Christmas in Hawthorn Bay. Kathleen O'Brien
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do this right now. She couldn’t do this ever.
But he wouldn’t be as easy to subdue as Farley. Farley was basically a spoiled man-boy who thought the world was his box of candy. Jack Killian had been a street fighter from the day he was born. He didn’t expect life to be simple or sweet.
And he didn’t know how to lose.
She had loved that about him once. Before she’d realized the twisted things it had done to his soul.
“Hello, Nora,” he said with a maddening composure. “Been explaining to Santa that all you want for Christmas is to be left the hell alone?”
She smiled in spite of herself. “Something like that,” she said. She adjusted her elf hat, which had slipped sideways, and tried to look semi-dignified. “It’s nice to see you, Jack. I didn’t know you were in town.”
How stupid she’d been not to consider this possibility. She knew that he and Sean were still close. Through the years Sean had traveled to Kansas City frequently to visit Jack, but the only time Jack had come back here was for his mother’s funeral, which had been held while Nora had been in Europe.
She had naively assumed she was safe.
Why hadn’t it occurred to her that the council’s bid to confiscate Sweet Tides would be the one battle he’d be willing to fight in person?
“Is it, Nora?”
“Is it what?”
“Nice to see me.”
She willed herself not to flush. But, as she looked at him standing there with his curly black hair and his piercing blue eyes, a dizzy confusion swept over her. For just a moment, she was transported back a dozen years, to a cold Christmas dawn rising over the water in wisps of blue and gold. Jack’s lips had tasted like the chocolate he’d stolen from her stocking, and his arms had been hotter than the bonfire they’d built on the beach.
In another instant the memory dissolved. All that was left was the awkward present.
“Of course it’s nice,” she said. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how easily her composure could unravel right now. She had to keep it distant, keep it professional. “I know we’re going to be on opposite sides of the eminent domain issue, but still…I’m glad to see you looking so well. Apparently the Army agreed with you.”
“Not really, but getting out of it did. And I enjoy practicing law. It’s a relief to be on the right side of it for a change.”
She laughed politely. “I can imagine.”
God, who were these two people? Years ago, they’d sat in this very park, in a twilight much like this one. They’d shared a cold park bench, and she’d laid her head in his lap. He had hummed a love song—he had a beautiful baritone—and had lifted her long curls to his lips, the gesture so sexy it had burned her scalp.
“I should go,” she said. “The children—”
“Yes.” He stepped out of the way. “I’ll look after Santa for you.”
“Thanks.” She paused, a sudden anxiety passing through her. Jack’s temper. If he’d seen Farley pawing her, grabbing her against her will…
“He’s been punished enough,” she said carefully, hoping Jack would get her meaning. “He drinks a little too much, but he’s not a bad guy.”
Jack understood her alright.
His familiar blue eyes narrowed briefly, and then he raised one eyebrow high. Oh, God, she thought. She knew that expression. She knew it so well it took her breath away.
“I think I can control myself, Nora. After all, I have no reason to hurt him, do I? He hasn’t messed with anything that belongs to me.”
“No.” She felt like an idiot. The man who stood here, with his expensive suit and his expensive haircut and his sardonic voice…he wasn’t going to get in a brawl over some woman he’d forgotten a decade ago.
He didn’t lust after Nora Carson’s body anymore, or her heart, for that matter.
But that didn’t mean she was safe.
She might still have something he wanted. Something he’d battle for. Something that would bring out the bare-knuckled street fighter she used to know. Just thinking of it made her racing heart come to a dead standstill.
She just might have his son.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I’M OUT,” THE MAN in the camel-hair suit said, slapping his cards facedown on the game table set up in the gun room of Sweet Tides. “My wife will kill me if I lose any more. You’re too damn lucky this week, Killian.”
“He’s too lucky every week,” the older man across from him, who had a strangely bouffant set of gray curls, grumbled around his unlit cigar.
“What can I say?” Sean laughed. “The angels love me. You in or out, Curly?”
“In, damn it. I’m not afraid of you.” Curly held onto his cards, but he kept rearranging them nervously while his cigar bobbed up and down.
Jack, who had spent the past hour sitting by the window reading through some eminent domain research, could see even from this distance that Curly’s knuckles were white with tension.
Jack smiled, bending his head back to the boring papers. Damn if Sean wasn’t going to take this hand, too.
It had been the same all night. One by one, the yellow and blue mother-of-pearl chips had marched their way across the green felt, as if under military orders, to stand in neat piles at Sean’s elbow.
Frankly, Jack had been shocked to hear that Sean even had a regular poker game. Like drinking, gambling had always been something the brothers avoided. Too much like dear old dad.
But, just before his friends had arrived, Sean had given Jack the quick rundown. About five years ago, Sean had decided to give cards a try, and he’d discovered that, unlike Crazy Kelly, he was pretty good.
Jack couldn’t bring himself to join in the game—technically, it was illegal, and he knew there were people in this town who would love any excuse to put a Killian behind bars, even if it was just for jaywalking or quarter stakes in a friendly neighborhood game.
But he’d enjoyed watching. He’d learned a lot about his brother. Sure, they’d spent plenty of time together on Sean’s trips out to Kansas City, but this was different. Like observing a very clever wild animal in its natural habitat.
He’d also learned a lot about the pretty brunette grad student Stacy Holtsinger, the one Sean had mentioned earlier. Stacy had climbed down from the attic about an hour ago, brushed the dust from her hair and had immediately started refilling glasses and peanut bowls.
Apparently Stacy had been studying Sweet Tides history long enough to become the unofficial hostess of the Saturday-night game.
And what else, Jack wondered?
Curly grudgingly tossed a couple of blue chips into the pile. “Okay, big shot. Show me.”
Sean smiled. He had a Killian smile, equal parts cocky bastard and pure good humor. The cocky part had made people around here yearn to tar and feather Killian men for generations. The good-humored part had kept them from doing it. Usually.
Sean splayed out his cards on the table. “Straight. King high.”
The other man took a deep breath. “Crap.”
Chuckling, Sean started picking up his winnings. As if on cue, Stacy appeared at his shoulder, grinning happily, and refilled his sweet tea.
“More beer, anyone?” She tore her gaze from Sean—reluctantly, Jack thought with a new twinge of curiosity—and she scanned the table. “Or is it time to switch to coffee?”
The