Secret Santa

by Fern Michaels

  Chapter Five

  Claire took immediate control of the situation before it got even more out of hand. “It’s been a long twenty-four hours. If Mr. Flynn is well enough to see me, I’d like to freshen up a bit before I make my appearance.” Claire turned to Marty and Tilly, who watched her and Quinn as though they were a circus sideshow act.

  Quinn laughed, then replied, “You do appear to be a bit rough around the edges; you look like you could use a shower and a hot meal.”

  Knowing he was trying to get under her skin, she lifted her chin, meeting his sexy gaze straight on. “And you, Mr. Connor, look as though a trip to a clothing store might be in order. Or is this the mode of dress attorneys affect when they’re in Ireland?”

  Suddenly, Marty stepped between the two. “Quinn, leave this young lady alone; she ain’t used to your warped sense of humor. Right, Ms. Claire?”

  Marty was wrong. She liked a good sparring partner now and then. It broke up the monotony when things got boring.

  “I get his sense of humor,” Claire remarked, then stepped away from Quinn’s penetrating stare. Apparently he wasn’t aware of the fact that she had five brothers whose sense of humor was most likely more warped than Quinn Connor’s.

  “I like a woman who understands a sense of humor. Actually, it’s one of the main requirements for all the women I date,” Quinn said teasingly.

  Claire didn’t believe that for a minute. With a man who looked like Quinn Connor, he needed a matching beauty, a bit of competition in the looks department. While Claire wasn’t a great beauty, by any means, she’d been told on more than one occasion that she was quite attractive. She supposed when she put on makeup and did her hair, she wasn’t too hard on the male eye. At five-foot-seven, with long, shiny black hair and clear blue eyes, Claire had turned a few heads in her day.

  “I don’t know what that is I’m smelling, but I’m dying to taste it. Tilly, Marty tells me you’re the best chef in all of Ireland.” Claire watched the little woman squirm under her praise.

  Tilly chuckled, her little almond eyes twinkling like the lights on a Christmas tree. “I wasn’t sure what you would like, being from America and all, so I made entrées for you to choose from. I wasn’t sure if you are one of those vegans or a vegetarian, whatever they call them over there, so I made a little bit of everything. I’ve made a cheese platter. You might like to get started on that. Ireland has some of the finest cheeses in the world. Ardrahan, has a rich nutty taste, and then there’s Corleggy, a pasteurized goat cheese I get from County Cavan, some of the best in Ireland. And, lastly, I have Durrus, a creamy, fruity cheese. Of course, we have an array of breads, scones, and biscuits. I didn’t know if you were one of those girls who watched their figure all the time, but apparently it looks like you don’t have to, so you might want to try my potato, cabbage, and onion soup with my hearty brown bread. Made just this morning when I heard you were coming. Donald insisted I make a traditional Irish stew for you. It’s good beef, lamb, lots of potatoes, and a few secret ingredients I’ll never reveal. So, if you’re hungry,” Tilly finished.

  If she weren’t hungry before, she certainly was by then. She wanted a taste of everything. “I don’t know when I’ve been offered such a variety of foods to choose from. Would it be rude of me to want to try a bit of everything?” Claire asked, grinning. Just that moment, her stomach chose to make its state of hunger known to all who were within a few feet of her. She couldn’t remember when she’d had her last meal, only that she’d had way too much alcohol in her system during the past twenty-four hours and not near enough food.

  “I think you probably just made Tilly the happiest woman in the world,” Marty said.

  “And me, too. I just hate to eat alone,” Quinn teased, then actually had the nerve to look Claire straight in the eye and wink at her. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  Claire thought it a little late for him to ask for permission, but she didn’t see any reason to deny him. “Not at all.”

  Tilly scurried about the kitchen, filling platters with cheeses and bread, ladled the thick, hearty soup into bowls, brought these to the table, a giant wooden structure that Claire would bet was hundreds of years old and had been in the Flynn family forever.

  “I’ll let you two get started with the soup and cheese; then, if you’re still hungry, I’ll serve you both up a dish of my Irish stew. Marty, why don’t you make a pot of tea for these two while I get their plates ready.”

  “Would it be possible for me to clean up a bit before I sit down to eat?” Claire asked, dying to remove her wrinkled skirt and Kelly’s too-tight black ballet slippers.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Claire,” Marty said. “Donald told me where to put you.”

  He spoke of her as though she were a thing, something to be placed wherever he desired. Again, Claire thought, as soon as she saw Mr. Donald Flynn, she was going to give him a piece of her mind, American-style.

  “If you wouldn’t mind taking me there, I’d love to clean up before I eat,” Claire stated firmly, letting them all know how she felt about Mr. Donald Flynn’s putting her anywhere.

  Tilly called over her shoulder as she prepared their plates of food. “Marty doesn’t always remember his manners, Miss Claire. You follow him upstairs, and when you come back, I’ll have your meal waiting for you.” Tilly happily bustled around the kitchen, in her element. Claire couldn’t help smiling as she watched her.

  “I’ll be right down,” she said as she made her way up the winding staircase. “This is some place,” she said to Marty’s back. “Not sure I’d want to live in a place this size.”

  What she assumed were oil paintings of the Flynn dynasty decorated the stairway. Polished sconces that Claire would swear were pure gold lit up the staircase, bright red velvet ribbons hanging from them. “This way,” Marty said, directing her down a narrow hall, where a giant spruce decorated with tiny white lights and angels met them.

  “The tree is spectacular!”

  “Donald likes his trees; there’s one in just about every room.”

  “Must be a lot of work, but the fun kind. I always put up a tree, a small one, but it brings back memories,” Claire said, then thought of Shannon, and that wasn’t on her good-memory list.

  He opened the door and stepped aside so Claire could enter. Delighted, she spun around the room, again thinking she had stepped right into a fairy tale. “This is gorgeous!” A set of tall windows provided a perfect view of the massive estate’s gardens. It looked like a park, not someone’s backyard, Claire thought as she gazed out at the beauty. This was definitely not a backyard, at least the kind she was used to. She reminded herself not to be taken in by all of this. Donald Flynn had taken her away from her family, and at Christmastime, too. Short of a real diagnosis of terminal illness, he’d best have a darn good explanation.

  “There’s the bath, and Tilly assured me there’s all the stuff in there you’ll need. Russell brought your bags up.” Claire saw her luggage placed discreetly at the foot of the giant canopied bed. She wondered who Russell was and what his position was around the castle but wasn’t going to ask as it really wasn’t her concern. “I’ll be downstairs shortly,” she said to Marty, who was waiting by the open door. “Tell Tilly I’m starving.”

  Marty laughed, then closed the door. Finally alone, Claire opened her luggage and removed a change of clothes. She almost screamed with delight when she saw the giant claw-foot tub. A separate glass area enclosed the shower opposite the tub. She turned on the tap and quickly shed her clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. Standing under the hot shower, she groaned. “Oh, this is wonderful,” she said out loud. She leaned back so that the warm water ran down her face. She could stay here for hours she thought, but later, after she learned why she was here, she planned to spend some time in that claw-foot tub before heading back to the States. Quickly, she found a bottle of lilac-scented shampoo. She washed her hair, rinsing away all traces of the muck from yesterday. A bottle of bath gel, alo
ng with a mesh sponge, was sitting on another shower shelf. Squirting the floral-scented wash into the sponge, Claire washed as fast as she could, then stood under the shower for a full minute before stepping out. Though she didn’t want to keep Tilly waiting, she couldn’t help but smile at the thought of keeping Quinn Connor waiting. She toweled off, slipped into the black leggings and a bright red sweater that hung just below her rear end. Thankful for her own shoes, she slid into her favorite black Uggs. Raking a comb through her freshly washed hair, she piled it in a topknot, secured it with a clip, and, as an afterthought, spritzed her favorite jasmine perfume on her neck.

  Racing down the stairs, the enticing aroma from the kitchen made her stomach growl once again. With some food in her stomach, she would feel almost human again.

  Though when she saw Donald Flynn himself seated at the head of the table, she almost fainted.

  “I see you finally arrived,” Donald said as he helped himself to a slice of bread.

  Anger fueled Claire across the room to the table where she stood next to Donald Flynn. “It’s barely been twenty-four hours since you demanded that I come to your deathbed, and from what I can see right now, you are the picture of health. Do you mind telling me what this is all about?”

  Donald Flynn didn’t bother to stand up as most gentlemen would. No, he continued to spread cheese on his bread carefully as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “Claire O’Brien. You’re as beautiful as I remember.”

  Hunger overriding her anger, though only for a second, Claire sat in the chair across from Donald. “Look, I didn’t come all the way across the damned Atlantic ocean to listen to compliments. You told me you were dying, that it was a matter of life and death. I rearranged my holiday to come here. Now, don’t you think it’s about time you tell me why I’m really here?” Claire no longer cared about manners. She reached across the table for a slice of bread and dipped it into her hot soup. If she hadn’t been so ticked right now, she would have sighed with pleasure, as the soup was to die for. Marty was right. Tilly was an excellent chef.

  “Brock Ettinger assured me you had no plans for the holidays. He said you rarely traveled out of California. Knowing your Irish heritage, I just assumed you would be happy to have a chance at a vacation, especially in Ireland, and at my expense.”

  For a moment, Claire was at a loss for words. “Brock told you this?” She was fuming. Maybe it was time to step out on her own, walk away from corporate law and the good-old-boy system since they thought they could control her life.

  “Oh come on, Claire, do tell me that this is the best offer you’ve had all year long. Working for a man like Brock Ettinger can’t be all that exciting,” Donald said between bites.

  “I’m sorry I can’t keep quiet any longer,” Quinn said, his voice laced with anger. “Tell her the truth. Donald, tell her why you’ve really asked her to come to Ireland.”

  Claire felt as though she had been completely and utterly duped. That, she supposed, was because she had been completely and utterly duped. She was so mad, she wanted to toss her bowl of hot soup in Donald Flynn’s face, but, frankly, the soup was too good to waste on such a sneaky old man. “Yes, why don’t you tell me why so I can explain to my family why I had to back out of my Christmas plans?” Now she felt guilty when she remembered the relief she’d felt when she’d explained to Patrick that she wouldn’t be spending the holiday week with him and Stephanie. As soon as she finished eating, she planned to call the airlines and book a return trip home.

  Donald Flynn placed his napkin in his lap, then lay his spoon next to his soup bowl. “Okay, I admit I wasn’t completely honest. Though we’re all going to die someday, that part was true. You see how large this estate is, and this is just a small portion of all that I have. I have no children, and, of course, no grandchildren, not even a great-niece or - nephew.” Donald stared at Quinn. “He’s my only living blood relative. I want to leave everything I own to him, but he refuses to be named as my beneficiary.”

  Claire took another sip of her soup, pulled off a chunk of bread, and washed it down with tea. “And what does this have to do with me?”

  “You’re an O’ Brien. Let me see if I have this right, and correct me if I’m wrong. Don’t you have five brothers and two sisters? There’s Colleen, who married her high-school sweetheart, Mark Cunningham, they had two daughters, Shannon Margaret and Abigail Caitlin. Sadly, Shannon Margaret passed away several years ago. There’s Megan, who’s married to Nathan, and they have three sons. I believe their names are Joseph, Ryan, and Eric. Your parents, Eileen and Joseph are still alive, and they’ve retired to Florida. And that still leaves Connor, Aidan, Ronan, and Michael.”

  “You’re forgetting Patrick,” she couldn’t help but add. “Five brothers, two sisters.”

  “Yes, I forgot about Patrick. Isn’t he the one that married Stephanie, who has two little girls named Ashley and Amanda.”

  Claire now knew the true meaning of feeling violated. How dare he go behind her back and bring her family into something that they weren’t even aware of. She wasn’t even aware of where this was going!

  Quinn spoke again. “Uncle Donald here seems to think you and I, and of course your large family, would be the perfect occupants for this . . . house he claims to love so much.”

  Stupefied, Claire’s jaw dropped to her chin and back. She was truly at a loss for words. Was it possible Donald Flynn was suffering from Alzheimer’s? What person in their right mind would concoct such an insane plot? And why?

  This was too much. “Look, I don’t know why you’ve picked me to be your, I don’t even know what you’ve picked me to be, but this much I do know, I want no part of this scheme. And if I find out that Brock had anything to do with this”—Claire paused, trying to come up with a plausible statement—“I’ll quit the minute I see him. He can shove the firm up his ass!”

  Quinn laughed. “You’ve got moxie, I see. I like that. Now, let me fill you in. Uncle Donald seems to think when he dies, this great castle will go to the great country of Ireland and be made into a tourist trap. So, since I’m his only living blood relative, who just so happens to be single living in California, as do you, my dear old uncle’s plotting an arranged relationship, at least that’s what I assume. Am I right?” Quinn asked his uncle.

  Donald actually had the audacity to laugh. “You have to admit it’s not a bad idea. You’re both Irish, you both come from good families, not to mention you’re both quite good-looking, can you imagine what beautiful children you would have together?”

  Claire felt her face turned fifty shades of red. Even Quinn appeared stunned.

  During this entire exchange of words, Marty and Tilly kept themselves busy washing pots and pans and banging them whenever they felt they shouldn’t be privy to certain parts of the conversation.

  “I’m sorry, Claire,” Quinn said. “I suspected he had something like this up his sleeve when he demanded that I be here today. I returned to Ireland for the holidays, thinking I would ride my bike along the coast. Maybe take a day trip to see the Cliffs of Moher, the usual touristy stuff. I planned to kiss that Blarney Stone, too. Even though I was born here, I’ve spent most of my life in the States. My parents lived in America. We only spent a short period in Dublin before my father’s job, he was a pilot for Aer Lingus, took him to New York. Mom loved the city, all the hustle and bustle. Me, on the other hand, once my parents died—my father was Uncle Donald’s younger brother—I think I forgot to add that in here somewhere, but once they were gone, I moved out West. And now, you pull something like this.” Quinn was mad, Claire could tell, but he was also hurt that his uncle had used him like this. Claire barely knew Quinn, but she saw the hurt in his eyes, heard it in his words. “Dad wouldn’t have wanted this.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? Your father didn’t want this castle, didn’t want all the responsibility that goes along with the family wealth. All he ever wanted to do was fly airplanes. He could have cared less about our family’
s fortune. Once he was out of college, he got away before our father insisted he join the family business. I, being the older of the two, didn’t have a choice.” Donald stopped talking and, for a minute, actually seemed ashamed of himself. “The farms, the dairies have been in the family too long to just let them go to a stranger.”

  “I’m a stranger, Donald. You don’t really know me. All you know of me is my professional life, you know nothing of my personal life. No, forget that. Apparently, you made it your business to find out all about my family. I don’t appreciate it, either. It’s almost vulgar to think all the while I was looking after your finances, you were scoping out my family tree hoping to preserve your precious family castle and your fortune, which, by the way, is enough for hundreds of families. Has it ever occurred to you to use all these millions for something other than acquiring more?”

  Claire held out her hand, “Don’t answer that. Look, Quinn, I’m going upstairs and make a few phone calls. If you could offer me a ride back to Dublin, I’d appreciate it.” With that said, she stood, took her dishes to the kitchen, where Marty and Tilly were nowhere to be found. She rinsed her bowl, spoon, and cup, then put them inside the industrial-sized dishwasher, wondering why he needed such a large dishwasher in the first place since the castle was hardly occupied.

  On her way back upstairs, she passed several beautifully decorated Christmas trees that hadn’t been lit up before. Reds, greens, gold, and silver sparkled throughout the parts of the castle, but Claire no longer felt any pleasure at being in her homeland. All she wanted to do now was pack her bags. No, she didn’t even have to do that as she hadn’t bothered to unpack. The gods were smiling on her, she thought as she entered her guest room. Digging through her purse for the cell phone that she’d never bothered to turn on since landing in Dublin, she turned it back on and saw that she had five voice mails, all from a number she didn’t recognize. As she was about to listen to her voice mail, she heard a light knock on her door. Tossing her phone on the bed, she walked across the room and leaned against the door. “Yes?” She asked, unsure who was there. And if it was Donald Flynn, he could stand there and knock all night long before she would open the door.