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Sullivan's Child
Gail Link


PASSION'S CHILDYears ago, blind ambition tore Rory Sullivan from Caitlyn Kildare's tempestuous embrace. Now Rory stormed back into the small town where he first tasted desire, where he hoped to indulge his appetite again….But heated visions of their romantic reunion shattered when Rory met Tara–Caitlyn's daughter. A child–his spitting image–he knew nothing about! Rory wouldn't be denied the chance to be a father. So he convinced Caitlyn to be his wife in a mockery of a marriage. But with Caitlyn as his bride, temptation became his bed partner. How would this husband-on-paper quiet the persistent rumblings in his heart…those inner cries for Caitlyn's passion…and love?







Always and Forever, Cat.

The irony of that phrase haunted Rory Sullivan. Just because you left a place or a person didn’t mean they left you. Some memories were burned too deep to ever depart; they remained in your mind, constant reminders of what was.

What was, what is, what would always be for him—the woman whose memory he’d tried to ignore. A woman he’d tried to erase from the deepest recesses of his mind but had found was unforgettable. The passion he tried so hard to bury was ultimately unquenchable.

Caitlyn Kildare was still there. In his heart. In his mind. In his past.

Was there someone special in her life now? Someone who’d replaced him in her heart, her mind…her bed?


Dear Reader,

Happy anniversary! Twenty years ago, in May, 1980, we launched Silhouette Books. Much has changed since then, but our gratitude to you, our many readers, and our dedication to bringing you the best that romance fiction has to offer, remains as true today as it did in 1980. Thank you for sharing with us the joy of romance, and for looking toward a wonderful future with us. The best is yet to come!

Those winsome mavericks are back with brand-new stories to tell beneath the Big Sky! The Kincaid Bride by Jackie Merritt marks the launch of the MONTANA MAVERICKS: WED IN WHITEHORN series, which focuses on a new generation of Kincaids. This heartwarming marriage-of-convenience tale leads into Silhouette’s exciting twelve-book continuity.

Romance is in the air in The Millionaire She Married, a continuation of the popular CONVENIENTLY YOURS miniseries by reader favorite Christine Rimmer. And searing passion unites a fierce Native American hero with his stunning soul mate in Warrior’s Embrace by Peggy Webb.

If you enjoy romantic odysseys, journey to exotic El Bahar in The Sheik’s Arranged Marriage by Susan Mallery—book two in the sizzling DESERT ROGUES miniseries.

Gail Link pulls heartstrings with her tender tale about a secret child who brings two lovebirds together in Sullivan’s Child. And to cap off the month, you’ll adore Wild Mustang by Jane Toombs—a riveting story about a raven-haired horse wrangler who sweeps a breathtaking beauty off her feet.

It’s a spectacular month of reading in Special Edition. Enjoy!

All the best,

Karen Taylor Richman

Senior Editor




Sullivan’s Child

Gail Link





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To the two Jennifers (Nauss and Walsh) at Silhouette—thanks

for sharing in the creative process

and caring about my work.

To the terrific crew of Barnes & Noble Wilmington—co-workers

extraordinaire!

To Pierce Brosnan—from “Remington” to “Bond,”

you always deliver the goods.

It’s a pleasure (not to mention an inspiration)

to watch you work.


Books by Gail Link

Silhouette Special Edition

Marriage To Be? #1035

Lone Star Lover #1121

Texan’s Bride #1163

Sullivan’s Child #1325


GAIL LINK

A bookseller since 1977, Gail realized her dream of becoming a published author with the release of her first novel, a historical, in 1989.

Gail is a member of the national Romance Writers of America and Novelists, Inc. She has been featured speaker at many writers’ conferences, and several publications have featured her comments on the romance genre, including Publishers Weekly and the RWA Report. In 1993 Gail was nominated for Romantic Times Magazine’s Reviewer’s Choice Award for Best Sensual Historical.

In addition to being a voracious reader, Gail is also an avid musical theater and movie fan. She would love to hear from her readers, and you may write to her at P.O. Box 717, Concordville, PA 19331.




Contents


Chapter One (#u41d84d9b-e7d3-570c-bc33-ebda945060a6)

Chapter Two (#u881d3fbb-a7eb-5c52-b222-f42577bbd7e5)

Chapter Three (#u5142f3f3-c114-5a97-ac5d-93de3748d981)

Chapter Four (#u1ad1c682-bdf7-5aae-9615-2a76cac044a1)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


“Mommy, what’s a bastard?”

Coming right after the softly spoken question from her daughter, the sharp sound of the empty, oversize coffee mug that slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor was almost inaudible to Caitlyn Kildare.

A soft gasp of breath caught in her throat.

What couldn’t be heard in the sunny kitchen was the shattering of her world into even smaller fragments than that of the broken piece of crockery.

“Where did you hear that word?” Hadn’t she known that this might happen someday? She’d told herself that she should be prepared, but being prepared and facing the reality were two very different things.

Getting a grip on her stunned emotions, Caitlyn turned around and faced the curious glance of her six-year-old daughter.

The little girl’s eyes were wide. She stared at the mess her mother had made on the floor, her dark blue eyes outlined by a fringe of sooty lashes. Everything, including her stubborn chin, was a softer replica of her father.

Rory’s daughter. A child he knew nothing about.

Cat bent down, picked up the pieces of the broken mug, a souvenir of a touring Broadway show, and threw them into the trash can.

Placing Tara in one of the sturdy maple chairs that flanked the kitchen table, Cat hunkered down on her knees before the child, gently stroking the soft, wavy, long black hair. A sprinkle of fine golden freckles dusted her daughter’s nose, as they did hers.

A faint smile played over Cat’s lips. Tara was not totally her father’s clone. There was a lot of her in her daughter. Cat repeated her question.

The little girl spoke up quickly. “At school today.”

“What?” Cat’s eyes widened in shock. The term was one she’d never expected to hear being bandied about at an elementary-school class, even if it was one for gifted students. “Who said it?”

“Tessa’s mommy.” Tara’s face tightened in concentration before she resumed. “Tessa left her favorite book behind, and I went out to give it to her before she got in the car. I heard her mommy say to Stephen’s mommy that Tessa’s daddy was a ‘real bastard.’ What did she mean?” Tara asked, her eyes wide with inquiry.

Relief eased Cat’s tense muscles. The woman hadn’t been referring to Tara. Mrs. Saunders was obviously going through another rough patch with her ex-husband, and Tara had overheard the tirade.

“Tessa’s mother was angry with Tessa’s father, and she called him a name,” Cat replied, her tone soothing.

Tara, undaunted, wouldn’t allow this to rest until her inquisitiveness was satisfied. “But what does it mean? Should I get my dictionary and look it up?”

The realization that she wasn’t going to escape Tara’s probing forced Cat’s hand. “It’s a grown-up term.” Then, knowing she couldn’t stall any longer, Cat added, “Tessa’s mother used it to mean a not very nice person. Do you understand?”

The little girl nodded her head, the simple explanation accepted. Wrapping her soft arms around her mother’s neck, Tara planted a smacking kiss on Cat’s cheek.

“Can I go and play now?”

Cat returned the kiss, happy that Tara seemed satisfied with the definition she’d given her. “Scoot,” she said, and the little girl eagerly complied.

Cat stood up, watching as Tara dashed out of the room. This was too close a call for her liking. So far Tara hadn’t really asked too many questions about her lack of a father, probably because she had several stable male influences in her life, among them her grandfather and her uncle, who stepped in when needed. And, the world being what it was, there were several other children she knew being raised in single-parent homes.

But still, the day would come when her daughter would demand to know the truth. A truth she had a right to know. Cat only hoped that Tara would understand her reasons for keeping it hidden.

And what would she say to her daughter when that day came? There would never be time or words enough to fully prepare. How could she ever make her child understand her motives? How could she tell her daughter that she’d been a fool for love? Would Tara ever comprehend? Or forgive?

Cat straightened her slim shoulders and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. She sipped it slowly, savoring the warmth of the hot liquid as it flowed through her on this unexpectedly crisp, early-September day.

Restless, she decided to check and see if the mail had come yet, as it usually arrived early on Saturday.

Pulling on a navy cardigan sweater over her long-sleeved white oxford shirt to ward off the chill, Cat walked in silent concentration to the mailbox at the end of her driveway. She paused to watch a pair of scampering red squirrels, who dashed up and down one of the large evergreens, chasing away a twice-as-big gray squirrel in the process. She stood for a minute and observed the songbirds that crowded the hanging bird feeder, all eager to eat.

If only life could be as simple, she thought as she gathered the mail and then reentered the house.

But it wasn’t and never would be.

Cat dropped the pile of mail onto the kitchen table. Among the assorted bills, catalogs and magazines was a formal-looking envelope bearing the imprint of her alma mater, Cedar Hill University.

She put down her coffee cup and grabbed a knife from the nearby drawer, slit open the envelope and quickly scanned the contents. Color drained from her face. Hoping that she had read the invitation wrong, Cat carefully reread it.

No, she hadn’t made a mistake; the invitation was all too clear, all too real. It was a request for her presence at a reception to be given in two weeks to welcome the newest member of the Cedar Hill faculty, who would be heading up the newly created Department of Celtic Studies.

Cat dropped to the kitchen chair, the note clutched in her hand, the impact of the words hitting her like a body blow. He was coming back, back after all these years.

Sweet saints in heaven, she thought, her other hand over her mouth as if to stifle a gasp. Why now?

She forced herself to take a deep breath. Of course she couldn’t go to the welcome party. It was impossible.

Smoothing out the crushed vellum sheet, her index finger traced the fancy calligraphied letters of his name. Suddenly, Cat began to tremble; tears formed in her green eyes.

It was only a name. What harm could come from a name?

But, her heart countered, there was a man behind the name, a man to be reckoned with.

Feelings that were buried under layers of pain and heartache, which she thought she’d put behind her in the past where they belonged, rose unexpectedly to the surface, clogging her memory.

And what about her daughter?

A rising tide of fear shot through Cat. Had he somehow discovered that their brief love affair had produced a child?

So what if he had? she thought, taking a sip of the now-cooling coffee. Tara was her daughter, hers alone. She’d borne her, raised her, loved her—been all the parent the little girl had ever needed. Seen Tara through upset stomachs and scraped knees. Been there for her through bad dreams and rainy afternoons. Read countless stories and answered thousands of “whys.”

Besides, Cat was no longer the vulnerable young woman that she had been, easily swept away by the dashing Rory Sullivan’s abundant charm and good looks. It wouldn’t work a second time. Her heart was secure, impervious to its former follies. Time and distance had repaired the cracks, cauterized the wounds.

Or had they?

Rising, she grabbed the wall phone and tapped out the RSVP number, quickly conveying her sincere regrets that she wouldn’t be able to attend.

Cat hung up the phone and leaned against the counter, her head bowed. She remained that way for several minutes before raising her head and wiping away the traces of tears that wet her cheeks. She couldn’t afford to waste time on the past; she had a business to run, a life of her own to lead. And, most importantly, it wouldn’t do for Tara to find her like this. Her daughter came before everything, including regrets.

Sleep was impossible that night.

Cat tossed and turned, unable to find the comfort and peace that she craved. She should be too tired to be awake. It had been a busy day at the bookstore, with a large shipment of inventory to unpack and put away. Her muscles ached, yearning for the restorative power of total rest.

However, her mind had other plans.

Cat turned on the lamp by her bed and sat up, glancing at the clock. She knew what the problem was. Memories. Ever since that fancy envelope ripped open the tenuous hold she maintained over her thoughts on the past, the magnetic pull of recollections gripped her senses, nudging aside her hunger for sleep, for forgetfulness.

It had been almost seven years since she had seen the father of her child. Even though he was no longer a part of her personal life, he was still very much a part of her professional life. Because of the popular history books that he’d written, books that she carried in her store, that fact was inescapable. His sharp black-and-white photograph adorned dust jackets: He was the quintessentially handsome, brilliant college professor, a man of undeniable magnetism and taste who could wear, she recalled, a tuxedo or jeans with equal aplomb. The kind of drop-dead-gorgeous looks that constantly stirred and fluttered female hearts—and would until his dying day.

Frustrated, Cat threw back the fluffy white comforter, leaving the bed that offered her no sanctuary from the seductive rush of memories. Slipping on her comfortable hunter-green chenille robe, she padded barefoot to her cozy kitchen for a soothing cup of hot chocolate.

While waiting for the water to boil, she looked out the window over the sink to the sky, touched by a splattering of diamond-chipped stars.

She had thought that he’d been like them: brilliant, remote, out of her reach.

The kettle’s whistle signaled to her that the water was ready. Cat poured the boiling liquid over the cocoa mix, her free hand automatically reaching for a spoon and stirring the contents of the mug. Her mind dwelled on the fact that the unthinkable had happened, that without her having to reach for them, the dreams, the fantasies, had come to her.

And that’s all they were, she thought as she sipped the rich taste of the chocolate. Fantasies.

Without foundation. Without strength. Nothing to build upon, she sadly acknowledged. First love had swept her away on a tide of rising emotions, breaking through the barriers around her heart. She could see it all so clearly: He was again the instructor, she the willing student.

Her memory slipped back, caught in the seductive web of the past….

Cat was running late, the result of having gotten stuck in traffic. Today of all days, she thought as she pulled her car into the small parking lot that adjoined the reconverted barn that housed her bookstore and gift shop.

She’d been open less than a year, and this was her first really big event, hosting a signing of an important new book. All her hard work lobbying the small-press publisher had paid off. She had the first appearance of a man who was getting extensive, glowing media coverage for his introductory foray into the crowded field of historical writing. After reading an advanced copy of the book, Cat had been determined to get the author in her store, especially since he was teaching a semester at Cedar Hill. So impressed was she by his stirring command of words that she wanted to share her enthusiasm with the public. She and her assistant had sent out invitations to a select mailing list, then crossed their fingers that all the people who had responded affirmatively would show up.

Cat finally relaxed about a half hour later after making sure all the details were taken care of: that she had enough chairs to hold the people rapidly filling the store, that the coffee and tea were ready, and that the small iced cookies and cupcakes her assistant, Mary Alice, had picked up from a local bakery were set out. She checked the small pine table holding the large stack of books, fussing with the display until she had it just right.

She chatted with a few of her regular customers while they waited for the author to show up. Several of them had already purchased the book on her recommendation earlier in the week and were as anxious as she was to meet the writer.

Still, Cat was totally unprepared for the shock that hit her squarely in the chest when the door opened several minutes later, and the author sauntered in.

He was the handsomest man she had ever seen. Photographs, she realized, didn’t completely do him justice. Tall, whipcord lean, he entered the room like a conquering prince of old, pride stamped indelibly on the aristocratic planes of his face. Casually dressed in a pale blue oxford shirt and tight indigo jeans, topped by a black leather jacket, Cat couldn’t take her eyes off him.

She was instantly mesmerized by the brilliant blue of his eyes, deep and dark, as he looked in her direction. Kerry blue to be sure, surrounded by thick dark lashes many women would envy, and curving black eyebrows. Black hair, thick and slightly wavy, fell to his nape. His mouth was wide with a sensually full lower lip.

And then he smiled. Caitlyn saw his mouth quirk to one side, a dimple evident in one cheek, the white flash of his teeth glowed against his lightly tanned skin.

She watched as he brushed away a stray lock of hair from his forehead. His fingers were long and slender. A silver Claddagh ring gleamed on his right hand.

Unbidden and quite unexpected came the thought—what would those hands feel like on her body?

Like heaven, she answered her own question, imagining the outcome.

Heat flushed her cheeks as she realized the sensual path her mind was taking.

Apologizing for his tardiness, he quietly introduced himself to Cat, whose heart started to pound deep in her chest. She introduced him to the crowd, then stepped back to let him begin.

She, along with the assembled customers, was enthralled both by the sound of his voice and by the subject matter he discussed. He made history come alive, as if he were relating events that happened just yesterday instead of centuries ago.

With a will of their own, her eyes returned to feast on him. A poet, a warrior-king, a rebel; all these things and more Cat saw mirrored in his compelling face. His was a countenance that personified all that was masculine and beautiful, all that was heroic about the Irish.

The day was a huge success. The cash register hummed with activity as close to a hundred copies of the book were sold. People lined up to chat with the author, some, Cat noted, shamelessly flirting.

He seemed to take it all in stride, staying later, making sure everyone who wanted a signed copy got one.

A few customers still milled about the store, talking and adding items to their planned purchases while Cat straightened up.

“Miss Kildare?”

She almost dropped the empty china plate she was holding when he spoke. “Yes?”

“Any more left?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Of the cookies or the cupcakes?”

“Sorry, no,” she responded. “Looks like the food was as big as hit as you were, Dr. Sullivan.”

He smiled. “Rory, please.”

Her tongue snaked out to wet her suddenly dry lips.

He checked the watch on his right wrist. “It’s well past lunch and a bit early for dinner, but I’m rather hungry. What about you?”

Cat hadn’t eaten since a hastily grabbed breakfast this morning, and while she was indeed hungry, not to mention intrigued at the thought of sharing a meal with this man, she had a business to run. “Thanks for the offer, but I really can’t. There’s too much to do here.”

Mary Alice entered the conversation, not having missed the intense looks her boss had given their guest speaker. “I can close up today, Cat.”

Cat threw her assistant a grateful glance. “You’re sure? You were scheduled to leave in half an hour.”

“No problem. I’ll just make a phone call and let my husband know I’ll be home later.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s settled then,” Rory added, waiting while Cat gathered her purse and gave a few last-minute instructions to her assistant. When Cat joined him, he leaned close to her and whispered, “I know a wonderful place not far from here.”

That was the beginning.

Time flew by with dinners, lunches, or whatever moments could be snatched from both their busy schedules. Cat discovered that unlike her, Rory was an only child, born to older parents who indulged him until their death while he was in his junior year of college. She listened while he outlined his ambitions, his plans for the future, filed away details as she was drawn deeper and deeper into his private circle.

Then, one morning, not many weeks after they first began seeing one another, Cat awoke with the certain knowledge that she was in love with him. She had been from the first day they’d met. It was a fact that she couldn’t deny any longer. His charming good looks and exciting mind had stolen her heart, yet what would come of it? she asked herself. There were far more intriguing women on campus he could have, faculty and students alike. Women more experienced and sophisticated than she, who knew how to play the game of love. Women willing to break the rules for an opportunity to share his bed.

With so many available choices, why would he ever look in her direction?

The amazing fact, to her, was that he had. Or maybe she was reading far too much into their friendship. He had yet to even kiss her.

She had barely arrived at her bookstore one day when there was a knock on the door about an hour before she was due to open. “Hello. Cat?”

It was him. There was no mistaking that voice, his distinctive manner of speaking. Without hesitation, she unlocked the door and let him in.

He was casually dressed, looking absurdly elegant in his relaxed fashion. His short-sleeved blue chambray shirt was open at the neck minus a tie, revealing a sprinkle of black hair, and was tucked into a pair of faded jeans that hugged his slim hips and long legs.

She’d had to fight back the almost overwhelming inclination she had to reach out her hand and open the rest of the buttons to see for herself if that hair covered his entire chest or was just a dusting.

He stood before her, a pleased, triumphant smile on his firm mouth.

“What?” she’d asked in response to that look.

“I needed to do something this morning,” he said, stepping closer to her and closing the door with a firm click. “Something I’ve longed to do for so many weeks that I thought I would explode from the wait.”

Cat was caught by the steely strength of his fingers, which wrapped gently around her upper arms. She was brought quickly into intimate contact with his lean, hard body. His black head dipped and his wickedly beautiful mouth met her own with a searing passion that shook Cat to the core of her being.

Again and again his mouth swept over hers, cajoling, demanding, seeking, persuading. It was a series of messages she couldn’t ignore. Her wildest fantasies were coming true. Cat gave herself up to the hungry possession of his kisses, linking her arms around his neck, holding on and drawing him closer as she willingly surrendered.

“My God,” Rory whispered when he finally broke off the kiss, his breathing ragged. He held her close to his chest, stroking one hand up and down her back in a soothing motion, kissing the top of her head.

Cat could only smile. The dreams she hadn’t dared to hope for were quickly becoming reality.

Rory lifted her chin so that she could see his face. “Can you get away this weekend?”

“What for?” she’d asked, her heart still beating faster than normal.

“I’ve managed to rent a place down the shore. Very nice and quite private, I’ve been told. We’d have the beach all to ourselves. How about it?”

Cat stepped away from his embrace, needing perspective while she thought over his invitation. She understood what he was asking. It was there in his eyes; it had flavored his kisses. Why not go with him? Hadn’t these past weeks shown that she could trust him? He hadn’t pushed their relationship farther than she was comfortable with.

Besides, unable to stop herself from glancing in his direction, she loved him. And loving, she knew, meant eventually expressing that love in the most intimate way possible.

She reached out her hand to take his. “Yes.” With that decision made, Cat realized she had burned her bridges and crossed the threshold.

The look in his dark blue eyes banished any lingering trepidation she felt. “You won’t regret this, Cat.” He kissed her softly and sweetly on her still-swollen mouth. “I promise.”

Four days later Cat inhaled the salt-tinged air as she walked upon the upper deck of the large glass, wood and stone house. She and Rory had spent a relaxing day swimming, sunbathing, and later, shopping in a local antiques store.

The brilliant sun was low in the sky, suspended over the horizon. Snatching up her camera from a nearby chair, Cat snapped a picture, wanting to capture a slice of this day so that she could relive it later, though she suspected that no picture could truly capture what she was feeling.

Happiness bubbled up inside her, threatening to spill over.

The French door that led from the upstairs living room opened, and she heard Rory behind her, welcomed the strong arm that he slid so possessively around her waist. She could feel the heat of his bare chest through her thin cotton tank top. His jeans-clad legs felt hard against the exposed length of hers, covered only in shorts. Slowly, seductively, his left hand curved around her throat, caressing her neck and shoulder.

She wanted to suspend this moment in time. From the open door she could hear the sweet flow of an alto saxophone emanating from the expensive stereo system. She listened, swaying to the soothing, seductive rhythm. A slow sensation of heat arose within her.

When his mouth, sweet with wine, captured hers in a kiss potently powerful, Cat gave in willingly. This was the moment of surrender. Her heart knew it. Her body demanded it.

So did he.

Bending, Rory lifted her in his strong arms, carrying her through the house until he reached the bedroom that had been his alone last night.

He set her down, his lips still locked possessively with hers before he pulled back.

Cat was surprised. She could have easily kissed him for days on end, so exciting was the mating of their mouths.

When Rory finally spoke, his words were delivered in a soft, husky tone. “I want to see all of you, Cat. Now. Will you do that for me?”

The light in the room was beginning to fade. She watched as her lover-to-be slipped into the enveloping shadows while she remained in the glow of the setting sun as it sank in glorious splendor through the windows. Colors streaked the sky, giving her a backdrop touched with the beauty only nature could paint.

Wetting her lips, she took a deep breath. Slowly, she pulled the white top over her head, revealing pale, creamy skin. Next, she reached around and unsnapped her lacy bra, letting it fall to the floor.

A growing sense of power, like a charge of electricity, flowed through her. He was giving her the choice. With a smile, she unzipped her white shorts, peeling them, along with her serviceable white, French-cut panties, down her legs.

Her task done, Cat stood, her back straight, her manner proud.

“Your hair, loosen it,” came the softly spoken command.

Cat removed the clip that held her hair, threading her slender fingers through it, fluffing it around her shoulders. It was thick, wavy, with streaks of gold among the deep auburn tresses.

The room was suddenly flooded with light as Rory turned on the lamp that rested on the nightstand. He’d been sitting in an overstuffed low chair.

He stood, slowly dispensing with his faded denims, letting them fall to his feet. His fingers hooked into the trim blue briefs he wore, pushed them aside.

Her voice sounded strained as her eyes opened wide, riveted by the sight of him. Better than any photograph, more striking than a marble statue, he was, to her, perfection. “I’ve never…” Her words trailed off as he crossed the room.

He cupped her cheek, whispering, “Hush, my sweet love. I know.” Then, gentle as a breeze off the ocean, he traced a finger along her throat, across her collarbone, then came to the swell of her breasts. His large hand lightly caressed her flesh. As if he had forever, he continued to discover the wonderful secrets of her body, molding, shaping, exploring, leading her on the journey.

Then, he welcomed her participation. “Touch me,” he said, his voice deep and demanding.

Cat complied, exalting in the feel of the crisp black hair that angled across his lean, muscular chest. She stroked his rib cage, palmed her hand across his flat belly. Felt the power in his strong thighs as her fingertips glided down and over them.

Then, needing to experience the taste, the touch of his lips again, she sought his mouth with her own, letting the growing hunger that twisted her insides speak for her.

In turn, Rory responded with a primitive fervor that drew her deeper and deeper into a vortex of indescribable passion.

Cat’s initiation into total womanhood was accomplished with gentleness and love, with sharing and joy.

Another month passed rapidly, with Cat wrapped in a haze of love and what she thought was security. Any day he would ask her to marry him, share his life as she shared his love, she was sure of that.

Then, late one afternoon the dreamworld she’d lived in disintegrated when he shared his news with her. Snuggled in his bed, replete after intense lovemaking, Rory explained the offer he’d just received.

“It’s a dream come true, Cat, something I’ve been working for. The opportunity to further my studies at Trinity College in Dublin with a prestigious research fellowship.” His voice sang with delight as he hugged Cat close, one hand stroking her tousled hair.

“It’s all so sudden,” she’d heard herself say.

“Yes, but so what? I applied over a year ago, and it’s finally come through. My flight to Dublin leaves this weekend, and I’ve already given notice to Cedar Hill that I won’t be returning for the fall term. I’ll take care of finding us a place to live,” he announced. “Then, when you’ve said your goodbyes here, you can join me, only don’t make it too long, darling.”

Cat listened to his voice brimming with excitement. Suddenly her hopes for the future, their future, were vanishing, washed away by the waves of his plans like grains of sand.

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“Just that,” Cat said, each word pulled from her like a layer of skin being removed. “I can’t give up my life and go to Ireland with you on a whim.”

“Whim? Is that what you think this is?”

“Maybe not for you.”

He stiffened beside her.

“This is obviously what you want.” She knew he was ambitious. She accepted that. Or at least she thought she had. But the idea of uprooting herself was unthinkable. Just pack up her life and go, without a care for her family, her friends, the business she loved and worked so hard to build? There were so many reasons why she couldn’t go, but he’d never thought to ask.

“I thought you loved me.”

“I do.” And she did, so much so that she felt sick at having to refuse him. Ireland? She wanted to go there someday. But she couldn’t go now. Couldn’t walk away from all she had here.

His voice was low and soft. “Then come with me.”

“And do what?”

“Be with me.”

She reiterated, “And do what?”

“Whatever you like.”

His arrogant words chilled her, sending icy tentacles to wrap around her heart.

“I can’t do that. I have a business to run.”

“It’s not like I’m asking you to forget about it,” he said. “Just set it aside for a little while. Get someone else, like Mary Alice, to handle it for you.”

Just set it aside. Like it was a toy or a game she could easily pick up later when the mood struck. “For how long?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. A year. Maybe more.”

“Then my answer is still no.”

Rory threw back the sheet and rose from the bed. He stood facing her, naked, like a Celtic warrior getting ready for battle. “You won’t change your mind?”

Sadness choked Cat’s voice. “No.”

She watched him dress with quick, economical movements, feeling her happiness wither inside her, shriveling in the sudden chill.

Rory walked back to where she lay. His eyes, once warm and tender, now resembled cold, frostbitten chips of dark blue ice. “I won’t ask again.”

“I know,” she admitted, holding back the tears until he left the room. Sobs shook her body repeatedly. He never once mentioned marriage. Stupidly, she assumed that he wanted it because she had. Couldn’t he understand that she couldn’t throw her dreams into limbo merely to be his live-in love with no guarantees? Her dreams were important to her. Foolishly, she’d believed that they were to him also. And, she was too proud to beg him to make the ultimate commitment when it was obvious that’s not what he had in mind.

Cat rinsed out her cup and set it in the sink, then wiped away the hot tears that welled in her eyes.

The secure world that she’d built for herself and her child was about to be invaded.

The man who’d broken her heart was coming back.




Chapter Two


Finally, he was, he believed, back where he truly belonged.

After almost seven years of voluntary exile in Ireland, Rory Sullivan had returned to the States. Returned not to the elegant four-story town house on the Upper East Side of New York City where he was born and raised and which he now owned, but instead to Cedar Hill, the small town in southeastern Pennsylvania where he had taught college. Back to a fresh start at a new life. Back to a place overflowing with memories.

He held one such in his hand, a slim volume of poetry. It was an old book, privately published and quite rare, bound in leather and stamped in gold, a find from an estate sale; it was a unique birthday gift he had cherished doubly because of the person who had given it to him. Contained inside the pages were poems of love and longing, of heartbreak and happiness, the work of an Irish woman in the late nineteenth century, simply titled To My Beloved.

He gently opened the book, read the inscription that he’d read hundreds of times before: Always and forever, Cat.

The irony of that phrase haunted him. Just because you left a place, or a person, didn’t mean they left you. Some memories were burned too deep to ever depart; they remained in your mind, constant reminders of what was.

What was, what is, what would always be for him—the woman whose memory he’d tried to ignore. A recollection he’d tried—but found impossible—to suppress. A woman that he tried his damnedest to erase from the deepest recesses of his mind and found she was unforgettable. The passion he tried to so hard to bury where he thought it belonged—in the over-and-done-with category—was ultimately unquenchable.

She was still there. In his heart. In his mind. In his past. A living ghost that had attached itself to him with ethereal chains stronger than any forged with steel.

One day several months ago, while surfing the Internet in his Dublin apartment, he’d stumbled upon her name quite by accident. He’d been checking a list of specialty Irish bookstores in the States, trying to locate an out-of-print research book. It was available in two places, one of which turned out to be hers. Cat’s bookstore had its own Web site, and it included a recent article from a local newspaper on her thriving business, along with a current photo that showed a beautiful woman who looked barely older than some of his undergraduate students. Even through the filter of a monitor screen her hair still gleamed that particular shade of reddish brown. A color he could never forget—gold-dusted cinnamon. He didn’t need a closer inspection to recall the exact shade of her eyes; their color was imprinted in his memory. Green. The green of a ripe lime in summer.

Once, while searching through an antiques shop in the Irish capital, he’d found two items that mirrored that shade. A lady’s antique-gold brooch that held a stunning emerald in the center and a pair of matching gentleman’s Edwardian cuff links, which he wore tonight with his tuxedo. He’d bought both items on the spot, unable to resist, because they reminded him of her.

Was there someone special in her life now? he wondered. Someone who’d replaced him in her heart, her mind, her bed? The article had given no personal details.

Who was he kidding? Rory thought. Of course there had to be someone else. He’d been gone a long time. Too long to believe he’d find her waiting patiently for a man who’d walked out on her.

And why should she? He’d foolishly slammed the door on their relationship. Forced her to make a choice.

And she had.

A choice he’d had to live with.

Until now.

Had she ever regretted that decision? Had she ever wished that she’d chosen a life with him instead of her business? Did she ever spare a random thought for what if?

Rory raked a hand through his fashionably cut dark hair, then loosened the black tie he wore and poured himself a whiskey, neat, from the Waterford decanter that rested on a small butler’s table in the living room of his rented condo. The strong taste was a sharp contrast to the two glasses of champagne he’d consumed at his welcome party, thrown in his honor tonight by university colleagues. A party he’d hoped she would have attended.

But she hadn’t. Throughout the night he’d watched and waited, in vain. Cat never showed, even after he’d made sure that she was invited.

Payback time?

No, the Cat he remembered wouldn’t have blown him off for petty reasons. That wasn’t her style.

Then why didn’t she attend?

Maybe she had better things to do, he mused as he prowled about the room. Better places to be. Or perhaps she didn’t want any part in this prodigal’s return.

That thought left a particularly bad taste in his mouth, so he poured himself another whiskey to wash it away.

Had he made a colossal mistake coming back here? Several other colleges and universities had wanted him to teach at their campuses. Had wooed him with fabulous promises and tempting offers.

But they lacked proximity to what he was seeking.

His friends and fellow professors in Ireland asked him to reconsider when he’d informed them he was leaving. Stay where you belong, they urged. Settle down with one woman and raise a family, a proper Irish family. Past time, they argued, that he had a wife and children.

But he couldn’t. Much as he loved Dublin and the country of his ancestors, it wasn’t truly home.

Home really was, Rory had found out in the ensuing years, where the heart resided. And his had been left behind, in the soft hands of one Miss Caitlyn Kildare. The time had come to see if it could be reclaimed, or if it was lost forever.

Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, Rory withdrew his wallet. He flipped it open, stared at the photo encased in soft plastic inside. It was an old picture, a worn, faded snapshot that showed signs of handling. A woman’s face.

Drawing it from its protective haven, Rory smoothed out the edges, his fingers caressing the picture.

Back then nothing had come between him and his ambition. He hadn’t needed anyone or anything in his life distracting him from his goal.

Or so he’d thought. Love was a name people gave to sugarcoat the intensity of physical desire. Love gave permission to act on those desires, to indulge without guilt. It was pleasant, but in most cases temporary. Enjoyable while it lasted, but nothing to take seriously.

That’s what he’d told himself.

He naively, or stupidly, believed that when he left Caitlyn for the life he wanted in Ireland she would eventually disappear from his thoughts, that his desire for her would evaporate with the distance and the years that separated them.

Rory’s mouth quirked into a mocking grin as he removed the tie and unfastened several buttons on his pleated white tuxedo shirt. Easy to think. Harder to accomplish.

Even with an ocean dividing them, she was constantly with him. He discovered that he carried her within his heart, and his heart refused to allow the memories to die. Instead, it constantly fed him slices of remembrances, doled out carefully at times when he least expected them. In the solitude of his apartment in Dublin, he found himself reaching for her at night, only to find empty space in his bed. Working on a manuscript, he would raise his head, ready to tell her something, to share a fact or an idea, to get her reaction. Only emptiness met his sweeping look. Silence and memories. Echoes of a time past.

Once he’d even attempted to eradicate the specter of her by sleeping with another woman. Deliberately, he’d chosen a woman who reminded him of Cat. A green-eyed, red-haired woman. So what if her eyes lacked the glowing polish of emeralds shot with sunlight? What did it matter if her hair didn’t possess the fire or scent of Cat’s? Lemon-scented, burnished flame belonged to Cat alone.

His experiment was a horrible failure. It wasn’t the woman’s fault, he admitted to himself. She had no way of knowing that she was only a substitute for the real thing, a copy that never quite measured up to the original.

With hindsight, Rory could admit that he’d put his body into the act of sex, but not his heart. His performance may have been instinctively accurate and consummately skilled, yet it lacked a certain fire, a brilliance that transcended the simple and made it sublime. It lacked what he’d had with Cat. Conviction. Rightness. Beauty.

Rory reflected on how much easier it was to analyze that now. Love was the missing ingredient, the special spice that elevated the giving of pleasure to the mingling of souls. It had taken him precious time to recognize and accept that fact.

But was it too late? Too late to return and recapture what he’d thrown away all those years ago? He stared at the face in the photograph, at the deep, delightful smile and the welcoming eyes.

Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe second chances did exist.

Always and forever.

He was damn sure going to give it a try. After all, he had nothing to lose. Nothing that he hadn’t already lost once before.

Rory smiled as he returned the photo to his wallet. If there was one thing he was good at, it was getting what he wanted when he set his mind to it.

And Caitlyn Kildare was what he wanted.

No doubts.

No hesitations.

No questions.

So, he wasn’t going to let a little thing like a no-show at his party deter him from pursuing his quarry. He’d come too far and waited too long.

Besides, he thought as he climbed the winding stairs that led up to his bedroom, tomorrow was soon enough to begin his campaign.

“A dozen roses in a Waterford vase. Someone’s sure got extravagant taste,” Mary Alice commented after the florist’s delivery van departed. She bent and sniffed the bouquet, which adorned the checkout counter. “Hmm,” she murmured, “a lovely scent.” She straightened and threw a questioning glance in Cat’s direction. “So, who are they from? The lawyer or the doctor?”

“Neither.”

“Someone new then?”

Cat shrugged. “I haven’t a clue.”

“No note?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Then how do you know that one of them didn’t send it?”

Cat moved from behind the counter and whisked the feather duster over a small spin-around display of postcards. “There’s no reason for either one to send me flowers,” she explained to her assistant. “I haven’t seen George since he was transferred to the D.A.’s office in Philly during the summer. Paul has such an erratic schedule at the hospital, and since I’m a mother with a young child I doubt we’ll be seeing much of one another in the future.”

“No sparks?’ Mary Alice asked.

Cat paused before she answered, choosing her words carefully. “They’re both nice guys, I enjoyed going out with them, and I like them. But it will never be anything more.”

“That’s too bad,” the older woman stated. “I know that your mom and brother will be disappointed, seeing how they both set you up with their colleagues.”

Cat smiled. “Mom and Brendan both want me to be happy, and neither like to take no for an answer, which is why I humored them. And it’s been a long time since I’d gone out on a date.”

“But they weren’t him.”

Cat stopped her dusting. “Him who?”

“Tara’s father.”

“He doesn’t enter into this at all.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“Well—” Mary Alice paused, giving Cat a knowing glance “—I’m not so sure about that.”

“I am,” Cat insisted.

Mary Alice wisely let the subject drop. “But it still doesn’t answer who sent you the flowers.”

“Maybe a customer.”

“Extravagant gesture for a customer.”

“Remember Mrs. O’Malley who brought me back that lovely Aran Isle sweater when she went to Ireland last year?”

“That’s different, Cat. You paid her for it.”

Cat ignored her friend’s comment. “Or it could have been Mr. Boyle. You know he doesn’t get out anymore since his accident, and I send him his favorite magazines and a new book each month.”

Mary Alice shook her head and lowered her voice as a customer walked into the shop. “It’s not from a grateful customer, I’ll wager. More like a lover, or a man who hopes to be, I’m thinking.”

“Well, being as I don’t have one right now or plans in the immediate future, that’s not likely,” Cat responded, greeting the new arrival with a friendly smile.

“And whose fault is that?”

Cat shot her assistant a dark look, then relaxed as she saw the grin on Mary Alice’s face. She rolled her eyes and then turned back to her customer. “May I help you find something, ma’am?” she asked.

“Yes,” the woman replied. “I’m looking for that new biography on Lady Gregory. There was a review in this past Sunday’s Inquirer.”

Cat glanced up from her desk where she was working on sorting out several special orders for customers as a cold finger of apprehension touched her spine. She couldn’t identify the source, yet it was there, like a blast of cool air.

Couldn’t or wouldn’t identify? she wondered.

Rory.

Rory, her brain echoed in a remembered litany of passion and pain. Why is it that every time I think I’m almost over you there is always something there to remind me?

Because, she answered herself, as long as she had Tara there would always be a reminder. Daily. Constant. In a look, or in the way Tara tilted her head. Then there was that smile. Her father’s smile.

Damn you, Rory, Cat thought. Damn you for my greatest pleasure and my deepest hell. Damn you once more for making me remember all the moments we spent together.

Had he sent the flowers?

And if he had, for what purpose? To confuse and confound her? To let her know she was in his thoughts?

He could do that in person if he wanted.

Would she be ready?

Cat reluctantly admitted that she would never be quite ready, still maybe it would be for the best. Get it over with, quick and clean. Simple. She had survived his leaving; she would survive his coming back again. Besides, she had nothing in common with him anyway.

Except a child, came the sadly sweet thought. A beautiful little girl created out of the love they had shared.

Correction, her inner voice added, out of the love she had for him. But that love was over. In the past. The fire was dead. Ashes were all that remained. And wasn’t it better that way? Being consumed by the flames was no way to live. Charred fragments of her heart had survived once. Now it was cloaked in self-induced asbestos to keep it safe. Maybe someday she would love again. A nice, sweet, gentle love. The kind that was comfortable and secure. Nothing that heated the blood or scorched the soul.

Been there, she thought. Done that. Don’t plan on making that mistake ever again.

Her glance fell to the silver-framed photograph that rested on her desk, sharing space with piles of papers, a computer and books. It was of her and Tara, smiling broadly to the camera. Taken at her daughter’s last birthday party.

He’d missed them all. All the cakes, the presents, the laughter, and most especially the fun of seeing the wonder and excitement of a birthday through a child’s eyes.

But it couldn’t be helped. Or regretted.

The intercom on her phone buzzed, giving Cat a good excuse to put her mind on something else.

Rory sat in his leased car in the parking lot of Cat’s bookstore, remembering the first time he’d come here. Flush with success at the rave notices his initial effort had produced, he’d been excited to do his first real book signing and thrilled to finally meet the woman who’d sent such a glowing review to his publisher. He recalled the shock that first hit him as he walked through the door of The Silver Harp—he’d been expecting a much older woman to be the owner. Instead, she’d been closer to his own age, he discovered, twenty-five to his thirty.

And lovely beyond compare. A dew-dappled apricot rose with a hint of a blush. That’s the flower he associated with her. The flower he’d sent today.

She was smart. Funny. More than able to meet him halfway. A woman who stirred him on so many levels. A woman of passion, honesty and conviction.

He watched as several people walked in and out, some with small bags, a few with large.

So what was he waiting for? He wasn’t going to get a damn thing accomplished by sitting in his car and staring at the continual flow of customers.

Rory got out and locked the car with a click of his key ring. A few steps took him to the door of the stone building, where he turned the brass handle and stepped inside.

She’d made a few changes in the interim years. Soft strains of Celtic music now played in the background. A subtle fragrance hung in the air, light and spicy, making him think of golden autumn days and crisp fall nights, of colors he associated with Cat. A wooden display on a nearby bare pine table held store newsletters. Rory picked one up and perused it. Poetry readings, book signings, storytelling hour for children, an upcoming Irish step-dancing demonstration. Something for everyone.

“Hi. May I help you?”

Rory turned his head at the sound of the female voice.

“Oh my, it’s Professor Sullivan, isn’t it?” Mary Alice said, her eyes widening in surprise.

Rory smiled. “I’m flattered that you remembered me.”

“Let’s say that you made an impression that doesn’t soon fade,” Mary Alice responded wryly.

“Really?” he responded with a lift of one black eyebrow. “How very sweet of you to say that.”

“I’d only be speaking the truth.”

“Does Caitlyn Kildare still own this place?”

“She sure does.”

“Is she by any chance here today?”

“Yes.”

“Then would you tell her that I’d like to see her.”

Mary Alice nodded her head. “Just you wait right here, and I’ll go and let her know that you’ve come to say hello. There’s freshly brewed tea and coffee if you’d like something to drink.” With a wave of her hand she indicated a sturdy pine sideboard upon which sat a coffeemaker and next to it a carafe of hot water. “There’s a few things to nibble on if you’d like, too. Personally, I’d try the shortbread. One taste and you swear you’ve died and been reborn.”

“That good?”

“Better than almost anything,” she insisted.

Rory almost laughed at that declaration. He’d tasted a few things in his time that would have put the shortbread treat to shame, he was sure. One of them had been Cat’s skin. Smooth as cream. And her mouth, sweet as honey.

His body stirred achingly with the sensory pictures his mind painted. Images grown sharper. Clearer. Especially now that he allowed himself to see them freely. Artists had a term for that which resurfaced after being buried under layers of paint—pentimento. The discovery of the treasure beneath the surface, beneath the obvious.

As for coffee or tea, he didn’t need further stimulation. Thinking about Cat was stimulating enough. Much more than enough.

Mary Alice slipped into the back room and closed the door behind her.

Cat glanced up from her computer screen when her assistant entered.

“You’ve got a visitor,” the older woman announced in a soft voice.

A sudden chill ran along Cat’s spine. She asked the question to which she had already guessed the answer. “Who?”

“Rory Sullivan.”

Cat momentarily shifted her eyes to the picture of her daughter, then forced them away as she saved the document that she was working on and closed down the machine.

“Do you want me to show him in here?”

“No,” Cat replied quickly. “Would you mind telling him that I’ll be out in a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

As Mary Alice turned to go, Cat spoke again. “Has he…” She was going to say “changed,” but opted against finishing the question. She would know soon enough herself. “Never mind.”

Mary Alice left and Cat stood up, walked a few feet to the bathroom, flicked on the light and checked her face in the mirror. She filled a small paper cup with cold water from the tap and swallowed it. Most of her lipstick was gone so she reached into the pocket of her skirt and ran the tube of plain lip gloss across her mouth.

All ready.

Who was she kidding? she thought. Certainly not herself. She was far from ready. Miles away from okay. Light-years from calm. But she had to do this, now. Bite the bullet. Face the music. And all the other clichés she could think of.

All the intervening years melted away, and the past rose up from behind the shuttered wall of her memory, released and living, standing before her when she walked onto the sales floor.

Across the width of the room, as if he could feel her presence, Rory turned and their eyes met.

If Cat thought he was handsome before, she marveled at how much the years had improved his features. Mature, polished, elegant, he was all that, but harder, Cat noted. There was a toughness, a steely strength underlying the facile good looks, obviously dormant when she knew him. Now there was no denying the beautiful arrogance of his face or his eyes. Those enticing Kerry-blue eyes. Just like the old song. Smiling Irish eyes that could, and did, steal your heart away. But in the stealing he had managed to break hers into a thousand pieces, smashing it as ruthlessly as he could, the fragments resembling the remnants of a piece of expensive crystal. Glued back together, it was serviceable but never completely the same.

It only took him seconds to reach her, seconds to throw her world off kilter. “Hello, Cat.”




Chapter Three


Alainn.

The word filtered through Rory’s brain the instant he saw her. It was the Gaelic word for beautiful. Cat was all that and more. The beauty she had possessed seven years ago had been youthful, emerging. Now it was fully realized, shaped and refined by nature into stunning maturity.

Her body, too, had altered. Her curves were fuller, rounder, accentuated by the clinging moss-green sweater set she wore, along with the winter-white, wool trousers. Her hair was longer, flowing past her shoulders and ending midway down her back. If anything, the color was richer, a radiant auburn. A soft fringe of bangs feathered across her forehead, framing her face. When he left, that lovely face had been rounder. It too had subtly modified in the time past. Cheekbones sharper, mouth a fraction softer.

But her eyes, he thought, were still the same. Unchanged in color. Green. The forever green of legend and memories.

It didn’t pass Rory’s notice that she hadn’t said hello in return.

When she finally found her voice, Cat asked, “What brings you here?”

Rory wanted to say “You.” But the word remained unspoken, trapped in his throat. Instead, he said, “I was in the neighborhood and thought that it might be interesting to indulge myself in a few minutes of nostalgia. To see if anything’s changed here.”

“Really?” Cat wished that she could believe that’s all it was. A simple trip down memory lane; but nothing had ever been simple between them. Not in the long run.

“It appears that you’ve done quite well for yourself, Cat,” Rory murmured, his tone polite. His gaze roamed the expanded shelves, noted the changes and improvements that she’d made to the premises, before returning to her.

“Yes, I have,” she responded in the same blandly mild voice, inwardly fighting to maintain her composure. It was a tough battle, what with his whole demeanor screaming hot and sexy from the well-remembered black leather jacket he wore open over an expensive-looking oatmeal sweater, dark blue jeans and black boots. From the corner of her eye, Cat caught a twenty-something customer in a Cedar Hill University sweatshirt as she walked nearby give Rory a quick once-over, smiling to herself in silent appreciation.

Suddenly the store seemed smaller, as if it were closing in on Cat. She felt cornered. Trapped by and between the past and the present. And it was all Rory Sullivan’s fault. What right did he have to be here as if they’d parted friends? As if their last words had been kind and cordial.

Go away! she screamed silently. Please, go away. Release me.

“I’m happy for you, Cat. I know just how much this place meant to you.”

She heard the underlying irony in his voice and replied in kind. “It still does.”

“That’s good. If you put your heart and soul into something it should be worth whatever sacrifice, or effort, you deem necessary to maintain it.”

“It is.”

Cat sounded so cool and matter-of-fact to him. Almost hard to believe she was the same woman he’d shared numerous hot, sensual hours with, their bodies so close and in tune that it was impossible to tell where one began and the other left off. Her voice had been warm back then, husky with passion; her skin dewed with moisture; her hands as eager to explore as his; her mouth pure excitement and promise.

Clearly that was then, this is now. The woman who stood before him was self-contained, with a “do not disturb” attitude.

Well, what had he expected?

The back-door buzzer rang.

“I’ll…” Mary Alice started to say before she was cut off by Cat.

“No,” she said, “I’ll go.” She reached out her hand in a formal manner, praying that it remained steady. “Good to see you again—” she hesitated for the briefest instant, as if forming a little-used foreign phrase “—Rory.”

Had she imagined it or had his eyes quickly turned darker, sharper, hotter?

“Likewise, Cat.”

With a quicksilver movement, she was gone, and he was left standing alone, Mary Alice off to answer the loudly ringing phone.

Their hands had barely touched before she withdrew hers, as if contact with his skin was abhorrent. Or, could it be, he wondered, that she had felt the same jolt of electricity that he had? Had she been shocked that it still existed? Frightened by the implications? Or appalled?

Rory glanced at the door that led to the back room, a smile tilting the corners of his mouth.

Cat imagined that she could still feel the tingling in her skin upon the contact with his. Handshakes. An everyday occurrence that she never even gave a second thought to.

Until today.

Until now.

Until him.

The brush of flesh against flesh had instantly summoned memories of other times, other caresses: his palms skimming lazily along her breast or thigh, a drift of his lean fingers along her neck or over her arm.

But she’d held on to her jolted emotions. Kept her cool.

Pleased with herself, Cat counted and signed for the shipment, happy that she had maintained her poise in dealing with Rory. Cat could never show him that he still had any influence on her emotions.

“Anything going out?” the UPS man asked, breaking into Cat’s thoughts.

“Yes,” she answered, retrieving the package that was being sent to a customer. Her back was to the stockroom door, so she didn’t see the man who entered behind her.

Rory quietly stepped into the room. While he understood that he had been dismissed by his former lover, he wasn’t ready to go. Not yet. Not until he had a chance to talk to Cat some more. He hadn’t come all this way to walk away now, not without a fight. Not without trying to get through to her. He still felt the pull, the burning, fire-in-the-gut attraction. If anything, it was stronger than ever. Hotter than before.

His glance fell on her desk, as cluttered as his own, littered with papers, books, various odds and ends. He stepped closer, picking up an item of stationery, one finger tracing the design of an embossed silver harp nestled in a bed of shamrocks on a notecard. Rory smiled. The artist had taken time, producing a fine product. Like Cat’s store, it was special, one of a kind, much like the lady herself.

He was just about to announce his presence, ask her if she’d consider coming out with him for a drink, anything to prolong the moment, when his eyes fell on a framed photograph on Cat’s desk. Reaching out his hand, he picked it up.

Cat turned around, having locked the back delivery door. She was startled to see Rory standing nearby; then it quickly occurred to her where he was and what he had in his hand. She saw the ready smile fade from his lips, replaced by a dawning comprehension at what he held.

Her feet were rooted to the spot, unable to carry her the few steps across the floor so that she could remove the object from his hand. Cat could only stare at him as he examined the photo. Damn, why hadn’t she thought to hide the picture in her desk drawer? Put it away until he was gone.

Because she thought she was safe. It never crossed her mind that he would follow her in here. Obviously he hadn’t taken her goodbye as final.

Rory raised his eyes from the photograph, meeting Cat’s across the room. “Who is she?” he asked rhetorically as his heart already knew the answer.

“My daughter,” she replied.

His response was immediate, cutting her to the quick. “And mine.”

“Yes.” Cat couldn’t deny the fact, especially since the truth was there to see.

That one word hung suspended in the air between them. It cut through years and memories like the snap of a whip.

Rory’s glance fell back to the photo. His daughter. His child. His fingers glided over the glass that protected the photo inside, as if he could somehow feel the warmth of the little girl underneath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I had my reasons.” She couldn’t get into this with him here and now.

“Oh, did you?” he asked, his tone cool, shock at this turn of events suddenly invading him like the sharp pricks of a hot needle.

“Yes.” Again that single word crackled in the space that separated them.

Moments passed slowly with no words spoken, like thick syrup poured from a cold bottle, the silence broken only by the measured breathing of two people worlds apart.

Finally, the intrusive brrring of the phone snapped Cat back to reality. While she answered the call, Rory slipped the small framed photograph into his jacket pocket. He waited until Cat put the caller on hold and then said, “We’ll talk later.”

There was no mistaking the surety of his words, nor the determined look in his eyes before he left. Moving on autopilot, Cat went about her task, locating the book her customer wanted from a pile of special orders waiting to be called, and then setting it aside, all the while remembering the look in Rory’s eyes, the set of his face as he discovered the existence of his child.

Her child.

Their child.

“What’s wrong?” Mary Alice asked as soon as she was finished with her customer, following Cat into the back room. “Professor Sullivan walked out of here as if in a trance.” Her eyes shifted to the empty space on the desk. “He knows, doesn’t he?”

“Knows?”

“That he’s Tara’s father.”

Cat lifted her downcast eyes. “How—”

“Did I guess?” Mary Alice interjected, a knowing smile on her face. “It wasn’t all that hard, Cat. Your daughter resembles her father way too much. When you first told me that you were pregnant, I suspected the identity of your baby’s father, and when Tara was born, it was there on her face, the feminine version that decorates the dust jackets of his books.”

“Can’t deny the obvious then, can I?” Cat sank into her comfortable desk chair, idly running one hand through her hair.

“Certainly not the fact that he’s one handsome devil.” Mary Alice’s smile compressed as she asked her next question. “Tara doesn’t know, does she?”

“No. And why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Wasn’t my place to.”

Cat acknowledged her friend’s discretion. “Thanks.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Cat shrugged her shoulders. “I wish I knew.”

“If I can be of any help, you’ve only got to ask,” Mary Alice offered. “I imagine it can’t be easy what with him just showing up again after all these years.”

“Thanks, but I got myself into this quagmire, so it’s my responsibility to get myself out.” Cat stood up, taking a few steps before stopping and perching on the stack of boxes the UPS man had brought. “I’ve been afraid that someday I might have to face this, even though I really didn’t think I’d ever see him again. When Rory left, I figured that that was it. I was safe with my secret as long as he remained in Ireland. It never occurred to me that he would ever come back here.” She stood up again. “But that was just a dream. An illusion that I chose to believe in.”

Cat gave a short snort of laughter. “Well, dreams don’t last, and illusions can sometimes become all too real.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell him about the baby, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Because she was my responsibility. I wanted her.”

Mary Alice pointed out, “You didn’t create her yourself.”

“No, but it was my decision to have her.”

“That really doesn’t answer my question.”

Cat paused a moment before speaking. “It’s not an especially original story.”

“What is?”

That remark brought a smile to Cat’s lips. “Rory didn’t want kids.”

“He told you that?”

Cat nodded her head. “In no uncertain terms. A few weeks after we started seeing one another, I ran into a college friend with her new baby. We stopped to chat for a few minutes and when she left, I mentioned to Rory that Nancy got what she’d always wanted, a child. I saw that chance meeting as an opening, to see what he thought about having kids. You know how important family is to me.

“Well, that was when he informed me they had no place in his future, in how he saw his life. They demanded too much time, too much energy, energy he could put to better use, he said, getting ahead in the academic world. So you see, a child would have been the last thing Rory would have wanted to know about.”

“He might have changed his mind if you had told him.”

Cat shook her head. “I doubt it. He wanted no ties, no commitments. Nothing to hold him back from where he was going and what he wanted to do.”

“But that was then.”

“And this is now,” Cat replied. “I know.”

“So what’ll you do?”

“Go home and think how I can best to tell my daughter that I have a surprise for her.”

Rory doffed his black leather jacket upon entering his town house, removing the photo from it beforehand. Walking to the butler’s table, he poured himself a stiff whiskey, took a seat and set the photo down where he could see it.

Sipping the potent liquid, Rory contemplated the truth that the picture contained.

A daughter. Flesh of his flesh. Blood of his blood. A part of him that he hadn’t known about until now. No clue. No inkling. No warning.

Children had never played an important part in his life, nor had he thought they ever might. He had other priorities, other interests in life.

Nice in theory.

But theory had been shot to hell less than an hour ago. Now he was faced with reality in the shape of a dimpled, black-haired little girl who smiled with his face.

And he didn’t even know her name.

“Rory knows.”

The man Cat addressed her words to hadn’t even joined her in the booth of the popular restaurant that catered to the legal crowd in Cedar Hill before she spoke. Bulging briefcases, three-piece suits, beepers and cell phones were de rigueur for all the attorneys present. The man who slid his tall, lean frame into the seat opposite her was no exception.

“And what’s he going to do about it?”

“How should I know, Brendan?”

“He gave you no hint of what he intends?” His tone was direct and to the point, the same way that he conducted himself in the courtroom.

Cat let out an exasperated sigh. Sometimes her big brother could be so infuriating with his cool, precise legal mind. “I wasn’t speaking to you as a client.”

“Sorry,” he said, extending his hand across the width of the table that separated them, giving hers a squeeze. “Force of habit.”

Cat suspected that it was just that, and maybe the influence of that overly cool woman that Brendan lived with. She often wondered how her brother, the warm and open man she knew and loved, managed sharing his life with someone who derived her greatest pleasure from her work, first and foremost. People came a distant second.

“I forgive you, but you know that already, don’t you,” she said.

Brendan gave her one of his lazy, winning smiles and held up his left hand toward her, fingers folded, thumb extended.

Cat smiled at the familiar gesture and held up hers, pressing it against her brother’s in an automatic response. Both carried a small scar from their childhood upon their respective thumbs when they decided to become what they called “double blood” brothers. To the five-and nine-year-old, that was a stronger bond than merely being brother and sister. This sharing and mixing was a sacred trust. It was a promise made and forever kept.

Their moment was interrupted by the arrival of the waitress, who served a mug of hot tea to Cat and a large glass of dark, imported beer to Brendan.

“I warned you that this might happen when he came back.”

“I know. It’s just that…”

“What?” Brendan probed, his handsome face reflecting his concern for his sister’s welfare.

“Rory’s changed.”

“How?”

“In subtle ways,” she explained. “I saw it in his eyes. Heard it in his voice.”

Brendan put his half-empty glass back on the table. “Maybe you were seeing what you wanted to see, sis. Underneath,” he said with a sharp, revealing tone, “he’s probably still the same selfish bastard that took advantage of your trust and your love.”

Cat smile at her brother’s staunch defense of her, but she couldn’t pretend that she had been a helpless victim in her affair with Rory. “I knew what I was doing.”

Brendan cocked his head to one side. “Did you? He was your first lover, someone a lot more experienced than you.”

Her first lover. Her only lover. “Yes. It wasn’t really his fault if I misunderstood what he wanted out of the relationship, if I fell in love and he didn’t.”

“He pursued you,” Brendan pointed out, the tactics he used every day in his job as an assistant district attorney slipping through once again. He was making a case, laying out the facts as he saw them.

“Because I wanted him to, Brendan.”

He rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe that you’re defending him.”

“I’m not,” Cat protested. “I’m merely stating how it was.”

“I know how it was,” her brother replied, concern for his younger sister evident in his long-lashed, hazel-green eyes. “I saw for myself that it damn near killed you when he walked away from the relationship.”

“But I survived.”

“Without him,” he said sharply.

“Yes, but with a part of him that grew inside me, the best part of him and me.”

“And now he wants what exactly? To take up where he left off? To try again to screw up your life?”

“Honestly—” she said “—I don’t know.” Cat paused, taking another sip of her drink before she continued. How could she know what Rory wanted? It wasn’t as if she had a pipeline into his brain, or his heart. Maybe, once. Or so she had flattered herself into thinking.

“Come on, Cat,” Brendan insisted. “He must have given you some indication why he suddenly showed up on your doorstep.”

“Perhaps for old time’s sake.”

Brendan made a sound of disbelief.

“Why he came is not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“The reaction I saw on his face when he looked at Tara’s picture. A look I’d never seen before.”

“Ego,” Brendan retorted. “I’ve seen far too many cases of that in my work. A shot of sperm doesn’t make someone a father. It doesn’t automatically endow them with the qualities of a good parent. It takes caring, concern, responsibility and the ability to love. Things we learned growing up. Things Mr. Sullivan lacks.”

“Maybe,” Cat mused aloud, ignoring her brother’s caustic comments, “it was just shock. Being confronted with a child you didn’t know existed, a child you never wanted, must have been disconcerting.”

“That’s not your problem,” Brendan stated. “If he’d stayed around, thought about you more, about what you wanted and needed instead of just himself…”

“I can’t afford to look at the situation like that,” Cat insisted.

Her brother’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think that he’ll try and stake a claim to Tara, do you?”

Cat’s answer was soft, barely above a whisper. “I hope not.”

“Because he’d be in for the fight of his life if he tried. What’s one Sullivan against the Kildares?”

Her brother’s words played over and over again in Cat’s head on the drive home. True, she had a family that loved and supported her. Siblings who would stand by her; a mother and father who weren’t afraid to fight for their children’s happiness; cousins, aunts and uncles on both sides who believed strongly in the concept of family loyalty.

But Rory had money, she knew. Lots and lots of money. Old money. A sizable trust fund that allowed him to do what he wanted, whenever he wanted.

However, she was getting ahead of herself. He said that he wanted to talk. Understandable. Unnerving, but definitely understandable. Maybe he wanted to be sure that she didn’t want something from him. That could be it.

And then again it might not be.

She had to stop torturing herself with worry. She mustn’t allow Tara to see her upset. Her daughter came first, last, always.

So how was she going to tell Tara? What magic words could she use? What could she say to explain?

Cat pulled her car into the parking lot of the school, a smile breaking through her dark mood when she saw her daughter.

Tara ran to her mother’s car, her pretty face beaming with happiness. “Look at what we got from the computer, Mommy.” She handed her mother the printout as soon as she got into the car and received her welcoming hug and kiss, which she reciprocated. “Mrs. Robb talked to us about tracing our roots. Isn’t that funny, like we were plants?”

Cat’s lips curved in a bittersweet smile, the irony almost overwhelming her. Her daughter, being helped to discover more about her family past. “Was it fun?”

Tara nodded her head. “Yeah. I got to read all about Ireland and where the Kildares came from. I’m gonna call Nanny and Pop and tell them to come over so that they can see it too.”

“Not tonight, sweetheart.”

“Why?”

“Your nanny is working late at the clinic tonight and your grandfather is out of town with my cousin Dylan at a conference for police detectives, don’t you remember?”

Tara nodded. “I forgot.”

“That’s okay, sweetie. I’m sure that when they can, they’d both love to see what you found.” This was the opening she needed, however unexpected, to introduce the subject of her child’s father. But should she? What if Rory really wasn’t interested at all in his daughter. Would that be giving Tara more information than she needed? More than she was ready for, especially if her father expressed no interest whatsoever in seeing her, meeting her? Would telling Tara that she had a flesh-and-blood father do more harm than good?

Cat wished that she knew. Wished that she had some real clue.

Until she had, she couldn’t bring herself to tell Tara that her biological father was in town.

Rory stood outside the modest house, taking note in the fading light of the touches that seemed welcoming. Bright clusters of fall flowers surrounded the brick walkway and continued around the base of the house. Adding a touch of class were numerous rosebushes, some reaching up to cling, the others nestled comfortably. Even from where he stood, the air was redolent with the smell. A hanging bird feeder on a nearby maple tree was still attracting customers to sample its tasty goods.

The house itself had an old feel to it, though he guessed it to be fairly new. It didn’t stand there and scream “Notice me” as did many new homes, ostentatious and overdone. Its stone and wood blended into the landscape seamlessly.

Somehow, it seemed right for Cat. Perfect.

Rory climbed the wide stone steps and rang the bell.

Less than a minute later, a porch light flicked on and the oak door, with its stained-glass insert, was opened.

His words were direct, aimed at the woman who stood sentinel. “I’m here to see her.”




Chapter Four


Cat stood in the doorway, blocking his entrance into her home. “She doesn’t know anything about you, Rory.”

One of his black eyebrows arched slightly. “Why am I not surprised?”

She wet her lips. “It wasn’t important.”

He stepped closer, less than inches from her. “Is that so?” he inquired, his voice low and soft. “Having a father isn’t important to a child?”

“Tara doesn’t have a father.”

“Because I didn’t know I had a daughter,” Rory retorted.

“Bull.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “And, would you mind if I came inside? I’d rather not discuss my—our personal business in the street.”

“It’s hardly the street,” Cat responded.

“It’s still not private.”

“I don’t want Tara upset.”

“I didn’t come here to do that,” he stated. “I only want to see her. That isn’t really too much to ask, now, is it?”

“I suppose not,” she conceded, then stepped aside and let him enter, shutting the door behind him.

Rory was enveloped by the warmth of the interior of her home, a sharp contrast to Cat’s cool demeanor. He could smell the subtle scent of applejack as he followed her into a small room off the hall that was dominated by an overstuffed floral couch, topped by a sweater-like white throw.

She pulled the pocket door closed and when she did, Cat felt as if all the air had been locked outside the room, forcing her to take a deep breath before she spoke. “You’ve got to promise me that you won’t say anything to upset Tara,” she reiterated. “Or,” she stated plainly, “you can turn around and leave.”

“That’s not my intention, I can assure you.” Rory leaned back into the seat of the couch, enjoying the enveloping feel of comfort, like a welcome hug. It was so different from the formal furniture that he was used to growing up in his parents’ house, and what he had lived with in Ireland. He threw her a glance, placed his hand on the couch, indicating that she should take a seat next to him.

Cat ignored the invitation and remained standing. Right now, sitting so close to him, would be a mistake; it would be too cozy, too intimate, something she couldn’t afford. Instead, she kept the focus where it belonged—on what he was doing there. “And what are your intentions?” she demanded.

“Just to meet her, for now.”

“For now?” she repeated, her tone skeptical.

He quickly rose from the couch, coming closer. “Cat, you can’t expect me to know what I’ll feel or how I’ll react.”

“She’s a child, Rory, and you’re a stranger.”

“Through no fault of my own.”

Cat was stung by his words. “Can you honestly tell me that you would have been thrilled if I’d told you that I was pregnant? ‘Children have no place in my life,”’ she said, repeating the very words he’d said to her.

She waited for a moment. “What? No snappy comeback? No denial?”

“I remember what I said,” he admitted. “But I can’t walk away now that I know.”

“Can’t you?”

“No.”

It wasn’t so much the word as the tone he used when uttering that one word that convinced Cat that he was serious. “Okay.”

“Then I can see her?”

She searched his eyes. “Yes. But only for a few minutes.”

“That’s all?”

“For now.” She turned his words back on him. “Wait here.”

After she left, Rory walked a few paces to the fireplace, stared at the collection of photos on the carved mantel. There was a silver-framed photo of Cat and her folks, taken, he guessed, when she was in college; another of her brother and sister, who looked older than he remembered, so that it must have been taken recently; a third that included everyone, with Tara as the focal point. There was a Christmas tree in the background, heavily weighted with ornaments and lights. The little girl in the picture looked happy beyond belief, surrounded by a tight-knit clan that obviously adored her.

“Rory.”

He spun around and the breath caught in his throat. Holding her mother’s hand was his secret child.




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