Sullivan's Child. Gail Link

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СКАЧАТЬ really was, Rory had found out in the ensuing years, where the heart resided. And his had been left behind, in the soft hands of one Miss Caitlyn Kildare. The time had come to see if it could be reclaimed, or if it was lost forever.

      Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, Rory withdrew his wallet. He flipped it open, stared at the photo encased in soft plastic inside. It was an old picture, a worn, faded snapshot that showed signs of handling. A woman’s face.

      Drawing it from its protective haven, Rory smoothed out the edges, his fingers caressing the picture.

      Back then nothing had come between him and his ambition. He hadn’t needed anyone or anything in his life distracting him from his goal.

      Or so he’d thought. Love was a name people gave to sugarcoat the intensity of physical desire. Love gave permission to act on those desires, to indulge without guilt. It was pleasant, but in most cases temporary. Enjoyable while it lasted, but nothing to take seriously.

      That’s what he’d told himself.

      He naively, or stupidly, believed that when he left Caitlyn for the life he wanted in Ireland she would eventually disappear from his thoughts, that his desire for her would evaporate with the distance and the years that separated them.

      Rory’s mouth quirked into a mocking grin as he removed the tie and unfastened several buttons on his pleated white tuxedo shirt. Easy to think. Harder to accomplish.

      Even with an ocean dividing them, she was constantly with him. He discovered that he carried her within his heart, and his heart refused to allow the memories to die. Instead, it constantly fed him slices of remembrances, doled out carefully at times when he least expected them. In the solitude of his apartment in Dublin, he found himself reaching for her at night, only to find empty space in his bed. Working on a manuscript, he would raise his head, ready to tell her something, to share a fact or an idea, to get her reaction. Only emptiness met his sweeping look. Silence and memories. Echoes of a time past.

      Once he’d even attempted to eradicate the specter of her by sleeping with another woman. Deliberately, he’d chosen a woman who reminded him of Cat. A green-eyed, red-haired woman. So what if her eyes lacked the glowing polish of emeralds shot with sunlight? What did it matter if her hair didn’t possess the fire or scent of Cat’s? Lemon-scented, burnished flame belonged to Cat alone.

      His experiment was a horrible failure. It wasn’t the woman’s fault, he admitted to himself. She had no way of knowing that she was only a substitute for the real thing, a copy that never quite measured up to the original.

      With hindsight, Rory could admit that he’d put his body into the act of sex, but not his heart. His performance may have been instinctively accurate and consummately skilled, yet it lacked a certain fire, a brilliance that transcended the simple and made it sublime. It lacked what he’d had with Cat. Conviction. Rightness. Beauty.

      Rory reflected on how much easier it was to analyze that now. Love was the missing ingredient, the special spice that elevated the giving of pleasure to the mingling of souls. It had taken him precious time to recognize and accept that fact.

      But was it too late? Too late to return and recapture what he’d thrown away all those years ago? He stared at the face in the photograph, at the deep, delightful smile and the welcoming eyes.

      Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe second chances did exist.

      Always and forever.

      He was damn sure going to give it a try. After all, he had nothing to lose. Nothing that he hadn’t already lost once before.

      Rory smiled as he returned the photo to his wallet. If there was one thing he was good at, it was getting what he wanted when he set his mind to it.

      And Caitlyn Kildare was what he wanted.

      No doubts.

      No hesitations.

      No questions.

      So, he wasn’t going to let a little thing like a no-show at his party deter him from pursuing his quarry. He’d come too far and waited too long.

      Besides, he thought as he climbed the winding stairs that led up to his bedroom, tomorrow was soon enough to begin his campaign.

      “A dozen roses in a Waterford vase. Someone’s sure got extravagant taste,” Mary Alice commented after the florist’s delivery van departed. She bent and sniffed the bouquet, which adorned the checkout counter. “Hmm,” she murmured, “a lovely scent.” She straightened and threw a questioning glance in Cat’s direction. “So, who are they from? The lawyer or the doctor?”

      “Neither.”

      “Someone new then?”

      Cat shrugged. “I haven’t a clue.”

      “No note?”

      “None whatsoever.”

      “Then how do you know that one of them didn’t send it?”

      Cat moved from behind the counter and whisked the feather duster over a small spin-around display of postcards. “There’s no reason for either one to send me flowers,” she explained to her assistant. “I haven’t seen George since he was transferred to the D.A.’s office in Philly during the summer. Paul has such an erratic schedule at the hospital, and since I’m a mother with a young child I doubt we’ll be seeing much of one another in the future.”

      “No sparks?’ Mary Alice asked.

      Cat paused before she answered, choosing her words carefully. “They’re both nice guys, I enjoyed going out with them, and I like them. But it will never be anything more.”

      “That’s too bad,” the older woman stated. “I know that your mom and brother will be disappointed, seeing how they both set you up with their colleagues.”

      Cat smiled. “Mom and Brendan both want me to be happy, and neither like to take no for an answer, which is why I humored them. And it’s been a long time since I’d gone out on a date.”

      “But they weren’t him.”

      Cat stopped her dusting. “Him who?”

      “Tara’s father.”

      “He doesn’t enter into this at all.”

      “You’re certain?”

      “Yes.”

      “Well—” Mary Alice paused, giving Cat a knowing glance “—I’m not so sure about that.”

      “I am,” Cat insisted.

      Mary Alice wisely let the subject drop. “But it still doesn’t answer who sent you the flowers.”

      “Maybe a customer.”

      “Extravagant gesture for a customer.”

      “Remember Mrs. O’Malley who brought me back that lovely Aran Isle sweater when she went to Ireland last year?”

      “That’s different, Cat. СКАЧАТЬ