A Woman's Heart. JoAnn Ross

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СКАЧАТЬ There were still times when he’d awaken in the middle of a hushed dark night, drenched in sweat, deafening screams ringing in his ears.

      “Besides,” he said, “things probably worked out for the best. I’m playing with an idea for a new story, and it’ll be easier to think about it if I go home to the Joyce farm at the end of the day, instead of partying every night with all of you.”

      “I can remember when you liked partying with me,” Laura pouted prettily.

      Her blatant flirting succeeded in banishing the lingering chill. “Those were fun times.”

      “And could be again.” She laughed when he didn’t immediately answer. “Good Lord, darling, you remind me of a wolf sensing a trap. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to rope you into any long-term affair. I just thought, since we’re both going to be stuck in this Irish backwater for four long weeks, we may as well try to make the best of it.”

      Quinn liked Laura. A lot. She was smart, witty, easy to look at and a tigress in bed. But he’d always subscribed to the theory that when something was over, you moved on. And didn’t look back.

      “I don’t think that’d be a very good idea, sweetheart.” His eyes, rife with a practiced masculine look of appreciation, swept over her. “Not that I’m not tempted.”

      She laughed again, a rich throaty sound designed to strum sexual chords. “That is undoubtedly the nicest rejection I’ve ever had. I’ve known a lot of men, Quinn, but none of them have perfected the art of hit-and-run relationships better than you,” she said without rancor.

      “This from a woman who’s been engaged four times.” And broken it off every time.

      “So I’m a slow learner.” She grinned up at him, seemingly unapologetic about behavior that had provided the tabloid press with more than a few headlines. “That’s why we’re so good together. Neither of us has any wide-eyed expectations about the other, and we don’t harbor any dreams of a rosy until-death-do-us-part romantic future. You and I are two of a kind, Quinn.”

      There was no arguing with the accusation. Besides, it was a helluva lot better than the one he’d heard too many times to count—that his heart was little more than a dark pit of ice water covered with a crust of snow. Quinn merely muttered something that could have been agreement as the baggage carousel rumbled to a start.

      After retrieving his bags and clearing customs, he found his way blocked by a phalanx of reporters. Laura, damn her, had ducked into a rest room, leaving him to face the horde alone.

      “Mr. Gallagher, do you believe the Castlelough lake creature exists?” a red-haired man wearing a rumpled wool sport coat and holding up a small tape recorder called out.

      “I’ve always believed in the existence of monsters. I know you call her the Lady, but technically she’s still a monster.”

      A murmur of interest from the reporters.

      “Do you expect to see the Lady while you’re in Castlelough?” a bald man wearing thick-framed black glasses asked.

      “That would be a plus since it would undoubtedly save a fortune in special-effects costs if we could get her to perform for us,” he answered, drawing the expected laugh.

      “Do you plan to research your Gallagher-family roots while you’re in the country?”

      “No.” His tone was curt. His eyes turned to frost. “If there are no more questions—”

      “I have one.” This from a winsome young woman. Her hair was jet, her thickly lashed eyes the color of the Irish sea, and her skin as pale as new snow. The invitation in her bold-as-brass eyes was unmistakable.

      “Ask away.”

      “Is the female protagonist in your story based on a real woman? Perhaps someone you met on a previous trip to Ireland?”

      “Actually this is my first visit to your country. And Shannon McGuire was an entirely fictional character.”

      The heroine of his most recent novel was unlike any real woman Quinn had ever met. Unrelentingly optimistic, softhearted, ridiculously virtuous and brave as hell. And even knowing her to be a product of his imagination, Quinn had been fascinated by her.

      Usually, by the time he finished writing one book, his mind was already well on to the next, and so he was more than glad to get rid of the characters he’d begun to grow bored with. But the widowed single mother had been strangely different. He’d found her difficult to let go.

      “And speaking of Shannon,” he said, turning toward Laura, who’d finally decided to make an appearance, accompanied by Jeremy Converse, the film’s producer/director who’d taken the same transatlantic flight from New York, “of course you all recognize the lovely Laura Gideon. She’ll be playing Shannon McGuire in the film.”

      Quinn practically pushed her forward. “It’s show time, sweetheart,” he murmured. As the reporters all began shouting out questions to the sexy blond actress, he made his escape.

      Since he wouldn’t be staying in town with the crew, Quinn had arranged to rent his own car. He found his way to the Hertz booth where he rented a four-door sedan from a tartan-clad beauty who was a dead ringer for Maureen O’Hara. Quinn decided he must be suffering from jet lag when he found her directions difficult to follow, but she willingly took the time to draw the route to Castlelough on his map. How difficult could it be? he asked himself as he headed out of the airport.

      How difficult, indeed. At first Quinn was entranced by the scenery—the stone fences, the meadows splashed with purple, white and yellow wildflowers, and the mountains—the rare times the sun broke through the rain—streaked with molten gold. Here and there stood whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs. Little grottoes featuring statues of the Virgin Mary—many adorned with seashells—seemed to have been built at nearly every crossroad, and every so often he’d pass a small statue of the Madonna standing in the center of a white-painted tire, perky plastic flowers surrounding her bare feet.

      The road seemed to go in endless circles. And the myriad signs, many written only in Irish, hindered more than helped.

      Ninety minutes later, when he realized that the cemetery with the high stone Celtic crosses he was driving by was the same one he’d passed about an hour after leaving the airport, Quinn was forced to admit he was hopelessly lost.

      “I’ll make you a deal, Lord,” he muttered, conveniently forgetting he’d given up believing in God a long time ago. “If you just give me a sign, I promise to stop at the first church I see and stuff the poor box with hundred-dollar bills.”

      He cast a look up at a sky the color of tarnished silver, not surprised when the clouds didn’t part to reveal Charlton Heston holding a stone tablet helpfully etched with a proper map to Castlelough. So much for miracles.

      Then again… When he suddenly saw an elderly woman wearing a green-and-black-plaid scarf and blue Wellingtons weeding the grave nearest the gates, Quinn told himself she must have been there all along.

      He pulled over to the side of the road and parked, then climbed out of the car and walked over to her. The rain had become a soft mist.

      “Good afternoon.”

      She stopped raking and looked up at him. СКАЧАТЬ