Irish Luck (2 page)

Doran internally groaned. “Whatever it is, I’m not interested.”

“Not whatever,
whoever
! It’s St. Patrick’s Day. We’re both good, solid Irish descendants. There are two equally beautiful Latina descendants ready to take our party off site. If you know what I mean.”

Kevin slapped him on the back and at the same time pivoted him to face the doorway. Sure enough, two pretty and rather scantily clad women waved to them. Doran removed Kevin’s hand from his shoulder, cleared his throat and tried to rein in his budding anger.

“I’m already at a party,” he explained. Kevin rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to go wandering off after two strange women.”

“They’re not that strange!” Kevin scoffed, shaking his head.

He gulped down some of the green-tinted beer in his mug and peered at Doran over the glass’s bottom. When he drained it of its contents, he sat it down on the neighboring end table.

“You’re a hot blooded Irish lad, aren’t you?”

Doran didn’t even dignify the ridiculous question with an answer. He sipped more beer and tried to look beyond Kevin to the spot where Kenyatta stood.

Gone!

Where was she? He eyed the French doors that led out to a balcony, but they remained locked and a guard stood in front of them. He doubted she left the party or had gone outside. Besides, the March winter had dropped the temperature in the GSO to around thirty degrees. Snow had been forecast, but so far none had fallen. People walked around with shepherd’s pie and bread pudding. The buffet took up the entire right wall, and tables with chairs for eating purposes crowded most of that part of the room. He scanned the people eating and didn’t see Kenyatta there either.

“…and if two women want to take you back to their hotel room, you go.” Kevin finished and slapped Doran’s back once more. “Are you listening?”

“No.” Doran fingered the four-leaf clover on his necklace.

No offense to the women, but he had already spied the one he wanted. It wouldn’t just be for the night. Kenyatta possessed a sense of style unlike any other woman at CAKE or any other place he’d worked. She worked in the accounting department with him. Each work day, he got the privilege of inhaling her sweet, floral scent, hear her lyrical laugh, and be rewarded by her warm and engaging smile—every day. Risking those daily gifts for two attractive women didn’t seem worth it.

“So, let’s go have a real party,” Kevin said, grinning at him.

Doran sighed. Whenever Kevin gave him that look, nothing but trouble ensued. So, he shrugged off his cousin’s hand once more.

“No. I meant what I said. Just because you dump women the way some people do garbage, doesn’t mean I am interested in doing the same.”

Kevin’s eyebrows rose and he laughed. “I’m a man. They’re sizzling hot women. Two and two equals four. Don’t try to take the moral high ground here. I remember back on that vacation to Ireland…”

Doran shrugged. He set his jaw. “I’m staying.”

“Suit yourself. We’re Irish. Tonight everything plays into our favor. It’s St. Patrick’s Day. And to think you could’ve gotten lucky.”

Behind Kevin’s turned back, Kenyatta suddenly strolled into Doran’s line of sight. She fidgeted with her earrings and then appeared to be standing alone in a whirlwind of activity—servers, guests, and streamers whirling in the heated air. He smiled at the sheer vision she created. Elegant and shapely dark chocolate legs were poured into sexy black stilettos. Well-sculpted arms decorated with gold bracelets held her purse, an ebony clutch, and soft hands with fingers that had well-shaped nails, waited to be clasped in his. His fingers twitched like they were anxious to be locked in hers.

Doran shifted his eyes back to Kevin. “Who said I won’t?”

With that, he walked away.

Nothing would keep him from his goal, his desire, and his wants—not tonight.

Doran had Kenyatta in his sights.

He damn sure meant to take full advantage of his Irish luck.

Chapter Three

Oh, darn it. He’s coming this way.

Kenyatta bit her lip and tucked her hair behind her ear. Doran’s dark blue eyes locked with hers and she couldn’t look away. Infectiously, she smiled in response to the one lighting up his face. He set her lust on fire. A couple of other single women spoke to him as he made his way toward her. To his credit, despite how many women threw themselves at him, he hadn’t taken any of them up on their offers—or at least from what she could tell. 

He set down his full mug of beer, moving through the crowd like a panther on the prowl. Seeing something primal in his walk, Kenyatta grew wetter. Inside her, every nerve ending responded to the way his muscles shifted beneath his clothing, the way his eyes seemed to send electronic signals directly to her love button, and how right now the only thing she wanted was his mouth on hers, her body pressed so close to his she could feel his heart beat.

“Hello Kenyatta,” Doran’s deeply rich voice bowled over the party’s din when he reached her. It lodged itself right in her heart.

“Hi, Doran.”

She loved the sound of his voice. Like rich coffee, it had a full-bodied flavor that melted her into droplets of pure want. He was born in America, but she knew his parents had been Irish. The way he pronounced certain words spoke to his heritage and his Boston upbringing.

He finally broke their gaze, and nodded at the martini glass in her hand. “That isn’t a Guinness glass.”

“No, no it’s not.” Why couldn’t she utter more than just single syllable words? She huffed out her nervousness. They worked together every day. Surely, she could manage small talk—which they engaged in at work—without drooling all over herself.

“Not a beer drinker, eh?”

“No.”

He smirked at her. When at the office, she talked freely—but then those conversations had been about accounting, clients, money. Without those safe topics to hide behind, Kenyatta felt exposed. She wouldn’t take him chuckling at her awkwardness. So, she met his smiling eyes and tried again.

“So, do you enjoy this wild Irish night, being
Irish
and all?”

She wanted to slap her palm to her forehead. How lame could she get? Two degrees and that’s what she came up with. She blamed the olfactory invaders for messing with her concentration. Doran smelled like something sporty and very intoxicating—temptation poured into fitted jeans and tight shirt. His smoldering blue eyes burned and in those depths heat rose to the surface, claiming her soul with it.

“This is my first CAKE party. I missed the winter holiday one, because of the flu.”

“So, I heard,” Kenyatta breathed, and cursed that her voice sounded all wispy. Clearing her throat, she added, “You didn’t miss much. It was pretty much like this except there were scarlet streamers mixed in with all the green.”

“I had to be at this one, because you’re here.” Doran inched closer. He’d effectively closed them off from anyone approaching to talk or break the spell he wove. Everything around them fell away and only he remained—Doran. His sensual scent, his burning gaze, the heat emitting from his body, and the rumble of his voice comprised her entire world at that moment.

As if there’d been any other man of interest.

“Thank you,” Kenyatta croaked, her throat thick with desire. Doran was so hot; she was melting into a puddle of pure longing at his feet. She adjusted her stance and tried to fight the pull of his attraction. It was similar to trying to catch smoke.

“You want to go some place where we can talk?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the sudden surge in noise.

He leaned in so close their noses bumped. A spark of warmth zipped through her, pouring the cozy feeling into her toes. She even rose on her tiptoes when he leaned back, wanting to keep the contact going. Not to mention he smelled so darn wonderful.

“Yes,” Kenyatta answered, unable to say more, not trusting herself.

He took her hand and led her through the throng of partiers. People danced bumping, grinding, and slurping all over each other. To Kenyatta they all blurred into human smears as if she’d been encased in a bubble that failed to burst. Her feet didn’t touch the ground once his large hand closed over hers.

Doran swept through the double doors that emptied out into the mansion’s decadent hallways. They opened into a series of hallways and elegance. When the doors closed behind them, she leaned back against the wall, panting out the adrenaline saturating her blood.

“So many people are going to be sorry on Monday.”

“Maybe. That color looks good with your dark hair. You look beautiful tonight.” Doran gave her an appraising glance, taking his time to study every inch of her.

“Just tonight?” she teased. Her heart slammed against her ribcage at her boldness. He leaned in to her. This close and the butterflies in her belly whirled in anxiousness. The way he looked at her with those crisp, dark blue bedroom eyes made her heart pound.

Oh no!

“You know, I’ve wanted to tell you for so long that I—”

“Doran! Stop!” She pushed off the wall, and dipped around him. “Don’t.”

He turned to her with a frown spoiling his handsome face. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” She sighed. “You didn’t say anything wrong, but I need to stop you before you do.”

Doran fingered the necklace around his neck. Something he did when he was worried or confused, she noticed. “You didn’t let me finish saying it, so how do you know it was wrong?”

“I don’t want you or me making a mistake.”

“A mistake?”

“Yes.”

He smirked again, shaking his head. “Nothing could be wrong with how I feel about you.”

Reaching for her face, Doran’s fingers brushed her cheek. The moment his fingers made contact with her skin, another jolt of electricity shot through her. Flinching, she tried to keep her wits about her, to keep from dissolving into the hazy hunger burning through her. But it proved incredibly difficult. If she didn’t like him, didn’t find him funny and didn’t think him smart and articulate, she could just chalk it all up to sexual chemistry and walk away.

Doran’s attractiveness had everything to do with how he treated her, from opening doors, to carrying boxes, to fixing the copier and making sure she had a napkin when they ate lunch in the break room.

“We, we work in the s-same place…” she stammered, her resistance crumbling under Doran’s gentle strokes across her cheeks, her forehead, and her ears.  Goodness if his hands felt this wonderful on her face, the way they would feel palming her breasts would be pure
sinful
pleasure.

“We work together, but you can’t tell me you don’t feel
this
between us.”

“I do,” she confessed. “But…that’s the problem.”

He stepped back. She missed his hands as soon as he took them away. Distancing himself, he stood across the hallway from her. “Explain it to me.”

“We’d have to see each other every day at work.” Now that she’d said it aloud, it didn’t sound as important as it did when she told Cree and Chloe. But come to think of it, they laughed at her too.

Doran broke into a smile. “What are you thinking lass? That we'll sleep together and and pretend like it never happened come Monday morning?”

Kenyatta sucked in a breath of courage because that was exactly what she had thought.

Before she could answer, Doran stalked across the hall to her. “I thought you knew me better.”

She bit her lip. “I do. I like you a lot, but I am not some easy score.”

“And I want more than just that. I’m a man, not a horny teenager,
Ken
. You enchant me, frustrate me, and torment me. And you know what? I love it. I love
you
!”

Doran’s accent grew thicker the more impassioned he became. Kenyatta’s worry dissipated in light of it. He had a point. Ten months into their working relationship, and he had never given any indication he’d do something coarse or base to her. Her fear of rejection had forced her to seal herself off and now that protective wall kept her from a man she really wanted. Before she knew it, a giggle had escaped.

“Ye laughin’ at me?” Doran froze, but a soft smile lit up his face. “The damn accent, eh? Let’s start over.”

Kenyatta nodded. “Okay.”

Doran coughed and grinned. “I’m Doran Richards, and I’m in love with you.”

Chapter Four

“You’re in love with me?” Kenyatta said the words like she’d never heard them before.

“Yes.”

“You’re drunk.”

“You know better than that. I’m Irish. I don’t get drunk.”

Doran watched Kenyatta fight within herself. She wanted to run from what they could become. He wanted to beat the shit out of the asshole that fractured her faith in love, because she acted like women he’d met before that had been betrayed and destroyed by lousy lovers. Their chemistry alone didn’t mean squat in the greater scheme of things. Their friendship, how well they got along, how both liked the same movies, ate the same take-out and dealt with the same family craziness,
those
were the things that linked them, the things he loved about her. She’d been crafted from clay for him. He knew it. Knew it with a deep down soul-sure knowledge that only some people are blessed with—an Irish knowing. Potato famine, snakes, and the Normans, no Irish luck ever came easy. Getting Kenyatta wouldn’t be easy either. So, he steeled his determination. Nothing in his makeup would allow him to let her shy away from the greatness that was them as a couple.

Fingering his charm and calling on his Irish luck, he closed the distance between them. Tonight he wanted to do more than long for her. She watched him carefully from those warm maple-brown eyes. Resisting the urge to touch her, he simply waited for her to let him in.

“Don’t run from me. It’s me,
Ken
. It’s me, Doran.”

Maybe it was his use of her nickname or the emotions in his voice, but she reached out to him. With her eyes wide and full lips trembling, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close. He quit talking and felt her melt into his embrace. That told him all he needed to know.