Three-way Tie (12 page)

Bound and Determined

Sierra Cartwright

Excerpt

Chapter One

Bollocks.

Jack Quinn propped his elbow on the polished wood bar of the lower downtown pub and drank deeply from the pint of stout as he watched the petite and smoking hot Sinead O’Malley move into action for a solo.

He’d seen pictures of her—his sworn enemy—online. His luggage contained a folder full of information about her.

He’d chased her across two continents and through half a dozen cities in the United States. He thought he knew everything about her yet nothing had prepared him for the first in-person sight of her.

He’d known she was an Irish step dancer, but the dossier provided by his grandmother’s people hadn’t mentioned that the talented Ms O’Malley also played three different types of drums as well as the bagpipes.

Seeing a good-looking woman, enemy or not, in snapshots was one thing, but he’d had no idea he’d have such an immediate, raw, unwanted masculine reaction to seeing her athletic body.

Her cutoff white T-shirt was too tight across the swell of her breasts and left part of her toned midriff bare. If she was wearing a bra, it wasn’t very serviceable. He imagined he could see her nipples all the way from here.

Her kilt was way too fecking short. It barely covered her well-shaped arse. And when she danced he saw a pair of sexy black knickers. At least she wasn’t commando beneath the skirt.

Her muscular legs were bare, and her socks had pooled around her ankles.

Even though he watched her squeeze the pipes from halfway across the pub, his cock hardened.

Noise in the room diminished as gazes turned towards the stage. Every man in the place was likely sporting an erection. Lust was palpable. If she were his woman, he wouldn’t stand for her being dressed that way in public and he’d want her wearing a whole lot less in private.

He took another long drink from the glass. He’d be needing another pint in only minutes. A man needed fortification to manage the likes of Sinead O’Malley and manage her he would.

He wouldn’t be leaving Denver without her in tow. He intended to possess her. Ride her. Claim her. Dominate her. Make her his submissive. Claim her as his.

The eight-hundred-year feud between their clans ended now even if he had to tie her to his bed and spank the sass out of her.

Since it wouldn’t be seemly to drag her off the stage, bend her over, yank down her knickers, make her call him Sir as he fucked her ragged on top of a table, he bided his time.

She’d started dancing with the group a few years ago as a way to pick up a little extra cash. He hadn’t taken the time to listen to the CD provided of her music and he was surprised by how much he enjoyed the sound of the Celtic-infused rock band that pulled from all nations. Or maybe he was just intrigued by the lass and wasn’t really hearing the music.

All the other band members fell silent as she worked the pipes.

A spotlight hit her. He recognised the Kelly tartan…from her mother’s side of the family. The Kellys were one of the few Irish clans entitled to wear a tartan—the same as the royal house of Stewart.

Because of the distance and the way she held the bagpipes, he couldn’t quite read the writing on her white T-shirt. The distance and dim lighting made it impossible to see her eyes, even though the information he had on her said they were green.

Then again, the file said she had blonde hair. It hadn’t mentioned the fiery highlights that seemed to ignite in the overhead lighting. It hadn’t mentioned that the lengths fell in bedroom-like disarray across her forehead and around her face and shoulders.

It looked the way it might after a good, long, hard screw.

“Got your eye on that one, have you, mate?” the barkeep asked, pocketing the tip Jack had left on the bar. “She’s been in here half a dozen times in the past year. A right handful, she is. Won’t be having none of the likes of you.” He glanced at her then back at Jack. “She won’t be having any of us for that matter.”

“We’ll be seeing about that.”

“Good luck. She vanishes after the show. She doesn’t stay at the same place the rest of the band does. She’s talented all right. But she ain’t interested in any socialising. She’ll cut any man to the quick.”

Jack nodded, considering himself warned. “Fetch me another pint, mate.”

The bartender nodded and moved off.

Jack returned to watching the woman. It could be worse, he supposed. She was passionate, if her music was anything to go by. In need of taming, if the bartender’s words were anything to go by.

Her passion turned him on. .

He’d want Sinead, no matter what his
máthair Chríona
, grandmother,
said. The way Sinead moved her hips made his cock harden. He could almost imagine the way she smelt, of musk and desire.

He joined the applause as she ended her solo and she moved to the back of the stage.

He drank his second stout and enjoyed the rest of the set. Part of him wished she would dance again. Another part of him was relieved she hadn’t. He wasn’t sure his libido could take seeing her underwear and bare midriff.

At the end of the set, the gathered crowd gave a lukewarm applause. He watched Sinead place the pipes on the wooden planks, then plop herself down on an amplifier.

Her skirt rode even higher and she didn’t sit like a lady. Now he knew why Yanks drank their beer so damn cold. ‘Twas to cool the flames of ardour.

He watched—or more like it, stared—as she
e He
uncapped a bottle of water, tipped her head back and drank deeply.

The band’s lead singer said a few words to Sinead then nodded and moved off, leaving her alone.

Jack seized the opportunity.

In a few steps, he was on the stage. A couple more brought them face-to-face, or, in this case, her face to his crotch. And wasn’t this his lucky day? It wouldn’t be long before he’d have her on her knees, hands secured behind her back as she sucked his cock. “Great show.”

She smiled. It wasn’t a warm and welcoming smile. It was more the smile of a princess. It was polite enough, dutiful, but it sure as hell wasn’t inviting.

The houselights came up a little more.

This close to her, he saw a few beads of sweat on her brow and across the sweet curve of her upper lip. And he was also close enough to read the writing on her in-your-face T-shirt:
You’re not rich enough. Smart enough. Or man enough. Don’t even try.

They’d be seeing about that, as well.
“Do you intimidate most men, Sinead?”

“All men,” she corrected, recapping her water bottle. “I don’t have time for men.” She levelled a gaze at him. “Even if I wanted a quick toss, it wouldn’t be with an anonymous man. You groupies are all the same.”

The way she talked about sex, with her brogue and feminine sensuality that nothing could disguise, made his cock throb. He wasn’t just hard now. Not at all. He was ready. “Although I wouldn’t mind bedding you, I’m not interested in a quick toss, Ms O’Malley.”

“An autograph? Do you have a pen? Then perhaps you’ll leave me the hell alone?”

Polite, wasn’t she? “I’m not looking for an autograph.”

“Well, then, if you’ll excuse me?”

She stood and turned away. By the time she’d taken two steps, he’d curved his hand around her shoulder and applied enough pressure that she stopped.

Slowly she turned back to face him again. Since he stood nearly a foot taller than her, she had to tip her head back in order to meet his gaze. “Take your hand off me. I’ve another set to prepare for.”

“I’ve travelled halfway round the world to meet you.”

“You should have bought the CD and saved yourself several hundred pounds.” Her smile was chilling. “You’ve met me.” She reached her hand up to pry his fingers off her shoulder. “Release me immediately.”

He was aware of the way she felt beneath him, womanly, but with unaccountable strength. He wanted her. “We’ve important things to discuss, Sinead O’Malley.”

“You are beginning to annoy me.” She exhaled.“I’m thinking maybe you’re a bit off your rocker, Mr…”

He slowly released her.

 
“Jack.” He extended a hand. She ignored it.
Smart lass.
“Jack Quinn.”

“Jack Quinn?” Her mouth dropped.

A very perfect, very pink tongue sneaked out.
Good God, didn’t that cause another fantasy?

 
“
The
Jack Quinn? Hated enemy. Mad as a hatter?”

He didn’t quite know what to say to that. A man who chased a woman halfway around the world because of a comb didn’t seem to be all there.

“Sorry, I didn’t recognise you without the horns and tail.”

“I’ve never been the devil, Sinead.”

“Couldn’t prove that by my family.”

She took her time looking him over from his head to his dusty shoes. Judging by her sneer, she found him wanting.

Not the usual reaction from the ladies.

“So you’re the bastard who’s been stalking me?”

“I’ve been trying to get an audience with your highness for a while now,” he agreed.

“You’ve been following me for six thousand miles, Mr Quinn.”

E-mails, letters, phone calls, messages at venues along the way. “You’re a difficult woman to reach.”

“I’m sorry to say you travelled all this way to have me reject you and your ridiculous marriage proposal in person.” She moved an electrical cord out of the way with her toes. “Since you’re apparently thick or stubborn or both, the answer to your proposal, Mr Quinn, is not just
no
. It’s
hell no
. I don’t care if it would make your grandmother happy or secure your family line. I will not marry you. Not now, not ever.”

 
She gave him a sunny smile that really, he knew, meant ‘fuck you’.

“You are blunt.”

“I need to be as you’re apparently addled. Now I’ll thank you to get the hell off the stage and out of my life.”

“We need to talk, Sinead. We
will
talk.”

“I have nothing beyond that one word to say to you.” She pulled back her shoulders. “I’m not interested in your family’s problems.”

Her green eyes flashed irritation and her voice dropped an octave or two. “I’m not interested in
you
, Jack Quinn.”

She’d added the last, he supposed, in case he’d missed her point.

“You can get back on a plane and go home. County Mayo, isn’t it?”

As if she had to ask. Their shared history went back well over eight hundred years. The details of the sordid events were recorded for all time in the Annals of the
Four Masters
—the compilation of Irish history that dated back nearly two thousand years.

Sinead looked at him. Her eyes flashed venom. “
Cuimhnich air na daoine o’n d’thainig thu.
”

She speaks the tongue, does she?
“Remember the men from whom you are sprung,” he translated.

“I, for one, will never forget.”

“It’s not just my problem, Ms O’Malley. It’s ours.”