Love and Blarney (2 page)

The words hit her like a lash. “Please. We need to talk.”

His mouth hardened. “We needed to talk a year ago. It’s been thirteen months. Why the sudden urgency?”

Actually, it had been thirteen months, three days, and five hours since he’d walked out of their apartment and out of her life. She remembered every second of that awful night down to the tiniest detail. His confession, the fight, and the final horrible moment when he’d told her he was leaving. In the days that followed, she’d thought nothing could have the power to make her feel more wretched.

Boy, had she been wrong.

A wave of grief hit her in the solar plexus, as fresh and as painful as the day her life had truly fallen to pieces. She dragged air into her lungs, shoved the bad memories away, and forced herself to concentrate on the present. “Our divorce will come through in a few weeks.”

His eyebrows had always reminded her of a satyr and never more so than when he raised one—as he was doing now. “So? I spent months trying to get in contact with you. You rebuffed my every attempt.”

“Please, Ruairí. Don’t be this way.” She shifted her weight from one sore foot to the other—her beautiful high-heeled boots were
not
suited to the cobbled streets of Ballybeg—and contemplated her strategy. Problem was, she didn’t have one. The moment she’d opened the envelope and seen the letter from her lawyer, she’d known what she needed to do. The
how
part of the equation hadn’t materialized with the same lightning-bolt clarity.

“You filed for divorce,” he said. “You ignored my calls, texts, and e-mails.”

“You
left
me.” Her voice was wobbly, and unshed tears stung her eyes.

His jaw tensed. “I didn’t leave
you
. I left America. I said you could come with me.”

“And quit my job from one day to the next? Abandon my whole life?” Her breathing came in short, sharp bursts. “You sprang the news on me the second I walked in the door after a long day at the practice. How did you expect me to react? I thought your parents were dead!”

“I never said they were dead. You assumed—”

“You
let
me assume.” The hurt, the pain, the betrayal of that night surged to the surface. “How could you lie to me about something so important? You’ve met my parents.”

“Oh, yeah.” His tone was bitter. “And they didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms, did they?”

“Seriously? How does their opinion of you count in this argument? They knew you existed, and you knew they existed. You let me think your family was dead. Why would you do that?”

He dropped his gaze to the polished wood floor. “I told you why.”

“You told me nothing. All you said was that you were estranged from your family. You hadn’t mentioned them to me before
because you didn’t think they were relevant.
” Her breath was uneven, her chest rising in time with her indignation. “Yeah, I remember our conversation that night. Every damn word.”

The hazel eyes shot up. “Then you remember me telling you it was an emergency. I had to come back to Ireland to sort out a family crisis.”

“You said you had to fly
home
—your word, not mine—and stay in Ireland for the foreseeable future.” A rebellious tear slid down her cheek, and she rubbed it away with a vicious swipe. “You presented me with a
fait accompli
. How was that an invitation for me to come with you?”

The bar door creaked open. “Jaysus, Ruairí. You’ve not gone and pissed off your new girlfriend before you’ve had a chance to shag her?”

The strident voice in its lilting Irish accent made Jayme jump. She whirled around to face the oddest-looking creature she’d ever seen up close and personal. The young woman was a few inches taller than her and sported a shock of spiky peroxide hair dyed green at the tips. She wore an oversized black T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of a deranged-looking priest and the words “Feck Off” capitalized below. Her legs were encased in black leggings. Scuffed lace-up boots completed the ensemble.

The girl was eyeing her with amused disdain. “You can’t be serious, bro.”

Ruairí grimaced, wearing an expression reminiscent of a condemned prisoner confronted with his executioner. “Marcella, meet Jayme. Jayme, this is my sister.”

The other woman quirked a dark eyebrow and extended her hand.

Jayme stared at the beringed fingers with the nails bitten to the quick and hesitated a moment too long before returning the gesture.

Her hesitation was not lost on Marcella. “Charmed, I’m sure,” she said in a dry tone, squeezing her hand with enough force to make her wince. “And you are…?”

“Jayme.” Perhaps the woman hadn’t caught the name when Ruairí had introduced them.

“Jayme…” Marcella prompted with an impatient circular hand gesture.

“Ruairí’s wife.”

MARCELLA’S SARDONIC SMIRK vanished. “His what?” Slack-jawed, she rounded on her brother. “You’re married?”

Sweat beaded under the rim of Ruairí’s collar. “It’s not—”

“You didn’t tell your family?” Jayme stared at him, large-eyed.

The hurt in her green orbs sliced him to the core. How could this be happening? Half an hour ago, he’d been fine—not ecstatic over his lot in life, but content. Now his sister—and the woman who’d torn his heart out, stomped on it, and thrown it into the shredder—were both glaring at him with matching expressions of outrage.

His thoughts were racing, his emotions a smorgasbord. He’d known he wasn’t over Jayme yet, but he’d been utterly unprepared for the impact of seeing her in the flesh. She wore the signature perfume her grandmother had commissioned from a Parisian perfumer for her twenty-first birthday—floral with a hint of spice. The fragrance sent him hurtling back in time to the heady days of their whirlwind romance and fairy-tale wedding. They’d been ridiculously happy. How could their relationship have gone so wrong, so fast?

“When did this happen?” The force of Marcella’s anger jerked him back to the present.

“Three years ago. While I was living in the States.”

His sister folded her arms across her colorful T-shirt. “Does Ma know?”

Aw, hell.
He squirmed under her razor-sharp glare. “No, Ma doesn’t know. The thing is, Jayme and I are getting a divorce.”

“
Might
be getting a divorce,” Jayme corrected.

His eyebrows shot north. “What do you mean,
might
? You filed for—”

“Enough.” She held up a hand. “I’m cold, I’m tired, and I’ve learned you didn’t think our marriage was
relevant
information to share with your family. I’m not in the mood to argue over semantics.”

Guilt gnawed at his stomach. Jayme’s look of utter devastation slayed him. His eyes wandered down her too-slender frame. Memories of what lay beneath that cashmere sweater surfaced in all their X-rated glory.

He blinked the image into oblivion. He had to think of something to say, preferably fast. Problem was, he hadn’t a clue how to handle this situation. “Ten minutes till opening time,” he heard himself mumble. “Anyone up for a cuppa?”

His sister put her hands on her hips. “No, I don’t want a fecking cup of tea. I want an explanation.”

Jayme’s startled face regained some of its former composure. “What she said. You owe us answers.”

He exhaled sharply. “Right. No tea. How about a coffee?”

“Ruairí!” they exclaimed in unison.

“Fine, fine. I’ll talk.” He ran a hand through his hair and began to pace. “When I left Ballybeg ten years ago, I cut ties with my family. I had no intention of ever coming back. Frankly, I didn’t think they’d miss me.”

“Not miss you?” roared Marcella. “You daft eejit. Poor Sharon sobbed herself to sleep for months.”

He stopped his pacing. “Months?”

“A few weeks,” she conceded. “Okay, a few days. But still. She was upset. We all were.”

“I should have told you about Jayme when I got home last year,” he said with a sigh. “I was going to but couldn’t find the words. It’s hard to discuss the stuff that matters, and I was still raw from the breakup. Once the letters from Jayme’s lawyer arrived, I figured there was no point.”

“Why did you leave Ireland?” Jayme cut in. “I’m assuming you didn’t move to America on a whim.”

He shifted his focus to her pale face. Hurt lurked in her soft green eyes. He dropped his gaze to her mouth—her sweet Cupid’s bow mouth… Okay, mistake. “Our father… isn’t an easy man.”

His sister snorted. “Which roughly translates to, ‘He’s an abusive prick with ready fists and a drinking problem.’ In other words, he’s an Irish cliché. One of the best days of my life was when Ruairí broke his nose.”

Jayme’s jaw slid lower.

“Marcella, would you mind giving us privacy?” He gave his sister a significant look.

She ignored him. “What you need,” she said to her newly discovered sister-in-law, “is an Irish coffee.”

Jayme gave a wry smile. “I’m not much of a drinker, particularly not at this hour.”

His sister’s grin widened. Ruairí’s heart sank. What devious plan was she concocting this time? “You should take Jayme out to the farm,” she said. “Get Ma to make her one her famous Irish coffees.”

He shook his head. “If she drank one of Ma’s coffees, she’d be legless.”

Jayme frowned in confusion. “I’d be what?”

“Drunk. Very drunk.”

“I would like to meet your mother,” she said in a quiet voice, “but I might pass on the fortified coffee.”

“She’s home now.” Marcella smirked at him. “Better take her earlier in the day rather than later. Da is in Mallow looking at cattle.”

He massaged his temples. Taking his almost ex-wife to meet the clan was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. What would she think of them? What would she say when she saw the state of the farm? “What about the pub?”

“As long as you’re back by lunchtime, I’ll be grand on my own.” She wagged a finger at her brother. “And when you get back, I want to know why you didn’t let on you had a wife.” She winked at him and headed towards the bar, whistling off-key.

The sweat under his collar began a slow trickle down his spine. If he didn’t take Jayme to see his mother before she got wind of his marriage from Marcella, there’d be hell to pay. Having spent the last year trying to rebuild their fragile relationship, he didn’t want to lose the connection with his mother. He’d lose her soon enough. Shutting his eyes, he shoved the macabre notion to the recesses of his mind. Then he looked straight at the beautiful woman he’d married. She stood ramrod straight, tension oozing from every elegant pore.

“Fine,” he said on a sharp exhale. “If you want to meet the rest of my family, let’s go. But trust me, if you weren’t running to divorce me beforehand, you will be after.”

Jayme clung to her seatbelt while Ruairí’s SUV sloshed through the flooded streets of Ballybeg. The brief glimpse she’d had of the town since her arrival was seen through a haze of mist and rain. Despite the deluge, the bright colors of the buildings contrasted cheerfully with the relentless gray sky.

In other circumstances, she’d have relished a trip to Ireland. One of her great-grandmothers hailed from Donegal, and she’d always had a hankering to visit. Ruairí’s reluctance to vacation in his native country had been a disappointment. She’d attributed it to his lack of family. Boy, had she been wrong on that score. She stole a glance at his profile, hard and handsome. “Surely your mom can’t be that bad.”

He grimaced. “She’s bossy, but she’s mild-tempered in comparison to my father. Be glad he’s gone out.” He swerved to avoid a pothole. “
Feck.
”

The rain had increased in the short time Jayme had spent in the pub. The streets of Ballybeg were a few inches deep in water, and the situation was worse once they exited the town proper.

“Gosh,” she said, peering through the window, “the flooding is worse than when I drove through an hour ago.”

“You drove?” His head swiveled toward the passenger seat. “You remembered to ask for an automatic, right?”

“There was no ‘remember’ about it,” she replied tartly. “How was I to know a standard transmission is the norm in Ireland?”

His laughter reverberated off the worn leather seats. “You mean to tell me that you drove a car with gears from Shannon to Ballybeg?”

She folded her arms across her chest and attempted to strike a dignified pose. “Laugh all you want, MacCarthy. I made it, didn’t I?”

“So you did. Well done to you.” His grin was wide. “I’m more used to seeing you hailing a cab than behind a wheel.”

“Frankly, I prefer it that way. The drive was terrifying. Are all Irish roads in lousy condition?”

He laughed. “Many. The roads around Ballybeg were never great. Since the Irish economy collapsed a few years ago, they’ve been left to go to rack and ruin.”

When a car driving on the other side of the road veered into their lane before swerving at the last second, her heart leaped in her chest. “How far is your family’s farm?”

“A twenty-minute drive from the town, but it will take us longer in this weather.”

“Do you live with them or in Ballybeg? The only address I have for you is the pub.”

“I live over the pub. The rooms on the second floor are divided into two apartments. One is mine and the other is Marcella’s.”