Mistletoe Magic

by Fern Michaels

  “Tilly,” Marty admonished the little woman. “You’re here to make sure Miss Claire has a nice hot meal waiting for her as soon as she’s had a chance to clean up.”

  Claire would’ve sworn Marty was giving Tilly the evil eye. She observed the two of them together, and that is when it clicked.

  Donald Flynn was not sick; nor was he dying. He was probably looming above them somewhere in this giant castle, looking down at the scene below him, laughing. Claire clinched her hands in a fist, completely ticked off.

  Tilly chose that moment to acknowledge that Claire was actually in the room with them.

  “You want dinner now? Or do you want to wait for the men?” Tilly asked.

  Claire actually had to close her eyes for a couple of seconds. Then she opened them again just to make sure she wasn’t living in some fantasy fairy tale of a dream. She looked around the kitchen. No, this was very real, too real. Could it be possible that they still lived by the rules of etiquette from another century? Possibly the seventeenth century? No, that was too much.

  “So, which you want?” Tilly asked again.

  Marty cleared his throat, shook his head, walked across the kitchen, and placed a caring hand on Claire’s shoulder. “Tilly sometimes forgets her manners, thinks she’s back in China, where women are ruled by their men.”

  That explains it, Claire thought. She mentally forgave the little woman her faux pas.

  “And isn’t that as it should be?” said a deep male voice.

  Claire directed her gaze in the direction from where the words came. She blinked once, then twice, and yet again, sure what she viewed was just another part of this fantasy world that she had stepped into when her feet touched the green grass of Ireland. Because, nowhere in her world, and her world was quite the fantasy land living in Los Angeles, California, did men look like the one that bracketed the doorway with lanky yet muscular arms, extending from an equally broad chest that led to a narrow, but not too narrow, waistline. He wore faded black denim that looked as though it choked the muscular legs encased inside and clung in other places that it shouldn’t. Claire felt her cheeks flame as she stared just below the man’s belt. Quickly raising her eyes to his chest, she saw that it clung too tightly to a worn-out black T-shirt. When she was able to take her eyes away from his massive chest, she swallowed quickly, then turned her eyes away.

  “So you’re that attorney who flew all night long to get here before Donald kicks the bucket?”

  Claire took a few seconds to gather herself. She had to remember she was a professional woman used to dealing with men of all kinds. “I’m Claire O’Brien,” she stated firmly, confidently. “And you are?” She let her words hang in the air.

  The man chose to fully show himself. He walked across the giant kitchen as though he belonged there. It would be funny, Claire thought, if a man’s life wasn’t hanging in the balance. Well, she didn’t really know that, not yet. She reminded herself that she was about to find out. She looked at Marty and Tilly, who watched the two of them as though they were both animals about to pounce on their prey.

  “I guess he doesn’t speak. Possibly you’re a younger version of Liam Neeson, maybe a stand-in?” Claire couldn’t help but notice the strong resemblance between the two. And she would never admit it to the man who stood before her, but he was much better-looking than Liam Neeson, and certainly much younger. Raw power and a keen intelligence emanated from him, despite his good looks.

  The guy had the audacity to laugh, loudly. “I hear it all the time, but no, that isn’t my chosen profession. Like you, I’m an attorney.”

  It was then that Claire remembered Quinn Connor and where she’d met him. “We’ve met before,” she said, using her best attorney voice. Firm, commanding, and no-nonsense.

  All six-foot-four of him walked across the room, stopping a couple of feet in front of her. He held out his hand to her. “I’m sure I would have remembered,” he said with barely a trace of an Irish accent.

  Claire was sure he was speaking the truth. It had been during her last year of law school, and though their introduction was only a brief one, she’d never forgotten him. And looking at him now, she realized he had only gotten better with age. Like a fine wine, maturity had only made him sexier, more appealing to the opposite sex. Now the question was, did she remind him of that long-ago meeting or should she let it go? Deciding on the latter, she spoke. “You’re probably right; I must’ve mistaken you for someone else.”

  If he suddenly remembered their chance meeting, she would simply use time and age as an excuse. Though something told her, by the glint in his eye, that he knew exactly when they’d met, and where. Los Angeles, a cocktail party when, fresh out of law school, the firm at which she had begun her career, Visco, Walsh and Mack, opened a second office in a new high-rise they’d built. The managing partner had invited attorneys from across the globe, and a few of the clerks who were in their last year of law school and had been offered associate positions in the firm, Claire being one of them. Quinn Connor was the legal golden boy that day, as was mentioned numerous times throughout the evening. He had garnered a perfect score on the bar exam. She remembered watching him throughout the evening, smiling at him. The few times his eye had caught hers across the room, he really hadn’t paid much attention to her, and for some reason, even now, she remembered feeling rejected by him. She wasn’t the girl she’d been back then. Now she was a powerful professional woman who could hold her own against men like Quinn Connor.

  Chapter 5

  Claire took immediate control of the situation before it got even more out of hand. “It’s been a long twenty-four hours. If Mr. Flynn is well enough to see me, I’d like to freshen up a bit before I make my appearance.” Claire turned to Marty and Tilly, who watched her and Quinn as though they were a circus sideshow act.

  Quinn laughed, then replied, “You do appear to be a bit rough around the edges; you look like you could use a shower and a hot meal.”

  Knowing he was trying to get under her skin, she lifted her chin, meeting his sexy gaze straight on. “And you, Mr. Connor, look as though a trip to a clothing store might be in order. Or is this the mode of dress attorneys affect when they’re in Ireland?”

  Suddenly, Marty stepped between the two. “Quinn, leave this young lady alone; she ain’t used to your warped sense of humor. Right, Ms. Claire?”

  Marty was wrong. She liked a good sparring partner now and then. It broke up the monotony when things got boring.

  “I get his sense of humor,” Claire remarked, then stepped away from Quinn’s penetrating stare. Apparently he wasn’t aware of the fact that she had five brothers whose sense of humor was most likely more warped than Quinn Connor’s.

  “I like a woman who understands a sense of humor. Actually, it’s one of the main requirements for all the women I date,” Quinn said teasingly.

  Claire didn’t believe that for a minute. With a man who looked like Quinn Connor, he needed a matching beauty, a bit of competition in the looks department. While Claire wasn’t a great beauty, by any means, she’d been told on more than one occasion that she was quite attractive. She supposed when she put on makeup and did her hair, she wasn’t too hard on the male eye. At five-foot-seven, with long, shiny black hair and clear blue eyes, Claire had turned a few heads in her day.

  “I don’t know what that is I’m smelling, but I’m dying to taste it. Tilly, Marty tells me you’re the best chef in all of Ireland.” Claire watched the little woman squirm under her praise.

  Tilly chuckled, her little almond eyes twinkling like the lights on a Christmas tree. “I wasn’t sure what you would like, being from America and all, so I made entrées for you to choose from. I wasn’t sure if you are one of those vegans or a vegetarian, whatever they call them over there, so I made a little bit of everything. I’ve made a cheese platter. You might like to get started on that. Ireland has some of the finest cheeses in the world. Ardrahan, has a rich nutty taste, and then there’s Corleggy, a pas
teurized goat cheese I get from County Cavan, some of the best in Ireland. And, lastly, I have Durrus, a creamy, fruity cheese. Of course, we have an array of breads, scones, and biscuits. I didn’t know if you were one of those girls who watched their figure all the time, but apparently it looks like you don’t have to, so you might want to try my potato, cabbage, and onion soup with my hearty brown bread. Made just this morning when I heard you were coming. Donald insisted I make a traditional Irish stew for you. It’s good beef, lamb, lots of potatoes, and a few secret ingredients I’ll never reveal. So, if you’re hungry,” Tilly finished.

  If she weren’t hungry before, she certainly was by then. She wanted a taste of everything. “I don’t know when I’ve been offered such a variety of foods to choose from. Would it be rude of me to want to try a bit of everything?” Claire asked, grinning. Just that moment, her stomach chose to make its state of hunger known to all who were within a few feet of her. She couldn’t remember when she’d had her last meal, only that she’d had way too much alcohol in her system during the past twenty-four hours and not near enough food.

  “I think you probably just made Tilly the happiest woman in the world,” Marty said.

  “And me, too. I just hate to eat alone,” Quinn teased, then actually had the nerve to look Claire straight in the eye and wink at her. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  Claire thought it a little late for him to ask for permission, but she didn’t see any reason to deny him. “Not at all.”

  Tilly scurried about the kitchen, filling platters with cheeses and bread, ladled the thick, hearty soup into bowls, brought these to the table, a giant wooden structure that Claire would bet was hundreds of years old and had been in the Flynn family forever.

  “I’ll let you two get started with the soup and cheese; then, if you’re still hungry, I’ll serve you both up a dish of my Irish stew. Marty, why don’t you make a pot of tea for these two while I get their plates ready.”

  “Would it be possible for me to clean up a bit before I sit down to eat?” Claire asked, dying to remove her wrinkled skirt and Kelly’s too-tight black ballet slippers.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Claire,” Marty said. “Donald told me where to put you.”

  He spoke of her as though she were a thing, something to be placed wherever he desired. Again, Claire thought, as soon as she saw Mr. Donald Flynn, she was going to give him a piece of her mind, American-style.

  “If you wouldn’t mind taking me there, I’d love to clean up before I eat,” Claire stated firmly, letting them all know how she felt about Mr. Donald Flynn’s putting her anywhere.

  Tilly called over her shoulder as she prepared their plates of food. “Marty doesn’t always remember his manners, Miss Claire. You follow him upstairs, and when you come back, I’ll have your meal waiting for you.” Tilly happily bustled around the kitchen, in her element. Claire couldn’t help smiling as she watched her.

  “I’ll be right down,” she said as she made her way up the winding staircase. “This is some place,” she said to Marty’s back. “Not sure I’d want to live in a place this size.”

  What she assumed were oil paintings of the Flynn dynasty decorated the stairway. Polished sconces that Claire would swear were pure gold lit up the staircase, bright red velvet ribbons hanging from them. “This way,” Marty said, directing her down a narrow hall, where a giant spruce decorated with tiny white lights and angels met them.

  “The tree is spectacular!”

  “Donald likes his trees; there’s one in just about every room.”

  “Must be a lot of work, but the fun kind. I always put up a tree, a small one, but it brings back memories,” Claire said, then thought of Shannon, and that wasn’t on her good-memory list.

  He opened the door and stepped aside so Claire could enter. Delighted, she spun around the room, again thinking she had stepped right into a fairy tale. “This is gorgeous!” A set of tall windows provided a perfect view of the massive estate’s gardens. It looked like a park, not someone’s backyard, Claire thought as she gazed out at the beauty. This was definitely not a backyard, at least the kind she was used to. She reminded herself not to be taken in by all of this. Donald Flynn had taken her away from her family, and at Christmastime, too. Short of a real diagnosis of terminal illness, he’d best have a darn good explanation.

  “There’s the bath, and Tilly assured me there’s all the stuff in there you’ll need. Russell brought your bags up.” Claire saw her luggage placed discreetly at the foot of the giant canopied bed. She wondered who Russell was and what his position was around the castle but wasn’t going to ask as it really wasn’t her concern. “I’ll be downstairs shortly,” she said to Marty, who was waiting by the open door. “Tell Tilly I’m starving.”

  Marty laughed, then closed the door. Finally alone, Claire opened her luggage and removed a change of clothes. She almost screamed with delight when she saw the giant claw-foot tub. A separate glass area enclosed the shower opposite the tub. She turned on the tap and quickly shed her clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. Standing under the hot shower, she groaned. “Oh, this is wonderful,” she said out loud. She leaned back so that the warm water ran down her face. She could stay here for hours she thought, but later, after she learned why she was here, she planned to spend some time in that claw-foot tub before heading back to the States. Quickly, she found a bottle of lilac-scented shampoo. She washed her hair, rinsing away all traces of the muck from yesterday. A bottle of bath gel, along with a mesh sponge, was sitting on another shower shelf. Squirting the floral-scented wash into the sponge, Claire washed as fast as she could, then stood under the shower for a full minute before stepping out. Though she didn’t want to keep Tilly waiting, she couldn’t help but smile at the thought of keeping Quinn Connor waiting. She toweled off, slipped into the black leggings and a bright red sweater that hung just below her rear end. Thankful for her own shoes, she slid into her favorite black Uggs. Raking a comb through her freshly washed hair, she piled it in a topknot, secured it with a clip, and, as an afterthought, spritzed her favorite jasmine perfume on her neck.

  Racing down the stairs, the enticing aroma from the kitchen made her stomach growl once again. With some food in her stomach, she would feel almost human again.

  Though when she saw Donald Flynn himself seated at the head of the table, she almost fainted.

  “I see you finally arrived,” Donald said as he helped himself to a slice of bread.

  Anger fueled Claire across the room to the table where she stood next to Donald Flynn. “It’s barely been twenty-four hours since you demanded that I come to your deathbed, and from what I can see right now, you are the picture of health. Do you mind telling me what this is all about?”

  Donald Flynn didn’t bother to stand up as most gentlemen would. No, he continued to spread cheese on his bread carefully as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “Claire O’Brien. You’re as beautiful as I remember.”

  Hunger overriding her anger, though only for a second, Claire sat in the chair across from Donald. “Look, I didn’t come all the way across the damned Atlantic ocean to listen to compliments. You told me you were dying, that it was a matter of life and death. I rearranged my holiday to come here. Now, don’t you think it’s about time you tell me why I’m really here?” Claire no longer cared about manners. She reached across the table for a slice of bread and dipped it into her hot soup. If she hadn’t been so ticked right now, she would have sighed with pleasure, as the soup was to die for. Marty was right. Tilly was an excellent chef.

  “Brock Ettinger assured me you had no plans for the holidays. He said you rarely traveled out of California. Knowing your Irish heritage, I just assumed you would be happy to have a chance at a vacation, especially in Ireland, and at my expense.”

  For a moment, Claire was at a loss for words. “Brock told you this?” She was fuming. Maybe it was time to step out on her own, walk away from corporate law and the good-old-boy system since they thought they co
uld control her life.

  “Oh come on, Claire, do tell me that this is the best offer you’ve had all year long. Working for a man like Brock Ettinger can’t be all that exciting,” Donald said between bites.

  “I’m sorry I can’t keep quiet any longer,” Quinn said, his voice laced with anger. “Tell her the truth. Donald, tell her why you’ve really asked her to come to Ireland.”

  Claire felt as though she had been completely and utterly duped. That, she supposed, was because she had been completely and utterly duped. She was so mad, she wanted to toss her bowl of hot soup in Donald Flynn’s face, but, frankly, the soup was too good to waste on such a sneaky old man. “Yes, why don’t you tell me why so I can explain to my family why I had to back out of my Christmas plans?” Now she felt guilty when she remembered the relief she’d felt when she’d explained to Patrick that she wouldn’t be spending the holiday week with him and Stephanie. As soon as she finished eating, she planned to call the airlines and book a return trip home.

  Donald Flynn placed his napkin in his lap, then lay his spoon next to his soup bowl. “Okay, I admit I wasn’t completely honest. Though we’re all going to die someday, that part was true. You see how large this estate is, and this is just a small portion of all that I have. I have no children, and, of course, no grandchildren, not even a great-niece or -nephew.” Donald stared at Quinn. “He’s my only living blood relative. I want to leave everything I own to him, but he refuses to be named as my beneficiary.”

  Claire took another sip of her soup, pulled off a chunk of bread, and washed it down with tea. “And what does this have to do with me?”

  “You’re an O’Brien. Let me see if I have this right, and correct me if I’m wrong. Don’t you have five brothers and two sisters? There’s Colleen, who married her high-school sweetheart, Mark Cunningham, they had two daughters, Shannon Margaret and Abigail Caitlin. Sadly, Shannon Margaret passed away several years ago. There’s Megan, who’s married to Nathan, and they have three sons. I believe their names are Joseph, Ryan, and Eric. Your parents, Eileen and Joseph are still alive, and they’ve retired to Florida. And that still leaves Connor, Aidan, Ronan, and Michael.”