Love and Shenanigans (Ballybeg, Book 1) (The Ballybeg Series) (21 page)

“Too good,” she whispered. “Do it again.”

He laughed, the sensation reverberating on her shoulder. He increased his speed, each thrust bringing her one step closer to release. She went with it, relished the slow build to ecstasy.

Finally, he shuddered and came with a guttural groan, propelling her to her own climax.

She swallowed a scream when it hit and clung harder to his muscular body.

When it was over, she collapsed against the cushions and let the aftershocks ripple through her. “Damn, that was good.”

He wound one of her dark curls around his hand. “I hope I didn’t wear you out.”

“No. Why?”

“Because that was round one.”

She laughed. “How many rounds are in this game?”

“As many as I can manage.” He smiled. “Sadly, I’m not eighteen anymore.”

She reached for him and drew him close. “No,” she said. “Nor am I.”

Their tongues were enjoying a mutual exploration match when her phone rang.

“Ignore it,” he murmured. “Let it go to voice mail.”

When the insistent buzz started for the third time in five minutes, she groped for her phone. “It’s from an unknown caller. I hope Bridie’s okay.”

“Fiona?” Sharon’s usual chipper tone when Fiona hit the answer button was absent, replaced by panic.

Fiona threw her legs over the side of the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“The police are after coming round to my house. They didn’t have your mobile number, and Bridie’s is switched off.”

“Sharon, calm down and tell me what’s happened.”

“Someone’s vandalized the Book Mark,” Sharon said, sniveling. “And the police have gone and arrested me.”

“WHAT A MESS.” Gavin cast his gaze over the wreckage. He and Fiona were standing in the Book Mark with Liam O’Mahony, Jonas’s father. Liam ran a small building firm and had agreed to help with the repairs.

And a number of repairs were needed. Shattered glass lay strewn across the café floor, leaving the wind howling through the empty window frame. A couple of chairs were broken, and the front door was busted.

Fiona sucked in a breath. “Who would do this to Bridie?”

“We don’t know the vandalism was specifically aimed at Bridie,” he said, putting an arm round her shoulders. “It might have been kids messing.”

“On a night like this?” She shook her head. “I don’t buy it.”

Neither did Gavin, but he was at a loss to come up with another explanation. Bridie was popular in Ballybeg. Yeah, she’d pissed off a few of the old biddies with her sharp tongue, but he couldn’t imagine the likes of Nora Fitzgerald smashing windows and breaking locks in an act of vengeance.

He picked his way carefully over the shards of glass and the scattered books from the window display. “Damn lucky most of the books are kept in the back two rooms, or you would have lost a lot of stock.”

“I’m going to check the book rooms and the stockroom.” Fiona pulled a pen and notepad out of her handbag. “I’ll make a note of anything missing. You okay to deal with Liam?”

“No worries,” he said, grabbing a sweeping brush from the café kitchen. “Let me know if you need a hand.”

Liam was standing before the broken shop front, busy with his measuring tape. He was an older, gruffer version of Jonas, but a few centimeters shorter and wider than his son. Despite being in his midfifties, his barely lined face and stray silver hairs made him look a decade younger. “I have plywood in my workshop,” he said when Gavin approached. “Once I’ve measured this out, I’ll go home and cut it to size.”

“It’s not too much work for you?” Gavin swept the debris into a pile.

“Nah, it’s no trouble.” Liam pulled a pen from behind his ear and scribbled figures on a notepad. He jerked a calloused thumb at the window frame. “I’d tell you to put up a few bin bags until I get the plywood, but with wind this strong, there’s no point.”

“How long will it take to get a replacement window?”

“Couple of days,” the older man mused, creasing his tanned brow. “Three at most. One of my men will come by in the morning to fix the lock on the door.”

“Thanks. I appreciate you coming out so late.”

“No problem. Glad to do Bridie a favor. She’s a fine woman, is Bridie Byrne.” Liam glanced in the direction of the book room and lowered his voice. “Shame I can’t say the same of her bastard of a brother.”

Gavin had to smile. In the eight years he’d been with Muireann, Liam had never said a word about his infamous falling out with her father. Now they were no longer engaged, it appeared the gloves were off. “There was a dispute about payment, right?”

Liam scowled and slipped his measuring tape back into his coat pocket. “He stiffed me on a bill.”

“What happened?”

“Bernard hired me and my men to deliver and install windows for his holiday home in Cobh. After the job was done, he claimed we’d done shoddy work and he was only prepared to pay half the sum we’d agreed.” He snorted. “Bollocks. There was nothing wrong with those windows, but what could I do?”

“Take him to court?”

Liam gave a bitter laugh. “You, of all people, should know what Bernard Byrne is like. If I’d tried to sue him, his fancy lawyers would’ve crushed me. To top it off, he’d have blacklisted me across the county. It was cheaper for me to suck up the loss.”

Gavin’s jaw tensed. Flaming Bernard. The man had no moral code. “Let me guess. He told you he was interested in hiring you as a contractor for his company, but he wanted to try you out on a smaller job first.”

Liam grimaced. “That’s about the size of it.”

“I’m sorry you were taken in. You’re not the first person Bernard’s fecked over, and I daresay
I
won’t be the last.”

The older man hunched his shoulders and pulled his raincoat tight around his broad torso. “I’d better get to work on the plywood. I should be back within the hour. I’ll bring Wiggly Poo with me.”

“I hope he hasn’t given you and Nuala any trouble.”

Liam grinned. “He’s an active pup.”

After Liam left, Gavin went in search of the Book Mark’s cleaning supplies. He’d a hunch he’d once seen Bridie take a mop out of the small room at the back of the shop. He flipped the light switch in the stockroom. Yes, here they were. Mop, brush, and pan, and a variety of cleaning cloths and fluids. He grabbed the broom and returned to the main room of the shop.

He brushed the broken glass into one pile and the soggy books into another. Better leave the books for Fiona to sort through. They were beyond salvation, but she’d need to make a note of the titles destroyed. He fetched the brush and pan and scooped the broken glass into bin bags, careful not to cut himself or miss stray shards on the floor.

Visions of Fiona’s lush curves and soft moans replaced the mess on the floor.

They’d had sex. They’d had amazing sex. Sleeping with her had to rank right up there with one of his crazier life decisions, along with their drunken Vegas wedding. So he
should
regret it. Yet he didn’t. Not for a millisecond. Fiona made him laugh, made him forget his worries. He felt good when he was in her presence. She saw him for who he was, flaws and all, and not for who he had the potential to become. And yeah, the fantastic sex was a definite bonus.

Spending time with her was a sharp contrast to the life he’d almost had. The stable, secure, stress-free life with Muireann as his wife. And the sharp realization that what bothered him most about his engagement wasn’t the fact that it ended, but
how
it ended. He’d never been so financially screwed in his entire adult life, but neither had he felt so emotionally free.

“Nothing was taken from the book rooms.” Fiona stood on the threshold that marked the divide between the café and the shop proper, a thin worry line showing between her brows. “Not that I’d expected to find anything missing. Who’d be desperate enough break in to nick a few books?”

He gestured to the cash register. “You’re sure no money was stolen?”

She shook her damp curls. In spite of her raincoat, she’d gotten soaked on their sprint from the car to the shop. The moisture weighed down her hair. He hadn’t realized how long it was. He yearned to touch it, itched to tug at one of her curls and stretch it to its fullest length.

“We only keep a few rolls of coins in there,” she said. “I always drop the day’s takings off at the bank. There’s no excuse not to—I pass the night safe on my way home.”

“Do you want me to drive you to the police station? We can come back here and finish tidying once Liam’s fitted the plywood and we’re not downwind of a gale.”

A small smile broke through her tense expression. “Yeah, I’d appreciate a lift. I need to talk to the police about Sharon and fill in whatever paperwork they need for the break-in.”

The storm had increased in intensity over the course of the evening, and heavy sheets of rain pounded the car. Lightning zigzagged through the sky, illuminating the overflowing potholes in the road.

“I appreciate this. I don’t fancy driving my Polo in these conditions.” Fiona snuck a glance at Gavin, noticing the light stubble dusting his jaw. A mere hour ago, that stubble had been teasing her skin.

“Not a problem.” He slowed his car when they drove through a heavily flooded crossing. “And you can stop thanking me. I’m glad to help out.”

She twisted her fingers in an anxious knot, then laughed. “I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

“Just a tad.” He gave her an amused sideways smile.

The easy camaraderie they’d established over the past few hours had hit a post-coital speed bump. What should she say? What should she do? They needed to define what had happened between them and establish boundaries. Was this a friends-with-benefits situation? Or a hormone-spiked one-off?

The car jolted over the uneven surface of the road and sloshed through a puddle. “Not far now,” Gavin said. “Have you seen the new station yet? It’s the absolute pits—a three-room hovel with peeling paint and a leaking roof. I’d say they’re having fun in this weather.”

The mundane conversation was a welcome distraction from the jumble of confusion performing somersaults in her head. “Why did they close the old station? I remember they used to be in a quaint building off Patrick Street. Funny I didn’t notice its absence on my recent walks through the town.”

“Police cuts.” Gavin shook his head. “They razed the old place to build houses during the boom years and intended to erect a small building to house the station. It never happened. The local Guards are still stuck in their so-called interim solution, with the staff cut to half and their jurisdiction increased threefold. It’s a flipping disaster. Frankly, it’s a wonder any crimes get solved in these parts.” He flipped on the indicator and slowed the car. “Here we are. You’ll get to see it for yourself.”

They eased to a halt outside a small house with an old-fashioned tin roof.

She peered out the rain-splattered window. “I see Ruairí’s car is already here.”

“Bailing his little sister out, no doubt.” Gavin drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “And not for the first time.”

“Sharon’s no saint, but I can’t see her doing this. She’s cheeky and irreverent, but she’s careful with the money and has a quick head for numbers. Besides, why would she want to risk losing her job? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you, but let’s see what the police have to say on the matter.” He cut the engine. “Do you want me to come in with you?”

“I can handle it. Thanks for the lift, Gav.” She fidgeted with her umbrella before leaning sideways and brushing his cheek with her mouth. His stubble tickled her lips, and his spicy scent sent her erogenous zones into overdrive.

They stayed like that for a moment, each frozen in an awkward silence. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I’ll stay here until you’re ready to go home.”

“Okay, I won’t be long,” she said and stepped out of the car straight into a puddle.
Feck
. She could add wet feet to her list of woes. The wind rendered her umbrella more a hindrance than a help. She pulled up her hood and made a run for it.

A young man in a Guard’s uniform held open the station door.

“Thanks,” she said, shaking out her umbrella.

“Terrible weather,” the young man said in a Donegal accent. “Outside and in.” He pointed to the array of strategically placed buckets catching the leaks around the station. “I’m Garda Brian Glenn.” He pumped her hand hard enough to crush her bones.

“Fiona Byrne,” she said and shrugged off her wet coat. “I’m here about Sharon MacCarthy. She’s suspected of vandalizing my aunt’s bookshop.”

“Oh, aye.” Garda Glenn said in a tone flavored with irony. “Sharon’s a frequent visitor—as is the rest of her family. If there’s a crime committed in these parts, ten to one it’s either the MacCarthys or the Tinkers.”

“Oy,” said a deep voice. “Cheeky pup. You’ve never arrested me.”

Ruairí MacCarthy was sitting on a chair in what passed for the reception area, thumbing through a newspaper. His faded Rugby shirt was strained at the shoulders, making him look even more bear-like than usual.

“Hey.” Fiona nodded at him. “Are they seriously going to make you post bail? I can’t imagine Sharon trashing the Book Mark. It doesn’t make sense.”