The Wild Sight (16 page)

“They told me Dermot was in hospital. That true?” Christy’s question and his stare were once again unfocused.

Cheeks still pink, Rylie nodded. “A stroke.”

Donovan found his voice at last. “The doctors say he’ll recover, but not one hundred percent.”

“Too bad,” Christy murmured, his gaze raking over both of them again. “S’pose you’ll both go home to America then?”

Rylie nodded again. “I’m leaving Thursday.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, but Christy’s gray eyes pierced hers.

“Good. Don’t want you coming back ’round here.” He cracked his knuckles again and added, “Don’t want your pity.”

Then he rose to his feet, tilting his chin in the guard’s direction. “Let’s go.”

Rylie stood also, and swayed a little. Still feeling half cold-cocked, Donovan got up anyway to put an arm around her.

As the guard motioned for an escort, Christy turned and looked at them a final time. “You could send me a card at Christmas,
though,” he said, then turned and shuffled away.

Silently, they followed the escort from the room. Neither of them spoke more than perfunctory answers while they collected
their jackets and personal items. More than a little dazed, they stumbled out to the parking lot.

In spite of her golden tan, Rylie looked wan and tremulous. As for Donovan, the ugly truth sat like a stone in the pit of
his stomach, making him cold and nauseated.

“Are you all right?” Donovan finally asked as he held the passenger door for her.

She nodded. “Are . . . are you?”

“Y—Yes.”

Eyes glittering with tears, she lifted her hand and cupped his cheek. “Are you sure?”

Her fingers felt smooth and warm against his skin. Such a welcome comfort. He turned his head and rubbed his lips across her
palm. Then a sudden shudder struck him, shaking its way from his fingertips to his toes, bringing a full dose of frigid darkness
with it.

“Hold me,” she whispered, and pulled him tight against her.

Small as she was, she anchored him. Her arms encircled his waist, her body warm and soothing against the horrors ripping through
his mind. Embarrassed by his weakness, Donovan buried his face in her silky hair as a single sob escaped his throat.

Rylie’s grip tightened. “Oh, Donovan,” she murmured in his ear. “Oh, please. It’ll be all right. I love you, Donovan.”

Holy freaking hell!

The split second after she uttered the words, Rylie tried to suck them back into her mouth. But it was too late. She felt
Donovan’s body stiffen beneath her hands. He’d heard.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

They jerked apart and she stared at her feet, face burning.

“I’m sorry . . . ” she fumbled. “I didn’t mean that—No, wait! What I meant to say was . . . ” She looked up and his eyes were
focused somewhere far over her head. “Shit.”

Mortified that she’d said that aloud also, she clamped one hand firmly over her mouth, melted into the passenger seat, and
shut the car door.

Oh, God!
She had so totally screwed up! But the worst part was, she
did
love him. And she wanted desperately for him to love her, too. With a groan, Rylie covered her face with her hands.

A few moments later, she heard the car door open and felt Donovan slide into the driver’s seat. Wishing she could disappear
into the upholstery, she sneaked a sideways peek at him through her fingers. His gorgeous face looked chiseled from marble.

Reluctantly, she pulled her hands away and took a deep breath, “I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he interrupted, his tone brusque. “We’re both pretty done in. Shall we go to tea?”

“Okay,” she replied, still wishing she could just die on the spot and end her misery.

In spite of her wishes to the contrary, she neither expired nor vanished, so she occupied herself with replaying every moment
of her meeting with Christy Reilly as Donovan drove. Talk about an object lesson in loving the wrong man! By his own admission,
her father was a thief and murderer. Yet her mother had loved him once. And he had loved her. All the surly scowls in the
world couldn’t override the way he’d whispered her mother’s name.

Then she thought of Donovan and the crushing blow Christy had delivered to him. Had Christy lied? From Donovan’s reaction,
she had to assume it was the truth. Not that it mattered to her, but she couldn’t even imagine how horrible he must feel knowing
he was the product of a rape.

Donovan pulled the car over at a small café, interrupting her gloomy thoughts, and they got out and went inside. Frilly curtains
hung at the windows and lacy cloths covered the tables in a cutesy tribute to quaint Ireland. The Ireland the tourists came
to see, and had little or nothing to do with reality. At least not her reality. And not Donovan’s.

Rylie went straight to the ladies’ room to try and wash the stench of the prison off her hands but the dank, musty odor seemed
to linger in her nostrils even after she rubbed on scented lotion. She rejoined Donovan, and they sat in awkward silence after
the freckle-faced young waitress took their order.

Finally, Donovan cleared his throat. “Rylie, about us . . . ”

Oh no! Here came the big “no strings” speech. She really did
not
want to hear this right now. Not on top of everything else. Quickly, she decided to go there first.

“Look, you were right, we’re both stressed out. Don’t worry about it.”

Consternation furrowed his brow. “True enough, but I need to tell you that I . . . I’ve never been involved with anyone long
term before. I’m not sure I know how.”

Every word from his mouth was torture. She had to interrupt him. “Can you do three more days?”

She glanced at her watch.
Two days, fifteen hours
and twenty-five minutes.
Her heart constricted painfully in her chest. She had to look away, but somehow she kept her voice steady, “That’s all I’m
asking, then I’ll be outta here.”

The reappearance of the young waitress prevented Donovan from replying. Rylie looked everywhere but at him while the girl
served their sandwiches, cookies, and scones. She had just set the teapot, sparkling white with green shamrocks, on the table
when Donovan’s cell phone rang.

Excusing himself, he walked a few steps toward the front door to answer. Rylie didn’t know whether to giggle or sob, so she
nibbled the edges of a delicately trimmed cucumber sandwich and tried to hear what he was saying. Within moments, he flipped
the phone shut and signaled the waitress.

“I’m sorry, but we have to go,” he said, shrugging into his jacket and reaching for hers.

Concern leaped from her stomach into her throat. “Dermot?”

Donovan shook his head, handed the waitress two bills and asked for a box. “The lawyer. Seems the police want to formally
question me about McRory’s disappearance.”

“But you don’t—” she began, as she shoved her arms into the jacket he held for her.

“Lynch’s doing.” He didn’t elaborate, for the waitress reappeared with a box and his change.

Wordlessly, Rylie shoved the dainty little sandwiches and scones into the styrofoam container and followed him back to the
car. She might have momentarily dodged the commitment bullet, but this was not the way she wanted to do it.

“What are you going to do?” She asked the double-edged question as she fastened her seat belt.

Donovan’s grip on the steering wheel turned his knuckles white. “I’ll tell the truth, of course, to whatever they ask.” Then,
as if he anticipated her next question, he added, “’Tis not like they’ll ask me about my Sight, or visions, or anything like
that.”

“No, why would they?” she muttered more to reassure herself than anything else. Too bad it didn’t work. They sat in strained
silence for a few minutes until they reached the main roadway. The route was beginning to look so familiar that Rylie could
probably drive it in her sleep.

“I’ll drop you off in Dungannon then come back for you when I’m done.” Donovan looked straight ahead and spoke as if he were
discussing the weather.

“No, I have a better idea. I’m going with you, and we’ll go see Dermot when you’re done. Then we can go to dinner or something.”
And as far as she was concerned “something” included both of them naked in Donovan’s horrible bed. Preferably for the next
two and a half days.

“Rylie, I—”

“Save your breath for the police and their questions.”

His sapphire eyes flicked momentarily to meet hers, then returned to the road again. Rylie saw his beautiful lips twitch slightly.

“I can see ’twill do me no good to argue with you.”

She gave his leg a possessive little pat and quickly pulled her hand back into her lap. “Like I said before: smart man.”

Now she only had to figure out how she would live without him.

Though it was after five, the attorney and his secretary were waiting for them when they arrived. Donovan made introductions,
and Jeremy Heaney exuded Irish charm, though Rylie couldn’t help but think he looked more like a schoolboy than a lawyer.
However, he and Donovan were in complete and stalwart agreement that she remain behind. He offered to have his secretary,
who resembled a typical Irish grandmother, stay at the office and wait with her, but Rylie declined. Bad enough that the two
men insisted she not go along to the police station, but she most certainly did not need a babysitter.

“Sorry to hear about your father,” Heaney said to Donovan, as the secretary let herself out. “And I’m sure this will all come
to naught. ’Tis a flimsy attempt by the PSNI to get you to be more forthcoming about this old murder case.”

While Donovan shifted self-consciously, Rylie couldn’t contain herself any longer.

“I don’t get it,” she complained, still miffed about waiting at the office. “Malachy Flynn has been dead for over twenty years,
and the Provos have long since disbanded. Why does the PSNI care?”

“Gone but not forgotten,” Heaney replied, his boyish face serious. “Recently it’s come to light that members of British Intelligence
were once involved with the militant IRA splinter groups. Turns out Malachy Flynn was one such agent. Or possibly even a double
agent.”

With Christy’s words about Flynn and McTeague echoing inside her head, Rylie crossed her arms over her chest. “Why would that
matter now?”

Heaney gave a dramatic sigh. “Because, Miss Powell, no one in the world has a longer memory than we Irish. And no one can
nurse a grudge half so long.” She watched as he transformed from schoolboy to pontificating lawyer. “Take the Troubles for
example. Most non-Irish would tell you that this constant unrest and sporadic violence originated in the plantation policies
of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Point of fact, it had been going on for at least a thousand years before that
when Queen Maeve of Connacht invaded Ulster.”

“’Ulster forever Connacht never?’” She couldn’t help quoting.

“Exactly!” Heaney grinned, the miscreant schoolboy once more, and elbowed Donovan. “I see some Ulsterman has taught you the
right of it.” Then, after a look at Donovan’s strained expression, he said, “Let’s go and get this over then. Miss Powell,
help yourself to tea in the back room just through there.”

She curbed the urge to hug Donovan or even give his hand a squeeze. That’s what he got—or didn’t get—for making her stay here.

Once the two men left, she wandered into the back room Heaney had indicated, plugged in the electric teakettle, and heated
one of the scones in the microwave. She tried to distract herself by thumbing through a newspaper sitting on the counter,
but it didn’t hold her attention.

Her mind wandered back to her meeting with Christy Reilly. Of all the scenarios she’d imagined about meeting her biological
father, none had come close to the reality. The man who’d fathered her might be a hardened scary-looking criminal, but now
she knew he’d acted in what he believed to be the best interest of her and her mother. She’d never anticipated that.

But then, all the expectations she’d ever had of Ireland didn’t begin to match the reality either. The quaintness was strictly
for show, while all around lurked the ancient, wild, and, most of all, tragic beauty of the
real
Ireland. A place far beyond what tourists saw. A place that took her breath.

And then there was Donovan.

She’d never in her wildest dreams expected someone like him. By turns charming and aloof, hard-nosed and then vulnerable,
he was the ultimate puzzle wrapped in a sexy-as-sin package. No matter how many times she told herself this was one of those
crazy wonderful flings, she knew that for her it was more. She had never experienced such an intense connection with anyone.
Too bad it couldn’t be permanent.

Once Rylie finished drinking her tea and nibbling on the scone and sandwiches, she went back into the front reception area
and stretched out on a small settee. She actually dozed off before Donovan and Heaney returned. The key rattling in the office
door awoke her with a start. She could hear Heaney talking, and though she couldn’t make out the words, his voice sounded
sharp and strident.

The two men entered, both wearing grim expressions. Neither greeted, nor even acknowledged her.

“Please, Mr. O’Shea.” Heaney’s emphatic tone shifted suddenly. “Donovan. You can trust me to keep strict attorney-client privilege
about anything you say.”

Donovan wore his frosty distant look. That didn’t bode well for Heaney.

Rylie stood and smoothed her rumpled clothes. “How did it go?”

“Fine,” Donovan bit out in a way that practically shouted the opposite. He shot her a dark glance and tilted his head toward
the door. “We need to go.”

“Half a moment!” Heaney insisted, raising his hand in a halting gesture. “I can’t help you or your father if you don’t tell
me what you know about Malachy Flynn’s death.”

“As I said before,” Donovan muttered between clenched teeth. “I was seven years old and I don’t remember.” He grabbed her
hand. “Let’s go, Rylie.”

She felt like the rag toy being tugged between two dogs. And the demanding tone of Donovan’s voice made her want to plant
her feet and fight back.