Tears of the Moon (21 page)

Keeping his expression pleasant, Finkle casually took a sample of the cake. “So . . . you've spoken to someone from London about a restaurant, was it?”

“Oh, Aidan, he does the talking. I've no head for business at all. Is the cake to your liking?”

“It's excellent.” The man had a slow brain, Finkle mused, but no one could fault his cooking skills. “The man from London,” he pressed. “Would you happen to know his name? I have a number of acquaintances there.”

Shawn stared up at the ceiling, rubbed his chin. “Was it Finkle? Oh, no, that would be you.” With a sweet and harmless expression covering his face, he lifted empty hands. “I've a bad habit of forgetting names. But he was a very pleasant individual, as you are yourself, sir. If you find you've room for another portion of cake, just let Darcy know.”

He strolled back to the kitchen, catching Aidan's eye with a wink.

Ten minutes later Darcy poked her head into the kitchen and hissed, “Finkle asked for a moment of Aidan's time. They've gone into the snug.”

“That's fine, then. Let me know if you need help at the bar.”

“Consider I've let you know. Frank Malloy's come in with his brothers.”

“He had words with his wife again?”

“That's the face he's wearing. I'll not be able to keep up with them, and the rest of the customers.”

“I'm coming, then.”

He was pulling the second pint for the Malloys—all of whom were burly-built men with straw-colored hair who made their living from the sea—when Aidan and Finkle stepped out of the snug.

He nodded good night to Aidan, then to Shawn. And for a moment as he glanced toward Darcy, his stern face fell into lines as soft as a hopeful puppy's.

“Are you turning in for the evening so early, then, Mr. Finkle?” Darcy set her tray on the bar, then sent the poor man a smile that could have melted slab chocolate at twenty paces.

“I—” He had no choice but to tug at the meticulously knotted tie, as his throat was suddenly thick. “I'm afraid I must. I have a plane to catch in the morning.”

“Oh, you're leaving us altogether?” She held out a hand for his. “I'm sorry you can't stay longer, and hope you'll come back again when you're able.”

“I'm quite sure I'll be back.” Unable to help himself, Finkle did something he'd never so much as considered doing before in his life, even with his wife. He kissed Darcy's hand. “It's been a great pleasure.”

A faint flush of pink riding on his cheeks, he left the pub.

“Well?” Darcy demanded, spinning around to Aidan. “

“Let's give this a minute, just to be sure Finkle doesn't turn about, rush back in, and throw himself to his knees to beg you to run off with him to Tahiti.”

Darcy chuckled and shook her head. “No, the man loves his wife. Now he might allow himself a misty dream about what the two of us might do in such a place, but that's as far as it goes.”

“Then I'll tell you.” He laid a hand on hers on the bar, placed the other on Shawn's shoulder. “We've done the deal, as the three of us and Jude discussed, and we've shaken hands on it. He's going back to New York, and the papers will be drawn up as soon as lawyers can manage it.”

“Twenty-five percent?” Shawn asked. “

“Twenty-five, and a say in approving the design for the theater. There are details yet, but between us, Magee, and the lawyers, we'll iron them out.”

“So we've done it?” Shawn laid down the cloth he'd been using to wipe the bar.

“It appears we have, as I've given my word.”

“Well, then.” Shawn put his hand over the one Aidan held over Darcy's. “I'll tend the bar. Go on and tell Jude.”

“It'll keep. We're busy.”

“Good news is more fun when it's fresh. I'll handle it here, and close up as well. And as a return, you can give me the evening off tomorrow. If Kathy Duffy will take the kitchen. I haven't had a free evening in some time.”

“Fair enough. I'll call Dad as well,” he added as he flipped up the pass-through. “Unless you'd both rather I wait until morning when we can all speak to him.”

“Go on and call.” Darcy waved him out. “He'll want to know straight off. He was distracted,” she said to Shawn when the door closed. “I'm not. Do you have something with Brenna in mind for tomorrow?”

Shawn merely took the empty glasses off her tray, set them in the bar sink. “You've customers, darling, and so have I.” And he leaned over a bit. “You've your business. And so have I.”

Miffed, Darcy jerked a shoulder. “It's not your business I care a damn about. But Brenna. She's a friend. You're nothing but a brother, and an irritant at that.”

And knowing her irritant, she let it alone. She'd get nothing out of Shawn Gallagher, if he'd decided otherwise, with dynamite.

There was cooking involved, and so he was in his element. He wanted something simple, a dish he could put together, then leave to itself until it was needed. So he made a tomato sauce with a bit of bite and left it to simmer.

It required a setting of the stage. That was something he preferred and something he believed would give him an advantage. He thought a man could use every advantage when it came to Brenna O'Toole.

It required a phone call, which he made from the pub at the end of the lunch shift when he was certain Brenna would be up to her neck in whatever job she was doing.

Just as he knew that, being Brenna, she'd come by after her workday to take a look at the broken washing machine he'd reported.

So when he got home, the sauce he'd left warming added an appetizing scent to the air. He picked some of the petunias and pansies that were happy to winter over in the garden and put these in the bedroom along with the candles he'd bought at the market.

He'd already changed the sheets for fresh, which had given him the idea about the washing machine.

Next there was music. It was too much a part of his life not to include it in any venture. He selected the CDs he liked best, slipped them into the canny little player he'd bought himself months before, then left them going while he went down to the kitchen to see to the rest.

He put out the cat, who it seemed sensed something important was going on and so put himself in the way at every opportunity.

He didn't expect to see her till near to six, which gave him enough time to put together a platter of finger food. He hunted up wineglasses, polished them out, then opened the bottle of red he'd taken from the pub, setting it on the counter to breathe.

After giving his sauce a last taste and stir, he glanced around and nodded in satisfaction. It was all fine and done. The clock showed ten minutes before six when he heard her lorry pull into his street.

“She's a timely sort,” he murmured, and was taken by surprise when nerves set to dancing in his belly. “It's only Brenna, for Christ's sake,” he told himself. “You've known her all your life.”

Not in the way he was about to, he thought. Nor she him. He had a sudden wild urge to dash into the little mudroom and rip something off the washing machine and forget the rest.

And since when had a Gallagher been a coward? Especially with a woman? With this lecture playing in his head, he started toward the front door.

She was already coming in, carrying her toolbox. Her jeans had a fresh rip in them, just below the right knee. There was a faint smear of dirt across her cheek.

She closed the front door, took two steps, then saw him. And nearly jumped out of her work boots. “Jesus, Shawn, why not just cosh me over the head as scare the life out of me? What are you doing here this time of day?”

“I've the evening off. You parked behind my car, didn't you?”

“I did, yes, but I figured you'd walked down or gotten a lift.” While she waited for her heart rate to return to normal, she sniffed the air. “Doesn't smell as though you've taken advantage of a free evening. What are you cooking?”

“A sauce for spaghetti. I thought I'd try it out before we gave it a go at the pub. Have you eaten?” he asked, though he already knew.

“I haven't, no. Ma's expecting me shortly.”

She wasn't, as Shawn had called down to tell Mollie he'd give Brenna a meal while she was there. “Have your dinner here instead.” He took her hand, leading her back to the kitchen. “You can judge the sauce for me.”

“I might do that, but let's have a look at your machine first to see what the matter is.”

“There's nothing the matter with it.” He took her toolbox, set it out of the way on the floor.

“What do you mean, there's nothing the matter? Didn't you call up the hotel and say it wouldn't run for you at all?”

“I lied. Try this.” He plucked up a stuffed olive and popped it into her mouth.

“Lied?”

“I did, yes. And I'm counting on the sin being worth the penance.”

“But why would you . . .” Realization dawned slowly, and left her feeling awkward and edgy. “I see. So this is the time and the place that suits you.”

“Aye. I told your mother you'd be staying awhile, so you've no need to worry about that.”

“Hmm.” She looked around the kitchen, paying more attention. Fragrant sauce simmering, a pretty plate of fancy appetizers, a bottle of wine. “You might have given me a bit of notice. A little time to settle in to the notion.”

“You've time now.” He poured wine into the glasses. “I know wine tends to give you a head the next morning, but a glass or two shouldn't hurt.”

She'd risk the hangover, if the wine managed to cool her throat. “You know you didn't have to bother with all this fuss for me. I told you from the start I didn't need it.”

“Well, I do, and you'll just have to tolerate it.” He was more at ease again, because she wasn't. He took a step toward her. “Take off your—” He nearly laughed when her eyes widened. “Your hat,” he finished, then did so himself, setting it and his wine aside so he could run his hands through her hair until it tumbled in a way that most pleased him. “Have a seat.”

He nudged her into a chair, sat across from her. “Why don't you take off your boots?”

She leaned down, tugged on the laces, then sat up again. “Do you have to watch me? You make me feel foolish.”

“If you feel foolish with me watching you take off your boots, you're going to feel like a real horse's ass before much longer. Take off your boots, Brenna,” he said in a quiet voice that sent a ripple running up her spine. “Unless you've changed your mind about the matter.”

“I haven't.” Annoyed, she bent down again to work on the boots. “I started this, and I finish what I start.”

But it wasn't at all the way she'd imagined it. She'd simply pictured the two of them already naked, in bed, getting on with business. She hadn't given a great deal of thought to the mechanics of arriving there.

She kicked her boots under the table and made herself look back at him, steadily back at him.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.” She couldn't conceive of eating under the circumstances. “Dad and I had a late lunch.”

“All the better. We'll eat later. Let's take the wine upstairs.”

Upstairs. All right, they'd go upstairs. It had been her idea, after all. But when he took her hand this time, she had to force herself not to bolt. “This isn't a fair way, Shawn. I've just come from working all day, and haven't had a chance to clean up.”

“Would you like a shower, then?” As they walked up the back stairs, he rubbed the smudge from her cheek. “I'm happy to wash your back.”

“I'm just saying, that's all.” She couldn't shower with him, for God's sake. Not just like that. The music drifted toward her, a whisper of harpsong. Her nerves were screaming.

She stepped into the bedroom, saw the flowers, the candles, the bed. And gulped her wine like water.

“Easy now.” He nipped the glass from her hand. “I don't want you drunk.”

“I can handle my drink,” she began, then rubbed her damp palms on her thighs as he wandered around lighting candles. “There's no need for that. It's not full dark yet.”

“It will be. I've seen you in candlelight before,” he said easily as he touched the flame of the match to the candles he'd set on the narrow mantel over the fire he'd already set to glowing. “But I didn't take time to appreciate it. I will tonight.”

“I don't see why you have to make the situation romantic instead of what it is.”

“Not afraid of a little romance, are you, Mary Brenna?”

“No, but . . .” He turned, and the subtle and shifting lights of flame danced over his face, behind him, around him. He might have stepped out of one of the pictures Jude drew. Of faerie princes and valiant knights and poetic harpists.

“There's something about the way you look,” she managed, “that makes my mouth water half the time. I don't much care for it, to be honest with you, and I'd prefer getting it out of my system.”

“Well, now.” His voice was as smooth as hers was annoyed. “Why don't we see what we can do about that?”

Keeping his eyes on hers, he crossed to her.

 

Nerves were as out of place as the harpsong and the candlelight.

So when he laid his hands on her shoulders, when he ran them lightly down her arms to link with her hands, she tipped her head up. “If I laugh,” she told him, “it's nothing personal. It's just the whole business of this that strikes me funny.”