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The Mighty Quinns: Conor
Kate Hoffmann
The only thing that can bring down a Quinn is a woman…The first Mighty Quinn…Maverick cop Conor Quinn is used to looking after everybody but himself. Only, when he finds himself guarding gorgeous Olivia Farrell, he's the one needing protection….His downfall…Olivia Farrell is in protective custody…and she's fighting it every step of the way. That is, until she meets her guard–sexy-as-sin Conor Quinn. Conor's smile leaves Olivia breathless, his dark gaze brings to mind images of steamy nights and twisted sheets. And suddenly Olivia realizes that her life isn't the only thing at risk….



She was impossible to resist…
And Conor was tired of making the effort. He’d been alone for so long, and for the first time in his life he’d found someone who could make him forget all the barriers he’d built up around his heart.
Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, a little voice—his cop voice—told him that spending the night in the same bed with Olivia broke all the rules. And making love to her would end his career. But at the moment he didn’t care. “I want to stop, but I can’t,” he murmured, dropping kisses along her jaw.
Olivia sighed. “I’m sure there are rules against this,” she whispered. Her tongue teased his nipple. She trailed lower, nipping and biting, and driving him mad with need. “And against this…” she teased, her fingers trailing down his belly, causing a flood of heat to rush to his lap.
He couldn’t take it any longer. Grabbing her wrists, he lowered her to the bed and covered her body with his. “I think it’s time we started making up our own rules,” he growled. “And rule number one…” he said, raising himself above her, “is that there will be no more rules.”

Dear Reader,
The offer was intriguing. My editors at Harlequin asked if I was interested in writing a trilogy about an Irish-American family. I’d just returned from a trip to Ireland and my mind was still filled with images of emerald-green hills, stone cottages and quaint pubs. So I had no problem at all coming up with the three sexy Irish-born heroes of my books—Conor, Dylan and Brendan, the Mighty Quinns.
Each one touched in a very different way by their harsh childhood, the Quinns have grown up without any feminine influence in their lives. So when they fall in love, they fall hard. Conor Quinn is the first to succumb. Always the responsible one, he turned to police work after raising his five younger brothers. But when he’s asked to protect beautiful antiques dealer Olivia Farrell, his usual self-control vanishes and he finds himself caught up in a passion that may cost him more than just his job.
Watch for Dylan’s story next month, and Brendan’s the month after that. And for more news about my upcoming releases, visit my new Web site at www.katehoffmann.com.
Happy reading,
Kate Hoffmann

The Mighty Quinns: Conor
Kate Hoffmann


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Karin Vander Schaaf, Who knew the answers to my Boston questions before I even asked.

Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9

Prologue
THE WIND HOWLED and the rain raged outside the tiny house on Kilgore Street in South Boston. The nor’easter had battered the working-class neighborhood for nearly two days, the pleasant autumn sunshine giving way to the first sting of winter.
Conor Quinn tugged the threadbare blanket around his youngest brothers, sleeping three to a bed. The twins, Sean and Brian, were already half-asleep, their eyes glazed with exhaustion. And the baby, three-year-old Liam, lay curled between them, his breathing gone soft and even, his dark lashes feathered over chubby cheeks.
But Dylan and Brendan were still wide awake, the two of them perched on the end of their bed, listening raptly as their father, Seamus Quinn, spun another tale. It was well past eleven and the boys should have been asleep. While his father was away, Conor made sure bedtime was strictly adhered to on school nights. But Seamus, a swordfisherman by profession, stayed in port only a week or two before heading out to sea for months at a time. And with winter coming, his father and the crew of The Mighty Quinn would be heading farther south, following the swordfish into the warmer waters of the Caribbean.
“This is a story of your long-ago ancestor, Eamon Quinn. Eamon was a clever laddie, so clever he could build a nest in your ear.”
Conor listened with half an ear to Seamus’s colorful tale, wondering whether he’d ever find a proper time to bring up Dylan’s failures in math class, or Brendan’s habit of pinching candy from the local market, or the immunizations that Brian and Sean still needed for school. But one subject had to be discussed, a problem his father refused to acknowledge.
Mrs. Smalley, their neighbor and regular baby-sitter, was up to a quart of vodka a day. Concerned for the safety of his three youngest brothers, Conor had been anxious to find another person to watch the little ones while he and Dylan and Brendan were at school. Social Services had already paid a surprise visit and he’d managed to hustle them off with an elaborate excuse about Mrs. Smalley’s allergies. But if the social workers realized he cared for his five brothers almost entirely on his own, they’d declare neglect and send them all to an orphanage.
“One fine day, Eamon was fishing off the Isle of Shadows. As he passed by a rocky shore, he saw a beautiful lass standing near the water’s edge, her long hair blowing in the breeze. His heart swelled and his face shone, for Eamon had never seen a more lovely creature.”
Conor had every confidence that he could keep his family together. Though he was only ten years old, he’d been both mother and father to the boys for over two years. As Mrs. Smalley’s drinking problem escalated, he’d learned to do the laundry and shop for food and help his brothers with their schoolwork. They had a simple life, complicated only by Mrs. Smalley’s binges and infrequent visits from Seamus.
Whatever time Seamus didn’t spend with his sons was spent at the local pub where he frittered away his take from the catch, buying drinks for strangers and gambling against huge odds. By the end of the week, he usually handed Conor just barely enough to pay household expenses for the coming months, until he and The Mighty Quinn chugged back into port with another holdful of swordfish. A few days ago, they were dining on week-old bread and soup from dented cans. Tonight, they’d enjoyed bulging bags of takeout from McDonald’s and Kentucky Fried Chicken.
“Eamon talked to the lass and, before long, he was enchanted. All the village said that it was time for Eamon to take a bride, but he had never found a woman to love—until now. He brought his boat ashore, but as Eamon set foot on land, the lass turned into a wild beast, as fierce as a lion with breath of fire and a thorny tail. She snatched Eamon between her great jaws, splintering his boat into a thousand pieces with her giant claws.”
Though Seamus Quinn wasn’t much of a parent or a fisherman, he did have one talent. Conor’s father could spin a beguiling yarn—rich Irish tales filled with action and adventure. Though Seamus always substituted a Quinn ancestor in the hero’s role and often combined elements of two or three stories, Conor had come to recognize the bits of Irish myths and legends from books he’d sought out at the public library.
Conor preferred the stories of the supernatural—fairies and banshees and pixies and ghosts. Eight-yearold Dylan liked tales of heroic deeds. And Brendan, a year younger than Dylan, hoped for a story of adventure in a far-off land. And the five-year-old twins, Brian and Sean, and baby Liam, really didn’t care what tale Seamus spun; they only cared that their da was home and their tummies would be full for a while.
Conor sat down beside Dylan and watched his father in the feeble light from the bedside lamp. At times, listening to his father’s thick brogue, he could picture Ireland in his mind—the misty sky, the emerald green fields lined with stone fences, the pony his grandfather had given him for his birthday, and the tiny whitewashed cottage near the water. They’d all been born there, save Liam, in that cottage on Bantry Bay. Life had been perfect then, because they’d had their da and their ma.
“Eamon knew it would take all his brains to trick the dragon. Many fishermen had been captured by this very dragon and held prisoner in a great cave on the Isle of Shadows, but Eamon would not be one of them.”
The letter from America had been the start of the bad times. Seamus’s brother had emigrated to Boston as a teenager. With grit and determination, Uncle Padriac had saved enough money crewing on a longliner to buy his own swordfish boat. He’d offered Seamus a partnership in The Mighty Quinn, a way out of the hardscrabble life that Ireland promised. So they’d moved half a world away, Seamus, his pretty wife Fiona, pregnant with Liam, and the five boys.
From the start, Conor had hated South Boston. Though half the population was of Irish descent, he was teased mercilessly for his accent. Within a month, he’d learned to speak in the flat tones and grating vowels of his peers and the occasional teasing resulted in a black eye or cut lip for the teaser. School became tolerable, but life at home was deteriorating with every passing day.
He remembered the fights at home the most, the simmering anger, the long silences between Fiona and Seamus…and his mother’s devastating loneliness at his father’s endless absences. The soft sobs he heard late at night behind her bedroom door cut him to the quick and he wanted to go to her, to make everything all right. But whenever he approached, her tears magically dried and all was well.
One day she was there, smiling at him, and the next day, she was gone. Conor expected her to come home by morning, as did Seamus when he stumbled in from the pub just as the sun was rising. But his mother never returned. And from that day on, Seamus would not speak her name. Questions were met with stony silence and when they persisted, he’d told the boys she’d moved back to Ireland. A few months later, he finally told them she’d died in an auto wreck. But Conor suspected that this was only a lie to end the questions, just revenge for his mother’s betrayal.
Conor had vowed never to forget her. At night, he’d imagined her soft, dark hair and her warm smile, the way she touched him when she spoke and the pride he saw in her eyes when he did well in school. The twins and Liam had just vague memories of her. And Dylan and Brendan’s memories were distorted by their loss, making her seem unreal, like some fairy princess dressed in spun gold.
“So this you must remember,” his father said in a warning tone, interrupting Conor’s daydream. “Like the clever Eamon Quinn who drove the dragon off the cliffs and saved many fishermen from a fate worse than death, a man’s strength and power is lost if he gives in to a weakness of the heart. Love for a woman is the only thing that can bring a Mighty Quinn down.”
“I’m a Mighty Quinn!” Brendan cried, pounding on his chest. “And I’m never going to let a girl kiss me!”
“Shhh!” Conor hissed. “You’ll wake Liam.”
Seamus chuckled and patted Brendan’s knee. “That’s right, boyo. You listen to your da on this. Women are trouble for the likes of us Quinns.”
“Da, it’s time for us to get to bed,” Conor said, weary of the same old cautionary tale. “We have school.”
Dylan and Brendan both moaned and rolled their eyes, but Seamus wagged his finger. “Conor is right. Besides, I’ve got a powerful thirst that only a pint of Guinness can quench.” He ruffled their hair, then pushed off the bed and headed toward the front door.
Conor hurried after him. “Da, we need to talk. Can’t you stay in tonight?”
His father waved him off. “You sound like an old woman, Con. Don’t be a nag. We can talk in the morning.” With that, Seamus grabbed his jacket and slipped out into the storm, leaving his son with nothing more than a cold draft and an uneasy shiver. Defeated, Conor turned and walked back to the bedroom. Dylan and Brendan had already climbed into their bunk beds. Conor turned off the lights and flopped down on the mattress in the corner, drawing the blankets up to his chin to ward off the chill.
He was almost asleep when a small voice came out of the darkness. “What was she like, Con?” Brendan asked, repeating a question he’d been asking nearly every night for the past few months.
“Tell us again,” Dylan pleaded. “Tell us about Ma.”
Conor wasn’t sure why they suddenly needed to hear. Maybe they sensed how fragile their life had become, how easily it could all fall apart. “She was a fine and beautiful woman,” Conor said. “Her hair was dark, nearly black like ours. And she had eyes the color of the sea, green and blue put together.”
“I remember the necklace,” Dylan murmured. “She always wore a beautiful necklace that had jewels that sparkled in the light.”
“Tell us about her laugh,” Brendan said. “I like that story.”
“Tell the story about the soda bread, when you fed it to Mrs. Smalley’s wee dog and Ma caught you. I like that one.”
So Conor spun his tale, lulling his brothers to sleep with visions of their mother, the beautiful Fiona Quinn. But unlike his father’s stories, Conor didn’t have to embellish. Every word he spoke was pure truth. And though Conor knew that love for a woman was a sign of weakness and trouble for any Quinn, he didn’t heed his father’s warning. For, in a secret corner of his heart, he’d always love his mother and that would make him strong.

1
THE SHOT CAME out of nowhere, shattering the plate-glass window of Ford-Farrell Antiques into thousands of pieces. At first, Olivia Farrell thought one of the display cases had fallen over, or a crystal vase had tipped off a shelf. But then a second shot rang out, the bullet whizzing by her head and embedding itself into the wall with a soft hiss and thud. Frantic, she glanced up to find shards of glass tumbling into the window display around a Federal-era breakfront.
Her first impulse was to throw herself over the breakfront, a rare piece valued at over $60,000. After all, the multipaned doors still contained all original glass! And the piece would be virtually worthless to her discerning clientele if it contained any scratches on the exquisitely preserved marquetry. But then, common sense took over and she dove for cover behind a rather overblown chaise longue in the Victorian style, a piece that might actually benefit from a few bullet holes.
“Oh, damn,” she murmured, not sure what to do next. Should she run? Should she hide? She certainly couldn’t shoot back since she didn’t own a gun. She thought about locking the front door, but then whoever was shooting could just walk through the gaping hole in her plate-glass window. “Why didn’t I listen? Why did I sneak out?”
Pushing up from the floor, she gauged the distance between her location and the back door of the gallery. But what if they were waiting for her in the alley? Since she wasn’t familiar with wiseguy protocol, she had no idea whether her unseen assassins were determined to kill her at all costs or whether they’d regroup and try again later. Then again, they’d missed. Maybe they’d just meant to scare her.
“Phone,” she murmured, reaching into her jacket pocket to pull out the sleek little cell phone she always carried. “Nine-one-one.” She punched in the number and immediately began to pray. Perhaps she should just play dead, in case they burst into the shop, guns blazing.
Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes and her hand trembled as she waited for the emergency operator to answer. But she refused to give in to fear, pushing back the tears and summoning up her courage. She’d taught herself to control her emotions, to maintain a cool demeanor, but that was for business purposes only. Maybe a gunshot through the window was a good excuse for a little hysteria.
None of this would have happened if she’d just kept her mouth shut, if she’d just turned around and walked away that night a few months back. But she’d been scared back then, scared that everything she’d worked so hard to achieve was about to be taken from her.
The closest she’d ever come to breaking the law was fudging a few numbers on her tax return and ignoring the speed limit on the I-90. Now her business records had been impounded, her past scrutinized, her partner thrown in jail, and her reputation left nearly in tatters. She was a material witness in a murder and money-laundering trial against a very dangerous man—a man who obviously thought nothing of killing her before she had a chance to tell her story in court.
Olivia listened as the operator came on the line, then quickly gave her location and a brief description of what had happened. The operator asked her to stay on the line and she listened distractedly as the woman tried to keep her calm. Olivia had always heard that when someone came close to death, their life passed before their eyes. All she could think about was how she hated feeling so vulnerable, so dependent on someone else’s help.
“Just keep talking to me, ma’am,” the operator urged.
“What should I talk about?” Olivia asked, her voice edgy. The only subject that came to mind was how quickly her life had changed in such a short time. Two months ago, she’d been on top of the game, Boston’s most successful antiques dealer. She travelled all over the country, searching out the finest American antiques for her shop. Her client list read like a Who’s Who of East Coast society. And she’d recently been named to the board of one of Boston’s most prestigious historical societies. There was even talk that she might be asked to appear on the public television show Antiques Caravan.
All this for a girl who’d grown up not on Beacon Hill, but in a working-class neighborhood of Boston. But she’d risen above her rather common beginnings, leaving her past far behind and creating a whole new identity for herself—a wonderful, exciting identity, filled with travel and parties and influential friends. And financial security. She had saved only one thing from her childhood—an interest in anything one hundred years old or older.
“My parents were antique fanatics,” she murmured to the operator, surrendering to the memory. “They used to haul me from auction to auction as a child, eeking out a living with a tiny little secondhand shop on the North End. We never knew where the next meal was coming from, never knew if we’d scrape together enough to pay the rent. It was frightening for a child, that uncertainty.”
“Don’t be frightened,” the operator said. “The police are on their way.”
“When I got older,” Olivia continued, “they turned to me for authentication and I became an expert in 18th- and 19th-century New England furniture makers. My parents never had a very good eye for fine antiques and when I was just out of high school, they decided to try the restaurant business, managing a truck stop off the interstate in Jacksonville, Florida.”
“The police are just a few minutes away, Ms. Farrell.”
She continued talking, the sound of her own voice soothing her fears. As long as she could talk, then she was still alive and the fear couldn’t consume her. “I stayed behind to attend college. I worked three different jobs for pocket change. I lived from hand to mouth for nearly my entire freshman year at Boston College, scraping to pay tuition and rent. I hated that. And then I found my very first ‘treasure,’ a Sheraton chair I bought for $15.00 at a tag sale and resold for $4,000.00 at a consignment auction.”
From that moment on, Olivia had paid for her college education by buying and selling antiques. She discovered she had an uncanny eye for spotting valuable pieces in the most unlikely places—garage sales, thrift shops, estate auctions. She could tell a reproduction from an original at fifty paces and was a skilled bidder.
“Even though I majored in art at Boston College, I fell naturally into a career in antiques. I rented my first showroom space the year I graduated. Six years later, I formed a partnership with one of my clients. Kevin Ford was a man with money. I thought I had it made. He bought a beautiful retail space on Charles Street at the base of Beacon Hill.” Olivia sighed. “How could I have been so naive?”
“The police will be there in approximately thirty seconds, ma’am,” the operator said.
Olivia could already hear the sirens in the distance over the traffic outside the gallery. But even the police couldn’t get her out of the mess she’d made of her life. She blamed herself for this whole thing. When Kevin bought the building, she’d had her doubts. Though he was wealthy, he certainly didn’t have the millions to buy retail space on Charles Street. But all Olivia could see was the next stage in her meteoric rise to the top of Boston society—and all the business that would come her way.
Had she trusted her instincts, she might have realized that Kevin Ford’s bottomless wallet came from underworld connections. That fact had been proved when Olivia overheard a late-night conversation between Ford and one of Ford’s most important clients, Red Keenan—a man she later learned was a Boston crime boss who’d ordered a handful of murders last year alone.
The sound of more glass smashing made her jump and she prepared herself for the worst. But then a familiar voice brought a rush of relief. “Ms. Farrell? Are you all right?”
Olivia poked her head up over the back of the chaise. She waved weakly at Assistant District Attorney Elliott Shulman, the man in charge of the murder case against Red Keenan. “I—I’m still alive,” she said.
He hurried through the shop and helped her to her feet. “This is just unacceptable,” he muttered. “Where was the police protection I ordered?”
“They’re still parked outside my flat,” Olivia murmured, a warm flush flooding her face.
Shulman gasped. “You went out without telling them?”
She nodded, her spine stiffening at his censorious tone. “I—I just needed to get some work done. The shop has been closed for almost two months. I have bills to pay, antiques to sell. If I don’t work with my clients, they’ll go someplace else.”
Shulman grabbed her by the elbow and led her toward the front door, his fingers firm on her arm. “Well, you’ve seen what Red Keenan is capable of, Ms. Farrell. Maybe now you’ll listen to us and take his threats seriously?”
Olivia yanked her arm from his grasp. “I still don’t understand why he’d want me dead. Kevin can testify to the whole sordid business. I just overheard them talking. And I didn’t hear that much.”
“As I told you before, Ms. Farrell, your partner isn’t talking. You’re the only witness who can put the two of them together. After what happened tonight, we’re going to have to hide you. Somewhere safe, out of town.”
Olivia gasped. “I—I just can’t leave. Look at this mess. Who’s going to repair the window? I can’t let the weather come in. These antiques are valuable. And what about my clients? This could ruin me financially!”
“We’ll call someone to replace the window right away. Until then, I’ll leave a patrolman outside. You’re coming with me down to the station until we find a safe house for you.”
Olivia grabbed her coat and purse from a circa 1830 primitive wardrobe next to her desk, then reluctantly followed Shulman to the front door. Maybe it was time to go into hiding. It was only for a couple of weeks, until the trial started. At least she’d feel safe again. When she stepped out onto the sidewalk, she gave her keys to the patrolman and murmured detailed instructions on the security code. When she finished, she closed her eyes and drew a long breath.
“Promise me I’ll have my old life back soon,” she said, trying to still the tremor in her voice.
“We’ll do our best, Ms. Farrell.”

CONOR QUINN knew the meaning of a bad day. Drugs, hookers, booze, smut—this was his life. Working vice for the Boston Police Department, he couldn’t recall a day that hadn’t been tainted by society’s ills. He reached inside his jacket pocket for the ever-present pack of cigarettes, his own private vice, then remembered he’d quit three days ago.
With a soft oath, he slid his empty glass across the bar and motioned to the bartender. Seamus Quinn approached, wiping his scarred hands on a bar towel. His dark hair had turned white and he now walked with a stoop owing to years of back-breaking labor on his swordfish boat. Conor’s father had given up fishing a few years back. The Mighty Quinn now bobbed silently at its moorings in Hull harbor, brother Brendan using it as a temporary home on the rare occasions he stayed in Boston. Seamus had moved on, using his meager savings and a gambling boon to purchase his favorite pub in a rough and tumble section of South Boston.
“Buy you a pint, Con?” Seamus asked in his rugged brogue.
Though Ireland was still thick in his father’s voice, little of the Quinn brothers’ birthplace remained in their memories. Yet, every now and then, Conor could still hear traces of the old country in his own voice, traces that he sometimes caught in Dylan and Brendan, too. But they were Americans through and through, all of the brothers had become naturalized citizens—save Liam, who’d been born in America—the day their parents took the oath.
Conor shook his head. “I’m on duty in a half hour, Da. Danny’s picking me up here.”
Seamus gave him a shrewd look, then set a club soda in front of Conor, before serving the next patron. Conor watched as his da expertly pulled the Guinness, tipping the glass at the perfect angle and choosing the exact moment to turn off the tap. He set the tall glass on the bar and the pale creamy foam rose to the top, leaving the nut brown brew beneath.
His father didn’t bother asking. Though the rest of the patrons profited from Seamus’s sage advice, over the years the Quinn boys had learned to handle their own problems without parental involvement. In truth, Conor had been the one to dispense advice and discipline to his younger brothers. He still did. Nearly his entire life, from the time he was seven, had been consumed with keeping his family intact at all costs and keeping his brothers on the straight and narrow. Making life safe had been his job, then and now. Now, he was just watching out for a city of a half million instead of five rowdy boys from Southie.
He glanced around the bar, searching for a diversion, anything to get his mind off the events of the day. Seamus Quinn’s pub was known for three things—an authentic Irish atmosphere, the best Irish stew in Boston and rousing Irish music played live every night. It was also known for the six bachelor brothers who hung out at the bar.
Dylan was playing pool with some of his firefighter buddies, all dressed alike in the navy T-shirts of the Boston Fire Department. A bevy of girls had gathered to watch, sending flirtatious looks Dylan’s way. Brian worked the other end of the bar this night and was occupied charming the newest barmaid. Liam had found himself a lively round of darts with a pretty redhead. And Sean stuck to the rear of the pub, dancing to the music of a fiddle and tin whistle with a striking brunette.
It was no different for Brendan when he was in town, finished with another magazine assignment or a research trip for his latest book. A soft and willing woman was the first thing he looked for. And though their father’s warnings about women had been drilled into their heads from an early age, that didn’t stop the six Quinn brothers from sampling what the opposite sex offered so freely—without love or commitment, of course.
But lately, Conor had tired of the shallow interaction he’d enjoyed in the past. Maybe it was his mood, the indifference he felt for life in general. Hell, the blonde at the end of the bar had been giving him come-hither looks for the past hour and he couldn’t even manage a smile. Though a woman to warm his bed on this blustery fall night was tempting, he was too tired to put out the effort to charm her. Besides, he only had a half hour before he had to report to the station house—not nearly enough time.
“Good evening, sir. I’ve got the car outside when you’re ready to leave.”
Conor glanced to his right to see his partner, Danny Wright, slide onto the bar stool beside him. The rookie detective had been assigned to Conor last month, much to Conor’s dismay. Although Wright was a good detective, the kid reminded him of a great big puppy, wide-eyed and always raring to go.
“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,”’ Conor muttered, taking another sip of his soda. “I’m your partner, Wright.”
Danny frowned. “But the guys in the squad room said you like to be called ‘sir.”’
“The guys are pulling your leg. They like to do that to rookie detectives. Why don’t you have something to drink and relax for a while.”
Anxious to please, Danny ordered a root beer, then grabbed a handful of peanuts and methodically began to shell them. When he’d arranged a neat little pile in front of him, he popped a few into his mouth and slowly munched. “Lieutenant wants us down at the station house by the end of the shift. He says he’s got a special assignment for us.”
Conor chuckled. “Special assignment? Special punishment is more like it.”
Danny sent him a sideways glance. “Lieutenant’s pretty steamed at you,” he murmured. “The guys say you’re a good cop who just has a bit of a temper. Lieutenant says the skell is bringing brutality charges though. Already hired himself a lawyer.”
Conor’s jaw tensed. “That slime bilked an 84-year-old woman out of her life savings. And when she wouldn’t give up her credit cards, he beat her within an inch of her life. I should have knocked his teeth through the back of his head and tied his arms and legs behind him. He got off easy with a split lip.”
“The guys say—”
“What is this, Wright? Don’t you ever speak for yourself?” Conor said. “Let me tell you what the guys are saying. They’re saying this isn’t the first time I’ve gone off on a suspect. They’re saying Conor Quinn is getting a reputation. And that reputation doesn’t help my chances of moving over to homicide. Combine the split lip with my other misadventures and the brass has got me pegged as a rogue cop.”
“I—I didn’t mean to—”
“You don’t have to worry, Wright. It’s not contagious,” Conor muttered.
“I’m not worried about me. You’ve been waiting for an assignment in homicide for two years and there are only two slots open. You’re a good detective, sir. You deserve one of those slots.”
Conor shook his head. “I’m not sure I’m even interested anymore.”
“Why not?”
He’d been mulling over that question for weeks now, but Conor hadn’t been able to come up with an answer, at least one that made sense. “I’ve been trying to make this city safe for more years than I’d care to count. I honestly thought I could make a difference and I haven’t even made a dent. For every hooker and bookie and scam artist I put behind bars, there’s another one right behind. What makes me think I could do better with murderers?”
“Because you will,” Danny reasoned in his own guileless way.
“Hell, I’m sick of playing it safe. It’s time I started living my life. I want to get up in the morning and look forward to the day. Look at my brother Brendan. He chooses what he writes, when he writes, if he writes. He’s living life on his own terms. And Dylan. What he does makes a difference. He saves lives. Real lives.”
“So what are you going to do? You’re a cop. You’ve always been a cop.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. I went from taking care of my family to taking care of this city. I was nineteen when I went into the academy, Wright. I had responsibilities at home, I needed a steady job. Maybe I would have chosen differently. I certainly would have enjoyed going to college rather that taking years of night courses to get a degree.”
Danny gave him a sideways glance. “You’ll feel better when the lieutenant lets you out of the doghouse,” he said. “He can’t stay mad forever.”
“So what kind of scut work does he have for us this evening?” Conor asked. He took a long sip of his soda, then wiped his hand across his mouth.
“Actually, it’s pretty interesting, sir,” Danny said. “We’re protecting a witness in the Red Keenan case. We’ve got to transport the guy out to a safe house on Cape Cod and then keep watch for a few days. Kind of an odd place for a safe house, don’t you think?”
Conor shook his head. “I guess they figure they can monitor everyone coming and going this time of year. One highway, one airport. Easier to spot suspicious characters.”
Conor pushed back from the bar and started toward the door, Wright dogging his heels. He gave Sean a wave, then called out a farewell to his brothers. When he reached the street, he pulled up the collar of his leather jacket and turned his face into the wind. He smelled the ocean on the stiff, damp breeze and he knew a storm was on the way. For a moment, he worried about Brendan, almost two days late on a return trip from the Grand Banks where he’d had a last run with the swordfishermen before they started to work their way south. Why he’d decided to write a book about swordfishing, Conor would never understand.
Hell, swordfishing had been the ruin of their family life, the reason their mother had walked out, the reason their father had left the parenting to Conor. He sighed and cursed softly. Brendan could handle a storm at sea—he’d spent many a summer vacation making runs with their father. And Dylan could handle a fire out of control. It was Conor who was having trouble handling his life of late, making sense of it all.
His head bent to the wind, hands shoved into his pockets, Conor strode down the rain-slicked street toward his car, Danny hard on his heels. He glanced up when he heard footsteps coming his way, his instincts automatically on alert. A slender woman with short, dark hair passed, nearly running into him in the process. Their eyes met for only a moment. He glanced over his shoulder, thinking he recognized her. Bunko artist? Hooker? Undercover cop?
He watched as she slowly stopped in front of Quinn’s, then peered through the plate-glass window. A few seconds later, she started up the steps, then paused and hurried back down, disappearing into the darkness. Conor shook his head. Was he so jaded that he now saw criminal intent in a perfectly innocent stranger? Maybe a few days of solitude on Cape Cod would put everything back in perspective.
The District Four station house was buzzing with activity when Conor and Danny arrived in the unmarked sedan. Conor was used to working the day shift, but days and nights would mean nothing now that he’d been assigned to protect a witness. Just endless hours of boredom, bad takeout, and what amounted to nothing more than baby-sitting.
According to Danny, the witness had been transported earlier that evening from the downtown station house. The lieutenant had been vague on the particulars of the case, preferring to speak to Danny and Conor in person about their new assignment—no doubt to use the meeting as a lesson for an unruly detective.
But when they strode into the squad room, the lieutenant’s office door was closed. Conor checked for messages, grabbed a cup of coffee, then searched the mess on his desk for his pocket pad, the leather bound notepad that each detective carried for witness interviews. He remembered that he’d had it last in the observation room while he watched an interrogation through the one-way window.
He grabbed a pen and backtracked, finding the door to the room open. But his search for the missing notepad was stopped short when he glanced through the one-way window into “the box.” The featureless interrogation room contained a single table with a chair on each side, a light above, and the mirrored window on one end, through which Conor now stared.
The sole occupant of the room was a woman, a slender figure with ash-blond hair, patrician features and an expensive wardrobe. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he was certain she wasn’t a call girl or a drug dealer or a con artist. He’d be willing to bet his badge that she hadn’t committed any crime. She lacked the hard edge to her features that most criminals acquired after working the streets. And she looked genuinely out of her element, a butterfly in the habitat of…cockroaches.
He stepped closer to the window and watched her for a long moment, noting the tremor in her delicate hand as she sipped at the paper cup filled with muddy coffee. Suddenly, she turned to look his way and he quickly stepped back into the shadows. Even though he knew she couldn’t see him, he felt as if he’d been caught looking.
God, she was beautiful, Conor mused. No woman had a right to be that beautiful. He found in her features sheer perfection—a high forehead, expressive eyes, cheekbones that wouldn’t quit and a wide mouth made to be kissed. Her hair fell in soft waves around her face, tumbling just to her shoulders. Conor’s hand twitched as he imagined how soft the strands might feel between his fingers, how her hair would slide over his skin like warm silk.
A soft oath slipped from his lips and he turned away from the window. Hell, what was he thinking, fantasizing over a complete stranger? For all he knew, she could just be a better class of call girl, or some drug-runner’s high-living girlfriend. Just because she was beautiful, didn’t automatically make her pure.
Old habits did die hard. How many times had he looked at an attractive woman only to have his father’s voice nagging in his head? All those cautionary tales, hidden between the lines of Seamus’s old Irish folk stories. A Quinn must never surrender his heart to a woman. Look beyond the beauty to the danger lurking beneath.
He turned back to the window in time to see her wrap her arms around herself. Her shoulders slumped and then she rocked forward, her body trembling. When she tipped her head back, he saw the tracks of her tears on her smooth complexion. Conor’s heart twisted in his chest at the fear and regret in her expression, the raw vulnerability of her appearance. She looked small and all alone.
Had she been standing next to him, she might have crumpled into his arms, hiding her sobs against his shoulder. But the glass between them was like an impenetrable barrier and he’d become nothing more than a voyeur. He’d never seen a woman cry before, except for the hookers he’d arrested, but those tears were usually just for show.
She cried for a long time while Conor watched, memories of his mother’s pain flooding his mind. He knew he should leave and allow her the privacy of her emotions, but he couldn’t. He felt as if his feet were glued to the floor, his gaze caught by her beauty and her pain. The tears had opened her soul and for a moment, he could see inside. He fought the urge to pull open the door and go to her. Whoever she was, criminal or not, she deserved a shoulder to cry on.
Conor reached out to turn the doorknob so he could enter the box, but just as he was about to open the door, he saw Danny Wright stroll into the room, a grocery bag in his arms. Slowly, he drew his hand away, stunned by the unexpected change in the woman’s expression. The transformation was astounding. Almost instantly, the vulnerability vanished and her expression became cool and composed, almost icy. Surreptitiously, she brushed away all traces of her tears and glanced up at his partner, her lips pressed into a tight line.
Conor flipped the switch on the intercom, then braced his hands on the table beneath the window and listened to Danny’s voice, crackling through the speaker.
“Ms. Farrell, I’m Detective Wright. My partner and I have been assigned to protect you until the trial. I’m sorry you’ve been waiting so long, but we’ve been making arrangements to take you to a safe place.”
Conor sucked in a sharp breath. This was his witness? This woman who’d drawn him into her troubles with just a few tears and a stunningly beautiful face? “Aw, damn it,” he muttered, throwing his notepad onto the table. He figured he’d be baby-sitting some wimpy little accountant or slimy two-faced informant. Considering his reaction to Ms. Farrell so far, spending the next two weeks in her company would be hell on earth.
“I don’t understand why I can’t just disappear,” she said, a sharp edge to her voice. “I can go to Europe. I have business associates there who would be happy to—”
“Ms. Farrell, we’ll keep you safe. There’s nothing to worry—”
She brought her palms down on the table and shot out of her chair, the action causing Danny to jump. “I don’t need you to keep me safe,” she cried, her voice suffused with anger and frustration. “I can keep myself safe. I don’t want your help.”
Danny took a step back, caught offguard by the intensity of her outburst. “But—but we won’t have any assurance that you’ll return to testify.”
“What if I don’t testify?” she demanded. “Then you’ll have to let me go, right?”
“Keenan will find you eventually, Ms. Farrell. Because, if you don’t testify, he’ll be out on the street and he won’t leave any loose ends.”
She gripped the back of the chair with a white-knuckled hand. “That’s what I am? A loose end?”
Danny blinked, then shook his head. “Th-that’s not what I meant. I was just telling you what Keenan would think. Listen, I’m going to go find my partner and let him talk to you. He’s a good cop. He won’t let anything happen to you, either.”
Conor snatched up his notepad and stalked out of the observation room, straight through the squad room to his lieutenant’s office. He wanted a reassignment and he wanted one now. He’d even settle for desk duty if that got him out of watching over this woman. Conor rapped on the door, then closed his eyes as he waited for an answer.
“Lieutenant went downtown,” Rodriguez called. “The commissioner is holding some big press conference on his Cops and Kids program. He talked to Danny a few minutes ago. I think your witness is in the box.”
Conor turned on his heel and walked back through the squad room, muttering beneath his breath. He met Danny halfway down the hall.
“There you are,” his partner said. “Are you ready to roll?”
“Lieutenant’s gonna have to find someone else for the job,” Conor muttered. “I’ve got too many open cases to take time off. Besides, District One should be handling this witness. It’s their case.”
“What? You can’t bail on me now. I need you to talk to the witness. Her name’s Olivia Farrell. Red Keenan’s guys took a shot at her earlier this evening and she’s pretty shook up. She doesn’t want to testify. I don’t know what to say to make her—”
“So let her take her chances on the street,” Conor muttered. “If she doesn’t want to testify, she doesn’t have to.”
Danny frowned. “What are you saying? We’ve got a chance here to nail Keenan. Besides murder and drug dealing, the guy’s been running us ragged in vice. You should want him off the street.”
Conor raked his hand through his hair and shook his head. “I do. But I’m not going to talk to her. She’s your responsibility, Wright. You’re the point man on this one. You get her ready to go and you drive her out to Cape Cod. I’ll be in the backup car watching your ass.”
“I gave her some clothes,” Danny said. “Lieutenant figured we should sneak her out of here in disguise, like a suspect transfer. We’ll drive past the South Boston station house on the way out of town, and if you don’t see anyone on our tail, we won’t stop until we get to the safe house.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Conor muttered. “I’ll wait for you in the parking lot and follow you out.”
Conor shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and started down the hall. Suddenly he needed fresh air, time to breathe. What had this woman done to him? With just one look, she’d sapped his strength and sent him running for cover. If he didn’t know better, he’d have to believe his father’s warnings were true. But this was just a job and he could certainly maintain a professional demeanor if he had to. Besides, as with all women in his life, the fascination would soon fade.
Consumed by his own thoughts, his gaze fixed on the floor, he didn’t notice the figure who stepped out of the doorway to the box. She slammed into him and he grabbed her as she bumped against the wall. With a soft curse, Conor looked into the most incredible green eyes he’d ever seen.
She’d changed out of her designer clothes and was now dressed in a faded T-shirt, tattered chinos and a slouchy hat. An old camouflage jacket was clutched in her hands. If he didn’t know her, he might mistake her for one of the vagrants who hung out down on the waterfront. Conor stepped to one side and, at the very moment, she made the same move. Twice more, they tried to get past each other, the two of them participating in some bizarre little tango right there in the hall.
Finally, he grabbed her arms and impatiently moved her against the wall. But the instant he touched her, his anger with her dissolved. Her skin was warm and so soft. A current shot up his arms, and as if he’d been burned, he snatched his hands away. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“It—it’s all right,” she said. “It was my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
The sound of her voice surprised him. The intercom in the box had distorted it until she sounded like some harpy fishwife. But here, standing so near to him, her words were low and throaty, wrapping around his brain like a mind-numbing drug, immediately turning him into an addict for the sound. “No, it was my fault,” he said, hoping she’d speak again.
“Can you tell me where Detective Wright is?” she asked. “He gave me these clothes to wear but I’m afraid they don’t fit very well.”
She glanced up at him again and he saw the vulnerability return to her eyes, the hard facade gone. “Detective Wright will be with you in a moment, miss,” he said, steering her back through the door to the box. “Wait in here until he returns.”
With that, he turned and strode down the hall, rubbing his tingling palms together as he walked. “See? She’s nothing special,” he murmured. “Just an ordinary witness. Sure, she’s a beautiful woman. But sooner or later they all turn into clinging, grasping shrews.” Conor repeated these words over and over as he walked to the parking lot.
By the time Danny helped a handcuffed Olivia Farrell into an unmarked sedan and roared off into the night, Conor had nearly convinced himself that his words were true. But as he followed the taillights of his partner’s car, memories of the feel of her skin and the sound of her voice flooded his brain.
She wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but Olivia Farrell was different. Conor couldn’t help but feel a small measure of regret at the revelation. He’d never really know how she was different, or why she made him feel the way she did.
The only thing he knew for sure was that he damn well didn’t intend to get within fifty feet of Olivia Farrell ever again!

2
CAPE COD during an October nor’easter—Olivia Farrell couldn’t think of anything worse, except maybe a root canal without anesthesia. October was supposed to be warm and sunny. But the sky remained endlessly bleak and the wind blew off the Atlantic, seeping through every crack and crevice in the beach house and rattling the single-pane windows until she was certain she’d go mad from the sound. The fireplaces throughout the cottage blazed but they did nothing to take the damp from the air. And the furnace, meant only to keep the pipes from freezing in the winter, did a pitiful job of staving off the cold.
She peered through a slit in the curtains, staring out at the restless waters of Cape Cod Bay, a sick shade of green and gray beneath the slowly rising sun. Rubbing her arms through the thick wool sweater, she fought off a shiver. How had she managed to get herself into such a predicament?
“Ms. Farrell, please stay away from the windows. We don’t know who might be out there.”
Olivia sighed. She’d been in protective custody for only two days, but already she’d had enough. She couldn’t breathe without permission from Dudley Do-Right, the by-the-book cop that had been assigned as her shadow. Detective Danny Wright looked all of about fifteen years old, with a fresh-scrubbed face and a pudgy build. If she hadn’t known he was a cop, she might have thought the gun he carried was a toy. Olivia ran her hands through her hair, then turned away from the window. “How much longer do we have to stay here? Can’t we find a place with heat?”
“We’re thinking of keeping you here until the trial.”
“But that’s twelve days away!” Olivia cried.
“We’ve got men posted at the airport, on the highway and even at the ferry landing in Provincetown. The only way one of Red Keenan’s men can get past them is if they come over on a private boat and land on the beach. And with this weather, they’d be crazy to try. Local law enforcement knows all the year-round residents on this stretch of the Cape. This is the safest place for you.”
“Then why can’t I at least go out for a while? You said it. I’m perfectly safe here. We could go shopping, or go for a walk. Maybe get some breakfast in town?”
Detective Do-Right shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, miss. If there’s anything more you need, I can send a man out. Books, snacks, whatever. The district attorney wants you to be comfortable.”
“Fine!” Olivia snapped. “Send him out and tell him to buy me my old life back. I want my own bed and my cat and my hairdryer. My shop can’t survive another two weeks of closed doors. My clients are going to go elsewhere. Will the department pay for all the lost business?”
The officer looked genuinely apologetic. “We’re very sorry about that, miss, but you are doing society a great service by helping us shut down Keenan’s operation.”
She sighed then bit back a sharp retort and flopped down on the sofa. She knew she ought to be grateful for the protection, but she felt like a hostage, held against her will. Her incarceration would probably be much more enjoyable if she’d cut Detective Wright a little slack. “Since we’re going to be spending so much time together, you might as well call me Olivia. I’m getting tired of miss.”
“Actually, Ms. Farrell, it’s best if we don’t get friendly. Department policy says that we should keep our relationship strictly professional.”
She grabbed the book she’d been reading from the end table. “I’m going to lie down. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Officer Do-Right was about to issue another warning but she held up her hand to stop him. “And don’t worry, I won’t stand near the windows.”
She closed the bedroom door behind her, then leaned back against it. The least they could do was put her up in a house with heat. It was probably warmer outside. Olivia crossed to the bed and grabbed her jacket, then tugged it on. In truth, she wasn’t tired. She’d been so inactive over the course of her imprisonment she’d gained five pounds. Had she been at home, she’d be heading out for her morning walk right about now, taking her usual route, down Dartmouth to the river and then back again. She’d stop in her favorite coffee shop for a half-caf, no-fat latte, then grab copies of the morning papers, and head for her flat on St. Botolph Street.
Olivia paced the length of the bedroom, then turned on her heel and retraced her steps. She picked up the speed and before long she was jogging in place. If she closed her eyes she could almost feel the brisk morning air on her face, hear the wind rustling in the leaves and smell the river in the distance.
But when she opened her eyes, she was still stuck in what amounted to a prison. Olivia glanced at the window, then walked over and pushed aside the curtains. The drop to the ground wasn’t so bad. She could easily fit through the window without making a sound. All she needed was a little time to herself, some fresh air and exercise.
She reached up and flipped the latch open. Wincing, she slowly pushed the creaky sash up, the wind buffeting her face. The sound of crashing waves filled the room and she waited to see if Officer Do-Right would burst through the door with gun drawn. When he didn’t, she threw her leg over the sash and wriggled out the window. The sandy ground was damp beneath her feet, muffling the sound.
Olivia turned around and pulled the window shut, then stepped out from the shadow of the house and headed toward the beach, avoiding the sight lines from the big wall of windows across the back of the house. The wind cut through her jacket and chilled her to the bone, but the sense of freedom sent her pulse racing and she wanted to dance and sing and shout with joy.
She ran over the dunes, through the wind-whipped sea grass to the hard-packed sand at water’s edge. The roar of the waves filled her head and she jogged along the beach, drawing deeply of the salt air, caught up in the fierce weather. No one had ventured out this morning. Not a footprint marred the damp sand, no human for as far as the eye could see. “There you are, Officer Do-Right, I’m perfectly safe. Not a hit man in sight.”
She wasn’t sure how long she ran but by the time she sat down on a small patch of damp sand, she was breathless. Olivia knew she should go back inside before her watchdog noticed she was missing, but now that she was warm, she just needed a few more minutes to—
Arms clamped around her torso and she felt herself being lifted from the ground. The shock knocked the air out of her lungs and, for a moment, Olivia couldn’t scream. She struggled to catch her breath as she was spun around and tossed over the shoulder of a dark-haired man dressed in a leather jacket and jeans.
He trudged up the dunes, carrying her as if she weighed nothing more than a sack of feathers. Finally, she drew enough air to make a sound. First, she screamed, long and hard, a shriek guaranteed to carry on the wind. Then she began to kick her legs and pummel his back with her fists. “Let me go!” Olivia cried. “This place is swarming with cops. You’ll never get away with this.”
He stopped, then hoisted her up again, adjusting her weight until his shoulder jabbed into her belly. “I don’t see any cops, do you?”
“I—I’ll make you a deal,” she pleaded, staring down at his backside. She’d do well to keep her head about her. Surely she could reason with the man. From the look of his behind, he was young, fit, probably attractive. “I—I won’t talk. I’ll refuse to testify. Your boss doesn’t have to worry. He won’t go to jail. Just don’t kill me.”
She pushed up and looked around, then noticed they were heading toward the house. Officer Do-Right was inside! With his gun! Oh, God, she was about to be caught in a hail of bullets. And the way he was carrying her she’d be shot in the butt first. “You can’t go in there,” she warned. “The cops are in there. See, I’m on your side. I’d never say anything to hurt your boss.”
When he reached the steps to the deck, he grabbed her waist and set her down in front of him, his fingers biting into her flesh.
Olivia swallowed hard, looking up at an expression as fierce as the weather. Even through his anger, she could see he was a handsome man—for a criminal. And his features were strangely familiar. She knew this man. “You!” Olivia cried. “I saw you at the station house. You’re—you’re a—”
An unexpected smile touched the corners of his hard mouth. “I’m the man who just saved your life. Now get in the house.”
Olivia gasped, then narrowed her eyes. “You’re a cop!”
He nodded once, dismissively, and she felt her temper rise. She let out a colorful oath, then drew back and kicked him squarely in the shin. “I thought you were a bad guy!” she cried, ignoring his yelp of pain and the little one-footed dance he did as he rubbed his bruised leg.
“Damn it, what did you do that for?”
“You scared me half to death! I thought you were going to kidnap me. And—and then, put a bullet in my brain or—or fit me with cement overshoes. My life flashed before my eyes. I nearly had a stroke. I could have died.”
He stared up at her, bent double with the pain. It was only then that she noticed his eyes, an odd shade of hazel mixed with gold. She’d never seen eyes quite that color. Eyes filled with cold, calculating anger—directed at her. “Yes, you could have died,” he muttered. “And I want you to remember how scared you were. Because that’s what it’s going to be like when Keenan finally gets you. Now get in the house,” he continued, emphasizing each word. “Or I’ll shoot you myself.”
With a sniff, she spun on her heel and flounced up the steps. Of all the nerve! What right did he have to treat her like some—some recalcitrant child? Next thing, he’d be throwing her over his knee and spanking her. Olivia risked a look back as she walked in the door. Good grief, why did that notion suddenly appeal to her?
When she got inside, she found Detective Wright nervously pacing the room. He looked up and relief flooded his expression. Olivia almost felt sorry for him and was about to apologize when the door slammed behind her. “What the hell were you thinking, Wright? You never, ever, let a witness out of your sight. She could be dead now and then where would we be?”
Olivia turned and sent the dark-haired cop a livid glare, one he returned in equal measure, sending a shiver down her spine. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic? Besides, it’s not his fault. I snuck out.”
He took a step toward her and she backed away. “Did I ask for your opinion?” He turned back to Detective Wright. “Why don’t you watch the road and the perimeter? I’ll stay with Ms. Farrell for now.”
“I don’t want you here,” Olivia said, tipping her chin up defiantly. “I want Officer Do-Right to stay. You can leave.”
“Officer Wright is needed outside. And since you’ve decided to ignore his warnings, you’re stuck with me. Or more precisely, I’m stuck with you.” His gaze raked the length of her body and stopped at her toes. “Give me your shoes.”
“What?”
“Take them off.” He turned and stalked to her bedroom, then emerged a few moments later with the boots and loafers she’d hurriedly packed after the incident at the shop. “You can have them back once I’m sure you’re going to stay inside. Now, give me your shoes.”
Olivia had every intention of refusing but the look in his eyes told her otherwise. She sat down on the sofa and yanked both shoes off, then threw them in the direction of his head. Then she crossed her arms and sank back into the cushions, watching him suspiciously and waiting for the next demand.
He drew Detective Wright aside and spoke softly with him, giving Olivia a chance to observe him in an objective light. He stood at least half a head taller than Wright and his dark good looks stood in sharp contrast with Dudley’s clean-cut choirboy features. When his face wasn’t filled with fury, the guy was actually quite handsome—high cheekbones and a strong jaw, a mouth that looked as if it had been sculpted by an artist. His hair was dark, nearly black, and his eyes were that strange shade that she couldn’t quite describe in words. Fascinating. Unearthly. Riveting.
While Dudley looked conscientious and trustworthy, this new guy had a wild and unpredictable air about him. His hair was just a little too long, his clothes a bit too casual. He had a sinewy build, long legs and broad shoulders and a flat belly that showed no evidence of too many donuts. When they both turned her way, she averted her eyes and casually picked at the fringe of a throw pillow she’d pulled onto her lap.
Detective Wright approached the sofa. “Ms. Farrell, I’m going to leave you in the care of Detective Quinn. He’ll be with you until the trial. I hope you won’t give him any more trouble.”
She forced a sweet smile and slowly rose. “That all depends upon Detective Quinn’s behavior. As long as he can stifle his Neanderthal tendencies, it will be pure bliss.”
Wright looked back and forth between the two of them, then nodded before hurrying out of the room. Left alone with Quinn, Olivia wondered whether she might be better off taking her chances with Keenan’s hit man. It would be best to keep Quinn off guard, to refuse to give in to his bullying. Twelve days of “yes, sir” and “no, sir” would be completely intolerable. She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it his way. “You might as well take it,” she said. “Do you want my socks as well?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched and he didn’t speak for a long time. “I don’t want to be here any more than you do, Ms. Farrell. But it’s my job to keep you safe. If you let me do my job, then we’ll get along just fine.”
When he wasn’t yelling at her, he had a very pleasant voice, deep and rich. His accent was working-class Boston, but there was something else there, a hint of something exotically foreign. “You said that you’re being punished,” she ventured. “What did you do wrong?”
“Nothing you have to worry about,” he muttered. “As long as I don’t lose my temper again, you should be safe.” He wandered around the room, checking every window and door, then disappeared into her bedroom. She imagined him rifling through her bag, plucking at the lacy scraps of underwear and smelling her perfume. She could always tell when a man was attracted to her, but Quinn was impossible to read. He was probably telling the truth when he said he’d just as soon shoot her.
When he returned, he had a pillow and comforter in his arms. He set them on the back of the sofa. “You’ll sleep in here tonight,” he murmured.
“I sleep on the sofa and you get my bed? That doesn’t seem fair.”
“No,” he said, “you sleep on the sofa and I sleep on the floor. We sleep in the same room, Ms. Farrell. If that doesn’t suit, we can sleep in the same bed. That’s up to you. I just need to be able to get to you quickly.”
Olivia scowled. “Listen, Quinn, I—”
“Conor,” he interrupted. “You can call me Conor. And there’s no use arguing. I’m not going to change my mind.”
Olivia opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. She’d never felt entirely safe with Detective Wright. But with Conor Quinn, there was no doubt in her mind that he’d do what he had to do to protect her, regardless of her feelings in the matter. When he’d grabbed her on the beach, she had to admit she’d been scared. What if he had been one of Keenan’s men? Chances were she’d be floating facedown in the bay right about now.
“I’m going to make a fresh pot of coffee,” she said grudgingly. “Would you like a cup?” He nodded, but when she got up, he followed her into the kitchen. He methodically checked the windows and doors, then sat down on a stool at the breakfast bar. “Are you going to follow me around all day?” she asked as she filled the pot with cold water.
“If I have to,” he said. His shrewd gaze skimmed over her body, blatantly, as if he were trying to see right through her clothes. “Why did you climb out the window?”
Olivia sighed. “You have to understand that I’m used to my own space, my own life. I never wanted this, never wanted to get involved. I shouldn’t be here.”
“But you are involved,” he murmured, his eyes probing, his expression curious.
“I tried to explain to the district attorney that I didn’t want to testify but—”
“Ms. Farrell, you have a duty to do what’s right. Red Keenan is scum, a big player in the mob. With your testimony, we can put him away. A little inconvenience on your part is nothing compared to the pain that man has caused countless innocent people.” With that, he pushed away from the counter and walked out of the room. “And stay away from the windows,” he called.
The rest of the day passed in excruciating boredom. She stayed away from the windows and out of Conor Quinn’s way. And he stayed just close enough to make her uneasy. Whenever she looked at him, he was watching her, silently, intently. Olivia assumed he was waiting for her to make another run for freedom. But she’d already resigned herself to her fate. The trial was twelve days away—twelve long days spent in the company of the brooding Conor Quinn. She’d need to choose her fights carefully if she expected to survive.

THE SMELLS coming from the kitchen were too much to resist. Conor glanced up from an old issue of Sports Illustrated, then levered himself up from the overstuffed chair he’d occupied for the past hour. Furrowing his hands through his hair, he wandered into the kitchen to find pots bubbling on the stove and Olivia Farrell busily chopping vegetables.
“Smells good,” he said.
She looked up at him for a brief moment, then turned her attention back to the salad she was preparing. “I asked Detective Wright for some groceries yesterday. I was getting a little tired of take-out meals and a little angry with my situation, so I made the grocery list as complicated as I could.”
He slid onto the kitchen stool. “What are you making?”
“Paella,” she said.
“What?”
“It’s an Italian seafood stew. They probably had fits trying to hunt down fresh shrimp and scallops. But then, I could afford to wait. I’ve got plenty of time, which is what it takes to make paella, and it’s always better the second day.” She looked at him again, this time letting her gaze linger for a long moment. Olivia Farrell had very alluring eyes, Conor concluded. Wide and trusting, ringed with thick lashes. She didn’t wear much makeup, allowing her natural beauty to shine through. “There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge. You can open it, if you like.”
“I shouldn’t drink on duty,” Conor said, reaching for the wine.
Olivia managed a tiny smile. “I promise I won’t try to escape again. You can have a small glass, can’t you?” She reached into a cabinet next to the sink and pulled out two wine goblets, then set them down in front of him.
Had this evening occurred under different circumstances, Conor could imagine them on a first date— Olivia cooking dinner for him at her apartment, Conor bringing the wine. He grabbed the bottle, then took the corkscrew and opened it. Perhaps if he thought of this as a personal rather than a professional relationship, it might be much more tolerable. “Do you like to cook?”
Olivia shrugged. “I don’t cook often,” she said, “at least not like this. It’s kind of silly to cook for one.”
“Then you don’t have a…” He let his question drift off. Maybe that was getting too personal.
“A boyfriend?” She shook her head. “Not right now. How about you?”
He smiled. “No boyfriend for me either.”
She glanced up, then giggled softly. “I meant, do you have a girlfriend? Or maybe a wife?”
He poured her a generous glass of wine, then splashed a bit into a goblet for himself. He wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but he had to admit that the crisp Chardonnay tasted good. “Cops don’t make good husbands.”
She reached for her glass, then took a sip as she studied him shrewdly. “The accent,” she said. “I can’t place it.”
“Southside Boston, with a dash of County Cork,” Conor replied. “I was born in Ireland.”
She raised her eyebrow. “When did you leave?”
“Twenty-seven years ago. I was six.” Conor hated talking about himself. His life had been so ordinary, of no interest to a sophisticated woman like Olivia Farrell. “Where are you from, Ms. Farrell?” he asked, deftly changing the subject.
“Olivia,” she said. “I’ve lived in Boston all my life.”
A long silence grew between them as he watched her preparing the meal. She moved with such grace, everything she did seemed like part of a dance and Conor found himself fascinated by the turn of her head or the flutter of her fingers. Even though she was casually dressed in a bulky cable-knit sweater and jeans, elegance and class seemed to radiate from her body.
“What made you become a cop?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
Conor pushed up from the stool and circled around the counter to peer into the pot she was stirring. “It’s a long story,” he said.
“Like I said, I’ve got plenty of time. Twelve days, in fact. Which is good, because trying to carry on a conversation with the likes of you is like talking to a—a bowl of vegetables.”
Conor chuckled. “I guess I don’t talk much.”
“Ah, a sentence with more than five words,” she said sarcastically. “We’re making progress. Before the night is out, I expect scintillating repartee.”
She dipped a spoon into the pot and tasted the sauce. Then she held out the spoon to him. He took her hand and steadied it as he licked the end of the spoon. The feel of her tiny wrist, her soft skin beneath his fingertips, sent a frisson of electricity up his arm.
Their eyes met and, for a long moment, neither one of them moved. Had it been a first date, Conor may have taken the spoon from her hand and swept her slender body into his arms, kissing her until he lost himself in the taste of her mouth and the feel of her soft flesh.
But this was not a first date, he reminded himself. He was a cop, charged with protecting a witness. And fantasizing about this witness, no matter how beautiful she was, would only take his mind off the real dangers that waited for her outside the beach cottage. He drew back, forcing his gaze to fix on a spot over her shoulder. “I should go check everything outside before it gets dark,” he murmured, schooling his voice into indifference. “Make sure Danny hasn’t fallen asleep.”
He strode to the kitchen door, not bothering to fetch his jacket from the other room. The icy air would do him good, clear his head. “Don’t go near the windows,” he said as he stepped outside.
Conor waved at his partner, stationed in a parked car near the road. He was tempted to switch jobs again with the poor guy. To give him paella and fine wine in turn for endless hours of lukewarm coffee, stale donuts and talk radio. Conor had always taken his job seriously, but it was hard to think about work while sitting in the same room as Olivia Farrell. Why did she have to be so beautiful?
He’d flipped through the case file in the car, but hadn’t really bothered to read it in detail. In truth, he didn’t want to know more about Olivia Farrell. He already knew she was attractive and desirable and intriguing. But after spending the afternoon in her presence, his curiosity had been piqued. Right now, he wanted to know every detail he could about her and her involvement with Red Keenan.
Maybe, after that, he could start looking at her as just a witness and stop thinking of her as a beautiful woman.

THE LIGHT from the fire had waned and Conor rose from the floor to poke at the embers. Outside the wind howled and shrieked, waves crashing against the shore. He’d watched the weather reports earlier in the day and knew the nor’easter was blowing itself out. He thought again about Brendan, wondering if he’d put into port yet. The only solace he could find in the storm was that Keenan’s men wouldn’t dare to venture outside.
Inside the beach house, the remains of dinner were scattered across the coffee table, dirty bowls, half-eaten bread, and the empty bottle of wine. Conor glanced over at the sofa. Olivia Farrell lay curled up asleep beneath a soft afghan, her hands clutched beneath her chin. He recalled a picture he’d found in one of his Irish storybooks, a drawing of Derdriu, an ancient beauty, betrothed to a king yet loved by a common warrior. Olivia’s hair, like Derdriu’s, was a pale shade of gold. The waves and curls spread over the pillow and her perfect skin shone like porcelain in the dim light from the fire.
He tossed another log on the fire. Sparks scattered across the hearth and the log popped and sizzled before it caught fire. His father had often told the tale of how Derdriu’s beauty had brought only death and destruction to her people. But Conor remembered the drawing, how sweet and vulnerable her face had looked to his ten-year-old eyes. Even then, he’d doubted his father’s warnings about the opposite sex.
He’d been sent to protect this woman, been asked to lay his life on the line for her like some ancient warrior. Yet what did he really know about her? Conor crossed the room and pulled the copy of the police file from his duffel bag. Then he wandered back to the fire, drawing nearer to the light to read. From what he could tell, Olivia Farrell was an ordinary citizen, caught up in extraordinary circumstances.
Her partner, Kevin Ford, had been arrested for participating in a money-laundering scheme for organized crime boss Red Keenan, a scheme that had included murder. The mechanics of the scheme were quite complex—buying expensive antiques for Keenan, reselling them to bogus clients for three or four times the value, then handing over the freshly laundered money to Keenan.
Olivia hadn’t been aware of the scheme, but she had had the misfortune of overhearing a conversation between her partner and Keenan, providing the only solid evidence to link the two. Conor looked up, wondering if she realized the true danger she was in. He also wondered what kind of relationship she had with Kevin Ford.
He flipped past the report of Ford’s criminal activity to a photo of the guy. He wasn’t bad-looking, Conor mused, in that polished, sophisticated, Ivy League way. A woman like Olivia probably found him endlessly charming…intelligent…sexy, even. Perhaps they’d been lovers at one time, maybe still were. Conor shoved the photo back into the file and grabbed the page that included a rundown on her background.
Olivia Farrell. Graduate of Boston College, lived on a nice street in the South End. No criminal record. Single. Twenty-eight years old. Co-owner of one of Boston’s most successful antique galleries, Ford-Farrell Antiques. Well-known throughout certain social circles in Boston. Dated an investment banker, a corporate attorney, and a shortstop for the Red Sox. No long-term relationships since college. Both parents living, residing in Jacksonville, Florida.
Conor closed the file and turned his gaze back to her. “Stubborn to a fault,” he murmured. “Possible potential as a kick-boxer. Sharp tongue. Great cook. Incredibly beautiful.”
His gaze drifted down to her mouth. Though she’d worn a grim expression for most of the day, all traces of irritation had been dissolved by the wine and good food. They’d chatted over dinner, each of them revealing just enough about themselves to keep the conversation interesting. She’d told him about her shop, the excitement of finding valuable antiques, the wealthy clients she worked with, the elegant parties she’d attended.
He told her about the seamy underworld of the vice cop, the endless schemes criminals found to circumvent the law and the frustrations he felt when they got away with it. To his surprise, she seemed fascinated by his work and questioned him until he’d told her about the most interesting cases he’d ever worked. Conor sighed. He really shouldn’t have been surprised. Olivia Farrell was used to sparkling conversation. She could probably make an undertaker sound like he was the most intriguing man on the planet.
She may be out of his league, but Conor still couldn’t deny he was attracted to her, even though he’d always been drawn to women with more obvious beauty. Olivia Farrell’s features were subtle, plain almost, yet so perfectly proportioned that a man couldn’t help but notice. She looked…fresh. Clean. Pure.
He stood up and quietly walked to her side. Without thinking, he reached out and took a strand of her hair between his fingers. Startled by the silken feel of it on his skin, he drew his hand away then knelt down to examine her face more closely.
A tiny smile curled the corners of her mouth. She slept soundly, secure in the knowledge that he was there to watch over her. But could he really protect her against the power of Red Keenan? There was no doubt in Conor’s mind that Keenan would risk anything to stay out of prison. He had money and power, and those two in combination could convince unscrupulous men that a favor done for Keenan would be handsomely rewarded—even if that favor involved killing Olivia Farrell.
As he stared down at her, so unaware, so vulnerable, Conor knew he’d step in front of a bullet for her. Not because it was his duty, but because here he could make a difference. Olivia Farrell was worth saving and, for the first time in a long time, he was proud of the career he’d chosen.

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