Night Of The Blackbird (36 page)

She stopped, staring at the young man who had spoken to her. He had dark hair, hazel eyes and looked familiar.

“You don't remember me.”

“Yes…”

“I'm Tom Gambetti. Your taxi driver. Remember? I dropped you off here the night you arrived.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry: it's just been really crazy here.”

“I see that. I gather that this is a tough time for your family. But you and your sister really did just do a great tribute.”

“Thanks. We've done those songs forever. Put us in a karaoke bar, though, and we're just awful, I promise.” He was pleasant, but she still needed to escape. “Tom—”

“I know, you're busy. I'm not trying to be a pest. I'm just reminding you that I'm around if you should need transportation.” He grinned. “Besides, I
am
half Irish. Your dad's pub is great.”

“Thanks. And I have your card. I promise, I will call you if I need a taxi.”

She slipped past him and took the drink she had made to Kyle Browne.

“Miss Kelly, how nice to see you.”

“You, too.”

“Did you need to talk to me?”

“I was nearly pushed onto the subway tracks this morning.”

“Oh?”

“And someone paid a kid in a haunted house to frighten me with a trick knife.
Iss binn beal 'na thost.
”

“What?”

“It's Gaelic,” she said. “It means, ‘A silent mouth is melodious.”'

“Did you call the police?”

“No. What could they have done? The kid couldn't describe the man who had paid him.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Sounds something like, take care, or you'll be sleeping with the fishes. You should heed the warning. Do like I told you. Stay away from everyone who could possibly be involved.”

“Well, it's a little late for that, and I don't know who the hell is involved, anyway.”

“Maybe you should be keeping as far away from your ‘friend' O'Hara as you can.”

She stared at him. “Danny was with me when I questioned the kid, and he didn't identify Danny as the man who had paid him to scare me.”

“Maybe the kid took one look at your friend and decided he'd rather face the police. Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe your brother is up to no good. Or your pal Jeff over there. Hell, maybe your dad is still fighting a war.”

“If you say another word about my father—”

“Can you get into O'Hara's room?” he interrupted. “I bet you can. In fact, I believe you've been in there before. You might find something very interesting in there, if you chose to look.”

“What are you insinuating?”

“Me? I don't insinuate.”

He was right, though. She did have a way into the room.

“Don't stand here any longer,” he told her. “And think about what I said.”

She turned and left him, retracing her steps to the bar. Danny was onstage with the band. He and Jeff were singing together, an old Irish drinking song that Seamus had loved.

Josh approached her. “Things are winding down here, so I'm going to go. I won't see you in the morning. I'm going to the studio to finish editing and get the tape out. You stay here, get some rest. Take care of your folks.”

“I should be helping you.”

“I have Michael if I need help. I know you'd like to see the tape yourself, but you know you can trust me. We're partners, remember?”

She kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Josh.”

“Stay home, stay with family, you got it?”

“I got it. Give Gina and the twins hugs and kisses for me.”

Josh walked to the door, then stood there, waiting. Michael came over to her. “Maybe you should come back to the hotel with us.”

She shook her head slowly. Was she being a total idiot? He would forgive an indiscretion. And she would be safe at a hotel. Away.

All right, she was a total idiot. She was going to stay here.

“Thank you, Michael. But tonight my place is here.”

“I understand.”

No, you don't,
she wanted to insist, but she didn't. He cupped her face gently, gave her a soft kiss and reminded her that he and Josh would be at the studio most of the day.

The crowd thinned. Further. Moira noticed that Kyle Browne was gone. Andrew McGahey had arrived and was at a table in conversation with her father and brother. Colleen came over to the register and rang up a check. “I'm giving last call,” she told Moira.

“Good idea.”

“You look tired as hell,” she said.

“Hey, we're working hard here. It's a good thing it's your face that's getting so famous—you're getting some major dishpan hands.”

“It's worth it. I'm glad we're here. For Dad. For Seamus.”

The bar began clearing out in earnest. Moira saw that Andrew McGahey was gone. So was her brother.

Had he left with McGahey or gone upstairs with his wife?

At the tail end of the night, Patrick came back from wherever he had been. Colleen, Moira, Patrick, Danny helped Eamon and Jeff clean up. Then Eamon told Jeff to go on home, he'd been going above and beyond. Colleen and Moira suggested that their father go upstairs; Patrick firmly insisted that he do so. When they were down to the last few glasses, Moira told her sister and brother to go on up.

“Hey, kid, you worked today,” Colleen told her. “I can finish.”

“And I can help her,” Patrick said, staring at Moira sternly. He and the others had kept their word, not saying anything about the scare in Salem. But Patrick was giving her his older-brother stare, trying to be fierce.

“Please,” she said, “I've got some extra energy to burn. You two go up.”

She knew that Danny was staring at her, more than baffled by her obvious intention to be alone with him. He was all-out suspicious. She didn't look up, just kept cleaning glasses.

“All right. But don't get carried away here. A cleaning crew will be here in the morning.”

Moira nodded, and her brother and sister left. She kept washing the glass. What the hell was she doing?

Why did she just want, with her whole heart, to prove that Danny was innocent? Or did she just want that one last chance to sleep with him before…

…before admitting he was a cold-blooded assassin who just might be willing to kill even her?

She swallowed hard.

“That glass must be very, very clean,” he said.

She looked up. His amber eyes were on her intently. His features, taut and tired, were compelling and hard. The glass slipped from her fingers to land in the sudsy water without breaking.

“Well, thank God you've got such energy. I'm beat. I'll let you finish up.”

To her amazement, he turned and walked to his room, closing the door behind himself.

She set down the glass, turned off the water and dried her hands. She walked to his door, contemplated knocking, but didn't.

She reached for the door, hoping he hadn't locked it. He hadn't. He was stretched out on the bed, leaned against the headboard, arms folded over his chest, watching the door. He'd known she was coming.

“All right, just what the fuck are you up to?” he demanded.

“I didn't want to be alone.”

“I see. You accused me of trying to throw you onto the subway tracks. You thought for sure I'd tried to knife you in that haunted house, threatening you. So sure, come spend some time with me.”

“All right. Never mind,” she murmured, deciding to leave. She was no good at this.

He moved with the speed of lightning, ending up in front of her, his hands on her, drawing her in. He locked the door.

“Hell, I don't care why you're here. I only care that you are.”

There was nothing subtle or seductive about him. He put both hands on her waist, pulling her close, then found the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head. Danny knew how to remove clothing quickly. He didn't fumble at all but found the clasp of her bra, and in seconds it landed on the floor. He lowered his head, his lips closing over her breast. Despite herself, the magic of his mouth, the heat of his laving tongue, sent currents of fire sweeping through her.

She tugged at his hair. “Danny…”

“What?” He mouthed the word against her flesh.

“I need a shower.”

He didn't release her. One hand remained on her hip, while the other slid lower, roamed over her jeans between her thighs.

“Danny…”

He groaned and looked at her. “Great. I feel like Vesuvius, and all you want is a shower.”

“It's been a long day.” She slipped past him, heading for the bathroom. She shed the rest of her clothing along the way, aware that he was watching her. She turned on the shower quickly and stepped beneath the hot spray, lathering with the speed of light. She knew that he would follow her.

He did. A moment later, he was behind her. The steam billowed around them as he took the soap from her. His hands, filled with the suds, moved over her back. Curled over her buttocks, came around to the front. She bit her lip, feeling the steam, feeling what he could do to her. She closed her eyes. He was an extremely talented and imaginative man with soap. Hands curving over her breasts, fingers splayed, erotically moving over her nipples. Down her torso, moving with light pressure over her hips, at an angle over her abdomen, down, between her thighs. The soap fell to the floor. His fingers pressed, entered, explored. Her breath was coming quickly; she leaned against him. Felt the steam of the shower enter her with the rotation of his touch. She let a soft groan escape her as she turned to face him, the lather on her body covering his. He found her mouth, kissed her deeply, wetly. Her fingers fell from his chest, swiftly downward, found the hardened length of him. His arms tightened around her.
She had been in love with him so much of her life. No one could do what he did. No one felt like him, laughed like him, talked like him, touched like him, made love like him.

She broke off the kiss, gasping uneasily. “This…is too slippery.”

“Slippery?”

“Yes, I'm getting out.”

“You wanted to get in.”

“I know…but…I want to make love, not break a leg.”

She stepped from the tub, grabbed a towel, wrapped it around herself and exited the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

She had seconds, just seconds. She dropped to her knees by the bed, looking beneath it. The door from the bathroom opened. Danny hadn't bothered with a towel. Sleek, wet, naked and still hard as timber, he stared at her. She jumped to her feet, looking at him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I dropped my ring.”

“It's on your finger.”

“I know. I just put it back on.”

He strode over to her, lifting her chin. “Curiosity killed the cat,” he said.

She stared at him. “Are you going to kill me, Danny?”

He ran his fingers through his hair, frowning. “Jesus Christ! It's an expression, Moira. Look, do you want to stay—or go?”

She didn't answer him.

He unwrapped the towel from her body. “Stay, or go?”

Her silence must have been the answer he wanted. He cupped her chin, kissed her lips. His mouth ran gently along the left side of her throat. Down between the valley of her breasts. He dropped to his knees. Hands cupped her buttocks. His tongue moved.

She stood shaking. She couldn't do this.

Warmth, fire, staggering sweetness, filled her.

Oh, yes, she could, quite easily.

She gripped his shoulders, her fingers locked into his hair as she surged against him. Shivered, burned, knees giving, body rigid, going weak. She feared she would collapse. She forgot her self-imposed mission. He rose, supporting her when he felt her give, letting her fall against him. Within seconds they were on the bed, locked together, Danny aggressive, inside her like steel, so hard and forceful he seemed to have become a part of her. She melded against him, forgetting everything then but the sensations that rocked and overwhelmed her, the hunger, the need…the volatile, breathless peak, the eruption of climax.

Later, she lay beside him, staring into the darkness. This was so wrong. But she had to—
had to
—know.

“And to think,” he murmured, “my pride nearly forced me to make you stay away.”

“I need to go,” she whispered, a little desperately.

He rolled her over, staring at her. “Listen to me, and for the love of God, believe me. I am not trying to kill you.”

“We're still in my dad's house,” she whispered.