The Saint. Kathleen O'Brien
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was purely selfish, really. He needed to assure himself that, all things considered, she was doing okay. That Steve’s death had not destroyed her.
He needed to get at least that one small load of guilt off his breaking back.
Kieran didn’t know whose fault Steve’s death really was—not in any absolute moral, philosophical, religious sense, anyhow. In the eyes of the law, of course, it had been Steve’s own fault. He had been speeding.
But why was he speeding? Because he didn’t want to disappoint Kieran. Because Kieran had made it clear that commitment to their team was the most important thing in the world.
Maybe, as Claire had thrown in his face that night, Steve had died trying to live up to Kieran’s impossible expectations.
He couldn’t bring Steve back. But perhaps, if he could see that Claire’s life hadn’t been lost that morning, too, his conscience would let up a little.
He leaned back against the wall, swallowed another bite of cardboard lasagna and waited. Wine was exactly what they needed. Maybe after a couple of glasses he just might find out how deeply under this mound of grief and repression the real Claire Strickland was actually buried.
WHILE KIERAN RINSED the dishes, Claire rested her head against the wall and decided that she definitely shouldn’t have opened the wine.
It wasn’t that she was drunk. She’d had only a couple of glasses, and, even as out of practice as she was, it would take more than that. No, the problem was that she had begun to feel relaxed. Somewhere during this weird picnic dinner, she had begun to enjoy herself, to enjoy Kieran’s company, to enjoy hearing about home and laughing at his stories.
When she reviewed how it had all started, out there on the porch, she wasn’t exactly sure how he had managed to insinuate himself into her apartment and turn the whole stilted evening into a living-room picnic, complete with music and liquor and laughter.
But that was Kieran McClintock for you. He was smooth like that. The woman didn’t exist who could tell him no when he wanted to hear yes. He was born charming, and he’d just gotten better at it as he got older.
Wait… That wasn’t quite right. She had put on the music, and she had unearthed the booze. Maybe she was putting the blame in the wrong place….
She’d done that before, hadn’t she? When she had told Kieran that he killed Steve…that hadn’t been completely true. Part of her still blamed him for his part in the accident—and always would. But part of her had finally accepted that there was plenty of blame to go around.
And that’s why opening the wine had been such a mistake. She owed him an apology, and it wasn’t going to be easy to say what she needed to say. It was two years overdue, and it was going to stick in her throat. Steve’s name always did.
And it was definitely going to spoil what had become a rather nice evening. She hadn’t had company in so long, she’d forgotten how pleasant it could be.
He came in from the kitchen now, holding an apple, a small knife and a paper plate. He sat down beside her, his back against the wall, too.
He hummed along with the old Beatles song on the radio. He never rushed into small talk. That was one of his most charming traits. He could let a silence rest easy in the room. Of course, when you were the gorgeous Kieran McClintock, beloved heir to the McClintock fortune, which included practically the entire town of Heyday, it probably wasn’t difficult to be relaxed and self-confident and let other people do the impressing.
“Kieran, there’s something I need to say,” she began.
He turned his head and smiled at her. “Okay,” he said.
Up close, even by this dim light, she was struck by how blue his eyes were. And how gorgeous. God, she had forgotten how handsome he was. When she’d first left Heyday, she’d drawn horns and evil, arched eyebrows on her mental image of him. Even after she admitted, much later, that he might not be the devil, her memory had been distorted.
Most of all, she’d forgotten his amazing charisma. She’d forgotten that he radiated power and masculinity and charm like a light. That was, of course, why teenage boys, fifteen-year-old girls, spinsters and old men and puppies followed him anywhere. The only people she’d ever met who didn’t like Kieran were the men whose girlfriends openly lusted after him.
Suddenly the wine seemed to rise straight to her brain. And, as the warmth from his shoulder pressed into hers, she felt the edgy fingers of sexual tension feather at her spine.
Oh, God. She should have known this would happen.
When she didn’t speak, he smiled easily and held out the apple he had been peeling.
“Want dessert? I washed it. It doesn’t seem too banged up, though it did do a Slinky down two flights of stairs.”
“Sure,” she said, though she knew she was just stalling. She didn’t want to talk about Steve, not tonight, not to Kieran. She felt all mixed up inside. It was nerve-wracking to hang here like this, caught between the building desire and the lingering bitterness.
He cut off a wedge of the apple and handed it to her. She chewed it slowly. It tasted sweeter than anything she’d had since she left Heyday. In fact, she thought, shutting her eyes, it tasted like Heyday itself. It tasted like her mom’s apple pies and candy apples at the Ringmaster Parade. It tasted like green trees and blue skies and sunshine that slanted slowly over long afternoons.
When she opened her eyes, Kieran smiled and handed her another. As she took it, their fingers touched briefly, both of them slick with apple juice, and warm. Something sharply sweet jolted through her. Kieran would taste like Heyday, too, she thought. His lips would taste like home.
Oh, dear God, she still wanted him. But why should that surprise her? She had always wanted him, ever since she was fifteen years old and didn’t even understand what wanting meant. Up until that very last, terrible day, she had always felt a little breathless at the sight of him.
And now here they were, after all that had happened, after two whole years apart. Everything had changed between them—and yet, in this most primitive way, nothing had changed at all.
Just then the radio station began playing a love song that had been all the rage five years ago. She knew that song. It was corny and lilting and unabashed in its emotion. She had secretly loved it, but Steve had thought it was hilarious. He had wandered through the house, making up alternate lyrics, each more nauseatingly saccharine than the last.
“Steve made such fun of this song,” she said. “I never had the nerve to admit how much I liked it.”
Kieran smiled. He didn’t even seem to notice that she had finally brought up Steve, although that was probably another example of how smooth he was.
“I bet Steve loved it, too,” he said. “Teenage boys do that a lot. They aren’t comfortable expressing emotion yet. Eventually they grow out of it.”
She looked at him, feeling the sadness come streaking through her. No, she thought, tightening her shoulders to resist the pain. Steve wouldn’t grow out of it. Steve would never get the chance to grow up.
Kieran’s face tightened, and she knew he could read her thoughts. Or maybe he had just recognized his own insensitive blunder.
He put out his hand and touched her face.
“I’m sorry, Claire,” he said. “Oh, hell. I’m so sorry.”
She turned away. She looked down at her apple. She’d been holding this piece too long. It was starting to turn brown where her fingers pinched it.
“I think—I think maybe it’s time for you to go,” she said.
“Claire, don’t. Don’t close off again—”
But she had to. Didn’t he understand that? When she left herself open, open to wanting him, open to remembering Steve, then the pain came charging in, like an enemy