Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5 (16 page)

Clio laughed. “Rarely. It’s generally not worth the hassle.”

Their first stop during Seán’s Afternoon from Hell was Les Oiseaux, a French boutique specializing in obscenely expensive evening wear. This information Seán garnered from the doorbell at the entrance and the conspicuous lack of price tags inside. The shop door was opened by a man in a tailored three-piece suit.

“Madame Havelin. Welcome.” He didn’t spare Seán or Clio a glance.

A tiny woman materialized from behind a mass of puffy evening gowns, trailed by a pretty blond assistant. “Helen,” the older woman said in a breathy French accent. “Always a pleasure.”

Air kisses and hand gestures followed. Seán and Clio exchanged eye rolls—hers obvious, his discreet.

“What delights have you in store for me today, Claudette?” Helen asked, gesturing around the shop.

“We have wonderful new stock just in from Paris.” She pronounced it
Paree
.

Clio caught Seán’s eye and grinned.

“How long has she lived in Ireland?” he whispered. “I’m no expert, but her French accent sounds a tad…stagey?”

She leaned in close enough for him to smell her shampoo—something fruity and fresh. “I suspect she amps it up for the customers. According to Marcella at the pub, Claudette’s lived in Ireland longer than Marcella’s been alive.”

Following her doorman’s example, Claudette completely ignored Clio and Seán, focusing all her attention on the person with the platinum credit card.

Finally, after Helen had tried on a hundred outfits, she turned to her daughter. “Do you see anything you like?”

The expression of horror on Claudette’s face was priceless.

Noticing her disdain, Clio stiffened. “These clothes aren’t exactly my style.”

“I’m offering to buy you a dress,” Helen said. “Surely you can find a few you’d like to try on.”

“Perhaps mademoiselle would feel more…comfortable…shopping elsewhere?” Claudette began hopefully. “I’m not sure—”

The sight of Helen’s glacial expression froze her vocal chords midsentence.

“I would like
my daughter
to have a cocktail dress suitable for a casual but select gathering. Either you find her something to wear, or we will take our business to another boutique. I believe Janine’s on Oliver Plunkett Street has an excellent reputation for quality clothing
and
customer service.”

Claudette looked as though she’d swallowed her tongue. “
Non, non
. Janine’s is not as good as my shop.” The petite woman grabbed Clio’s elbow. “Come with me, mademoiselle. I have the perfect dress for you.”

Clio’s resigned expression morphed into one of alarm. “What party? You never mentioned any party.”

Helen flicked an invisible piece of fluff from her trousers. It was a habit of hers, Seán had observed, and generally came before she launched a grenade into the conversation. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m hosting a little soirée. A sort of housewarming event.”

Her daughter looked aghast. “When?”

“The Saturday after next.”

Clio’s eyebrows shot up and her eyes widened. “The weekend of the twenty-eighth? But you said you’d be away then.”

“That was the original plan, but my filming schedule changed.”

Clio’s features tensed, then relaxed into a small grin. “The twenty-eighth is an excellent date for a party.”

Her mother nodded. “As I’ll be at a loose end, it’s the perfect opportunity to invite some old friends down from Dublin to see the house and get to know some of our new neighbors.”

Show off to them, more like.
No doubt he and Brian would be expected to stand guard while she played hostess.

Helen regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Do you find my choice of cocktail dress amusing, Sergeant Mackey? I wouldn’t have thought
you
were an expert on women’s fashion.”

He hadn’t paid attention to which dresses Helen had chosen. “Hardly. I was thinking of something else.”

She eyed him suspiciously but turned back to Claudette, who’d sent her assistant scurrying upstairs in search of dresses for Clio. “I don’t think red suits my daughter. A nice shade of green or blue to bring out the color of her eyes would be preferable.”

Claudette rooted through the row of dresses her assistant had arranged neatly on a portable clothes rack. “
Alors…”
She extracted an emerald green beaded twenties-style dress and held it against a protesting Clio. “
Oui, c’est parfait
.”

Parfait
indeed. Clio would look stunning in that dress.

“Try it on,” Helen urged. “Claudette and I will look for matching shoes and accessories.”

Clio’s large eyes grew larger. “I don’t accessorize.”

“Nonsense. You can’t wear a dress like that without the proper jewelry and handbag.”

A few minutes later, a bashful Clio shuffled out of the changing room. As Seán’s eyes trailed over her figure, his mouth grew dry. The green dress molded her slight curves to perfection, reminding him of what lay beneath the beaded fabric. She wore an emerald necklace wrapped around her slim neck a couple of times, leaving an oval of beads hanging between her cleavage.

Seán let out an involuntary whistle. To say she looked stunning would be an understatement. She looked…enchanting? Beguiling? Simply fucking gorgeous? “It suits you. I can imagine you as a Twenties flapper.”

That brought a smile to her lips. “I’ve spent too long growing out an ill-advised buzz cut to contemplate going for a bob.”

“Buzz cut?” He eyed her face critically, examining her high cheekbones. “You know, you could probably pull that look off. You have the bone structure.”

Helen glided across the shop floor, holding a pair of delicate beaded green shoes with dainty heels. “Given that you’re not used to wearing high heels, I thought these would be suitable.”

“Not red this time,” he murmured beneath his breath. “A pity.”

Helen gave him an odd look, but Clio laughed. “I think these heels are manageable,” she said, flashing him an impish grin. “Even for me.” She slipped on the shoes and took the handbag Claudette’s nameless assistant had found to complete the outfit.

“Perfect,” her mother said with a sigh of satisfaction. “You look beautiful, Cliona.”

Given Clio’s look of astonishment, Seán suspected compliments from her mother were a rarity.

Helen wore a self-satisfied expression on her face. “I booked the caterers this morning. Now that we’ve found dresses for the party, the last item left to arrange is the entertainment. I was thinking of hiring a local singer of note. Garda Glenn mentioned him when he was at the house last weekend. A fellow by the name of Fitzgerald. Have you heard of him, Sergeant Mackey?”

Seán struggled to maintain his composure. Behind that placid demeanor, Brian Glenn was a rascal. “Indeed I have, Ms. Havelin. John-Joe Fitzgerald is well-known in these parts.” A vision of Helen’s reaction to the sight of John-Joe cavorting in his swim trunks brought a gurgle of laughter surging up his throat.

“Do you think it’s short notice to book him for the twenty-eighth?” she mused, checking her calendar. “I like the idea of hiring someone from Ballybeg.”

Seán thought of his aunt and uncle’s shabby house and the look of genuine tension on John-Joe’s face when he’d spoken of his financial woes. He thought of the fine John-Joe would have to pay as a result of the bird shooting incident. “Why don’t I give him a call and ask? Perhaps he’s had a cancellation.”

“Would you?” She beamed. “Thank you, Sergeant. That’s one less thing to take care of before the party. I want to make it an event to remember.”

Seán caught Clio’s eye. She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. A wicked smile curved his lips. If John-Joe was involved, Helen’s “event” would indeed prove to be memorable.

WHEN THEY RETURNED to Clonmore House after the shopping trip, Clio retreated to her room, using the excuse of needing to change for work. Ruairí’s efforts to get his staff to wear T-shirts with the pub’s logo on them were halfhearted and respected only by Clio. The MacCarthy sisters ignored their brother, Sharon sticking to sequins and exposed cleavage, and Marcella to whatever outrageous T-shirt slogan caught her fancy. Clio, as the only nonfamily member on staff, couldn’t play the sibling card.

After a quick shower, she changed into black jeans and one of the pub’s long-sleeved T-shirts. Then she fired up her laptop and sent Emma an instant message.

Hey, Em. Do you have time for video call?

Within seconds, Emma’s pretty face appeared on the screen. Her outfit was pure Forties glamour, right down to scarlet pout.

“Wow,” Clio said with a laugh. “What job has you dolled up like a slightly-more-dressed version of Dita Von Teese?”

Her friend stuck out her tongue, revealing a very un-Forties-like tongue ring. “A suspected blackmailer. He’s attending an Old Hollywood–themed party at the Irish Film Institute tonight. I wrangled an invitation.” Emma took a sip of her ever-present energy drink and leaned closer to the screen.

“What’s up? Have you heard from Ray again?”

“Yeah.” Clio scowled. “The weasel sent me a text message to set the date for the break-in. He wants to do it on Saturday the 28th, but the date’s a no-go. My mother is planning to host a housewarming party.”

“That’s good news, right? It gives you a legitimate excuse to stall him. And just as well.” It was her friend’s turn to pull a face. “I haven’t discovered anything we didn’t already know. Ray’s a careful bastard, and his men are loyal. The sole reason he’s in a position to hold the attack on O’Leary over your head is that the guys he sent to do the job aren’t part of his core crew and have a reputation for being loose cannons. He’s as happy to have something to use against them as he is to have dirt on you.”

“Crap. You’ll keep digging, won’t you?”

“Of course. In the meantime, ask Helen to elaborate about her stalker. Perhaps there’s a connection.”

“It seems unlikely,” Clio mused, “but it’s an angle worth pursuing.”

Emma glanced at her watch. “I’d better log off or I’ll be late to this party.”

“And I’d better get going to the pub. My new boss took me up on my suggestion of a cocktail hour. Tonight is the first one.”

“Best of luck,” her friend said, giving her the thumbs up. “Talk soon.”

“Bye, Em. Go catch your blackmailer.”

After she disconnected, Clio grabbed her phone from the nightstand and punched in Ray’s number.

While the ringtone sounded in her ear, she focused on the hideous floral patterned wallpaper—the previous owners of Clonmore House had had a penchant for Victorian-style patterns. She was on the verge of disconnecting when he finally answered.

“Clio,” he purred. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Taking a deep breath, she got straight to the point. “Saturday the twenty-eighth won’t work.”

An ominous silence echoed down the phone. She wiped sweaty palms on her jeans and swallowed hard.

“Why won’t it work?” Ray’s voice was sharp and clipped, not his usual high-pitched squawk. “I’ve given you plenty of notice to get rid of your mother and daughter.”

“My mother is planning a housewarming party for that evening.”

“Persuade her to cancel.”

“I’ve tried, but she’s invited half the country.”

He fell silent for a while, each second dragging by like a tension-filled hour. “Half the country?” he asked finally. “Perhaps we can make this work in our favor. Tell you what. Why don’t you nick the leopard aquamanile while the party’s in progress?”

She almost jumped out of her skin. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. There’s no way I can manage that.”

“Try.” Ray’s tone turned glacial. “I’ll send Tank to help you. I believe you’ve already made his acquaintance at MacCarthy’s pub. He’s been seen in the neighborhood. All you need to do is introduce him as a friend of yours.”

“God, no.” The notion of hanging out with that no-necked low-life made her skin crawl.

“Would you rather
I
went as your date?”

An image of Ray at her side, clutching her waist, turned her stomach inside out.

“Of course, I could send Delaney,” Ray mused. “I believe you’re
very
well acquainted with him.”

Clio ran a shaking hand through her hair.
No fecking way.
Delaney at large in Ballybeg was the absolute last thing she needed to add to the mix of her train wreck of a life. “Don’t send anyone. I can handle this myself. I’ll check my mother’s schedule and send you alternative dates.” Alternative dates as far in the future as she could manage without being too obvious…either she or Emma had better come up with the goods on Ray fast.

“Good girl, Clio. You were always the best worker I had.”

Hazy memories of the bad old years when she’d done jobs for Ray surfaced. “Stick to threats,” she said coolly. “You’re better at them than flattery. Besides, my time working for you ended years ago.”

“There’s a job opening for you whenever you change your mind. You have a particular gift for your line of work.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Over her dead body. Her days of safe-cracking and petty thefts ended the moment she’d received a suspended sentence on the condition she attended rehab.

His laughter echoed down the phone. “I thought not, but it was worth a try. I’ll be in touch about the handover. I’ll probably send Tank. One of the Ballybeg policeman knows me and several of my men from his previous posting, but Tank’s new.”

The Ballybeg policeman he was referring to had to be Seán Mackey.
Feck.
The pulse in Clio’s neck throbbed painfully. She had to figure out a way to get out of Ray’s clutches. Having Seán and Brian Glenn hanging around was bad enough. Knowing Seán had a connection to Ray was even worse.

“I asked you if the plan sounded good to you?”

“What?” In the fresh shock of discovering Seán had a connection to Ray, she’d tuned him out. “Why do you care what I think? What choice do I have but to go along with whatever diabolical plan you come up with?”

“Absolutely none,” he said cheerfully. “I think this partnership is working out splendidly. Don’t you?”

For him, perhaps. For her, not so much. Fortunately, he’d rung off before she could formulate a suitably cutting response.