Something shifted in his chest when he heard her laugh. Something he couldn’t quite identify. Something he was certain he didn’t like at all.
“Why, look, Tom, it’s Ian Shawnessy!” Joan Buford, who was sitting in the booth across from Cara, grabbed her husband’s arm. “Beverly Patterson told us you were back in town and staying up at the lake. I declare, Ian, you must have grown another four inches since I saw you last.”
Ian smiled at the brunette who’d been fresh out of college when she’d been his seventh-grade math teacher, noticed there were streaks of gray at her temples now. No doubt, he and Lucas and Nick had put a few of those there when she’d had them all in the same class almost twenty years ago. It was a miracle she’d survived that first year.
“Nice to see you, Mrs. Buford. Mr. Buford.”
“Why, Cara here is staying at the lake, too.” Joan gestured toward Cara. “Have you two met?”
“I was fishing when we bumped into each other down by the lake a few days ago.” Ian turned his smile on Cara. “Caught me a big one that day.”
“Men and their fish stories.” Cara rolled her eyes, which brought a round of laughter. “Everyone knows it doesn’t count if the fish gets away.”
“We’ll meet up again,” Ian said with confidence. “Next time that fish won’t be so lucky.”
“I’m sure luck had nothing to do with it.” Cara smiled sweetly. “But if you do meet up again, my money’s on the fish.”
“Killian Shawnessy!” Madge slid Cara’s order, complete with a chocolate shake, on the table. “‘Bout time you showed up here. I was starting to take your absence from my place as a personal affront. Come here and give this old broad a hug.”
The Army could have used this woman for a secret weapon, Ian thought, as the woman wrapped her bulky arms around him and squeezed. Air rushed out of his lungs.
“Let the boy go,” Leroy hollered out from the counter. “He’s turning blue.”
“I’ll show you blue.” Madge released Ian and shook a fist at her heckler. “Black-and-blue all over that fence post you call a body. Okay, everyone, show’s over.” She shooed the crowd away from the table. “Back to your own seats.”
Madge tweaked Ian’s cheek. “Double cheeseburger, medium rare, mayo and lettuce, no onion, chili fries and chocolate mint shake.”
Ian shook his head in amazement as the woman headed back toward the kitchen. In Washington, when he wasn’t traveling, he ate at the same coffee shop at least four times a week and the waitress couldn’t remember if he even took cream with his coffee, let alone if he wanted an onion on his burger. He hadn’t seen Madge in over fourteen years, and she remembered, in detail, everything he used to order.
Cara was staring at him in wonder as he slid into the seat opposite her. “That woman hugged you and tweaked your cheek. And you actually let her.”
“Nobody argues with Madge.” Ian reached for a French fry and popped it into his mouth. “Not if they want to live or ever eat one of her hamburgers again. Why didn’t you wait at the repair shop for me?”
“Those happen to be my fries,” she said dryly when Ian reached for a bottle of ketchup. “And why would I wait for you?”
“You’re going to need a ride back to your cabin, aren’t you? Unless your bags are in the Jeep and you’ve decided to go back to Philadelphia?”
“‘Fraid not, Shawnessy. Not until you agree to go with me.” She reached for her hamburger and sank her teeth in. “Besides,” she said around a soft moan, “now I have another good reason to stay here. Walt’s right—this is the best burger I ever had.”
“Wait till you try the shake.” He reached for her glass. “I’ve dreamed about one of these for fourteen years.” He took a big swig of the thick chocolate drink, then sighed with pleasure. “Now that was worth waiting for.”
Laughing, she tried the milkshake, then closed her eyes on a groan. He was right. It was good. Better than good, in fact.
The din of the restaurant surrounded them; people laughing and talking, Madge shouting orders, the clanking of silverware and plates. But it was all background, and Cara felt as if she and Ian were alone. Just two people enjoying a meal and each other’s company.
She took another sip of the milkshake, then scooted it back to him. “Why did you wait so long to come back, Shawnessy? You must have missed your friends here, not to mention these burgers and shakes.”
He took another deep swig of the frozen drink, then shrugged and settled back in the booth. “I was never close to anyone other than Nick and Lucas. We all scattered after high school. Nick was traveling and racing and Lucas was busy building Blackhawk Enterprises.”
“And you started your company,” she said. “What made you decide to manufacture cellular phones?”
He glanced away, but not before she caught something in his eyes, a hesitation of some kind. She thought it strange, since most men never stopped talking about their jobs or business. But then, she’d already discovered that Ian wasn’t most men.
“It just sort of happened,” he finally said. “It’s a living.”
“A job should be more than just a living,” she said firmly. “You should love it, be passionate about it. It’s like a marriage.”
He lifted a brow. “What do you know about marriage? Have you been there?”
“Not yet. But I will, when it feels right.” She took another bite of her burger and chewed thoughtfully. “What about you? Hasn’t the hearth-and-home bug ever bit you, Flash?”
“I lived in four different foster homes from the time I was nine.” He took another swig of her milkshake. “I got enough hearth and home to last me a lifetime, Blondie.”
There was something in his voice she couldn’t read, something in his eyes. “Were they that bad?” she asked quietly.
He shook his head. “They were fine. A bed to sleep in, food on the table. Everything I needed.”
Not nearly, she thought. Not even close. He just didn’t know there was more than that. He’d never had a chance. But he had one now, with Margaret.
“Ian, come to Philadelphia with me. Meet your grandmother. Please, just give her a chance.”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
She shook her head. “Never.”
He sighed, then did something that shocked her. He smiled. Not one of his sarcastic, mocking smiles, but a genuine, eye-crinkling smile that made her stomach twist into several knots.
The impact of his smile caught her so completely off guard she went still. Her heart pounded, a slow, heavy thud in her chest. When his gaze dropped to her mouth, a warmth spread through her that seeped all the way to her toes.
“I’m not going to Philadelphia with you, Blondie.”
Shaking off the powerful need humming through her blood, Cara leaned forward. “Twenty says you will, Flash.”
He lifted both brows, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours. On the table.”
She pulled a twenty out of her purse and slid it to the middle of the table. When Madge showed up with Ian’s food, Cara handed the waitress the two bills.
“Ian and I have a little bet going, Madge. Think you could hold this for a few days?”
“Sure thing, sugar.” The money disappeared down the woman’s large cleavage. “This have anything to do with that fish you were arguing about earlier?”
Cara grinned at Ian, was surprised when he grinned back. “Something like that.”
“You just let me know who wins the bet.” Madge patted her bosom. “For now, it’s safe as gold in Fort Knox.”
After the waitress left, Ian reached for his hamburger. “The wedding is Saturday,” he said around a big bite. “I’m leaving on Sunday. You haven’t got much time.”
“I’ve got all the time I need and then some.” The man was much too smug for his own good, Cara thought, and she couldn’t wait to be the one to knock him down a few pegs. “Oh, that reminds me, do you mind if we stop by the pos
t office after lunch? There’s a package from Margaret waiting for you.”
Six
He couldn’t sleep.
At midnight he tossed the covers off and punched his pillow. At twelve-thirty, he stared at the sliver of light coming through his bedroom window and counted backward from fifty. At one o’clock, he swore and sat on the edge of the bed.
He wasn’t going to open the damn package.
Cara had left it on the front seat of the truck’s cab when he’d dropped her off at her cabin. She’d looked so pleased with herself when she’d hopped out of the truck and waved goodbye. The woman was enough to drive any man crazy.
He thought about her lying in bed right now, that long, curvy body, her soft, silky skin. He imagined the feel of her breasts against his chest as he covered her body with his and pressed her into the mattress.
His fists tightened on the rumpled sheets. Frustrated, he decided he was better off thinking about the package than Cara Sinclair.
What could possibly be inside the shoebox-size parcel that would matter to him? Some pictures of people he’d never known? A few mementos that had belonged to a father who had died before he was even born? Or maybe a present, a bribe of some kind to entice him to come to Philadelphia.
He didn’t care if the Queen’s jewels were in that box. He wasn’t going anywhere but back to Washington. His leave was up in six days, and he’d already been assigned to an undercover unit in Cairo. He’d be on a plane a few days from now, then gone for at least three months.
With a sigh he dragged both hands over his scalp. It was his third high-risk assignment in eighteen months. The cell phone company had been his front for the past ten years, since he’d been recruited into the Agency straight from the Marines. As far as everyone in the outside world knew, he was a simple business man traveling overseas.
Strange how ten years could feel like a lifetime.
He wasn’t sure why he did it anymore. Not for the money. He’d never cared about money, and besides, he’d invested well over the past ten years and didn’t have to work another day if he didn’t want to. And he certainly didn’t do it for the rush. The first few years he’d thrived on the adrenaline, the danger, but that honeymoon was long over, too.
Yanking on his jeans, he stumbled to the kitchen and turned on the light. He thought about a beer, but knew that wouldn’t be strong enough to cut the edge off the tension knotting his body. There was a bottle of Johnny Walker in the cupboard. He’d been saving it for the prewedding dinner at Lucas and Julianna’s house tomorrow night—tonight, he corrected himself.
Oh, what the hell.
He pulled the bottle out of the cupboard, grabbed a glass, then sat at the kitchen table.
And stared at the package sitting ten inches away from him.
It was harmless in appearance. Brown paper and shiny packing tape; Ian doubted it weighed more than one pound. The return address was handwritten in black pen. The writing was as feminine as it was formal and neat: “Margaret Muldoon. West Third Street. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.”
He broke the whisky label and poured himself a shot.
Outside, an owl hooted in the darkness. Inside, the clock over the stove ticked the seconds away.
Dammit to hell.
He snatched up the package, ripped off the paper, then opened the cardboard box.
It was filled with envelopes. Different sizes, different colors. The top envelope, yellowed with age, had the number one on it. The card inside was pale green, with a white kitten and black spotted puppy. “For Baby’s First Birthday,” it read.
A child’s birthday card?
He opened the card, read the generic greeting-card poem inside, then the handwritten inscription. “For my grandbaby, where ever you might be. My love goes with you always. Grandmama.”
Ian quickly glanced through the stack of envelopes. All of them were birthday cards. There were thirty-three.
He was thirty-three.
Bewildered, he stared at the box.
His grandmother, a woman he’d never met, who hadn’t even known if he was dead or alive, had bought him a birthday card every year for thirty-three years?
He downed the shot of whisky, then reached for the second card. There were circus clowns and animals hanging from a large number two. The handwritten note inside the card read, “You must be so big by now, and talking, too. I wonder often if you are a boy or a girl, if you have your father’s eyes, your mother’s hair. If you know you have a grandmama who loves you very much.”
He stared at the words, disbelieving. These were his birthday cards, each one of them meant for him.
The notes inside became longer with each consecutive card. Year five she asked about kindergarten, year seven she wondered about sports and music. Each year asked different questions about school or likes and dislikes, all of them were signed: “With love from Grandmama.”
Ian smiled at number twelve. There was a photograph of a grinning orangutan on the front of the card, its big hairy hand holding a dozen brightly colored balloons. Inside, under the simple “Happy Birthday” wish, Margaret wrote, “How grown-up you must be. A handsome young man, or a stunning young woman. I miss sharing these years with you, but you are in my heart always. I can only pray that one day God will smile on me and bring us together.”
Confused, he stared at the stack of cards piled on the table and rubbed at the tightness inside his bare chest. He didn’t understand why Margaret had done this, or why she had continued year after year, when the hope of ever finding a grandchild—a child that might not even exist—had proven so futile. If nothing else, Margaret Muldoon was tenacious.
He downed the lump in his throat with another shot of whisky, and unbidden, the thought of another woman, equally tenacious, came to mind. One considerably younger, one that had him in chaos since the first moment he’d laid eyes on her.
Cara, with her smiling green eyes and sassy mouth. He remembered the kiss he’d given her that first day, a simple kiss meant only to keep her quiet. But there’d been nothing simple about it at all. Even now he could feel the soft press of her lips under his, he could still taste the sweetness of apricots.
Dammit, anyway!
He sent the cards flying with a sweep of his arm. She’d brought all this aggravation into his life. Aggravation he didn’t need, and sure as hell didn’t want. No woman had given him sleepless nights before or intruded endlessly into his thoughts. No woman had ever left him wanting or tied him up in knots so tightly he couldn’t think straight.
He jumped, then swore when the phone in the living room rang. It had to be Jordan. No doubt she was more than annoyed with him for not calling her, and the fact that it was almost two in the morning wouldn’t matter even remotely to her.
He grabbed the phone on the third ring. “Dammit, Jordan, get off my back. I’ll call you when I’m good and ready.”
“It’s not Jordan,” a feminine voice whispered. “It’s Cara.”
“Cara?” His hand tightened on the phone. “What’s wrong?”
“Ah, if you aren’t too busy, could you come over here?” There was a sharp intake of breath. “I think there’s someone trying to break in the front door.”
Cara stood behind the door in the pitch-darkness, a castiron skillet in her hands. The scratching sound she’d heard only a moment ago had stopped. Except for the pounding of her heart, now there was only silence.
Breath held, shivering in her thin cotton tank top and boxers, she waited.
The doorknob creaked, then turned.
Her hands tightened around the handle of the heavy frying pan; she sucked in a breath as the door slowly opened. When the dark shape stepped into the room, she raised the pan over her head.
“Cara?”
Ian? Too late to stop her swing, she brought the pan down, though not as hard as she would have. It landed with a solid hit, and she heard a hard object scoot across the wood floor. An explicit string of swear words filled the quiet.
�
�Oh, my God, Ian!” The frying pan slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor. “Are you all right?”
“Sure I am,” he muttered irritably. “You just cracked my skull in half, why wouldn’t I be?”
“How did you get here so fast? I just called you.” She reached out into the darkness, made contact with his head. “I thought you were a prowler.”
“Ow!” He jerked away. “What the hell did you hit me with, a slab of concrete?”
“Frying pan.” She closed the door, then took his hand and carefully dragged him to the living room sofa. “I think I broke it.”
“My head or the frying pan?” he grumbled, but let himself be pulled down on the sofa beside her. “Where the hell is my gun?”
She flipped on the lamp beside the couch. Soft light spilled over them. “You brought a gun?”
“No, I was wondering where my gun at home is.” He dropped his head into his hands. “Of course I brought a gun. You said someone was breaking in.”
“I just didn’t realize you had one, that’s all.” She spotted the pistol on the floor by the coffee table and shivered at the sight of it. She hated guns. “Is it loaded?” He turned his head sideways, glanced at her with a look that told her it definitely was. She shivered again.
When his eyes closed in pain again, she reached for him. “Here, let me look at your head.”
“You’ve done enough for one night.” He jerked away when she touched his head.
She frowned at him. “Stop acting like a baby and come here.”
“Baby? Me? You’re the one who called me, remember?”
“I heard something.”
“And you were scared.”
“I wasn’t scared,” she lied. “I had the situation completely under control. I only called you in case I needed backup.”
“You were scared.” He brought his face close to hers and narrowed his eyes. “Admit it, Sinclair.”
She sighed with exasperation. Admitting weakness to this man was like riding a motorcycle without a helmet. Sooner or later she was going to be sorry.
Killian's Passion Page 7
