by Zara Keane
“This isn’t up for negotiation. You’re starting school today, and that’s my final word on the matter.” Clio eased her ancient car into the last available space. Hers was the only vehicle in the school car park that was more than two years old. She turned to her daughter and forced a smile. “Do you have everything?” Her chipper tone rang false.
Tammy rolled her heavily mascaraed eyes. “Mum, I can pack a schoolbag. I’m nearly fifteen, not five.”
“Okay, pet. Best of luck at your new school.” Clio reached out to touch her daughter’s shoulder, but her hand froze when Tammy flinched.
“In other words, don’t have sex with any of my teachers.” The girl cast her mother a look of raw disdain. “Got the message. You never even try to understand my feelings.”
Clio flinched. Tammy’s words—and the memory of Helen saying something similar on Saturday—were akin to being doused with a bucket of ice water. “I do try to understand. Believe me, I know you’ve suffered over the past few months, but your feelings for O’Leary are in your head. You don’t love him. You can’t. When you’re older, you’ll realize that.” Damn.She bit her tongue. It was coming out all wrong.
“Do you know how condescending you sound?” The girl’s eyes flashed. “I confided in you, and you ran to the police.”
Clio let out a raw sigh. “I had no choice. I couldn’t not report what you’d told me.”
“I told you I was in love with Trevor. Instead of supporting me, you dismissed my feelings and wrecked my life.”
“Sweetheart,” she said desperately. “It’s like…Stockholm Syndrome.”
“Oh, please don’t start.” The girl’s hand was on the door handle. “He didn’t hurt me. I seduced him, not the other way round.”
Clio banged the steering wheel hard enough to send pain shooting up her right arm. “Would you listen to yourself? You’re talking nonsense. A fourteen-year-old girl does not seduce a thirty-year-old man.”
“But that’s what happened. Why won’t you believe me? Even Gran does. Why can’t you?”
She blinked, startled. “You talked to Helen about Trevor?”
“Why not?” Tammy bit her lip. “Unlike you, she didn’t dismiss my feelings as nonexistent.”
“When did this tête-à-tête occur? Before or after she bawled you out for breaking her vase?” The notion that her daughter might confide in her mother over her stung.
“After.” The girl shrugged. “She came up to my room, and we had a chat. She invited me to join her one weekend when she’s filming her show.”
“Did she indeed?” Clio experienced a stab of envy sharp enough to cause physical pain. As a teenager, she’d often asked her mother if she could accompany her to the TV studio. Helen had dismissed the idea out of hand, saying she’d get in the way. “That’s great, Tammy. Did she finish off by telling you how you’ll amount to nothing if you continue making unsavory associations and wasting your expensive education?”
“No.” Tammy looked her straight in the eye. “She leaves that to you.”
“What?” A coil of emotion twisted painfully in her stomach. “All I’ve said is you need a fresh start, a new environment. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. But every time you look at me, I see disappointment in your eyes.”
Clio gave a shaky laugh. “No. The look you see is fear.”
“You’ve nothing to be afraid of. I don’t have a thing for older men, as you call it. I love Trevor.”
She squeezed her eyes shut briefly and prayed for patience. “Okay. I don’t want to argue with you, especially not on your first day at your new school.”
“Don’t you see, Mum? You’re still not listening to me. You hear the words I say but refuse to let them penetrate.”
“Tammy—” Clio began, but the girl had already opened the passenger door and climbed out of the car.
Her daughter hesitated before shutting the car door. Maybe, just maybe, she’d apologize for losing her temper. Maybe, just maybe, they’d communicate properly for the first time in months.
Instead, Tammy extracted a crumpled sheet of paper from the pocket of her school blazer and thrust it under Clio’s nose. “Can you order these for me, please?”
Or maybe not.
Clio took the paper and scanned the e-mail printout with a sinking heart. “Another list of texts for your English class? How many books do they expect you to read?” Yet more money she didn’t have to spare. “Why didn’t you give this to me last week?”
“Because I forgot to print out the e-mail.” Tammy cast her a black look and slammed the car door.
Clio winced. She gripped the steering wheel with taut fingers. Through the car window, she watched her daughter trudge over the cobblestoned courtyard and up the flight of steps leading to the ivy-framed entrance.
Glencoe College was a good school. Prestigious and way out of Clio’s price range. The hefty tuition fees were part of the deal she’d made with her mother when she’d agreed to move to Ballybeg and act as Helen’s housekeeper. With a bit of luck, the girl would make new friends soon, but watching Tammy’s hunched shoulders, it was hard to be optimistic.
Releasing a raw sigh, Clio put the car in gear and wheezed out of the school car park. Time to spend more money she didn’t have.
Fifteen minutes later, Clio reached Ballybeg. It was a pretty seaside town with a promenade above the strand, a pier stretching out toward the sea, and an array of brightly colored buildings that stood defiant against the relentless gray of the winter sky. A small square at the center of the town was notable for its imposing statue of Michael Collins, a local man and one of the leaders during Ireland’s fight for independence.
In the ten days since she’d moved to the area, Clio hadn’t yet had a chance to explore the town properly. Between unpacking boxes, she’d snatched a couple of opportunities to go for a quick jog, but time constraints meant she hadn’t strayed too far from her mother’s property.
She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was a few minutes before nine o’clock. Once she sorted out Tammy’s book order, she’d ask around the local shops and cafés for a job.
She circled the town center a couple of times, eventually finding a parking space on the main street. Patrick Street was lively and bustling, despite the early hour. The Book Mark was located in a two-story terraced house painted bright turquoise. The old-fashioned bell jangled as Clio pushed open the door and stepped inside. It was larger than it appeared on the outside. The front room of the shop was divided into a small café on the right and a book display on the left. A smaller room to the back housed a vast array of new and used titles, and an even smaller alcove boasted an impressive selection of comics.
Clio paused before a massive display of mystery novels by a well-known Irish author and scriptwriter. The slick covers were sinister, yet subtle. She picked one up and turned it over to read the blurb on the back cover.
“Jonas O’Mahony is a local author,” said a voice with a thick Cork accent. “That’s the third book in his Detective Inspector Brady mystery series.”
She looked up to see a small, round woman in her sixties beaming at her through owlish spectacles.
“I’m Bridie Byrne.” The woman thrust a plump hand at Clio.
“I’m Clio Havelin.” Bridie’s handshake was warm and firm.
“Ah.” The older woman nodded knowingly. “You moved into Clonmore House.”
She braced herself for the inevitable mention of Helen and her fame, but it never came.
“I’m pleased it’s finally got a new owner,” Bridie continued. “It used to belong to my brother. He and his wife moved to Marbella a few months ago. Good riddance, I say. The house was empty for a few months until you moved in.”
“The house is beautiful, as is Ballybeg. Although I haven’t had a chance to see much of the town.”
“Ah, sure you’ll have plenty of time to explore. Have you found a job down here?”
“No,” she replied, seizing up
on the opening, “but I’m looking for one. Bar or restaurant work to tide me over until I build up my translation business. I’m a freelance translator for Spanish and French. I can work anywhere as long as I have access to the Internet.”
“Ah, the Internet. Doing me out of business, so it is.” The twinkle of mischief took the sting out of her words. “I’m nearing retirement anyway. Amazon and the like will merely push me there sooner. Is there something in particular you’re wanting?”
“Yes.” Clio fished in her handbag and pulled out a piece of paper. “My daughter needs these books for her English class.”
The older woman pushed up her spectacles and examined the list. “We have four titles in stock. I’ll have to order the others.”
“No problem. When will they be in?”
“If I place the order today, they should be here on Wednesday. That soon enough for you?”
“Wednesday’s fine.”
“Anything for yourself? Maybe one of those mysteries?”
Tempting. Clio fingered an embossed cover, tracing the outline of a pistol. How long had it been since she’d last read a book? Before she’d had Tammy, she’d read a book a day, easily. These days, she was lucky to manage a book a month. The move from Spain back to Ireland had forced her to offload most of her paperbacks, and the few books Helen owned that weren’t fancy coffee-table books were on her digital reader. Clio’s finances wouldn’t stretch to a decent smartphone, never mind a dedicated digital reading device.
“Are you doing the hard sell, Bridie?” asked a voice in the background. “Jonas will be pleased.” A woman bearing a large plastic container of baked goods backed into the shop. She had rich red hair and blue eyes that twinkled with good humor.
Bridie helped her heave the box onto the counter. “Now that you’re both part of the family, I have to look out for your interests.”
The red-haired woman flashed a grin at Clio. “Jonas is my husband.”
Clio whistled. “Lucky you. I’ve seen him interviewed on television.”
“I’m Olivia, by the way,” the redhead said. “You’re new in town.” It was phrased as a statement, not a question.
“That’s right. We’ve just moved into Clonmore House.”
Olivia looked her up and down in frank assessment. “You don’t much look like your mother. Apart from the hair.”
“That’s what people tell me.” In comparison to Helen’s polished beauty, Clio was plain and drab.
“Know many people around here?” Olivia asked.
She shook her head. “I haven’t had a chance to explore the town yet. We’re still getting the house sorted after the move.”
“Come by MacCarthy’s pub on Friday evening. I’ll introduce you round.”
“Oh, thanks.” She blinked, unused to such ready amiability. “I might do that.” She shouldn’t be planning a night out when she had more pressing concerns. Concerns that included how to dig up dirt on one of Dublin’s most notorious—and elusive—gangsters. Oh, hell. She’d have to phone Emma later to see if she had any news.
“I’m usually at the pub by eight,” Olivia said, unpacking the baked goods into Bridie’s food display cabinet.
On the other hand, it would be nice to hang out with someone around her age and chat about meaningless stuff. It wasn’t as if she knew Olivia. They wouldn’t have to dwell on the more unpleasant parts of the past few months. “Okay. Sounds good. Thanks for the invitation.”
“We redheads have to stick together.” Olivia winked and unloaded the last of the scones and then packed up her stuff. “That’s everything, Bridie. Will I see you and Granddad later?”
“Yes, love. I’ll give you a call before we arrive.”
Olivia strode to the door, clutching the now-empty plastic container. “Bye, Clio,” she said over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too. See you on Friday.”
“Speaking of MacCarthy’s,” Bridie said after Olivia left the shop, “you might ask them if they’re hiring. I have a notion Sharon, my assistant, said they were short-staffed.”
Clio glanced at her watch. Nine-thirty. “It’s too early for them to be open yet. I’ll call round later. Thanks for the tip. Where is the pub?”
“Just off the main square.” Bridie pointed through the shop window. “See the statue of Michael Collins in front of the town hall? Take the lane to the left of the statue. MacCarthy’s is down there, right beside the betting shop. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the tip.”
The older woman popped a mystery novel from the display into the plastic bag containing Tammy’s books and handed it to Clio. “This is the first book in the DI Brady series.”
“Oh, I can’t…”
“It’s on the house.” Bridie shoved her half-moon spectacles back into place and indicated the piece of paper on which Tammy had listed her required reading texts. “With a book list this long, you’ll be a valued customer.”
“Well, thank you. I appreciate it. I’ll be back on Wednesday to collect the rest of the books.”
“See you then. Best of luck with your job hunt.”
“Thanks, Bridie.” She turned and headed in the direction of the shop door. When her phone beeped to indicate an incoming message, her heart lodged in her throat. Ray? Please, no.
With trembling fingers, she withdrew her phone from her pocket with one hand and opened the shop door with the other.
And walked straight into a very broad and very masculine chest.
Chapter Ten
SEÁN FROZE THE MOMENT Cliona Havelin crashed into his chest. Without Friday night’s heels, the top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulders. The sound of her books hitting the wooden floor jolted them into motion. She sprang back as if he’d electrocuted her, and he bent to retrieve the book bag. When he pressed the bag into her hand, his fingers brushed hers, just as they had when he’d helped her with her bag in front of the hotel fountain. A spark of awareness crackled and fizzed. Memories of her high, firm breasts made his mouth dry with desire, and his heart beat an uneven rhythm.
“Thanks,” she murmured, averting those fabulous green eyes.
“Everything all right at Clonmore House?” he asked sotto voce. “No more sightings of strange black vehicles?”
A hint of a smile tugged at the sides of her mouth. “No, Sergeant. I’m not certain I buy that story. I suspect my mother was freaked by the memorial card and is now imagining potential threats everywhere.”
“Perhaps,” he mused, “but we’re looking into suspicious black cars all the same. And please call me Seán.”
Her eyes met his, intensifying the electric current between them. “I’m Clio. Only my mother calls me Cliona.”
“Clio is a nice name.” Far nicer than Orla. Why had she used a pseudonym? Was it because she disliked her mother and wished to ditch her famous surname? Distancing oneself from the past was a habit with which he was familiar. Problem was, his past had caught up with him.
Brian cleared his throat and edged past Seán into the shop. “Morning, ladies,” he said, smiling at Clio before turning his attention to Bridie, who was busy unloading the dishwasher in the shop’s tiny kitchen.
“Hello, lads.” The bookshop’s owner came forward to shake their hands. “Thanks for coming by so quickly. Can I offer you a cuppa and a bite to eat while we chat?”
Coffee sounded great to Seán. “I’ll have an espresso.”
“Black tea for me.” Brian stared at the sweet treats with a look of unfiltered lust.
“With one of Olivia’s berry scones?” Bridie grinned at him. “Go on. You know you want one.”
The young policeman returned her smile. “As long as it’s served with clotted cream.”
“That can be arranged,” Bridie said and maneuvered her bulk behind the counter of the small café.
Seán turned back to Clio. “How’s Tammy? First day at her new school, right?”
She bristled, suddenl
y prickly as a porcupine. “She mentioned that to you?”
“Yeah. She made me a coffee when I was at Clonmore House on Saturday night, and we had a chat.”
Clio stiffened, her expression morphing from surprise to barely concealed fury. “I don’t like strange men talking to my daughter. If you’re going to be hanging around the house babysitting my mother, I’d prefer it if you and your colleagues kept your distance from Tammy.”
What the feck? Seán exchanged a loaded look with Brian. Tammy was a kid, for cripes sake. Did she think they were sexual deviants? “I meant no harm. She offered me coffee, and I accepted. I thought it might make her feel less awkward having me in the house.”
“Just…just stay away from her.” Clio backed out the door, eyes blazing. “And stay away from me too.”
“What was all that?” Brian asked after the door shut behind her. “Does she think we’re pervs?”
Jaw gaping, Seán stared through the shop window at Clio’s rapidly retreating form. Did she seriously think he was sexually interested in a fourteen-year-old girl? Tammy was still a kid, for heaven’s sake, complete with braces and adolescent awkwardness. She’d be a beauty when she grew into herself, but that wouldn’t be for another few years. He cleared his throat and addressed his partner. “It certainly sounded like Clio was accusing me of behaving inappropriately with her daughter.”
“That’s going to make our time in Clonmore House a barrel of laughs.” Brian scrunched up his nose. “Helen Havelin is a snob. Up until a minute ago, I’d have said her daughter was much friendlier.”
“So would I.” Clio’s outburst stung him to the core. Why did she think he or Brian would hurt her daughter? She’d seemed on edge since the moment he’d met her, but her sudden flare of temper didn’t make sense.
Bridie bustled out of the tiny kitchen with a tray bearing three cups and plates laden with berry scones and ramekins of clotted cream. “I couldn’t help but overhear that exchange. There’s something odd about the Havelins. I can’t imagine Clio and her daughter moved in with her bitch of a mother by choice. Helen was always a pain in the arse. I had to sit beside her in class, back in the days when she was plain old Helen McMahon.”
