by Zara Keane
“I’m afraid it’s a no-go. Both editors passed on Trial by Blood, and they were the last two on my list. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to shelve this project for a while. In the current market, this book is not going to sell.”
He stared at his white fingertips. They were leached of color. It was his personal stress detector. Goddammit. “I guess I can scrap the outline for the sequel,” he quipped.
“Don’t do anything rash. Put it away for now and concentrate on meeting your deadline for the next Detective Inspector Brady mystery.”
“I poured my soul into that proposal,” he said in a morose tone.
“I know. Therein, I suspect, lies the problem.”
“How do you mean? Those chapters are my strongest work to date. If I get the opportunity to finish the book, I know it’s going to be great.”
“They’re tightly written, yes, but that’s not the point. It’s my responsibility to see the big picture. Trial by Blood doesn’t reflect the brand you’ve created. When readers buy a Jonas O’Mahony mystery, they expect a character-driven, action-packed read that doesn’t stint on humor. In contrast, Trial by Blood is slow, introspective, and—frankly—deeply depressing. It doesn’t reflect the tone of your other books.”
“There’s no chance of selling it? I believe in this series, and I know I can make it work.”
“You could try selling the book under a pseudonym,” she said, “but I wouldn’t recommend it. If you were a faster writer, maybe, but you’re stretched producing one book a year as it is. The Brady mysteries are hugely popular. Pursuing this new and very different series at the expense of D.I. Brady is inadvisable.”
Jonas pressed his forehead against the cool paneled walls of his parents’ hallway. She was right, of course. Kate was always right. Which was why he was lucky to have her for his agent. “Thanks for trying.”
“No problem. My news isn’t all doom and gloom. The TV execs loved your new crime series script. Perhaps we’ll have better luck there.”
“Fingers crossed.”
“Now take a brief breather and get back to work on Detective Brady’s sixth adventure.”
Jonas gave a rueful laugh. “Yes, boss. I’m almost finished. Expect it in your inbox by Saturday.”
He disconnected. Damn. He’d been convinced they’d nail that deal. Trial by Blood was as unlike the Brady mysteries as it was possible to get, but that was the whole point. He’d wanted to stretch himself, write something completely different. Despite the success of Detective Inspector Brady, most of his money came from the TV adaptation of the series and from the two TV miniseries he’d cowritten.
Dazed, he wandered into the kitchen.
Luca was on his third quarter of sandwich. His mother was red in the face. Shite. Sliding into his chair, he prepared himself for a lecture on his litany of failings as a father, a son, and a member of the human race. He didn’t have long to wait.
“Since you don’t have time to listen to what I have to tell you,” his mother snapped, “I’ll keep it short and simple.”
That would be a first. He checked the clock. In five minutes he could retreat into his fantasy world of murder and mayhem.
“Mary and I are going on a cruise. You’ll have to find someone else to look after Luca.”
He started violently. “What? For how long?”
“Two months. We’re going on an extended holiday. We leave next week.”
His lungs deflated in a whoosh. “What am I going to do with Luca?”
“That, my boy, is your problem,” she replied tartly. “You’re his father. It’s your responsibility to organize childcare for while you’re working. Instead you assume I’ll always be available.”
“I thought you liked looking after Luca.”
“I do, but not every day. I didn’t mind helping out for a few weeks while you looked for a place to live, but I never agreed to be his full-time babysitter.” Her shoulders slumped. “Look, son, I’ve raised three children and buried one. I love being a grandmother, but it shouldn’t mean I’m responsible for Luca’s welfare. That’s your job.”
He regarded her across the table, took in the shadows under her eyes and her gray complexion. Aw, shite. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. You know that. I’ve been busy and—”
A surge of panic hit with the force of a tidal wave. What the hell was he going to do? After Susanne had left, he’d floundered in Dublin. He’d barely muddled through with the help of an au pair—until she’d quit, unable to deal with Luca’s night terrors. Jonas couldn’t blame her. When he moved back to Ballybeg. he’d envisioned his parents’ house being Luca’s place to go after school and during holidays, leaving him free to write during the day. He didn’t have a contingency plan. Frankly, he hadn’t realized he needed one.
He swallowed past the lump in his throat. His mother was right. It was unfair of him to expect her to shoulder the lion’s share of the childcare. She was Luca’s grandmother, not his mother. “Why didn’t you mention the cruise before now?”
“Mary surprised me with the tickets. Your uncle Martin’s first anniversary is next month, and she wants to escape Ballybeg for a while. You know your father’s not one for travel, and Martin was too ill for a trip like this. We’ve talked about going on a cruise together for years, but lack of time on her part and money on mine got in the way. Now that Martin’s dead, there’s nothing stopping us from going.”
Except Luca. The words remained unspoken, yet the implication resonated off the orange kitchen walls.
Jonas regarded his son across the table. He was paralyzed by love and angst. Luca was his mini mirror image. You’d think it would make it easier for him to connect with the kid, but it didn’t. Luca’s lack of eye contact and repetitive gestures were unnerving. Having a child on the autistic spectrum was definitely not what he’d signed up for. His stomach twisted into knots of guilt even thinking those words. He worried about Luca’s future; he worried about people being mean to his boy; he worried about every damn thing. Right now, he worried about coping with Luca’s night terrors on his own for two months.
Mam reached across the table to pat his hand. “You’re an adult and a parent. You can sort this out. In the meantime, I’m going into town to look for travel guides. Knock on your father’s door before you leave. He’ll watch Luca until I get home.”
He nodded, dazed by the enormity of what lay ahead. Most days, he chose not to dwell on it, trusting he’d get by with the help of his parents. Today…well, today that safety net was gone. “I’m glad for you.” And he was, despite the hassle of finding a babysitter at short notice. “You’ll have a great time on the cruise.”
His mother’s careworn face split into a tired smile. “Thanks, love. I’ll see you later.”
The kitchen door clicked shut behind her. He and Luca were left alone to finish their lunch. The formerly delicious sandwich turned to sawdust in his mouth.
Chapter Four
“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?”
Aidan snatched the sketchpad from Olivia’s desk. His nostrils flared, and his chiseled features were mottled with rage. Cigarette fumes warred with egg sandwich—he must have snuck out for another smoke. In the background, Brona—Aidan’s part-time junior solicitor—scuttled into her office and shut the door.
Olivia struggled to suppress a wave of nausea and maintain her cool. “They’re patterns for autumn scarves.” She kept her voice bland and hoped she exuded a calm she sure as hell wasn’t feeling.
Her boss—and soon-to-be ex-husband—loomed closer, pressing his palms against the edge of her desk. “Olivia, what do I pay you to do?”
“To do your job for you while you watch porn online in your office?”
Aidan’s eyes bulged.
She sighed. “Fine. Let me rephrase that. To answer the phones and perform other administrative tasks?”
“Right. How does designing scarves fall under that definition?”
She nibbled on the top of her pen. “It doesn’t.”
<
br /> “So do the job I’m paying you to do.” Aidan slammed his fist onto her desk with sufficient force to make its contents dance. In one fluid movement, he ripped in two the designs she’d spent hours creating. The pieces floated to the floor. Her throat constricted. Wasn’t it typical of Aidan to choose that moment to emerge from his lair? “Now get back to work,” he snarled. He turned to leave.
She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. As soon as he was gone, she would discreetly gather the remnants of her designs and tuck them in her handbag. Ripped in two was good. She’d been afraid he’d go for the shredder.
Her phone chose that moment to ring. Aidan halted midstride. Olivia removed the top of her pen from her mouth, transfixed by its ragged edges. She braced herself for the inevitable temper tantrum.
“Why is your mobile phone on during working hours?” His voice exuded an arctic chill that clashed with the fury blazing in his bloodshot orbs.
“I’m expecting a private call.”
“Why can’t this ‘private call’ use your work number?”
Because it’s confidential and I don’t want you eavesdropping. Particularly not on a call with an estate agent. She adopted a bored tone. “You’ve told me on more than one occasion not to take personal calls on my desk phone. I thought it made sense for the person to call me on my mobile, and I’d return the call when I had an opportunity.”
“You thought, did you, Olivia? I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to do the tasks I assign.”
Her heart rate kicked up a gear. Patience wasn’t a trait she had in abundance. Dealing with Aidan took every ounce she possessed. “In that case,” she said through gritted teeth, “I’ll continue staring at the computer screen. My e-mail inbox is empty, and I’ve finished the filing. Until the new election campaign brochures arrive tomorrow, there’s not much for me to do.”
Irritation flickered across his face before he reined in his temper. Aidan was even less patient than she was. The problem in their situation was that he held the power cards and they both knew it. While he was powerless to prevent her from leaving him, he’d make certain she upheld her side of their devil’s bargain.
Finally he snorted, farted, and then returned to his office. She waited for the slam. Yep. Of course he wouldn’t forget that part. She rooted in her desk drawers for scented candles.
She was on the verge of lighting a match when a heavy tread sounded on the stairs that led from the ground floor to Gant Solicitors. That would be Aidan’s two o’clock appointment. She looked up, expecting to see George Quinn’s fleshy features.
Instead Jonas O’Mahony stood on the threshold—tall, dark, and sinfully sexy. Her stomach flipped. He’d exchanged the biker gear for a suit. She wouldn’t have expected him to wear a suit well, but this one molded his frame to perfection.
His dark brows drew together when he registered her presence. “Olivia.”
“Jonas.”
The room quivered with tension. It was hard to tell if Jonas’s expression of revulsion was caused by the stench left by her boss or the sight of her.
She cleared her throat. “Are you here to see Aidan?”
His expression was inscrutable. “Yeah. My aunt and I have an appointment with him at two.”
She exhaled in a whoosh. Aidan had lied about George Quinn’s appointment. This meeting had to concern the lease to the cottages. Aidan knew how much she wanted one. No doubt he was anticipating her reaction with glee.
As if on cue, Aidan reemerged from his office, sporting a self-satisfied smirk. “Jonas,” he boomed as he crossed the reception area. “Delighted you could make it. Why don’t we step into my office while we’re waiting for Mary? In the meantime, Olivia will bring us coffee.”
Jonas muttered something indecipherable and followed Aidan into his office, leaving a tantalizing whiff of aftershave in his wake. Honestly, that stuff ought to be outlawed. She couldn’t stand the man, yet his scent was making her feel like a sexually frustrated spinster.
“Olivia.” Aidan’s voice interrupted her reverie. “The coffee?”
Their eyes met. That she hated him was clear to both of them. That she was stuck in this stinking job for the time being was equally apparent. Quelling her resentment, she stood from behind her desk and went to the small kitchen that contained a crappy excuse for a coffee maker.
She watched brown sludge drip and contemplated murder. As soon as she had the loan for her café secured, she’d be out of here. No more living a half life in one of Aidan’s guest bedrooms. No more plastering on fake smiles and playing the role of Mrs. Politician. And no more lying—not to her friends, not to strangers, and not to herself. She’d have to work her notice, of course, and see her deal with Aidan through until after the election. But the knowledge that her days here were numbered would help her survive.
In the background, she registered Mary’s arrival and Aidan’s fawning greeting. His insincerity made her teeth ache. She added a plate of stale shortbread biscuits to the coffee tray and approached the office. After she’d knocked on the door three times, Aidan finally bid her enter. He did love his little power trips.
Aidan’s office wasn’t large to begin with, and Jonas dwarfed it with his presence. He leaned his elbows on his knees while his left foot tapped a restless pattern on the carpet. Mary’s designer-clad form appeared equally uncomfortable. She sat ramrod straight and refused to make eye contact with Olivia. As always, she was impeccably dressed and accessorized, just like Aidan’s mother. Being a wealthy widow had its perks.
Olivia kept her hands steady as she poured the coffee. Aidan’s gaze bored into her while she performed the task, willing her to spill.
“Mary, would you care for a cup?” Her voice was as steady as her hands.
“No thanks,” Mary muttered.
She placed a cup before Aidan.
“Add sugar.”
She paused. Aidan hated sugar in his coffee. Yet another one of his games. He loved putting her to the test when they were in public and punishing her in private when she failed. She envisioned a field of Friesian cows, mooing softly. Cows soothed her for some bizarre reason. Fine, she’d play along. With a bit of luck, he’d soon bore of the game and leave her in peace.
“How many spoonfuls?” She gave him a tight smile and held his gaze.
“You know how much sugar I take in my coffee.”
She bit back a scream of frustration. If she said he usually took no sugar, he’d say she’d made him look a fool in front of his clients and take his revenge later. If she put in…Oh, hell. It was a no-win situation. She dumped four heaping spoonfuls into his cup. Let him try to swallow that.
Jonas’s somber dark gaze sent prickles down her spine. Hurriedly she handed him a cup of black coffee and turned to leave.
“Olivia.” The sound of Aidan’s voice was akin to being doused with ice-cold water. Drat. She’d fallen into the trap. “Aren’t you going to ask Jonas how he takes his coffee?”
The words hung in the air like icicles.
Jonas’s deep drawl broke the silence. “No worries. I can help myself to milk.”
Milk. Good save. Aidan wouldn’t like the idea of his wife remembering how her first boyfriend took his coffee eleven years after they’d broken up.
She continued in the direction of the door, not breathing until it clicked closed. At the rate her day was going, she would be seriously oxygen-deprived come evening. Her mobile phone began to sing once more, and she sprinted to her desk. Feck. She’d meant to switch it off earlier, but she’d been distracted by Jonas’s arrival. Her eyes darted in the direction of the office door. She could quickly take the call and switch off the phone before Aidan finished his meeting. She pressed the green button.
“Olivia Gant?” The woman’s tones were cool and clipped. Not a voice Olivia recognized.
“Speaking.”
“This is Louise Cavendish from Glencoe College. I’ve tried calling your parents, but I’ve been unable to reach them.�
�
She groaned inwardly. Her father had called in sick that morning, fueling Aidan’s bad mood. No doubt he and her mother were indisposed after another marathon drinking session. Goodness knew where they were now and in what state. She gazed out at the gray sky outside. “What’s Kyle done this time?”
“Actually, both Kyle and Ronan are in my office at present, as are two members of An Garda Síochána.”
The police? She exhaled sharply. This did not sound good. “What the hell happened?”
Olivia heard disapproval in Louise Cavendish’s voice. “From what I could ascertain, your brothers were the ringleaders in a fight that broke out during the afternoon recess. One boy had to be taken to hospital with suspected concussion, and another has a split lip. I needn’t tell you that this behavior will not be tolerated.”
She rubbed her temples. “Who did they allegedly attack?”
“James Jobson and Robert Boyle.”
Julie Jobson’s brother. Fantastic. His father, the town councilor, would freak. She didn’t know Robert Boyle, but there was a Reverend Boyle in a neighboring village. It would be typical for her brothers to pick an ordained minister’s kid to bash.
“I’m suspending Kyle and Ronan for two weeks. The police have taken statements, but much depends on whether or not the injured boys’ parents decide to press charges.”
“What do you need me to do? Should I collect them?”
“Yes, Mrs. Gant, that would be much appreciated. You’re listed as the boys’ emergency contact should your parents be unavailable.”
Olivia massaged her temples and glanced at the clock. “Okay. I need to get my stuff together, but I should be at the school within a half hour.”
After she hung up, Olivia stared out the window at the torrential rain. If the boys had wanted to get her out of the office, they could have picked a day with better weather.
She ran a fingernail down Aidan’s schedule. He’d listed his fictitious appointment with George Quinn as a long one, followed by dinner with a client at a restaurant in Bantry. Client my arse. More like dinner and a shag with Moira Keating, his campaign manager and latest fling. She grabbed her handbag from underneath the desk and stood. With a bit of luck, she could nip to the school and be back before Aidan noticed her absence.
