Three-way Tie (13 page)
“Ours,” she repeated. “Ours?” Her laugh was more an unladylike snort.
“Everything okay here, Sinead?” the drummer asked, climbing onto the stage and offering her a short glass of amber liquid. Good Irish whisky, Jack presumed.
“I can handle Mr Quinn myself.” Sinead accepted the glass.
The young man glared at Jack when Jack unashamedly drank his fill of the woman in front of him. Did the whelp have a crush on the woman? Jaysus, were they screwing each other?
And too bad if they were.
Sinead was going to be his. He’d not let a gobshite stand in the way.
She tipped back her head, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat, then closed her eyes and downed the beverage in a single swallow.
She made a soft kissing sound as she closed her eyes in apparent rapture.
Lord have mercy.
He ached to stroke his knuckles along the curve of her cheekbone, trail the pad of his index finger down her nape…
She sighed. When she opened her eyes, she asked, “You’re not just a bad dream? More’s the pity.” She smiled at her protector. “Mr Quinn was just leaving, Brandon.”
“Bugger all,” Jack said. “You might as well hear me out.”
“You’ve nothing to say that I want to hear.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing except goodbye.” She slid the glass onto the speaker.
“Ouch.” He gave her his quick, calculated, disarming grin that always scored points in contract negotiations. It didn’t seem to soften her at all.
“You sure you don’t need help taking out the rubbish?” Brandon asked.
“Go on with you. If he hasn’t left within a couple of minutes, I’ll call security.”
Jack wondered if she’d be so blasé if she knew he intended to tie her up, tie her down, drag her back to Ireland and his family home within the next twelve hours. Kicking, screaming, biting, it didn’t matter. In fact, he looked forward to her fighting him. It would make his victory all the sweeter.
“Go,” she told Brandon again.
The overconfident pup looked over his shoulder and glared at Jack before moving off.
“The lad, Brandon. Is he a member of your fan club?”
“One of the hundreds.” She checked her watch, a whimsical piece with white gloves at the end of the hour and minute hands. “I’ll give you two minutes.” She folded her arms, with her left wrist on top, where she could keep an eye on the ticking seconds.
“Do you believe in curses, Ms O’Malley?”
“Not on your life.”
She twitched. It was subtle, but her nose wrinkled and her brows furrowed. Being a descendent of the Kellys and O’Malleys, there was no way she didn’t believe in curses.
“Or the Banshee?” According to Celtic legend, the Banshee was either human, fae, or even spirit. To some she was young and beautiful, to others, an old hag. She wailed, keened, cried, or dropped a comb as a portend of death or destruction.
“I believe in stuff you can touch with your hands, Mr Quinn. Instruments, balance sheets, ledgers. I don’t have time to be fanciful.”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a metal comb.
As the silver winked, reflecting the overhead lights, colour drained from her cheeks. He watched her fight the urge to take it from his hand, to see if it was real.
She had the same reaction his grandmother had.
“My
máthair Chríona
found this.”
Instead of taking the comb, she reached for her whisky glass. Realising it was empty, she rolled the glass between her palms. “My condolences, in advance, to your family.”
Bitch.
Temper and temptation warred within him. No one mattered more to him than his
máthair Chríona
. His jaw tightened. The less civilised side of his nature demanded he sling Sinead over his shoulder, drag her from the room then find the nearest wall and slam her up against it.
He deliberately put the comb back in his pocket, his actions controlled. Then, anger in check, he discarded the option of fucking her ragged and settled for capturing her chin, not at all gently, between his thumb and forefinger. When he spoke, his tone was harsh, his words blunt. “You deserve a good hiding, Sinead.”
That shut her up.
Heat chased up her cheeks, replacing the colour that had momentarily drained away when she had seen the comb. When she opened her mouth again, she was back in full form. “A good hiding, is it? I’ve already said you’re not man enough for me.”
“Shall we see?” He stroked his middle finger across the top of her lip. “I think I’m just the man to teach you to mind your manners, lass.”
“You won’t be touching me again,
diabhal.
”
Like
hell
he wouldn’t. He intended to be on her. In her. “You are aware, wombat, that the Banshee doesn’t follow all families. She does not follow the Quinns.” He smiled viciously. “She follows the O’Malleys. My
máthair Chríona
believes the warning was meant for you.”
The flush on her cheeks darkened.
With precise aim, firing back at the direct hit she’d scored, he added, “Not many of you left now, are there?”
“You really are a bastard, Quinn.”
She curled her hand into a fist and Jack wasn’t sure whether or not she was going to take a swing at him. Part of him hoped she did. Then he’d have every reason to sling her over his shoulder and drag her back to his hotel.
“
Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat
.
”
May the cat eat you, and may the cat be eaten by the devil. Or her figurative meaning,
screw you
.
She trembled, though, despite her bravado, despite her hard words. He’d unnerved her. And, he wondered, what bothered her most—him, or the Banshee? “The curse ends with us, Sinead. With you becoming my bride.”
She laughed. Really laughed. “You really are mad as a hatter.”
Band members began moving towards the stage. The electric guitarist tuned his instrument, all but drowning their conversation.
Sinead unclenched her fist then clamped her hand on his wrist. “Your two minutes are up, Quinn bastard. I never want to see you again.”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I’ll be here when you’ve finished.”
“I’ve no use for you, sir.”
Was that the slight dig of her fingernails in his skin?
“Go home.”
“Aye. And when I do, you’ll be by my side. Mark my words, Sinead. You’ll be Mrs Quinn.”
“When my ancestors roll in their graves.”
Her fingernails sliced into his skin. The woman had claws.
“This is no longer about you and me, lass.”
“Sinead!” Brandon called.
“I’ve finished with you.” She
pulled her hand off his wrist
.
She flipped her hair over her shoulder as she moved away, defiant and delicious.
He moved back to the bar.
“This one’s on the house.” The bartender slid acomplimentary pint in Jack’s direction. “I told you she was a tough one.”
Jack looked at his wrist and studied the half crescents carved into his skin by his fiery opponent. “You warned me.”
“She’s only been here a few times, but we already call her the Titanic.” The man swiped a white towel across the shiny wood. “Men see her lovely smile and think they’re in for smooth sailing. Then afore you know it, you hit the ice—the ice in her veins.”
Jack hoisted his glass in her direction.
Round one to the lovely lass from Westport.
About the Author
Born in Northern England and raised in the Wild West, Sierra Cartwright pens book that are as untamed as the
Rockies she calls home.
She’s an award-winning, multi-published writer who wrote her first book at age nine and hasn’t stopped since.
Sierra invites you to share the complex journey of love and desire, of surrender and commitment. Her own journey has taught her that trusting takes guts and courage, and her work is a celebration for everyone who is willing to take that risk.
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Sierra loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at
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