A Woman's Heart (12 page)

Nora laughed. “I can't imagine you ever groveling.”

“Join the club, darlin'. Because I couldn't imagine it, either—until I came to Castlelough and met you.” Wondering when he'd become addicted to self-torture, he lightly touched his lips to hers again and watched her eyes go opaque.

“I'll see you this evening,” he said after he'd ended the brief kiss all too soon.

“You'll be home for supper, then?”

Home. He was no longer that young boy for whom the four-letter word defined fear and pain. He was no longer the wild rebellious teenager who'd discovered that the happy homes depicted on television programs were nothing but a cruel Hollywood myth. It was only a damn word; there was no reason for him to suddenly feel as if he were suffocating.

“It depends.” Because he needed space to breathe, to think, he jerked open the driver's door. “What were you thinking of fixing?”

“Leg of lamb.” There was no way Nora would admit she'd been thinking more along the lines of veal stew when she'd first gotten up this morning. It had been five years since she'd looked forward to cooking for any man other
than her father and brothers. Which made this an occasion worth celebrating.

He climbed into the car and put the bag of oatmeal-raisin cookie crumbs on the passenger seat beside him. “You damn well don't fight fair, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”

She laughed again, feeling unreasonably young and lighthearted. She felt, Nora realized, almost as giddy as dear reckless Mary behaved whenever that troublesome handsome-as-sin Jack came calling.

“Neither do you, Mr. Gallagher.” She touched a finger to her lips and imagined she could still taste his stunning kiss.

She watched his eyes darken as his gaze settled on her thoroughly ravished mouth and knew he truly hadn't been lying when he'd admitted he was as drawn to her as she was to him.

It was, Nora considered, a start. Of what, she didn't know. But having grown up on a farm, where so much depended on the whims of Mother Nature, and having learned the hard way the futility of controlling her life, she was far more willing than Quinn to go along with the flow.

She stood in the driveway, oblivious to the light rain as she watched the silver car drive away. She thought about dinner as she finally returned to the house. A cobbler would be nice. Perhaps topped with ice cream. She remembered Sheila Monohan mentioning last summer that the visiting American tourists did so like their ice cream.

She'd have to make a trip into town. As she went upstairs to change into dry clothes, Nora uncharacteristically decided to splurge on one of those pretty bottles of cologne she'd seen in the front window of Monohan's Mercantile.

 

Later that afternoon, her trip to the village and shopping completed, a bottle of ridiculously expensive French per
fume safely wrapped in white tissue paper and tucked away in a pink-and-green-flowered shopping bag, she drove to Kate's. Now she was leaning against the open half door of Emerald Dancer's box, watching her sister-in-law groom the mare.

“So which of the two of you don't you understand?” Kate asked, after listening to Nora's halting admission that she was confused about her budding relationship with Quinn. She was giving the horse a sponge bath from a bucket of water. “Your Yank novelist? Or yourself?”

“Both,” Nora decided after a moment's thought. “I've never felt this way before.”

“And how's that?”

“Confused. Conflicted. Anxious.”

The mare, who'd supposedly been responsible for Kate's broken collarbone last year, stretched her head out, blew gently and bussed Nora's cheek, as if offering sympathy. Despite her distress, Nora smiled and rubbed the horse's seal brown muzzle.

“Sounds like love to me,” Kate diagnosed as she wrung out the sponge then took out a pick and began cleaning the horse's hooves.

“Oh, it can't be! Surely I'd recognize love.”

“You've only been in love twice in your life,” Kate reminded her. “That doesn't exactly make you an expert on the subject.”

“I know I loved Devlin with all my heart. As much as a young girl can love,” Nora qualified. It had also been an easy love. Growing as naturally as the wildflowers in springtime.

“And Conor?”

“Swept me away,” Nora answered promptly. When she scratched Emerald Dancer behind the ear, the mare rolled
her liquid brown eyes with pleasure. “I literally adored him.”

“My brother was certainly dashing enough,” Kate allowed. “But I think it was more a case of the way he took your mind off your troubles than true love.”

A lot had indeed happened then, what with poor little Celia being born, her mam dying, Nora having to leave the security of the convent. And just when she'd been at the lowest point of her young life, Conor had come riding his big white horse across the fields, looking for all the world like one of those storybook knights in shining armor. Nora couldn't have resisted him if she'd tried. Which she hadn't.

“I'm not certain I was capable of coherent thought during that time.”

“And isn't that exactly my point?” Kate swore as she scratched her finger on a nail. “Conor treated you like some fancy porcelain doll to be put on the shelf.”

“That's not true!” Uneasy talking about her husband while thoughts of Quinn were making her feel vaguely unfaithful, Nora began to pace in front of the stall door. “If anything, Conor complained I wasn't fancy enough for his fast city friends.”

“So perhaps I used the wrong description. My point is, though, that you and my brother fell in love at a time when you were in a vulnerable needy state. He never treated you like an adult woman.”

That stung. Partly, Nora admitted secretly, because it was so close to the truth. She'd always felt inferior to the dashing experienced Conor Fitzpatrick. For the first time in her life, she was forced to seriously consider that her husband might have manipulated her insecurities to his own advantage.

“And would you be saying that my husband shared every intimate aspect of our private lives with you?”

Nora hated the idea of Kate knowing about their argu
ments. And the making up afterward. Something that had occurred less and less after Rory's birth.

“Of course not.” Kate moved on to another hoof. Watching the mare obediently lift her front leg for grooming, Nora knew there was no way this sweet-tempered animal had ever thrown its rider. Especially one as experienced as Kate. In a land known for Thoroughbred breeding, she'd never seen anyone with such a talent for understanding horses as her sister-in-law.

“But I have eyes, Nora,” Kate continued. “I could see that Conor always thought of you as the child that had surprised him by growing up while he was away riding his bloody horse all over the continent. But he didn't want you to be too grown-up. Because then he'd risk losing his power over you.”

“Why are we talking about my deceased husband?” Nora asked. Having told herself for the past five years that her volatile marriage would have worked—she would have made it work—she wasn't comfortable examining it under a microscope now. Especially since such examination would prove fruitless. “The problem is Quinn Gallagher,” she reminded her sister-in-law.

“And how he makes you feel.”

“Aye.” Nora sighed. “It's bad enough that I don't understand what I'm feeling. The man is an expert at hiding his emotions, Kate.” Unlike Conor, who'd always been remarkably vocal about his likes and dislikes. “I can't get behind that wall he's built around himself.” Nor read his thoughts in those coffee-dark eyes.

“That's simple. If you want to understand Quinn Gallagher, all you have to do is read his books.”

“I read the banshee story.”

“And?” Emerald Dancer's hooves polished, Kate began smoothing tangles out of the glossy black tail.

“And it scared me half out of my wits.” Enough so that she honestly hadn't wanted to subject herself to another of his novels.

“You obviously just skimmed the surface. You need to reread the book, Nora, and realize what it's really about.”

“What's to realize? It's a tale about a young boy who ignores the advice passed down from his elders and looks into the face of a banshee, who, just as the legend predicts, attacks him and leaves him permanently scarred.”

It was a popular folk story. Didn't Brady tell it himself? But somehow Quinn had managed to strike a dark dread deep into Nora's very core, leaving her feeling unsettled.

“Exactly.” Kate nodded her satisfaction as she switched ends and began pulling the comb through the animal's long silky mane. “The scar's the key, of course.”

“Surely you're not suggesting that the scar on Quinn's cheek comes from a midnight meeting with a banshee?”

“Of course I'm not. Jaysus, you can be so literal, Nora. If you'd paid more attention during literature lectures, instead of memorizing all those prayers and quotations that won you honors and holy cards in religious class, you'd understand that the scar on the boy's face in the story is obviously a metaphor for the damage done to his heart. And perhaps his psyche.”

Nora thought about that for a moment and decided that as improbable as it had first sounded, Kate was maybe on to something. “The article in the
Independent
said his mother had died tragically when he was young. Do you think it's possible—”

“That he witnessed her death?” Kate broke in. “I'd say, given the tone of his later books, which all deal in some edgy way with the subject of parents and children, that it's highly likely.

“A young boy saw something he shouldn't. Something beyond the pale. And it left him scarred for life.”

Kate nodded, apparently satisfied by her thumbnail psychological profile. “If you want to understand your inscrutable American, Nora, all you have to do is read his books,” she repeated.

“If you're right about Quinn's past,” Nora mused, “then perhaps I'd be wise to keep my distance. Perhaps whatever happened to him is too terrible to allow him to ever be able to open up to a woman.” To open up to
her,
Nora thought. To trust
her.

Kate paused while gathering up the grooming equipment and slanted her a knowing look. “You know the old saying—Love heals all wounds.”

“How can I begin to know if I love him? When I don't know who he is?”

“I told you—”

“I know.” Nora blew out a frustrated breath, ruffling her tawny bangs. “Read his books.”

“I'd not be knowing how a writer's mind works,” Kate admitted. “But if it's true that a novelist writes about what he knows, then Quinn Gallagher has obviously experienced more than his share of monsters.”

“Then the man who wrote
The Night of the Banshee
definitely isn't one to settle down with a wife and ready-made family,” Nora said, conveniently overlooking the fact that her relationship with Quinn Gallagher, such as it was, hadn't even neared the point of either of them making a commitment.

“True enough. But mind you, that was his first published book,” Kate pointed out. “And although he might not have realized it himself yet, the man who wrote
The Lady of the Lake,
a story about the ultimately fatal sacrifice a mother—even an inhuman one covered with green scales who lurks
at the bottom of a rural Irish lake—is willing to make to save her child, is literally starving for the love of family.”

And here, from John's description, Nora had thought it merely another gory monster tale to be read with the lights on. “Perhaps I should read it.”

Kate grinned. “And isn't that just what I've been saying?”

The Vacant Chair

T
he Irish Rose was packed to the rafters. Some of the drinkers—like Brady and his friend Fergus—were regulars, some were members of the film crew, looking for a congenial place to pass the evening after a long day of work, and still others appeared to be locals drawn to the pub in hopes of mingling with the rich and famous.

Although Quinn had already observed the Irish to be less likely to fawn over fame, he'd nevertheless signed several paper napkins and even a few books, which the owners, upon finding him in The Rose, had returned home to fetch.

It was getting late and Quinn knew that Nora would be putting dinner on the table soon. Just the thought of what the woman could undoubtedly do with a tender leg of Irish lamb was enough to make his mouth water. Although he'd taught himself to cook, Quinn was more accustomed to nuking a frozen dinner in the microwave every night. Which made Nora's culinary inducement nearly impossible to resist.

But he continued to sit in this noisy bar with the ceiling lowered nearly a foot by the cloud of blue-gray smoke, listening to Brady spin tale after entertaining tale, because it wasn't merely the promised meal that was proving to be such a siren's call.

What he wanted, Quinn realized, as he picked at a basket of chips with scant interest, was to sit down at the old pine table with Nora and tell her about the hellish day he'd had. A day when neither Laura or her costar, Dylan Harrison, had been able to make their way through a single scene without at least a dozen retakes. A day when the on-and-off again drizzle disrupted shooting, causing an already testy Jeremy Converse to turn downright dictatorial. Which, needless to say, only made the actors more tense and the camera crew screw up the few scenes Laura and Dylan didn't blow.

And then there'd been the problem with the mechanical creature. Some malfunction was causing the Lady to emit a deep humming noise, which might have worked if she'd been a llama. But the tuneless drone tended to take away from her ferociousness when the time came for her to fight back, to protect her infant from the treacherous scientists.

Quinn wanted to tell Nora all this. And then, after she'd displayed the proper sympathy—which he knew he could expect from such a warmhearted woman—he wanted to hear all about her day.

Although he realized that he had no idea how she actually spent the hours he was away from the farm, the images that came to mind were seductively domestic. He pictured her kneading bread dough, imagined her feeding the red chickens their cracked corn and tending to the cows, like some rosy-cheeked milkmaid from an old painting. He wanted to bathe in the soothing warmth of her smile as she returned from gathering wildflowers in the meadow, wanted to kiss her inviting lips and feel the cares of his day melt away.

If it were only that simple, Quinn figured he could still deal with it. He didn't need a novelist's gift for characterization to know that Nora was the quintessential earth mother, so different from his own mother that the two women could have been born on different planets. So it was only natural for him to be drawn to her, he kept telling himself.

But, dammit, there was more. He also wanted to hear that John had aced his science exam; he wanted to find out how Mary had done on her Gaelic test and whether the foolish Jack had come to his senses and realized the pretty teenage girl's true worth. He wanted Rory to tell him more about the Lady, he wanted to look down into Celia's young face, surrounded by that wild cloud of fiery hair and wonder if Nora had looked like that when she was a little girl.

And, God help him, he was even willing to put up with more of Fionna's sly matchmaking.

And because he wanted all that—so much it terrified him all the way to the bone—Quinn was determined to stay away from the farm tonight.

Brady had launched into an old folktale about a beautiful Irish maiden kidnapped by a Norman king. He was a natural orator; his lilting rhythm, timing, phrasing, extravagant gestures, as he related his tales of battles, courtships, tragedies, saints, hermits, fairies and magic, all harkened back to the ancient days when the ability to spin a tale earned a man property, privilege and a seat at the table with the king.

The recital of the king's attack of lust when he'd first caught sight of the young woman while riding through the countryside reminded Quinn of his own reaction to Nora.

He liked looking at her. What man wouldn't? He wanted her. Again, what man with blood stirring in his veins wouldn't? He wanted to make love—have sex, he corrected swiftly—with her all night long. So what?

That only proved he was a normal healthy male.

Unfortunately everything about the lissome widow Fitzpatrick defined permanency, while his life was anything but. There was, after all, certainly nothing permanent about sex. Nothing constant about his career, which right now was burning as bright and hot as a star. But Quinn understood all too well how stars could explode and turn themselves into black holes. Even his house on the Monterey coast was leased, with a thirty-day out clause that allowed him to pull up stakes anytime he wanted.

It wouldn't be difficult to win Nora's warm and generous heart. She'd already let him know, in so many ways, that it could be his for the taking. But didn't she understand that when he left Ireland—and her—he'd be handing it back to her in tatters?

Of course she didn't, Quinn decided. Because, although the necessity of running a farm and keeping her family on the straight and narrow required her to be practical, the fact remained that the woman was a starry-eyed romantic to the core.

That idea reminded him of something Laura had said to him in the airport. Something about their being two of a kind. Not expecting happily-ever-afters. Realizing he'd just found the perfect hideout, Quinn downed the last of this latest Guinness and left the bar, then headed the two blocks down the street to the Flannery House Hotel.

“Well, well.” Laura's smile, as she opened the door to him, reminded Quinn of a cat who'd just caught sight of a dish of cream. “This is a surprise.”

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop in.” Belatedly realizing that she was dressed—just barely—for bed, he glanced in the direction of the closed bedroom door. “If I'm interrupting anything…”

“Don't be an idiot.” She took hold of his arm and urged
him expertly across the threshold. The fingernails on his sleeve were uncharacteristically unpainted, as her role of Shannon McGuire demanded. Like too much else these days, they reminded him of Nora's. “I just got out of the tub and was thinking of going to bed with a good book.” Her eyes handed him a gilt-edged invitation. “I'd much rather go to bed with a good man. Or even better, a bad one.”

Quinn stopped midway across the living room. “Do you have a minibar in here?”

“Of course.” She eyed him with what appeared to be actual concern. “Are you sure you want anything else to drink?”

“I don't recall hearing your joining the temperance police.” His tone warned her to back off.

“Darling, you know I've never been a fan of temperance in anything.” She lifted a hand to his cheek, in much the same way Nora had at the lake, but surprisingly, Laura's touch stirred not a single need to touch in return. “I just didn't want you to be disappointed.”

“You've never disappointed me, Laura.”

“Well, of course I haven't.” Blond waves that had spent most of the day covered by an auburn wig bounced as she shook her head. “I'm merely concerned that if you add any more alcohol to your bloodstream, you might have difficulty…well, you know…”

“Performing?”

“Exactly.” Her smile reminded him of the gold stars his third-grade teacher in San Antonio used to put on his spelling papers.

“You've never had any complaints before.”

“You've never shown up at my door three sheets to the wind before.”

True enough. Back home, in what Quinn had come to
consider his “real life,” the most he ever drank was an occasional beer or glass of wine with dinner.

“Why don't you let me worry about my performance level?” His tone was mild, but his eyes had hardened to obsidian.

“Whatever you say, darling.” Knowing him well enough not to push, Laura flashed the quick smile he'd come to recognize as her professional one.

She opened the bar with a small brass key and bent over it in a way that lifted the hem of her robe to the top of her thighs, just high enough to assure him she wasn't wearing anything underneath the ivory silk.

“We seem to have Guinness, Harp, a selection of Irish whiskeys—”

“Any scotch?” Since his troubles had all begun when he'd landed on this damn green island, Quinn was determined that the rest of the night be a reprieve from everything Irish.

“Let me see.” She skimmed a finger over the miniature bottles. “No. But there's some gin.”

Quinn hated gin. It was what his mother had always drunk, and even after all these years the smell of juniper berries could make his stomach heave. “That'll do.”

When he experienced more anticipation watching her pour the clear liquor into a glass than he did the provocative sight of silk-draped breasts, Quinn knew he was in deep trouble.

After a bit more consideration, she settled on Baileys Irish Cream for herself. Then she crossed the room again with her long-legged stride and settled down beside him on the sofa.

“To old friends.” She handed him the glass of gin and lifted her own. “And good times.”

“I'll drink to that.” He downed the gin in long thirsty swallows like a bitter-tasting medicine, enjoying the burn.

“Gracious. Aren't
we
in a hurry?” She circled the crystal rim of her glass with the tip of her finger. “I do hope that's not a precursor of things to come.”

“I told you.” Quinn stood up and went over to the bar, pulling out the first bottle within reach. “Why don't you let me worry about that?”

“Well, aren't you the old grouch tonight.” She put her drink down on the coffee table and rose in a smooth lithe movement. “What's got into you, sweetheart?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

The only reason he didn't complain when she took the bottle of Power whiskey from his hand was that he didn't want her to know how desperate he was for the mind-dulling effects of the alcohol.

“I'll bet you're just horny.” She looped one arm around his neck and deftly slipped the palm of the other between them, caressing his groin in a way that caused his body to respond exactly as she intended. “I was thinking about you while I was in my bath.”

Her voice turned throaty as she looked directly into his eyes. “While I was running the sponge over my breasts, I kept remembering the way you love to lick your way from tip to tip. And when I was washing my legs, I thought about that first time, when we went to that party at Jeremy's house in Bel Air and you dragged me into the bathroom, told me to wrap my legs around your waist and took me right there against the marble sink.”

“I was crazy that night.” Crazy with lust.

“You were wonderful.” Her fingers squeezed his growing erection with a practiced expertise. “I nearly came just thinking about it.” Her mouth touched his, warm and oh so
willing. “Thank goodness I didn't give in to impulse and start without you.”

The kiss was wet and deep and involved a great deal of the tongue action Laura was so good at. The familiar taste, tinged with the sweet Irish Cream, created a curl of lust that sent the blood rushing from his head to other more vital organs.

A very strong part of Quinn—a throbbing primal male part—wanted Laura. Even as he told himself he owed Nora nothing, he knew that to take what the sexy actress was offering would only leave him feeling guilty afterward.

He took his hands from where they seemed to have landed on her hips and captured both of hers. “I can't do this.”

“Of course you can, darling.” Her smile echoed the feline purr of her voice. “You're doing rather well, so far.”

“It's not that.” Calling himself every kind of fool, he eased a little away from her. “You know you've always been able to turn me on—”

“Believe me, Quinn, the feeling's mutual.”

How the hell was he going to explain the unexplainable? Especially to this woman with the seemingly one-track mind.

“You're going to think I'm nuts.”

She surprised him by laughing at that. “Of course you are. That's one of the things I've always liked about you. Most of us run away from our monsters, Quinn. You embrace them, make them part of you, until it's difficult to tell where you stop and they begin. It gives you an edgy dangerous quality not many women can resist.”

Quinn had a choice. He could deny her unflattering accusation. Or, since he'd already decided he wasn't going to sleep with her, he could at least acknowledge that there was some truth to her words.

“I never would have suspected you of being a student of human nature.”

“A slick shallow woman—an actress—such as myself?” she asked with a careless toss of her blond head.

“I didn't mean—”

“Of course you did. And believe me, you're not the first male to only take the time to look at the surface glitz. But you see, darling—” she slipped a hand free of his and trailed it down his cheek “—that's precisely the point. You're also not the only person in the world who prefers keeping private things exactly that. Private.”

It was yet another surprise in a week full of surprises. “And here I always thought I was good at characterization.”

“You are. But the one thing you overlooked is that I'm a much better actress than people give me credit for.”

And apparently, he thought, a much deeper person. “Hell.” Quinn turned away and picked up the bottle of Powers again. He needed a drink and he needed it now. “Now I feel as if I'm just some creep who's been using you.”