Night of the Blackbird

by Heather Graham

“Bye, Mum.”

  Danny was coming.

  She didn’t realize that she was still holding the receiver with a death grip until her hand began to hurt and the low buzzing sound from the phone began to sink in. Then a recorded operator’s voice. If you’d like to make a call…

  She hung up, stared at the phone, then shook her head in disgust. How long since she had seen Danny? Two years, maybe three? He’d been the love of her life—the love of her young life, she corrected herself. But he’d come and gone like the wind. She’d refused to see him the last time he had called to say he was in the States. He was about as dependable as good weather in a Boston winter. And still…

  Her heart quivered with a little pang. It would be good to see Danny.

  Now that she was really over him.

  And she was seeing someone, so she really would be immune to his, “Ah, Moira, just a quick beer.” Or, “Moira Kelly, you’d not take a stroll with me?” Or even, “You’d not like to make time stand still, hop in bed with me, girl, because you know, you do, that we were magic?”

  No more, Daniel.

  She had a hectic life; she would be busy, especially since she was about to ask everyone to reschedule everything for her.

  She loved her business. She was still in awe of the fact that she and Josh had made a go of it, that they were a production company and that their show was a modest success. Ireland, the old country, remained a passion for her parents. America was hers. She’d been born here and she’d grown up here, and the diversity of her country was what she loved best. Since she’d first gone to college, she’d kept very busy. Forgetting what could never be. Or trying to.

  Maybe, though, in the corner of her mind, she had always dreamed that Danny would come back. To stay.

  With annoyance, she realized that the very thought made her wistful.

  Okay, she cared for Danny, she always would. In a far, far corner of her mind! As far as a distant galaxy. She was a realist. She’d seen people through the years—not too seriously, because of her work. And she was seeing someone now, someone bright, compelling and with shared interests, someone who’d entered her life at the right time, in the right way….

  So Danny was coming to Boston. Good for him. He would like…

  For a moment, her mind went blank.

  Michael! She was dating a man named Michael McLean. Of Irish descent, as well, but of normal Irish descent. They had a really great relationship. Michael loved a good movie and didn’t whine about a bad one. He was an avid sports fan but liked a day at a museum just as well and was up for a Broadway show—or Off Broadway, for that matter.

  He was nearly perfect. He worked hard for her company, too. He was always on the go, seeing people, checking on logistics and permits. In fact, he was off somewhere right now. She wasn’t even sure where. Well, of course, she knew…she just couldn’t think of it right now. Talking to her mother had that effect on her.

  It didn’t matter where he was. Michael always had his cell phone on him, and he always returned messages, whether they were personal or business related. It was part of his being so wonderful.

  And still, just thinking about Danny…

  Impatiently, she picked up a pencil and tapped it on her desk. She had other things to think about. Like business. She reached for the phone again and buzzed her partner, Josh.

  It would be good to see Danny again.

  She was startled by the wave of heat that seemed to wash through her with the thought. Like a longing to hop into bed this very second. She could close her eyes and see him. See him naked.

  Stop it! she chastised herself.

  “What’s up?”

  “What?”

  “You called me,” Josh said. “What’s up?”

  “Can we go somewhere for lunch?”

  Mentally, she put clothes on Danny.

  Then she sternly forced him to the far corner of her mind.

  She realized that Josh had hesitated, and as if she were in front of him, she could see his shaggy brows tightening into a frown. Danny retreated to memory. Her partner was very real, always a part of her life, steady, and just a downright, decent good guy. Josh Whalen was tall and lean, almost skinny. Good-looking. They had met in film school at NYU, almost had an affair, realized instead that they could remain friends for a lifetime but never lovers, and became partners instead.

  Danny had been in her life then, coming and going. Josh would have been only an attempt to convince herself that she wouldn’t have to wait forever for a man to love, but she’d realized that before she’d done anything they would both regret.

  Once again, she firmly pushed Danny back where he belonged.

  Josh was better than any man she had ever dated. They shared a vision—and a work ethic. They’d both slaved in numerous restaurants to raise the capital they had needed to get their small production company going; he had also worked in construction and dug ditches. They had both been willing to give a hundred percent.

  “You don’t want me just to come to your office?” Josh asked.

  “No. I want to take you to a nice restaurant, buy you a few glasses of good wine….”

  His groan interrupted her. “You want to change the schedule.”

  “I—”

  “Make it a sports bar, and buy me a beer.”

  “Where?”

  He named his favorite little hole-in-the-wall, just a few blocks from their offices in the Village. He had an interview with a potential new cameraman, she was supposed to have coffee with a potential guest, but they decided to meet right after their appointments.

  As it happened, their potential guest missed her connection and called in to find out if Moira would be available in the afternoon. Relieved, Moira cheerfully agreed.

  She went out walking. And walked and walked until it was nearly time to meet Josh.

  Moira reached Sam’s Sports Spectacular—a true hole-in-the-wall but a great neighborhood place—before her partner. She seldom drank anything at all during the day and was cautious even at night, but this afternoon, she ordered a draft. She was nursing it at the farthest table from the bar when Josh came in. He was a handsome, appealing guy in a tall, lanky, artistic way. He looked like a director or, she mused with a flash of humor, a refugee from some grunge band. His eyes were dark and beautiful, his hair reddish brown and very curly, and despite his wife’s objection, he wore a full beard and mustache.

  “Where’s my beer?” he asked, sliding into a chair by the table.

  “I wasn’t sure what you wanted.”

  He stared at her as if she had lost her mind. “How many years have you known me?”

  “Almost ten. Since we were eighteen. But—”

  “What do I always drink?”

  “Miller Lite. But—”

  “There you have it.”

  “I’m a bit off today.”

  “You are a bit off.” He raised his hand, and their waiter saw him. He gave his order, and the young man nodded in acknowledgment and started for the bar.

  “Why are you off today?” Josh asked, leaning forward.

  “My mother called.”

  He grimaced. “My mother calls almost every day. That’s no excuse.”

  “You don’t know my mother.”

  “I do.” He grinned and feigned a slight accent. “She’s a lovely lady, she is.”

  “Um. My dad’s ill.”

  “Oh.” Josh was quickly serious. “I’m sorry.”

  “I—” She hesitated. That wasn’t really it. “I think he’s going to be okay, although it appears he may need another surgery.”

  “So you want to go home for Saint Patrick’s day.”

  “I know we were supposed to be shooting at the theme parks in central Florida, and I know how hard you worked to straighten out all the paperwork and rights and—”

  “Things have been postponed before.”

  “I truly appreciate your attitude,” she told him softly, swallowing her draft, her eyes lowered.

&n
bsp; “I never believed we’d be going to Florida in March.”

  She looked at him and flushed. “You think I have no spine?”

  “I think your mother could take on the Terminator.”

  She flashed him a grateful smile. “I do have another idea. We can do a real ethnic Irish show and arrange with the Leisure Channel to do a live feed. It really might be a great idea. I think the viewers would love it.”

  Josh mused over the idea. He lifted his hands. “You could be right. ‘Fun, food, and fantasy—live from the home of the hostess herself.”’

  “How do you feel about Boston in March?”

  “Wretched, but then, it’s not much worse than New York.” He smiled at her suddenly. “Actually, I thought something like this might come up. I’ve had Michael checking into the permit situation in Boston as well as Orlando.”

  “You’re kidding! He didn’t say a word.”

  “He knows how to keep a confidence. I didn’t want you to suspect I was second-guessing you.”

  “Great.”

  “Hey, kid, it’s a show we should have done before this.”

  She grinned, suddenly feeling a tremendous sense of relief. “But you and Gina were looking forward to doing the whole Disney thing.”

  “We’ll still do it. We’ll just reschedule. And the kids won’t mind—they didn’t really understand what was going on anyway.”

  She smiled. He had a point. At eight months, the twins undoubtedly didn’t care one way or the other whether they got to see Mickey Mouse or not.

  “Do you want something to eat?” he asked her. “Or are you just going to drink your lunch?” He indicated her beer glass. It was empty, and she didn’t even remember drinking the whole thing.

  “I am Irish,” she muttered.

  He laughed, leaning forward again. “Hey! No ill will intended. I just wondered if you wanted food or not.”

  “Yes, yes, I guess I should eat.”

  “They make a nice salad here.”

  “Great. I think I’ll have a hamburger.”

  “Ah, we’re being a wild renegade today, eh?” He teased, motioning to their waiter.

  “What? Are you trying to be just a wee bit condescending, so I don’t have to be eternally grateful for making you change the entire schedule for the season?”

  He laughed. “Maybe. Maybe it’s just amusing to see you so afraid of going home.”

  “I am not afraid of going home! I go home all the time. Here comes the waiter. Just order me a hamburger—and another beer.”

  Josh did so diligently, but there was still a sparkle in his eyes.

  “So what are you so afraid of?” he asked softly, once the waiter had taken their order and departed.

  “I’m not afraid. I go home all the time.”

  “But this time you seem uneasy. Is it the fact that you think we should film at your home as an excuse to go there? The whole thing does fit nicely. There are a lot of Irish in the United States. And on Saint Patrick’s Day—”

  “Everyone is Irish. Yes, I know,” she murmured. Her second beer arrived. She flashed the waiter a smile. He grinned and left. She took a sip of the brew immediately, then sat back, running her fingertip along the edge of the glass.

  “So? It’s perfect.” Josh said.

  “Perfect—and what a cast of characters we have.”

  “Your mother is charming. So is your father.”

  “Mmm. They are. Just…”

  “Just what?”

  “Well, they are…eccentric.”

  “Your parents? No.”

  “Stop teasing. You know Granny Jon. She had me convinced for years that I had to be really good or the banshees would get me on the way to the outhouse. I think that Colleen, Patrick and I were all out of high school before we suddenly realized the great flaw in her terror tactics—we didn’t have an outhouse.”

  “Your grandmother is adorable.”

  “Like a hedgehog,” Moira agreed. “Then there’s my father, who has yet to accept the fact that in the U.S., the Fighting Irish are a football team.”

  “Not true! I’ve watched college football games with him. Though he does root for Notre Dame, I’ll give you that.”

  “My mother will give speeches on how the traditional dish is bacon and cabbage, not corned beef, and somewhere along the line, if you’re not careful, Dad will get going on English imperialism against the rights of the Gaelic-speaking people of the world, and then he’ll get going on the wonders of America. He’ll forget that as a country we massacred hundreds of thousands of Indians and he’ll start to list famous Americans of Irish descent, from the founding fathers to the Civil War—both sides, of course.”

  “Maybe he’ll avoid talking about Irishmen who rode with Custer.”

  “Josh, I’m serious. You know my dad. Please, God, make sure no one brings up the question of Irish nationalism or the IRA.”

  “Okay, we’ll keep him off politics.”

  She barely heard him as she rested an elbow on the table, leaning over, preoccupied. “Patrick will bring my little nieces and nephew, so Mum, Dad and Granny Jon will all be running around pretending there are stray leprechauns in the house. They’ll have beer kegs everywhere, and everything will be green.”

  “It sounds great.”

  “We’ll have all kinds of company—”

  “The more the merrier.”

  She straightened and looked him in the eye. “Danny is coming,” she told him.

  “Oh, I see,” he said softly.

  He awoke very late and very slowly, and in luxurious comfort. The mattress he lay on was soft, the sheets cool and clean. The woman beside him still smelled sweetly of perfume, and of the scent of their lovemaking. She was young, but not too young. Her skin was tanned and sleek. Her hair was dark, and a wealth of it graced the hotel pillow. She’d had her price, but what the hell, so did he. They’d had fun together.

  Coffee had brewed in a pot he’d set to go on a timer last night. Brewed and probably burned. He’d never imagined he would sleep so late.

  He leaned against his pillow and the headboard.

  America was good.

  He had always enjoyed it.

  There was so much here. Such an abundance. And such foolish people, who didn’t begin to understand what they had. Aye, they had their problems; he wasn’t at all blind to the world, nor did he lack compassion. But problems were different here. Spoiled rich kids, racial tensions, Republicans, Democrats…and, he had to say, though with all compassion, if they didn’t have enough problems, they just made more for themselves. But it didn’t change the fact that life was good.

  The phone rang. He reached to the bedside table; picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Have you the order ready, sir?”

  “I do. Shall I deliver, or do you want to come here?”

  “It’s probably better if you come here. We may have more business to discuss.”

  “That will be fine. When?”

  He was given a time; then the phone clicked. He hung up.

  The woman at his side stirred and moaned. She turned toward him; her eyes flickering open. She smiled. “Morning.”

  “Morning.” He leaned over and kissed her. She was still a cute little thing. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, tanned.

  She reached for him beneath the sheets, her hand curling around his sex.

  He arched a brow at her.

  She laughed. “Freebie. I don’t usually stay until morning—”

  “I don’t usually keep a who—a woman—till morning,” he amended kindly.

  Her fingers were talented, and he found himself quickly aroused. He noted, though, the light that was beginning to show around the edges of the curtains.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked him.

  He smiled, crushed out his cigarette. “Nothing,” he told her, drawing her head toward his, kissing her lips, then drawing her downward to continue a more liquid approach to her sensual assault on his body. He glanced at h
is watch. Plenty of time.

  She was very good, and it had been a long time since he’d had such an opportunity to dally. He let her have her way, then returned the favor, and when he made love to her—if one could, even politely, call the act “making love” when it with a woman who was a stranger and a whore at that—he did so with energy and pleasure, a courteous partner despite the fact that he swiftly climaxed. Even as he rolled to her side, he checked his watch again.

  “Late,” he muttered, then kissed her lips and headed for the shower. “Coffee’s on. Cigarettes are by the bed.”

  He showered quickly, with an economy of motion learned over the years. He emerged well scrubbed, hair washed. He grabbed a towel from the rack and studiously worked at drying his hair while he opened the bathroom door and exited, head covered, body naked.

  “Did you get your cof—” He began politely, but then paused, muscles tightening “What are you doing?” he asked sharply.

  She was on her knees, his pants in her hands.

  “I—” she began, dropping his pants, looking at him. She stumbled to her feet. Had she been about to rob him?

  He wondered what she had seen. He noted quickly that she had been through more than his pants. Drawers weren’t quite closed; the dust ruffle around the bed was still up at the foot of it. What had she discovered that had caused the look of fear she wore?

  Or was it merely what she was seeing in his eyes?

  She stood, clad in her bra slip and stockings. He watched the workings of her mind. She was wishing she’d got dressed and got the hell out while he had showered.

  But she hadn’t.

  Her eyes, glued to his, registered her fear. He didn’t look away; he saw the room with his peripheral vision. She’d done a good job in the time she’d had. Thorough. She was just a working girl—and, it appeared, a thief.

  Or was she?

  “I was just looking around, just curious,” she said, moistening her lips.

  Whatever else she was, she was a damn poor liar.

  “Ah, love,” he said softly. “Hadn’t you ever heard? Curiosity killed the cat.”

  “Ah, your good friend Daniel O’Hara,” Josh teased. “Think of it. If it hadn’t been for old Danny boy, you and I might be married now.”

  “And divorced—we’d have killed each other in a week,” Moira reminded him.