Читать книгу The Mighty Quinns: Brendan - Kate Hoffmann - Страница 8

BRENDAN QUINN sat in a dark corner of the Longliner Tap, nursing a warm beer and watching the patrons wallow in their Friday night rituals. The Longliner was a popular spot for commercial fishermen, their families and their friends, located on the rough and tumble waterfront of Gloucester, Massachusetts, homebase to the North Atlantic swordfishing fleet.

His own home, The Mighty Quinn, was tied up at a dock just a few hundred yards from the bar. Though the early December cold had set in, his father’s old swordboat was tight and cozy, providing a perfect spot for him to tie up the loose ends on his latest book.

He’d come to the Longliner to talk just once more to those family members and friends of the fishermen he’d profiled, hoping to find a new slant to his book about the dangers and adventures the men faced while making a living on the open ocean. He’d interviewed six different people that night, scribbling notes on scraps of paper in between conversations, plying his subjects with free beer to loosen their tongues.

Now that he’d finished, he just wanted to relax and absorb the atmosphere. The majority of the Gloucester fishermen who frequented the Longliner had already headed south for the season, but there were a few stragglers who hadn’t picked up a job on a boat for the winter, men used to working hard and playing even harder. And then there were the girlfriends and wives of those who were gone. They came to the bar to share their loneliness with other women who understood what they went through year after year.

Brendan’s gaze fastened on a petite blond waitress who wove through the crowd, a tray of beers held high over her head. Throughout the night, his gaze had come back to her again and again. There was something about her that wasn’t quite right, something that didn’t fit. Though she wore the standard costume—a canvas apron, impossibly tight jeans and a low-cut T-shirt that looked like it might have been painted on—she still didn’t seem to fit.

It wasn’t the hair, bleached a honey-blond, or the makeup, the dark eyes and bright red lips. Or even the three earrings she wore in each ear. He watched her for a long moment as she served drinks to a table of rowdy men. It was the way she moved. So unlike the other waitresses, with their hips swinging and breasts thrown out in obvious invitation. She was graceful, refined, not at all provocative. She seemed to glide across the floor almost like a dancer. The arch in her long neck and the turn of her arm added to the illusion that she wasn’t serving beers to a bunch of waterfront rats but floating across the stage with Baryshnikov.

She turned away from the table and Brendan raised his hand, curious enough about her to order another beer. But just as he caught her eye and she moved toward him, one of the wharf rats at the table grabbed her from behind and dragged her into his lap. In an instant, his paws were all over her.

As the tawdry scene unfolded, Brendan groaned inwardly. The situation was fast getting out of control and no one else seemed overly concerned. He knew of only one solution. “God, I hate fighting,” he muttered. He shoved his chair back and stalked across the bar to stand beside the table. “Take your hands off the lady,” he ordered, his fists clenched at his side, his instincts sharp.

The drunken lout looked up at him and gave him a sneer. “What did you say, pretty boy?”

“I said, take your hands off the lady.”

The waitress reached out and touched his arm. He looked down at her and was immediately struck by how young she was. For some reason, he’d expected a face lined by years of hard work and hard living. But instead he found a complexion so fresh, so perfect, that he was tempted to reach out and touch her to see if she was real.

“I can handle this,” she said. “You don’t need to get involved. I’m very good with conflict resolution and interpersonal communications. I took a seminar once.”

Her voice was low and throaty, the sound like whiskey on a cold night, drawing him in closer, warming his blood. Brendan reached down and took her hand, then pulled her to her feet. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.”

This time she clutched his jacket sleeve with her fingers. Her touch sent a current shooting up his arm. “No, really. I can take care of this. There’s no need to fight. Violence never solves anything.” She stared up at him with eyes so blue it hurt to look at them. “Please,” she pleaded.

Brendan wasn’t sure what to do. It wasn’t in his nature to just walk away from a woman in need. Especially not after being raised listening to all those Mighty Quinn tales of heroic deeds and chivalrous behavior. He glanced over to find the rest of the patrons silently watching, holding their collective breaths to see whether he’d turn tail or stay and fight. And in that brief instant, the decision was made for him.

When he turned back around to the waitress, he saw a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. The beer bottle came flying at his head and Brendan dodged. It whizzed past his ear and hit one of the drunks at the table, catching him on the temple before it fell to the floor and shattered. After that, all hell broke loose.

The waitress grabbed a plastic pitcher of beer and poured it over her attacker’s head then began to beat him with the pitcher. Brendan dodged another bottle and then a fist before catching a glancing blow to his chin. Determined to retreat before either one of them got seriously injured, he grabbed the waitress’s arm and dragged her away from the nucleus of the brawl. But she slipped from his grasp and jumped on the back of one of the drunks, boxing his ears with her fists.

Brendan had to admire the patrons of the Longliner Tap. They chose sides and they did it quickly, then threw themselves into the middle of an escalating melee, either with their fists or with verbal encouragement.

“God, I hate fighting,” he muttered. He was tempted to turn and walk away. But he couldn’t just leave the waitress in the middle of it all. He glanced over at her as she wielded a tray like some Ninja weapon. She whacked one drunk across the head then stomped on the instep of another when he came to the aid of his injured friend.

No one seemed to be concerned for her safety. Those patrons not involved in the fight were cheering her on. The rest of the waitresses had perched on the bar to get a better view of the fight. One bartender was on the phone, probably summoning the local constables, and the other had pulled out a baseball bat and was waving it in a threatening manner. But as the fight escalated, Brendan wondered whether the police would get there in time.

When a burly fisherman grabbed the waitress from behind and picked her up off her feet, Brendan took a step forward. She kicked the guy in the kneecap with the heel of her boot, then screamed for help. Although a voice in his head told him to mind his own business, Brendan knew he was about to end up right back in the middle of the mess.

The original lout stood in the midst of the brawl. Brendan saw him step up to the waitress, shout something at her, then draw his hand back to slap her. Though he wasn’t anxious to play white knight, Brendan couldn’t seem to help himself. Hitting a woman was unacceptable. He stepped between the man and the waitress. “Don’t even think about it,” Brendan warned.

“You gonna stop me?” the man growled. “You and what army?”

Brendan cursed softly. God, he hated fighting. But sometimes, a guy just couldn’t avoid it. “No army,” he said, turning away. “Just me.” Brendan drew his fist back, then launched a roundhouse punch that caught the guy on the nose. He howled in pain as blood spurted from his nose.

Then Brendan turned around to the hulk who was holding the waitress. A left cross and a punch to the kidney was enough for the guy to let her go. Brendan grabbed her arm, but to his shock, she pulled away from him.

“Let me go!” she cried.

He grabbed her again. “Don’t make me carry you out of here,” he warned. “Because, I’m not going to do it.” This was how it all began—for Conor and then for Dylan. Not the fight, but the rescue. This was exactly how they ended up trapped by a woman’s charms and madly in love. They each had saved a damsel in distress and their lives were never the same again. The hell if he was going to make that mistake.

“I’m not leaving! I can take care of myself!” With a curse, she jammed her heel onto his instep.

Pain shot up his leg. He ground his teeth and tried desperately to hold his tongue. “Listen,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “I’m not going to tell you again.” He grabbed her arm more firmly this time and dragged her toward the door.

“Help!” she screamed. “Help me!”

“I’m not going to do it,” Brendan muttered. “I’m not going to throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here. If I do, it’ll be the end of my life as I know it.”

“Someone, please. He’s kidnapping me!”

“Aw, hell.” Brendan stopped, bent over, grabbed her around the legs then hoisted her over his shoulder and strode to the door. A few of the patrons not involved in the fight cheered and some threw popcorn like rice at a wedding. With a tight smile, Brendan waved at them then yanked the door open and walked outside into the cold night.

When he got outside, he looked up and down the dark street. The sound of sirens approaching told him he’d gotten out of the bar just in time. Considering he’d instigated the fight, it might be best to avoid the authorities.

“Put me down,” the waitress said, wriggling and kicking.

“Not yet,” Brendan replied as he started across the street. He headed toward the docks and when they were far enough from the bar to escape notice, he bent over and set the girl on her feet. But he didn’t let go right away. “You aren’t going to run back inside, are you? Because I’d hate to think that I almost killed myself saving your pretty little backside only to have you jump right back into the fight.”

“The cops are here,” she murmured. “I’m not going back inside.”

Satisfied, Brendan unwrapped his arms from around her legs and straightened. They stood under a bright streetlamp near the end of the pier. Brendan’s gaze skimmed over her features. Despite the unflattering glare, he was even more astounded by her beauty. She didn’t have the cool, sophisticated features of Olivia, Conor’s wife. Or the cute, natural beauty of Dylan’s Meggie. This girl had a look that was wild and unpredictable, edgy and rebellious, as if she didn’t care what people thought of her.

She obviously didn’t care what he thought of her. The glare she sent his way bordered on murderous. “If you’re expecting me to thank you, I wouldn’t hold my breath.” She rubbed her arms and shivered, her chin tipped up defiantly.

The temperature was below freezing and all she wore was a skimpy T-shirt. Brendan slipped out of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. “My boat’s just down the dock here,” he said. “Why don’t you come with me and I’ll make us some coffee. The cops should be gone in about a half hour and then you can go back.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Why should I go with you? How do I know you’re not exactly like the guy you punched out, all paws and no brain?”

“Fine,” Brendan said. “Stand out here in the cold.” He turned on his heel and started down the dock. He smiled as he heard footsteps behind him.

“Wait!” she called.

Brendan slowed his steps until she joined him. When they reached his boat, he held her hand as she stepped up on an overturned crate and jumped lightly to the deck. Her fingers felt small and delicate in his hand and he held on for a bit longer than necessary.

The lights inside The Mighty Quinn burned brightly. When he opened the hatch and showed her through the companionway, she sighed softly. “I didn’t take you for a fisherman,” she said.

“I’m not,” Brendan replied, following her down the steps into the main cabin. “My father was. When he retired, I started living on the boat. I’ve gradually restored it, changed a few things around, opened up the galley. It makes a nice place to live, especially in the summer.”

She rubbed her arms again, this time through the soft leather of his jacket. “In the winter, too,” she said as she turned to face him.

Brendan’s gaze skimmed her features and stopped at a red welt on her cheekbone. He reached out and touched her there, realizing his mistake the moment he made it. A current of attraction, as strong as an electrical shock, shot through him as his fingertips made contact with impossibly soft skin. “You’re hurt,” he murmured.

Her gaze locked with his, her blue eyes wide and wary. She reached up and covered his fingers with hers. “I am?”

He nodded. The urge to kiss her was strong and undeniable, even though every shred of common sense told him that it was completely inappropriate. They’d known each other ten minutes at the most. Hell, he didn’t even know her name, yet here he was, tempted to sweep her into his embrace and taste her mouth! Brendan swallowed hard then realized exactly what was happening.

This was a self-fulfilling prophecy! He’d carried her out of the bar and now he could expect to fall head-over-heels in love with her…just like Conor…just like Dylan. Well, it wasn’t going to happen. He liked his life exactly the way it was—free and unencumbered. Brendan drew his hand away. “I’ll get you some ice,” he muttered. He motioned to the table in the corner of the cabin. “Sit. It’ll just take a second.”

She did as she was told, sliding into a spot at the table then playing distractedly with a pencil she found there. He reached over and moved his laptop computer out of the way then straightened a stack of manuscript pages, tucking them beneath a file folder.

“So, if you’re not a fisherman, what do you do?”

“I’m a writer,” Brendan said grabbing a handful of ice from the small fridge in the galley. He wrapped it in a cotton towel then sat down next to her and gently pressed it to the red mark on her face. Without thinking, he brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. Then he realized how intimate the action seemed.

“I should go,” she said, scrambling out of her place and putting a few feet of space between them.

At first, he thought he’d frightened her. But then he noticed the flicker of attraction in her eyes, the way her gaze flitted from his face to his body and back again. He wondered if he’d leaned forward and kissed her would she have drawn away or would she have responded?

She slipped out of his jacket and set it on the table beside him. “The cops have probably cleared out the rowdies by now and I’m working for tips. People are going to want their drinks and they’re paying me to fetch them.”

She turned toward the hatch, but Brendan grabbed her arm. He picked up his jacket and held it out to her. “Take this. It’s cold outside.”

She shook her head, her pale hair tumbling around her face. “No, I’m fine.” She hesitated then gave him a quick smile, the only smile she’d cast his way since they’d met. “Thanks. For the jacket. And for coming to my rescue.”

With that she was gone, disappearing into the cold December night and returning to a world to which she didn’t seem to belong. Brendan almost went after her, curious to know her name and her story, wondering what had brought her to work at the Longliner. Was she the girlfriend of a fisherman? Had she grown up in Gloucester? And why did her eyes remind him of the sky on a perfect spring day?

He backed away from the hatch and shook his head. He’d had his doubts about carrying her out of the bar. That had been his first mistake. It would be stupid to compound the error by going after her. She was out of his life, no harm, no foul. He should be happy he’d gotten away so cleanly.

Yet as he made himself a pot of coffee and settled down to work at his laptop computer, Brendan’s thoughts returned to her again and again, to that winsome smile and that spark of mischief in her eyes. To the curious air of mystery that seemed to surround her. And to the way he felt the instant he touched her, as if they’d made some strange, magnetic connection.

Brendan shook his head and refocussed on his work. She was gone and he was better off for it. Though Conor and Dylan had fallen into lifelong commitment and everlasting love, Brendan was pragmatic enough to know that he wasn’t meant to do the same. His work required the freedom to come and go at will and he had to protect that freedom at all costs.

Even if it meant walking away from the most intriguing woman he’d met in years.

“YOU CAN’T FIRE ME! It wasn’t my fault.”

Amelia Aldrich Sloane stood outside the Longliner, staring up at the second floor above the bar. The owner of the bar was silhouetted in the window of her tiny room. He tossed out a garbage bag stuffed with her belongings and it landed with a “whoof” at her feet.

“I warned you the last time,” he said, leaning out the window. “One more fight and you were through. Do you know how much damage you caused?”

“It’s not my fault,” Amy repeated.

“The hell it isn’t,” he shouted back.

“How is it my fault?” she demanded.

“You’re too damn pretty,” he said tossing her suitcase out the window. “You’re like catnip to a bunch of tomcats. Men can’t seem to keep their hands off you and that starts fights. And fights cost me money, sweetheart. Much more than you’re worth as a waitress.”

“But I need this job,” Amy cried, running to grab her suitcase as it hit the ground and burst open.

“I hear Buddy’s House of Crabs is hiring. Get a job there.” With that he slammed the window shut, leaving Amy to stand on the silent street. She cursed softly then grabbed her jacket from the heap and slipped it on. “Well, I wanted adventure in my life,” she muttered, gathering her things. “I guess I should be careful what I wish for.”

It was half past two in the morning and she’d just lost her room and her job all in one fell swoop. She should have known something was wrong when she had returned to the bar and the other waitresses had refused to talk to her. The owner had been summoned by the police and when he finally got the full story, he’d pulled Amy aside and told her to clear out.

At first, she thought he was kidding. But when he climbed the stairs to her room and started tossing her belongings out onto the street, she had no choice. She’d raced outside to collect what she could before the bar patrons stumbling home after closing time were able to grab a souvenir or two. As it was, they all got a nice round of chuckles from her predicament.

“Now what am I supposed to do?” she murmured. Working at the Longliner had been the perfect setup. She needed to stay below the radar and seeing as she worked for tips only, the owner had no need for proof of her identity or her social security number. But the wandering hands of a customer and her rather indignant response had put an end to what she’d hoped would be a long-term job.

She hadn’t had much of a plan when she’d left her life back in Boston, only that she was determined to get as far away from her old life as possible—away from her dictatorial father and her socialite mother, away from their powerful influence over her life. And most of all, far away from her scheming fiancé, the man who’d grown to love the Aldrich money more than he loved Amy.

Her life had been planned for her from the moment she was born, the only child of Avery Aldrich Sloane and his beautiful wife Dinah. And for most of her life, she’d dutifully followed the plan. But then one day, just a week before her big society wedding to Craig Atkinson Talbot, she’d come to the realization that if she stayed, she would never really live her own life.

She had been on the run for nearly six months, lucky enough to keep just one step ahead of the private detectives her father had hired. She’d lived in Salem, in Worcester and in Cambridge, picking up odd waitressing jobs and calling on old friends to put her up on their sofas. She figured if she could just keep out of sight for another six months, then she was in the clear. The trust fund her grandmother had set up for her would be all hers, no strings attached. The day she turned twenty-six years old, she’d become a comfortably wealthy woman, a woman free to experience all the things she’d missed in life, free to search for adventure and excitement.

As she arranged her belongings neatly on a bench in front of the bait shop, she thought about what the money would mean. She’d always rejected her parents’ obsession with financial matters, thinking their avaricious nature somehow unseemly. But since she’d been trying to live on her own, Amy had realized that money, at least a small amount of it, came in pretty handy.

Though she’d been brought up in the lap of luxury, Amy had always wanted to test her parents’ boundaries. She’d argued for public school, but was forced to attend an exclusive private prep school. When she’d insisted on a public university, a big college where she could get lost in the crowd, her parents gave her a choice of Sarah Lawrence or Vassar. That time she won a small victory, choosing Columbia University in New York.

It was at graduate school at Columbia where she’d met her fiancé, a wonderful man from a good Boston family who was studying law, hoping to open a community law office. When she’d first introduced him to her parents, they’d been pleased with his family connections but worried over his career prospects. He was the perfect man for her next rebellious step.

But that soon changed once Craig fell under the spell of her father’s money and influence. It wasn’t long before he was working for Aldrich Industries as a corporate lawyer. A few months before their wedding, he was promoted to Executive Corporate Counsel, a powerful position that came with a six-figure salary and stock options. It was then that Amy realized his dream of a community law office had been put aside and that the man she’d fallen in love with was not the man she was about to marry.

So she ran. Just a week before she was scheduled to walk down the aisle, she packed a bag in the middle of the night, drove her car to the train station and hopped the last train out of town. She’d cleaned out her checking account the day before, giving her enough cash to live on for three months. That cash was long gone.

Amy reached into her pocket and withdrew a wad of bills she’d collected as tips. By the light from the streetlamp, she began to count it, wondering if she’d have enough for a room for the night. She glanced up at the sound of footsteps, quickly hiding the money in her jacket pocket. But then she recognized the man who approached. It was the guy who’d started the fight in the bar, the man responsible for her predicament.

It was as if he appeared from nowhere again to rescue her, her hero with the dark windblown hair and the chiseled features. Amy swallowed hard. A shiver of attraction raced through her but she refused to acknowledge it. She was cold. She’d been sitting outside for fifteen minutes and she was simply cold, that’s what caused the shiver. “What are you doing here?” she asked when he stopped in front of the bench.

“I was just taking a walk to clear my head,” he said. “What are you doing sitting out here? You shouldn’t be here all alone. Are you waiting for a ride home?”

“Actually, that was home,” she said, pointing back to the Longliner. “I lived above the bar…until about fifteen minutes ago. Until you got me booted out of my job and my place to stay.”

“Me?”

“You heard me,” Amy said. “Because of you, I lost my job and my place to stay, not to mention two decent, though incredibly greasy, meals a day. I told you I could take care of that guy.”

“He had his hands all over you.”

Amy laughed softly. “You don’t hang out much at the Longliner, do you? That’s par for the course. Besides, a little grope here and there makes the tips better. I know my own limits and I know how to enforce them.”

He shook his head. “The owner couldn’t have fired you just because of one fight—a fight that really wasn’t your fault. Let me go talk to him. I’ll—”

“This was my third fight, if you must know. I guess he was getting a little sick of paying for shattered glasses and broken tables.”

He sat down next to her, bracing his elbows on his knees. “You must have friends or family you could call.”

Amy shook her head, warmed by his concern. “No. My family lives on the west coast,” she lied. “Besides, we don’t talk much. And I haven’t been here long enough to make friends.”

“Well, where are you going to go?”

Amy shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll figure out something.”

He cursed beneath his breath. “I suppose you don’t have money for a motel room?”

She heard the concern in his voice, caught the trace of guilt in his expression. He did believe this was his responsibility, even though Amy knew it really wasn’t. She reached in her jacket pocket and pulled out the cash she’d made on tips—barely thirty dollars. “It’s your fault, you know. I was handling the problem. If you wouldn’t have butted in, I could have stopped the fight. But as soon as you pulled me out of there, all hell broke loose.”

“If you had stayed, you would have gotten hurt,” he said.

“We’ll never know, will we.”

They sat on the bench for a long time, staring out at the harbor, their breath clouding in front of their faces. Then he stood up and grabbed the garbage bag and her leather suitcase. “Come on, then,” he muttered.

Amy stood up and snatched the bag from his hand. “Come on where?”

“You can stay with me. There’s a crew cabin on my boat. It’s clean and warm. You can spend the night and tomorrow you can find a new job and a new place to live.”

Amy gasped, completely taken aback by his offer. She’d expected a few extra dollars for a motel room, maybe an offer of a ride. “Stay with you? I don’t even know your name. How do I know you’re not some psychopathic serial killer?”

“I guess you don’t,” he said.

“What’s your name?”

“Brendan Quinn,” he replied. “What’s yours?”

“Amy Aldrich.” She stared at him for a long moment. “Brendan Quinn. I suppose that doesn’t sound like a serial killer’s name.”

“I told you, I’m a writer.”

She motioned him closer. Reaching out, she touched his chin and tipped his head up to the light. “You look like you have an honest face. I’m very intuitive and I’m sure I’ll be safe with you.”

“I’m sure you will,” Brendan replied. He held out his hand and she hesitantly placed her fingers in his. “It’s nice to meet you, Amy Aldrich.”

They started off back down the dock, Amy glancing over at him every now and then. He really was quite handsome. She’d noticed that the moment he’d walked up to her in the bar. His dark hair was just a bit too long, brushing the collar of his leather jacket, and his face was covered with the dark stubble of a day-old beard. But it was his eyes that captured her attention. They were an odd mixture of green and gold, not exactly hazel, something much more intriguing.

When they reached his boat, he tossed her belongings onboard then helped her on deck. She lugged her suitcase toward the hatch and then dragged it down the steps. As she took in the cozy interior, she sighed in relief. Although she’d be sleeping in a strange place, Amy somehow knew that she’d be safe here. In truth, this would be the perfect spot to stay for the next few months.

“Can I make you anything to eat?” he asked.

Amy nodded, looking around the cabin, searching the place for more clues about the man she was entrusting with her safety. He lived comfortably. Though the interior of the cabin wasn’t luxurious, it was functional. And tidy. The shelves of books and the laptop computer proved his claim to be a writer.

“Where do I stay?” she asked.

He pointed forward. “First door on your right. There should be an empty bunk.”

“Where’s the head?” she asked.

He paused and looked at her. “You know boats?”

Amy shrugged and started forward. “My dad had a small boat.” She stepped inside the crew cabin. In truth, her father had a huge boat, a yacht on which she and her mother had spent summer vacations cruising the Mediterranean while her father stayed in Boston. She tossed her things on one of the lower berths, then rummaged through a bag for clean clothes. What she wore smelled of smoke and stale beer.

When she emerged from the bathroom with a freshly scrubbed face and clean clothes, she found him waiting for her at the table. She sat down next to him and picked up the glass of milk he’d poured for her then took a slow sip. “I really appreciate this,” she said, setting the milk down and licking her upper lip.

“No problem,” he murmured, his gaze fixed for a moment on her mouth.

To distract his attention, she took a bite of the ham sandwich he’d prepared. She’d been so used to eating bar food for every meal that a simple ham sandwich tasted like gourmet fare. “Why did you jump into the middle of that fight?” Amy asked. “I was in a roomful of men and you were the only one who came to my aid. Why was that?”

“I don’t know,” Brendan said. “You just looked like you needed me.”

“The same way I needed you outside the bar?” Amy asked.

“Yeah, maybe.” Brendan chuckled.

“But why?”

He shrugged. “When I was a kid my Da used to tell us stories about our ancestors. The Mighty Quinns. They were always the heroes, brave and strong, chivalrous. I guess the stories stuck.”

Amy smiled, then leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m glad they did,” she murmured. She picked up her sandwich and her milk and pushed away from the table. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

When she reached the safety of her cabin, Amy shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, clutching the milk and her ham sandwich to her chest. She smiled, then took a bite of the sandwich. It was nice to have a hero, someone who cared more about her than the Aldrich money. But how far would this stranger— would Brendan Quinn—go to help her?

Amy sighed. There was an even bigger question out there. How long would she be able to resist such a handsome and charming protector?