Her Irish Rogue. Kate Hoffmann
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giggled. “A very hot brother. Oh, hell, I’d probably be riddled with guilt if we slept together again. I do have some standards to maintain.”
“I want you to lift the curse you put on me,” he said.
A satisfied grin curled her lips. “I didn’t think you believed in my powers.”
“I don’t.”
“Which curse?” she asked.
Will groaned. “How many are there?”
There was a long moment before Sorcha answered. “Two. No, three.” She paused. “No, wait, I lifted that one after you helped me fix my car. Two,” she said.
“And what were they?”
“Well…one was so you’d never meet another woman as beautiful and sexy as I am. And the other had to do with your…performance in the bedroom.” She slowly raised her index finger, then let it curl up again. “A willy-wilting curse for Will.”
He frowned. Since they’d ended their relationship, his luck with women hadn’t been great, but he’d still been able to perform when called upon. He’d had three serious relationships in the past two years and all had ended after only a few months. In between, he’d indulged in an occasional one- or two-night stand with old girlfriends in London or Dublin. Living on an island offered few possibilities for regular or casual sex. That could only be found on the mainland.
“In the spirit of our newfound friendship,” Will said, “I want you to reverse both curses. Right now. In front of me.”
Sorcha sighed and grabbed the whiskey from his hand. “All right.” She swallowed her drink in one gulp, then sat up straight and closed her eyes, tipping forward until her red hair fell like a curtain around her face. Slowly, she began to rock back and forth, mumbling a string of words that Will recognized as Gaelic. Though he knew a fair bit of the language, he didn’t understand what she was saying. Suddenly, she opened her eyes. “I’m starved,” she said. “I need taytos. I have to have nourishment for this to work.” Then she closed her eyes and began to mutter again.
Will wandered back to the kitchen and grabbed a bag of potato crisps. When he returned to the parlor, Sorcha was lying down on the sofa. He handed her the bag of crisps and she tore it open, then popped one into her mouth. “God, I’m hungry,” she muttered. “Do you have any chocolate?”
“We’re going to eat in an hour. Are you done?”
She stuffed two more crisps into her mouth, then nodded. “Yes. You are now completely curse-free.” She paused. “Well, not entirely. I did a wee counterspell, just something between two good friends.”
“Sorcha, you promised.”
“This is a good spell. The next woman you meet will madly desire you and you’ll have a wildly passionate sexual encounter within twenty-four hours. She will stop at nothing to get into your trousers and have a go.”
A frantic knocking sounded through the quiet of the parlor and Sorcha giggled. “Ah! The spell has worked. It’s herself! I wonder who it could be? The single women on this island are a sad lot, except, of course, for me. I suppose Eveleen Dooly wouldn’t be so bad in bed. And then there’s Mary Carlisle. She’s old but she’s sprightly.”
“At least Eveleen wouldn’t curse me,” Will muttered. “While I answer the door, you remove the spell. Am I clear?”
“Quite,” Sorcha said. “Just walk slowly. It’ll take some time. It was a very complex spell.”
Will strolled out to the front hall, then waited a bit before he opened the front door. Standing on the steps was a woman, drenched by the rain, her shoes covered in mud.
“It’s about time,” she muttered, pale hair plastered to her face. “I’m soaked to the skin. And I couldn’t find the key. It’s supposed to be under the flowerpot.”
“I’m sorry,” Will said, reaching out to grab her bags. “Sorcha must have used…well, never mind. Come in, please. Welcome to the Ivybrook Inn.”
She walked inside, tracking mud across the parquet floor of the hall. Glancing back, she noticed what she’d done, then cursed softly, struggling out of her ruined shoes. “I couldn’t find the taxi. He was supposed to be at the pub and he wasn’t. Some farmer offered to give me a ride on his horse. Good thing, because an Irish mile seems to be a lot longer than an American mile. It took me forever to get here.” She picked up her shoes, her wet clothes making a puddle around her. “I need a room.”
Will studied her as he stepped behind the front desk. It was hard to tell what she looked like. She’d tied a scarf around her head to ward off the rain and her hair hung in a stringy mess over her eyes. One cheek was muddy and the other was stained with mascara.
Her jacket and jeans were so baggy and waterlogged that her shape was indistinct beneath them. She did have very pretty feet, Will mused, and her toenails were painted a bright pink. And she looked young, probably not much older than twenty-five or twenty-six. Will watched as she rummaged through her purse.
“You’re American?” he asked.
She shoved her hair back and met his gaze for the first time. Tiny droplets clung to her lashes and she blinked several times, sending rivulets down rosy cheeks. “I—I’m sorry, what did you ask?”
“American?” Will repeated softly, his gaze falling to her lips.
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
When he looked up, he found himself staring into sparkling turquoise eyes. She held out a credit card. “No, not at all,” he said, taking the card. “I was just curious. You sounded…American.”
A tiny smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “That’s probably because I am.” A shudder ran through her and she rubbed her arms. “So, may I have a room? I’d really like to get out of these clothes and—”
“Yes, of course,” Will said. “And I’d like to get you out of those…I mean, I’m sure you’d be more comfortable if you took your clothes off…and put others back on.” He grabbed the key for the nicest room on the second floor. “Room seven,” he said. Will reached out and grabbed her hand, then put the key in her palm. Her skin was damp and cool to the touch and he let his fingers linger, his thumb slowly caressing the inside of her wrist. “Top of the stairs and to your left. It’s at the end of the hall. All our rooms are en suite.”
“What does that mean?” she muttered, staring down at the key.
He grabbed her shoes from her hand. “They all have their own bathrooms. Seven has a very large tub with a shower. Why don’t you go on up and I’ll bring your luggage and shoes after I’ve had a chance to dry them off.”
“All right,” she said. She gently pulled her hand from his grip, then started toward the stairs.
“What is your name?” Will called.
She spun around. “What?”
“Your name. For the register.”
“It’s on the card,” she replied. “O’Connor. Claire O’Connor from Chicago. Illinois.”
“Welcome to the Ivybrook Inn, Miss O’Connor,” he said, glancing down at the credit card. “I’m Will Donovan.”
She nodded, then trudged up the stairs, her clothes dripping as she climbed. When he turned to tend to her bags, he found Sorcha leaning up against the doorjamb to the front parlor, clutching the bag of crisps to her chest and munching thoughtfully. “An American. Pretty thing, that,” she murmured, nodding toward the stairs. “I hear American girls are positively wild in the sack.”
“I don’t seduce the guests,” he said. “Don’t you have some potions to brew? Go home, Sorcha.”
“Too bad about the curse,” she murmured. “I’m afraid you were a bit