a nervous tongue over her braces. “Not usually. You startled me.”

  Helen raised a tweezed eyebrow. “This is the second item you’ve broken since we started unpacking. Perhaps you’d take care if they were yours. Since you and your mother are living under my roof rent-free, I suggest you pay more attention.”

  The girl’s face crumpled.

  Clio’s anger hit like a blow to the abdomen, then soared in pace with her pulse. “Mother,” she said, voice low but determined. “It was an accident. I’m sorry the vase got broken, but Tammy didn’t smash it deliberately.”

  Helen peered at Clio over the top of her designer spectacles. “Deliberate or not, she should be more careful. Given the state of you, I’m surprised you can form a coherent thought, let alone give it voice.”

  Was her hangover obvious? Clio caught sight of herself in the gilded mirror by the kitchen door. Ouch.

  Why had she downed that G&T? Not to mention the two subsequent ones? She should have resisted. She should have stayed strong. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Yeah, right. “Never mind me. Stop picking on Tammy. She’s worked hard unpacking boxes since we got home two hours ago.” She stepped forward and reached out to give her daughter’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

  Tammy recoiled, her expression morphing from upset to resentment. “If you cared about anyone but yourself, you’d never have brought me to this dump.” With a choked sob, the girl fled the kitchen. A few moments later, her bedroom door slammed.

  Helen drew herself up to her full five-foot-six-inches, including heels. “The girl needs to respect her elders. You’re far too lenient with her.”

  Clio jittered with the urge to smash every tissue-paper-wrapped piece of porcelain in the house. “While I’m grateful for the chance to start afresh in Ballybeg, I’m not prepared to let you bully me or Tammy.”

  Helen blinked, her haughty expression crumbling. “I’m not bullying anyone. I just want things done correctly.” She paused, uncertainty marring the immobility of her usually frozen features, and then heaved a sigh. “Perhaps my reaction was a little hasty. It’s been a trying weekend. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong while filming the episode of my show. A veritable case of Murphy’s Law gone wild. And I was fond of that vase.”

  “Tammy is sorry she broke it. She can pay for a replacement out of her pocket money.”

  Her mother brushed invisible lint from her pencil skirt. “Don’t be silly. I don’t expect the child to give me her pocket money. It would take her years to pay back what the vase cost.”

  “She can make a token contribution at the very least.” Clio placed her empty coffee cup in the dishwasher and fetched the brush and pan from underneath the sink. “I realize living together is difficult for all of us, but Tammy’s recovering from a traumatic experience. She needs support, not constant criticism.”

  Helen’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “If you’d paid more attention to where she was going and who she was seeing, none of this would have happened.”

  Clio’s breath caught on a retort so delicious she could taste it. Her nails dug into her palms. Only the reminder she was dependent on her mother’s goodwill stopped her from exploding. “Like you kept an eye on me?”

  Her mother looked tired all of a sudden, her true age showing briefly beneath the careful mask of makeup. “That’s precisely what I mean. I don’t like to see you making the same mistakes with Tammy that I made with you.”

  “There’s no comparison,” Clio snapped, her resolution to keep her cool evaporating. “I got pregnant when I was seventeen by a younger boy. Tammy was attacked by a thirty-year-old man.”

  “He didn’t attack her.” Helen’s tone was clipped, impatient. “He seduced her. Tammy says she loves him.”

  “I know what she says.” Her voice raised a notch, wobbly with emotion. “But she’s not yet fifteen. He’s an adult.” How obtuse could her mother be? How could she not see a major problem with a teacher persuading a minor schoolgirl to have sex?

  “Be that as it may, your handling of the situation leaves much to be desired.”

  Hysterical laughter gurgled in Clio’s throat. If only Helen knew just how much her handling of the situation left to be desired.

  “I’m saying this because my reaction to your pregnancy drove you away.” Her mother’s tone was tired, resigned. “I don’t want to see you create a rift with Tammy that takes years to heal.”

  “How can you compare our situation to my relationship with Tammy? I’m there for her. I’m being supportive. I haven’t rejected her for making a mistake.”

  Helen raised an eyebrow. “Are you really there for her, though? You’re very quick to dismiss her emotions. Telling her she can’t possibly be in love with Trevor O’Leary isn’t respecting her feelings.”

  “He abused her. What she thinks she feels isn’t real. It can’t be.”

  “It is to her. In any case,” continued Helen with an imperious sniff, “the man is in a coma. I suppose on
e can consider his being mugged a sort of karmic justice.”

  Karmic justice delivered at the hands of Ray Greer’s thugs. Clio shuddered. Violence was not what she’d had in mind when she’d asked Ray to scare O’Leary off. Why he’d taken it upon himself to beat the living daylights out of the man was a mystery.

  The throb in Clio’s head turned into a drumroll. She kneeled on the floor and brushed up broken glass. A crazy impulse to tell her mother everything hovered on the tip of her tongue, but mutual trust was in short supply. With good reason, she thought, the image of the two thousand euros fresh in her mind. “I tried calling you yesterday,” she said carefully, “but I couldn’t get through.”

  “Oh? Did you leave a message?” Helen scrutinized her phone’s display. “Or did you speak to my PA? Phoebe didn’t mention your call.”

  “No message. It wasn’t something I wanted to discuss with your assistant.”

  Helen lowered her gaze, and a hint of a frown line appeared on her forehead. “If this concerns Tammy’s issues, I contacted the psychologist I mentioned. She’ll be in touch next week.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not what I wanted to—”

  Helen’s mobile phone buzzed, instantly claiming her full attention. “It’s my producer. We’ll talk later. In the meantime, can you finish cleaning up this mess? And maybe start unpacking the living room?” She moved toward the door, phone to her ear, heels clicking across the hard stone floor.

  “I…Yeah, sure.” Clio’s legs were as unsteady as a building during an earthquake. Damn.

  She leaned over and resumed clearing up the shards of glass. Why had she had an impulse to spill her guts to her mother? A few minutes of semicivil conversation couldn’t erase years of mistrust. Besides, she’d soon have the money back in the safe. And, however she managed it, she’d prevent Ray and his gang from ransacking the house.

  A shard of glass pierced her finger, making her wince. Crimson blood beaded at the tip. Cursing, Clio sucked it furiously, catching another sight of herself in the mirror. She looked haggard, a pitiful rendition of the fresh-faced girl of yesteryear. The stress of the past few months was taking its toll.