The Mighty Quinns: Callum. Kate Hoffmann

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      According to her mother, the jewel had been stolen from Gemma’s fourth great-grandfather, Lord Stanton Parnell, more than one hundred and fifty years ago. Some of the Parnells believed that with the loss of the emerald, the fortunes of the family had been cursed.

      The fortunes of Orla Moynihan had definitely fallen the moment she set eyes on David Parnell. According to her mother, they’d fallen in love instantly. David had promised to find the emerald so they might run away together and get married. Gemma suspected this was only a ploy to lure her mother into his bed. A pregnancy followed and David disappeared, behind the protective walls of the Parnell family estate. The baby was named Gemma, after an emerald and a dream.

      It was no surprise that David had abandoned her mother. The Parnells were part of the old English aristocracy that had made their fortunes in the Belfast textile industry. And Parnell sons didn’t marry poor Irish girls, no matter what the circumstances.

      Gemma had met her father twice, once when she’d barged into his office on her twelfth birthday and the other on the day she’d turned eighteen, when she’d demanded he pay for her university tuition at University College in Dublin. He had his own family, including a wife not ten years older than Gemma, so he had sent her away with a promise. He would pay if she’d never approach him again.

      But throughout her childhood, Gemma had dreamed of someday being part of that family, of living in a posh house, of having servants to wait on her, of never having to worry about whether they could afford to pay the rent that month. And the emerald had come to represent that dream, something precious and beautiful.

      Finding the Emerald of Eire was her chance to claim her birthright. Whether it fixed things with the Parnells or she just threw it in her father’s face, it would prove that she had Parnell blood running through her veins, even though it had been tainted by the Irish of the Moynihans.

      So she’d gone to university, thanks to the Parnell scholarship. Gemma had focused her studies on medieval Irish history and after receiving her doctorate, she’d been offered a teaching position. One day, last year, while researching an article on medieval prisons, she’d decided to see if there was any truth to the family legend. To her astonishment, everything her mother had told her was there—the emerald, the theft, the trial of the pickpocket, Crevan Quinn.

      Yes, there had been an Emerald of Eire, a 72-carat jewel that Stanton Parnell had bought in Europe to give to his young bride. He’d been carrying it in his coat pocket on the streets of Dublin in February of 1848 when a local pickpocket had stolen it. Though Crevan Quinn had been tried and later shipped off to Australia for his crime, the jewel had never been recovered.

      Even now, she imagined the headlines in the papers, the proof in black and white that Gemma Moynihan, illegitimate daughter of David Parnell, was an heir to the Parnell millions. Though her mother refused to ask for a DNA test, the emerald would be Gemma’s bargaining chip. If they wanted it back, then David would have to acknowledge her as his daughter.

      She’d completed her research in six months and was armed with a list of leads, all of which led her to Australia and the descendants of Crevan Quinn. One didn’t possess a jewel like that without either selling it or passing it down as an heirloom. And since an emerald that size would have caused some notice had it been sold, it was probably still in the Quinn’s possession.

      “Can you hold these?”

      Gemma brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, startled back to reality by the stranger’s voice. He handed her the nuts. “That was quick. I don’t think I’d ever have been able to get those off on my own. I—I hope I’m not keeping you from anything,” she said.

      “Nothing important.” He stood and wiped his hands on his jeans, then walked to the tailgate to retrieve the spare. “You should get the tire repaired straight away. You don’t want to get stranded out here again without a spare.” He shoved the spare onto the bolts and she handed him the nuts, one by one.

      “Good advice,” she murmured.

      “You’re from Ireland.” He looked at her again, this time with a rather odd expression. “Are you here for a visit?”

      It was the closest they’d come to a two-sided conversation and Gemma jumped at the chance. She was known to be quite charming, with a ready wit. But she hadn’t had a chance to prove herself with this man. “I am. I’m staying out at Kerry Creek Station. Do you know it?”

      She saw his shoulders stiffen. “Is that where you’re headed now?”

      She nodded. “And you? Do you live out here or in town?”

      He pointed off toward the west. “Right out there, beyond the black stump. In the back of nowhere.”

      Well, if she wanted to find him, it wasn’t going to be easy with those directions. Was the black stump a local landmark, or just another Aussie saying? For such a gorgeous man, he was impossible to flirt with.

      Gemma stared down at his back as he let the car down with the jack, fascinated by the way his dark hair curled around his collar and his muscles flexed beneath the fabric of his shirt. Her fingers twitched as she fought the urge to touch him again. She held her breath in an effort to focus her mind.

      When he’d finished, he bolted the flat to the rack on the tailgate and tossed the jack inside. “There you go,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Good as new. Or almost.”

      “You must let me pay you,” Gemma insisted. “Or let me treat you to lunch. There’s a lovely coffee shop in town. They make the best meat pies.”

      “No, thank you,” he said. “I’m happy to oblige, miss.” He hesitated and she was certain he was about to change his mind, but then he moved toward his truck. “G’day, miss. Drive safe.” He gave her a quick tip of his hat and walked away. She watched as he hopped inside, then slowly backed the truck out of the gully and onto the road. As he drove off toward town, Gemma stared after him.

      She pressed her hand to her chest, her heart beating furiously beneath her fingertips. “Idiot,” she muttered. She’d made a botch of that. All the other men she’d met here in Australia had seemed to like her. He was probably involved, or married. Or not attracted to her in the least. Maybe Australian men didn’t fancy pale Irish girls with red hair and small breasts.

      Besides, not all white knights were supposed to fall in love with their damsels in distress. It was a historical fact. Once she got back to Dublin, she’d research it thoroughly and write a paper. Gemma smiled to herself. Whenever she found herself faced with a dilemma, it always helped to put it in historical context.

      “I SAID I WAS SORRY.”

      Cal stared at the toes of his boots as his brother apologized. Though he knew he ought to kick Brody’s arse for his behavior, he was tired of being his brother’s keeper. If Brody wanted to stuff up his life, then that was his choice. Cal was much more interested in thinking about the woman he’d met on the road.

      Gemma Moynihan. When Mary had mentioned her, he’d assumed the genealogist would be older, a granny sort with gray hair and glasses. Instead, she was stunningly beautiful, with flawless skin and a riot of auburn hair that fell in waves around her face. Though she looked quite young, Cal guessed she was probably about his age, give or take a few years on either side.

      From the moment he heard her speak, in that lilting Irish accent, Cal had wondered if she was the one. And when he learned her СКАЧАТЬ