Dangerous Attraction Romantic Suspense Boxed Set (9 Novels from Bestselling Authors, plus Bonus Christmas Novella from NY Times Bestselling Author Rebecca York)

by Kaylea Cross

  Knowledge of potions and poultices gathered over the years, from the time she was a toddler at her grandmother’s knee, added to the spirit that made her want to help others, were Keelin’s true inheritance from the woman who had been the backbone of the McKenna clan.

  She didn’t want to think about the other…the darkness that dwelled deep inside her…that, too, had been one of Moira’s many facets…the thing that made them both different.

  She shook away the traces of last night’s frightening dream and concentrated instead on her purpose. If only her stubborn father had listened to her (if only her voice had been stronger, Keelin thought guiltily) perhaps Da would not have had the heart attack that almost killed him. Well, if she hadn’t been vigilant enough before, she would do what she could now.

  Wanting to be at the main house when her father arrived home from hospital, she hurriedly gathered the supplies she needed – root of valerian and dried blue lavender blossoms. Mixing them together, she placed a small handful in each of a dozen muslin pouches. When suspended beneath the tap so that hot water flowed through them, the herbs would make an exquisitely scented fresh infusion that would also be soothing, hopefully relaxing her quick-tempered father and helping him to the restful sleep so necessary to healing.

  Undoubtedly he would refuse any more advanced remedies from her. But, even if he scorned it, rolled his eyes and shook his head as he was wont to do over things he didn’t understand, this she could do for him. And one other thing. A truly momentous thing. Perhaps she could bring him some inner peace.

  But how to make the announcement?

  After tying off the last pouch, Keelin gathered all together in a basket, left the shed and headed across the field of wild herbs and over the rolling pasture toward her parents’ home. And just in time. Her brother Curran and sister Flanna were helping Da from the car as Ma and Great-aunt Marcella, on short leave from the convent that had been her home for her entire adult life, looked on.

  Basket swinging from her arm, thick auburn hair whipping around her face, Keelin ran to join them. “Da!” she yelled.

  James McKenna turned to wave at his oldest daughter. His whitened hair reflected only glimpses of the red that had once crowned his head. His eyes, though, were still as green as the fields around them, where cows with new calves grazed. They were Moira’s eyes. And Flanna’s eyes. Like Curran, Keelin had inherited their mother’s gray.

  Keelin enveloped the wiry body that should have withstood the curse of high cholesterol, even if her father was a dairy farmer. “How are you doing, Da?”

  “Just grand. Good as new.”

  But she could see the lie to Da’s words in his eyes. He might be recovering physically, but his near death experience had affected him deep in his soul, whether he would admit it or no. The reason she had to act, to set things right in the family.

  “See, the sun has even made an appearance to greet me,” he said expansively, raising his face to the golden rays.

  Auspicious, Keelin thought, for the weather was more fickle than any lover. Most days were soft with the mist that greened the fields year-round. But the sun could pop in the blink of an eye. A body could take both umbrella and swim suit along on any excursion, for she was sure to have opportunity to use both.

  “Get yourself in the house, James Joseph McKenna, before you expire from heat exhaustion,” Keelin’s mother Delia demanded. A handsome woman, skin smooth and only a bit of silver threading her black hair, she appeared far younger than her husband, though only five years separated them in truth. “Come along now.”

  Da shook his head and made a sound of exasperation even while following orders. “No need to fuss, woman.”

  Though all his children knew he loved being fussed over. Keelin exchanged grins with Curran and Flanna. They linked arms, taking up the rear of the group as they entered the two-story limestone house that had for many years sheltered grandparents, parents, and siblings. After Seamus died, however, Moira had moved back to her old cottage. Then, lured away by fine horseflesh, Curran had gone off to Galway; Flanna had entered university in Dublin, after which, she’d chosen to stay to design her jewelry; while Keelin herself had taken a flat in Cork to be near the herbalist shop she ran with two other women. That is, until Moira’s inheritance had made a commuter of her.

  At the doorway, Keelin automatically dipped her fingers into the small font of holy water and crossed herself as she entered the foyer. For the past several years, her parents alone had wandered the rambling rooms with tall bay windows and views of the rolling pastures that were green year round. The exception being holidays and the like, when grand stories and laughter once more filled the house. Perhaps she would be able to make certain that soon more such occasions would present themselves, Keelin thought with hope, still wondering how she would tell Da what she was about to do.

  Her father settled in his great stuffed chair before the stone fireplace and looked around him. “Ah, this is satisfying to a simple man such as myself. Having me whole family in attendance.”

  “Not your whole family,” Marcella corrected him, straightening the collar of her habit. The elderly nun had never been one to mince words.

  “Now, Sister Mary, don’t you be bringing them up,” he complained.

  “Da, it was you who brought up the subject when you were in a desperate way,” Flanna reminded him. “You wished the three could be together one last time before you died!”

  Bless her soul, Keelin thought, gathering her courage.

  “Well, I didn’t die, did I?” With the full drama of a true Irishman sorely beleaguered, he said, “And they didn’t care enough to come to my side when I was near death, so why should I be giving them a thought?”

  “Ah, Da, you’re being unreasonable,” Curran told him, swiping his thick black hair away from his forehead. “You wouldn’t let us contact them so they would know you were sick in the first place.”

  With the way of her Murphy ancestors, Delia teased, “You always did have a bit o’ the blarney in you, James. Tsk, tsk, tsk. You know you want a wee peak at Rose and Raymond again…” She suddenly sobered. “God willing.”

  An uneasy silence muted all voices for a moment. Keelin hadn’t considered her aunt or uncle might have gone on – and her never having set eyes on either of them. She couldn’t tell himself what she was about, then. Couldn’t raise Da’s hopes. A refusal from one of the other two triplets would be bad enough. But if one of them weren’t even alive…

  Shaking away the chilling thought, Keelin quickly reconnoitered. “I have an announcement.” Though not the one she’d intended.

  Five pairs of quizzical eyes turned to her.

  Da asked, “What is it, lass?”

  “I’m going on a trip. Tomorrow morning, as a matter of fact. Business.” Her mouth went dry with the lie. “To meet with other herbalists.” Heat rose along her neck like fairy fire. “And it’s out of the country.”

  “Where to?”

  Taking a big breath, she said, “America,” and waited for an explosion of temper.

  “DA’S SUSPICIOUS, YOU KNOW.”

  The expected outburst never having come, Keelin still pretended innocence as she and Flanna entered her white-washed, thatch-roofed cottage after supper. “Of what?”

  “I’m neither blind nor daft, Keelin. Nor is anyone else in our family. Everyone is feigning ignorance, when in truth your intentions to contact Aunt Rose and Uncle Raymond are as clear as the waters of Lough Danaan,” she said of the small lake edging the McKenna property.

  Keelin moved to the peat-burning stove where the kettle was on the boil. “You do know me.”

  “You never could tell a falsehood without turning as red as your hair.”

  So true. Keelin sighed. “Tea?”

  “That’d be grand.”

  The cottage was merely two rooms, the larger for living, the smaller for sleeping– part of the original bedroom having been converted to a bath. Keelin loved Moira’s old house, the place
where her grandmother had lived alone before Seamus had come to her rescue when she was in dire straits, and she in turn had tamed his wild heart. The cottage was simple as were the furnishings, but neither mattered to Keelin.

  While she prepared the relaxing chamomile, Flanna fetched the mugs and placed them on the table, then searched the icebox for a lemon and milk. No words passed between them. They’d always had a special rapport, working together seamlessly, as if they had somehow been connected in the womb despite the three years between them. Connected and yet nothing alike. Green-eyed, strawberry blonde, petite but well-filled out, Flanna turned heads. And she was as bold as they came, Keelin knew. Unlike herself. Sometimes she envied her younger sister’s outgoing spirit and sense of adventure. By comparison, she was but a mouse.

  “So how will you go about it?” Flanna asked when Keelin set down the teapot and slid into the vacant chair.

  Keelin poured the steaming, aromatic liquid. “Several of the American cousins wrote Gran. She kept the letters in their envelopes, so I have the addresses.”

  “Then you’ll approach Raymond and Rose through their children.” Flanna gave her tea a squeeze of lemon.

  Adding a bit of milk to hers, Keelin nodded. “I thought it a wise idea. I’m certain I’ll be needing their help in reuniting three of the most stubborn Irish I’ve ever heard tell of.”

  “The wound goes deep – more than thirty years.”

  “Long enough.”

  “Aye.”

  Dreamily, Keelin sipped at her tea. “I was imagining how grand it would be if they could celebrate their sixtieth birthday together this October with as many McKennas as could be gathered round them.”

  “If Rose and Raymond are both still alive,” Flanna said softly, echoing Keelin’s worst fear.

  “They must be. For Da’s sake.”

  Later, after Flanna left to retire to the bedroom their parents kept for her, Keelin had reason to further contemplate birthdays. She’d passed her thirty-third unnoticed while Da was in hospital. The day had transpired like any other…except for her thinking heavily on Moira’s last words to her.

  Entering the bedroom, she lifted the top of the ancient music box that she’d bought from a Traveller recently, and removed a thick, cream-colored sheet of paper. She sat on the edge of her lace-trimmed bed to once again study the missive written in her grandmother’s steady hand.

  To my darling Keelin,

  I leave you my love and more. Within thirty-three days after your thirty-third birthday – enough time to know what you are about – you will have in your grasp a legacy of which your dreams are made. Dreams are not always tangible things, but more often are born in the heart. Act selflessly in another’s behalf, and my legacy shall be yours.

  Your loving grandmother,

  Moira McKenna

  P.S. Use any other inheritance from me wisely and only for good lest you harm yourself or those you love.

  Flanna and Curran both had received like missives, and Keelin supposed the thick cream envelopes the solicitor had sent to the American cousins held more of the same. She had been well and truly caught by the spirit of Moira’s bequest to her grandchildren. Moira had wanted them to be happy after the way each of her own children had tainted their personal lives with intolerance and jealousy.

  She and her siblings had poured over the contents of the letter together several times throughout the past year, wondering if their grandmother, truly something of a bean feasa – an old woman with magical powers – could have seen into their futures. Wondering if there was any validity to this legacy that held both fascination and burden for each inheritor.

  Keelin read Gran’s words yet again.

  Within thirty-three days after your thirty-third birthday…

  Not even two weeks to go.

  And the reference to dreams reminded her of the one she’d had the night before.

  Act selflessly in another’s behalf…

  Keelin swept away a nagging guilt. This was different than the last time, she assured herself. Different from all the others. She didn’t know these eyes she saw through. They belonged to a stranger in a strange place. Therefore, she had no control.

  Perhaps this dream had been just that, she thought desperately. A dream rather than one of her dreaded night terrors. Keelin considered. A young woman running away – and her off to America. Of course. That had to be the thing.

  Had to be.

  THE CITY WAS ALWAYS A SCARY PLACE. At night, it was even worse, overflowing with menacing people. Raggedy homeless with blank stares. Uniformed policemen with too sharp gazes. Billed-capped gang members with hot, hungry eyes.

  The stuff nightmares were made of.

  She wasn’t very brave, but she forced herself to continue on. Hands stuffed into pockets, head down so she wouldn’t have to look at anyone, she rushed east along Monroe Street, taking the bridge over the railroad yard. One foot in front of the other.

  Left. Right. Left. Right.

  Music beckoned her like a Pied Piper.

  Almost there. Almost there.

  She hurried across the edge of the lawn, dodging a hand-holding couple. Skirting a bag woman leaning against her shopping cart of belongings. Losing herself at the back of a crowd of middle-aged people with their fancy fold-up chairs, lit candles and glasses of fine wine.

  In the distance stood Navy Pier with its giant Ferris wheel a lit beacon. She turned. Bandshell and illuminated city skyline before her, she slumped to the grass. Winded.

  Afraid. Always afraid.

  Tears flooded her eyes, but she slashed them away. She’d had no choice. She had to make the best of it.

  How long?

  She tried concentrating on the music, but it was classical stuff like he played. Liszt, she thought. Why that? Anything else would have been better. Anything not a reminder…

  She closed her eyes, covered her mouth and rocked. She could see him – dark hair swept across his brow, pale blue eyes sparkling as he laughed with her, hugged her tight.

  Lies. All lies.

  The enormity of what she’d done hit her suddenly and she began to shake inside. It took all her willpower not to scream. Not to get up in front of all these people and beg for help. They would only make her go back.

  Blindly, she reached for her bracelet. Fingers twined through the leather strands. Traced one charm, then another. Their familiar touch calmed her. With great effort, she settled herself down. Took deep breaths. Told herself everything was going to be all right.

  Then the voice behind her saying, “There you are!” made her jerk, setting the charms to tinkling and her whirling around so fast something flew from her fingers and her head spun…

  HEAD SPINNING, KEELIN SAT STRAIGHT UP IN HER SEAT, her body covered in a light sweat. For a moment, she was dazed. Disoriented. Until Liszt faded into the drone of jet engines and she realized she was on the plane to Chicago.

  Another dream. The same eyes. The same fear.

  Fear that she could taste as if it were her own.

  She trembled inside at haunting memories. At old guilt. At her inability to act when it counted. Now it was happening again…but this time she didn’t know who.

  Dear God, no. Not again.

  Surely she couldn’t be held responsible for yet another life.

  Chicago

  “I’M IMPRESSED. YOU REALLY CAME all the way from Ireland for the sole purpose of talking my father and Aunt Rose into visiting the old sod for a reunion?”

  Keelin stared across a slick black lacquered desk scattered with folders and videotapes. Her cousin Skelly McKenna, oldest child of Raymond, leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. She searched his expression for any trace of mockery, but he seemed genuinely impressed.

  “Da almost died, and in his sickbed admitted he wished to see his brother and sister again. I’m certain if the situations were reversed, you would do the same for your father.”

  Skelly laughed, the sound tinged with bitterness. “My fa
ther would never say such a thing to me. He and I are not exactly what you would call close.”

  Not exactly what Keelin wanted to hear. “Are you telling me you won’t help?”

  “Not at all. But I am telling you that I don’t have a lot of influence with Dad.” Skelly rose and paced the spacious office, outfitted with more black lacquered furniture and a couple of overstuffed black love seats. The only color in the room came from the Oriental carpet and a few well-placed pieces of art work on the walls. “My sister Aileen, on the other hand, continues to charm the socks off the old man, and I’m sure we can enlist her aid when Dad gets back from Washington.”

  Raymond McKenna being a U.S. Congressman from Chicago.

  Relief swept through Keelin. “I dreaded doing this alone.”

  “Hey, cous, I’ll do whatever I can for the cause,” Skelly said with a wicked smile that dimpled one cheek.

  Keelin started. “Grandad.”

  “What?”

  “Your smile…you reminded me of him just then.”

  “That’s right. You knew old Seamus.”

  “That I did.”

  And with his black hair, blue eyes, that smile, dimple and all…Skelly looked exactly like a young Seamus McKenna.

  “You knew Moira pretty well, too, right?” Skelly asked, settling a hip on the edge of his desk.

  “Of course.”

  “Was she…okay just before she died? I mean here.” He tapped his forehead.

  Putting Keelin on edge. The spacious office suddenly seemed to close in on her. “Gran was the wisest woman I ever had the privilege to know,” she informed him stiffly. “And that, until the day she died.”

  “Well, after she died, I got this strange letter…”

  “Ah, the legacy.” She relaxed.

  “You know about it, then?”

  “I received the letter, as well, as did my brother and sister. I believe she wrote what was in her heart for each of her nine grandchildren because her own children had acted so unwisely.”

  “Nicely put,” he said, a cynical note in his tone.

  And why shouldn’t he be a bit cynical? Keelin thought. An anchor for The Whole Story, a televised tabloid news show, Skelly reported stories that often laid open people’s terrible secrets for all to dissect. Though she didn’t care for tabloid journalism herself, neither televised nor print, Keelin was not about to judge this cousin she’d just met. Who knew what road had brought him to his place in life?