Novels 03 After Twilight Read online

  “Why, darlin’, you cut me to the quick.” Fin managed to look hurt and wistful all at the same time. “He’s obviously here because word has gotten out that this is the best pub in all of Ireland.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t talking about Finnegan’s Folly and you know it.”

  “Aye, that I do.”

  “Well?” She waited, her eyes straying to the dark head bent over his sandwich.

  “I don’t know. He said something about a holiday. He’s here to see the forts. Although I cannot understand what it is people see in those old piles of stone.”

  “They see history, Fin. History.”

  “Aye, well, perhaps they do. And mind you, I’m not complaining. ’Tis a fair amount o’ business they’re bringing with them.”

  “He doesn’t look much like an historian.”

  “You were expecting a tweed jacket and a pipe?”

  Kacy smiled at her friend and shrugged. “Well, maybe I am being a little cliché.”

  “Still, there’s definitely more to the man than he’s letting on.” Fin smiled smugly.

  Kacy frowned. “Why would you say that?”

  “Well, for one thing he’s no Yank.”

  “But I thought you said he was from New York.”

  “I did.” Fin rubbed an empty glass with a cloth.

  “Well, then …”

  “He might live there, but he isn’t from there, if you take my meaning.” He lifted his eyebrows. Fin could drive her crazy when he was of a mind to.

  “Fin.”

  He smiled, clearly recognizing he’d milked it for all he could. “He’s originally from Ireland. It’s in the way he talks. Mind you, he’s worked hard to erase it, but the sound of an Irishman is in his soul, not his voice. I’d wager the pub the man was born on this side o’ the pond.”

  Kacy studied the stranger. He certainly looked more like a New Yorker than an Irishman. She turned back to Fin and shrugged, trying to convey indifference. “Well, whoever he is, I doubt he’ll be here long.”

  Fin laughed. “True enough. We’re not exactly a tourist center, now are we?”

  That was exactly why she’d chosen Lindoon. The perfect place to disappear. And she was good at disappearing. Of course, it didn’t hurt that her grandmother had left her a cottage here. No, Sidhean had been a blessing.

  “I’d best go rescue my dog.”

  Fin laughed. “I’m not sure it’s rescuing he’s wantin’.”

  True enough. Mac was rolled over onto his back, white belly exposed to the stranger. He wriggled in ecstasy as the man stroked his furry underside. She stared at his strong hands, trying to imagine what it would feel like to have a man like that care for her—love her.

  Foolish dreams, the voice in her head whispered.

  She sighed, pushing her thoughts aside. It was ridiculous to indulge in childish fantasy. There were no happy endings. She was living proof of that. And there was absolutely no sense in imagining otherwise.

  She stopped at the table and opened her mouth to speak, but was suddenly struck dumb as she stared into the deepest blue eyes she’d ever seen.

  * * *

  Her eyes were huge. Green. Luminous. Like … hell, he had no idea, but they were beautiful. She was beautiful. He swallowed a huge lump of egg sandwich, wondering if he looked as juvenile as he felt.

  “I was just coming to retrieve Mac.”

  He struggled to make sense of her words. The dog. She was talking about the dog. “He’s really friendly.” He patted Mac’s head to emphasize his words. The dog looked at him and then at his mistress. It was almost as if he were following the conversation.

  “He can be a nuisance sometimes.” The dog came to her side and she rubbed him behind the ears.

  Braedon found himself wishing it was him she was touching. Great, he was acting like a teenager. Next thing his voice would be cracking. “He’s fine, honestly.” She shifted her weight, obviously as uncomfortable as he was. They shared an awkward silence. At least he wasn’t doing the adolescent thing on his own.

  “Fin says you’re interested in the forts.” She smiled shyly.

  “Yes.” Great. Now he was answering in monosyllables.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. The countryside around here is dotted with them.” She blew out a breath, her eyes locked on his.

  “So I’ve been told. I don’t suppose you could recommend any?”

  She hesitated a fraction of a second, her tiny teeth worrying her bottom lip. “There’s one near my cottage. Dunbeg. It’s small, but in excellent condition. There’s even a souterrain.”

  “Souterrain?”

  “An underground tunnel. The ring forts are famous for them.” She frowned. “I’d have thought you’d have known about them.”

  “I’m sure I must have read about them. Could I see this Dunbeg?” He held his breath, wondering what it was exactly he was doing.

  “Of course. Anyone can show you the way.” Her hand fidgeted with the salt shaker on the table. On impulse, he reached out and covered it with his own, surprised at the jolt of electricity that ripped up his arm.

  He met her gaze and held it, his eyes trying to read hers. “I meant to say, would you be willing to show it to me?”

  Her hand fluttered in his. A captive butterfly. “I … I mean … well … of course, I’d be happy to.” She pulled her hand free.

  “When?” He knew he sounded eager, too eager, but he had to see her again.

  Her eyes widened and he was reminded of a deer trapped in headlights. “Tomorrow?” She licked her lips nervously.

  “That would be great. How do I find you?”

  “I’ll be at Sidhean.”

  “Shee-an?”

  “Sidhean,” she repeated.

  He nodded. “I know the word. I just wondered why your house is called the fairy knoll.”

  She smiled, a dimple creasing the corner of her mouth. “Because the cottage is built on one.”

  “I see.” And somehow he did.

  She looked down at her dog. “Shall we head home?” Mac wagged his tail in response, and with a wave to Fin, she turned to go.

  He rose, his feet acting of their own accord. “Wait.”

  She turned, cocking her head to one side.

  “I don’t know your name.”

  She dimpled again. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know yours either.”

  “Braedon. Braedon Roche.”

  “I’m Kacy. Kacy Macgrath.” She gave him a last smile and then disappeared through the doorway, Mac following at her heels.

  His heart dropped to his stomach. Kacy Macgrath. He felt physically sick. Kirstin Macgrath Madison. He sank onto the chair, his head spinning.

  Fin appeared at his side. “You look like you could use a refill. Our Kacy has a way of doing that to a man. What can I get you?”

  “Whiskey.” He ran a hand through his hair, his mind in turmoil. “Make it a double.”

  Kacy Macgrath.

  The memory of her soft curves and sensuous green eyes teased him. Oh, God, Kacy Macgrath.

  The woman he’d come back to Ireland to destroy.

  Chapter 2

  ENRICO GIENELLI CLUTCHED his carry-on impatiently and inched forward. Passengers were lined up hodgepodge behind the yellow line, passports in hand, waiting for an available Irish customs agent. He hated this part.

  Hated it with a passion.

  Not that there was any chance they’d stop him. And even if they did, he wasn’t carrying anything suspicious. Still, he always worried. Some last little bit of conscience. Not that there was much left. He hadn’t been one of the good guys for a very long time.

  He shrugged mentally and looked at the dowager standing in front of him. Too much blue in the rinse, she resembled a Muppet. Wasn’t there a blue one? He smiled. He should spend more time with his nephew, but the Bronx might as well be a galaxy away from his home in Milan.

  He fidgeted with the handle of his briefcase. What was the holdup?
A dark haired man was arguing with a beefy looking woman in uniform. Obviously, he’d done something wrong.

  Rico sighed. Better him than me.

  “Next.”

  The blue hair moved forward. Two to go. He felt a trickle of sweat slide down his back. Nervous, he ran a hand beneath his collar. This was ridiculous. He’d been out of Rikers a long time now. Not that he’d been clean exactly. But he’d been careful. Really careful. Well, maybe not as careful as he should have been, but he was going to take care of that.

  Someone behind him was speaking Gaelic. It sounded like gibberish. Damned Irish and their independent ways. Why didn’t they just speak English?

  He grinned. He sounded like an American. Which made sense. He was an American.

  Sometimes.

  He clutched the passport in his left hand. Today he was Italian. His grandmother would be proud. She’d never forgiven his grandfather for making them leave Sicily, and she’d spent the better part of Rico’s childhood making certain he was well versed on the virtues of the old country. A fact that had served him well over the years.

  He glanced at his watch. It was late. He’d be lucky to make it to Lindoon before dark. Not that he was in any hurry to get there. The little village wasn’t exactly a hot spot.

  In fact, as far as he was concerned, Lindoon had only one thing to recommend itself.

  Kirstin Madison.

  At least he hoped it was her. If his informant was right, she was going by Kacy Macgrath. And his instincts told him that if she needed an alias, she had something to hide. He chuckled to himself. He ought to know.

  Of course, there was always the chance that his informant was wrong. He frowned, stroking his moustache. That had better not be the case. He’d paid the man a fortune. If he was wrong, there’d be hell to pay.

  The octogenarian stepped up to the counter. Almost there. He blew out a breath, glancing at the dark haired man still arguing. A terrorist? If so, he was in good company.

  “Next.”

  A bored looking blonde with a wad of gum in her mouth held out a hand. “Passport.” Rico gave her the leather case, his heart beating staccato against his ribs. He really wasn’t good at subterfuge.

  “Eduardo Baucomo?”

  He nodded. She’d butchered the name, but he wasn’t bothered. It wasn’t like it was his.

  “Business or pleasure?”

  He wanted to say both, but held his tongue. In his experience, he’d found that passport control people often lacked a sense of humor. “Pleasure,” he said, thickening his Italian accent for effect.

  “How long?”

  “A week, maybe two.”

  The woman thumbed through the passport, looking for an empty spot. Eduardo had traveled a lot. Finally finding room, she stamped the page and handed the passport back, stifling a yawn. “Next.”

  He was through. He heaved a sigh of relief, feeling slightly foolish for all his worrying. No one knew who he was. He’d made sure of it. He headed for the car rental cubicle. He had an appointment to keep—with the elusive Mrs. Madison.

  Kacy threw her jacket on the bench in the hall and headed for the kitchen. “What we need is a cup of tea.” She smiled at Mac. “Okay, you can skip the tea, but I could use the company.”

  Mac lifted an ear and Kacy laughed, reaching for the electric kettle. After plugging it in, she threw herself into a chair with a sigh. “Well, you have to admit he was cute.”

  More than cute, actually, Braedon Roche bordered on magnificent. Of course, he’d look better with his shirt unbuttoned, his jeans rumpled, and his hair a mess. She rubbed her fingers against her palm, imagining what it would feel like to run her hands through his hair.

  She groaned, trying to control her feelings. This wasn’t such a good idea. Really dangerous. In all her life she’d let her emotions have full rein only two times. The first, she’d had them handed back to her on a silver platter. A solid silver platter. And the second … She felt her stomach tighten and drew in a slow breath, forcing herself to relax.

  The second time had ended in disaster.

  And death.

  She had to face reality. She wasn’t meant to have a relationship—with anyone. Her dog nestled at her feet, his head resting protectively across her ankles. Except Mac. She could love Mac.

  The teakettle whistled and she welcomed the interruption. She steeped the tea, though not enough according to the locals, but the stuff they made could rot a person’s gut. Adding milk, she stirred it, inhaling the scent of bergamot. Earl Grey was her favorite. She took the cup and headed for the front room, Mac trotting at her heels.

  Putting her cup down on the coffee table, she crossed to the fireplace, stirring the carefully banked peat fire with a poker. Small yellow flames licked upward, sending thin tendrils of smoke up the chimney.

  She put the poker back against the wall and leaned down to straighten a stack of magazines that had fallen across the hearth and onto the floor. She shot a look at Mac. “Did you do this?”

  He ignored her, intent on scratching behind one ear.

  “I’ve told you to be careful with that tail,” she scolded with mock severity, restoring the stack to its proper position. She straightened, her eyes falling on the Monet hanging over the sofa. Her Monet. She smiled, for once letting herself feel pride in ownership. It was crooked.

  She leaned across the sofa and righted the painting. There. Perfect. Mac looked up reproachfully. She sat on the sofa, reaching for the dog, giving him a hug. “I didn’t think you did that. Honestly.” She smiled and picked up her mug and a book that lay open on the table.

  The Moon-Spinners. An old friend. She curled up on the sofa, took a sip of tea, and tried to remember what was happening with Nicola and Mark. Nicola thought he was dead. She read a few paragraphs, but found it difficult to concentrate.

  She knew the story, knew it by heart, but somehow, tonight, Mark kept turning into Braedon, his indigo eyes warm and lazy. She sighed. In truth, Braedon Roche didn’t seem like a man who smiled all that often. Maybe she could—she shook her head—the book, she was reading the book.

  Where was she, again? Oh, yes, the body …

  Something crashed, glass splintering against wood. Kacy sat up with a start, knocking the book to the floor. She blinked, trying to get her bearings. The fire was burning merrily, Mac was … where was Mac? She sat up, all traces of sleep vanishing in an instant.

  She heard Mac growl. Frowning, she tried to force her brain to function cognitively. The bedroom. She’d heard a noise in the bedroom. That must be where the dog was. She grabbed the poker and moved hesitantly into the hall. She could still hear Mac and was relieved that his growl hadn’t intensified to a bark. A good sign surely.

  Taking a deep breath, she strode into the bedroom, brandishing the poker, hoping she looked tougher than she felt. She flipped on the light, blinking at the brightness. Except for Mac, the little room was empty. She released the air in her lungs, surprised to realize she’d been holding her breath.

  The lace curtains blew inward and Kacy followed the material with her eyes, her gaze dropping to the floor by the bed. It was covered with roses.

  Roses.

  She sighed, her hand loosening its death grip on the poker. A vase. It was just a vase. She bent and started picking up the broken crystal and crushed flowers. “I must have heard the vase crashing.” She spoke out loud, as much to herself as to Mac. He came and sat beside her, watching as she cleaned.

  “It was just the wind.” As if to underline the thought, the wind whistled through the window and the curtains billowed. She stood up, dropping the pieces into the trash can.

  “Maybe I need to read something a little less suspenseful.” She smiled at the dog and reached across the table to pull the window closed, firmly pushing the latch into place. “My imagination is working overtime. What do you say we call it a night?” Mac wagged his tail and jumped up onto the bed.

  Her eyes dropped to the picture on the table. Alex. Sunbronzed
and laughing. She picked up the photo, wondering for the millionth time why she kept it.

  A reminder of what a fool she’d been.

  She traced the line of his face with a finger. She’d been so blind. Rushing almost overnight into a marriage based on nothing but empty promises. Believing that he had loved her. That, finally, someone loved her. She fought her tears. Tears of humiliation. All she’d wanted was to share a life with him.

  But all he’d wanted was a possession. A pretty toy. He’d used her body, but ignored her soul. For three months he’d treated her more like a harlot than a wife. And still she’d refused to accept the truth. Instead, she’d tried to win him back, but in the end, she’d driven him away.

  Driven him to his death.

  She clutched the photograph to her chest, the pain of his rejection threatening to engulf her. Even after all this time, she wanted him to love her.

  With a sigh of resignation, she pushed her bitter thoughts aside. She’d come here to put it all behind her. To start again. To build a new life. And staring at her dead husband’s picture was not helping the process.

  She opened the nightstand drawer and shoved the picture to the bottom, a pack of Kleenex covering his face. Maybe another day she’d actually be able to throw it out.

  Maybe.

  She closed her eyes, but she could still see Alex’s face mocking her. He still waited for her in her dreams, taunting her, touching her—hurting her. And always, always, sleep prevented her escape.

  She shook her head, opening her eyes, trying to banish her thoughts. But he was still there, teasing at the corners of her mind. She wondered if she’d ever truly be free of him.

  Sighing, she closed the drawer, then reached over to pat the dog. At least Mac loved her. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  She checked the locks and windows in the rest of the house and shut off all the lights, banking the fire before heading for the bathroom.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was tucked under the covers, Mac’s warm body curled against the small of her back. She reached for the light and paused, realizing her hand was shaking.