Jenny Marshall would get her shot at being the lead artist on this project, and if she failed, he’d get rid of her, too. Brady and his partners worked hard, put everything they were into the job at hand, and damned if he’d accept anything less from the people around them.
“My brother, Robbie, would love this,” she said as Brady steered her into the graphic-art division on the third floor of the old mansion.
There were desks, easels and plotting boards scattered around the big space. Computer terminals sat at every desk alongside jars holding pencils, pens, colored markers and reams of paper. Rock music pumped through the air, setting a beat that had a couple of the artists’ chairs dancing, bobbing their heads and mouthing the words to the song. Every time Brady went into that room, he felt like the only earthling on Mars.
Someone had made popcorn in the bright red microwave, and the smell flavored every breath as he walked with Aine around the room.
“Some of our artists prefer doing all of the work on the computer, but most also enjoy the sensation of putting pen to paper, as well.” He watched Aine sneaking peeks at works in progress. “It doesn’t matter to me how they get the job done,” Brady added, “as long as they do it well. And on schedule.”
She slanted him a look. “Yes, I remember what happened to Peter.”
Brady shrugged. “He had his chances and blew them all.”
“You’re not an easy man, are you?”
“Nothing’s easy,” he said, staring into the cool forest green eyes that had haunted him from the first moment he’d seen them. Then he took her arm and guided her around the room. As they walked, the buzz of conversations quieted. Brady knew that having the boss in the place would slow things down, but he wanted Aine to see all of Celtic Knot so she could appreciate exactly who it was she was working for.
He gave a meaningful glance to the people watching them and they all quickly got back to their work. Aine pulled away from him to take a closer look at a sketch one of the women was perfecting. When she came back to his side, Aine was smiling. “Oh, yes, Robbie would love all of this.”
“Your brother?” he asked.
She glanced at him briefly. “Aye, I’ve told you he’s mad for your games, but he’s also an artist. A good one, too,” she added with a quick, proud smile. “He’d be in heaven here, surrounded by talented people, drawing what he loves to draw.”
“He wants to work on games?” Brady asked.
“It’s his dream and one he’s determined will come true,” she said, pausing to look over the shoulder of a young man adding a wash of color to a sketch of a forest under moonlight.
“Lovely,” she said, and the man turned to give her a wide grin.
Brady frowned, watching as Joe Dana turned on the charm and aimed it right at Aine. Annoyance—and something else—rose up inside and nearly choked him. He wasn’t sure what the hell he was feeling, but he damn well knew he didn’t like the way Joe was letting his gaze slide up and down Aine’s curvy body.
“You’ve made the forest look alive,” Aine told the man, giving him another smile.
“Thanks,” Joe said, “but you haven’t seen me add the werewolves yet.”
“Werewolves?” She looked at the forest scene again. “But it’s so pastoral, really, despite all the wild growth beneath the trees there. Adding monsters to it seems a shame.”
“Monsters are what people like about games,” Brady said, interrupting before Joe could speak again. At the sound of his boss’s voice, the other man seemed to remember Brady’s presence and shifted his focus from Aine to the sketch pad in front of him.
“We keep the soul of the art,” Joe was saying as he deftly added a few dark strokes with a thick black marker, creating the shadowy outline of a werewolf, complete with dripping fangs. “‘The Wolf of Clontarf Forest.’ It’ll be out sometime next year.”
“Well, that’s terrifying, isn’t it?” Aine said to no one in particular. “And the forest looked so peaceful and dreamlike before...”
“That’s one of the things our games are known for,” Brady told her.
“Werewolves?”
Joe, the artist, laughed and said, “Not specifically. But the boss is right. We take something beautiful and make it dangerous. That’s what makes it creepy. The danger lurking just beneath a placid surface.”
Aine nodded and turned her gaze up to Brady’s. In her eyes he saw the same danger lying beneath the serene surface she showed him. A different kind of jeopardy than some animated monster, Aine was like nothing he’d ever known before. There were fires within her, waiting to be stoked. Skin waiting to be caressed. And if he gave in to what he wanted, he’d be in even deeper trouble than if he stumbled across a werewolf.
“Clontarf?” she asked suddenly, her eyes narrowed suspiciously on him. “Are you making a game of the Battle of Clontarf?”
“We’re using it as a backdrop, yeah. You’ve heard of it?”
Aine’s eyes widened. “Every Irish child learns their history. The last high king of Ireland, Brian Boru, fought and died at Clontarf.”
“He did,” Brady said, impressed that she knew of it. He and the Ryan brothers did a lot of research into Irish history, not to mention the fact that the Ryans’ parents were from Ireland and had raised their sons on the traditions and superstitions they remembered. At Celtic Knot, they preferred using actual historical figures and actions as stepping-off points to give their games another layer of reality. “I think you’ll be impressed with the artwork of the actual battle scenes. Kids are going to love the gore factor of fighting with broadswords...”
“And you’ve turned it into a game?” She was horrified.
Joe Dana whistled low and long and hunched over his sketch pad. A couple of heads turned toward them, but Brady hardly noticed, so caught was he by the fury in Aine’s gaze.
“King Brian defeated the Vikings, setting Ireland free, and died in the doing,” she said, clearly outraged at having her country’s history borrowed for entertainment.
“He did, and in our game, he’ll do the same,” Brady said coolly, taking her arm, ignoring the stiffness of her movements as he guided her through the room. “Only when Brian wins, it’ll be because a legion of werewolves helped him. And if a player does well enough, he can be crowned the next high king of Ireland. Look at it this way,” he said, “when people play this game, they’ll be learning about your history. They’ll play a game, fight for the Irish and learn all about King Brian Boru.”
“Irish history doesn’t include slavering werewolves.” Aine shook her head and blew out a breath, obviously trying to relieve the rush of anger at seeing her country’s heroes portrayed as part of a supernatural scenario. “I’m not sure if I should be impressed or appalled. Werewolves in Ireland?”
He shrugged and noticed the tension in her body was easing whether she realized it or not. “Why not? You guys believe in banshees, faeries, pookas... The list is long. Why not a werewolf?”
“True,” she allowed, then cocked her head and looked up at him. “You guys? You still think you’re not Irish.”
Ignoring that, he frowned and guided her toward another artist’s desk. “The storyboards for the games are laid out, checked for mistakes, and the scriptwriters work with the artists to lay in just enough dialogue to explain what’s happening.”
“So it’s as you said, not just running and shooting?” Aine asked.
Her eyes were wide and interested, but he saw playfulness in those depths, too. “Much more than that. There are riddles, puzzles to solve. Mysteries to work out along the way.”
“Ah, sure, the thinking man’s video game, then,” she said, humor evident in her tone.
Brady nodded. “Actually, that’s exactly right.”
He could see he’d surprised her with his response. But Brady thought her quip was righ
t on the money. He and the Ryans prided themselves on the depth of the games they designed. While most people dismissed video entertainment as mindless, Celtic Knot Games had built a reputation for sophistication of story style and a narrative that, while rooted in fantasy, also boasted realism that drew a player into a role-playing world.
He took her arm and steered her out of the graphic design area and across the wide hall to a room on the other side of the house, where computers ruled.
“This is where our programmers take over,” he said, then stepped back and allowed her to enter the room. He watched her as she wandered through the space, stopping at each desk where computer experts worked their keyboards. There were framed images taken from their games dotting the walls, and a sense of humming energy and creativity buzzed in the air. Music churned out, a wild rock beat giving the programmers a rhythm they matched with the rapid typing at the keyboards.
He could see where Aine might be fascinated by the programmers, who were, he noticed with a frown, pausing in their work to explain things to her. Normally, when you walked into this room, you were completely ignored. Like every other computer expert Brady had ever met, the guys in here didn’t see anything beyond what was on their screens. Hell, Brady himself had been in here when he’d had to shout to get their attention—but every man in the room had suddenly become focused on Aine Donovan. He couldn’t blame them, but damned if he enjoyed watching the scene play out in front of him.
She laughed at something one of them said and Brady’s insides fisted at the sound. She let her head fall back, and all that amazing hair of hers seemed to flow down her back like a molten river. She reached out and laid one hand on a programmer’s shoulder as she leaned in to see what he wanted to show her on the screen, and Brady’s frown deepened. Jealous of a friendly touch? No, he assured himself. The idea was ridiculous. But for completely unrelated reasons, he ended the visit to the programming room and steered Aine back into the hall.
“It’s all very impressive,” she said, “though I’ll admit I don’t understand half of what it is you do here.”
“That’s all right,” he said, guiding her down the stairs to the main hall. “I wouldn’t know how to manage a castle, would I?”
She sent him a long look. “I’ve a feeling that you’d find a way to excel at it.”
“I would,” he agreed, leading her along the hall and toward the French doors that led to the patio and backyard. “But since you’re already an expert, I don’t need to be.”
She stepped outside and walked into a patch of sunlight that dappled through the surrounding elms. A soft ocean breeze rustled the leaves and lifted her hair from her shoulders. Turning to face him, she said, “And as your manager, I’ll be in charge of seeing the changes made to the castle.”
“That’s right.”
“And you’ll give me a list, I suppose.”
“More than that,” he said and gestured to a table and chairs. They took seats beside each other and Brady said, “Over the next three weeks, you and I will be working on the plans for the castle—”
“Three weeks?”
Her surprise sounded in her voice even if he hadn’t seen it in her eyes. Brady paid no attention and continued, “I’ll want your input on some of the changes to the bedrooms, the furnishings, the setup to the new kitchens. There we want the medieval look and feel but naturally all modern appliances...”
“I’m sorry,” she interrupted. “Did you say three weeks?”
“Yeah.” He looked at her. “Is that a problem?”
“I never thought I’d be here that long.”
Brady watched her and could almost see the wheels of her brain turning. She chewed at her bottom lip, and the action tugged at something inside him. Her face was an open book, he thought. There was no artifice there, no poker face. She obviously wasn’t as used to schooling her features as he was.
But then, he’d spent a lifetime hiding what he was feeling from the rest of the world.
And over the years that had become easier because Brady had simply avoided feeling anything at all. Friendship was one thing. He couldn’t stop caring for the Ryan brothers because they were the only family he’d ever known. Cutting them out of his life would be impossible even if he wanted to. It hadn’t been easy, lowering his defenses enough to let them in, but Mike and Sean had simply refused to be shut out of Brady’s life. They’d steamrolled over his objections and had drawn him into a circle of friendship he’d never known before them.
They were the only people who saw Brady’s laughter or anger or fears. They were the only people he trusted that much. And he had no intention of risking anyone else getting that close. Especially a woman who worked for him.
Didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the rush of desire that came out of nowhere to knock his legs out from under him.
“Three weeks,” she repeated, more to herself than to him.
“Is there a problem?” He heard the stiffness in his own voice and didn’t bother to soften it. She worked for Celtic Knot, whether she was in Ireland or America.
She responded to his tone and he watched as she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Why those subtle movements would affect him as much as a more sensual move would have was beyond him.
“Three weeks is a long time when you’re not prepared for it,” she said, then she became thoughtful. “I can call home, let the staff know I won’t be about, and then call my mother...”
Now she surprised him. “Your mother?”
“She’d worry otherwise, wouldn’t she?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Brady said simply. How the hell would he know what mothers were like? His own had dropped him off at Child Services when he was six years old, with the promise to come back by the end of the week. He’d never seen her again. As for the Ryan brothers, whenever they went home to visit with their folks, Brady stayed away. He’d gone with them once, during college. And though their parents had made every effort, Brady had spent that incredibly long weekend too uncomfortable to accept their open hospitality. He had no idea how to deal with the threads of family and he told himself it was too damn late now to try to understand it. Not that he wanted to.
Aine looked at him in confusion, but that expression quickly faded. “I’m happy to stay, of course,” she said a little too tightly to be believable. “I’ll help in any way I can, obviously.”
“Good.” He nodded shortly and refused to acknowledge the fact that the next three weeks with Aine Donovan were going to be a test of the self-control he’d always prided himself on. Hell, even sitting here beside her in the sunlight was making him burn. Watching her eyes narrow on him kindled those slow-moving flames inside him until his skin buzzed with expectation. She was unexpected, but damned if he could regret having her drop into his lap—so to speak.
Maybe he would regret it later. But for right now, that quickening fire was all he could think about.
* * *
For the next week, Aine felt as if she was living in a tornado—the Brady Finn Tornado. It seemed he was tireless. They roamed through countless antiques stores—and Brady kept insisting that old furniture was the same, whether European or American. She’d fought him on several tables, chairs and even a bed or two, and to give the man his due, he was willing to be nudged away from his first decision when offered a better choice. But he was monopolizing her time. They were together every day and talked of what still needed to be done over dinner.
And every day it became just a little bit harder to ignore the heat she felt just being around him.
Ridiculous, and she knew it, to feel this way, but it appeared she had no control over her body’s reaction to a man she had no business getting dizzy over. He was autocratic, opinionated, and he tended to speak to her as if he were expecting her to pull a steno tablet from her bag and start taking notes.
If
anything, she should be infuriated at his domineering attitude. Yes, he was her employer, but he wasn’t the Prince of Wales, was he? And even if he were, Aine admitted, an Irishwoman wouldn’t be bowing down to him.
But instead of this very rational reaction to being ordered about on a daily basis, Aine spent entirely too much time watching his mouth as he spoke, wondering what his lips would feel like. Taste like. And it wasn’t as if she could escape these thoughts when she slept, because her dreams were full of him, as well.
Because, she acknowledged, bossy and controlling wasn’t all there was to the man. She’d also seen him stop and hold a door for a woman burdened down with bags of groceries. Whenever they went walking he never failed to drop a bill or two into the open cases of street musicians or to hand money to a homeless man holding a cardboard sign. He was a confusing mixture of rough and kind, of sharp and soft, and he fascinated her more with every passing day.
“I think that takes care of today’s business,” Brady said, snapping Aine’s attention back to him.
The sea wind ruffled his dark hair like fingers running through it and Aine folded her own fingers into her palm to avoid the urge to do it herself. He pulled off dark glasses and laid them on the table in front of him. Lunch at this sidewalk café in Newport Beach had become something of a habit over the past week. Here was where they sat, went over his plans and purchases made for the castle.
“Really? No more looking for just the right linens today, then?”
He slanted her a sardonic look. “You don’t want to shop? I never thought I’d hear that particular statement from a woman.”
“Allow me to be the first,” Aine said, picking up her tea and taking a sip. She winced slightly at the taste and idly wished for a real cup of tea. “’Tis fair, I think, to say that my shopping quota has been met for the year, at least.”
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