Night Of The Blackbird. Heather Graham
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is adorable.”
“Like a hedgehog,” Moira agreed. “Then there’s my father, who has yet to accept the fact that in the U.S., the Fighting Irish are a football team.”
“Not true! I’ve watched college football games with him. Though he does root for Notre Dame, I’ll give you that.”
“My mother will give speeches on how the traditional dish is bacon and cabbage, not corned beef, and somewhere along the line, if you’re not careful, Dad will get going on English imperialism against the rights of the Gaelic-speaking people of the world, and then he’ll get going on the wonders of America. He’ll forget that as a country we massacred hundreds of thousands of Indians and he’ll start to list famous Americans of Irish descent, from the founding fathers to the Civil War—both sides, of course.”
“Maybe he’ll avoid talking about Irishmen who rode with Custer.”
“Josh, I’m serious. You know my dad. Please, God, make sure no one brings up the question of Irish nationalism or the IRA.”
“Okay, we’ll keep him off politics.”
She barely heard him as she rested an elbow on the table, leaning over, preoccupied. “Patrick will bring my little nieces and nephew, so Mum, Dad and Granny Jon will all be running around pretending there are stray leprechauns in the house. They’ll have beer kegs everywhere, and everything will be green.”
“It sounds great.”
“We’ll have all kinds of company—”
“The more the merrier.”
She straightened and looked him in the eye. “Danny is coming,” she told him.
“Oh, I see,” he said softly.
He awoke very late and very slowly, and in luxurious comfort. The mattress he lay on was soft, the sheets cool and clean. The woman beside him still smelled sweetly of perfume, and of the scent of their lovemaking. She was young, but not too young. Her skin was tanned and sleek. Her hair was dark, and a wealth of it graced the hotel pillow. She’d had her price, but what the hell, so did he. They’d had fun together.
Coffee had brewed in a pot he’d set to go on a timer last night. Brewed and probably burned. He’d never imagined he would sleep so late.
He leaned against his pillow and the headboard.
America was good.
He had always enjoyed it.
There was so much here. Such an abundance. And such foolish people, who didn’t begin to understand what they had. Aye, they had their problems; he wasn’t at all blind to the world, nor did he lack compassion. But problems were different here. Spoiled rich kids, racial tensions, Republicans, Democrats…and, he had to say, though with all compassion, if they didn’t have enough problems, they just made more for themselves. But it didn’t change the fact that life was good.
The phone rang. He reached to the bedside table; picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Have you the order ready, sir?”
“I do. Shall I deliver, or do you want to come here?”
“It’s probably better if you come here. We may have more business to discuss.”
“That will be fine. When?”
He was given a time; then the phone clicked. He hung up.
The woman at his side stirred and moaned. She turned toward him; her eyes flickering open. She smiled. “Morning.”
“Morning.” He leaned over and kissed her. She was still a cute little thing. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, tanned.
She reached for him beneath the sheets, her hand curling around his sex.
He arched a brow at her.
She laughed. “Freebie. I don’t usually stay until morning—”
“I don’t usually keep a who—a woman—till morning,” he amended kindly.
Her fingers were talented, and he found himself quickly aroused. He noted, though, the light that was beginning to show around the edges of the curtains.
“What’s the matter?” she asked him.
He smiled, crushed out his cigarette. “Nothing,” he told her, drawing her head toward his, kissing her lips, then drawing her downward to continue a more liquid approach to her sensual assault on his body. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time.
She was very good, and it had been a long time since he’d had such an opportunity to dally. He let her have her way, then returned the favor, and when he made love to her—if one could, even politely, call the act “making love” when it with a woman who was a stranger and a whore at that—he did so with energy and pleasure, a courteous partner despite the fact that he swiftly climaxed. Even as he rolled to her side, he checked his watch again.
“Late,” he muttered, then kissed her lips and headed for the shower. “Coffee’s on. Cigarettes are by the bed.”
He showered quickly, with an economy of motion learned over the years. He emerged well scrubbed, hair washed. He grabbed a towel from the rack and studiously worked at drying his hair while he opened the bathroom door and exited, head covered, body naked.
“Did you get your cof—” He began politely, but then paused, muscles tightening “What are you doing?” he asked sharply.
She was on her knees, his pants in her hands.
“I—” she began, dropping his pants, looking at him. She stumbled to her feet. Had she been about to rob him?
He wondered what she had seen. He noted quickly that she had been through more than his pants. Drawers weren’t quite closed; the dust ruffle around the bed was still up at the foot of it. What had she discovered that had caused the look of fear she wore?
Or was it merely what she was seeing in his eyes?
She stood, clad in her bra slip and stockings. He watched the workings of her mind. She was wishing she’d got dressed and got the hell out while he had showered.
But she hadn’t.
Her eyes, glued to his, registered her fear. He didn’t look away; he saw the room with his peripheral vision. She’d done a good job in the time she’d had. Thorough. She was just a working girl—and, it appeared, a thief.
Or was she?
“I was just looking around, just curious,” she said, moistening her lips.
Whatever else she was, she was a damn poor liar.
“Ah, love,” he said softly. “Hadn’t you ever heard? Curiosity killed the cat.”
“Ah, your good friend Daniel O’Hara,” Josh teased. “Think of it. If it hadn’t been for old Danny boy, you and I might be married now.”
“And divorced—we’d have killed each other in a week,” Moira reminded him.
“Maybe, maybe not. Let’s see, you were intellectually in love with me, but you lusted after your old flame. I was the good, decent man who meant to do all the honorable things, but he was an unobtainable, intriguing and dashing young lover, and though never present, he took your heart as well as your—well, you know.”
“Josh, we would never have gotten married.”
“Probably not,” he agreed, a bit too cheerfully.
“Well, I don’t appreciate the dramatics. He’s an old family friend—”
“And the fact that he’s built like a linebacker and looks like an Adonis has nothing to do with it?”
“You’re being incredibly…shallow.