The Mighty Quinns: Riley (4 page)

He gave her one last kiss, then strode out of the room. Nan stood numbly against the wall and listened as the car started outside. The sound of the engine faded into the distance and it was only then that she allowed herself to breathe normally.

Stumbling to the bed, she quickly sat down, clutching the quilt in her fingers as she tried to regain her composure. Oh, she'd had a lot of expectations for this vacation. But she'd never once dreamed that this would happen. She pressed her fingertips to her lips and
closed her eyes, instantly recalling how incredible he was. Then with a groan, she flopped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Her mind was racing, trying to put order to her thoughts. This was how Heathcliff had kissed Cathy, how Rhett had kissed Scarlett. It was epic in its sheer sexual power. It was pure fantasy. And she wanted to experience it, again and again, until she'd had enough.

Was this why her mother had found Ireland so enchanting? Maybe Laura Daley had come to Ireland and had a wonderful romance, swept away by an Irish boy with dark hair and sexy blue eyes. And maybe they'd had to part, their desire impossible to satisfy with an ocean—and half a continent—between them.

Nan scrambled over the bed, crossing her legs in front of her, and rummaged through her carry-on. She found her camera and flipped it on, then held it at arm's length and took a picture of herself.

The photo came up on the display screen and she studied her image. She didn't look any different than she had when she left home yesterday. Her hair was still the same dark, short-cropped style, and her skin was still impossibly pale. Maybe she was just more attractive to Irish men than American men.

Her stomach growled and she pressed her hand to her belly. She should have been ready for a nap, ready to recover from a case of jet lag. But instead, Nan felt energized. She threw open her suitcase and pulled out her shampoo and soap. She'd take a shower, get dressed and walk down to the village for a late lunch—with Riley.

With a laugh, she jumped off the bed and stripped out of her clothes. “I love Ireland,” she murmured. “And I adore Irish men.”

“W
HERE THE BLOODY HELL
have you been?”

Riley tugged off his jacket and stepped behind the bar. He grabbed an apron from the drawer and tied it around his waist. His cousin Martin glared at him from beneath a shock of spiked magenta hair. When he wasn't hauling Riley's gear or setting up a show, the twenty-two-year-old had worked at the pub and managed to find something to complain about every day of the week.

It was well past the lunch rush and only a few patrons were still sitting inside the dimly lit pub. Riley had decided to take a detour after dropping Nan off at the cottage, grabbing a quick shower and shave at his flat above the pub before coming downstairs.

“I told you, I had to run up to Shannon and pick up that lady who booked the cottage.”

“Your car's been parked out front all morning. How did you get there?”

“I took the Fiat. I needed to buy new tires for it. You made it through lunch on your own, so what's your gripe?”

“My gripe is these three bastards sitting at the bar,” he said, pointing to the Ballykirk barflies, affectionately known as the Unholy Trinity. “They got every last penny of me tips, shiftless eedjits.”

“You know better than to gamble with them. They're notorious cheats. And you're far too gullible.”

This caused a vigorous protest from the elderly trio—Markus Finn, Dealy Carmichael and Johnnie O'Malley. “Oh, change the boy's nappy there,” Dealy teased. “He's nothing but a mewling babby, that one.”

Riley held out his hand and wiggled his fingers. “Give it up, boys. I've never known you to play a game of chance without fixing the odds squarely in your direction. Was it the marked cards or the loaded dice?”

They reluctantly dug into their pockets and pulled out handfuls of coins and bills. Martin scooped up his tips and shoved them back in his apron, then wagged his finger at the old men. “You'll not be doin' that again. I won't fall for your tricks.”

He strode off to the kitchen in a foul temper, the three men chuckling to themselves. “We've got to teach the boy,” Johnnie said. “Every time you take Martin to Dublin, that band of yours robs him blind.”

“Never mind the lad,” Markus said, waving his hands. “Tell us about this lady you picked up, Riley. Dealy here has been suffering under a long, painful dry spell. Is she pretty? Or does she look like Johnnie's bulldog?”

“Dealy won't care,” Johnnie said. “Without his eyeglasses, he'd fall in love with a milk cow. But he does like a girl with some meat on her bones.”

“You don't know what I like,” Dealy said. “And I don't need you watching out for my romantic interests.”

Riley picked up a rag and wiped the wooden bar in front of them, picking up their half-finished pints of Guinness as he did. “I don't think she'll be interested in any of you bounders. She's young. My age. And far too pretty for the lot of you.”

“Oh, now that makes things interesting, doesn't it, boys?” Markus crowed. “Riley, here, has a possibility. I don't believe he's had a possibility for four or five months. Who was his last possibility? That sweet little blonde from Glengarriff, wasn't it?”

“Oh, I remember her,” Dealy said. “She was lovely. Beautiful breasts.”

He was in a sad state when the entire town of Ballykirk knew the last time he'd bedded a woman. It wasn't as if he hadn't had opportunities. Being a musician had its advantages, especially when you worked late nights at pubs filled with drunken girls. But he just hadn't met anyone lately who interested him.

“You know, there is no law that says I have to serve you,” Riley said. “If you insist on antagonizing the help here, I'll put you out on the street. Now finish your Guinness and get the hell out of my pub.”

“Last time I looked, this was still your da's pub,” Markus said.

“And we were just going to have ourselves a game or two of darts,” Dealy said.

Riley sighed. The three pensioners spent most of their midday at the pub, sandwiched between fishing in the morning and endless games of dominoes outside
the green grocer in the afternoon. The routine was repeated every day except Sunday, when they all went to church in the morning and spent their afternoons at family dinners with their grown children.

“If she comes in here, I expect you three to behave yourselves. There's no need for you to be telling tales for your own amusement.”

“Well, what's she doin' here if she doesn't care to socialize?” Markus asked.

“She's here to see the sights. Her mother stayed in the village years ago and she's come to visit some of the same places.”

The front door of the pub opened and they all turned to look. Riley straightened as he saw Nan step inside. She glanced around and when she spotted him, she smiled and waved.

“Now there. She's lovely,” Dealy murmured. “Small breasts, but lovely.”

“Look at her,” Markus said. “She looks like Audrey feckin' Hepburn.”

“Oh, the wife loves Audrey,” Johnnie commented. “Seen all her movies.” He cocked his head in Nan's direction. “What's her name, then?”

“Nan. Nan Galvin. Although her real name is Tiernan.”

“That's a boy's name,” Dealy whispered. “Why would anyone give a pretty thing like her a boy's name? They do that in America, you know. Some eedjits once named their daughter Moon Unit. Who the hell was that, Johnnie? Remember, we read it in the magazine?”

She crossed to the bar and sat down on a stool next
to the Unholy Trinity. “Am I too late for lunch?” she asked Riley.

Riley leaned over the bar, bracing his elbows on the scarred wood in front of her. “You surely aren't,” he said.

It had only been an hour since he'd seen her, but she looked even prettier than he'd remembered. Her hair was damp and curled around her face and her color was high from the walk down the hill. His gaze dropped to her mouth, those lush lips that were so soft and warm beneath his. “What can I get you?” he asked.

“What do you have?” she countered.

Riley stifled a groan. Right now, the possibility of an embarrassing erection. How was it possible that the mere sight of her caused that kind of reaction, he wondered.

The three men watched the two them, nodding as their gazes darted back and forth between Riley and Nan. Conversation would be impossible with three overly interested eavesdroppers. Never mind that the entire village would know the details of the conversation before the end of the day, but they'd no doubt interrupt with questions of their own.

“Aren't you three late for a game of dominoes?” he asked, giving them a pointed glare.

For a moment, they protested, then realized what Riley was getting at. They quickly jumped up and headed to the door, chatting as they left. Once the door shut behind them, the pub was empty—and quiet. Riley stepped out from behind the bar and walked to the door.
After flipping the lock, he dropped the Closed sign in the window.

“Do you always encourage your customers to leave?” Nan asked. “It's a wonder you've been able to stay in business.”

“Unless you want to reveal your darkest secrets to all of County Cork, you should be happy I sent them out,” Riley said, returning to his spot opposite her. He drew Nan a half pint of Guinness and set it in front of her, then circled the bar to sit down next to her. He turned her to face him, trapping her knees between his and smoothing his hands over her thighs. “So, tell me all your deepest and darkest secrets. What do you like to eat for lunch?”

She picked up her Guinness and took a sip, then wrinkled her nose. “I'm a salad girl,” she said.

“Try the Guinness again,” he said. “It's an acquired taste.”

She took another sip. “What kind of salads do you have?”

“Katie!” A few seconds later, the pub's cook stepped out of the kitchen. “What kind of salads do we have today?”

“We don't have salads,” she said. “We've got shepherd's pie, bangers and mash, and corned beef with cabbage and red potatoes. And I've a bit of seafood chowder left.”

“The chowder sounds great,” Nan said. She watched Katie return to the kitchen, then glanced around the pub. “You said your parents owned the pub. Are they here?”

“They're off caravanning.” He caught her quizzical
look. “What? Caravanning? They have a big caravan and they drive it places and camp—”

“Oh,” she said. “An R.V.? A recreational vehicle. A little home on wheels?”

“Yes. They'll be back in September and then I get back to my regular dissolute life. As a musician, I spend my days writing impossibly bad lyrics and trite tunes and my evenings trying to sing them.”

“I thought you'd cut your own CDs. Are you really that bad?”

“Only in my own mind,” he said with a chuckle. “I make a decent living. I'll never be a millionaire, but I pay my bills. And I love what I do.”

He'd always enjoyed the fact that his profession came with scads of female admirers, a benefit he'd taken advantage of on many occasions. But Riley suspected Nan was not the kind of girl who jumped into bed with a guy just because he played a guitar and sang a pretty song.

“And you sing here?”

“Every Saturday night throughout the summer,” he said. “You'll have to come see me.”

“I'd expect you have a lot of girls coming to see you,” Nan said.

“Not a one as pretty as you are, Nan Galvin.” He leaned forward to steal a kiss, but before he could, Katie barged through the kitchen door. He waited while she put the crock of soup in front of Nan, along with a plate of sliced homemade bread and butter.

“Thank you,” Nan said, giving her a smile.

“Cherry tart for dessert,” she said. “Warm from the oven. Can I get you a piece?”

She grinned. “All right. I'm famished. Bring it on.”

“That's the spirit,” Katie said, walking over to the kitchen door.

Nan dug into the chowder, then groaned. “It's wonderful. This place is wonderful. It's exactly how I'd imagined an Irish pub to be,” she said.

“Now, I know you have pubs in America,” he said.

“I don't spend a lot of time in them,” she said. Nan pointed to a pair of socks hanging from a rafter. “I'm sure there's a good story behind those.”

“There's a hundred years of stories in this pub,” he said. “The Speckled Hound has been around since the turn of the nineteenth century. I don't know them all. But I do know one.” He grabbed her hand and drew her along to a dark corner. “There was this pretty American girl who came to Ballykirk and she walked into the Speckled Hound and the bloke behind the bar was so besotted that he had to kiss her.”

“Besotted?” Nan asked.

“Yeah, besotted.” He bent close and captured her mouth, his hands spanning her narrow waist. He dragged her off the stool and trapped her against the bar, his hands braced on either side of her. A current of desire raced through his body as her fingers furrowed through the hair at the nape of his neck. This wasn't just some one-sided infatuation, Riley thought to himself. She was kissing him back, her tongue tangling with his, her hands wandering over his body.

The taste of her was like a drug, so incredibly addictive that all he could think about was more. He ran his
palms along her waist and then slipped them beneath her shirt, searching for warm, smooth flesh.

Riley couldn't remember the last time he'd felt the need to completely possess a woman. Most of the women he'd been with the past few years had been nothing more than physical attractions, driven by a hot body and raw need. The truth was, he hadn't wanted anything more than that.

But this was different. He wanted to know everything about her—what she loved, how she lived, all the tiny details that made her the fascinating woman she was. Still, he wondered if the attraction was intensified because the clock was ticking. She'd leave in ten days and he'd never see her again. Was that the source of his desire?

“I've never kissed an American before,” he murmured, his lips barely touching hers. “I don't think I realized what I was missing.”

She smiled, then pulled him into another kiss. “This is not what I expected when I told the immigration officer I was here for pleasure.”

“Oh, that I can provide.” He nuzzled his face into the curve of her neck. She smelled so good. He'd almost forgotten how nice it was to have a woman to focus on, even if it was only temporary. “Why don't you finish your lunch and then we'll go out for a drive. I have a place I'd like to show you.”

He wrapped his hands around her waist and set her back on the stool. She picked up her spoon. “This is really good. I didn't realize how hungry I was.”

Riley watched her eat. Unlike some of the girls he'd
known, she seemed to enjoy her food. He hated to see a woman pick at her food like a bird. “So, I think we should go out tonight. Find some fun.”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yeah. Why not? It's your first night in Ireland. I think I should try to make it memorable.”

“All right. It's a date,” she said.

Riley grinned. Now all he had to do was convince Danny to work at the pub tonight—and if things went well, for the next ten days.

 

“N
OW, LET THE CLUTCH
out very slowly and at the same time, give it a bit of…I think you'd call it gas.”

Nan focused on Riley's instructions. She'd been behind the wheel for nearly a half hour and managed to drive no more than five or ten yards at best, and that was on a completely flat road. “All right. Slowly. Slowly,” she said. The car stopped with a jerk, the engine dying. “And I'm going to ruin your car in the process. This can't be good for it.” She turned to Riley. “Are there no cars in Ireland with an automatic transmission?”

“Of course there are. I just don't happen to own one. So this car will have to do, unless you plan to see Ireland by bicycle or on foot.”