Aiden Liam O’Connor. 1983. So, Henry has a nephew.
She examined the document, which must have been scanned into the hospital’s system at a later date. The father’s name was Liam O’Connor, but his place of birth and residence was in Dublin, Ireland. Are you still in Ireland?
There was no birth announcement in any of the local papers—weird.
She decided to turn her Google search to Sophia’s son, Aiden, hoping for a better result than she’d had with Sophia. But after clicking through dead end after dead end, she came up empty-handed. Damn. Who are you people? She combed her fingers through her hair, leaned back in her chair, and squeezed her eyes shut. Like mother, like son.
She opened her eyes and tapped at the keys. Guess I’ll try Liam. She bit her thumbnail and waited for the results.
“Finally.” Embarrassed for speaking out, she glanced around her and spotted the man from earlier sitting at a nearby table. His eyes were on her. Did he see her use her ninja hacking skills? She didn’t think so.
She could feel the heat burning her cheeks as she redirected her attention to the archaic computer screen. Her search had pulled up an article published last July in The Boston Globe, about a bar that Liam O’Connor and his son, Aiden, had purchased and renovated. There was no picture of the two—just a photo of an Irish pub in a charming brownstone building. A flashy fluorescent green sign shone above its doors, like many of the pubs she’d seen on her visit to Ireland three summers ago.
She couldn’t be sure whether Liam and Aiden were connected to Sophia, or even to Henry, for that matter. But she had to hope.
She stared at the image of the bar as she rubbed her hand against her cheek.
“I guess I’m going to Boston.”
Chapter Four
The vibration soothed her as the train roared down the track toward Boston. Rain pellets flicked against her window as she leaned her head against the glass. In the distant blackness, city lights flashed through the rain. She was getting close.
She looked down at her phone and blinked away tears as she swiped through the pictures. Henry had become so important to her, so fast. And she was only just now realizing how good-natured and caring he had been. It wasn’t often she met someone who was as passionate about the work as she . . . and they’d spent hours and hours together. And now he was missing.
She bit her lip, resisting the urge to bite down on her already chewed-at fingernails. Are you still alive? She chucked her phone back into her purse and inwardly cursed as her bag fell off her lap and to the floor.
“Allow me.”
She followed the hand to its owner and looked up at a man with silvery gray eyes. “Thank you.” She managed to spit out the words without showcasing her emotions.
Or so she’d thought.
“You okay, miss?” The man slid down into the empty seat next to her and handed over her purse. “I don’t mean to pry, but . . . it seems like you might want someone to talk to.”
How embarrassing. How many times had she cried already on this stupid train? Ava placed her large bag on her lap, unsure of what to do with it at the moment. “I’m all right. Thanks, though.” She forced a smile, hoping that her eyes weren’t ringed in black, leaking mascara.
The man clasped his hands on his lap, and Ava caught sight of black ink peeping out from beneath the sleeves of his dress shirt. “You from Boston?”
She shook her head no.
“You sure you don’t want to talk? I’m good at talking to people.”
She could detect a hint of an accent in his voice. Bostonian? “I don’t generally confide in strangers, but thanks.” She forced herself to look at the attractive man sitting next to her. He was tall and well built—his muscles constricted against his dress shirt. His semi-wavy brown hair was parted on the side, and his gray eyes seemed to pierce right through her.
“Okay, but if you change your mind, we have about ten minutes until we arrive at the train station.”
“Thanks.” She watched him stand up, and he gave her one last look before moving back to his original seat. She needed to pull herself together. She was about to face Henry’s relative—she hoped—as soon as she arrived in Boston. Her mind spun as she considered what she would say to him. Would he be of any help?
She released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding when the train doors opened. She reached for her purse, the only thing she had with her, and forced her legs to move.
Once outside the train station, she stood beneath the overhang of the train plaza at Boston’s South Station and watched as rain slammed against the street. “Great,” she muttered, steeling her nerve.
“Care to share my umbrella?”
She turned around to see the handsome, gray-eyed passenger at her elbow. “I just need to hail a taxi. I can handle a little rain, but thank you.”
“You’re not very good at accepting help, huh?”
She thought about his question. “Maybe I could stand under your umbrella for a second while I catch the attention of a cab?”
His mouth broadened into a grin. “That’s a start.”
She stepped under his umbrella and they walked from beneath the overhang to the sidewalk. Her mystery man held out his arm, although she wasn’t sure if he was hailing a taxi for her or himself. What was his agenda? The rain beat soothingly against the umbrella and the sharp, chill wind whipped against her face, burning her cheeks.
He started to move toward a cab that had pulled up to the curb. “Take care, Miss.” He opened the door. “I hope you have a better day tomorrow.”
His sincere words were a refreshing change. “Thank you so much.” Her lips curved into a smile as she scooted into the cab. I guess not all men are jackasses.
“Can you please take me to O’Connor’s Bar? It’s an Irish place in—”
“I know the place,” the cab driver interrupted.
She leaned back against the leather seat and shut her eyes, hoping for traffic. She wasn’t quite sure if she was ready to dive head first into this investigation, which might involve terrorists and definitely involved a secret government agency. She was just a biochemist, after all. This was way out of her wheelhouse.
When the cab pulled up in front of the bar, she looked out at the green neon sign hanging above the door. It was definitely the place from the news article.
She paid her driver and stepped out into the rain. After several hard splatters had threatened to soak her hair, she rushed to the building. It was only a few steps from the cab to the bar, but the skies opened on her like an ominous sign, the water thick as a wall between her and the door. The wind screamed warnings as it whipped at her body.
She swung the door open, her hair a disheveled, wet mess around her face. Her tank top was drenched. God, she was freezing. She clenched the straps of her handbag with a deathlike grip and ignored the bar’s patrons as she made her way toward the back, where she assumed she would find the restrooms.
“Excuse me,” she said as she bumped into someone exiting from a back room.
“My apologies,” an accented voice responded.
She pushed the women’s bathroom door open without glancing at the stranger, thankful to discover that it was a one-person-only bathroom. She locked the door, dropped her bag on the counter, and pushed strands of wet hair from her face. Oh God. She looked exactly like a raccoon.
“No wonder he didn’t hit on you,” she whispered.
Ava turned on the faucet and splashed some water onto her face before applying a paper towel to the mascara beneath her eyes. She combed her fingers through long, brownish blonde hair, and swept it off to the side into one loose braid. “I guess this will have to do.” She searched through her purse for anything that might help her look a little more human. Unlike her sister, she didn’t carry an arsenal of makeup with her at all times. But she did spot a lone tube of pink lip gloss in the bottom of her bag.
“Better.” She applied the gloss to her full lips and realized her cheeks were b
right already from the cold air. Although normally she did everything she could to hide her looks, she was nervous to meet Henry’s relative and wanted to look somewhat presentable. Or, at the least, sane.
After a few calming breaths, she stepped out of the bathroom and headed for the bar area. The place was more crowded than she’d prefer, but when she caught sight of Monday Night Football on the flat screen TVs throughout the bar, she understood why it was packed. Perhaps no one would notice her with the game on.
She found an empty stool at the end of the bar, which lacked a good angle of the football game. Not a popular spot. She rested her hands on the counter and looked up into a pair of light blue eyes.
“Good evening. How are you doing tonight?”
Despite his age, the man’s sexy Irish accent infiltrated her system, somehow making her comfortable in the unknown environment. “I’m okay,” she lied.
“What can I get you?” he asked, wiping down the counter in front of her. “I don’t take you for a whiskey drinker, am I right?”
Ava gave him a broad and genuine smile. “No. No, I’m not.”
“Keep smiling like that and your drink will be on the house,” he said before exposing a sideways grin.
Her cheeks warmed as she blushed. “I’ll just have a club soda if that’s okay.”
“Sure thing.”
As he poured her drink, another man pushed through a swinging door behind the bar. He greeted one of the patrons before his attention shifted to Ava. The man’s eyes locked on hers despite the loud eruption of cheers.
“Touchdown, Patriots,” someone shouted.
Ava could hear only the sound of her heartbeat. A strange feeling, like butterflies flapping their wings hard and fast, nestled its way inside her.
“You bet on the game?” her bartender asked the man while sliding the club soda in front of Ava.
“Nah, not tonight,” the man responded, without taking his eyes off Ava.
She forced herself to blink before studying the drink in front of her.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“I’m okay, thank you,” she responded before her bartender walked away, leaving her alone with the man whose eyes she could still feel on her face.
His tanned forearms flexed as he pressed his palms against the counter. “I know my father has already served you, but are you sure you wouldn’t like something a wee bit stronger?”
His Irish brogue made her head spin. She needed to pull herself together.
Ava took a sip of her club soda and tried to slow down her pulse a few notches before meeting his blue eyes again.
“You all right, love?”
The silky baritone of his voice made her forget why she was even in the bar. She’d never been the kind of girl to go weak-kneed just from looking at a man, but she’d never exactly met one like this before, had she? “I’m good, I think.” The stark contrast of his jet black hair against his bright blue eyes had her feeling a bit dizzy. The color of his irises reminded her of the Tahitian crystal waters she once swam in—so deep she could drown in them.
“Are you a Pats fan?”
“A what?” She shook her head.
“Do you like the Patriots?”
“Oh.” She reached for her braid and toyed with the ends. “I prefer the Ravens.” The Ravens? Really, Ava? You don’t even watch football!
“They’re a decent team, but you can’t be in a bar in Boston and not root for the Patriots.”
She returned his smirk with a smile. “Maybe you could convert me?” Did I just flirt?
“I’d be more than obliged to help you see the light.” He leaned closer until his face was only a few inches from hers.
She swallowed and couldn’t help but inhale his masculine, woodsy scent.
“But I’m gonna let you in on a secret. The only football I watch is that of the Irish—you know, the real game of football.” He winked and pushed back away from the bar before walking to the other end, where a new patron had just settled in.
A synchronized dance routine began in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t quite focus as she studied the Irish man. He tossed a bottle behind his back and caught it with his other hand, then twirled it over his knuckles. Two saucy-looking blondes applauded him, and leaned over the bar, pushing their obnoxiously large chests even closer to his face.
Focus, Ava. “Excuse me,” she called, trying her hand at bravery.
He glanced at her and excused himself from the pouty blondes. “Yes, love?”
“Is Aiden O’Connor here?” Are you him?
His brows quirked together; he removed his hands from the bar and took a step back. “I’m Aiden. And you might be?”
She studied the light scar that sliced through his right brow before his eyes captured hers. “I’m Ava Daniels.”
“Well, Ava, it’s a pleasure.” He extended his hand.
The gesture caught her off guard. She reached for his hand, and the warmth of his touch escalated her body temperature. Thoughts of their bodies entangled beneath silky bed sheets popped into her mind.
She closed her eyes. Where the hell had those thoughts come from?
“Miss?”
Her eyes fluttered open.
Aiden cocked his head to the side for a brief moment, studying her, before looking down at their clasped hands.
“Oh. Sorry.” She dropped her hand, allowing it to fall back onto her lap.
“Tell me, Miss Daniels—Ava—what can I help you with? I gather that you’re not here for the club soda?”
“No. Um. Is there some place private we could go?”
His eyes widened a fraction at her comment as a smile tugged at his lips, exposing a dimple in his right cheek.
That’s not what I meant. “I mean, just go to one of the tables here. I’d like to talk about . . . something.”
His shoulders arched back a little as he scratched at the dark stubble on his jaw. “Sure.” He motioned toward a booth in the back of the bar, far away from the TVs, and she rose to her feet with wobbly knees and followed him. “Tell me, love, what can I do for ya?” he asked as he slipped into the booth.
She sat down onto the faded brown leather, wishing she didn’t look like a complete mess. She rubbed the back of her exposed neck as her lips pursed together. Where should she even begin?
“I’m looking for Henry Davidson.” Seeing the blank look on his face, she pushed forward but was worried she was wrong. Maybe they weren’t related. Maybe her research was incorrect. “Sophia’s brother. Your uncle?”
He inhaled sharply at the mention of the name Sophia and started to get up from the table. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” His Irish accent was thicker this time.
Without thinking, she reached for his arm.
He clenched his jaw as his eyes averted to her hand. His gaze remained there for a moment before his attention flickered back to her face. “What do you want?”
“Please. Henry’s missing. I’m worried about him. I have no one to go to, and so I tried to find someone he’s related to. I couldn’t find Sophia, but I found you and your father.” Judging how his chest moved with each deep breath and the way his eyes remained on her arm, she knew her time was running low. But she also knew she was right. He had to be Henry’s nephew.
“I’ve no idea who you’re talking about. Please, just leave.” He ran a hand through his thick dark hair, tousling it out of place.
Of course he knew who she was talking about, or he wouldn’t have had such an emotional reaction. Ava jumped to her feet, but the floor wasn’t where she expected it to be. There was a step down to the ground, and her heel slammed into the edge. She threw her hands out, and strong arms embraced her, holding her upright. Embarrassed and a little breathless, she stared up at him, feeling safe for the first time all day. “Sorry,” she said in a voice just above a whisper.
His grasp tightened as his eyes lingered over her mouth.
She tried to stand all the way upright, and
he freed her from his hold.
“You okay?”
No. That is what I’ve been trying to tell you. “Please, just talk to me. I need help.” She hated how needy she sounded, but she did need him.
“I’m sorry, but I want nothing to do with Sophia or any of her family,” he said, his voice rough. He turned away and headed for a nearby door, which she assumed led to an office or stock room of some sort. As Aiden pushed it open, he glanced over his shoulder in her direction; his gaze was directed toward her.
A moment of hope that he’d come back to her quickly faded when she watched him disappear behind the swinging door.
She released a breath and approached the bar. She set five dollars down next to her club soda and scanned the room for Aiden’s father, Liam. Could he help her? Maybe he’d be an even better lead than Aiden?
But there was no sign of either O’Connor. She wouldn’t give up, though. She’d try again tomorrow.
And maybe, at the very least, shower first.
***
The next day, Ava left her hotel and walked the few blocks toward the Irish bar. Maybe Aiden and Liam didn’t have the answers she was looking for, but they had to know something about Henry—something that could help her figure out what happened to him. Of course, if terrorists did have Henry, what would she be able to do about it? And if they didn’t, would that mean Henry was guilty of something? Would she be aiding a criminal? What the hell was she even doing?
God, which is worse? Henry as a traitor or Henry held captive by terrorists?
Ava eyed the nearest trash can, in case the overwhelming nausea she felt decided to take a turn for the worst.
She glanced at her watch. It was close to five o’clock. She had taken note of the hours of the bar when she’d left the night before. She wanted to get there just as it opened.
She’d been a nervous wreck waiting all day. Because she had no clothes, she had gone to a local shop and picked up a few necessities. She didn’t want to burn through her cash, so she didn’t exactly buy the trendiest of clothes, but she wanted to look at least halfway decent when she saw Aiden again. She tried not to think about why—or that it had anything to do with the lustful visions of sex with him that kept interrupting her concern for Henry the entire night.
Innocence & Betrayal Page 3
