by Callie Quigg
“So the invisible man reappears.” Caden’s voice crackled over the miles. “Where are you, you Muppet?”
“Home.”
“Home, home? As in the place we grew up home?”
“A few miles from there.”
“Ah, for feck’s sake. Does Ma know?”
“She’ll know when I show up on Christmas Eve as planned.” Ronan slid his shoes over the snow and built a snowball between his feet.
“She’ll throw a fit when she finds out you’re in the same country as her and haven’t called. She might even know you’re already there. She’s weird like that.”
“She won’t know a thing if you don’t tell her.”
“Why’d you fly in early?”
“The wedding.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still out to avenge the Donovan name?”
Ronan sighed. Caden’s answer to everything was to take the piss. “Let me handle this. It’s not like I’m needed in the office. I have every confidence in my staff not to run the business into the ground.”
“Let it go. You’re not a wedding planner, Ro. It’s like me moving from building hotels to building play sets.”
He couldn’t, wouldn’t, let it go. Not yet. Quinn had weaseled her way into his consciousness, and he wanted to find out everything he could about her. “I’m staying for a few more days. See what happens.” Ronan kicked the snowball between his feet, sending a mini avalanche to the pavement below.
“You’re a fecking eejit.”
“On that professional and grown-up note, I’m hanging up.” He hit the end call button.
He wished his brother wasn’t so laid back about everything and wished Caden understood Ronan’s need to stay on top. And if he wanted to stay on top, he had to expand his business.
There was one other person he needed to talk to, his cousin Shane. If there was any dirt on Quinn, he was the man who’d find it.
On the third ring, Shane picked up. “How’s it going, stranger?”
“Can’t complain.”
After they’d caught up and promised to meet for a beer, Shane asked, “So what’s the real reason for this phone call?”
Ronan laughed. “You’re a detective for a reason. Can you do me a favor?”
“If I can, I will.”
“Heard anything about a woman called Quinn Marshall?”
“Doesn’t ring any bells. I’m not in my office, but I’ll have a look tomorrow. Anything in particular you want to know?”
“Nah. I’ve been told a few things and want to find out if the information’s true.”
“No bother,” Shane said. “I’ll find out what I can and give you a bell.”
Part of him hoped Shane had a file on her a mile long, but a bigger part of him hoped she was as clean as the freshly fallen snow.
****
Ronan needed an ice-cold beer. Fast. Snowmageddon meant the journey back to the castle took four tense hours. The heater in Quinn’s car spluttered and gave up the ghost twenty minutes in, and every radio station played “Last Christmas” on endless loop. There was only so much Wham! a man could take. He headed straight to the kitchen hidden in the bowels of the castle.
The kitchen was nothing like the rest of the building. Old blended with new and whoever designed it had a deep passion for food. Dark woods and natural stone contrasted with stainless steel appliances, and above him, a beamed ceiling curved slightly with gleaming copper pots and pans hanging from a rack. His mother would move in here and never leave.
Brendan stood by a thick butcher’s block dicing carrots and onions with quick, confident movements. The radio played more nerve-damaging Christmas music, but Ronan shut it out and warmed his hands by a roaring fire large enough to roast a pig.
“You haven’t lost any of your skills.” Ronan nodded toward Brendan’s fast moving fingers.
“And what do you know about my skills?” Brendan asked, not taking his eyes from the curved blade.
“Everyone around here knows you’re one of Ireland’s best chefs.”
Brendan nodded and exhaled slowly. “That was before my wife passed away. God rest her soul.” He stopped chopping and blessed himself. “It’s been a while. Thirteen years now. She had big plans for this place, but life got in the way and… well, plans change.” He continued with his work, not once losing his hypnotic rhythm.
“Sorry for your loss.” Ronan watched in silence as the older man scooped up diced vegetables with the sharp edge of his knife.
“Thanks. Like I said, it was a while ago.”
“You were never tempted to sell the place?”
“I won’t lie,” Brendan said. “I’ve had offers, and I got close once, but I couldn’t bear to part with it. It’s not much, but it’s home.” He gave a small smile. “Quinn badgered me daily for weeks until I agreed to open the doors. She practically camped on the doorstep. Convinced me the place could be great again.” He shrugged. “Maybe it could, but everything’s in a terrible state.” Brendan threw the last of the vegetables into a copper pot and covered it with a lid. “She’s…” He hesitated as if searching for the right words. “Quinn’s a great girl. I wouldn’t want to see her hurt.”
“Are you warning me off?” Ronan raised an eyebrow. The older man’s fatherly concern for Quinn shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did.
Brendan chuckled. “I might be getting on, but I’m not blind. She wasn’t exactly over the moon to see you. God knows relationships are hard. There were times when living with my Mrs. was like living on a rollercoaster. Some months we were climbing to the top. Some months we were hurtling to the bottom with a few loops in between that threw us upside down.” He gave a wistful smile. “Our fights would shake the windows.” A kettle on the gas stovetop whistled, and Brendan wiped his hands on a red dishcloth thrown over his shoulder. “Tea? Coffee?”
“I’ll have a beer.”
“There’s none till the delivery tomorrow. Only wine or whiskey for now.”
“An Irish coffee would hit the spot.”
“A man after my own heart.” Brendan went to the cupboard behind him and selected two flared glasses. “The shock on Quinn’s face when she saw you told me something wasn’t right between the two of you.” He filled the glasses with boiling water before emptying them in the sink.
In mock horror, Ronan clasped a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt by whatever you’re accusing me of. What are you accusing me of?”
“A lover’s tiff?” He poured steaming coffee into the heated glasses. “Whatever’s going on between you, you’d better not hurt her.” He spooned in sugar, and from beneath the butcher’s block, produced a half-empty bottle of aged Irish whiskey. “I don’t know her all that well, but I know she’s a great girl who works hard. It’d break her heart if anything went wrong this week. She’s been through a rough time what with her ex and the online trolls…”
“I promise I won’t break her heart.” He wasn't convinced she had a heart to break. Ronan’s mouth watered at the anticipation of tasting the drink Brendan had prepared. The older man splashed more than one shot of whiskey into each glass and topped both off with a collar of thick cream. He pushed the glass toward Ronan.
“Quinn and I are madly in love,” Ronan said, picking up the glass. “It’s fated. Painted in the stars. Written on the cards. A whirlwind romance. We’re soul mates.” He took a sip of the silky drink, savoring the bite of alcohol before swallowing. “By God, Brendan, that’s perfect.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Brendan sipped from his glass. “I’m going to say this, and I’m going to say no more. Watch your step where Quinn’s concerned. There’s many a secret place in this castle to hide a bod—”
“Hello?” Quinn called from the stone staircase concealed by the walls.
“Down here.” Brendan gave Ronan a quick nod that said he’d been warned.
Quinn appeared with Max tucked under her arm. She’d ch
anged into a pair of tight jeans tucked into her boots and a loose sweater, and had gathered her hair in a messy bun at the top of her head.
Pins and needles pricked Ronan’s fingertips. The heat working its way through his body had everything to do with her and not the cup in his hand. He took another sip of coffee and watched her rush across the kitchen toward the fire.
If he took a small step, his hand would brush against hers, and more than anything, he wanted to touch her, but before he got a chance to, Max yipped and barked and glanced around warily.
“It’s minus a billion out there. The wind’s whipping the snow into a blizzard. I should try to litter train you.” She swept her fingers over Max’s back and Ronan half wished he was on the receiving end of her touch.
“And who’s this ugly little fella?” Brendan wandered over to the fireplace and tickled the dog behind the ears.
“Max.” She placed the still shaking dog at her feet. “He belongs to a friend. If I hadn’t taken him in, he’d have ended up on the streets or in the pound. I’ll keep him under control. He won’t get in anyone’s way, and he’s house trained.”
Her cheeks and nose glowed with cold and drops of melting snow clung to her weather-frizzed hair. Ronan's arm moved of its own accord to pull her into his heat, but to stop himself, he tightened his fist and shoved the traitorous hand deep into his trouser pocket.
Max cowered behind Quinn with his spindly tail tucked firmly between his legs.
“I’ve seen bigger rats in the cellar.” Brendan hunkered down. Max poked his head between Quinn’s ankles and sniffed Brendan’s outstretched fingers. “You’ll be no trouble. Will you, wee man? Come here.” Max, deciding he could trust Brendan, followed him toward the butcher’s block. “Do you want a treat?” He dropped a few pieces of beef into a bowl and set it on the ground for Max, who wolfed it down.
“I would kill for one of those coffees.” Quinn scanned the kitchen and jigged from foot to foot as if trying to thaw her feet. “Where’s Lily? I can’t find her, and she’s not answering her phone.”
“You mean the Rottweiler in red lipstick.” Brendan set about making Quinn’s coffee. “Hopefully sleeping. She was three sheets to the wind.”
“Is she any nicer now she’s drunk?” Quinn asked.
“She’s insisting she’s not drunk.” Brendan chuckled. “Thought she could drink two bottles of twenty-year-old red and not have it hit her. You should have seen her knock it back. Like water to her.” He passed Quinn her coffee, and she accepted with thanks.
“She’s old school,” Ronan said, joining in the conversation. “Probably thinks she can drink a potcheen-soaked Irishman under the table.”
Quinn ignored him and sipped her coffee. A small whimper of appreciation slipped from between her lips and sent a shock up his spine.
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. I could drink these all night.” She took another sip, and when she lowered the glass, a small line of cream coated her upper lip, which she removed with a flick of her tongue.
His dick throbbed at the sight. Most women he’d dated would’ve used a move like that to tease and torture him, but not Quinn. Did she have any clue about the effect she had on him? That even the most innocent of her gestures had the potential to knock him off his feet.
“I hope you don’t mind us staying here for a few days,” she said. “Lily thinks it’ll be easier if I’m nearby. I guess it makes sense with the weather and all. I’ll sleep in one of the old rooms out back with Max.”
“You will, my arse.” Brendan, who was back behind the butcher’s block, gestured toward her with the sharp tip of his chopping knife. “You’ll sleep in the castle in one of the rooms with heat, or I should say one of the rooms that’ll have heat by tomorrow.” He stirred the pot of sizzling vegetables, dropped in chunks of beef, and then pointed the glinting knife toward Ronan. “Will your man be staying in the same room as you?”
“No.” Quinn moved away from Ronan.
Ronan caught Quinn’s hand and entwined his fingers with hers. A tremor of something passed between them, and by the way Quinn’s eyes widened, she felt it too.
“Your man will be staying with you.” Ronan held her seething gaze, her eyes the color of a raging whirlpool. “We wouldn’t want to put Brendan to any more trouble by messing up two guest rooms so close to the event, would we, snookums?”
“I’m… I’m sure it’s no trouble.” She tore her eyes from his. “I’ll clean them myself. You know we, ehm, promised each other we wouldn’t sleep together again until our wedding night.”
“For God’s sake, spare me the details,” Brendan said with a roll of his eyes.
Ronan lowered his lips to her ear and whispered. “Afraid of what you might see if you walk in on me in the shower?”
“Get over yourself.” She looked him up and down, but he didn’t miss the way her eyes lingered on his crotch. “Think you have something I haven’t seen before?” She snatched her hand from his and walked to the butcher’s block. “One room it is.”
“I’ll go up and light the fire.” Brendan set a lid on top of the pot of simmering stew.
“No need. I will,” Ronan offered.
Quinn snorted. “It’s an easy light log. Any idiot can light it.”
“It’s a good thing I’m an idiot then, isn’t it?”
“Your words…”
“You two are giving me a bloody headache.” Brendan threw his knife into the farmhouse sink. “I’ll light the fire.” He washed and dried his hands, pulled an old-fashioned brass key from his pocket and slid it across the countertop. “Stay in the Áine suite on the second floor. It’s not that bad. There are fresh linens in the laundry room. Grab some on the way.” Without a backward glance, he left the kitchen.
“Why are you such a jerk?” Quinn grabbed the key and shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans.
“What can I say?” He leaned his back against the butcher’s block and cradled the still warm but empty glass in his hand. “It’s my cross to carry.”
She paced in front of the fire, followed by Max, and blew damp straggles of hair out of her face. “You infuriate me like no other man I’ve ever met. I’ve a thousand things to do before this day is over. Then I plan on a long soak before curling up in front of the fire with my laptop and Netflix. I don’t want you anywhere near me. I don’t want to think about you. I don’t want to see you. And don’t even think we’re sleeping in the same bed.”
Quinn crouched and tickled between Max’s ears. “I’ll come back for you later. Be good. Don’t pee on anything.” She started toward the steps leading up to the foyer and Ronan followed. The sway of her hips and the stride of her long legs drew his gaze. The curve of her backside in her tight jeans was a sight he didn’t think he’d ever tire of.
“Getting a good enough look?” she asked, walking upstairs.
“At what?”
“Don’t even pretend.”
“You’re walking up a set of stairs in front of me. Where else am I supposed to look?”
“Typical man, thinking with his dick.”
“I can assure you, I’m anything but typical.”
She spun around and a kaleidoscope of emotions shifted over her face. “You just proved my point. You’re a typical man who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”
Her defiant tone taunted him, and if she’d thrown down the gauntlet, he was more than willing to pick it up.
“Are you trying to get me to prove something? Because if you are, I have no problem doing exactly that.”
“In your dreams.”
There was zero conviction behind her words. Without thought, Ronan stepped forward until he was close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. A squeak of protest sounded from her throat, and as if to push him away, her hand flattened over his racing heart, but then her lips parted as if inviting him in.
He accepted the invitation and lowered his
head. The softness of her lips defeated him, and his body flew a white flag of surrender as blood surged south. He reached for her hair, and tugged her messy bun loose, his fingers tightening around the mass of caramel waves as they fell. Their lips molded together, and he pulled her deeper into their embattled kiss. When their tongues touched, his mind blanked, thoroughly erasing any need for her to fail. The taste of coffee and whiskey coated her lips, and the scent of sweet apples and vanilla from her hair left him woozy. It was all he could do not to throw Quinn over his shoulder, find one of the secret rooms Brendan had mentioned, and explore how out of control things between them could get.
She moaned into his mouth and crushed herself against him. The feel of her breasts pressing into his chest sent all common sense packing. A week of this, of her, wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He nipped at her lower lip and ran his hands over her lush curves, but before he could investigate any further, she broke away, gasping for air.
Her fingers flew to her lips. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“I thought you wanted…” He ran a hand through his hair.
She took half a step back and pressed herself against the stone wall, her throat working hard as she swallowed.
“You took me by surprise. I didn’t have time to think. You’re so not staying in the same room as me.”
“Frightened you won’t be able to control yourself, sweetheart?” He didn’t mean his words to sound as caustic as they did—he should take them back, apologize—but right now he wanted to push her, argue with her, see the fire in her eyes.
“It’s not me I’m afraid off.” Her neck flushed crimson, and confusion laced her voice. “Do you do that a lot? Kiss women you’ve just met?”
“But we haven’t just met, have we? How did you sell it? Like Tristan and Isolde, we were destined to be together. Branwen, the goddess of love and beauty, helped us find each other. We met in a pub, and even though we lived on different continents, our paths overlapped many, many times. Before your granny immigrated to Queens in the ‘50s, she lived two streets away from where I was eventually born and raised. I know all of your Irish relatives. I even went to school with your second cousins. The thin red thread of fate brought us together. We moved in after a week because we couldn’t live without each other.”
