Stay the Night (8 page)

Not at all, but she knew better than to say that to her brother. The more he was denied, the harder he tried to get his way. It’d been that way when they were kids. They’d always played the games he’d wanted to play and watched the movies he’d wanted to watch.

This was
her
life, though, and she wasn’t going to let him talk her into anything. “Actually, I have good news,” she said in an upbeat voice. “The Red Witch, the bar I work in, is up for sale, and I’m going to buy it.”

There was a profound silence on the other end of the line. She waited for him to exclaim what a great idea that was, that he was happy she was accepting a grownup responsibility and coming into her own.

But Cormac said, “Niamh, that’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.”

She hunched, battered by the derision in his voice. “Can’t you be a little positive? You haven’t even heard any of the details.”

“I don’t need to hear the details. You aren’t a business owner. You’re a musician. You should be playing music.”

Been there, done that, and she’d been awful at it. “Shouldn’t you be encouraging me to do something practical that makes money? You of all people should be happy I’d have a proper profession.”

“Owning a bar is proper?”

“I’ll be a business owner, so yes.” She shook her head. “I know how to run a bar. I’ve worked at the Red Witch for ten years.”

“Which is ten years you’ve neglected your purpose.”

If he were here, she’d have thrown a glass at him. “You know, you may have known you wanted to build things from early on, but not all of us are that way.”

“You wanted to play music from the time you were born,” he pointed out. “Our mother would put on music and you’d sit there as a little baby and sway to it. When you started to walk, you always made a beeline to the stereo to play music. You’ve carried a notebook around your entire life to jot down whatever songs play in your head. Where’s your notebook now?”

She looked down at it on the counter next to her loan papers, but she pressed her lips together, angry that he knew her so well.

“You
slept
with your first violin, Niamh. Don’t tell me music isn’t in your soul.”

She pressed her lips together. “It’s not practical.”

“Since when were you practical?”

“You’re always telling me to grow up,” she yelled at him, frustrated. “Now that I’m trying to, you’re pushing me back.”

“Being grown up doesn’t mean going into debt up to your eyeballs and risking everything on a something you know nothing about.” Frustration made Cormac’s voice rough. “Niamh, I just care about you. I want you to be happy.”

“What makes you think I won’t be happy running the Red Witch?”

“What do you know about running a business?”

Insecurity flared in the pit of her stomach, followed by a sharp stab of resentment. “You could choose to support me, Cormac.”

“Don’t you dare accuse me of being unsupportive,” he exclaimed. “I supported you through college and getting your degree in music, because I believed that was what you were meant to do, and I wanted to give you every opportunity to be successful. I won’t support you when you’re being daft.”

“Daft?” she yelled back.

“You must be to think you want to be a bar owner. Jesus, Niamh, do you know how many people would kill to play music the way you do?”

If she could give away the need to play to someone else, she would. It was exhausting sometimes. “I need to go. I have a customer,” she lied.

“Aren’t you closed?”

“Not yet.” What was one more lie?

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said as she hung up.

Stupid.
She tossed her mobile under the shelf. He was always so condescending. He was only four years older. He may have had a very successful construction business,
and
married a lovely woman,
and
had great kids,
and
sent their parents on amazing trips around the world, but that didn’t mean he had life figured out.

Niamh threw a finished beer bottle into the trash, grimly satisfied at the loud crunch the glass made.

Lit with anger, she turned to her notebook and poured it onto the page. Most people did it with words. She expressed it with notes. It was either that or break barstools. She turned up the music to keep her company and began composing with a vengeance.

When the front door opened, she looked up with a glare, not in the mood to deal with the drunks who stumbled in after closing.

Only the man didn’t appear drunk. He was well dressed, in slacks and a coat, both obviously expensive. His dark curly hair was cut with razor-precision, and he walked in with presence that screamed power and influence.

But it was his eyes that kept her from turning him away. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen—the dreamy kind that could inspire a thousand concertos.

A memory rose from the recesses of her mind. She’d been sitting on her grandmother’s lap, and her grandma gave her a stern look and said, “Child, not everything is what it seems. The devil has blue eyes.”

A sign? Maybe she should ask him to leave after all. “Can I help you?” she asked, none too friendly.

He smiled despite her frost and walked in looking around. “Are you closed?” he asked in a voice that matched his looks.

After the conversation with Cormac, all she wanted was to go home, take a bath, and play her violin.

But it wasn’t this man’s fault that she’d had a trying evening. Plus he was pretty to look at, so she waved him in. “We’re always open for a quick drink. What can I get you?”

“Are you sure?” he asked as he took a seat at the bar. “You look occupied.”

Sighing, she closed the notebook. “My brother called me and I’m still annoyed by him.”

“I don’t have experience with siblings.” The man unbuttoned his jacket. “I’m an only child.”

“Count your blessings.” She smiled. “What can I get you?”

“A Guinness, please.” He watched her build his pint in silence for a moment before he asked, “Does your brother always upset you so much?”

“Lately.” She smiled to take the sting out of her reply. “He just cares about me. At least, that’s what I remind myself when he bosses me around.”

“He’s bossing you?”

She nodded, turning off the spigot to let the layer settle. “I want to buy this bar, but he doesn’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I’d have thought you already owned the bar.” He nodded at her hair. “The red curls.”

She raised her brow. “The next obvious question would be to ask if I’m a witch.”

“I try not to be obvious, and there’s no question that you’re bewitching.” He grinned at her.

“Bewitching?” She looked down at her T-shirt and jeans. “How much have you been drinking this evening?”

“All in the eye of the beholder.” He studied her. “I figured you for the one in charge.”

“I am, but I don’t own the bar yet.”

“And your brother thinks that’s a bad idea.” The man studied her. “What does he want you to do?”

“To return to Dublin and play for the Dublin Philharmonic.”

He smiled. “That’s a very specific goal.”

“It’s Cormac’s, not mine.” Not anymore. “I’m going to buy the Red Witch.”

The man nodded and surveyed the entire space. “It’s tough making money running a little bar like this, especially if it’s slow.”

“It’s only intermittently slow.”

He returned his sinful blue eyes to her. “What are the factors?”

“Me,” she said honestly. She shrugged. “I’m filling in tonight, so my regulars didn’t expect me to be here.”

His eyes lit with amusement. “I don’t doubt that people come for you.”

Her mind went
there
, and she blushed. She hid it by ducking behind the beer spout.

She topped off the pint with a shamrock in the foam and set it in front of the man. “
Sláinte
.”

“Cheers.” He saluted her with his glass. After a sip, he asked, “Is it what you’d always hoped to do, run a bar?”

“Not at all. I wanted to play in a symphony.”

“Hence the Dublin Philharmonic.” He nodded. “But you said that wasn’t your dream.”

“Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

“I wasn’t suited to it.” It stung to say it, too.

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “Too rigid. I like having more autonomy. I don’t like wearing black.”

He chuckled. “Then I’m sure the Dublin Philharmonic isn’t the place for you.”

“No, but the Red Witch is.” She crossed her arms, daring him to say something negative about that, the way everyone else had.

“How long have you worked here?” he asked over another sip.

“Over ten years.” She studied him back with curiosity. “What brings you in tonight? I haven’t seen you here before, and I work most nights.”

“A friend told me about this bar, and I was in the neighborhood.” He smiled at her. “I’m glad I came in.”

Oddly, she was glad, too. On impulse, she grabbed the bottle of Jameson down from behind her with two shot glasses. She poured them each a finger and handed it to him. “To serendipitous meetings.”

“Cheers.” He clinked against her glass and drank it, his gaze holding hers the entire time.

She felt the shimmer of something warm in her belly, and it wasn’t the whiskey. This was a nice man.

A nice, single man, she noticed. No ring. Some men didn’t wear rings, but this one had a fleur-de-lis pendant around his neck, so she figured if he were married he’d wear a band.

She shook her head. “Funny how life is, isn’t it?”

“How do you mean?”

“How it can accelerate all of the sudden.” Suddenly she was buying a bar, and now a very handsome man was chatting with her, maybe even flirting. And she wanted to flirt back. “I hadn’t ever considered buying the Red Witch before.”

“So you’re definitely buying it?”

“Yes,” she said with confidence. She may not have the money, but she was doing it—especially since Cormac thought she couldn’t.

“It does good business then?” he asked.

“It could be better.” She looked around the pub. “She needs a little gloss and polish. Geraldine, the current owner, only does the bare minimum, but with a little push this place could do so much more.”

“What sort of push?”

“I’d have live music. Music unites everyone.” She looked around, nodding as she envisioned a couple fiddle players right in the middle of the room. “I’m partial to Irish, but I’d have all sorts.”

“Go figure,” he said with a grin. “With your hair and accent I’d never have guessed you liked Irish.”

She winked. “Wait till you hear my name.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Niamh.”

He held his hand out. “Robert. A pleasure, Niamh.”

She took his hand, wondering how long she could hold on to it without seeming creepy.

“Niamh, I’ve kept you long enough.” He swigged another mouthful of beer and then set some money on the counter.

She wanted to exclaim
Don’t leave!
because she was enjoying herself. But she came around the bar and said, “I’ll walk you out.”

He gestured to her to go ahead of him. She swung her hips a little bit more than usual, in case he was watching. She opened the door, but she only stepped aside enough for him to brush by. “Thank you.”

“For?” he asked, buttoning his coat.

“For listening.” She smiled ruefully. “For not minding that I was ill-humored when you walked in. I hope you come back again. I’ll be nicer, I promise.”

He stood close, and he smelled delicious—expensive and manly. He smiled, but there was something hooded and sexy about it, like it was the smile he used in the bedroom. “I thought you were very nice.”

Was it her imagination, or did his voice go low and sexy? She looked at his lips, thinking of the possibilities. Did he want to kiss her as much as she wanted him to kiss her? How bold was he?

“Bye, Niamh,” he murmured, touching her arm as he walked out of the Red Witch.

She pouted as she watched him leave. Just as well, she guessed. She didn’t have time to play. She had a bar to buy and a brother to prove wrong.

Chapter Eight

Titania unrolled a long sheet of wax paper from the roll, remembering her conversation with MacNiven. She had no idea what had gotten into her; she’d acted crazy. Gigi would have been proud.

“What are you doing?”

Titania looked up from where she sat on the floor.

Chloe peeked in from the doorway. Longing was in every line of her face, but she held herself outside nonetheless.

Just the way Titania always had. Her heart melted in sympathy for the girl. Normally she’d have told anyone interrupting her to go away—in less than friendly terms. But she gestured for her to enter. “I’m just wrapping a present for someone.”

“With wax paper?”

It was all she could find. “It’s the latest craze.”

Curious, Chloe came and leaned over her. “Who’s the present for?”

“A new friend.” She held up the picture of Rowdy that she’d framed for him so her niece could see it better.

“He has a nice face,” Chloe proclaimed after a moment. “Happy.”

Titania looked at it again. “He does, doesn’t he? That was astute of you. He’s a big, burly man. I wonder if people see that about him very often.”

“His eyes are kind.” The teenager shrugged and wandered toward the dresser. She picked up the picture of Gigi Titania had set there. “Aunt Gigi is so beautiful.”

“We all look alike.” She looked at her niece. “You, too, even though you disguise it.”

Chloe pursed her lips. “I don’t disguise it.”

“Don’t you?” Titania remembered when she was a teenager and sighed. She wouldn’t go back in time for all the money in the world. “Is it because you don’t want to look like Viola?”

Chloe stiffened, her back turned. Carefully, she set the picture back on the dresser. “Not everything is about Mum.”

It wasn’t, and it had to be especially difficult having parents who were going through a divorce—a nasty one, from what Gigi had told her. She wondered what it’d have been like if
her
parents had ended their marriage.

She couldn’t picture it.

“And I’m not pretty the way the rest of you are,” Chloe said, coming to sit down on the floor across from her.