Chapter 18
The next day, Clare dressed in Sorcha’s conservative work clothes: a navy-blue blazer, tweed pants, and a white pin-tucked blouse. Griffin was in the shower, singing an old Irish lullaby, and he showed no signs of trying to get away.
Perhaps he was biding his time,or worse, he’d had a seizure overnight and had forgotten who he was.
“Everything go okay last night?” Sorcha asked at the breakfast table while Maeve lurked outside of the bathroom to get her deserved eyeful. After all, she still claimed his body, or crudely, one specific part of it.
“It’s out of my control,” Clare admitted. “We’ve practically told him the rough diamond is at theabbey. He could send a message to his grandfather or butler, but I don’t believe he has.”
“He doesn’t have a mobile phone.” Sorcha loaded up plates of bubble and squeak, a breakfast pancake made of leftover mashed potato and whatever chopped veggies happened to be handy.
“I’m going to get him one.” Clare filled up the coffeemaker and ignored the whistling tea kettle. “The importantthing is to make new memories for him, so he’ll forget the bad ones from the past.”
“What’s going on here?” Sorcha narrowed her eyes. “You two were chained together going to bed, and this morning you’re acting like honeymooners. He’s singing in the shower. Am I guessing you got Maeve’s share of Griffin Gallagher?”
“I’m still aiming for his heart,” Clare said. “If I’m truly the Brigidof his dreams, then I would love him and cherish him. Locking him up proves I’m not.”
“You don’t really think you’re Brigid, do you?” Sorcha poured a glass of orange juice for herself. “You’re just fooling to get the money.”
“Shhh…” Clare heard a squeal from Maeve as the bathroom door opened. Steam filtered out, along with a half-dressed Irishman. The towel around his waist saggedlow over his sculpted torso, and beads of water dripped from his hair.
“Hello, ladies.” He winked, giving them a wave before turning around and swaggering into Clare’s bedroom.
All three pairs of female eyes remained transfixed on the broad back and the outline of sexy buns underneath the skimpy white towel.
After Griffin shut the door, Maeve fluttered to the kitchen, bouncingand squeaking. “You slept with him last night. Tonight’s my turn.”
“We only slept,” Clare clarified. She could feel their questioning gazes as hot and bright as spotlights trained on her, and she wilted under their stares. “We did a little kissing and making out, but I kept my legs clamped shut.”
“When are you going to let go?” Maeve asked. “It’s not every night you have that kindof virile man in your bed.”
“Don’t bug her about her virginity,” Sorcha said. “It’s something you can only lose once.”
Maeve fanned herself. “I know, but you have to do it at some point.”
“Under the right conditions,” Clare said. “It has to be epic, and being stuck in a storage room on a lumpy twin bed is not epic.”
Sorcha sighed, readjusting her glasses. “Not whenyou could have been in his castle. Did you get a chance to visit his bedchamber?”
“We were busy packing.” Clare recalled the satin or silk sheets, the wood paneling, and the ornate rugs and plush draperies. “It was pretty luxurious, but it’s not only the location, it has to be the right man and the right frame of mind.”
“The longer you hold on to it, the harder it will be to justdo it,” Maeve said as if she were an expert.
“So says who?” Clare challenged. “Have you found the right one?”
“No, but when he shows up, I’ll know without a doubt. He will be legendary.” Her face pinked up with a sweet blush, and Clare knew she was thinking about her favorite super-hero type—a caped crusader warrior with a cleft-chin and booming voice, holding up a bright and shiningsword.
A male voice clearing his throat stopped Sorcha from boring them about her preference for bodybuilding geniuses wearing Harry Potter glasses.
“Good morning, Griffin!” Maeve whirled around. “Did you sleep well?”
Griffin put his arm over Clare’s shoulders in a possessive gesture. “I’ve nothing to complain about. Thanks for letting me hide out here. Clare and I have afull day ahead, don’t we?”
Shock did not even begin to register as Sorcha and Maeve pointed at her, shaking their heads.
He’d called her “Clare.”
He knew.
