by LJ Garland
When he broke away, panting, a hungry look in his eyes, she licked her bottom lip, tasting him again. His gaze zeroed in on her mouth, and her heart did a little flip.
“I—”
He kissed her again, swallowing whatever words she may have said. His hard body met hers, locking her between him and the car, while he once again plundered her mouth. His tongue darted against hers then slid away, only to return and sensually entwine with hers. She met him stroke for stroke, and when she nipped his bottom lip, he pulled away again.
He stared at her, something indefinable mixing with the lust in his eyes.
She lifted her chin, ready for round three if he wanted it. “And?”
“Yeah.” A rough chuckle rumbled in his broad chest, and he took her hand in his. “I think we’d better go inside and get your stuff from Hugh.”
Chapter Ten
Dawson shouldn’t have kissed her. No, he should’ve waited until this whole stalker thing was finished. But damn. The girl was hot! When she’d melted against him, giving as good as she got, he’d wanted to rip her clothes off and take her right there against the car. No woman had ever driven him so out of control.
When he opened the door to Pat’s Irish Pub, he’d been tempted to keep hold of her hand—Lord knew he didn’t want to let go—but he wasn’t sure she was ready to announce anything to her co-worker. She scanned the crowd of after-workers enjoying a wind down then stood on her toes and waved.
“Hugh!”
Another guy’s name coming out of her mouth in a gleeful squeal irked him. Before he could react, she took off, weaving her way toward the bar. He tracked her, not wanting to let her out of his sight. He caught up just as she reached her co-worker, who turned toward her.
The guy slid off the stool to embrace Sophie. Even gave her a peck on the cheek. And he held her way longer than he should have. Shit.
Dawson wanted to clobber him.
When at last they broke apart, he got a good look at this Hugh dude. Light-brown hair curling over the collar of an expensive button-down, dark dress pants—creased—and loafers that had to have cost him a bundle. If clothes made the man, then this guy should be in GQ magazine. He could be a damn actor or male model. And, apparently, with the way Sophie’s gaze lingered on him, she liked the way he looked. Double shit.
Dawson stalked toward them, his gaze zeroed in on where the guy’s hand rested on her arm. Don’t go off half-cocked. Play it cool.
Yeah, but we just shared a seriously hot kiss, and now that guy’s got his hands all over her.
He’s baiting you.
I know. He forced his hands to relax from the fists he’d balled.
“Dawson,” Sophie purred, “this is my co-worker, Hugh Cavanaugh.”
Damn, even his name sounds like a movie star.
“Hugh, this is Dawson. He rescued me from my wedding gown nightmare.” She grinned.
The guys shook hands, and Dawson kept his focus on Hugh, sizing him up…and giving him the deadliest glare he could muster. Hugh met him with a blasé stare. Yeah, they weren’t gonna be best buds.
“You two get acquainted. I gotta run to the little girls’ room.” She started to leave but then stopped, looked at Dawson with raised eyebrows, and pointed to her right.
“That way.” He gestured to her left.
“Thanks.” And off she went.
Hugh watched her go. Who wouldn’t? Hell, half a dozen guys in here tracked her movements. But none of them knew her, worked with her, or had touched her. “I didn’t catch your last name.”
“MacKay,” he replied in an even tone. “Dawson MacKay.”
“Well, Dawson MacKay, can I buy you a beer?”
“Why the hell not?”
Hugh turned to order, revealing what looked like a new gym bag next to him on the bar. Dawson moved to the empty stool next to him.
“That Sophie’s stuff?”
The guy handed him a beer—some expensive German lager Dawson had never tried. “It is. She’s a great reporter, but I have to say, our girl really freaked out at the wedding dress shop. Left all her belongings, including her purse and phone. I told Jackson—that’s out boss—”
“I know.” Dawson took a deep swallow of the lager—a little bitter for his tastes.
“Well, I told Jackson she’d never be able to pull this off. I’m mean, it’s a wedding story, and our girl is devoted to her career.” A slight smirk popped onto his face. “Did she tell you she’s never getting married?”
“She did.”
“Well, then, her running out of there like a cat with its tail on fire is not a big surprise.” He chuckled. “Am I right?”
“Yeah, well, she’s already started on the story.” No way in hell he’d sit here and let this douche talk trash about Sophie. “Our girl’s going to turn it in to Jackson, and that’s all that really matters.” He clapped the guy on the back. “Am I right?”
Hugh eyed him then grinned and tapped his bottle to Dawson’s. “That you are.”
Sophie returned. “What did I miss?”
“Just guy stuff,” her co-worker quipped. “Here. I got you beer.” He handed her a bottle.
“Thanks.” She took a sip.
The pub was pretty packed, so Dawson got off his stool. “Sit here.”
She took his place then leaned toward Hugh. “Did you bring my things?”
“I did.” He pushed the gym bag toward her. After unzipping it, she riffled through the contents then closed it again. He then reached into an outer pocket on the bag and drew out a phone. “And here’s your new cell. I’ve already programmed your new number into my phone and, of course, Jackson has it, too.”
“Thank you, Hugh. You’re a lifesaver.” She set her hand on his arm.
He smiled. “You owe me one.”
Not if I have anything to do with it.
Hugh’s gaze dipped to where Sophie touched him. “New jewelry?”
She lifted her hand and wiggled her fingers, the diamond winking in the subdued lighting. “You mean this?” She glanced at Dawson and winked. “My engagement ring?”
The guy’s jaw dropped. “You…?”
Dawson took his cue and snuggled up to Sophie, slipping his arm around her waist. “I did. And we are.”
“But you….”
“Were never going to get married?” Dawson supplied. “Well, I guess it just took the right guy to change her mind.” He smirked at him. “Am I right?”
Hugh’s eyebrows shot up. “I guess so.”
When he moved in to give her a big hug, offering his congratulations, she stared round-eyed at Dawson, fighting to hold back the laughter. Hugh pumped Dawson’s hand. Again, he glared into the guy’s eyes, but this time he found concern instead of laidback.
Hugh’s cell beeped, and he tapped the screen. “Sorry, guys. I’d love to stay and celebrate, but I’ve got to get going. People to see, stories to write. But please”—he dug out his wallet and tossed a couple large bills on the bar—“have a few rounds on me.” He bent, kissed Sophie’s cheek again then shook Dawson’s hand. “Again, congratulations.” He turned and headed toward the door, disappearing in the crowd.
Sophie burst out laughing. “Oh my God! Did you see his face? I wish I’d known how to use the camera on my new phone.”
Dawson chuckled then took a healthy swallow of his beer. “Why didn’t you come clean?”
She shook her head. “It was too good. I can’t believe he bought it.”
Problem was, he’d started to buy it himself.
Perched on her stool, Sophie crossed her legs and sipped her beer. Hugh had always had expensive taste, which did nothing to assuage his gambling debts. She wished he hadn’t tossed money on the bar like that, but there wasn’t much she could do. If she’d tried to stop him, she would’ve had to explain everything to Dawson, and she just didn’t feel like getting into all that. Besides, the shocked expression on Hugh’s face had been priceless. It was a rare occasion she ever got one past him, so s
he meant to enjoy the moment.
Dawson moved to take the stool next to her, his thigh brushing her calf and sending delightful tingles up her leg. “You know he’s going to tell Jackson you’re engaged.”
“Oh, I’m sure he will.” She giggled and waved away his concern. “But Jackson will understand.”
She signaled for another round. When she turned back, she found him staring at her.
“What?”
“He’s into you.” He finished off his beer, and the bartender picked the empty bottle up.
“Who, Hugh?” A sharp laugh escaped her.
He nodded. “He wants you.”
Yeah, to finish stories so he gets paid and can keep his kneecaps. But she couldn’t tell Dawson that. Instead, she rolled her eyes. “Pft. He does not. And even if he did, he can’t have me.” She lifted her beer to her lips, gazing up at him through sooty lashes. “I’ve got a fiancé.” Feeling flirty, she quirked the corner of her mouth then took a drink.
He chuckled, the deep, roughness making her tummy tremble. The image of how he trapped her against his car outside flashed into her mind. Ohmigod! That kiss! She shouldn’t have. No, really, she shouldn’t have. But when his lips touched hers? Total fireworks!
She’d have more of that, yes, please.
He leaned forward, his mouth coming very close to hers. Her heart skipped a beat in her anticipation of kissing him again. But, instead, he bobbed and pressed his lips to her cheek.
“I gotta go.” He tilted his head toward the restrooms.
“Um, yeah. Sure.” Disappointment squeezed her lungs.
He strode off, disappearing around a corner. She took a deep swig of her beer then set it on the counter. Tapping her fingernails on the bar, she surveyed the crowd. Was this place always this packed?
“And whom might you be, pretty lass?”
She twisted around, finding an older man with gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and kind eyes. She found herself smiling. “Sophie O’Neill.”
His eyes lit. “Ah, a good Irish girl.” He hoisted himself onto Hugh’s stool.
“I suppose.” God, she hoped he wasn’t trying to hit on her. She’d hate to hurt his feelings. “But right now, I’m a reporter.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, for Deep Insights.”
He nodded. “A tell-all site that digs deep to reveal the truth to the people.”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Of course. I thought your name sounded familiar.” He winked. “I’ve read several of your stories.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Really?”
The bartender approached them, pouring vodka into a glass. “Quit flirting, Pop Pop.”
The old man turned. “Keep your nose out. You’ve got thirsty customers.”
The bartender smirked, add a spray of soda then turned to leave.
“And I’m not flirting,” the old man called after him. Then he faced her, eyeing her, a sly grin on his lips. “Or maybe I am.”
She giggled.
“A beautiful Irish girl, sitting at the bar? Who could blame me?” He shrugged. “My son Tristan there seems to think just because I’m old, I’m also blind.”
“Your son?”
“Where are my manners?” He held out his hand. “I’m Pat Collins, owner of Pat’s Irish Pub.”
Bells went off in her head. “You’re the Pat?”
His chest puffed a bit. “That I am. That’s my son, Tristan, and my granddaughter, Ailis.” He indicated a young waitress. “It’s a family-owned business. And I have read many of your stories. I especially enjoyed the barista one. Seems as much goes into making fancy coffee as mixing a good drink. I also read the shelter piece as well as the police response-time story. I’m sure the guys in blue weren’t too happy about that.”
“Uh, no.” Her cheeks heated. “They kinda banned me.”
He chuckled. “What a feisty lass you are. But then, you did get the story out. And, from what I’ve been reading in the local paper, changes are being made.”
“Yes, well….” She had no idea how to respond to his praise.
“Are you doing a story on my pub? I noticed you were talking to one of my employees. Dawson?”
“Um, no. Not unless you’d like me to. A family-owned pub would be a wonderful angle to share your story.”
“An intriguing idea. So, tell me. You’ve known Dawson how long?”
“A short while. We’re still getting to know each other. He told me he worked here.” Ohhh, so that’s why he didn’t kiss me. Because this is where he works and he wants to stay professional She glanced over her shoulder but didn’t see him. “He should be back in a moment.”
“I’ll vouch for the lad. Hardworking. Dedicated. And I have to say, I’m thinking more highly of him for choosing a lovely Irish girl to spend time with.” He winked again.
She couldn’t help but be flattered. “You’re so sweet.”
“You’ll have a few bumps to get over, but what couple doesn’t?”
“Bumps? What bumps?”
His bright gaze shifted from her face to over her shoulder as he looked behind her. “I believe I see your lad heading this way, so I’ll go and let you two be.” He slid from the stool, took her hand, and kissed the back of it. “I look forward to chatting with you again, Ms. O’Neill.”
He walked to the far end of the bar and talked to people down there.
“Ready to go?”
Sophie whirled toward Dawson. “What? Um, sure. Let me get my stuff.”
After she grabbed the gym bag Hugh had brought her, he took her free hand in his, twining their fingers together. His touch warmed her inside and out as he guided her through the pub and out the front door. Frigid winds wisped around her, and she shivered. Why hadn’t she brought a jacket? But Dawson took care of it, wrapping his arm around her. She leaned her head again his shoulder. Yes, she could get used to this. But what did Pat mean about bumps?
They walked to the parking lot, and, using his fob, he remotely unlocked the MINI’s doors. He guided her toward the passenger side, but when they rounded the bumper, they stopped.
Sophie gasped. The lot light illuminating his car revealed a deep, nasty gash snaking down the side. Scratched beneath that….
SHE’S MINE
Chapter Eleven
“Quit apologizing.” Dawson flipped on the entryway light switch then locked the front door.
“But I’m so sorry, Dawson.” Sophie’s hands shook, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “I just—”
“Stop.” Safely tucked inside his house, he turned her toward him and ran his palms up and down her arms. God she was still shaking. And who could blame her after seeing the threatening message scraped into the side of his damn car? She may be scared, but he wanted to kick some serious ass. But for Sophie’s sake, he kept it together. “You didn’t do this. It’s some whacko, and I’m going to call the police.”
“Please don’t. It’ll only make things worse,” she whispered.
He steered her into the living room and sat her on the couch. “Wait here.”
After her weak nod of agreement, he headed to the kitchen and whipped up a cup a hot cocoa. Maybe it would help settle her nerves. He handed the warm cup to her.
Sophie wrapped her fingers around the mug, blew on the surface of the rich, dark liquid then took a sip. “Thank you.”
“It’s made with milk. Makes it taste better.”
She took another sip. “Thank you.”
“I added a dash of cinnamon. Brings out the chocolate.”
She took yet another sip, and, at last, her shoulders eased a bit, and a little color returned to her pale cheeks. “Thank you.”
“You’re safe, Sophie,” he said in a calm, reassuring voice. “I’m here with you, and we’re locked inside my house. Nothing’s going to happen.”
He pulled out his phone and dialed the police. “I’d like to report a vandalism incident.” He gave his address and hung up.
She stared
up at him, forlorn. “Why did you call them?”
“I had to. The insurance won’t cover the damage without a report.”
Sophie frowned but drank more cocoa. He needed to do something to get her mind off what had happened, while they waited for the police to arrive.
“Man, that smells good.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “I think I’ll make myself a cup, too. You need anything else?”
She shook her head.
Dawson went to the kitchen and got to work.
Ping!
He pulled out his phone and checked the screen. A text from Andy. He opened it.
Andy: Hey, dude. Bank is checking our credit. Looking good.
Dawson: Awesome.
Well, at least something was going well today.
Andy: How goes work at Pat’s Irish Pub.
Dawson: Good. But car got keyed in the lot tonight.
Andy: Sucks.
Dawson: Yep.
Ding-dong. The front doorbell rang.
“Dawson?” Sophie called from the living room.
“I got it,” he answered her then quickly typed in another message.
Dawson: Gotta go. Police here for report.
Andy: Later.
Sophie met him in the entryway, and he opened the door. Two officers stood on the porch.
“Good evening. Are you Dawson MacKay?” the taller one said, his hands resting on his hips, one hand a little closer to his gun than Dawson liked.
“Yes, I’m reporting vandalism done to my car.” He pointed to his MINI sitting in the driveway. “I’ll show you.”
He led them out to the car, gesturing to the more-than-obvious damage.
“She’s mine.” the other officer said, reading the words scratched into the paint, then turned to Dawson. “Who is she?”
“That would be my…” What was she at this point? The whole fiancée thing had been a joke on her co-worker, so what should he say? “Girlfriend.”
“We’ll need to take her statement, too.” The tall officer rubbed his chin.
