The Mighty Quinns: Riley. Kate Hoffmann
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He shook his head. “You could have told me you were a fine bit of stuff.”
Though she should have been insulted, Nan’s irritation suddenly vanished and she smiled reluctantly.
“‘Stuff’? What do you mean by that?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m saying,” he replied. “You’re beautiful, so don’t get your knickers in a twist if I call you on it.” Riley reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, then handed it to her. “There’s your name. Come on. Spilt milk. I’m in the car park.” He grabbed her suitcase and started across the road. When she didn’t follow, he turned around and strode back, grabbing her carry-on. “It’s this way,” he said. “Don’t expect I’ll carry you, too.”
Nan followed him across the road, hurrying to catch up with his long strides. “Maybe you should have had that cigarette,” she shouted. “Or maybe a big handful of mood elevators would help your negative attitude.”
He laughed out loud. “Now, why would you say that? I’ve been nothing but pleasant since the moment we met.”
“And I haven’t?”
He sent her such a charming smile that Nan couldn’t do much more than laugh herself. “You’ve been a darling,” he said.
It was impossible to be angry with the man, no matter how irresponsible he might appear to be. “Be careful,” she called as he hauled her suitcase up a set of steps. “That’s brand-new luggage.”
Giving her a long-suffering glare, he picked the suitcase up in his arms and continued up the stairwell. “Jaysus, what do you have in here?”
“I’m staying for ten days. I needed my things.”
“And what might those things be?” he asked. “Construction supplies? I won’t be asking you to build your own cottage.”
“I had to bring shampoo and soap and lotion. And all my guidebooks. And I had to bring some things to eat, like peanut butter and my favorite kumquat preserves. And my special tea. I know you won’t have those things here.”
“They let you through with that?” he asked.
Nan stopped short, her hand clutching the railing. “What do you mean? Was I supposed to declare it? They said just meat and dairy products. And plants. The jars have never been opened and I—oh, no. Do you think they consider tea a plant?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Here in Ireland, plants usually don’t have leaves.”
“I have to go back.”
She reached for her suitcase, but he pulled it away and grabbed her arm. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he warned. “We’re not going back inside.”
“But I may have broken the law.”
“So you’re a criminal now. You’re just going to have to live with the shame. Come on, Alice Capone, let’s get the hell out of here before you find another way to waste my day.”
“If I get in trouble, I’m going to blame you,” Nan said.
“Oh, you’ll be fine. It’ll be a grand adventure, your life on the run from the Irish authorities. It’s better than kissing the Blarney stone, you know.”
“This is not how I imagined my vacation going,” she murmured.
When they reached the first landing, Riley stopped and turned back to her. “I’m sorry if I’ve been acting like a wanker.” He held out his hand and she grasped it. “We’ll begin again. Hello, Miss Galvin. I’m Riley Quinn. Welcome to Ireland. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
Nan smiled, staring down at their hands, so casually joined. He had beautiful hands, long, tapered fingers. So he was a nice guy at heart. “See, that wasn’t so difficult.” The warmth of his hand seeped into hers and she realized the attraction she’d first felt for him was still there, only multiplied. A tingle snaked up her arm. He was handsome and funny and even a bit chivalrous. If he could sing, he’d be the perfect man. “Thank you,” she said.
He held on, a lot longer than she considered polite. His thumb gently stroked the back of her hand, turning a benign greeting into something almost sexual. She didn’t really mind. It felt nice. “The car is just up here,” he finally said, his voice soft, his gaze fixed on her face.
Nan tugged her hand away then stuck it in her jacket pocket for safekeeping. “Lead on,” she said.
RILEY DOWNSHIFTED the car as they approached the interchange, then looked over his shoulder as he turned onto the roundabout. When another car nearly cut him off, he laid on the horn, cursing beneath his breath. He’d never make it back to the pub for the lunch rush, so why bother trying?
Nan was sitting stiffly in her seat, her eyes wide and her hands folded on her lap as if she were praying. “Don’t worry, I’ve never had a wreck.”
“It’s a …” She cleared her throat. “It’s a feckin’ miracle,” she finished, imitating his Irish accent perfectly.
Her use of an Irish curse seemed so ridiculous coming from a proper little thing like her, he couldn’t help but laugh. “There you go. You’ll fit right in with a mouth like that.”
She grinned. “When in Ireland …”
Gad, she was pretty, Riley mused. Not at all what he usually pictured when he thought of American women. He’d met a fair number of American students in pubs all over Ireland, but his image had been finely honed early in life, by old episodes of Baywatch—long blond hair, tight bodies and tanned skin. And breasts that seemed a lot larger than those provided by nature.
Nan was fresh and feisty, with a very simple, straightforward beauty. Her short-cropped black hair curled softly around her face and long, dark lashes ringed vivid green eyes. She was stubborn and opinionated, the kind of woman who would make charming her a tough go, even for the most experienced Casanova. But then, Riley enjoyed a challenge.
Though he had been anxious to get back to the pub, now that they were on their way, Riley decided to get off the expressway and enjoy the rest of the trip. The local roads back to Ballykirk provided a picturesque drive and he found himself wanting to spend a bit more time with Nan before delivering her to the cottage.
“So, you mentioned that your family had a pub. Do you serve lunches there? I’m starving. The food on the plane was awful.”
“Best lunch in all of Ballykirk,” he said.
“Are you the cook?”
“No. I tend to the bar every now and then.”
“You’re a bartender.”
“No. Actually, I make my living as a musician. I write songs and sing. At the Hound and at other pubs around Ireland.”
“You sing,” she said, as if surprised by the news. “Really? Are—are you famous?”
“Depends on what you consider famous. I’m no Elvis. But people know who I am. They come to see me. They buy my CDs. But I’m not planning a stadium tour anytime soon.”
“Maybe I can come and hear you sing,” she said.
“Maybe you can,” Riley replied.
She sent him a smile that was so sweet, he wanted to reach out and touch her again. He clutched the wheel until his knuckles turned white, wondering why he found himself so attracted to the American. It wasn’t just the fact that she was pretty in an unconventional way. There was a wide-eyed innocence about her that he found intriguing. Women her age were usually quite jaded, but not Nan. There wasn’t a cynical bone in her body.
As they continued on to Ballykirk, Nan seemed fascinated by each new sight that passed by her window—the churches, the graveyards, the stone walls. When they rounded a curve in the road, Nan threw her arm out and grabbed his shoulder.