by CA Quigg
“No.” Quinn moved away from Ronan.
Ronan caught Quinn’s hand and entwined his fingers with hers. A tremor of something passed between them, and by the way Quinn’s eyes widened, she felt it too.
“Your man will be staying with you.” Ronan held her seething gaze, her eyes the color of a raging whirlpool. “We wouldn’t want to put Brendan to any more trouble by messing up two guest rooms so close to the event, would we, snookums?”
“I’m… I’m sure it’s no trouble.” She tore her eyes from his. “I’ll clean them myself. You know we, ehm, promised each other we wouldn’t sleep together again until our wedding night.”
“For God’s sake, spare me the details,” Brendan said with a roll of his eyes.
Ronan lowered his lips to her ear and whispered. “Afraid of what you might see if you walk in on me in the shower?”
“Get over yourself.” She looked him up and down, but he didn’t miss the way her eyes lingered on his crotch. “Think you have something I haven’t seen before?” She snatched her hand from his and walked to the butcher’s block. “One room it is.”
“I’ll go up and light the fire.” Brendan set a lid on top of the pot of simmering stew.
“No need. I will,” Ronan offered.
Quinn snorted. “It’s an easy light log. Any idiot can light it.”
“It’s a good thing I’m an idiot then, isn’t it?”
“Your words…”
“You two are giving me a bloody headache.” Brendan threw his knife into the farmhouse sink. “I’ll light the fire.” He washed and dried his hands, pulled an old-fashioned brass key from his pocket and slid it across the countertop. “Stay in the Áine suite on the second floor. It’s not that bad. There are fresh linens in the laundry room. Grab some on the way.” Without a backward glance, he left the kitchen.
“Why are you such a jerk?” Quinn grabbed the key and shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans.
“What can I say?” He leaned his back against the butcher’s block and cradled the still warm but empty glass in his hand. “It’s my cross to carry.”
She paced in front of the fire, followed by Max, and blew damp straggles of hair out of her face. “You infuriate me like no other man I’ve ever met. I’ve a thousand things to do before this day is over. Then I plan on a long soak before curling up in front of the fire with my laptop and Netflix. I don’t want you anywhere near me. I don’t want to think about you. I don’t want to see you. And don’t even think we’re sleeping in the same bed.”
Quinn crouched and tickled between Max’s ears. “I’ll come back for you later. Be good. Don’t pee on anything.” She started toward the steps leading up to the foyer and Ronan followed. The sway of her hips and the stride of her long legs drew his gaze. The curve of her backside in her tight jeans was a sight he didn’t think he’d ever tire of.
“Getting a good enough look?” she asked, walking upstairs.
“At what?”
“Don’t even pretend.”
“You’re walking up a set of stairs in front of me. Where else am I supposed to look?”
“Typical man, thinking with his dick.”
“I can assure you, I’m anything but typical.”
She spun around and a kaleidoscope of emotions shifted over her face. “You just proved my point. You’re a typical man who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”
Her defiant tone taunted him, and if she’d thrown down the gauntlet, he was more than willing to pick it up.
“Are you trying to get me to prove something? Because if you are, I have no problem doing exactly that.”
“In your dreams.”
There was zero conviction behind her words. Without thought, Ronan stepped forward until he was close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. A squeak of protest sounded from her throat, and as if to push him away, her hand flattened over his racing heart, but then her lips parted as if inviting him in.
He accepted the invitation and lowered his head. The softness of her lips defeated him, and his body flew a white flag of surrender as blood surged south. He reached for her hair, and tugged her messy bun loose, his fingers tightening around the mass of caramel waves as they fell. Their lips molded together, and he pulled her deeper into their embattled kiss. When their tongues touched, his mind blanked, thoroughly erasing any need for her to fail. The taste of coffee and whiskey coated her lips, and the scent of sweet apples and vanilla from her hair left him woozy. It was all he could do not to throw Quinn over his shoulder, find one of the secret rooms Brendan had mentioned, and explore how out of control things between them could get.
She moaned into his mouth and crushed herself against him. The feel of her breasts pressing into his chest sent all common sense packing. A week of this, of her, wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He nipped at her lower lip and ran his hands over her lush curves, but before he could investigate any further, she broke away, gasping for air.
Her fingers flew to her lips. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“I thought you wanted…” He ran a hand through his hair.
She took half a step back and pressed herself against the stone wall, her throat working hard as she swallowed.
“You took me by surprise. I didn’t have time to think. You’re so not staying in the same room as me.”
“Frightened you won’t be able to control yourself, sweetheart?” He didn’t mean his words to sound as caustic as they did—he should take them back, apologize—but right now he wanted to push her, argue with her, see the fire in her eyes.
“It’s not me I’m afraid off.” Her neck flushed crimson, and confusion laced her voice. “Do you do that a lot? Kiss women you’ve just met?”
“But we haven’t just met, have we? How did you sell it? Like Tristan and Isolde, we were destined to be together. Branwen, the goddess of love and beauty, helped us find each other. We met in a pub, and even though we lived on different continents, our paths overlapped many, many times. Before your granny immigrated to Queens in the ‘50s, she lived two streets away from where I was eventually born and raised. I know all of your Irish relatives. I even went to school with your second cousins. The thin red thread of fate brought us together. We moved in after a week because we couldn’t live without each other.”
Quinn crossed her arms again and locked them in place with a white-knuckle grip. A tight-lipped smile slashed a scarred line across her beautiful face. “Someone really screwed you over. God, I feel sorry for you.”
“Sorry for me? Are you for real?” Could she read the past in his eyes, see the cynicism and betrayal lingering there? Was her ability to read people the reason she was such a good con artist? And to think he wanted to help her. More fool him.
For a brief second, he closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids. “You might think I don’t know you, but I do.” He stared her down. “You’re like every other woman who lies and cheats to get what she wants. A master manipulator who’s so entrenched in her own lies she doesn’t know what’s fact and what’s fiction.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
What was wrong with him? His emotions swung faster than a pendulum on a clock. He was acting like an arsehole. She was right. He was a jerk and everything else she’d accused him of. He wanted to pull her to him, to apologize, to say he’d do all he could to help, but the words disintegrated on his tongue.
“Who’s being typical now?” His words went from sharp to soft. “Tears don’t work on me.”
Chapter Four
Quinn barreled up the rest of the stairs, swiping the stinging tears from her cheeks. Why couldn’t she ever get angry without tears? And more importantly, why had her body melted into Ronan’s with zero resistance? Wasn’t she supposed to hate him? Supposed to never fall for another Irishman?
Wanting to erase his taste, she scrubbed the back of her hand over her lips. Useless. The taste and feel of him lingered.
The phantom touch of his hands tingled around her waist. The slight sting in her hair from his tugging fingers remained.
The space between her thighs pulsated, swollen and damp. If his mouth elicited that kind of response, what could the rest of his body do? It was so, so tempting to find out, if only to pacify the hormones pummeling her insides.
She shook her head and slapped her fists against the side of her thighs. The schizoid Stockholm syndrome she was suffering from had to stop. She’d known him for less than twelve hours, yet here she was, ready to spread ‘em and have him take her against a wall.
Destroying her livelihood and future was his M.O. For Christ’s sake, he was blackmailing her. He wouldn’t get away with it. No matter what it took, she’d fight for what was hers, and she’d stay away from him until she got her hormones on a leash.
She grabbed a set of linens from the laundry room, made her way to the Àine suite, and stood by the threshold, inspecting her home for the next week.
Apart from two unlit sconces on either side of a shabby needlepoint tapestry depicting a bored lady on a white stallion, the exposed stone walls were bare. There was no real color scheme or much furniture. Gray damask curtains hung by two latticed windows, and a heavy, carved chair which wouldn’t look out of place in a church sat in front of a curved vanity table with an age-speckled mirror. Two flowery wing-backed chairs stood at an angle by the weak fire Brendan had lit. In the center of the room was a bed—a four-poster queen canopied by sheer drapes.
She gave her head a quick shake. Nope. Not happening. Not in this lifetime or the next. The size of the bed settled it. Since her body sent her mind on vacation whenever Ronan was around, there would be no bed sharing. Too bad for him if he didn’t want to sleep on the floor. But maybe he… No.
She sighed and closed the door behind her. There was no point stalling in the hallway. This was her new home whether she liked it or not. She threw the linens hanging over her arm onto the unmade mattress. Brendan, being an angel as always, had already brought up her suitcase.
Jack Frost dashed around the room, and Quinn shivered under the vicious nip of his fingers. Needing to chase the chill from the air, she grabbed two pieces of peat from a brass bucket by the grate and threw them onto the wispy flames. Satisfied by the earthy aroma the spiraling smoke gave off, she toed off her boots and kicked them toward the bed. The flagstone floor cooled her burning insteps, and if her feet could talk, she was sure they would offer profuse thanks for their freedom.
She padded across the floor to the window. The storm outside didn't show any signs of letting up. Deceptively innocent snowflakes spiraled downward, disintegrating on contact with the sluggish Lough Veagh. By morning, a shell of ice and a blanket of snow would cover its surface.
Pressure built behind her eyes. What a mess. Twenty-eight years old working for a pittance and praying the one man who knew her secret would keep it. How did she let it come to this?
Daylight dimmed, and drowsiness trickled into her bones. Ignoring her tired reflection, she leaned her forehead against the frosted windowpane, her warm breath fogging the inside of the glass. If she could get through the next few days without falling to the floor and curling into the fetal position, she could get through anything.
A dull ache pulsed between her shoulder blades, and she rolled her shoulders back to work out the kinks. Wedding planning could wait for another hour while she soaked in a bath hot enough to scald her skin. Disappearing from reality for a while was the perfect solution. Closing her eyes and pretending she hadn’t said the most infuriating and sexiest stranger she’d ever met was her fiancé was exactly what she needed.
Subdued light from a frosted window spilled into the slate-tiled bathroom. A broom-closet-sized shower cubicle stood at the far end of the room, and a heavenly white claw-footed tub with a curved top sat in the middle.
Beside the tub sat a wicker basket filled with a dusty mishmash of soaps and soaks. She rummaged around and chose a small purple bottle with a picture of lavender on the label. There was no knowing how old it was or if it was still in date, and there was only one way to find out. She opened the bottle and sniffed. It didn’t smell like it would melt her skin on contact.
She turned the squeaky faucets and poured the liquid into the steaming flow of water. A soft, musky aroma drifted upward, and she prayed it would help unwind some of the tension in her muscles. The thought of lowering herself into the plump bubbles and soaking until her skin wrinkled filled her with happy anticipation.
Making sure she locked the bathroom door, because Ronan catching her naked and covered in bubbles would be a disaster, she undressed.
She tested the water temperature with her toes and then inched her adrenaline-ravaged body into the welcoming warmth. Her muscles turned to goo on contact. A glass of wine would relax her more, or even better, a bottle. Lily had the right idea, but getting wasted wasn’t the answer, even if it sounded like a perfectly reasonable solution.
Her mind drifted back to Ronan’s kiss, and for a moment she allowed herself to imagine he was her fiancé. The day’s events blurred, and she pictured him sitting behind her in the tub, his firm thighs encasing hers. Perhaps locking the door wasn’t one of her better ideas. What would happen if he walked in on her?
To shut the world out, she closed her eyes and pictured him holding her, kissing her, stroking her. Beneath the water her nipples stiffened, and an all too familiar ache settled deep in her pelvis.
Stop.
What the actual fuck was she doing? Her eyes snapped open, and she hauled in a breath. Ronan Donovan was not her fiancé and imagining he was anything more than an asshole was a huge mistake. This—everything—was his fault. If he hadn’t storm-trooped into her life and kissed her, then her body wouldn’t crave the touch from a man it would never have.
Groaning at her foolish fantasy, she sank into the water and cushioned her chin on the bubbles. If it wasn’t all so ludicrous, she would’ve laughed at the way her body reacted to him. And even though she knew it was ludicrous, an insane ache urged her to brush her fingers over her nipples and then go lower.
Cooling water hauled Quinn from sleep, and when she opened her eyes, dark shadows from the night sky had claimed the bathroom. She leaped out of the tub and grabbed a rough towel from the rail behind the door. Stepping into Antarctica would’ve been warmer than stepping onto the floor. Her body shook, and goose bumps pebbled her skin, and she half expected her toes to turn black from frostbite.
A puffy reflection stared back from the gilded mirror hanging over the sink. The so-called waterproof mascara, which cost a week’s rent, had leaked into every fine line around her eyes. No one would believe she hadn’t been partying hard. If she had knocked back a few glasses of wine, she might’ve had an excuse for looking as if she’d drank into the small hours.
She grabbed a wipe from her toiletry bag and scrubbed around her raccoon eyes, and when she no longer looked like she’d been on a two-day bender, she threw on a papery white robe that stank of industrial detergent and opened the bathroom door.
The flames now crackled merrily in the hearth and bathed the room in a cozy glow. A night by the fire catching up on emails while binge watching Netflix seemed heavenly.
A gentle snore from behind the canopy alerted her to Ronan’s presence. Shit. He must have sneaked in while she slept in the tub. She inched the gauzy curtain back. Ronan’s sprawled body took up most of the freshly made bed, his chest rising and falling with each gentle breath he took. He’d changed from his suit into a ratty Mets tee and a pair of gray sweatpants. Max curled up by his side, and the sight of them napping together hugged her heart.
Firelight danced across the contours of Ronan’s face, highlighting his long eyelashes and high cheekbones. There was no denying he was sexy as hell. Shame his personality would give the devil a run for his money.
He shifted on the mattress and the hem of his t
-shirt rode up. A thin rope of dark hair twisted down his flat stomach and beneath the elastic of his sweats. She looked closer. The suit he’d worn today hid a whole lotta nice. Ripped abs told her Ronan made good use of the gym. Tingles of pleasure bounced around her nerves. What was wrong with her? The sex-starved hormones assaulting her synapses needed to give it a rest.
He wasn’t a long lost lover back to sweep her off her feet. A romantic hero who’d make everything better. Although, she wouldn’t mind walking her fingers down the line of his happy trail and wrapping her fingers around his c—
“Like what you see?” he asked sleepily. Max yawned, turned around, and snuggled into the crook of Ronan’s arm. Traitor.
Quinn folded her arms. The outline of her hard nipples beneath the robe wasn’t something he needed to see. “I wanted to make sure you were still breathing, because if you were, I was going to put a pillow over your face.”
He rolled over and dove for her hand. “More lies.”
Afraid his touch would turn her to mush, she jumped out of his reach and sat on the edge of the fireside chair. Taking care to avoid glancing in his direction, because she might surrender to her hormones and leap on top of him, she yanked her robe tighter and rested her chin on balled fists.
“We can’t sleep in the same bed,” she said. “You know that, right?”
One of his hands held the sheer curtain back while the other hand absently stroked Max’s back. This would go down in her personal history as the first time she’d ever been jealous of a dog.
“Where do you want me to sleep? On the stone floor?”
“I’ll call Brendan and have him bring up a cot.”
