Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5 (6 page)

“And now,” he replied, settling between her legs, “relax.”

He kissed her breasts, nipping her nipples. She gasped and pulled on his hair, the fingers of her other hand tracing the vertebrae in his neck.

He kissed a path to her abdomen, then drew his tongue in an erotic circle around her navel. Her belly was perfect. Slightly rounded, but with little excess flesh, and decorated with the odd silvery stretch mark.

Seán let his tongue slide south, exploring her soft, neat curls while his fingers kneaded her firm buttocks.

She arched when he bent to tease her clit. “Oh. Oh, my,” she exhaled in a breathy moan.

Her taste was a delicious mix of sweet and salty. He nibbled her clit, making her gasp.

“I want you inside me.”

“Patience is a virtue.”

She laughed. “I don’t do virtues.”

Despite her obvious impatience, she fell silent and allowed him to tease her to distraction. Her every moan made him harder, his breath more shallow. He wanted her bad.

Finally, she arched away from him. “Now I want. You. Inside. Me.”

“That’s more like it.” He reached for the foil packet he’d had the foresight to toss on his bedside table before they’d gotten too hot and heavy and rolled a condom over his shaft.

Orla helped him position himself at her opening. She felt warm, wet, ready. He pushed inside her, relishing her slick tightness, and paused to allow her to become accustomed to his size.

She arched her hips and wrapped her legs around his waist. Seán pushed deeper and began to thrust.

It felt good. Amazingly good. Her lips parted. She licked them, and he bent to claim them in a passionate kiss.

Each movement brought him a little closer to heaven.

Orla wrapped herself tighter around him, kneading his buttocks, exploring the contours of his back. Her breathing grew rapid and shallow.

Playfully, he nipped her ear, laughed at her sharp intake of breath. Her beautiful green eyes grew cloudy before she gasped as she orgasmed. Seán kept the pressure up until the last wave receded.

“Oh, wow,” she murmured against his neck. “Don’t stop now.”

He dropped a kiss onto her throat. “I don’t intend to.”

Then he ceased to think, succumbed to the rhythm and increasing pressure, until he came in an explosion of searing hot ecstasy.

Gasping, they fell back on their pillows.

“Wow,” he said, discarding the condom.

“Wow, indeed.” Orla rolled over and propped her head up with her elbow. She ran her fingers down his chest. “Could you be persuaded for a second round?”

He laughed. “I might be.”

“Then I’d better do my best to convince you.” Trailing her fingertips over his penis, she bent to take it into her mouth.

Orla’s powers of persuasion proved to be most effective. Seán was on the verge of another orgasm when his phone rang.

And not just any ring, either. A particular ring designated for a particular person.

The boss.

Damnation
. Seán raised his head and stilled his hands on her shoulders. He wanted to ignore the call, let it go to voice mail. Already, he felt himself deflating. A call from the super at this hour on his night off didn’t herald good news.

He swore under his breath. “I’m sorry, Orla. I have to take this call.”

She looked up at him, her lips forming a small O of surprise before drooping into a frown.

Her expression of hurt and disappointment was like a sucker punch to the gut. He raised himself off her, hopped off the bed, and began rooting through his trouser pockets for his phone. He wanted to hurl the damn thing against a wall.

“Don’t move a muscle,” he said over his shoulder with a forced grin. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

At least he hoped he’d be able to continue where he’d left off. It depended on whatever the super had to say. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. Finally silencing the insistent tone of Meatloaf’s “Bat Out of Hell,” he said, “Sir?”

“Seán?” The super’s voice was grave, confirming Seán’s hunch that this call wouldn’t bring good news. “There was a fire at the halting site. The fire chief says it looks like arson. A couple of the Travellers are at Mercy Hospital with smoke inhalation and burns.”

He let out a sharp breath. “Any leads?”

“No. The Travellers are keeping tight-lipped, as per usual. You said you were in Cork City for the weekend. Any chance you’re near the hospital?”

“I’m at the Sheldon Hotel. Not far to walk.”

“Then I’d like you to go by the hospital. Try to get the family to talk to you.”

Seán paced the narrow parameters of the bathroom. “What makes you think I’ll have more luck than the Guards on duty?”

“You’re not from this part of the country. The Travelling community has less of an issue with Dubliners.”

In his experience, that was debatable—as was the super’s assumption about Seán’s origins—but he let it roll.

He placed his fingers to his temples. “All right. My uniform is at home. You’ll have to take me dressed in civvies.” Then he remembered the flying buttons. “Actually, could you lend me a shirt? Mine is…buttonless.”

The super laughed out loud. “Did I call at an awkward moment?”

“Yeah, sir, you did.” Why the hell couldn’t the super call Brian? Or Tom Doyle? They mightn’t have been in the middle of hot foreplay with a gorgeous woman.

“Sorry, lad,” the super said, sounding not the least bit contrite. “I’ll have one of the local Guards leave a shirt for you at the reception desk.”

Great
, thought Seán, sitting on the hard edge of the bathtub.
They’ll laugh their arses off.
“One more thing, sir,” he said slowly, “I’m not exactly sober.”

The super fell silent for a moment, then gave another laugh. “In that case, I’ll tell the Guards to serve your shirt with an extra shot of espresso.”

Ha, ha.
No, he’d never live this one down.

“Seriously, Seán, I need you there. Brian’s on another case, and I can’t get hold of Doyle.” The super pronounced Doyle’s name with a snarl, making his opinion of the reserve policeman clear.

Seán massaged his temples and cursed the collapse of the Irish economy. Cuts had left the Irish police with a skeleton staff and made them reliant on reservists like Tom Doyle, some of who were next to useless. “I’ll be there in ten, sir.” If he sprinted, he’d make it in five.

“You sure I shouldn’t send a car?”

“No need. I’m not far from Mercy University Hospital. I’ll get there quick enough.” The walk wouldn’t make the missing buttons magically reappear on his shirt, but the cool evening air would cure him of his erotic regrets.

He hung up and went back into the bedroom. Orla was sitting on the bed, putting on her bra. She glanced up when he shut the bathroom door and started pulling on his own clothes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for her bare shoulder. “I have to go.”

“No need to apologize.” Her casual tone was belied by her wobbly smile.

“It’s work,” he said, surprised by his genuine regret. “I’m…”

She pulled her T-shirt over her head. “No need to explain. Thanks for a fun evening.”

Seán dropped his hand. “Right. Can I have your phone number? I’d like to invite you for dinner. Make it up to you for taking off like this.”

Her face was a blank mask. “Sure.” She rattled off a series of digits.

As he typed them into his contacts and pressed Save, he wondered if the number was genuine or if she was fobbing him off with a fake. “I’ll call you tomorrow, once I’ve checked my work schedule.”

Orla nodded and scrambled for her shoes. He spotted one by the door. Retrieving it, he handed it to her, their fingers brushing for an electrical instant.

The heat of sexual awareness coursed through his veins. He closed his hand around hers and dropped a kiss onto her wrist. The throb of her pulse sent a lightning bolt of arousal direct to his groin. “I’d have liked to spend the night with you, Orla. I’m sorry I have to leave.”

She nodded, eyes shuttered, the flirtatious demeanor of earlier replaced by an air of awkward distraction. She tugged her hand free and scrambled for her handbag.

“Where are you staying while you’re in Cork? I’ll call you a taxi.”

“Oh, no.” Her eyes met his—calm, cool, direct. “There’s no need for a taxi.”

Seán frowned, his eyes sliding over her worn jeans and T-shirt to the red heels. “You have somewhere to go, right? I don’t want you wandering round town this time of night. It gets rough down by the quays.”

“No worries. I’ll be fine.” The quaver in her voice said otherwise.

He wrinkled his brow, a suspicion forming. “You didn’t book accommodation before you came down to Cork?”

Her eyes darted to the side. “I was going to look for a room but then I got…distracted.”

Distracted by him. She was unlikely to find a vacant bed at the Sheldon. Even if they had a spare room, it was probably more than she could afford, if her clothes were anything to go by. Hell, if they didn’t discount for law enforcement officials, it was more than he could afford on a cop’s salary. “Stay here,” he insisted. “I doubt I’ll make it back, but you’re welcome to have the room in my place.”

She hesitated a fraction of a second before answering. “I can’t take your reservation.”

“Of course you can. Knowing you’re safe in a warm bed will make me feel less of a heel for taking off like this.”

“Well…thank you.” She tugged at neckline of her T-shirt, reminding him of the silky skin of her cleavage.

“No problem,” he said, keeping his voice even. He placed the key card on the dresser. “Breakfast’s included. Just drop the key at reception when you leave.”

She blinked, drawing attention to the eyes that had riveted him when he’d first seen her in the hotel lobby. “Bye, Seán.”

“Bye, Orla. Thanks for a fantastic evening. Hope to see you again soon. In the meantime, enjoy your stay in Cork.”

He clicked the door shut.

Clonmore House, Ballybeg, Ireland

CLIO LEANED ONE HIP against the granite kitchen counter of her mother’s new weekend home, surrounded by moving boxes and bad vibes. She downed the last dregs of cold coffee and wished her hangover to Hades. This was why she’d sworn off spirits. From now on, she was sticking to the odd glass of wine and avoiding the hard stuff.

She massaged her aching temples with her free hand and fought a wave of nausea. Last night, she’d tried to forget her crazy situation using gin and Seán as distractions. This morning, she was plagued by reality and regret.

She placed her coffee cup on the counter and squeezed her sore eyes shut. Thank goodness Seán had been kind enough to let her stay in his hotel room. To her amazement, she’d managed to sleep in until it was almost time to collect her daughter from the train station.

When she woke up, her first act had been to call Emma. She’d poured out the whole sordid story, starting with the phone call to Ray six weeks ago and its unforeseen consequences. To her credit, Emma hadn’t said, “I told you so.” She’d simply agreed to transfer two thousand euros from her bank account to Clio’s so that Clio could replace the cash she’d taken from her mother’s safe. Emma was the best friend any woman could ask for. Plus she was a private investigator. She’d promised to try to ferret out a nugget of information Clio could use to get Ray off her back and out of her life.

Looking for a part-time job in Ballybeg hadn’t been on Clio’s immediate agenda. She’d been hoping to put out feelers for translation work she could do from home. However, paying back Emma meant she’d need to pick up work as soon as possible, preferably a job in a pub or a restaurant where the pay came weekly and could be augmented by tips.

In addition to finishing unpacking moving boxes, today’s to-do list included figuring out a way to stall Ray over the burglary. That was going to be a lot more complicated than replacing the missing cash.
Oh, God.

A crash jolted Clio back to the present, sudden as whiplash. Her eyes flew open.

Shards of broken glass lay scattered across the terracotta kitchen tiles, shimmering defiantly in the pale sunlight. Framed by a mountain of empty moving boxes, Helen and Tammy stood on either side of the broken vase—her mother regal in a tailored suit, her daughter channeling Marilyn Manson on a bad day.

“You stupid girl!” Helen’s screech was like a banshee on acid. She dropped a small traveling case onto the kitchen floor and pointed a scarlet-lacquered talon at the slivers on the floor. “Vintage Waterford Crystal. Vin. Tage.”

Tammy shrank inside her oversized shirt, shoulders hunched. Clio’s stomach muscles clenched to see her daughter so nervous. Harsh memories surfaced of a childhood spent weathering Helen’s glacial gibes.

“Sorry, Gran.” Tammy’s normally strong voice was low enough that Clio had to strain to discern her words.

“Hello to you too, Mother,” Clio said dryly. “Given your mood, I take it filming in Galway didn’t go well?”

Ignoring her daughter, Helen danced a five-inch heel against the hard stone floor. “Do you have to be so clumsy, Tamara?”

“I’m not clumsy.” The girl crossed her arms over her thin chest and ran a nervous tongue over her braces. “Not usually. You startled me.”

Helen raised a tweezed eyebrow. “This is the second item you’ve broken since we started unpacking. Perhaps you’d take care if they were yours. Since you and your mother are living under my roof rent-free, I suggest you pay more attention.”

The girl’s face crumpled.

Clio’s anger hit like a blow to the abdomen, then soared in pace with her pulse. “Mother,” she said, voice low but determined. “It was an accident. I’m sorry the vase got broken, but Tammy didn’t smash it deliberately.”

Helen peered at Clio over the top of her designer spectacles. “Deliberate or not, she should be more careful. Given the state of
you
, I’m surprised you can form a coherent thought, let alone give it voice.”

Was her hangover obvious? Clio caught sight of herself in the gilded mirror by the kitchen door.
Ouch.

Why had she downed that G&T? Not to mention the two subsequent ones? She should have resisted. She should have stayed strong. Shoulda, woulda, coulda.
Yeah, right.
“Never mind me. Stop picking on Tammy. She’s worked hard unpacking boxes since we got home two hours ago.” She stepped forward and reached out to give her daughter’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.