SMOKE HUNG THICK in the air at Quinn's Pub, adding to the disreputable atmosphere already cultivated by spilt beer, loud music and raucous arguments. Rafe Kendrick sat at the end of the bar, a warm Guinness in front of him. The spot gave Rafe enough privacy for his own thoughts, yet also offered him a decent view of the patrons-and the men behind the bar.
That's why he'd come here to South Boston, to get a good look at the Quinns. By his count, there were seven of them, six sons and the old man, Seamus Quinn. Rafe had entire dossiers on each one of them, every detail of their lives outlined by his head of security at Kencor. But Rafe Kendrick always believed that it was better to study the enemy close up, to learn their faults and their weaknesses firsthand. All the better to exploit those weaknesses later.
Fortunately, all the Quinns spent plenty of time at the pub. Over the past few months and three visits to the bar, he'd had plenty of time to observe each of them. There was Conor, the vice cop, quiet and serious, a man who took his responsibilities seriously, yet didn't always abide by the rules. Dylan, the fireman, was easygoing and gregarious, the kind of guy who laughed at danger and everything else in life. The third brother, Brendan Quinn, made his living as an adventure writer and seemed to be the most introspective of the trio. Rafe had read two of his books and found them quite riveting. He'd been surprised at the guy's talents.
Their professional talents were nothing compared to their talents with the ladies. An unending parade of women strolled through the front door of the pub, their sights set on attracting the attention of one of the bachelor Quinn brothers. If one of the older boys wasn't interested, they were left with three other eligible candidates-Sean, Brian and Liam Quinn.
Like their older brothers, they were awash in feminine attention, holding court with any number of beautiful females. Rafe had found the whole thing amusing to watch, the casual flirtation, the circling and advancing, and then the final denouement when one of the brothers would walk out the door of the bar with a woman at his side. And none of the brothers were seen with the same woman two nights in a row.
But then Rafe had never considered that particular trait a weakness, since he possessed the same. Rafe had been with his share of women in his life, though they came from a world very different from Quinn's Pub. They were cool and sophisticated, not nearly so obvious with their desires and their physical attributes. They were women who enjoyed the company of wealthy men, appreciating what money could provide, knowing how to play the game to their fullest advantage. And when Rafe became too busy or too bored, they'd accept the fact and move on to someone else without a second thought.
Rafe caught himself staring at a woman at the other end of the bar, a woman who had been flirting with Dylan Quinn until Quinn had focused his attention on her companion. Rafe looked away, but not soon enough. A few moments later, the woman slipped onto the stool beside him, tossing her honey-blond hair over her shoulder. She pulled out a cigarette and placed it between her moist lips, then leaned forward, offering a healthy view of her cleavage. Rafe knew what was expected. But he wasn't interested, so he simply slid the book of matches across the bar.
The woman didn't take the hint. She gave him a dazzling smile. "I'm Kara," she murmured. "Would you like to join me for a game of pool?"
Rafe didn't bother returning her smile. "I don't play pool," he said softly.
"Darts?" she said, arching her eyebrow and allowing her hand to brush against his sleeve.
Rafe slowly shook his head, then glanced over his shoulder. "I'm sure there are any number of men in this bar who'd enjoy your company tonight…Kara. I'm just not one of them."
She blinked in surprise, then, with a sniff, slipped off the bar stool and returned to her friends at the other end of the bar.
"Can I get you another Guinness, boyo?"
Rafe glanced up from his warm beer. The patriarch of the Quinn clan stood in front of him, a towel tossed over his shoulder. His thick gray hair dropped in a wave over his forehead and his face was lined from years of harsh sun and sea spray. "Or maybe ye'd like a bite to eat? Kitchen closes in fifteen minutes," Seamus added.
Rafe pushed the warm beer away from him. "Scotch," he said. "Neat."
Seamus nodded then went to fetch the drink. Rafe studied the old man coldly. How many times had he heard the name Seamus Quinn? His mother used to murmur it like a mantra, as if she had to remind herself over and over again that her husband was dead-and that Seamus Quinn was responsible.
Rafe glanced up when the old man returned with his drink. He couldn't ignore the surge of hate that heated his blood, better than any twelve-year-old Scotch could. But he had to push that aside for now, for reckless emotion had no part in his plans for the Quinns. It wouldn't be wise to tip his hand so early.
"You new around here?" Seamus asked, leaning an elbow on the bar.
Rafe took a sip of his Scotch and shook his head. "Not new to Boston," he said. "Lived here for a while."
"I know just about everybody in the neighborhood," Seamus countered, eyeing him suspiciously. "Haven't seen you around."
"I've got…business in the area," Rafe replied.
"Oh, yeah. Doin' what?"
"Tying up loose ends," he said with a shrug. He gulped the last of his Scotch, letting it burn a path down his throat. Then he stood up and pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket. Rafe tossed a twenty on the bar. "Keep the change," he muttered before he turned and headed toward the door.
He shoved the door open and walked out into the September night, the streets illuminated by the feeble light from the streetlamps. Though Quinn's Pub was located in a rough section of town, Rafe felt no qualms about walking the streets. He'd grown up on the streets and had learned to protect himself, first with his fists, then with his wits, and now with his wealth.
As he walked toward his car, he thought about the boy he'd once been, happy and carefree, certain of his parents' love. But that had all changed one fall day, much like this one. Even now, a sick feeling twisted his gut at the memory of his father's friends-the men who had worked the swordfishing boats with Sam Kendrick-walking up the front steps of their tiny house in Gloucester.
They hadn't had to speak. Rafe knew what they'd come for. But still, he listened to the details of how his father had met with an unfortunate accident at sea. His father had been caught in a long line and yanked overboard on the Mighty Quinn, Seamus Quinn's boat. By the time they'd gotten him back on deck, he was dead. Drowned. Like every fisherman's kid, Rafe knew the dangers of working the North Atlantic, but he couldn't believe his father could make such a stupid mistake. Even Rafe knew to be watchful when they were playing out the line.
That day had marked the end of Rafe's childhood. Lila Mirando Kendrick, already frail of mind and health, took the news badly. Though she'd hated her husband's choice of occupation, she'd loved Sam Kendrick. It had been an odd match, the rough-and-tumble Irish American and the delicate Portuguese beauty. But they had adored each other and the loss of him was more than she could bear. What emotional stability she had left was shattered along with the family's financial stability.
Rafe had immediately gone to work to help supplement the insurance settlement his mother received. He had worked from the time he was nine years old, first delivering papers and collecting aluminum cans, until he could get a real work permit. After that, he took anything that would pay at least minimum wage. He worked construction to put himself through college, then parlayed a small investment in a crumbling storefront into a fortune in Boston's booming real estate market.
By the age of twenty-five, he'd made his first million. And now, at thirty-three, he had more money than he could ever spend. Enough to make his life easy. Enough to buy his mother all the help she needed. And plenty of money to make revenge a simple matter. After all, that's why he'd come to Quinn's Pub-to avenge his father's death and his mother's grief.
Rafe turned back and looked down the darkened street to the neon lights blinking from the pub windows. He wasn't su
re why he had to do this. A shrink might say he had a need for closure, or a desire to work out his childhood rage. But Rafe didn't put much stock in the science of psychiatry, even though he'd spent a fortune supporting the profession on behalf of his mother. His motive was much simpler.
He'd find a way to take something away from Seamus Quinn, the same way Quinn had taken something from him. An eye for an eye, wasn't that how it was supposed to be? Maybe he'd find the means to buy the pub out from under him. Or maybe he'd get to Quinn through his sons. Or maybe he'd finally find the proof he needed to put Quinn in jail for the murder of Sam Kendrick.
Whatever it was, Rafe was determined to make it happen. Once he rid himself of the demons in his past, maybe he could finally get on with his future.
THE LIGHTS OF New York glittered against a carpet of black night. Keely stared out the window of the 747, her cheek pressed against the cool surface. She'd left Ireland five hours ago and somewhere over the Atlantic she'd come to the realization that her life had changed forever.
Her visit to the parish priest had been even more illuminating than her tea with Maeve Quinn. Though he couldn't tell her if her father was still alive, Keely left believing that somewhere in the world, she at least had five brothers, and probably six. The baby that her mother was carrying when she left Ireland was more than a year older than Keely. She didn't want to believe that the baby had been a girl and her mother had kept a sister from her for all these years.
Her thoughts wandered back to all the romantic stories she made up about her parents, their enduring love, his tragic accident, her mother's grief. So what had really happened? If her father was still alive, he would have made some attempt to see her, wouldn't he have?
"So, he's not alive. That part of the story is the truth," she told herself. "He would have made an attempt to see me if he could." Seamus Quinn had died and her mother was left with five, or maybe six children. She couldn't take care of them and she…put them into foster care? That would explain her mother's melancholy moods. But why keep that all from Keely? And why, once she made a decent living at the cake shop, didn't she find her sons?
Keely moaned softly, then rubbed her temples, working at the knots of tension that kept her head in a vice.
"Are you all right?"
She turned and looked at the businessman who sat next to her in first class. She hadn't even noticed him, so preoccupied was she with her thoughts for the past five hours. "No," she murmured.
"Can I get the flight attendant for you?"
"No," Keely said. She forced a smile. "I'll be fine, once we land."
"It'll be good to be home," he said. "I don't know about you, but I hate traveling. Not in the U.S., but this foreign travel is too much. The hotels are too small and the food is the worst. And I have to tell you…"
Keely smiled and nodded as the man prattled on and on, but she wasn't listening to a word he said. She pulled the photo out of her purse and stared down at it. Where were her brothers now? Had they all been split up after her father had died? Did they remember her or had they been too young?
A tiny smile curled the corners of her mouth. They were handsome boys. No doubt they'd be handsome men. "Conor, Dylan, Brendan," she murmured. "Brian and Sean."
"Is that your family?"
Keely dragged her gaze from the photo. "What?"
The businessman pointed to the picture. "Your family?"
"No," Keely said. She swallowed hard then forced a smile. "I mean, yes. This is my family. My brothers. And my parents."
He took the photo from her fingers and she fought the impulse to snatch it back and hide it away where it would be safe. For now, all she had was the photo. But the idea of family-her family-belonged out in the open. She wanted to know these brothers she had lost. She wanted to know what really happened to her father and why she'd been forced to grow up an only child.
A different person would be stepping off the plane in New York. She'd gone to Ireland believing she knew who and what she was. She'd been content with her life. But now she was more than just Keely McClain-she was a sister and an only daughter to a man she didn't know. She was a Quinn.
But she was also less. Everything she'd believed she was had been negated within the span of a few hours. All her memories of her childhood were now tainted with her mother's betrayal. The woman she thought she knew better than anyone in the world had become a complete enigma.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're cleared for landing at JFK. We'll be on the ground in about fifteen minutes."
The flight attendant leaned over and grabbed the wineglass from Keely's tray table, then asked her to fasten her seat belt. Keely accepted the photo back from the man next to her, feeling her stomach flutter nervously. For a moment she thought she might get sick the way she had that day outside Maeve Quinn's cottage. She grabbed the airsickness bag from the pocket in front of her. But she couldn't face the humiliation of losing her honey-roasted peanuts in front of everyone in first class.
Keely pushed out of the seat and hurried to the bathroom. The flight attendant tried to stop her, but she waved her off and locked herself inside. Leaning over the sink, she drew a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves. This was the second time this had happened! It had been years since her nerves had gotten the best of her. But now panic and nausea seemed to descend on her without warning.
"Calm down," she murmured, staring at her reflection in the mirror. "No matter what the truth is, you'll deal with it."
She splashed some water on her face and ran her fingers though her short dark hair. She hadn't told her mother that she was coming home early. Right now, she could only think a few minutes ahead. Once they landed, she'd decide how to approach Fiona.
A knock sounded on the bathroom door. "Miss? We're on our final approach. You have to take your seat."
Keely closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I'll be right out." She reached for the latch, then pasted a smile on her face.
She found her seat moments before the plane descended to the runway. The next hour passed in a blur, her mind numb with fatigue and pent-up emotion. Like a robot, she walked through customs and immigration, flipping open her passport only to wonder whether she was reentering the country illegally. After all, her name wasn't really McClain but Quinn. Then she dragged her luggage down the concourse to the taxi stand.
She gave the cabbie her address, then decided at the last minute that going home would be useless. She wouldn't get any sleep until she'd talked to her mother. "No," she said. "Take me to 210 East Beltran in Prospect Heights. There's construction on Atlantic, so take Linden."
Keely settled back into the seat, knowing that the ride could be excruciatingly long or mercifully short. Luckily, it was the latter and the cab pulled up in front of her mother's place after only a half-hour ride. The bakery looked quite different from the building it had been in Keely's childhood. It now had a distinctly sophisticated look, with a fancy sign hanging over the door that proclaimed it McClain's-Fine Cakes and Pastries.
Anya had retired years ago, selling the business to Fiona. So she and Keely had carried on. After Keely graduated from high school, she had attended classes at nearby Pratt Institute, honing her artistic talents in design and sculpting. And four years ago, she'd taken over the day-to-day business from her mother. Just last year, as her popularity as a cake designer boomed, she had finally moved out, finding a loft with room enough for a small studio in a trendy location in the East Village. But the everyday baking and decorating was still done in Brooklyn.
Fiona worked at the shop every day, discussing cake designs with nervous brides and picky mothers. Keely rarely had time to get out of the kitchen, decorating cakes for lavish birthday parties and corporate receptions, movie premieres and store openings, as well as high-society weddings. She'd reached a landmark last month, selling a single wedding cake for the same amount of money that her mother had made in an entire year working for Anya. It still stunned her what a little bit of flour, sugar and butter
was worth if it looked pretty enough.
Though she'd never intended to follow in her mother's footsteps, she loved her job. She loved the excitement of making a crowning centerpiece for a wedding or birthday party. But all the way back from Ireland, she could barely even think of the work she had waiting for her. How could she possibly spend hour after hour, elbow-deep in buttercream, after what had happened?
The cab pulled up on Beltran and screeched to a halt. Keely paid the cabbie, then grabbed her bags from the trunk and hauled them to the front door of her mother's flat. She fumbled for her key and unlocked the door, then left her things in the tiny foyer.
She slowly climbed the stairs. When she reached the top, Keely knocked softly, then pushed the door open. She found her mother standing near the door, her hand pressed to her chest.
"Keely! Lord, you frightened me! What are you doing here? You weren't due home for another two days."
Her mother's voice sounded strange to her ears. Keely had always thought she had an accent, but compared to Maeve, her mother spoke with barely a hint of Ireland left in her voice. Fiona stepped up and drew her into a warm hug, but Keely stiffened, then pulled back. "I went to Ballykirk," she murmured.
Fiona's breath caught and her gaze met Keely's. "What?"
"You heard me," Keely said. "I visited Ballykirk. I thought I'd go to learn a little more about my ancestry. I thought it might be interesting. Little did I realize."
Her mother's face had gone pale and she pressed trembling fingers to her lips. "You know?"
"I want you to tell me," Keely said, her voice filling with anger. "Tell me they all died in a terrible accident and you couldn't bear to talk about it. Tell me they never existed and Maeve Quinn was wrong. Tell me because those are the only two reasons that I can accept for you lying to me all these years."
"I can't tell you that," Fiona said, her eyes downcast. "It would just be another lie."
Reunited Page 3
