Читать книгу Her Irish Rogue - Kate Hoffmann - Страница 6

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THE BOAT SKIMMED over the choppy gray water, sending a gentle spray into the air to land on Claire O’Connor’s face. She brushed a damp strand of hair from her eyes, then fixed her gaze on the small island in the distance, a hazy bump on the horizon.

The Isle of Trall. She’d left Chicago twenty-four hours earlier and now that she was nearing her destination, Claire realized she’d come on a fool’s errand. “I must be crazy,” she murmured.

“What’s that, lass?”

Claire glanced over at Billy Boyle, the captain of the mail boat, and forced a smile. “Nothing,” she murmured.

“If ye step inside, you won’t be gettin’ so damp.”

“That’s all right,” Claire said. Perhaps the cold and damp were exactly what she needed to shake a little sense into herself. So much had happened in the past two days she’d hardly had a chance to think clearly. She’d lost her boyfriend, her job and her apartment all in one six-hour period. As a result, she’d begun a quest to get them all back in one crazy act of desperation, an act that brought her to a tiny island off the western coast of Ireland.

“We don’t see too many single passengers makin’ the trip to Trall,” Captain Billy said. “Mostly couples. It’s a romantic destination, ye know. Not really a place for people to visit on their own.”

Her grandmother, Orla O’Connor, had told her of the island, and of the legend, but Claire wanted to hear it again, from someone who had more than just fifty-year-old evidence of its existence. “Why is that?” she asked.

“They come hoping to find the Druid spring. It’s in all the tour books. It’s said that if a couple drinks the water, they will be bound together for life. Eternal love and all that. You ask me, I think it’s bollocks.”

“Do you know where this spring is?” she asked.

Captain Billy shook his head. “I’m the one who should have been lookin’. I’ve had meself three wives and not one of them is still warmin’ me bed.”

Claire turned her attention back to the island. She’d been under the assumption that the location of the spring would be posted on every roadside in Trall, with huge signs and arrows pointing the way, and maybe even a modern visitors center. Her grandmother had said nothing about having to search for it! “Is there anyone who knows where it is?”

Captain Billy considered her question for a long moment, then shrugged. “I’d suppose Sorcha Mulroony would know. She’s a Druid princess or… priestess, I think she calls herself. Me, I think she’s a bit barmy. But she fancies herself the keeper of all the island’s magic. You could ask her, but she charges a steep price for her services.”

“Her services?”

“Soothsaying, curses, spells, she does it all. I bought a curse from her last year. Cost me fifty euros, it did. There was a tosser from Dingle who was tryin’ to get the contract for the mail boat by cuttin’ my price. Sorcha cursed his boat and it sank in the harbor the very next day.”

“Did you ever think maybe she just poked a hole in the side of his boat and that’s why it sank?”

Billy thought about the possibility as if it had never occurred to him before. Then he shrugged. “I don’t care what she did. That bloke isn’t haulin’ mail to Trall, is he now?”

“I suppose he isn’t,” she said with a smile. Claire wrapped her corduroy jacket more tightly around her, watching as the island grew larger and larger on the horizon. “Can you recommend a place to stay on Trall?”

“There’s a lovely inn to the north of town. The Ivybrook out on Cove Road. This time of year, there should be rooms available. Will Donovan runs it. His family has been on the island for generations. He’s a celebrity of sorts, he is.”

“Famous? For what?”

“Oh, we don’t gossip about our neighbors on Trall.” Billy frowned. “But maybe this isn’t gossip, more in the line of news. A few years back, he was named one of Ireland’s most eligible bachelors. Got his picture in a fancy magazine for it.”

“Interesting,” Claire said.

“His great-grandfather was the first to run the inn. T’was an old manor house at one time. A summer home for some posh Brit. Will left the island for university and we thought we’d seen the last of ’im. Then three years ago, he comes back to Trall to run the inn. His folks, Mick and Maeve Donovan, wanted to be closer to their daughter and their grandkids, so they were off to Dublin. Island life seems to suit Will. That’s not gossip, it’s fact.”

“I probably should have called ahead for a reservation.”

“I haven’t brought any tourists out to the island in the past three days,” the captain said. “So I don’t think ye’ll have a problem. There’ll be more folks coming in for the Samhain celebration later this week.”

“Oh, I’ll be gone by then,” Claire said. “I’m just staying a night, maybe two.”

“If ye don’t find Will at the inn, there’s a key under the flowerpot next to the door. Just let yourself in.”

“Why would he lock the door if everyone knows where the key is?”

“’Cause of Dickie O’Malley. He’s got a farm south of town and he’s got no hot runnin’ water. So he wanders into town looking for a place to take a bath. Dickie is a dirty bugger and he always leaves a mess. Uses every clean towel in the place. He also drinks every last drop of whiskey before he leaves. I guess you could say it’s his callin’ card. That’s not gossip, lass, it’s just fact.”

They passed the rest of the trip in silence, Claire sitting at the stern of the boat, trying to make out details of the island as they approached. Suddenly, her reasons for coming to Trall seemed so silly. She’d come to find a magic spring that would make her boyfriend love her again.

The sequence of events leading to this moment had been burned indelibly into her brain. She’d risen just yesterday morning, thinking it was a day like any other. Eric had left for the office early and rather than ride in with him, Claire had decided to sleep a little longer and take the train. It was only moments after she got up that she found the note, a fluorescent green sticky stuck to the bathroom mirror. It’s over. I’m sorry. Goodbye.

Eric had been pensive and moody for the past month, but Claire had assumed he was leading up to a proposal of marriage, not a breakup, especially after she’d found the credit card receipt for a $9,000 purchase at one of Chicago’s finest jewelers.

She’d dressed for work, determined to speak to him the moment she arrived at the office. They’d worked at the same advertising agency for four years and had been together for two and a half. He couldn’t be serious about breaking up, she’d told herself.

But when she’d arrived at work, she’d found the agency in complete chaos. A company meeting had been called early that morning to inform the staff that the agency had just been bought out by a larger firm. Half the employees would be without jobs. She was promptly called into the creative director’s office and told she was officially unemployed. It was only then she’d learned Eric had tendered his resignation the day before and was already gone, his office empty of his personal effects, his whereabouts unknown.

As if things couldn’t get worse, when she returned home a few hours later, she found an overnight envelope propped up against her apartment door. Inside was a notice that her building was being converted to condos and she was welcome to buy at a price an unemployed advertising art director could never afford.

Claire had always been so careful in planning her life, from finding the right man to getting a job at the best agency in town to living in a beautiful apartment in a trendy Chicago neighborhood. She watched her diet, choosing organic foods from the grocery store, and she worked out religiously, four times a week at her health club. She even did volunteer work once a week with an after-school program. How could her life possibly have gone so bad in such a short time?

“When it rains, it pours,” her grandmother had told her as Claire had sat numbly on her sofa. And then, Orla O’Connor had given her granddaughter a simple solution. Win back the man in your life first. The rest will fall into place. When Claire had asked how, Orla had a ready answer. A trip to Ireland, to the Isle of Trall, would solve all her problems.

“And here I am,” she murmured. On a boat to Trall.

Captain Billy steered into a calm harbor and deftly maneuvered the boat up to an empty dock. When it bumped against the wood pilings, he jumped off and secured the lines, then helped Claire onto the dock. A moment later, her luggage was sitting at her feet.

“The mail boat leaves at noon, Monday to Friday. You can catch a ride back with me or take the car ferry. That makes three trips a day, every day.”

“Which way is the inn?” Claire asked.

“’Bout a mile down the road,” Billy said, pointing off to the north. He glanced up at the sky. “You’d better hurry along. It looks like we’re due for a spot of rain.”

“Isn’t there a taxi?”

This time he glanced at his watch. “Well, there usually is, if guests are expected, but you weren’t expected, now, were you? Dougal Fraser runs the island’s taxi service, but it’s nearly 4:00 p.m. I suspect he’s already well into his second pint at the pub. That’s it just over there. The Jolly Farmer, it’s called.”

“Could you give me a ride to the inn?”

The captain shook his head. “Oh, no. That would be puttin’ a toe onto Dougal’s turf and he wouldn’t take kindly to me doin’ that. We have our own little rules here on the island and stealin’ a man’s livin’ is one that we never break. Besides, I keep my car on the mainland. No need for it here. There’s nowhere to go on this island.”

“And if he’s not there? Am I expected to walk a mile with my suitcases?”

“Oh, I’m sure someone will come along and offer you a ride, then. Just wave them down and tell them where you’re going.”

Claire watched as Billy grabbed a sack from the boat and hefted it over his shoulder. “Come along, I’ll show you the way.” They walked to the end of the dock and Billy pointed to a small white-washed building on the corner of the cobblestone street. “Walk right in there and ask for Dougal. Hurry along now, before ye get wet.”

The light rain had turned to a steady downpour as Claire reached the door of the pub. She wiped the water from her eyes and walked inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior, but when they did, she saw the bartender and two patrons staring at her with curious gazes.

“I’m looking for Dougal Fraser?” Claire said.

WILL DONOVAN tossed another sod of peat onto the hearth in the spacious parlor of the inn, then stared into the flames. The peat flamed, sending a welcome rush of warmth into the chilly room.

“Fetch me another whiskey,” Sorcha murmured, staring at him through a tumble of coppery-red hair.

He glanced over his shoulder to see her holding out the crystal tumbler, snuggled into her usual spot on the sofa. Her lips curved into a smile he knew all too well, one she’d used on any number of men to great success, weaving her spell about them until they were defenseless against her charms. Will had fallen prey the summer he’d returned to the island three years ago, indulging in a brief but passionate affair with Sorcha.

But in the end, after six tempestuous months, they realized they’d made much better friends than lovers. Until just last year, Sorcha had still been convinced he was the only man for her. So she had used every Druid power she possessed to make his life miserable. In fact, he still carried one or two of her curses. “Why should I fetch you a whiskey?” he asked, relaxing into an overstuffed chair across from the sofa.

“You’re the host here. I’m the guest.”

“And you invited yourself to supper,” Will reminded her.

“Please, fetch me a whiskey,” Sorcha whined. “Or I’ll put a feckin’ curse on you, Will Donovan.”

Will crossed the room and grabbed her glass, then strolled over to the small table that held the decanter. He poured a small measure into the tumbler and returned to the sofa. But when Sorcha held out her hand, he pulled the whiskey back. “I’ll give you this drink if you do me a small kindness in return.”

Sorcha sat up on her heels, brushing her hair out of her pale eyes. “This sounds interesting. What’s wrong? Has it been a while since you’ve had some?”

He wagged his finger at her. “We’re not going to go there, Sorcha,” he muttered. “We’ve been there before and it didn’t work.”

“I know. But this time we can just have a shag. We won’t bother with the relationship.”

“Let’s be honest. You devour men. You require that they worship you and wait on you and satisfy you until they’re nothing but blithering fools. And then you toss them aside for someone new.”

Sorcha’s lips pressed into a pout. “How can you say that? I love men.”

“Maybe a little too much,” Will said.

“If you’re going to insult me, then give me my whiskey. I feel like getting pissed.”

“Not until you do something for me.”

“What do you want? Obviously not my body. I should be humiliated, but I’m not. I’ve come to think of you as a…dare I say it? A brother?” She 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 too fast answering the door. I didn’t have a chance to remove the spell.” She grinned as she popped another crisp into her mouth. “She’s definitely worth a shag or two, Will. I think I’ll just be going now.” She walked over to Will, straightened his collar and smoothed his hair. “Just remember to be nice and to use a Johnny. Good sex is safe sex.”

“Get out,” Will muttered.

She grabbed her mackintosh from the coat tree in the hall and slipped into it. “Have fun, Wills. You can thank me later,” she said.

Will walked back to the kitchen to fetch some rags, then cleaned up the mess Claire O’Connor had made in the entry hall. Her shoes were ruined, but he dried off her suitcases and carried them upstairs.

Her door was slightly ajar and he knocked softly. “Miss O’Connor?”

There was no answer. Will peeked inside and found the room empty. He placed the suitcases next to the bed, and turned back to the door. As he did, he glanced into the bathroom and his breath caught in his throat. The door was open just far enough for him to see her lying in the tub.

He froze, unwilling to invade her privacy. But then Will realized she was sound asleep, her arms draped over the sides, her head resting on the edge of the old clawfoot tub as water still poured out of the faucet.

Her pale hair was brushed away from her face and he found himself transfixed by the simple beauty of her profile, her upturned nose, her lush lips. He noticed a tiny sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks. His gaze drifted down, to the soft flesh of her breasts, rosy from the rising water in the tub.

Desire warmed his blood and he fought the impulse to step closer. Innkeepers had certain standards they kept to and spying on a female guest while she was in her bath went way beyond acceptable behavior. But then, what if Sorcha was right? What if this woman was meant to be his anyway?

She stirred slightly, then sighed, her lips parting as she sank a bit deeper into the bath. Will backed up and grabbed the suitcases, setting them closer to the door. When he reached the hallway, he drew a deep breath and leaned back against the wall. If the tub overflowed, he’d have a reason to return, but for now, he’d keep to the hall.

The image of her naked body whirled in his head and he felt himself growing hard at the thought of touching her. Will groaned in frustration. Sure, it had been a while. And there had been the occasional fantasy about a sexy female guest, a beautiful woman with no inhibitions intent on seducing him, the inn quiet and empty, as it was now. But he had never once considered making the fantasy real.

Perhaps she’d only stay for one night. Or perhaps her boyfriend or fiancé or husband would be joining her tomorrow. Besides, he didn’t believe Sorcha Mulroony had even an ounce of mystical power. He’d be polite and accommodating and hospitable to Claire O’Connor. Nothing more.

THE BATH WAS LUKEWARM by the time Claire crawled out. She wrapped herself in a thick cotton towel, then walked into the bedroom. Her suitcases had been placed next to the door, and for a moment, she wondered how the innkeeper had slipped into her room without her noticing.

An image of the man flashed in her mind and Claire recalled her reaction when she first looked into his eyes. There were obviously handsome men scattered all over the world, but somehow, the fates had blessed the Isle of Trall with a truly beautiful specimen. But why was one of Ireland’s most eligible bachelors living here?

She smiled as she sat down on the edge of the bed, wrapping the towel more tightly around her. Back at her job, she’d stared at thousands of images—male models, everyday guys, celebrities—trying to figure out what it was that made one man merely attractive and another devastatingly sexy.

Will Donovan belonged in the latter category. He possessed features that were in perfect balance. He wasn’t pretty, he was gorgeous. And it wasn’t the straight nose or the expressive mouth or the eyes that were an odd mix of green and gold. It was the way he wore his looks, so casually, as if he weren’t aware of the effect they had on women.

He hadn’t shaved in two or three days and it looked as if he preferred his fingers to a comb when it came to fixing his hair. Everything about him was comfortably rumpled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed, even the lazy way he looked at her with half-hooded eyes.

Claire retrieved a bottle of scented lotion from her suitcase and rested her foot on the edge of the bed as she rubbed some of the product over her legs. With any other man, she might not have given him a second thought. After all, it had been just one day since her relationship with Eric had ended. And she’d come to Ireland to save that relationship.

She was in a foreign country, so of course she’d find a guy like Will Donovan…interesting. Maybe even a bit exotic. That accent, the sound of her name on his lips, the way his gaze drifted between her mouth and her eyes. Lusting after another man now would be a waste of precious time. As long as she was here in Ireland, she’d do what she came to do—save her relationship with Eric. After all, she and Eric were meant for each other.

Claire had known from the moment she’d met him. All her life, she had waited for the perfect man. She’d even made a list of all the attributes she sought in a husband and Eric had fulfilled every last one of them.

Careful planning and detailed lists had been Claire’s specialty since she was a young girl. A shrink would probably tell her that it was simply a way of coping with a chaotic childhood. She’d grown up in a tiny three-bedroom house, with five older brothers, and parents who did little to control the boys. It was noisy and messy and she was almost always ignored when competing against their boisterous antics.

So Claire often escaped to her grandmother’s house, where it was quiet and pretty, and she could talk about important matters, like all the things she was going to do with her life. Her grandmother had encouraged her to write it all down in a little journal. “Only when you write it down will it become true,” she had said. Later, as each of her dreams were fulfilled, Claire would tick them off in the journal.

Claire tossed the lotion on the bed and grabbed her bags. As she unpacked, she neatly arranged her clothes in the antique dresser against the far wall. She found her birth control pills in a side pocket and popped one out of the package and into her mouth. She and Eric would be together again. She had to believe that.

As she passed the leaded glass windows that lined one wall, a draft chilled her, goose bumps prickling her arms. She found a match on the mantel and lit the crumpled paper beneath the oddly shaped logs. Warmth from the fire began to seep into her skin and a sharp scent hung in the air. But at the same time, the room started to fill with smoke. Claire realized she hadn’t opened the flue and scrambled to find a knob or a lever.

It wasn’t on the outside of the fireplace and she couldn’t see it on the inside through the smoke. She ran to the window and threw it open, then tore off her towel and began to fan the smoke out the window.

The smoke continued to pour out of the fireplace and Claire realized she’d have to smother the fire to make it stop. She beat at the flames with the damp towel and the fire was nearly out when the smoke alarm went off.

Frantically, she searched the room for the alarm, hoping to disable it before Will Donovan responded. But a moment later, he burst into the smoky room, a fire extinguisher in his hand. Claire screamed and held the scorched towel up to her naked body.

“What the hell is going on?” In three easy strides, he reached the fireplace and smothered the remainder of the fire with foam from the extinguisher. He turned to her, a look of concern etched on his face. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Claire said. “I just—why would someone lay out a fire and not open the flue?”

He stared at her, his gaze raking over her body. Claire clutched the towel more tightly to her chest, fumbling as she wrapped one end around her hip.

“Why would someone put match to peat without checking the flue first?” he asked.

“It’s—it’s freezing in here,” she countered.

“The window is open.” He walked across the room and closed it, Claire scampering to stand against the wall. Will grabbed the bedspread from the bed and held it out in front of him. Hesitantly, Claire stepped forward and he wrapped it around her body, enveloping her in a soft cocoon.

“I suppose I’m going to have to give you another room,” he murmured as he gently rubbed her arms. “You can’t sleep in here.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, risking a glance up at him. Tears of frustration pushed at the corners of her eyes. She was tired, she was cold, her life had become a huge mess and all she really wanted to do was crawl into bed and cry for the next day or two. He had no idea what it was taking to hold herself together.

He looked down and their gazes met—and locked. Claire opened her mouth to speak, to apologize for her emotional state, but then couldn’t remember what she’d intended to say. She heard him draw in a sharp breath as his gaze fell to her lips. She knew what was about to happen and simply waited, unwilling to stop him.

“You’re sure you’re all right,” he whispered, leaning closer.

“Fine,” she replied in a strangled voice.

Claire’s heart slammed in her chest and she closed her eyes and tried to maintain her composure. But Will took her action as his cue and a moment later, his mouth covered hers. It wasn’t the typical first kiss, clumsy and a bit tentative. Instead, he kissed her as if he’d been doing it for years, possessing her mouth as if it had always belonged to him, his tongue teasing at hers, challenging her to respond.

The kiss seemed to go on forever, growing deeper and more passionate as it continued. She couldn’t remember ever being kissed like this, with such reckless abandon and unfettered intensity. Claire felt his hands slide from her shoulders to her hips, the quilt slipping down between their bodies.

A tiny moan slipped from her throat as she pressed her hips into his, fumbling to maintain some semblance of modesty. His hands came back to her face, cupping her cheeks in his palms. She didn’t want it to end, the pleasure surging up inside of her, the crazy sensations coursing through her body. But at the same time, Claire knew that kissing a near stranger while wearing just a bedspread was probably a mistake.

When he finally drew away, she gulped down a deep breath and opened her eyes. She found Will staring at her, a perplexed expression wrinkling his brow. “Jaysus,” he murmured. He stepped back and raked his hand through his hair. “What the hell.”

Claire swallowed hard, clutching the bedspread to her body. “Wh-why did you do that?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I just—” Will cursed softly. “I don’t know. Did you not want me to do that? Because, I got the feeling you did. Was I wrong?”

“No,” Claire replied. “I mean, yes. I was just surprised, that’s all. It was…unexpected.”

“But welcomed? Please, tell me it was welcomed.”

Claire thought about her answer for a moment. Should she tell the truth? “Yes,” she finally said. “At the least it wasn’t unwelcome.”

“Good.” A smile twitched at his lips. “I guess I’ll leave you to get dressed.” Will glanced around the room. “You’re not going to start any more fires are you, Miss O’Connor?”

She shook her head. “Not right now. And you don’t have to call me Miss O’Connor. I mean, considering you just…well, you know. Call me Claire.”

“All right. Claire?”

“Yes, Claire,” she said.

“Save the fires for later, Claire,” he said, nodding. “If you’re hungry, I have supper downstairs. And after that, I’ll find you another room. A warmer room.” He wrinkled his nose. “And one that doesn’t smell of smoke.”

“Thank you,” Claire said.

He stepped back, but not before reaching up and brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. When the door closed behind him, she sank down on the edge of the bed. Smoke still clouded the room and for a heartbeat, she wondered if she’d imagined what had happened between them, if it had all been part of some bizarre, jet-lag-induced fantasy.

She touched her lips and found them damp. This was a disturbing turn of events. How was she supposed to react? She didn’t feel indignant or insulted. Nor did she feel guilty or ashamed. In truth, there was a nice, warm sensation deep inside of her, something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

There was definitely an attraction between them. What woman wouldn’t be attracted? Will Donovan was undeniably handsome. And very different from… well, from Eric.

Her relationship with Eric hadn’t been entirely perfect. In truth, lately it had become ordinary, not that she’d realized it until this very moment. It had been months since he’d made her heart skip a beat or her breath come in tiny gasps, months since he’d kissed her with that type of passion. And now this stranger, this Irishman, had accomplished both in a matter of minutes.

And there were things about Eric that had begun to bug her—his vanity, for one. His selfishness. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love where she’d been completely and utterly satisfied. Will Donovan was probably the kind of man who’d leave a woman pleasantly, thoroughly exhausted.

Claire jumped up from the bed and rummaged through her suitcases, searching for something nice to wear. She hadn’t planned on experiencing this particular element on her trip, so she’d brought along comfortable clothes—jeans, T-shirts and sweaters. She decided on a pair of black pencil-leg jeans and a translucent white silk blouse. To add a hint of interest, she’d wear a black bra beneath. She retrieved her hair dryer and the converter plug she’d brought along, then headed to the bathroom to get ready.

A half hour later, her hair was dry and her lipstick was on. Claire gave herself one last critical look in the mirror, then sighed as she stared at her reflection. What was she expecting? This was crazy! Did she plan to seduce this man over dinner? Grabbing a tissue, she wiped off her lipstick and tied her pale hair back with a silk scarf. “You’re in love with Eric,” she reminded herself. “And he still loves you. He just doesn’t realize it.”

The inn was quiet as she walked down the stairs. A fire crackled in the front parlor hearth and she walked through the spacious rooms, searching for the dining room. But when she found it, it was dark and empty.

“I thought we could eat in the kitchen. It’s nice and warm in there.”

Claire glanced up to see a shadowy form standing in the doorway, broad-shouldered, a hip braced against the doorjamb. Her heart fluttered and she cursed inwardly at the unbidden response. All right, there was definitely a spark. But that didn’t mean she had to fan it into a raging inferno. She smoothed her hands over her blouse and forced a smile. “Of course. And thank you.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For making me dinner.”

“You haven’t tasted my cooking,” he replied with a low chuckle. He held open the door to the butler’s pantry and Claire walked through the cabinet-lined room to the kitchen.

Unlike the rest of the house, the kitchen was sleek and modern, with granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances. But an old stone hearth burned brightly with a peat fire, the scent familiar to her now. She walked over to it and held her hands out. “Why am I so cold? The winters in Chicago are brutal, but I don’t feel the cold like I do here.”

“We live on the ocean. It’s damp,” Will explained. “That’s why it feels colder. There’s no getting away from it.” Will pulled a stool out from beneath the huge worktable that dominated the center of the kitchen. He nodded his head. “Have a seat.”

Claire perched on the stool and watched Will as he moved around the room. She was glad to see that he wasn’t going to too much trouble, choosing to make sandwiches. “Do you always cook for your guests?” she asked.

Will shook his head. “Never. When we have guests, our cook and housekeeper, Katie Kelly, comes in and does breakfast. Beyond that we don’t serve meals.”

She cupped her chin in her hand. “So why are you doing it now?”

He glanced up at her, sending her a devastatingly charming smile. “After what you’ve been through today, I figured you’d need it. And your only other alternative is the Jolly Farmer and that’s noisy and smoky and filled with blokes who haven’t seen a woman as flah as you in a very long time.”

“Flah?”

“Beautiful,” he said.

Claire felt a blush warm her cheeks. It was such an offhand compliment that she wasn’t sure how to take it. Did he really think she was beautiful or was he simply humoring a guest?

“So, what brings you to Trall?” he asked.

She hesitated before she answered, unwilling to tell him the truth about her quest. Perhaps, if he’d been a woman, she’d unload her entire sad story. But he wasn’t a woman. He was an incredibly attractive man. “Family history,” Claire quickly replied. “My grandmother, Orla O’Connor, visited the island a long time ago. She told me about it and so I thought I’d see it for myself.”

“There’s not much to see,” Will said. “There are some shops in the village and there’s a stone circle on the west side of the island. Most people come here for the Druid spring, though.”

“My grandmother told me about that.” She glanced up to find him staring at her. He held her gaze for a long moment, then turned back to his meal preparations.

“Beyond the stone circle, it’s Trall’s only claim to fame.”

“I thought you were famous,” Claire said. She let her eyes drift down, from his broad shoulders to his narrow waist, and then lower. Though his jeans were slightly baggy, she could see he had a nice butt. “At least, that’s what Captain Billy told me.”

“No,” Will said, glancing over his shoulder. “That’s just a load of rubbish. As for the spring, it’s a silly legend that brings tourists to the island, so no one disputes it.”

“But everyone knows about it.”

“I suppose,” Will said. “Everyone benefits from perpetuating the legend, I guess. There aren’t that many of us left on the island so we welcome the visitors. Just over five hundred now. We’re kind of like one big family. Sometimes a wee bit dysfunctional, but a family nonetheless.” He set a plate with a ham sandwich in front of her and followed it with a mug of steaming soup, then went to the refrigerator and grabbed a couple of beers. “You drink Guinness? I have wine, too. Or bottled water?”

“Beer is fine,” Claire said.

He opened a bottle and set it down in front of her, then opened his and took a long drink. He had beautiful hands. Claire had always found that she could tell a lot about a man by his hands. His fingers were long and tapered, the kind of hands that might touch a woman with expert effect, dancing over her body until she cried out in—

“You said you were from Chicago?”

Claire swallowed hard. “Y-yes,” she said.

“The Windy City?”

“Ummm. Have you ever been to Chicago?”

“I have,” Will said. “I remember the lake. A big lake. So big you couldn’t see the other side even from the top of that tall building.”

“The Sears Tower. That’s Lake Michigan,” Claire said, munching on the ham sandwich. “What were you doing in Chicago?”

“Business,” he murmured. Will studied the label on his beer bottle, scratching at it with his thumbnail. Claire found herself watching his hands again, her pulse quickening. “A very exciting place, that.”

She cleared her throat, determined to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Tell me more about the spring,” she said.

“The water is said to be blessed by the Druids, although there’s only one Druid on the island and I have cause to doubt her credentials. They say if two people drink from the same cup, they’ll share eternal love.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Couples usually come here before they go see a marriage counselor, hoping to find answers to their problems. And honeymooners like to come, too.”

“And do you know where this spring is?” Claire asked.

“There are springs all over the island.” He gave her a sly look. “It doesn’t exist. It’s just a legend. We Irish love our legends.”

She took a sip of her beer. “But if it doesn’t exist, then why do people keep coming?”

“If you had a chance at eternal love, wouldn’t you go after it?” He laughed softly. “That was a rhetorical question.”

“So no one really knows where it is?”

“Oh, I’m sure some might think they’ve found it. But I’ve never seen proof that any of the water on this island does more than quench a man’s thirst.”

He smiled and Claire felt her stomach flutter. This island was already working its magic upon her. She felt alive and uninhibited, as if anything were possible. She wanted to jump out of her chair and kiss Will Donovan again. Her fingers ached to touch his rumpled hair and her body craved his warmth. There was just too much about him that she found attractive.

“How’s the sandwich?” he asked.

“It’s very good,” she said. “Everything here is… good.” And Claire had a very distinct feeling that it would get even better before the night was over.