A Woman's Heart. JoAnn Ross

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СКАЧАТЬ in a way that told him she knew exactly how relieved he was feeling. “Thank you. It’s a wee bit boring compared to Fionna’s. But I like it.”

      The car, like most he’d seen in Ireland, was a compact sedan that could probably fit into the rear of the Chevy Suburban parked next to the Porsche in his three-car garage back in Monterey.

      “I really am sorry to inconvenience you this way,” he said into the well of strained silence surrounding them as they drove through the rolling green hills. It was obvious that her brief humor over his reaction to her grandmother’s colorful Cadillac had faded, leaving her still upset about something.

      “It’s no inconvenience,” Nora snapped. Then, as if realizing how brisk she’d sounded, she sighed and rubbed at her temple, as if trying to ward off a headache. “I’m sorry. Truly I don’t mind driving you into the village, Mr. Gallagher. It’s just that I’m a little put out at my family at the moment.”

      “For throwing us together.”

      She shot him a surprised look. “You knew that’s what they were doing?”

      He watched the color—like wild primroses—rise in her cheeks, tried to remember the last time he’d been with a woman capable of blushing and came up blank. Even as he reminded himself that innocence held no appeal, Quinn found the rosy hue enticing.

      “It was pretty obvious.”

      “I’m sorry.” She combed a not very steady hand through her riot of curls. In the midday light her hair glowed like a burning bush. Her wrists were narrow, her fingers slender, her short nails unlacquered, once again bringing to mind a nun. A sensible man would give her a wide berth. Quinn reminded himself he’d always considered himself a sensible man.

      “It’s not right that you should have to deal with their foolish matchmaking schemes while you’re a paying guest.”

      “I’ve survived worse.”

      “But you shouldn’t have to, you see.”

      “Why don’t you let me worry about it?” he suggested mildly.

      “It’s just so…embarrassing. And annoying. As if I’m some over-the-hill spinster who can’t get a man on my own.”

      Since she’d practically handed him a gilt-edged invitation, Quinn allowed himself the luxury of an in-depth perusal of the woman sitting so close to him. His eyes, safely hidden behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, looked her over with slow deliberation, from the top of her fiery head to her sneaker-clad feet, where he found a surprisingly whimsical touch—white cotton socks trimmed with lace. And although he knew his mind had no business going off in such a dangerous direction, he wondered if she was wearing more white lace beneath those jeans and that sweater.

      “The gold wedding band on your finger proves you’re no spinster. And I’ve no doubt there are more than a few men in Ireland who’d want you, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”

      The color in her cheeks deepened. “I’ll be taking that as a compliment, Mr. Gallagher.” Although her voice remained steady, her eyes had gotten that guarded look again. “Especially since you’ve already assured me I’m not your type of woman.”

      He’d been wondering if she was going to bring that up. “I suppose this is where I apologize for my boorish behavior. Although being drunk’s no excuse, I can’t remember the last time I got so wasted. Believe me, I usually display a helluva lot more finesse when I’m seducing a woman.”

      “And are you in the habit of seducing women who aren’t your type?”

      Quinn gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Hardly. In fact, last night was a first.”

      “It was probably the drink,” she offered helpfully.

      “Probably,” he agreed, not believing it for a minute. “I suppose that’s what I get for trying to keep up with all the toasts.”

      Quinn had quickly discovered that when anyone in the pub offered to stand for a drink, it was bad manners to refuse. Then, of course, you had to return the compliment. Next it would be someone else’s turn. And on and on until he was amazed anyone was left standing at the end of the evening.

      “My father doesn’t usually drink so much,” Nora volunteered, as if needing to defend Brady’s behavior. “It’s his habit to drink a pint or two and get his enjoyment from telling his tales.”

      “Alcohol’s a slippery slope. Sometimes people can lose their footing.”

      “True enough.” She slanted him another curious glance. “You sound as if you have some personal experience with such things.”

      “My mother was a drunk.” Quinn had never told another living soul about his mother. He wondered why the hell he’d just told Nora Fitzpatrick.

      “Oh.”

      She fell silent. And seemingly thoughtful as she drove down the ribbon of road past hedgerows thick with lacelike flowers. The fruit trees blooming in yards along the roadway looked like pink and white bouquets against the blue sky. The windows of the car were open, allowing in air so fresh Quinn felt almost as if he could drink it.

      They passed a donkey-pulled cart carrying ten-gallon milk cans, headed, Quinn supposed, to the creamery in Castlelough; amazingly a small dog stood on the donkey’s back. The driver of the cart, an elderly man wearing a tweed suit, billed cap and green Wellies, seemed delighted to see them and waved his hand enthusiastically. Nora lifted a hand to wave back.

      “And your father?” she asked Quinn at length. “Did he have a liking for spirits, as well?”

      “My father could have been the poster boy for AA. If he’d ever seen fit to attend a meeting, that is. Or go a day without a drink.”

      She glanced over at him again, her exquisite face grave. “I’m sorry.”

      “So was I.” Quinn hated the sympathy—and worse yet, pity—that seemed to soften her tone.

      “And now?”

      Out of longtime habit, he shut his mind to thoughts of his father, whose brutal blood tainted his own veins.

      “And now I don’t think about it.” He gave her a hard level look. His curt tone, thick with a tension he didn’t bother to conceal, declared the subject closed.

      She should just drive Quinn Gallagher into Castlelough, drop him off at The Irish Rose to retrieve his car and return home to finish her chores, Nora thought, biting her lip at his curtness. After all, the bread would need punching down soon, there was laundry to do—the last time Mary had taken on the chore, she’d tossed in one of Rory’s T-shirts and turned all Brady’s underwear pink—and, of course, dinner to prepare.

      It shouldn’t bother her that the man sitting beside her in the suddenly too-close confines of the car seemed to be mired in unpleasant memories of his past. He’d been less than charming since his arrival late last night, and the simple truth was that she’d only rented him a room. She was under no obligation to provide guided tours of the county she loved, concern herself with his brooding or care that he seemed to be filled with dark shadows.

      Quinn Gallagher meant nothing to her but a rental fee СКАЧАТЬ