Wild Irish Christmas-Wild 8

by Mari Carr

  “When I walked outside, I glanced around, thinking perhaps Conall and Sunday had gone home, but I was wrong…”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Patrick was relieved when he spotted Conall’s car still in parked in the crowded lot outside the dance hall. Glancing to the left, he saw Sunday and Conall standing together at the far corner of the large building. They were well away from the crowd just arriving at the dance as well as the couples who’d escaped the stuffy hall for a bit of fresh, cool air.

  Patrick pulled his jacket around him more tightly and pondered his next move. Sunday and Conall were deep in conversation. Should he interrupt them? Ask to speak to Sunday privately?

  When Conall reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like plane tickets, Patrick knew it was now or never. His legs began moving before his brain told them to.

  He pulled up short when the sound of Sunday’s voice drifted to him. He thought he’d heard her say the word no. He paused and strained to hear.

  “Conall, I’m truly flattered by your invitation, but you must know I can’t accept it.”

  Patrick took a step closer to the building, letting the shadows and a large hedge hide him. Sunday was rejecting Conall?

  Conall didn’t appear concerned by the refusal. “I know it’s sudden, but if you take a few minutes to consider, I’m sure you’ll come to your senses. There’s nothing I won’t be able to give you—the chance to see America, to meet powerful people in the music industry. Maybe somewhere down the road we could consider marriage, a home and kids. We’ve only had a week together, Sunday. I want more time with you to see where this could lead.”

  Patrick peered around the hedge, trying to see her face. While he couldn’t make out her facial expressions, her body language told him she was tense. Her shoulders were stiff, her posture rigid.

  “That sounds wonderful, but it’s not what I want.”

  Conall sighed. “Sunday, you weren’t made for a life in Killarney. You’re beautiful and charming…you’d thrive in America. I can take you to all the places you’ve never seen, set you up in style in the best hotels.”

  “What about my singing job at the pub?”

  “Just quit, of course. I have money. I can take care of you.”

  Sunday shook her head. “I like working.”

  Conall scoffed. “You can’t seriously tell me you like singing night after night in a dingy pub for a bunch of dirty farmers.”

  Conall said farmers as if he’d just swallowed something nasty. Patrick’s temper rose.

  “I have no problem with the pub or the patrons there. And I don’t mind working, Conall, if it would help my husband and family.”

  “But that’s just it, Sunday. If you come with me, you won’t have to get your hands dirty. I’ll rent you a big, fancy apartment and even hire a maid for you. I’ll be working with a very prestigious firm and I’ll need a pretty lady on my arm. We’ll throw the biggest parties for the cream of New York society. You’ll be the premiere hostess and other women will look to you as the one to emulate.”

  Conall made it sound as if the only thing Sunday had going for her was a pretty face and good manners. Patrick took a step closer, ready to call a halt to Conall’s insulting proposal, but Sunday’s response stopped him again.

  “I don’t want to give parties, Conall. I sincerely hope to God I have more to offer than rubbing elbows with rich snobs and looking down my nose at people who work hard to make a living. People who don’t judge another person’s character based solely on how much money they have in the bank.”

  Her tone was hostile. Even Patrick could hear the venom in each word. Her anger wasn’t lost on Conall either.

  “Christ. You sound just like Patrick Collins.”

  Sunday lifted her chin defensively. “I take that as a compliment. Patrick is an honorable, honest, hard-working man.”

  Conall’s eyes narrowed. “Are you in love with him?”

  Patrick held his breath and leaned closer. Would she admit it? Were her feelings toward him that strong?

  Sunday didn’t reply, but something in her face must’ve given her feelings away because Conall’s scowl grew.

  “You are! You’re in love with Patrick Collins. Jesus! I credited you with more intelligence than to fall for that ne’er-do-well. He’s a barkeep and a farmer with a bunch of big dreams that will never come true. Why would you tie yourself to a miserable existence with someone like that?”

  Patrick clenched his fists.

  Apparently he wasn’t the only one whose anger had been tweaked.

  Sunday exploded. “Patrick Collins is the finest man I’ve ever met! He’s compassionate and kind. How can you stand here and smugly criticize a man who’s had to work for everything he’s ever earned? You’ve had the world handed to you on a silver platter. There’s nothing special about that, Conall.”

  Conall leaned closer. “Is that what you think? Look what that hard work has earned him. Nothing but calluses and holes in his boots. You deserve more than that, Sunday.”

  “You aren’t fit to lick those boots!” Sunday planted her hands on her hips and turned slightly, allowing the streetlight to capture her face. Patrick marveled at the intimidating look he saw there. She was a powerhouse. He loved her.

  Patrick had heard enough. Hell would freeze over before he let Conall continue to criticize Sunday.

  “It’s clear you aren’t going to listen to reason. Maybe you need another type of persuasion. I bet your farm boy’s never even kissed you.” Conall grabbed Sunday and took her lips roughly.

  Patrick sprang out of his hiding spot as Sunday shoved against Conall’s shoulders.

  “Stop!” she cried.

  Conall wouldn’t be deterred. His hand grasped Sunday’s breast, squeezing.

  Patrick captured Conall’s wrist and twisted, hard, forcing the man to release Sunday. He shoved Conall farther away.

  It was clear from the shocked look on his enemy’s face, Conall hadn’t expected to be interrupted. “Oh look,” he sneered. “It’s the barkeep. Just in time, too. I’m parched. Go fetch me an ale.”

  Patrick reacted without thought. He punched Conall in the face, following with a solid blow to the gut. Conall dropped like a sack of potatoes.

  “How dare you lay a hand on her!” Patrick shouted. “Didn’t you hear her say ‘stop’? What’s wrong, rich boy? Hasn’t anyone ever said no to you before?”

  Sunday’s hand landed on his arm. Patrick stiffened. “Pat. It’s okay. I’m fine.”

  Patrick wasn’t soothed. “No, Sunday. It’s not.”

  Conall staggered to his feet and Patrick thought the man was going take a few swings of his own. Patrick had broken up more than his fair share of barroom brawls. He had no doubt he could handle one spoiled college boy.

  He gestured for Conall to step closer. “Come on, Conall. I’ve been waiting a lifetime for this.”

  Conall paused, his gaze traveling from Patrick to Sunday and back again. “Fuck it,” he said at last. “She’s not worth it.”

  Patrick’s world went red. “You stupid bastard. You’ve spent your entire life placing value on the wrong things. Sunday is priceless. You’re going to realize that one day and you know what?”

  “What?” Conall spat belligerently, rubbing his jaw.

  “It’ll be too late.”

  Conall studied Patrick’s face for a long time. Then he shrugged. “It was too late before it started. Take her, Pat. You two deserve each other.” Conall staggered away, his last words meant to be an insult.

  Patrick didn’t take them as one. He turned to face her. “I’m sorry, Sunday.”

  She frowned then rolled her eyes. “Sorry? For what part, Pat? The part where you pulled that asshole off me? Or maybe when you said I was priceless? Is that what you’re sorry about?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Did you mean it?”

  “Christ, lass. Do you really have to ask? You’re a treasure beyond measure, but Conall was right.
What can I give you that will show you how much you mean to me?”

  “Your heart. Give me your heart, Pat. It’ll be more than enough.”

  He leaned forward and pressed his brow against hers, shutting his eyes tightly. “You have that. You’ll always have that. I love you, Sunday.”

  Sunday reached up and placed her hands on Patrick’s face. She waited until he opened his eyes to look at her. “And I love you.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Yes!” Riley stood up and high-fived Sean across the coffee table.

  Patrick chuckled at his youngest daughter’s exuberant response. “I assume this means you approve of the happy ending?”

  “Hell yeah. You punched that coward twice! That was totally cool, Pop.” Riley resumed her seat on the couch.

  “So whatever happened to Conall Brannagh?” Ewan asked.

  “Ah, well, that’s a story in itself. He took the fancy job in New York, but he couldn’t cut it as a high-powered business executive. He was fired before the end of the first year and returned to Killarney, where he managed to run his family’s businesses into bankruptcy in less than a decade. Now he’s the barkeep at Scully’s.”

  Teagan’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  Patrick’s grin grew. “No. Not really. Last I heard, he and his third trophy wife were living in Manhattan.”

  Teagan rolled her eyes. “Nice, Pop. You got me.”

  They all laughed. The conversation continued into the wee hours until, eventually, everyone began to make their way to bed.

  Sean was the last to rise.

  “It was a good story, Pop.”

  Patrick nodded. “I think so too.”

  “I wish there’d been a happier ending. Mom should have been here tonight.”

  Patrick swallowed heavily against the lump in his throat. Cancer had claimed Sunday well before her time. For too many years he’d wished the same thing. Eventually, he’d learned to be grateful for the time they’d had together. “She was here, Sean. She’s always been here. She’s inside you and your brothers and sisters. She’s in at least fifty percent of those Christmas ornaments, in dozens of the pictures, and she’s in quite a bit of the furniture around here. We had a heck of a fight the day I dragged that ugly old recliner in here. I think of her every time I sit down. She created this home for all of us.”

  “It’s not the same thing. You know what I mean, Pop.”

  “You didn’t listen to the story. Your mother achieved every one of her goals—she got her home, her family, her life in America. She told me the night before she passed away she was a woman dying without a single regret. She said she’d lived a full life with love and laughter and she couldn’t ask for more. I suppose that’s the best any of us can wish for, son.”

  Sean put his hands in the pockets of his jeans then gave him a crooked grin. “You’re right. I hope I can say the same thing when I die.”

  “I hope we all can.”

  Chapter Four

  Patrick listened to the hushed voices coming from the bedrooms. The girls were giggling in their room. Tris and Killian’s deep tones drifted down the stairs. Ewan and Sean were teasing each other, and for a moment, he thought he’d have to break up what sounded like a wrestling match.

  He closed his eyes and recalled the last part of the story. The one he hadn’t told his children.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Patrick wondered if he’d ever lived a more perfect moment as he and Sunday held hands, walking through the quiet streets of town toward her home. The neighbors who weren’t still celebrating the holidays at the dance were snuggled in warm beds in dark houses. It felt as if they were the only two people on the planet.

  They walked in silence as Patrick tried to wrap his head around what had just taken place. Sunday had turned Conall down for him. She’d told him she loved him.

  Sunday paused when they reached the door of her aunt’s home. “My aunt isn’t home.”

  Patrick was surprised by Sunday’s quiet admission. “She’s not?”

  Sunday shook her head almost shyly. “She’s spending the night at her brother’s house. She’s doing Christmas morning with my Uncle Ryan and his family. I’m going to join them for dinner tomorrow.”

  “Oh.”

  Sunday glanced over her shoulder at the empty house and bit her lip. “Do you want to come in?”

  Suddenly her reticence made sense. His heart raced. “I’d like to. Very much.”

  She smiled, opening the door. Patrick crossed the threshold, feeling almost dizzy as he considered what he hoped would happen tonight.

  Once they entered, he briefly glanced around her aunt’s parlor. Though he’d walked Sunday to the door nearly a hundred times the past few months, he’d never been inside.

  Sunday didn’t move and her anxiety was almost a tangible being in the darkened house. He stroked her face, savoring the soft skin of her cheek, hoping his touch would calm her. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

  Sunday released a long breath. “I’ve never…” She didn’t finish her thought.

  He kissed her brow and wrapped her in his embrace. “Neither have I.”

  She put her arms around his waist, holding him tightly.

  “Sunday. I can leave if you aren’t ready for—”

  She pressed her lips to his before he could finish speaking and opened them. Patrick accepted her invitation, dipping his tongue into her sweet mouth. She tasted like soda and cookies. He closed his eyes and took more, deepening the kiss.

  Sunday’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her hungry kisses rivaling his. For several minutes, he let himself disappear into her soft sighs and rough touches.

  When they separated, Sunday’s gaze met his.

  “I love you,” he said again. The words had been written on his heart since the first night he saw her. It felt so good, so right to be able to speak them aloud.

  “I love you too.”

  He ran his fingers through her long black hair. “Where’s your bedroom?”

  Even in the dim lighting, he saw the flush on her face. If she gave the slightest sign of hesitation, he’d leave.

  She didn’t. Sunday took his hand in hers and led him down the hallway to the last bedroom. She walked to the nightstand and turned on a small lamp. It cast a soft light that illuminated the room enough for him to look around.

  She hadn’t lived in Killarney long, so Patrick was surprised by how much the small room reflected her. Her battered guitar case was tucked in the corner. The bookshelf was overflowing with paperbacks and notebooks. She’d surrounded herself with photographs of family and friends on every wall. Sunday valued the people in her life more than anything else. Patrick had lost sight of that fact, lost in his own insecurities. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

  He looked at her bed, rubbing his palms against his pants. He ached with need…and nervousness.

  “You’ve really never done this?” Sunday asked.

  He shook his head. “I’ve never been in love before you, Sunday. You’ve changed my world.”

  She lifted his hand, pressing her lips against his knuckles. “You’ve become my world.”

  After that, their words gave way to motion. Patrick kissed her gently before unbuttoning her blouse. Sunday stood still as he slowly worked each button free. The blouse fell open and Patrick slipped his hands beneath the silky material at her shoulders to push it off.

  His breath caught as he looked at her pale breasts covered by a lacy bra. He cupped them, enjoying Sunday’s soft murmur of appreciation when he squeezed the sensitive flesh.

  Her hands landed on his forearms, not to push him away but to steady herself. She swayed and her eyes closed as if she were mesmerized by his touch. He placed a kiss on her bare shoulder after lifting her bra strap and pulling it down. His lips traveled along her shoulder to her neck, from her neck to her ear.

  Sunday’s rapid breathing, the rise and fall of her chest, the pulse at her neck told him she was enjoying hi
s journey as much as he was.

  He repeated the motion on the other side then reached behind her to unclasp the bra. Sunday froze as he peeled the lace away. Neither of them moved as Patrick looked at his lovely lady. The image of her standing topless before him was something he’d never forget. He was hers. He belonged to her, and he made a silent promise that as long as he was living, he’d never love another woman the way he loved Sunday.

  Bending his head, he took one of her tight nipples in his mouth.

  “Ahh!” Sunday cried in shock and pleasure. “God, Pat. That feels amazing.”

  He sucked harder. Her hands flew to his head, pulling his hair almost painfully.

  He played with her breasts until Sunday called out for mercy. Lifting his head, he wasn’t surprised to find her face and body flushed. It was hot in the room…so damn hot.

  He unbuttoned his shirt, not taking the time or care he’d used while helping her shed hers. The fabric tore in his haste to remove it. Sunday gave him a soft smile, but she didn’t attempt to slow him down. Once his shirt lay on the floor by her blouse, Sunday was there, her hands stroking his chest, toying with the light smattering of hair.

  Patrick swallowed heavily and prayed for the strength to finish this night with some shred of dignity when Sunday’s lips landed on his nipple. She lightly bit the tight nub until Patrick felt certain he would explode. He wanted her too badly for this to last long.

  He cupped her face in his palms. “Sunday.” He fought to find the words, but his face must have said it all. Sunday took a step away from him and, as he held his breath, she pushed her skirt and panties over her hips.

  A wave of lightheadedness caused him to sway slightly. She was simply stunning.

  “Go lie down on the bed, love.”

  She moved slowly away from him as Patrick counted to twenty in his head. He was in serious danger of losing control.

  Sunday lay in the middle of the mattress then shyly beckoned him to come closer. He took the five steps necessary to reach her side then sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze devouring every tantalizing inch of her body. He caressed her, letting his fingers explore her breasts, her stomach, her thighs.