Prologue
When they first met…
The atmosphere was perfect or as perfect as one could hope for. Stringed instruments from an actual live band played a haunting Irish ballad designed to leak tears from the eyes. Several patrons, clearly returning ones, would join in the chorus and sing along.
The place was decorated in the Irish green with acres of floor space for dancing. It was set up like a traditional Irish pub with a robust looking man with a shock of red hair and dancing green eyes, cheerfully handled the counter, building pints and telling stories.
Further down the teak counter, a woman as slim as a sprite, with dense black hair and a wicked smile on her lovely face had made it into a competition.
O'Sullivan's was a fixture on Paddington Street and had been around for too many years to count. Kiara had wanted anonymity, a chance to clear her head and get rid of the cobwebs. She had been writing for two straight days, buried under research material and an imagination that seemed to have taken wings.
She had finally surfaced for air, when she received the call from her mother. She had contemplated not answering but knew the consequences of it. Dr. Victoria Landan would have continued calling. The woman was nothing if not persistent.
She had taken a corner booth so as not to be disturbed. A glass of Cabernet and a bowl of pretzels was in front of her. A few hopeful men had wandered over her way, but her coolly frosted glance had them backing away.
She didn't want company. She wanted to lose herself in the wine and the music. The band had changed to a lively jig that had her feet tapping under the table.
She was about to lift the wine and take a sip, when a shadow slanted over the table. With a snarl already building, she lifted her head and was stunned into silence. She knew who he was of course. Oscar O'Sullivan had been on the covers of too many magazines not to be recognized.
"The sexy billionaire pub owner" was what they called him, and she supposed it had merit. Thick dark hair curled wildly around a narrow poet like face. Winter green eyes, she supposed that's the best way to describe the eyes laughing down at her, were surrounded by sooty lashes more fitting for a female. His face was tanned, the deep indentation in his firm chin adding to the charm.
Without invitation, he lowered his very tall and leanly muscled body across from her.
"It's an absolute sin for a beautiful woman to drink alone." His voice was deep with a faint Irish lilt. She had read somewhere that he divided his time between the states and Ireland.
Frowning in annoyance when he settled comfortably, she made her objection known.
"I like drinking alone."
"I recognized you as soon as you stepped over the threshold." Before she could move her hand, he had it trapped between his and the table.
Ignoring the flash of irritation, he continued.
"Bobby," he gestured to the flaming red haired bartender. "He noticed you first and pointed you out. He's also a fan."
"That's nice."
His grin was almost infectious. Almost.
"'Nice'? I tell you we're fans of your work and that's all you can say?"
"If I say wonderful, will you leave me alone?"
His grin widened. He had seen her walk with that loping way of a graceful gazelle, the jacket thick and shapeless, covering her to the knees. But Bobby, bless his remarkable talent for spotting celebrities, had noticed her immediately.
"No." His hand tightened when she tried to drag it away, causing her irritation to rise.
"Don't you have other patrons, is it? To harass?"
"I prefer to think of it as doing my civic duty." His green eyes danced merrily as they wandered over her flawless face. She had quite the face, he mused. Narrow with defined cheekbones and a pointed chin. Her eyes were what he would refer to as chocolate brown and dominated her features.
Her lips were full and slightly top heavy. Her diction was precise and preppy indicating a prep school education.
"Bartenders are like psychiatrists and we tend to get to the meat of the matter." His expression turned sober. "Want to tell me what's bothering you?"
Elegantly shaped brows lifted in derision.
"That's precisely what I want to do. Tell a perfect stranger my personal business."
