Mulligan Stew (45 page)

Fergus crossed himself, eyes haunted. "Sinéad, that's blaspheme."

"Nay. Denying that child a proper burial is
blaspheme
."

He looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing. "She took her own life. The laws of the church—"

"Are wrong."

"No." He drew a shaky breath and released it very slowly. "Yer ways are wrong."

"But they be me own, and from an older tradition than yours." Sinéad turned toward the door.

"Ye risk yer immortal soul," he whispered wretchedly.

Though she practiced what he considered a Pagan craft, she was also Catholic. His words stung, and Sinéad slowly turned to face him. "I do not care how many lives I suffer for this,
if
indeed I do."

"Yer
eternal
life is what ye risk."

"No." She shook her head, remembering the day he had told her his decision to become a priest. "Ye destroyed that long ago."

"This is not about..." He reached toward her, but stopped partway, closing his fist around air. "It was not meant to be, just as Bronagh and—"

"Stop!" Sinéad pointed her finger again. "Stop," she repeated softly. "You took me virginity when 'twas offered, then left me for your church. Now at least leave me dignity in the end. 'Tis done. Let it be."

His face darkened. "Wait." He came toward her and gripped her wrist. "Ask yerself..."

She struggled against his hold, needing desperately to distance herself from this man of her heart. Now they were both old, their lives spent. "Ask meself what?" She held his gaze in the semi-darkness. "What, Fergus?" She saw him wince at hearing his given name from her lips. She should hate him for not loving her enough.

"How much of this madness is..." He leaned closer, his warm breath fanning her face. "Is because of me? Us?"

"Ye flatter yerself." But his words had hit their mark. "'Tis for Bronagh."

"I baptized her, watched her grow into a beautiful lass. I mourn yer niece, too."

"Then allow the child to be buried on hallowed ground."

"I cannot." He dropped his hands to his sides, his expression filled with helplessness. "I cannot defy the laws of God."

"Not God.
Man
." Her breath hitched. "So bloody blind."

"Ye will be damned, Sinéad," he said, his expression pleading. "Forgive the Mulligans. Aidan grieves, too. He only did his father's bidding. His duty. Come to confession.
Save
yerself."

"Do not speak to me of duty." She heard the desperation in his voice, but would not let it sway her. "'Tis too late for me." Only karmic rebirth could cleanse her now.

"No, 'tis too late for Bronagh."

"Not yet."

Something shiny dangled from his fingertips—the silver crucifix she had given him so many years ago—a pledge of her love and devotion. Her promise to love him always. And something more... If he had ever guessed that she placed a protection spell on it, he never would have accepted it. Her heart stuttered to see that he had kept her gift these many years.

Turning her back on him she threw herself back into the storm. The doors of the church slammed symbolically behind her. Rain pelted her head and shoulders; she welcomed its power, for she had cast her spell in anger.

Would her lack of focus spill other energies into the curse? She never should have thought about Fergus today. Her battle was for Bronagh—the child Sinéad had conceived in love and borne in secret.

But Fergus had turned his back on Sinéad and sworn himself to his church. Bronagh was dead now, and her own father would never know the truth.

Chapter 1

Real men don't apply for rent-a-pig jobs.

Nick Desmond squirmed in the soft waiting room chair. Whoever "Mrs. F" was, she'd been insistent about meeting him—had promised him top pay with important perks.

As her bodyguard...

Just thinking about it made him shudder. Well, he was here, but he hated being here. Hated what he'd become...

Since his third birthday, all he'd wanted was to be a cop—one of New York City's finest. It was in his blood, just like his old man and his old man's old man. He needed a frigging family tree to keep it straight.

John Desmond had been proud enough to burst the day

Nick—his only child—had received his gold badge. Dad never finished college, and though he was a well respected police officer, he would never be a detective. Nick couldn't remember ever wanting anything as much as that gold badge, or ever being as happy as he was that day. He'd worked hard for it. Earned it. Deserved it, dammit.

Sure, he wanted a wife and kids someday—a home. Dad would've made a terrific grandpa. Nick's breath hitched and he cleared his throat.

Fate had other ideas. His second day as a detective, he was added to a special task force assigned to put an end to the Fazzini drug empire. His third day as a detective, he received an anonymous threat—either look the other way, or lose what was most important to him.

The fourth day, John Desmond was gunned down on the sidewalk outside their apartment building....

Nick arrived while Dad was still alive. The old man's last words had been about family, and about how proud he was of his son.

The department called it a random, drive-by shooting, but Nick knew better. He'd been warned. He tried for six months to prove his father's death had been murder, but for every step forward he took, three new barriers appeared.

Someone in the department was on the take. Someone important. And that someone had planted Nick to give the task force some credibility—the new detective with a clean nose. Whoever was in charge didn't want to take Nick out the same way they'd eliminated John Desmond, because that would have raised suspicion of an inside job. So, instead, they'd framed Nick. Planted evidence that
he
was a cop on the take.

After that, the world Nick Desmond knew and the future he'd dreamed of were gone forever. Even now, the irony, the unfairness, brought bile to his throat.

Shit.
He needed a drink. Seemed as if he
needed
a drink more often than he wanted one these days. And Nick didn't like needing anyone or anything. He'd been there, done that, and set fire to the damned T-shirt.

Acid churned in his stomach and he forced his thoughts in another direction.
Get a job—get a life
. Even framed ex-cops had to eat. He'd spent every waking moment and most of his nightmares trying to pin Dad's murder on Fazzini. He'd lived and breathed revenge, revenge, revenge.

What did he have to show for that? Not a damned thing. But he wasn't about to quit now—or anytime. He just had to have an income, too.

After adjusting his attitude, he worked on the strangling tie, and gave his collar another tug, for all the good it would do. Who the hell had invented neckties anyway?
Probably a woman.

"Damn." He swallowed the lump in his throat and let his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud.

A blonde—a direct descendant of the inventor of neckties, no doubt—emerged from the inner office. A distraction just when he needed one most.

She eyed him over the rim of her black-framed glasses. "Mr. Desmond, thank you for waiting. Mrs. F will see you now."

Nick gritted his teeth as he stood.
Time to face my shitty future.

Nick straightened his tie again and tugged at the hem of his sport coat. "Ready as I'll ever be. Lead me to Her Majesty."

The blonde arched a brow and pursed her lips. She looked like she'd been sucking lemons down at Martinaro's Fruit Stand.

"A word of advice, Mr. Desmond." The blonde's voice took on an uppity, nasal quality.

"Yeah?"

"Treat Mrs. F with respect."

"I treat everybody with respect, unless they give me a reason not to." He flashed her a grin as she spun around and marched through the door ahead of him.

"Detective Desmond, I presume?" a soft voice with a faint Irish lilt greeted as he entered the inner office.

Nick sucked in a breath and held it, forcing himself to face the owner of the voice. He'd come this far, so he'd damned well follow through.

A diminutive woman sat in a huge leather chair behind a massive desk, the epitome of little old lady—matriarch and Queen Mother rolled into one. A cap of curly white hair crowned a face delicately marked by the passage of time, but he'd be willing to bet his first paycheck that she'd been a real babe a few decades ago.

The old lady peered at him with piercing blue eyes. "My, but you are a tall one. I believe you'll do quite nicely, Detective."

Confused, he held up an index finger, prepared to question the woman, but hesitated. After all, he'd come here for a job interview, and she'd practically hired him on sight. "I'm a little confused. And, in case you missed it, I'm not a detective anymore."

"Tall, strapping, ice blue eyes, gleaming black hair." She gave a satisfied nod. "Hollywood would call you Black Irish."

Nick held himself rigid. He'd sunk low enough to even discuss this position. The least he could do was hear her out, even if she didn't make sense. "Yeah. So?"

The old woman's eyes narrowed and an intensity shot from them and right through Nick. "Blood will tell," she said.

Nick tilted his head at an angle, studying her. "Whose blood?"

The ghost of a smile parted the woman's lips, revealing papery fine wrinkles in her fair skin. "No one's, if you do your job right."

Nick had to laugh. Shaking his head, he said, "You want a bodyguard?"
It's just a job, Desmond. Just a job.
He held his hands out to his sides, palms up. "I'm your man."

"So you are." She folded her hands on her desk. "You're dismissed, Trish," she said to her assistant.

"Yes, ma'am."

A moment later, Nick was alone with the most unusual woman he'd ever encountered. She seemed downright royal, sitting across from him in that oversized chair.
A frigging throne.

"Have a seat, Mr. Desmond," she said, indicating a chair much smaller than her own. "We'll discuss your duties."

Nick arched a brow as he lowered himself onto the soft and, no doubt, insanely expensive leather. "I haven't heard a job
offer
yet," he said. "Ma'am."

Again, the regal nod. "True. I reviewed your credentials and checked your references before contacting you. You're the man I want for the job." She drummed her meticulously manicured nails on the desk's surface for a few minutes, then added, "Your salary will be five thousand to start."

"Five thousand a month is sixty grand a year. As a
bodyguard
?" He held his breath, trying to act cool when he really wanted to pump the air with his fist and shout
Yes!
Instead, he sighed, realizing this fell into the too-good-to-be-true category. "What do I have to do for that much money? If you have something illegal in mind, you're talking to the wrong guy."

"I know that, too."

She smiled and he realized she wasn't as frail as she appeared. Her brain was razor sharp. The old woman was manipulating him, and definitely up to something. Something big. The gut instinct he'd relied on while on the force kicked into full gear.

"You misunderstood me." Her expression was bland—deceptively so, no doubt. "Your position will be twenty-four and seven. Live in, if you wish. Therefore, I'm offering you five thousand per
week
, Mr. Desmond."

"Holy shit." He shot out of the chair.
To hell with cool.
"Lady, you must be high on some kinda drug."

"Not at all."

"That's... over a quarter million bucks a year." He sank into the chair again, the sound of a cash register ringing in his ears.

"I'll make a note that you're adept at mathematics, and I
hope
I won't need your services for the full year," she said, smiling like the proverbial cat that had caught the piss-ant canary. "Will you accept the position, Mr. Desmond?"

Nick steepled his fingers beneath his chin, trying to remain calm and rational while visions of dollar signs danced through his mushy brain. He had to clear his name—keep his nose clean. "You're sure nothing illegal is involved?"

"Probably not."

He snorted. "What, exactly, does 'probably not' mean?"

The woman fell silent for a few moments, obviously contemplating her next words with great care. "Some facts must remain confidential. You might consider that unethical. I consider it sacred."

Nick chewed his lower lip and stroked his five o'clock stubble with his thumb and forefinger. The rasping sound in his head wasn't loud enough to drown out the sound of money. Lots of money. More importantly, he'd be paid for doing something similar to police work. All right, so that was a stretch, but this was as good as it could ever be again until he nailed the bastard who'd destroyed him.

And murdered Dad.

He drew a deep breath, forcing calm, cool logic to his mind.
It's
too
good.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then pinned Mrs. F with his cop-after-answers look. "Why?"