Tears of the Moon (9 page)

His face went pink, then white. “I'm not talking to you about sex, Mary Brenna, so get that idea right out of your head. I'm not having a conversation with my daughter about such a matter.”

“Why? I know you've had it, or I wouldn't be here, would I?”

“Be that as it may,” he said and closed his lips.

“If I were a son instead of a daughter, we could discuss it?”

“You're not, so we aren't, and that's the end of it.” Now he folded his arms as well.

Sitting as he was, he made Brenna think of an annoyed leprechaun, and she wondered if Jude had used him as a model for one of her sketches.

“And how am I to get my mind around something if it can't be discussed?”

Since Mick didn't give a hang about the logic of that at the moment, he simply scowled off into the distance. “If you must talk of such things, speak with your mother.”

“All right, all right, never mind, then.” She'd go at this from a different angle. Hadn't he been the very one to teach her there was always more than one way to approach a job of work? “Tell me something else.”

“On another topic entirely?”

“You could say that.” She smiled at him, patting his leg. “I'm wondering, if there was something you wanted, had wanted for some time, what would you do about it?”

“If I've wanted it, why don't I have it?”

“Because you haven't made any real effort to get it as yet.”

“And why haven't I?” He arched his sandy brows. “Am I slow or just stupid?”

Brenna thought it over, decided he couldn't know he'd just insulted his firstborn. Then she nodded slowly. “Maybe a bit of both in this particular case.”

Relieved to have the conversation turn to a safe area, he gave her a fierce grin. “Then I'd stop being slow and I'd stop being stupid and I'd take good aim at what I wanted and not dawdle about. Because when an O'Toole takes aim, by Jesus, he hits his mark.”

That, she knew, was true enough. And was certainly expected. “But maybe you're a bit nervous and not quite sure of your skill in this area.”

“Girl, if you don't go after what you want, you'll never have it. If you don't ask, the answer's always no. If you don't step forward, you're always in the same place.”

“You're right.” She took his shoulders, transferring a little grease from her hands to his shirt as she kissed him soundly. “You're always right, Dad, and that's just what I needed to hear.”

“Well, that's what a father's for, after all.”

“Would you mind finishing up this business here?” She jerked a thumb under the car. “I don't like to leave it half done, but there's something I have to see to.”

“That's not a problem.” He wiggled under the car and, delighted he'd put his daughter's mind at ease, whistled while he worked.

 

The radio on the counter was playing traditional Gaelic tunes, and the kitchen hearth was crackling with fine turf fire. For him, it was a small slice of heaven.

Before long he'd be cooking for the Sunday crowds, and Darcy would be in and out of the kitchen at Gallagher's, needling him about something or other. And this one or that would have something to say to him. He imagined Jude would slip in for an hour or two, and he'd make sure she had a good, healthy supper.

He didn't mind any of that, not a bit. But if he didn't grab a handful of alone time now and again, it felt as if his brain would explode. He could imagine himself living in the cottage for the rest of his life, with the badtempered black cat stretched out by the fire, wallowing in quiet morning after quiet morning.

His mind drifted along with the pipes and flutes flowing from the radio. His foot began to tap. And then the loud thud at his back door sent his heart shooting straight to his throat.

The big yellow hound grinned at him, her tongue hanging out and her massive paws pressed against the glass. Shawn shook his head, but he got up to go to the door. He never minded the O'Tooles' Betty. She was fine company, and after a bit of a scratch and stroke she would curl up and settle into her own dreams.

Bub arched his back and hissed, but that was routine rather than true annoyance. When the patient Betty didn't react, the cat merely turned his tail up and began to wash.

“Out and about, are you, now?” Shawn said as he let Betty in out of a brisk wind that hinted of rain. “Well, you're welcome to share a scone and the fire, no matter what that devil there says about it.” But as he started to close the door again, he spotted Brenna.

His first reaction was a vague irritation, for here was someone who wouldn't settle for a scratch and a stroke but would demand conversation. He kept the door open and stood between the wind and the warmth as he watched her.

A few coils of hair had come loose from her cap and were flying around, red as rubies. Her mouth was set, making him wonder if he, or someone, had done something to annoy her. Which, now that he thought of it, was such a simple matter. Still, it was a fine mouth if you took the time to look at it.

For such a small woman, she had a long stride, he noted. And a purposeful one. She was moving as if she had something to do and wanted it over and dealt with quickly. Knowing the O'Toole as he did, he had no doubt she'd let him know just what that was in the shortest of orders.

She skirted around the little patch of herbs he was thinking of expanding into a full kitchen garden. The wind had whipped color into her face, so when she lifted her head and caught his eye, her cheeks were rosy.

“Good day to you, Mary Brenna. If you're out for a walk with your dog, it seems she's had enough of it. She's already sitting under my table here, and Bub's ignoring her as if she isn't worth his time.”

“She's the one who wanted to walk with me.”

“Sure, and if you walked now and then instead of marching as you do, she might stay along with you longer. Come in out of the wind.” He started to move back as she stepped on the back stoop, then paused, sniffed. Smiled. “You smell of flowers and axle grease or some such thing.”

“It's motor oil, and what's left of the perfume Alice Mae caught me with this morning.”

“It's quite the combination.” And very Brenna O'Toole, he thought as she strode past him. “Will you have some tea?”

“I will.” She peeled off her jacket, tossed it on a peg, then belatedly remembered her cap and removed that as well.

It always gave him a little jerk in the belly to watch all that hair spill out and down. Foolish, he thought as he moved to the pot. He knew it was up there, under that ugly cap. But each time she let it fall, it was a new surprise.

“I've scones.”

“No, but thanks.” She wanted to clear her throat, as it seemed coated with something thick and hot. Instead she sat at the table, casually kicked back. She'd decided as she'd walked over to ease her way into things, so to speak. “I wondered if you might want me to take a look at your car sometime this week. The last I heard it, it sounded sad.”

“I wouldn't mind, if you've time.” He watched as Bub sidled over to rub against Brenna's legs, then leap into her lap. The O'Toole was the only human person the cat had ever fancied. Shawn decided it was because they were both prickly creatures.

“Aren't you busy at the house, doing the baby's room for Jude?”

She stroked Bub's head so he purred like a freight train. “I've time enough.”

He sat across from Brenna, and when Betty came begging, gave her half a scone. “How's it coming, then?” And decided it was comfortable after all, sitting with her in the warm kitchen, with the animals milling about.

“Oh, it's fine. It's mostly just fiddling Jude wants, prettying up and the like. But in the way of women, now she's thinking that when the one room's fixed and polished, the others will look shabby against it. She's thinking to spruce up the main bedroom now.”

“What's wrong with it?”

Brenna lifted her shoulders. “Nothing I can see, but between Jude and Darcy they've come up with a dozen things. New paper for the walls, fresh paint for the trim, sanding the floors. Then I just mentioned how nice the view was from the front windows there, and Jude's saying that she longs for a window seat. I said if she wanted one, it was just a matter of this and a matter of that, and before you can blink, she's wanting me to do it.”

Absently, Brenna took the second half of the scone and nibbled on it. “I wager Dad and I will be going from room to room in that house, and top to bottom. She's got the bit between her teeth now. Must be a nesting sort of thing.”

“Well, if it pleases her and Aidan doesn't mind it . . .” Shawn trailed off, imagining how it would be to live in the midst of all that hammering and sawing. He'd rather be roasted over a slow fire.

“Mind it?” Brenna let out a quick snorting laugh. “He comes in during one of our discussions and just grins like a fool. The man's besotted with her. I believe she could say, well, let's just have Brenna turn this house around to face the other way and he'd never bat an eye.” She sighed and sipped her tea. “It's lovely to see, really, the way they are together.”

“She was what he was waiting for.” At Brenna's puzzled look, Shawn shook his head. “Sure he was waiting. You'd only to study on him to see it. When she walked into the pub that first night, that was it. A life change from that instant, though neither of them knew it.”

“But you did?”

“I can't say I knew precisely, just that I knew things would change.”

Intrigued, she leaned forward. “And what are you waiting for?”

“Me?” His eyebrow quirked. “Oh, things are fine as they are for me.”

“That's a problem with you, Shawn.” She jabbed a finger at him. “You walk the same line until it becomes a rut, and never notice, for your head's in the clouds in any case.”

“If it's a rut it's mine, and I'm comfortable in it.”

“What you need to do is take charge.” She remembered her father's words. “To move forward. If you don't move forward you're always in the same place.”

Eyes mild and amused, he lifted his tea. “But I like this place.”

“I'm ready for a change, for moving forward.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “And I don't mind being the one who takes charge if that's the way it has to be.”

“And what do you have a mind to take charge of this time around?”

“You.” She sat back, ignoring his smirk as he sipped tea. “I think we should have sex.”

He choked, spilling hot tea over his hand and onto his paper as he coughed violently. She made a quick sound of annoyance and dislodged an irritated Bub to get up and thump Shawn briskly on the back. “It can't be that horrible a thought.”

“Jesus!” was the best he could manage. “Sweet Jesus Christ!” When she plopped into her chair again, he simply goggled at her with eyes that continued to water. Finally he sucked in a breath and blew it out again. “What kind of thing is that to say?”

“It's plain speaking.” Determined to hold back both nerves and temper, she hooked an arm over the back of her chair. “The fact is, I've a yen for you. I've had it for some time.” This time his mouth fell open, and the shock on his face teased her temper closer to the surface. “What do you think? Only men can scratch an itch when they have one?”

He didn't, of course he didn't. But neither did he believe that one just plopped down in someone's kitchen and announced it. “What would your mother think, hearing you talk this way?”

Brenna inclined her head. “She's not here, is she?”

He pushed the chair back, abruptly enough to have Betty leap to her feet. Since none of the thoughts whirling around in his head would settle, he just marched to the door. “I need air.”

For a moment Brenna sat where she was. She ordered herself to take long, slow breaths, to wait until she could be calm. To be reasonable and mature and clearheaded. Reason fought against temper for nearly ten seconds before it turned tail and deserted the field.

The nerve of the man! The bloody
nerve
of him. What was she, some kind of gargoyle a man couldn't think of cozying up to? Did she have to strut around in short skirts with her face painted before Shawn Gallagher took notice? The hell with that.

She was up and out the door and striding into the wind. “You're not interested, that's fine. You just say so.”

She caught up with him, planted herself in front of him. He solved that problem by turning around and walking the other way.

And was a lucky man she didn't have a weapon in her hands.

“Don't you walk away from me, you yellow coward dog.”

He shot a look over his shoulder, his eyes a ripe, glittering blue. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” He looked away and kept walking.

He was mortified, right down to the bone. And God help him, he was . . . stirred as well. He refused to think of her that way. And always had. Well, if a time or two his thoughts had veered off in that direction, hadn't he cut them off, sharp and fast? And that's just what he was going to do now.

“Ashamed?” Her voice punched like a fist. “Who the hell are you to decide what should shame me?”

“I'm the man you just offered yourself to as easy as if you were offering me a pint and some crisps.”

She'd caught up with him again, but his words struck her, drained the color from her face. “Is that what you think? That it's nothing more than that? Then it's you who should be ashamed.”