Winters & Somers

by Glenys O'Connell

  It went unanswered, and she gave herself indigestion keeping an eye on Winters and Wallace while flattering William and trying to keep her face averted so that Wallace wouldn’t get a good look at her. She'd been foolish not to wear her full slut disguise in Waterford, but the wigs were hot and itchy and who would ever have imagined she'd bump into anyone from out in the sticks back here in County Meath?

  She survived the meal, but she knew she couldn’t leave until Winters did. She needed to keep an eye on him and make sure he didn’t get free range with her grandparents, or too chummy with Wallace. She had to intervene in a hurry when she found him deep in consultation with her grandfather.

  “Cíara! This fine young man has just been telling me about your new business arrangement! Just what was needed, what?” He must have seen the glint in his granddaughter's eye because his jaw snapped shut on any further comments about her needing a man to take care of the business.

  But Winters seemed to know no fear. Turning to her with a welcoming grin, he announced: “We’ve just got a commission from Mr. Henley, honey. You know, it’s such a co-incidence we discussed the Diamond Darling at lunch, because this gentleman is worried that the thief has targeted so many of their friends, and that this lovely home might be next on the list!”

  Cíara scowled. She had a fleeting uncharitable thought that Grandmother Henley would feel slighted if the thief didn’t bother to raid her jewelry box – it would give the impression to her friends that she had nothing worth stealing. But she swallowed the thought, not wanting to give away her knowledge of Margaret Henley’s well-stocked jewelry box.

  Just as she was thinking of a suitable non-committal rejoinder – she’d already glared at her grandfather to no avail- Cíara’s worst nightmare came true. A sleek South African voice called her name from right by her elbow, and she looked up to see Wallace smiling indulgently down at her.

  “My dear, I had hoped we would meet again! I so wanted to apologize for my mistake the other evening – it was simply a misunderstanding, you know!”

  “You two know each other?” Mr. Henley asked.

  Cíara realized that Wallace had twigged she was probably a wealthy heiress like the other young women in the room, and was trying to cover his rear end for the comments he’d made the other night. But she could hardly voice this opinion out loud in front of her grandfather and Winters, so she had to let him away with the fiction that they’d met the other night and he’d accidentally called her by the wrong name, mistaking her for somebody quite different.

  “Damn right,” she muttered to herself, and quailed when she again saw that speculative look on Winters’ face. Lord, it couldn’t be much longer before he put everything together and realized where he’d seen her and Wallace before – and then things would certainly hit the fan!

  So she did the only thing she could – the girlie thing. She slipped her arm through Anton's and, ignoring the injured puppy look on William’s face and the suspiciously raised eyebrow on Winters’, she smiled at her new beau and drew him away to a quieter part of the room.

  “So, do you live with your grandparents, or have you a place in Dublin?” he asked, the question casual but she didn’t miss the speculative gleam in his eye. Wondering if Serena McLaughlin had taken the tip from her report and dumped the fortune-hunting jerk, she answered sweetly: “Oh, no, I couldn’t live with them – they’d spoil me so. I have a place in town, one of those Georgians on a small square in Rathmines.”

  “Rathmines – I don’t know it too well but I have a friend in the area. What street are you on?”

  “It’s a quiet little place, although unfortunately most of the properties have been given over to flats. Grosvenor Square – it sounds so upper class London, doesn’t it?”

  “What a coincidence! My friend lives on the same square – she’s at number 641!”

  As far as she knew, there was no 641 on the square, but she played along anyway and gave him her house and phone number. “Maybe we could have lunch sometime,” she said loudly. She’d seen Winters bearing down on them with a tight hard line to his mouth.

  “That would be wonderful – but dinner would be better!” Wallace replied gallantly.

  “Well, just you give me a call and we’ll get together for sure.” She smiled that sweet smile again, touching his arm briefly before turning to scowl at her new partner.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, not sounding in the least sorry, “But I’m about to leave, and I had something I need to discuss with Cíara. If you’ll excuse us...”

  “Certainly,” Wallace smiled. He winked at Cíara, and moved away.

  “Well, I was just about to slip to the ladies’ powder room,” she announced primly. “Surely it would keep until tomorrow?”

  “No, it won’t. And I’ll wait.”

  “Suit yourself – it could be a while,” she said, and fluttered up the familiar stairs. Once safely in the bathroom, she delayed as long as she could, and then slipped into the room the Henley’s kept for her rare visits. Popping open the rosewood jewelry box that stood on the antique dresser, she noted that all the previous gifts she’d received from them were still tossed into the box as she’d left them. She picked up a diamond tennis bracelet, admiring it despite herself, then some sapphire drop earrings that she knew would look perfect against her skin and red hair – but that she would never wear.

  She’d never wear any of the Henley’s gifts. Regretfully, she closed the box and shut out the gleaming fortune. She glanced around the room that Margaret Henley had decorated especially for her granddaughter. As Cíara grew up, she’d asked the girl to help her choose new wallpaper and furnishings, and she'd always rudely declined. But it was a lovely room, especially when you compared it with the flat she shared with Mary Margaret.

  Sighing, she slipped out and closed the door behind her.

  She’d only taken a couple of steps before she walked into a solid wall – a living, breathing solid wall called Jonathon Winters. “Did you get lost? The bathroom’s that way!”

  “I can go to the bathroom alone, you know, been doing it since I was two!” she snarled back, but her mind was elsewhere. Those lovely jewels were wasted, lying in that box…

  “So, what were you doing?”

  “If you don’t want a rude answer to that, don’t ask,” she snapped, and preceded him downstairs, head held high and dignity intact despite a slight wobble in the new heels. Winters followed her and they both said their goodbyes to the Henleys.

  “What do you drive, Jonathon?” Mr. Henley asked.

  Cíara rolled her eyes and yanked Winters through the big front door.

  “What is all this interest in my transportation?” Winters asked, “Do you need a lift home?” Cíara sniffed at a distant memory – one she'd no intention of ever sharing with Winters.

  “Look, do you want a lift or not? I wasn’t sure that rust bucket of yours would make the trip both ways,” he taunted, opening the door of a gleaming new sports/recreation vehicle. Four wheel drive and all accoutrements.

  “Rented?” she asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Yeah, but I might buy later.”

  “Hardly worth it, if you’re only here temporarily,” she stated sweetly. “Myself, I think I rather fancy the little vintage MG – the red one over there.”

  It happened every time. Guys got a look at the sports car, and this drooling expression came over their faces. She wished she could have the same effect.

  “Jeez, that’s just gorgeous,” Winters said, drawn towards the car as if on an invisible string. “Such a fabulous restoration job, too.”

  “Yes, it is.” She enjoyed the expression on his face as she slipped behind the wheel. The powerful engine purred to life at the touch of the key, and Cíara gave Winters a gracious little wave as she shot off down the driveway, spurting gravel all over his shoes.

  She might have won that round, but Winters was a cop and a writer, which meant that he knew a thing or two about persisten
ce. He had something he wanted to discuss with her and he was damned if he was going to let her get away with swanning off like that. And he’d really like to know how she came by that fancy car….

  It took a few minutes, but she finally became suspicious of the headlights that followed steadily behind her. Slowing down a little to get a better view of the vehicle behind, she swore loudly and long, uttering words that would have had Granny Somers washing her mouth out with soap and water, and Grandmother Henley in a dead swoon on her polished oak floors.

  She didn’t stop, though. She assumed Winters was still staying in the swanky Dublin hotel where she’d taken those ill-fated photographs, so he did have to return to the city, Maybe he’d get bored of following her once they got into the traffic.

  But it was a forlorn hope. When she finally found a parking spot on Grosvenor Square, he pulled up right alongside her, boxing her in. “I’d love to come in for a coffee, but I don’t want to block the street and parking’s bad,” he told her as if she’d actually invited him.

  Then he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from one of his immaculate dinner jacket pockets. “I found this on your desk at the office and thought it was really serendipity. I’m looking for a place to stay when I’m working here, and you’re looking for a flat mate. Perfect, eh?”

  Cíara nearly choked on the words that struggled to climb out of her throat. When she was finally able to put them in order, she croaked: “You’ve got to be joking? This stupidity is why you followed me home?”

  “Partly. Partly I wanted to see you safe back. It’s not good for a woman to be out late and alone, especially in a vehicle like that. It’s not exactly invisible, is it?”

  Speaking slowly, as if to a young child, she said: “I am a big girl. I can stay out late if I want, and I can handle any Neanderthals with the wrong idea. Including you! Now, stay out of my way, out of my flat – and preferably, out of my life!”

  “I wonder if your good buddy Frank O’Keefe will see it that way?” Jonathon said casually.

  “What? Are you still on about…I thought we had a deal….”

  “So did I. A partnership.”

  “But now you want my flat. You want to take over my life….” She knew she was squawking, but couldn't help herself.

  “Nonsense. The partnership is good for both of us. And as for the flat, I’m looking for someplace for a few nights a week. I don’t care for living in hotels. And I need to spend time at the cottage in Dunmore East, as well – so you’ll hardly know I’m here!”

  She slumped back in her seat. She knew when she was outgunned, but did he have to make it all sound so reasonable? Slowly she got out of the car, locked it, and walked, shoulders slumped, towards her own front door.

  He fell into step beside her, slipping an arm around her. “You must find it chilly, wearing so little in this breeze,” he excused himself.

  She didn’t even have the energy to shrug him off. From her grandmother on the phone first thing, then Winters’ rearranging her office and making her impossible bets, Mary Margaret's lunchtime revelations, Harry’s behavior, the dinner party, and Wallace – now this! Her day had been a total washout. Besides, his arm was warm. Then she had an awful thought.

  “You’re not wanting to come in now and look around, are you?”

  “Nah, I’ll give you time to get your underwear off the shower rail. Tomorrow morning, though - early – before office hours.” He watched her climb the stone steps towards the huge front door.

  She could feel his eyes on her and grinned evilly as she remembered the short skirt would give him quite an eyeful as she reached the top of the steps. She gave a little provocative hip wiggle before slipping the key in the lock and pushing the door open.

  Although she’d never let Winters know, it was late and his presence did make her feel safe. Not that she had ever felt under threat, coming home alone late at night. At least not that she would admit to, anyway.

  After all, if you start to feel like a victim, you are a victim, her martial arts instructor had told the class. And no granddaughter of Granny Somers would ever be a victim.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cíara was dreaming a wonderful dream, featuring a tall, dark handsome hero whose very touch brought her to the edge of the most incredible… and then the damned doorbell rang. No amount of struggling would win back that handsome dream hero's attention, and she staggered to the door issuing curses on the head of whoever had disturbed her.

  Of course, it just had to be Jonathon Winters, true to his word, looking bright and cheerful and altogether too much like the handsome hero she'd just been…well, never mind. The image dissolved as she saw that Jonathan hoisted two big leather suitcases – the expensive kind that always look as if they’ve traveled well – into her small living room.

  “You know, you’re really jumping the gun with this one. Mary Margaret hasn’t moved all her stuff out yet. She’s coming round this afternoon.” She spoke around the yawn that bubbled out. “And more than that, I don’t remember actually agreeing to have you as a roomie.”

  Winters looked bright eyed and bushy tailed, even after the late night, and she hated him. Especially after the dream…

  “Would it be safe to assume you’re not a morning person?” he asked, grinning.

  “Right now, for you nothing is safe,” she snapped back.

  “Uhmm, I like the sound of that. Exactly how unsafe am I? Might you, for example, punish me by dragging me into that bedroom and….”

  “Go to hell.” And she flounced back into her own bedroom, slamming the door loudly and firmly. But as she fell back on the bed she couldn't shut out a brief image he’d stirred, of falling onto the bed with him, their mouths locked together, hands touching, sliding, caressing……….

  “Damn! Damn! Damn!” She jerked upright and threw the nearest thing – fortunately a small paperback book – at the wall. She swore again when she heard a deep chuckle outside the door, before a firm knock.

  “Whatever you want, go away,” she growled, pulling a pillow to her and hugging it tightly.

  “I just wanted to offer to buy you breakfast while we work out living expenses,” Jonathon said, sounding so open and friendly that her hands twisted the pillow as if she were wringing his neck.

  “No, I don’t want breakfast!”

  “Well, that’s the point – don’t you eat at all? There’s nothing in the cupboards but some chocolate digestives and there’s an outdated yogurt in the ‘fridge!”

  Cíara leapt to the door and yanked it open. “The chocolate biscuits are mine - touch them and die! The yogurt's Mary Margaret’s, she likes them ripe!”

  “So do I,” he said, eyeing the softly rounded shoulder that was exposed by the neckline of her oversized sleep t-shirt.

  “Just keep your hands off anything that’s not yours and maybe somehow we’ll get through this,” she ground out as she savagely yanked up the offending neckline. “I’ll be out in five minutes and I hope you’ve got wads of money, ‘cos breakfast could be expensive.” Then she slammed the door on his grinning face.

  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned – or should that be appetite? She chose one of the most expensive restaurants she could think of, one of those places where everything is actually fresh and a full Irish breakfast means just that, with bells on. Knowing he was picking up the tab, she ate every little morsel on her plate, and a couple of pieces of bacon snatched from under his nose as well.

  “Aren’t you expecting to eat again for a while?” he asked, but she had been taught her manners by Granny Somers. Never talk with your mouth full, girl. So Winters continued: “Listen up now. I sent a brief press release to the papers, should be in today if we’re lucky, Monday if not. I talked to a couple of editors and they seemed to find my working with you interesting enough….”

  “It’s all me, me, me with you, isn’t it,” she said, around warm buttered toast, piqued that he might get publicity she hadn’t been able to drum up for herself.


  He ignored the remark. “So, we have the weekend to get ready and I need to go and do a little bit of work or my publisher and agent will both be on my butt.”

  Cíara choked as her thoughts strayed to the butt in question. The thought brought on a toast crumb-induced coughing fit and he moved nearer so that he could pat her back – and her lonely little hormones had a field day.

  Winters grinned knowingly when she slurped down a mouthful of water and then wriggled her chair away from his. He went on, unperturbed: “So, how’s about you come down to Dunmore East, too? You can finish up with Frank O’Keefe and spend some time sunning yourself on the beach, or the back garden, or something – and in between times, we can discuss our future.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. Or maybe she liked it too much. “We have no future. You’re turning my life upside down to amuse yourself because you’re bored on our little Emerald Isle. When your next book’s finished – or when your sabbatical is over – you’ll head back to your comfortable job and your comfortable life and leave me here to pick up the pieces.” She sounded plaintive but she meant every word. Somehow the idea of him disappearing from her life seemed almost as bad as him being in it. And she really hated herself for feeling that way.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” he said, looking at her with narrowed eyes. “I mean, it’s not like we’re married, or anything.”

  “No, you want to have a brief fling with me and with my business, and then you’re outta here,” she replied, and felt tears prick at her eyes.

  “I’m not quite playing that fast and loose. I want you in bed, yes – and don’t deny it, you find me interesting, too. And yes, I find the idea of working with you stimulating. But I won’t leave you in a mess – whatever happens.” It was said with the quiet solemnity of a promise, and Cíara’s gaze jerked up to his face.