Bound and Determined (2 page)
“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.
Chapter Two
Sinead kept her gaze on Jack Quinn throughout the set.
Despite her blasé attitude, the damned comb and the man himself both unnerved her. It took all her concentration to remain focussed on the music.
She wanted to call Westport and check on her family. She wasn’t as fanciful as the rest of her family, but the fact his
máthair Chríona
has supposedly found a comb bothered her. According to legend, he was correct. The Banshee followed the O’Malleys, not the Quinns.
He could be lying. Or his grandmother could have dropped the comb herself.
But there’d been something familiar in the design.
She’d seen a comb like that before, in her own
máthair Chríona’s
home, shortly before the death of one of her aunts. She’d been a child, and after that, her grandmother had banned all combs from the house. No one, including Sinead, believed that getting rid of a comb could stop fate, could stop the Banshee.
She hadn’t seen his comb clearly enough to be sure the etching was the O’Malley crest, but damn it, it could be.
No matter what she’d said to Quinn, she was unsettled.
She passed up the opportunity for the scheduled snare drum solo and remained at the back of the stage. She wanted to remain hidden from his prying eyes—even though the colour was a startling, inviting blue. Hiding from him was difficult, though. Jack watched her as intently as she watched him.
Ever since she’d been a little girl, she’d heard stories of the hated Quinns. According to the
Annals of the
Four Masters
, a Quinn had kidnapped an O’Malley woman almost a thousand years ago, beginning a long feud that resulted in bloodshed.
The O’Malley family Bible had a drawing of a frightful devil, thin and red with a forked snakelike tail. She remembered crawling onto her great-grandmother’s lap to look at the ancient pages. The woman had pointed to the picture and whispered, “That’s what the Quinn men look like.”
Sinead had outgrown her fanciful notions, or at least she’d thought she had.
When Jack had started trying to contact her, she’d imagined him as an odious little gnome, squat and balding. For good measure, she’d thought he might have a pair of spectacles resting at the end of a misshapen nose.
But in truth, the reality was much, much more disturbing.
Jack Quinn was tall and broad. His hair was dark, and perhaps a bit too rakishly long. Those piercing eyes seemed to see straight through any lie or subterfuge.
A hint of darkness shadowed his jaw. And if he’d been telling the truth, he’d been too busy chasing her across the world to stop for a shave.
He was muscular and tough, as she’d discovered when she’d dug her fingernails into his wrist. A lesser man would have objected or at least winced. Not Jack Quinn.
It had been his scent, though, that had really got to her. He smelt fresh and crisp, like the untamed wild coast of home.
He was everything she desired in a man and her damp knickers were proof of that.
Why, why, why did her body have to betray her? Why did she have to have such a feminine reaction to him? And when he’d threatened to give her a good hiding, she’d frozen on the spot. She hadn’t doubted for a moment that he was serious and a searing white flash of desire had raced through her as she’d pictured herself upended over his knee.
She’d always dreamt of being with a man who was masculine enough for her. The men she knew were… She missed a beat on the snare drum… Brandon turned and looked at her quizzically. She nodded and found her rhythm again.
Most of the men she’d been with had been boring. There’d been one man in her past who had introduced her to the darker delights of sex. She’d had enough of a taste to whet her appetite. But she’d learned most men had no interest in the same things she wanted. Their idea of a spanking was a gentle tap. As if that would get her anywhere.
But in this man, Jack Quinn, hated enemy with his promises of a good hiding, a man willing to chase her halfway around the world, she might have met her match. The idea scared her as much as it fascinated her.
She noticed that the barkeep was speaking to Jack. Seizing the opportunity, she signalled to Brandon. She twisted her lips and pointed to her stomach, pretending to be ill.
When he responded by nodding, she put down her drum, snatched up her handbag that was the size of a small piece of luggage, and made a mad dash towards the toilets. She stayed inside for only a few moments then joined a group of laughing women who were leaving together. She was grateful women often travelled to the loo in small herds.
As short as she was, she didn’t stand out among the women. She glanced over at the bar to make sure Jack was still occupied then she ran for the kitchen. She got several strange glances from the chefs, but she waved and called out, “I have a crazy fan after me. Don’t tell him I came this way!”
One of the men brandished a paring knife. She rewarded him with a cheeky grin. “You’re my hero!”
She headed out the back door.
She could count on the people in the kitchen to lie completely or to at least slow Quinn down, and she would send Brandon a text message. He’d be unhappy, but if she apologised and offered to buy him a drink the next time she saw him, he’d take good care of her instruments.
She hadn’t been kidding when she’d told Quinn that Brandon was among her admirers. If he had his way, they’d be intimate. Sidestepping his concern and his advances was a constant challenge and one of the reasons she didn’t always tour with the band.
Outside in the chilled evening air, she caught her bearings. The Rocky Mountains were always to the west, she’d been told. Using the snowcapped peaks as a guide, she turned right. She figured she was about four blocks from the Sixteenth Street Mall and she needed to take another right here.
She glanced over her shoulder before rubbing her arms against the cold and hurrying towards the pedestrian mall’s free shuttle bus.
She kept a wary eye on the people walking along the street, and she got off the bus a stop early and took a detour to her hotel.
Fifteen minutes after she’d rushed out of the pub, the hotel’s doorman greeted her by name.
The elevator was waiting, and thankfully she had no problems with the electronic cardkey in her door.
Now, her entire body collapsed against the door, pulse pounding, she exhaled deeply. That was as big a celebration as she was going to allow herself. Sinead O’Malley wasn’t exactly the great escape artist.
After she caught her breath, she pushed away from the door. A hasty departure and dash through downtown was easier when you weren’t at this altitude.
Sinead was smart enough to realise she’d only earned a reprieve.
She had chosen, as usual, not to stay with the rest of the band. She always chose this small, personal, funky boutique hotel rather than one of Denver’s bigger hotels.
Even though she made unconventional choices when she could, staying ahead of Jack Quinn wasn’t going to be an easy matter. He’d chased her for nearly two weeks with his insane idea that they should marry. When she’d read his first, formal letter, she’d scoffed. Marriage? Not now, not ever, and definitely not to a Quinn.