A panicky spurt of disappointment shot through Rylie’s veins. “I thought Dermot O’Shea owned this bar.”
Gerry Partlan’s smile dimmed just a little. “Yes, Dermot did own the place until a couple of months ago, though he’d taken sick back in June. When it came clear that he couldn’t work any more, his son and daughter and I took over as partners. We did a fair amount of sprucin’ the place up, and we’ve only just reopened at the start of this month.”
The glut of information made Rylie’s head spin, but when the man paused for breath, she jumped in with the first question she could form. “Dermot O’Shea’s son and daughter live here?”
Her interruption of his narrative brought a small crease between Gerry Partlan’s bushy red eyebrows. “Not exactly, no. His daughter, Doreen lives over in Armagh City, and Donovan claims to be here only long enough to settle Dermot’s affairs, though it’s taken him all the summer and now most of the fall. That’s himself sittin’ over in the corner just there.”
Aware that she continued to be the center of attention, Rylie shifted her gaze in the direction the bartender indicated. In the far corner at a table she hadn’t noticed before, a figure sat shrouded in shadows.
“Ho, Donovan, ya lucky stiff!” Gerry Partlan called out before Rylie could stop him. “This lovely lady wants a word with you.”
Taking his time, the man rose and walked toward them. Rylie’s first shock was at his height, probably a foot taller than she was. But the second and far bigger shock was his age. He was no boy, and appeared to be in his early thirties, several years older than her. She had expected to learn that she had more half-siblings, but she assumed they would be younger like her two teenaged half-brothers, Jamie and Justin Powell. That her father might have had children before he met her mother had never entered Rylie’s realm of possibilities.
Neither had the prospect that her half-brother would be so good-looking. Her eyes bulged and her mouth went cottony at the tall man’s approach. Black jeans and a dark blue sweater emphasized his lean physique. His closely trimmed dark hair and sculpted black brows framed sapphire blue eyes. He had a straight nose and defined cheekbones. A five o’clock shadow darkened his squarish jaw and the lower half of his face. While Rylie gaped, he extended a long-fingered hand with neatly clipped nails.
“I’m Donovan O’Shea.” His deep voice contained only the slightest hint of a brogue, the third shock in less than a minute. “Do we know each other?”
“I—You’re American?” Rylie gasped.
When Donovan O’Shea smiled down at her, twin lines ran from the middle of his cheeks to each side of his chin and made him look even more appealing.
“Yes, naturalized eight years ago, though I’ve lived there for fifteen.” Smile fading, he dropped his hand back to his side. “I’m sorry, but if we’ve met before, I’m afraid I don’t remember.”
“Oh, no!” Rylie felt a blush rising up her neck toward her face. “We haven’t met. I’m Rylie Powell.” Self-consciously, she stuck out her own hand.
“Charmed.” Donovan O’Shea smiled again, his teeth even and white.
He clasped Rylie’s hand in his much larger one and gave a single firm shake. Even that brief contact spiked Rylie’s awareness and intensified her blush. Not good. Seriously not good. Such things weren’t supposed to happen between siblings, but then brothers weren’t supposed to have such killer smiles.
“I—Can we talk, Mr. O’Shea?” Her voice squeaked in spite of her efforts to control it. “Of course,” he motioned toward the back table. “I was just having a bite. Care to join me?”
“Okay, but . . . ” Her stomach knotted at the knowledge of the coming conversation. “I don’t want anything to eat.”
“Suit yourself,” he replied and led the way back to the corner.
As Rylie trailed after him, she couldn’t help but notice that Donovan O’Shea looked as good from the back as the front. Two middle-aged women seated in the closest booth craned their heads, probably also enjoying the view. Something else brothers were not supposed to have—butts to die for.
Mentally chastising herself for her inappropriate thoughts, Rylie set her glass of soda on the table and plunked down into the chair he held for her. This encounter was turning out to be even more awkward than she’d imagined, though in an entirely different way. Donovan O’Shea sat down across from her and pulled a half-eaten bowl of stew toward himself.
“Sure you don’t want anything?”
Though the crusty hunk of bread balanced on the edge of the bowl looked delicious, Rylie shook her head and drew the soda straw into her mouth. Taking his cue, Donovan O’Shea dug in while she studied the wood grain on the table top, then the swirls of texture on the newly painted wall behind him, purposefully avoiding his handsome face.
“So what brings you to Ballyneagh, Ms. Powell?” he asked between bites. “It’s not exactly a tourist destination.”
From the corner of her eye, Rylie could see the two women in the booth silently leaning in their direction, so she answered in a low tone. “Actually, I came to talk to your father, Dermot O’Shea.”
“My father?” Donovan O’Shea looked nonplussed, his spoon poised halfway to his mouth. “How do you know my father?”
“I don’t,” Rylie quickly denied. Behind her, she heard the door of the pub open and two male voices called out to Gerry Partlan. “Not exactly, anyway.” She took a big gulp of her soda, then added, “My mother knew him.”
Knew him in the biblical sense. The thought made Rylie squirm.
Donovan O’Shea chewed his mouthful of food thoughtfully for a moment before he swallowed and said, “So your mother was from Ireland then.”
“No, Brooklyn. And she was Polish.” Rylie heard the door of the pub open again, and she couldn’t stop herself from glancing over her shoulder at the middle-aged couple who entered and greeted the bartender.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” No trace of a smile etched Donovan O’Shea’s attractive features now. Confusion and maybe a hint of annoyance showed in his blue eyes.
Rylie gnawed her bottom lip. “Please, Mr. O’Shea, can we go someplace more private to talk?” She couldn’t exactly blurt out, “I’m your long lost half-sister!” in front of what might be half the town.
“Please?” she repeated.
Chapter 2
WHAT IN THE NAME OF HEAVEN DID SHE WANT?
Donovan mopped his bowl with the remaining hunk of bread and shoved it into his mouth, all the while contemplating the girl seated across from him.
She must have set a new world’s record for most mixed messages in . . . what? The past five or six minutes? One minute she seemed to be giving him the eye and the next she looked appalled, then bewildered. Now she looked edgy or perhaps ready to weep, he wasn’t sure which. Her healthy glowing tan had gone somewhat sallow, while her storm-cloud eyes pleaded anxiously with him.
When Gerry had called him over, Donovan’s first thought was that the girl must be a friend of an acquaintance who had advised her to look him up while she was on holiday. He certainly had no objections to a pretty girl seeking him out. And Rylie Powell was a very pretty girl. Her golden brown hair with the artfully added blonde streaks tumbled over her shoulders in a most appealing way, and her wide, tempting mouth with its faint mauve sheen looked made for kissing. But why was she yammering about his da?
Only one way to find out, it seemed. Donovan pushed away from the table. “All right then, come with me.”
He led her into the back passageway, past the door to the kitchen and storage room and the twin doors to the WCs tucked under the stairs. Young Brendan Maguire,who sometimes bussed the tables, barreled out of the one marked “Gents” and stumbled into him.
“Oh, sorry Donovan,” the teen huffed. Then seeing Rylie Powell, he ducked his head. “Beg pardon, miss.”
Obviously the vestibule would not provide the privacy she sought. Donovan waited while Brendan backed down the hallway. The lad’s eyes never strayed
from the American girl’s slight but alluring figure. When the door finally closed behind the youth, Donovan swung round and motioned for her to precede him up the stairs. At the top, he extracted his keys and unlocked the door to what had once been his home. The place his father had lived for twenty-five years.
“Please excuse the mess,” he apologized, swinging open the door. “I’m trying to sort through and pack my father’s things, and I’m afraid the task has nearly gotten the better of me.”
He led the way through the stacks of boxes that littered the small sitting room. A battered sofa hugged one wall with a square wooden coffee table in front of it. The little portable telly rested on one corner of the table and one of the straight-backed chairs from the pub sat opposite it. Donovan motioned for her to sit in the chair.
Her pretty face serious, Rylie Powell’s gray eyes swept the meager furnishings before she perched on the edge of the chair. “The bartender said your father was sick. So he’s not coming home again? Ever?”
The springs in the old sofa groaned as Donovan settled himself into the corner. “My father had a serious stroke, Miss Powell.” Not that it’s any of your business.
He sighed. Everyone knew everyone else’s business around here. And anyone in Ballyneagh would tell her the details if she so much as asked.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, looking genuinely distressed. “But I really need to see him.”
No matter how attractive, she was beginning to vex him. Donovan folded his arms over his chest. “He can’t speak, so what would be the point? Any business you might have with him, I’ll handle.” He could see she didn’t like that idea, for a rebellious look flashed across her face, so he quickly added, “Precisely what is it you want with my father?”
She dropped her gaze to her lap and twisted her fingers into a knot. “Your father, Dermot O’Shea?” She paused to clear her throat then looked up at him again. “He’s my father, too.”
“What?” He must have misheard. But the set of her jaw and the look in her eyes said otherwise. “No!” His denial was louder than he intended. “That’s not possible.”
While his stunned mind grappled to wrap itself around her preposterous claim, Rylie Powell extracted a tattered brown envelope from her purse and spilled the contents onto the tabletop.
“Yes, it’s true!” She picked up a folded paper and shoved it toward him, her finger stabbing at words halfway down the page. “This is a copy of my birth certificate. See?”
Though the paper shook in her unsteady grasp, Donovan could read the printed words plainly enough—Father’s Name: Dermot Stephen O’Shea. Certainly not the most common Irish name, but not uncommon either. O’Sheas could be found most everywhere. And wasn’t there even some Hollywood actor named Dermot?
Meeting her gaze again, he shook his head. “Sorry, but you’ve made a mistake.”
Her gray eyes looked flinty, “No, I haven’t.” She dropped the birth certificate and picked up a couple of color snapshots from the clutter on the coffee table and thrust them under his nose. “Tell me this isn’t your father.”
The grainy images showed a dark haired man holding a blonde toddler in a pink ruffled dress. The focus wasn’t sharp in either photo, but Donovan’s tone was. “No. It isn’t.”
“Look again,” she retorted, forcing the pictures into his hand. “He has dark brown hair and blue eyes, just like you.”
“So do half the men in Ireland.” He started to toss the photos down, but squinted at them one more time. “Where were these taken? And how old are you anyway?”
“I’ll be twenty-six at the end of next month, and these were taken on Coney Island when I was nineteen months old.” Her voice suddenly dropped to a strangled whisper. “A month before he left us.”
Rylie Powell tossed her golden hair behind her shoulder and looked away. Donovan pressed his lips into a tight line while he stared at the snapshots for another moment.
“Well, that settles it then. My father is sixty-eight years old.” He scooted the pictures back in her direction with dismissive finality. “He’d have been over forty when these photos were made, and this man looks faryounger than forty.” He paused before he added, “Besides, my father has never been to America.”
“Are you sure?” she insisted, that flinty, stubborn look once more hardening her eyes.
She wasn’t the only one with an obstinate streak.
“Yes,” Donovan replied between clenched teeth. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Powell, but obviously—”
“What about Belfast?” she interrupted, pulling a smaller envelope from the larger one. “Has your father been there?”
“Of course, he’s been to Belfast. ’Tis less than an hour’s drive.”
“Or Liverpool, England?” She extracted a second envelope and waved the pair at him. “Was he ever there?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. But that doesn’t—”
“You’re the one who’s wrong, Mr. O’Shea. My father, your father came from Liverpool to New York, where he met and married my mother, and they had me.” In spite of her bravado, her bottom lip trembled a little.
An unexpected wave of empathy washed over Donovan and made him wish for an instant that it didn’t fall to him to spoil her fanciful longings. But what she believed had no basis in reality.
He took a deep breath and spoke as gently as he could, “My father may be many things, Miss Powell. But he is not a bigamist, nor an adulterer.”
The fingers of her free hand clenched into a fist and she bit down on her lower lip. During a long, silent moment, she visibly composed herself before she answered. “I understand this is a shock that you don’t want to accept, Mr. O’Shea, but I know I’m right.”
Before Donovan could protest, she unclenched her hand and held up her palm in a silencing gesture. “The obvious solution is to ask the one person who knows.”
He shook his head. “I told you before, my father is very ill. I can’t imagine you showing up with your ridiculous paternity claims would be good for his recovery.” He had to give her points for persistence though.
“They aren’t ridiculous—”
The sudden ringing of his mobile phone stopped her in mid-protest.
“Excuse me,” he leapt to his feet, fishing the phone from his jeans’ pocket. Glad for the momentary reprieve, he turned his back on Rylie Powell and took a couple of steps toward the kitchen before he answered. “O’Shea here.”
“’Tis Aongus McRory,” said a familiar voice. “Sorry to bother you, but Syb and I are here in the pub and, well, we’ve more exciting news to share.”
For over three weeks, Donovan had studiously avoided McRory and his dig site, though they had spoken a couple of times on the phone and once at the pub. However, this seemed the perfect excuse to terminate an uncomfortable tête-à-tête with the stubborn little American.
“No bother at all. I’ll be down in just a moment.”
“No, no. We’ll be right up.” McRory insisted, and rang off.
When Donovan turned back around, the coffee table was swept clean and Rylie Powell stood watching him with an implacable expression. “May I use your bathroom?”
He’d hoped to usher her to the bottom of the stairs and intercept McRory and his assistant. So much for best laid plans. He gestured toward the archway on the opposite wall. “Middle door, just through there.”
Since there seemed no avoiding being hospitable, he went into the kitchen to plug in the electric teakettle. The annoying Miss Powell re-emerged just as a loud rap sounded on the front door. Donovan had no choice but to admit the professor and his assistant into the box-strewn apartment. His American guest followed close on his heels.
The big sandy-haired man was quick to offer his hand. “Professor Aongus McRory from Queen’s University, and this is my assistant Sybil Gallagher.”
“Rylie Powell.” She nodded slightly but didn’t return McRory’s smile.
As she shook Sybil’s hand, the professor winked at Dono
van. “A friend of yours from the States?”
“No.” Rylie and Donovan answered in tandem. Then Rylie added smoothly, “Our parents knew each other.”
Donovan was hard-pressed not to censure her with words or looks. Just her appearance here was enough grist for the gossip mill.
“’Tis truly a small world,” McRory pronounced as the whistling kettle beckoned from the kitchen.
Several minutes later, Donovan returned, balancing four mismatched mugs, milk, and sugar on a tray. The entire time he was in the kitchen, he heard the professor’s steady stream of blather about the Bronze Age site. But his hopes that Rylie Powell would be bored to tears and ready to leave were dashed when he saw her curled on one end of the sofa, listening intently to McRory’s discourse.
Since the professor occupied the single chair, Donovan was obliged to share the couch with the two women. Looking a bit perplexed, Sybil Gallagher scooted toward the center so that Donovan could sit in the opposite corner from Rylie, who reached for her mug of tea without glancing in his direction.
“As I was just explaining to Rylie,” McRory’s voice sounded exceedingly cordial. “Our crew is excavating four different storage pits. But today, Sybil and I ventured farther into the fens and uncovered something different.”
“How far in?” Donovan asked sharply. “Those fens can be dangerous, you know.”
“Certainly no farther than the documents show that your property extends,” the professor quickly reassured.
“And what did you find?” Eagerness tinged Rylie Powell’s voice and made her eyes sparkle.
Damn good thing she wasn’t his sister, for the sudden jolt Donovan experienced looking at her felt far from brotherly. He took a big gulp of hot tea to squelch his suddenly attentive libido and concentrated on what Sybil was saying about Lough Neagh and the fens shifting significantly over the centuries.
“The pre-Christian Celts made votive offerings into bodies of water—streams, lakes, and the like.”
“And we believe we’ve discovered a spot where they made those offerings!” The professor cut in. “Show them your snaps, Syb.” His assistant pulled a digital camera from her purse and leaned over to show Rylie while McRory continued, “This should seal the deal on the sale of your father’s property, O’Shea, the entire parcel.”
The Wild Sight Page 2
