Heart Of The Sea goa-3 Read online

  "Several." Now that the shouting was over, she judged everyone ready to hear them. She folded her hands on her belly. "First, the practicalities. I don't know anything about publicity or entertainment, but it seems to me the scenario Trevor outlined is simple and smart and would be effective. That benefits all of us."

  "That's true," Aidan agreed. "But if we take our music into the theater, what does that leave us in the pub?"

  "The informality. A bigger impact because you have performed onstage, because you've recorded. And then anyone coming in for a pint might catch you in the mood to do a song while you're at the bar or coming out of the kitchen. The tourists, in particular, will love it."

  "Well, now, that's bloody brilliant," Darcy murmured.

  "Not really. It's just that I've sat in the pub, and I've watched and I know how lovely it is. So has Trevor. He's very much aware of how one will affect the other. Next-" She took a deep breath. "Individually. Aidan, it won't change your center. Nothing could. It isn't a matter of either/or. Whatever you decide will be right, because you have that center and it matters most to you."

  He picked up her hand, kissed it. "Isn't she wonderful? Have you ever seen the like of her?"

  Jude merely kept her hand in his and laid them both over their baby. "Shawn. You have a beautiful talent. The more Brenna loves you, and admires that, the more impatient she is with you for hesitating to share it."

  "Then she must love me a hell of a lot."

  "Which is my cross to bear." Brenna bit into a biscuit and glared at him.

  "I would think," Jude continued, "having your family perform and record your music would be the perfect solution. You trust them, and they understand you. Won't it be easier for you to take that step when you have that bond?"

  "It shouldn't be because of me."

  "Oh, just answer the question," Darcy snapped. "You fish-faced jackass."

  "Of course it'd be easier, but-"

  "Now shut up." Darcy nodded smugly. "And let Jude finish. Because I think she's about to come to me, and I love the attention."

  "You don't shrink from attention." Jude picked up her tea to sip. She couldn't sit much longer in one spot. Her back was starting to ache. "Performing would be second nature to you. You'd enjoy the stage, the lights, the applause."

  Shawn snorted. "She'll lap it up like cream. Vanity is our Darcy's middle name."

  "Can I help it if all the good looks in the family waited for me?"

  "I don't know, as I haven't seen your face without a layer of paint since you were thirteen."

  "The pity of it is I have to see yours every time I turn around."

  "Since looking at each other is the next thing to looking in a mirror, you could find something else to argue over." Aidan held up a finger before either of his siblings could snipe. "Let Jude finish."

  "I nearly am." Amazing, she thought, how quickly she'd become used to the rhythm of this family. "I imagine you'd enjoy being onstage, playing to the audience. But, if the idea of it terrified you, if you hated the very thought of it, you'd do it anyway. You'd do anything for these two."

  Though the statement was perilously close to the end of her conversation with Trevor, Darcy let out an amused snort. "I do to please myself."

  "In a great many things," Jude agreed. "This you'd do for Aidan, and Aidan's the pub. You'd do it for Shawn, and Shawn's the music. Last of all you'd do it for yourself. For the fun."

  "The fun's a factor, isn't it?" Darcy rose, started to move casually to the stove, but Aidan caught her hand as she went by.

  He tugged, she resisted. He tugged again. With a little sigh, she went into his lap. "Tell me what you want, Darcy darling."

  "A chance, I suppose."

  He nodded, met Shawn's eyes across the table. "Let's give it a day or two to simmer. Then I'll talk to Magee again and see just what's up his sleeve."

  CHAPTER Nine

  The hums and grumbles and thuds outside her window drove Darcy out of bed early every morning. Whenever she thought about it going on for nearly another year, she was tempted to bury her head under the pillow and smother herself.

  Since suicide wasn't in her makeup, though, she tried to make the best of it. She could turn up her music loud, or just lie there and pretend she was in a big, noisy city.

  New York, Chicago. All that noise was really traffic, and people bustling under her lovely, lofty penthouse flat.

  Most of the time that worked. When it didn't, she got up and spent quite a bit of time in the shower cursing.

  Otherwise, if she was in the mood, she'd wander over to look down and watch the work for a while. And look for Trevor. She didn't allow herself to do it daily-or allow herself to be seen daily.

  That would be predictable.

  She liked looking at him, seeing what he was up to that morning. Some days he was standing on the edge of things, his hair blowing in the wind, discussing something or other with Brenna or Mick O'Toole in the way men did, with thumbs tucked into pockets and wise, sober expressions on their faces.

  And others-and she liked the others best-he was in the middle of the thing, hammering or hauling or drilling, stripped down to his shirtsleeves, and if the angle was right she could watch a ripple of muscle.

  It was odd. Not that she hadn't always enjoyed taking a good, long look at men, but she couldn't remember ever being so interested in the look of one man before. Or being so fascinated by studying him as he went about manual labor.

  He had a fine build, she mused as she stood framed in the window. That was part of it. A woman who didn't appreciate a long and wiry build on a man, well, she had a problem, as far as Darcy was concerned. It was the way he moved, too. Light on his feet, confident and in control.

  She imagined, and why wouldn't she imagine, that he would be just as confident and in control with a female in bed. Control would make a man thorough, and a thorough loving was no small matter to a woman.

  Still, she had to wonder what it would take to snap that control. A loving wild and fierce was no small matter either.

  It concerned her in a mild sort of way that she thought of him as often as she did. Looked for him as often as she did. In the mornings like this, at midday, in the evening.

  Sometimes he came into the pub. Sometimes he didn't. She was certain it was purposeful on his part. That lack of predictability. They were gaming with each other, and both knew it perfectly well.

  And damn, but didn't she like that about him! The man was every bit as arrogant as she was herself.

  She hadn't arranged for a night off. That was purposeful on her part. It was true enough that she liked keeping him waiting. But she was keeping herself waiting as well, with a delicious sort of tension inside her. She understood that when they spent the evening together, it wouldn't be just a matter of having dinner.

  Dinner wasn't what either of them wanted.

  It had been a long time since she'd had an urge for a man. A particular man. She missed the feel of one against her, that was true. The strength and the heat, that flash of fire in the belly that came just before release.

  She was a woman who enjoyed sex, Darcy admitted, the problem being there'd been no one to tempt her for more than a year.

  Sure and she was tempted now, she thought when Trevor looked up and their eyes met. She enjoyed, absorbed, the edgy little thrill that whipped down her spine. The man tempted her in all manner of ways. So- it was time to arrange for that night off.

  She smiled down at him, slow and sly, then deliberately stepped back. Let him do some thinking about that, she decided.

  Restless, not ready to face the long day, or even dress for it as yet, she wandered her rooms. She put on the kettle for tea more out of habit than desire. The rooms, such as they were, were the first she'd had all to herself in all of her life. It had been a shocking surprise to realize she missed the company of her brothers. Even their untidiness.

  She'd always liked things just so, and her rooms reflected it. She'd painted the walls a qui
et rose. Well, she'd browbeaten Shawn into doing most of the work, but the results were pleasing to her. From her bedroom at home, she'd taken her favorite framed posters. Monet's water lilies and a forest scene she'd found in a bookshop. She liked the dreaminess of them.

  She'd made the curtains herself, as she had a fine hand with a needle when she wanted to. The pillows she piled on the ancient sofa were from her hand as well. A practical woman who preferred nice things understood it was cheaper by far to buy a length of satin or velvet and put in the time than to plunk down the cost for ready-made.

  And it left more spending money for shoes or earrings.

  Standing on a table was her wish jar, full of coins that came from tips. And one day, she thought, one fine day, there would be enough for her to take the next trip. An extravagant trip next time, to anywhere.

  A tropical island, maybe. Where she could wear an excuse for a bikini and drink something foolish and fruity out of a coconut shell. Or Italy, to sit on some sunbaked terrace and look out over red-tiled roofs and grand cathedrals.

  Or New York, where she would stroll along Fifth Avenue and gaze at all the treasures behind the forest of shop windows and pick out what was waiting just for her.

  One day, she thought, and wished whenever she imagined it that she didn't see herself alone.

  It didn't matter. She had enjoyed her week in Paris alone, so she would enjoy the others, in their time. Meanwhile, she was here, and so was the work.

  She brewed the tea first, and told herself that since she was up early she'd lounge on the sofa, page through one of her glossy magazines and enjoy a quiet morning.

  Before she settled in, her gaze landed on the violin she kept on a stand, more for decoration than convenience. Frowning, she set her cup aside and picked up the instrument. It was old, but had a clear voice. Would it be this, she wondered? Would it be the music that had always been part of her life that finally opened the doors for her, that took her into those places she dreamed of and rolled out the red carpet she was dying to walk on?

  "Wouldn't that be odd," she murmured. "Something you never think twice about because it's always been there."

  Idly, she rosined the bow, tucked the violin under her chin, and played what came first to mind.

  He'd expected her to come down. Trevor left the site, slipped into the kitchen with the excuse of making a phone call. But she wasn't there.

  He heard the music, the aching, romantic notes of a violin. The kind of music, he thought, that belonged to moonlight.

  He followed it.

  Her door was at the head of the stairs, and the music seemed to swell against it, rising up like hope, sliding down like tears.

  He didn't even think to knock.

  He saw her, half turned away, eyes closed. Lost. Her hair was loose, still tumbled from sleep to rain down the back of a long blue robe. One narrow bare foot tapped the time.

  The look of her clogged his lungs. The music she made had his throat burning. She played for herself, and the quiet pleasure of it glowed on that remarkable face.

  Everything he wanted, had planned for, dreamed of, seemed to melt together in that one woman, that one moment. And left him shaken to the bone.

  The music soared, note echoing against note, then slid away to silence.

  Still drifting, she sighed, opened her eyes. And saw him. Her heart stuttered, an almost painful sensation. Before she could recover, before she could slip on the mask of a knowing smile, he crossed to her.

  She felt her breath catch, as if someone had squeezed a hand over her throat. Or her heart. Then his mouth was on hers, hot, fierce. Glorious.

  Her arms fell weakly to her sides, as if the fiddle and bow had taken on great weight. His hands were on her face, in her hair, and need pumped like heat from his body into hers. She took, had no choice but to take, that hard slap of desire.

  She gave, finally; he felt her give. That slow, somehow liquid surrender of the female that made every man feel like a king. Because she did, because it brought the ache inside him toward something like a tremble, he gentled-lips, hands-cruising now, caressing. Savoring.

  When he drew away, she fought off a shudder, forced a smile to her lips. "Well, now, good morning to you."

  "Just shut up a minute." He pulled her back, but this time simply rested his cheek on top of her head.

  She wanted to step back. This embrace was more intimate than the kiss, and just as stirring. Just, she realized as she relaxed against him, as irresistible.

  "Trevor."

  "Ssh."

  For some reason, that made her laugh. "Aren't you the bossy one!"

  The tension he'd worried would blow off the top of his head faded away. "I don't know why I bother. You don't listen anyway."

  "Why should I?"

  He held her another moment, steady enough now to appreciate that her robe was very thin. "Do you ever lock that door?"

  "Why should I?" Now she did step back. "No one comes in and stays in unless I want them to."

  "I'll remember that." He lifted a hand, brushed at her hair. "I didn't know you could play."

  "Oh, music is the Gallagher way." She gestured with the violin, then set it back on its stand. "I was in the mood for some, that's all."

  "What was it you were playing?"

  "One of Shawn's tunes. There aren't any words to it."

  "It doesn't need any." He saw it, the way her eyes warmed with pride. "Play something else."

  She only moved her shoulders, laid the bow aside. "I'm not in the mood now." She picked up her tea, and now her eyes were sharp with both humor and calculation. "And I'm thinking I might start saving my songs for those who pay."

  "Would you sign a recording contract? Solo?"

  She nearly jolted, but recovered neatly. "Why, that would depend on the terms."

  "What do you want?"

  "Oh, I want this and that. And all of the other things." She walked to the sofa, sat, crossed her legs. "I'm a selfish and greedy creature, Magee. I want lavish luxury and pampering and slavish admiration. I don't quibble about working for them, but I want them at the end of the day."

  Considering her, he sat on the arm of the couch beside her and, testing, trailed a fingertip over her collarbone, paused just above the rise of her breast. "I can get them for you."

  Her eyes went cold, shot out a blast of air so frigid it could have frozen blood. "I've no doubt you can." With one sharp move, she knocked his hand aside. "But that's not the sort of work I have in mind."

  "Good. Then we keep one separate from the other."

  Ice turned to fire in the blink of an eye. "Was that a little experiment, then? And what would you have done if I'd laid back for you?"

  "Can't say." He took her cup and helped himself to her tea. "You're a delectable package, Darcy. But you'd have disappointed me." He placed a hand on her shoulder when she started to spring up, felt the temper vibrating like a plucked bow string. "I'll apologize for it."

  "I don't trade myself for profit."

  "I didn't think you did." But there had been other women who'd offered. It had, and did, leave a nasty taste in his mouth. "I want you on two levels, one as a business, one as a man. I'd like you to understand the first has nothing to do with the second."

  She eased back, struggling with the temper she knew could be an ugly thing. "And you'd like reassurance of the same from me."

  "I just got it."

  "You could have done so with more style."

  "Agreed." It had been cold, calculated-something, he thought, that his grandfather might have done. "I'm sorry," he said, and meant it.

  "And which level would that apology come from?"

  "Touch‚", he thought. "One from each, as each was out of line."

  She took her tea back from him. "Then I'll accept each."

  "Let's put the business aside for now. I need to go to London for a couple of days." He'd intended to put it off, but- she wanted things, why not give her a taste? "Come with me."

 
; She'd clicked her temper back to simmer, but this sudden twist blanked it out and left her puzzled. Wary. "You want me to go to London with you? Why?"

  "First, because I want to take you to bed." He took the mug back again, thinking as he did that the tea had become a kind of prop between them.

  "That we've established already. There are beds in Ardmore."

  "Our schedules haven't been meshing in Ardmore. And second, I enjoy your company. Have you been to London?"

  "No."

  "You'll like it."

  "Most probably I would." She took the mug when he held it out, sipped the tea to give herself time to think. He was offering her something she'd always wanted. To travel in style. To see London, and not to see it alone.

  He would expect sex, naturally. But then, so would she. What point was there pretending to be coy about something they both knew was bound to happen anyway?

  "When do you go?"

  "I'm flexible."

  She let out a short laugh. "No, that you are not. But if your schedule is, I might be able to work it out. I need to speak with Aidan and arrange for a replacement. He won't be pleased with me, but I can get 'round him."

  "I'm sure you can. Let me know what days work for you, and I'll take care of the rest."

  That practiced feline smile was back. "Oh, I like that. Having a man take care of the rest. You run along now." She rose, then deliberately trailed her fingers over his jaw. "I'll get back to you when I can."

  He caught her wrist, his grip just hard enough to show her he was serious. "You won't play me, Darcy. I'm not like the others."

  She stood where she was as he released her, as he walked out and shut the door. Yes, indeed, she could agree with that. He wasn't anything like anyone she'd known. And wasn't it going to be interesting to find out just what and who he was?

  "You've had your holiday."

  She'd wanted to catch Aidan at home rather than wait for him to come into the pub. She'd had to rush to manage it, and was pleased to find him finishing up his breakfast. His first response was exactly what she'd expected and didn't discourage her in the least.