Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5 (3 page)

Seán’s heart rate kicked up a notch.
No
, he thought.
Please, no.
“Not Helen Havelin?” The words came out in a croak.

“Yeah, that’s the one.” Brian rolled back on the balls of his feet and grinned, seemingly oblivious to his partner’s inner turmoil. “She’s the new owner of Clonmore House.”

Seán’s world tilted on its axis. The acrid sting of bile rose in his throat.

Helen Havelin
. The woman who’d helped destroy his childhood was living in Ballybeg.

Cork City, Ireland

DELIVERING MONEY TO a gangster with a Napoleon complex was not what Clio had planned for her Friday evening. One lousy favor. That was all she’d asked of Ray Greer, part-time crook and full-time arsehole. Instead of ensuring that she and Tammy would be left in peace, Ray and his goons had managed to both screw the job up and screw her over.

Clio stood on the pavement before the impressive façade of the Sheldon Hotel, feeling snowflakes melt on her nose. Friday night revelers jostled her as they passed. Traffic whizzed by in a blur of taxis, buses, and flashing lights. Cigarette smoke wafted from furtive smokers huddled in doorways, who were bouncing up and down in an effort to keep warm. Laughter spilled out of pubs, taunting and beckoning. These were happy people. Good people. Hadn’t-just-robbed-two-thousand-euros-from-their-mother people.

To think she’d assumed calling Ray for help with Trevor O’Leary would be a smarter move than contacting her ex. Clio’s lungs burned with rage. In the aftermath of the debacle, she’d swallowed her pride and had accepted her mother’s offer of a fresh start for her and Tammy in Ballybeg. Yet within a week of moving into their new home, Ray had smashed her plans to smithereens.
The double-crossing toad!

Taking a ragged breath, she pushed through the revolving doors and entered the hotel. The lobby was a kaleidoscope of shifting shapes and colors. Families carrying luggage more expensive than her car. Elegant couples arriving for a luxury weekend break. Businessmen with smartphones glued to their ears. Clio’s frozen hands clutched her handbag. She did not belong here.

Through the moving mass of people, she spied the designated meeting point. An oversized stone fountain with water gurgling up and over the carved fish center. Obscenely ostentatious, but it fit the general ambience. Her mother would love this hotel.

At the thought of Helen, guilt clawed its way from her stomach to her throat. Why had her mother not answered the phone earlier? She could have talked to her. She could have said she needed to borrow the money urgently, for Tammy’s sake. Helen might not have listened, might have refused, but it would have been worth a shot. Yet every time Clio dialed her number, she was greeted by a tinny voice mail message. With an hour’s notice to deliver the cash, there was no time to wait for her mother to respond to a panicked text or e-mail.

Which had left her with precisely one option, and it was a bad one—rob her mother’s safe and race to Cork City to deliver the money.

Pulse pounding, she placed one leaden foot in front of the other. The voices in the lobby rose and fell with snippets of conversation. Luggage carts and feral children darted in front of her. She dodged them, keeping her focus on the fountain.

If she’d had any other option, she’d have told the blackmailing scumbag where to stick his demands. But what choice did she have? The weasel knew he had her over a barrel. The instant Ray had threatened Tammy, she had panicked. She’d put her daughter at risk once before and had to live with the consequences every minute of every day. This time, she’d do anything to avoid putting Tammy in danger.

A hand grabbed her arm, twisting painfully. The man squeezing her arm was big and burly with a walrus moustache. Clio registered his badge. A security guard.
Feck.
Sweat beaded on her upper lip.

The security guard’s piggy eyes raked her outfit, pausing at her shoes. When his head jerked up, he wore a smirk. “Are you sure you’re where you need to be?”

In other words, was she sure a woman wearing a ratty winter coat, a vintage Ramones T-shirt, ripped jeans, and hooker heels belonged in the lobby of one of Ireland’s most illustrious hotels?
Hmm…
she was pretty certain the answer to that question was no.

“I’m meeting someone.” She wrenched her arm free.

Another smirk, wider this time. “The Sheldon is not
that
type of establishment.”

With her heart pounding against her ribs, Clio glanced at her watch. Five minutes. If this idiot kept delaying her, she’d be late for the meeting with Ray. “I’ll be out of here in a few minutes,” she said, pointing to her watch. “Ten, max.”

Beefy arms folded across his chest. “I’m asking you to leave.”

“For feck’s sake,” she snapped. “I’m not a prostitute. I’m here to drop something off.”

Too late, she realized the implication of her words.
Damn.

The security guard’s smirk evaporated. “We don’t tolerate drugs on the premises.”

“It’s money,” she said in a rush. “I’m…delivering it to my employer. He’s staying at the hotel.”

The unibrow reappeared, and his lips parted as if to argue further.

Clio plunged her hand into her bag and whipped out the envelope. “See?” she said, opening it a crack. “Can I go now? My boss is the impatient sort, especially when it comes to his hard-earned cash.”

“What’s your boss’s name?” he asked, hesitating. “I need to check our register.”

“Bollocks. If a guest has a delivery of cash he doesn’t intend to put in the main safe, the hotel staff have no business knowing his room number.”

He dithered a moment, uncertainty flickering over his fleshy features. “Go on with you,” he growled, “but if I catch you selling anything you shouldn’t, I’ll have you arrested faster than you can run in those heels.”

She pushed past him and hurried toward the fountain as quickly as her shoes allowed. Trust her to rush out of the house barefoot, leaving her with the only footwear she could find in the couple of moving boxes still in the back of her car—scarlet open-toed stilettos she’d bought for a costume party.

She clattered over the slick marble floor and slid to a stop in front of the fountain. She stared down at swirling blue. Koi darted through the water, bright orange and white, glinting like goldfish on steroids.

And then her mind reached back, and the fountain blurred in her vision. Tammy had owned a goldfish when she was little, back in the days before she’d morphed into a moody teenager.
Tammy…Oh, God.

There was still time to change her mind before Ray arrived. Not much. A minute, maybe two. She’d retrace her steps, return the money to the safe, and come clean—to her mother and to the police.

She squeezed her eyes shut and let out a ragged breath. Who was she trying to kid? She could never go to the police. If she hadn’t been let down by the Irish judicial system, she wouldn’t be in this mess.

The clock chimed the hour. Six o’clock. Clio’s witching hour. She opened her eyes and dragged air into her lungs. Last chance to save her soul. Heart hammering an unsteady rhythm, she spun around and headed for the exit.

At that moment, someone knocked into her, sending her reeling. She grabbed the edge of the fountain to break her fall but lost her hold on her handbag. It fell to the floor, the contents spilling over the marble tiles.

“Sorry,” said a gruff Dublin-accented voice.

The hairs on Clio’s nape sprang to life.
Of course
. Ray wouldn’t come in person. He’d dispatched a minion.

The stranger shoved stuff back into the handbag and thrust it at her.

No, I’ve changed my mind
. The words lodged in her throat.

“Ta,” he said and melted into the crowd.

Hands trembling, Clio opened the bag and reached inside.

The envelope containing the money was gone.

***

Seán weaved his way through the teeming lobby of the Sheldon Hotel, mobile phone pressed to his ear. “You can’t make it to Cork this weekend?”

“Nah, no chance.” His friend’s tone was morose. “If I leave the missus in the lurch, she’ll castrate me.”

“Far be it from me to put your balls in jeopardy, Frank,” Seán said dryly. Speaking of balls, he needn’t have busted
his
getting to Cork City in time to meet Frank at the Sheldon.

“Maybe next month, eh? When the kids are better and Shelia’s mum can help out.”

“Yeah, no worries. Our lads’ weekend can wait. Give me a call when the kids are over their flu. Is there’s any news on—”

Frank’s impatience crackled down the line. “If I knew anything about the Greer bust, I’d tell you, buddy. You know that. No one knows anything. Or if they do, they’re not talking.”

“Okay. I might have a lead on a decent case in Ballybeg.” A stretch, but Seán was an optimist. “Maybe I’ll get a transfer back to Dublin sooner rather than later.”

“Yeah.” The other man sounded distracted. “Listen, I’d better go. The little one’s roaring her head off.”

“Go play daddy. I’ll talk to you soon.”

He rang off and slipped his phone into his pocket.
Damn
. He’d been looking forward to spending a couple of days with Frank. Although he’d seen his former partner several times since he’d moved to Ballybeg eleven months ago, their plans for a weekend in Cork City kept falling through. Given the date and its implications, Seán had prayed it would work out this weekend. He craved the distraction of an old friend’s company.

He stared ahead, unseeing. What now? Stay in the hotel room they’d booked for the weekend? Go back to Ballybeg? If he went home, he’d spend the evening staring at the four walls, too wound up to sleep, too tired to concentrate on a book or TV show. Being in Ballybeg made him antsy at the best of times, brought memories to the surface that he’d rather suppress.

Tonight was definitely not the best of times. It was the anniversary of the greatest fuckup of Seán’s life. Weird to think that this time last year, he still had a couple of hours before his career imploded. And young Alan Brennan still had a couple of hours left to live…

A shudder of revulsion coursed through him. He didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight. Learning Helen Bloody Havelin was living in Ballybeg had been the crowning glory to what had already been a crappy Friday. It was as if all his ghosts had colluded to ambush him on the same day. If Frank wasn’t around to talk work and rugby, he’d down a few pints in splendid solitude. Maybe even pick up a woman for a night of mindless, no-strings-attached sex—the only variety of sex he was into. He didn’t do relationships. And judging by past experience, relationships didn’t do him.

The hotel bar would do as well as any other for pints and flirtation, and it had the added advantage of not being far from Seán’s hotel room. Decision made, he moved toward the wooden doors of the bar.

A flash of red snared his attention. A small strawberry-blond-haired woman stood beside the fountain, clad in impossibly high heels. From the red stilettos, Seán’s gaze meandered north. Slim, denim-clad legs, tiny waist, and firm breasts accentuated by a form-fitting T-shirt underneath a winter jacket. He let out a low whistle and slowed his pace. Not bad. Not bad at all.

His eyes moved toward her face, and his breath caught. She was fine-boned with full lips, high cheekbones, and a narrow nose. Memory tugged his brain. She was familiar. Had he seen her somewhere before? Or someone who looked like her?

At that instant, a man in an ill-fitting suit crashed into her, sending her handbag flying. Its contents spilled over the marble floor. The man bent to help her. The hairs on the nape of Seán’s neck stood as he watched the guy shove some of her things back into the bag and give it to her. At first glance, there was nothing strange in this scenario, and yet…and yet, he’d swear he saw the man slip something into his pocket.

He stepped forward.

“Look out!” An elderly man bore down on him, struggling to retain control over his heavily laden luggage trolley.

Seán leaped back to avoid a collision. By the time the trolley passed, the man at the fountain was gone. He scanned the crowd, but the guy had vanished. The woman knelt on the floor, ashen-faced, shoving the last stray items into her handbag while staring into space.

He closed the space between them. “Did he take anything?” he asked gently, crouching beside her.

She glanced up, startled. Their gazes locked. Up close, she was a couple of years older than he’d first calculated. Maybe early thirties. Her fine features and pale skin were offset by a pair of startlingly green eyes, a trifle too close-set for beauty, but striking nonetheless. Seán’s stomach did a flip. He ventured a small smile. A red stain crept up her cheeks, and she lowered her lashes.

“No,” she said in a low voice thick with emotion. “He didn’t take anything.”

Her nose twitched, and her hands shook.
She’s lying. And she’s afraid.

Seán bent down to scoop up a pen that had fallen out of her bag. He handed it to her, feeling her cold fingers against his warm ones. A zing of awareness made his pulse race. “Are you sure he didn’t take anything?”

“I…Yeah.” She shoved the pen back into her handbag. “I’m positive.”

He took her hand and helped her to her feet. His large hand encased her small one. She was tiny, even in those ridiculous heels. They didn’t match her faded jeans and T-shirt or her makeup-free face. In comparison to every other female in the lobby, she was underdressed, but she outshone them all.

She looped the bag over one shoulder and made an effort to steady herself. Whatever had gone down with the guy, she was visibly shaken.

“Do you want to get a drink?” he heard himself ask. He should run. He had enough on his mind without taking on other people’s problems, and this was not the sort of woman he’d been planning on picking up tonight. A single glance sufficed to inform him that this woman came with strings—strings so tightly knotted they’d require tweezers to unravel. But Seán was a fixer, and a sucker for a damsel in distress. There was something that drew him to this particular damsel, some clue in a puzzle he had yet to solve.