Black Irish

by Tricia Andersen

  She giggled at the background her husband had chosen for her desktop—a graphic of the album cover to the Beatle’s Abbey Road. The man thought of everything.

  When the penthouse door opened again, Abbey looked up. Sloan stepped in from the foyer, shaking off the winter chill that blanketed him. He dropped the large paper bag that he held in his hand on the coffee table next to her. Then, he disappeared into the kitchen. Her stomach growled viciously as a delicious aroma drifted from the brown sack.

  Sloan reemerged with two white ceramic plates, balancing two forks in one hand and a glass of Chardonnay and bottle of beer intertwined in the fingers of the other. He set one plate, fork, and the wine before Abbey, and the rest in front of the overstuffed, chocolate-colored leather couch. Slipping off his wool trench coat, he tossed it on top of her ski jacket.

  Slowly, he reached into the bag and withdrew several white Chinese, pint-sized paper containers, each emblazoned with a red, stamped oriental scene. He set one after the other side by side across the coffee table, following then with translucent wax bags full of crabmeat rangoons and egg rolls. Finally, he tipped it upside down. Out fell half a dozen cellophane-wrapped fortune cookies and two pairs of chopsticks.

  Picking a set, he handed them to Abbey. “Supper.”

  She took them from him as she sat up and turned to face the coffee table. Sloan took her plate. He opened each container and, using his own fork, scooped some of the contents from each container onto it. Then, he set it in front of her again before serving himself.

  “I have a question,” Abbey began as she watched him navigate a pinch of shrimp lo mein to his mouth.

  Sloan swallowed then cleared his throat. “What is that?”

  “How are you back here in the U.S.? I’m guessing the INS wouldn’t take kindly to you overstaying your visit.”

  He chuckled as he sat back in his chair. “I’ve reapplied for my visa.”

  Abbey smiled. “You’re that confident you can pull off us being married? Or is there another Mrs. Sloan O’Riley I don’t know about?”

  Sloan shook his head, still seeming amused. “I applied for another investment visa. I’m investing in a multi-million dollar retail/residential/business complex in San Francisco.”

  “So you and other investors are sending money for them to build it?”

  “Not exactly. I own the building. My investors are managing the property for me.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Really?”

  “Aye, luv.” Sloan took another bite.

  “Why didn’t you do this before instead of, you know, marrying me?”

  “I don’t normally look for properties. This one sort of fell into my lap. Besides, I wasn’t about to turn down marrying such a beautiful woman.” He winked at her.

  Abbey nibbled at her egg roll as she gazed at her plate. It all looked incredible and smelled delicious. She hadn’t had Chinese food in what felt like forever. She bit down on a forkful of sweet and sour chicken. Better than I remember.

  “Gordon gave you the key?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Good. You also have clothes here.”

  Abbey stared at him, a quizzical look on her face. “I didn’t leave very many clothes here.”

  Sloan’s lips tuned into his sexy grin. “No, you didn’t. I brought your luggage home from Miami.”

  “My clothes?” She flew to her feet in excitement. Sloan laughed as he pointed down the hall. Skipping along, she peeked into one bedroom then the other. In the second one, on the bed, sat the suitcases she had left in Miami. She opened the first, examining each article of clothing in joy.

  Abbey floated on her own little cloud back to the living room and sat down on the couch, clasping her favorite pajamas in her hand. She emitted a very contented sigh. “Thank you, Sloan.”

  “You’re welcome, Abigail.”

  He stood, putting the empty containers back in the paper bag. Then, he carried the bag into the kitchen to dispose of it. Abbey watched him as he walked away. Who is this man who seems to rescue me every time I fall into trouble?

  An evil glimmer twinkled in her eye as she rubbed her finger across the mouse pad of the laptop to wake it. She clicked the web browser to bring Google up on the screen. She paused then typed “Sloan O’Riley” into the search engine.

  Promptly, her heart fell. This was a bad idea.

  There were the photos—page after page of photos—of beautiful women. The comments attached to each photo tied her to Sloan intimately. The women were perfect—perfect faces, perfect bodies, perfect hair, and perfect clothes. However there were no photos of him. The endless line of pictures of the women claiming to sleep with him was enough. They really will publish anything on the society page, won’t they?

  “Did you find anything interesting?”

  Abbey looked up to find him hovering over her. She angled the screen toward herself then took a drink of her wine. “Nothing important.”

  He settled back down in his seat. “So how’s the story coming?”

  “Still not there. Maybe after some sleep.”

  “Certainly. Gordon will drive you home.”

  “Great.” Abbey powered down her computer and pushed to her feet, tugging on her jacket. She tucked her pajamas into her purse.

  “Should I get your suitcases?” Sloan offered.

  “Do you mind if I leave them here for a while until I can get a dresser to store them in?”

  “Of course.”

  He escorted her to the door, pressing the cell phone into her hand. Then, he dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Good night, Abigail. Sweet dreams.”

  “Good night, Sloan.”

  Abbey couldn’t take her eyes off Sloan as he leaned against the doorframe, watching as she stepped onto the elevator. He disappeared from sight as the doors closed.

  »»•««

  Abbey wiped the dried soda puddle from the counter. Mitzi had called in with the flu for two days straight. Abbey was on her second sixteen-hour shift in a row, and she was exhausted.

  Gordon, being the sweet gentleman he always was, drove her the few blocks between the diner and her apartment. She texted Sloan as much as she could through the two marathon workdays. From the few messages they exchanged, she could tell he was far from pleased that she wasn’t coming over.

  She hummed to herself as she cleaned and straightened. Before long, she unconsciously added words to her made-up tune. “Hum da da dum…da da do…bubbly beautiful butterflies bouncing from tulip to tulip…”

  Abbey froze with her washrag in midair. She had just sang a line from her second book.

  Scrambling to find something to write on, she quietly chanted the sentence over and over to herself. The paper she found barely touched the counter before she started scribbling the words on it.

  Abbey stepped back and stared at her meager work proudly. She slipped her cell phone out of her apron pocket and tapped on it.

  “I remembered a line from the book,” she typed rapidly with her thumbs.

  Waiting silently, she stared at the screen. She knew a response wouldn’t take long. Although the recipient of her text was deeply involved with a multi-million dollar project on the other side of the country, he always stopped what he was doing to answer her.

  Sure enough, it was only seconds before the display popped to life, a picture of Sloan, taken when he wasn’t looking, staring back at her. She pressed on it to read his response.

  That’s fantastic, Abigail. I knew you’d find it inside you. I’m proud of you.

  Abbey’s smile tripled in size at the message as a warm feeling flooded her. She slipped her phone and the paper she had scribbled on back in her pocket and started to clean again.

  Mitzi had finally returned to work on Friday morning, looking like death warmed over. Abbey’s marathon shifts had also taken a toll on her. As soon as her shift had ended, she had gone home to her apartment and collapsed into her bed. She had slept the entire night and most of the day. Now it was Satur
day night, and she was excited to get back to putting the second book together. She scurried to the elevator, exhaling as she felt it rise.

  Abbey had jotted random bits of prose and ideas as they had popped into her head on paper napkins and pieces of order pads. She rustled the wad of scrap papers in her pocket. She couldn’t wait to get to her laptop to sort and input them.

  A frown creased her forehead. For the first time ever, Gordon had seemed reluctant to bring her here. He had even seemed a little put out. Her frown melted into a grin as the elevator door opened. Abbey stepped off and flew across the vestibule, her heart racing. She couldn’t wait to see Sloan.

  “Sloan!” Abbey called out as she set her purse and notebook on the end table. She giggled as she picked up her laptop. “Hello. I missed you,” she crooned to the machine.

  She turned as she heard the sound of boot steps descend from the loft above. Sloan was adjusting a diamond cufflink from under his Armani suit coat. His thick, black hair was still slicked wet from a recent shower. Abbey could smell the intoxicating, musky scent of his cologne. The vision of him standing there took her breath away.

  “Wow, you have business tonight?” she commented shakily. “It’s Saturday night.”

  “I know it’s Saturday night, Abigail,” he answered. “I didn’t realize you were coming.”

  The penthouse door opened and closed. Robert and Bartholomew strode inside the living area. They too were dressed to the nines in designer suits. Each had recently showered and shaved. Abbey was silently thankful Sloan had opted out of shaving. He was far sexier with a five o’clock shadow.

  “Are you ready, Sloan?” Robert demanded, ignoring Abbey’s existence. “Gordon is waiting.”

  “Where are you going?” I waited three days to see him and he’s abandoning me?

  “Out, Abigail,” Sloan replied. “To the clubs.”

  Abbey felt her heart shatter as her mind filled with the pictures she had seen on the Internet. The backdrop for most of them had been nightclubs. Now she knew why Gordon hadn’t wanted to bring her here tonight. He knew where the guys were going. All those beautiful, available women and my very sexy husband, er…sort of.

  “Oh.” Abbey set her computer back down and picked up her purse, lifting the strap to her shoulder with her hand. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then. If, of course, you’re free.” She weaved her way past Robert and Bartholomew and tugged the door open.

  “Stay. I shouldn’t be very long.”

  “I wouldn’t want to intrude.” She couldn’t shake the photos of the women from her mind. Why am I jealous? I shouldn’t be. He doesn’t belong to me. “I wouldn’t want to be under foot if you bring clients back here.”

  “I don’t bring clients here.”

  “Really, it’s all right.”

  “Then let Gordon take you home,” Sloan insisted.

  Abbey turned slowly, a cold smirk on her lips with her hand still on the doorknob. “Seriously, I’m good. I’m not going home.” She closed it behind her before he could say another word.

  Abbey couldn’t remember the trip from the penthouse to her favorite coffee shop in Greenwich Village. She couldn’t remember placing her order when she arrived. Even the eclectic people she encountered on the subway couldn’t lighten her mood. All she was aware of was the red-hot rage coursing through her body, and only one thought occupied her mind.

  That son of a bitch.

  Abbey sank into the couch. She was still fuming. She looked up to find the barista holding out her green passion fruit tea, gently cradling the gigantic ceramic mug in his hands. His shaggy, dirty-blond hair framed his face, and his green eyes peered from beneath wire rim glasses. For a moment, Abbey seriously considered flirting with him to make herself feel better. Too bad I know his girlfriend.

  “I was going to get it, Martin,” Abbey insisted, embarrassed by the whine in her voice.

  “I know,” he replied. “You just seem…distracted.”

  Abbey sighed as she took the cup from him and set it on the coffee table. She looked around the café. It was her favorite place on earth, second only to the penthouse. Coming here on Sundays when the diner was closed was her treat to herself. Spending the small amount on bus fares and subway tolls was worth it.

  Bookshelves packed full of books lined the room. There were baskets scattered everywhere, overflowing with newspapers, magazines, and board games. The walls were painted a warm mocha and the light was just bright enough to read. Behind the bar, the menu was written on chalkboards. The place was warm and cozy.

  But all the warm and cozy feelings the coffee shop provided couldn’t quench the hot, raging fury coursing through Abbey. She collapsed back on the couch and closed her eyes, letting the internal argument in her head take over.

  The rational voice in her brain reminded her that she was the one who had insisted on a business relationship between herself and Sloan.

  The irrational voice, fueled by her broken heart, shouted, Sloan is my husband.

  The rational voice countered that it was a marriage on paper only.

  The irrational voice was still high pitch, shrill, and screaming. He said he wanted to see if there could be anything between us. Sleeping with another woman is a fine way to show that.

  The rational voice tried to speak up again, but the irrational voice took over, repeatedly chanting, He’s my husband!

  Abbey shook her head to shut up both voices and opened her eyes. Pulling out her book, she tried to read, but couldn’t concentrate. She set the paperback on the coffee table next to her cup then sighed. This was a mistake. I have feelings for Sloan. Strong ones. I know he said he wanted to see if there was something between us. I want there to be. But we are so different. Can a tiger really change his stripes? With all those beautiful women under his belt can he be happy with just me?

  Abbey glanced over her shoulder out the large plate glass window that overlooked the street. Sure enough, in the midst of the crowds sat the ominous black Hummer. She started to gather her things and put them in her purse. Maybe I will go back to the penthouse. When he gets home we’ll sit down and talk about that divorce. It’ll be best for both of us. Right?

  Abbey stopped as she felt her heart crack a little at the thought of letting him go. Just hold on a bit longer, Abs. Loosen up. Have faith. She pulled her book and her cheap MP3 player from her purse again. Dejected, she put the buds in her ears. Turning the volume up to full blast, she put some heavy metal music on. Maybe it would make her feel better. Probably not.

  »»•««

  Sloan watched as the laptop took punishment Abbey was doling out mercilessly as she pounded her fingers on the keyboard. She sat cross-legged on the sofa with the computer nestled on her blue jean-covered lap and a sea of scrap papers and napkins surrounding her. The winter sunlight streaming through the walls of glass bathed her in a pure, white light from her brown curls to her soft green T-shirt that gently hugged every curve—from her breasts all the way to her sock-clad feet. With every few strokes, she let go an angry huff of breath.

  Sloan slipped from the kitchen, padding across the living area in only a pair of jeans. He gazed at her for several moments as he hovered over her with a mug of coffee in his hands. “I brought you a drink,” he offered.

  Abbey glared at him from the corner of her eye, not moving her head to look at him. Without a word, she started to beat on the keys again.

  “Abigail, what’s wrong?” Sloan demanded as he sat in his brown armchair. She glanced at him, seeming momentarily distracted by his presence. Sloan smiled. More likely she’s distracted by the bare flesh she sees.

  Then she seemed to remember just how mad she was. “Nothing’s wrong,” she stated simply.

  “It seems like there’s something wrong to me.”

  “There’s nothing wrong.”

  Sloan set the mug in his hands on the coffee table then reached out to hold her hands in his. “Abigail, talk to me.”

  Abbey slipped her hands away from
his and folded them in her lap. “I’m trying to sort all these scraps of paper, to get them in order, so I can type them out. You’re interrupting my concentration. The sooner I get this figured out, the sooner you can get to the illustrations.” She glared him in the eye. “That’s why we’re here after all, right? To get this book done.”

  He stared at her in cold silence for several moments. “Very well. I’ll leave you alone then.”

  “Thank you,” Abbey breathed exasperatedly. She crumpled up a couple scraps of paper in her fist and tossed them on the ever-growing pile accumulating on the floor.

  Sloan stood and strode across the room. He stopped at the French doors, turning back to watch Abbey work in a quiet rage. A smug smile spread across his face.

  He knew jealousy when he saw it. And right now, Abbey was plagued with it and had been since she left last night. He suppressed a chuckle as he closed the doors to his office.

  Sloan slipped a book free from one of the many bookshelves that lined the walls of his office then settled on the sofa beneath the windows that illuminated the room. It would be a long day, sequestered in here. If it will make Abigail happy, it’s a sacrifice I am willing to make.

  He exhaled as he ran his large hand through his thick, black hair. Maybe I should just tell her the truth. He hadn’t spent the night with some leggy blonde. He had left the clubs early, despite the protests of Robert and Bartholomew who were nowhere near finished drinking and making merry. Drinking a beer while watching the end of a rugby game, he then went to bed alone. He had lain there thinking only of her. He had tossed and turned. He hadn’t slept.

  Staring at the French doors, he envisioned her on the other side. She was the one who wanted a professional relationship, not a personal one. And he understood her lack of trust. She hadn’t forgiven him for his lie obviously. He wished she knew why he did it. I can’t help it. I’m in love with the lass. I want her smile. I want her laugh. I want her kiss. And I want her wee body beneath mine in my bed. The pain she had endured from both him and Michael would take time to heal. He would have the patience of a saint if that was what it took to win her love completely.

  Besides, her jealousy was a good sign. It showed that she had a vested interest in their relationship. It showed that she felt she had something to lose. She must be truly afraid of losing him. If it took her suffering jealousy to finally see that she loved him too…well as much as he hated to, he would have to let her suffer.