His Wicked Celtic Kiss

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2014 by Karyn Gerrard.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

 

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-8386-2

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8386-5

eISBN 10: 1-4405-8387-0

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8387-2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © 123RF/Andrey Kiselev and 123RF/Ivailo Stanchev

 

To Crimson Romance and especially Tara Gelsomino, executive editor, for her wise guidance and helpful input during the revision/edit process. Much appreciated.

To my dad, my first and always hero. You are missed.

His Wicked Celtic Kiss
is book two in my Wicked Men of Rockland series. The hero and heroine of this novel, Julie and Lorcan, met in book one,
The Wicked Bad
, and their story continues here.

Also, there is a free read at my website, an epilogue to
The Wicked Bad.
Stop by
www.karyngerrard.com
to check it out!

Happy reading!

Six hundred fecking channels and not a bloody thing worth watching.

Lorcan Byrne stopped on yet another ridiculous reality show featuring squabbling housewives, and sighed. No wonder he never watched the telly. Why he'd even rented one he had no idea.

He clicked the remote again to turn the set off, but jabbed the wrong button by mistake, and suddenly a shot of a verdant, green hillside flickered on the screen. Lush orchestration filled the room and he recognized the tune immediately—“Isle of Innisfree
.
”
The haunting melody and lyrics told the tale of an Irish immigrant longing to return home. An unexpected lump formed in his throat.
Home.
Looking across the vast expanse of concrete and untamed urban sprawl from his third story window, he could almost imagine lush meadows and glacial lakes in the Ring of Kerry.

Not that he'd spent much time in Ireland of late. He'd spent the last five years traveling the world as a soldier, and in Ireland's secret service, experiencing things he didn't like to think about, never mind talk about. The memories still haunted his dreams and had taken up residence in the dark corners of his soul.

He glanced at the telly. John Wayne was stepping down off a train. Ah.
The Quiet Man.
He hadn't seen the film in years. Last time had been with his da one rainy Saturday afternoon when he'd been twelve. The lilting Irish accent of the narrator turned into white noise as he turned away, leaned against the window and sighed wistfully.
Home.

All his adventures and still he wandered aimlessly from place to place. He'd been home visiting his family when his friend, Sullivan “Sully” McDermott had told him about the new job he'd gotten in Rockland, a small industrial city in the state of Maryland. Out of the blue, Lorcan decided to follow him. He'd thought a little boredom and simplicity could be just what he needed to help him forget. After all, a six-month temporary detour would just be another stop in a long line of casual jobs and fleeting relationships. While he'd enjoyed his recent visit with his noisy, boisterous family, something had been lacking. His brows furrowed. But he'd only been here six
weeks
so far, and he was already yearning for home again? It made no sense. Would he ever find a place of permanence? A place he felt comfortable and at ease? A place where he no longer would be disturbed by recollections best forgotten?

The rasping noise of a buzzer cut through his thoughts. He strode to the intercom and pressed the button.

“Yeah?”

“It's Nick. Buzz me in.”

Lorcan hit the button then walked over to the window, his gaze scanning the parking lot below. Sure enough, there was Veronica's Mustang. She looked up and waved to him, and he returned the greeting. Lorcan had promised to help them move some of Veronica's things into Nick's flat. With one last longing look at the Irish countryside, he clicked off the telly and laid the remote on the ledge.

Nick thumped at the door and Lorcan walked over to let him in. Standing at six-foot-five, Nick Crocetti took up the entire doorframe.

“Jesus, didn't you hear me beeping the car horn?” Nick asked as he plopped down on the recliner. He gave the near-empty room a cursory look. “No sofa yet. Do you even live here?”

Lorcan glanced around his apartment. Nick was right. In the month and a half he'd lived there, he hadn't bothered with personal touches or flourishes. He could effectively pack up his life in a couple of suitcases. Long ago he'd learned to travel light. “To answer your questions, no I didn't bloody well hear you and I sleep here, nothing else. A place to lay my head. That's all I need it for.” Lorcan sat on the end of the ancient wooden coffee table that came with the flat. The battered chair Nick lounged in had come with the place too. “How's the arm?”

Nick clenched his fist and flexed his gauze-covered bicep. “The burns are healing. Still have the bandages, but at least I'm off the painkillers.”

“So you're up to moving boxes?”

Nick nodded. “It's only her personal effects. She's leaving a lot of the stuff behind for now.”

“So the fire inspectors gave the okay for you to live in your flat?”

“Yeah. It's mostly water damage. The place is sound and passed inspection.”

Lorcan stood. “We'd better get a move on then, mate.”

“Hold on. Sit down. I want to talk.”

Lorcan snorted. “Since when? I thought conversations weren't your thing? And Veronica's down in the car...”

“Ronnie's fine. I told her I'd be a while. Besides, I bought her a caramel latte and she's reading one of her Highlander romances on her phone. She's cool. First things first. It's been three weeks since the fire at my bar, and I haven't had a chance to properly thank you for everything you've done.”

Lorcan sat and squirmed uncomfortably, not that balancing his arse on the edge of a coffee table could be considered comfortable. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell Nick there was no need to thank him again, but Nick raised his hand to halt him.

“You're going to hear me out. No interruptions. You saved my life. You pulled my unconscious ass out of the fire. Then you paid for my hospital stay, and have given me some of your shifts at The Playpen bartending. Now this?” Nick pulled a folded envelope out of his shirt pocket. “A check? What's this for? And why the hell did you mail it to Ronnie's bakery? Why not come by and give it to me in person? What the fuck, Lorcan?”

Nick sounded annoyed. Couldn't blame the bloke. Why did he mail the check? Guilt, pure and simple. The fire in Nick's bar had been started by his crazy cousin, Ronan McCarthy. No one knew that information but Lorcan, and he planned to keep it that way. He had his reasons. When he'd found out what Ronan had done, he'd made sure his cousin got the hell out of town and back to Dublin. He liked Nick a lot, and considered him a close friend, and Lorcan always helped his friends. Just as much as he protected his family, regardless of the circumstances.

Lorcan crossed his legs. “It's just a small loan so you can proceed with the renovations until the insurance money comes through. You said it will probably be approved but will take a few more months. This will allow you to start now. Pay me back when you can, mate.”

“I don't have many friends,” Nick said gruffly, his voice thick with emotion. “Hell, you and Ronnie are it. I appreciate this. And I'm paying you back with interest. No arguments.”

“Aye. Whatever you wish. So, Veronica's moving in. Is it of a permanent nature?” Lorcan winked teasingly.

“It is. Very permanent. We've made a commitment. We love each other. We want to be together all the time.” Nick paused. “You're very good at this.”

Lorcan's brows arched in question. “What do you mean?”

“You change the subject when the conversation gets too heavy. Lay on the charming Irishman bullshit to deflect people from getting too close. You can't kid a kidder, Lorcan. I know when someone's hiding something. I saw you looking out your window. I saw the expression on your face. I recognize it. Pensive. You know. You were
gone
, man. Lost in thought. And it wasn't good thoughts, I'm guessing. Your mask might be different from my brooding one, but you wear one. Don't deny it.” Nick stuffed the envelope back in his pocket, pulled the lever on the recliner and sat back, crossing his arms behind his head, looking smug.

Lorcan rubbed his eyes, as they throbbed with fatigue. Sleep didn't come easy and hadn't for years, and what sleep he did manage barely offered relief from his tortured memories. “Aye, masks,” he muttered. “No emotional attachments to possessions or other people. It's the way I've been living for a few years now. Maybe I'm using the time to and try to decide what I want to do with the rest of my life.”
And heal. Reflect. Whatever it takes.
He refused to allow any of it to invade his mind in the cold light of day. He also didn't want to talk about it in any detail. Maybe this was why he and Nick clicked and formed a strong bond so fast. They were alike in many ways.

“Hey, I hear you. You don't have to spill your guts to me. I just want you to know that I get it. And, hell...” Nick's mouth quirked. “I'm here for you. Whenever. Whatever you need.” Nick flipped the recliner back into an upright position and stood. Though visibly uncomfortable with talking about emotions, there was a warm sincerity in his words. Lorcan appreciated it. “We'd better head out. Julie's going to watch the bakery while we move the boxes.”

Julie Denison. Why did a spark of excitement move through him at the prospect of seeing her again? Curious, that. He hadn't seen her in three weeks. The last time they'd spoken was at the bakery. He'd ordered a dozen rolls. Julie bent over the display case and showed him the most luscious arse he had ever seen. He'd become aroused and immediately got the bloody hell out of there. It would be interesting to see what reaction he'd have today.

He stood, reached for his keys and followed Nick out the door. Lorcan exhaled, and allowed his features to settle into the mask he showed the world. The teasing, charming, adroit Irishman who seemed not to have a care in the world. A man confident in his skin, secure in his looks, and who had the world by the tail.