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IDES OF MARCH
by
MICHELLE ROBBINS
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
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Ides Of March
An Amber Quill Press Book
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.AmberQuill.com
http://www.AmberHeat.com
http://www.AmberAllure.com
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
Copyright © 2014 by Michelle Robbins
ISBN 978-1-61124-551-6
Cover Art © 2014 Trace Edward Zaber
Published in the United States of America
Also by Michelle Robbins
In Control
In Training
Rockin' The 'Nog
Dedication
It's an interesting life. I'll always honor and treasure:
Dwayne--my first
Eddie--for the gift of our daughter
Mark--you deserved a better me
Ricc--my Celtic hero
"I'd trade all my tomorrows for one single yesterday to
be holding Bobby's body next to mine." --K. Kristofferson
Chapter 1
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"Beware the Ides of March."
Hadn't that been the old crone's warning in one of Shakespeare's plays? Julius Caesar, wasn't it? But he hadn't listened, or paid enough attention if he had, and he'd died. Badly.
Et tu, Brute?
Bored as Kelly Hanks was, she doubted a savage knifing would be the end result of her venture manning a prize booth, regardless of its cock-eyed naming. The word was a blend of "be" and "aware," so really, all Caesar had to do was "be aware" around the fifteenth of March. Maybe if he had been "aware," then he could have avoided the knives? Or maybe he was like she was right now, stuck riding the horse Fate had handed her.
Like Caesar, the horse Fate had gifted her sucked.
Calling the booth The Ides of March hadn't been a good choice, she concluded and spent minutes counting how many ways it failed from a marketing standpoint. Fortunately, the reading of classical literature had been expunged from educational reading lists for--what?--two generations now? Three?
Now be fair, Kelly reminded herself, as her school knowledge in business and marketing swung into play. There are many ways to experience the word "beware."
The folks who'd clustered, grumpy and impatient, at the booth to buy the prize tickets didn't appear to be in any way worried about the portent that had signaled the doom of poor Julius Caesar. Sales were been brisk until the clock had struck six o'clock moments ago.
She her fellow booth-buddies had been kept busy throughout the day, but the lowering sun had acted like an end-of-work bell and pulled the surging masses out of Pioneer Square. Now celebrants had abandoned the St. Patrick's Day festivities and booths for nearby eateries and microbreweries.
Sure, it was cold and gloomy in Portland, Oregon, but we knew how to have a good time.
Pamphlets for the prize offered by Emerald Isle, Ltd. fluttered in a cold breeze and threatened to leap away from the front table and charge across the decorative stones of the area. She grabbed and flattened a hand atop the pile. A quick reconnaissance of the area offered a coffee mug she could use for a paperweight.
How very Portlander-esque.
A flock of probable undergraduates approached the booth, wearing smiles, scruffy clothes, and bulging backpacks. They stood for a long moment, whispering to each other and exchanging elbows, hip checks, and giggles before one separated from the pack. A lanky young man closed in on the booth, even as he evaluated the information signs nailed to the planks.
The clutch followed him, each with an open, friendly, and expectant expression.
"Hey," said Lanky Dude to Kelly. He gestured with his travel cup.
"Hey," she returned, also smiling.
Social ritual concluded, Lanky Dude focused on business.
"This the place to get the dinner raffles?" he asked
"You got it," said Kelly and launched into her infomercial spiel.
Emerald Isle, Ltd., new to the Portland business community, was offering five separate dinners, each at a high-end restaurant as a prize for donating to the Keep the Mounted Patrol Fund. Local literati and glitterati had volunteered their time to the worthy event and were looking forward to meeting the cluster of Portland's fine citizens who would help fund the drive by purchasing a ticket or two...or three... with five lucky winners awarded dinner with the Portland celebs.
"Awesome," Lanky Dude enthused.
He turned to his colleagues. A conversation happened among them, one filled with gestures toward pictures of the almost-famous locals that filled the booth's walls, especially with admiring squeals about one TV actor in particular, and finally Lanky turned back to her.
"Okay," he said with a nod. "We're in."
"Right on," said Kelly. "Step up. One each? A combined purchase?"
Lanky flicked an inquiring glance at his colleagues. Everyone smiled. Well, a few smirked. Lanky heaved a sigh.
"Yeah," he said with a grimace.
Had he lost a bet and was therefore stuck with the bill? That sucked.
Kelly tugged the entry cards close enough to give one to each entrant. They crowded the booth, jostling for with good-natured gusto.
"Fill them out, please, and take them over to Kim" --she nodded to one girl on her left-- "who will take the five-dollar donation and give you a button. Then over to Maddie" --another nod indicating another other girl who sat even farther on the left-- "who will exchange the button for a raffle ticket."
"Needlessly complex." Lanky sipped from his travel cup.
The group around him fell to scribbling information across the entry cards.
"I know, right? And just before Finals Week."
He laughed, picked up the card she'd placed before him, and drifted aside to join the cluster around Kim. In their absence, Kelly busied herself by straightening the stack of applications and wiping the table with a napkin, not because it needed it, but because she needed something to do. Her gaze fell on the stack of flapping pamphlets, specifically the graphic of Surf 'n' Turf Seafood.
A wistful sigh escaped her. The restaurant edged the Columbia River and offered a breathtaking view of it, as well as the shores of Washington state. "Upscale, but unpretentious" had said many a review. It was the kind of place Kelly had dreamed of dining at, but Stewart refused to pay what he deemed exorbitantly inflated menu prices.
"Want seafood?" he'd asked when she had bridged the topic. "Let's buy it at the neighborhood market and cook it at home. We can't afford to eat out. You know that. Whatever we have must go as far as we can make it go."
She pulled herself from her memories and refocused on the St. Patrick's Day festivities winding down at Pioneer Square. Balloon vendors packed away the remains of their inventory; the line for the face-painting booth had thinned; live entertainment was packing away their gear; and flyers for microbreweries, a staple of Portland's lifestyle, littered the ground. Evening shadows lengthened across the stone tiers and landscape. The cool spring wind snatched at her jacket and nipped at her cheeks. A local news crew worked to set up lighting and cameras for the prize drawings.
She turned to their final entrants. "News cre
w is here. Better beat feet over there. You two"--she indicated Kim and Maddie with an index finger--"run over, please, and make sure these last tickets get into the drawing, then you can take off for the day."
No one protested. In fact, she was quickly left alone in the booth, which wasn't a problem. She'd been at the booth all day, accepting "donations" and concluding transactions for the prize tickets. She'd let two of her fellow volunteers leave the booth much earlier. There was no need for everyone to miss out on the fun.
Marci had taken her darling daughter, Lexie, so they could get decorative shamrock and leprechaun artistry painted onto their faces. Shelby's cutie had arrived soon after with Baxter and Milo on their leashes and two foaming cups of St. Paddy's Day-themed decorative lattés. Kelly hadn't had the heart to make him wait and sent the two lovebirds on their way.
And now, Kim and Maddie were headed out as well.
In truth, she didn't mind closing the booth. It wasn't as though anyone awaited her at home. Well, other than her textbooks and fish tank--not that those qualified as "anyone," she reminded herself. That thought brought a wave of depression that threatened to swamp her holiday weekend. She gritted her teeth against the sadness and focused on the problem at hand and not the one looming so darkly over her life.
Kelly packed away the items in the booth, tucking them into storage boxes that would be retrieved by teardown workers. She secured the lockbox by turning the key, then tucking it into her pocket for safekeeping. She didn't take her eyes off the valuable items, even as she reached underneath the table to grope for her backpack. She'd managed to grab the straps, drag it up and over her leg, and set it down beside the lockbox when footsteps stopped in front of her.
A pile of money was set down onto the wood by a bronzed, masculine hand that rested atop the bills, holding them against the evening breeze. President Jackson winked at her from between strong-looking fingers dusted with dark hairs.
She glanced up, startled, and squinted at the masculine bulk silhouetted against the setting sun, a pillar of dark against bruised purple of the western horizon. The money was as startling as his sudden arrival.
"I'm sorry. We're closed. The drawing is probably happening now. See the news crew?" She would have pointed, but her hands were currently occupied with shading her eyes.
He shifted position. For the purpose of allowing her to see him easier? Don't be silly. Nevertheless, she was able to see him better...and she took a long, appreciative look.
Dark Celtic glory stood before her, all yummy muscle and masculinity, and a smile twinkled from between smile-grooved cheeks. He reminded her of Hollywood hottie Colin Farrell. She loved watching his films, not only for the pleasant eye candy, but also because he reminded her of Joey, her personal Celtic hero. She'd carried a torch for Joey since her teens, but he was long gone from her life.
He spoke, his voice carrying the soft touch of Ireland. "That's okay because there's only one person I'm wanting to take to dinner," he said, "and that's you."
"Me?"
He even sounded like Colin Farrell.
"Yes, you. Well" --a frown furrowed his brows and dimmed his smile-- "you are Kelly Hanks, are you not?"
"Yes, but--" What in the world?
"Who went to Mount View High School?"
"Uhh..." Her brain stalled. "Yeah."
His frown eased away and his megawatt smile again graced his face. She felt the heat of that smile sizzle across her nerves clear to her toes. A sinfully dangerous smile, she reflected. Good thing it didn't sport dimples or all hell would pay.
He tilted his head inquiringly.
"You don't recognize me? I'm crushed." In contrast to his statement, he fitted his hands to his hips and chuckled.
Was she supposed to recognize him? She shifted through recent memories. No, no one came to mind. She wouldn't have forgotten such an amazing smile or those outstanding shoulders.
"Should I?" she blinked.
"I'm thinking you should, since I beat up Spazz Larson when he made you cry."
"You did wha--" A gasp choked off the rest of her statement as Kelly's brain went into overdrive. Memories spilled into her mental buffer, causing her muscles to lock up and her mouth to drop open.
"He wouldn't stop calling you Smelly Kelly at lunch," he continued. "You cried. I busted his lip."
Her lips felt stiff. Wooden.
"Oh my God...impossible... It can't be..."
The gorgeous smile transformed into an adorably cheeky grin. He winked. "In person."
Then his voice transformed into a full-blown Irish brogue as he said, "Better known by the church as Joseph Patrick Michael O'Connor. But," he dropped the brogue, "you called me Joey."
The universe opened up around her and set her adrift in time and space. Those hazel eyes. She knew those eyes.
"Joey O'Connor?" But she already had the answer. "It is you!"
Laughing, crying, Kelly scrambled from behind the table and hurled herself into his arms.
Chapter 2
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Kelly gasped as those strong arms came around her body and tightened. Fire lashed her skin and raced along her nerves' pathways. This was no teenager's body. Joey's muscles shifted in fascinating ways as he pulled her closer, hugging thigh-to-thigh and chest-to-chest.
Heat unfurled inside of her, startling, intense, alarming. Her mind spun at all the details.
The cords of his neck were a marvel of biological engineering, the skin so soft, and the edges of his walnut brown hair tickled the backs of her hands. The chest beneath her cheek looked endlessly wide with the ocean-like vista of the navy-blue pullover sweater he wore. Scratchy, heavy, felt like thick wool. Something found for sale in a snowier climate than the Pacific Northwest.
One of his legs pressed between hers and shifted, bringing her crotch into intimate contact with his muscled thigh. Her hips, acting on their own accord, rocked against the intruder and caused a shower of snowflakes to shiver down her spine. A hard cramp twisted low in her pelvis. Heat brightened between her legs. She trembled as the urge to stroke herself again on his leg thundered through her heart. Her cheeks heated.
Oh, jeez, humping his leg? Step back, girl.
But before she could pull herself together enough to do so, he'd lifted her off her feet and made a playful, happy twirl. She squealed--sounding just like a teenager--and clung to him as the world spun around her. He rocked her back onto her feet. She stumbled a bit and clutched his mountainous shoulders for balance.
He paused, waiting.
She looked up...and fell into the depths of his dark eyes.
A flush stained his cheeks. Those stunning lashes, so long, lowered toward his carved cheekbones. They hooded his eyes and concealed the thoughts within them. He cupped her face with those now-manly-and-large hands. The slight roughening of calluses brushed her cheeks as he tilted her head down and planted a kiss on her forehead.
Was that an Irish thing? It wasn't an American greeting.
She took a step backward, causing him to drop his hands, and busied herself tucking her windblown mop of hair back behind her ears. A heat, one not unlike a forest fire, seared across her limbs. Kelly grabbed for her composure and straightened her shoulders. That may be Joey, but she didn't need to be blushing like-- Oh, crap!
She swung back toward the booth with a gasp.
Her gaze fell on the lockbox full of cash, checks, and credit card receipts. Still there, thank God. The stack of bills, however, trembled in the evening breeze and threatened to blow away. She slapped her hand down onto it, horrified to realize the pile was somewhat reduced. Downwind, money flittered across the stones of Pioneer Square.
"Oh, dear Lord..."
She fisted the remnants of the donations and made a desperate lunge toward the blowing money, only to stop short at the realization she could not leave the lockbox untended. But if she stopped to lock it away, the money would be lost to the wind or picked up by passers-by.
Kelly waffled. Panic seized h
er as she was caught between the two desperate desires. One to rectify the mistake and return the money, and the other to ensure nothing else went missing.
Two rumpled youths grabbed for tumbling twenty-dollar bills and ran away.
Mind the money! This isn't a game!
Stewart's voice roared through her memory. Her stomach hollowed.
"No worries," said Joey.
He shrugged one shoulder and followed her gaze toward the unexpected beneficiaries of his donation. "I pray those who need it will find it."
How on earth could anyone in this economy be so cavalier over the loss of money? Someone was going to be very, very angry with her.
"...the rest can go into the box," Joey was saying. "Worthy donations, in my opinion. The Mounted Patrol and for needy nearby."
"How could I have been so careless?"
The rhetorical question ripped from her throat. He frowned at the sound of her agonized cry.
"Hey, go easy, love," he soothed.
That was easy for him to say. How could she take it easy? The fault was hers, all hers. She'd have to dive into her thin savings account and make it right. Her fingers trembled as she counted the remaining bills. Only ten of them remained. Ten? Holy shit! How many had she lost? Would she have enough to cover the loss?
She would make a goodwill down payment. That might give her some time. She could push back her graduation date and take another school loan in the event the job didn't come through. And since she'd just lost a chunk of donation money, she probably wouldn't get an employment offer.
Kelly bit her lip and fished the key out of her pocket. She unlocked the box, tucked the remaining ten bills inside the box, and re-locked it.
"You'll want a receipt for your taxes. I'll write down the full amount." She cast about, trying to remember in what box she'd stored the receipts. "I'll report the shortage as my fault. I'll make it good. I really am sorry."
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