"Gray." She stopped him. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever had," she said solemnly. "And so are you."

 

"Good." He grabbed her hand and led her to the next corner, calculating that he'd softened her up enough so that she'd let him buy her the perfect dress for the premiere.

 

She argued. She lost. To balance things out Gray backed off when she insisted on paying for her trinkets for Ireland herself. He amused himself helping her figure her change with the unfamiliar American money she'd gotten at the airport bank. It fascinated him that she seemed more dazzled by the toy store than by the jewelry or dress shops they'd visited. And when inspiration hit, he discovered her even more enthralled with a kitchen specialty store.

 

Delighted with her, he carted her bags and boxes back to the hotel, then charmed her into bed, spinning out time with long, luxurious lovemaking.

 

He wined and dined her at Le Cirque, then in a rush of nostalgic romanticism, took her dancing at the Rainbow Room, enjoying as much as she the out-of-time decor and big band sound.

 

Then he loved her again, until she slept exhausted beside him, and he lay wakeful.

 

He lay wakeful a long time, smelling the roses he'd given her, stroking the silk of her hair, listening to her quiet, even breathing.

 

Somewhere during that twilight time of half sleep, he thought of how many hotels he'd slept in alone. How many mornings he'd awakened alone, with only the people he created inside his head for company.

 

He thought of how he preferred it that way. He always had. And how, with her curled beside him, he wasn't quite able to recapture that sensation of solitary contentment.

 

Surely he would again, when their time was up. Even half dreaming he warned himself not to dwell on tomorrow, and certainly not on yesterday.

 

Today was where he lived. And today was very nearly perfect.

 

Chapter Sixteen

 

By the following afternoon Brianna was still dazzled enough with New York to try to look everywhere at once. She didn't care if she appeared so obviously the tourist, snapping pictures with her camera, staring up, her neck craned back, to see the very top of the spearing buildings. If she gawked, what of it? New York was a noisy and elaborate sideshow designed to stun the senses.

 

She pored over the guidebook in their suite, making careful lists and dutifully crossing off each sight she'd seen.

 

Now she had to face the prospect of a business lunch with Gray's agent.

 

"Arlene's terrific," Gray assured Brianna as he hustled her along the street. "You'll like her."

 

"But this lunch." Though she slowed her pace, he didn't allow her to hang back as she would have preferred. "It's

 

like a business meeting. I should wait for you somewhere, or perhaps join you when you've finished. I could go to Saint Patrick's now, and-"

 

"I told you I'd take you to Saint Pat's after lunch."

 

And he would, she knew. He was more than willing to take her anywhere. Everywhere. Already that morning she'd stood at the top of the Empire State Building, marvelling. She'd had a subway ride, eaten breakfast in a deli. Everything she'd done, everything she'd seen was whirling around in her head like a kaleidoscope of color and sound.

 

Still, he promised more.

 

But the prospect of having lunch with a New York agent, an obviously formidable woman, was daunting. She'd have found some firm way of excusing herself, perhaps even inventing a headache or fatigue, if Gray hadn't seemed so excited by the idea.

 

She watched as he casually stuffed a bill into a tin cup of a man dozing against the side of a building. He never missed one. Whatever the hand-printed sign might say- homeless, out of work, Vietnam vet-it got his attention. And his wallet.

 

Everything got his attention, she mused. He missed nothing and saw everything. And those small acts of kindness to strangers others seemed not even to admit existed were an innate part of him.

 

"Hey, bud, need a watch? Got some nice watches here. Only twenty bucks." A slim black man opened a briefcase to display an array of Gucci and Cartier knockoffs. "Got a real nice watch for the lady here."

 

To Brianna's dismay, Gray stopped. "Yeah? They got works?"

 

"Hey." The man grinned. "What do I look like? They keep the time, man. Look just like the ones you pay a thousand for down on Fifth."

 

"Let's see." Gray chose one while Brianna bit her lip. The man looked dangerous to her, the way his eyes were shifting right and left. "Get hassled much on this corner?"

 

"Nah. I got a rep. Nice watch there, quality, look pretty on the lady. Twenty bucks."

 

Gray gave the watch a shake, held it to his ear. "Fine."

 

He passed the man a twenty. "Couple of beat cops heading this way," he said mildly and tucked Brianna's hand in his arm.

 

When she looked back, the man was gone.

 

"Were they stolen?" she asked, awed.

 

"Probably not. Here you go." He fastened the watch on her wrist. "It might run for a day-or a year. You can never tell."

 

"Then why did you buy it?"

 

"Hey, the guy's got to make a living, doesn't he? The restaurant's up here."

 

That distracted her enough to have her tug on the jacket of her suit. She felt drab and countrified, and foolish with her little I Love New York bag holding her Empire State souveniers.

 

Nonsense, she assured herself. She met new people all the time. She enjoyed new people. The problem was, she thought as Gray ushered her into the Four Seasons, this time it was Gray's people.

 

She tried not to stare as he led her up the steps.

 

"Ah, Mr. Thane." The maitre d' greeted him warmly. "It's been too long. Ms. Winston is already here."

 

They crossed the room with its long gleaming bar, the linen-decked tables already filled with the lunch crowd. A woman rose as she spotted Gray.

 

Brianna saw the gorgeous red suit first, the glint of gold at the lapel and at the ears. Then the short, sleek blond hair, the quick flashing smile before the woman was enveloped by Gray's enthusiastic embrace.

 

"Good to see you, beautiful."

 

"My favorite globe trotter." Her voice was husky, with a hint of gravel.

 

Arlene Winston was tiny, barely topping five feet, and athletically trim from her thrice weekly workouts. Gray had said she was a grandmother, but her face was almost unlined, the tawny eyes sharp in contrast to the soft complexion and pixie features. With her arm still around Gray's waist, she held out a hand to Brianna.

 

"And you're Brianna. Welcome to New York. Has our boy been showing you a good time?"

 

"He has, yes. It's a wonderful city. I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Winston."

 

"Arlene." She cupped Brianna's hand briefly between the two of hers, patted. However friendly the gesture, Brianna wasn't unaware of the quick and thorough measuring. Gray simply stood back beaming.

 

"Isn't she gorgeous?"

 

"She certainly is. Let's sit. I hope you don't mind, I've ordered champagne. A little celebration."

 

"The Brits?" Gray asked, settling.

 

"There is that." She smiled as their glasses were filled from the bottle of spring water already on the table. "Do you want to get this business out of the way now, or wait until after lunch?"

 

"Let's get it out of the way."

 

Obliging, Arlene dismissed the waiter, then reached into her briefcase and took out a file of faxes. "Here's the British deal."

 

"What a woman," Gray said and winked at her.

 

"The other foreign offers are in there-and the audio. We've just started to pitch to the movie people. And I have your contract." She shifted, letting Gray look over the papers while she smiled at Brianna. "Gray tells me you're an incredible cook."

 

"He likes to eat."

 

"Doesn't he though? You run a B and B, delightfully from what I hear. Blackthorn, it's called."

 

"Blackthorn Cottage, yes. It's not a large place."

 

"Homey, I imagine." Arlene studied Brianna over her water glass. "And quiet."

 

"Quiet, certainly. People come to the west for the scenery."

 

"Which, I'm told, is quite spectacular. I've never been to Ireland, but Gray's certainly whetted my curiosity. How many people can you manage?"

 

"Oh, I've four guest rooms, so it varies depending on the size of families. Eight's comfortable, but I sometimes have twelve or more with children."

 

"And you cook for them all, run the place by yourself?"

 

"It's a bit like running a family," Brianna explained. "Most people stay only a night or two, going on their way." Casually Arlene drew Brianna out, .weighing each word, every inflection, judging. Gray was more than a client to her, much more. An interesting woman, she decided. Reserved, a bit nervous. Obviously capable, she mused, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against the cloth as she pumped Brianna for details of the countryside.

 

Neat as a pin, she observed, well mannered, and... ah... she watched Brianna's gaze wander-just for a fraction-and rest on Gray. And saw what she wanted to see.

 

Brianna looked back, saw Arlene's lifted brows, and struggled not to blush. "Grayson said you have grandchildren."

 

"I certainly do. And after a glass of champagne, I'm likely to drag out all their pictures."

 

"I'd love to see them. Really. My sister just had a baby." Everything about her warmed, her eyes, her voice. "I've pictures of my own."

 

"Arlene." Gray looked up from the file, focused again.

 

"You're a queen among agents.

 

"And don't you forget it." She handed him a pen even as she signaled for the wine and the menus. "Sign the contracts, Gray, and let's celebrate."

 

Brianna calculated that she had sipped more champagne since meeting Grayson than she had in the whole of her life before him. While she toyed with a glass, she studied the menu and tried not to wince over the prices.

 

"We have drinks with Rosalie late this afternoon," Gray was saying, referring to the meeting scheduled with his editor, "then the premiere. You're going, aren't you?"

 

"Wouldn't miss it," Arlene assured him. "I'll have the chicken," she added, passing her menu to the hovering waiter. "Now," she continued after their orders were placed. "Tell me how the book's going."

 

"It's going well. Incredibly well. I've never had anything fall into place like this. I've nearly got the first draft finished."

 

"So quickly?"

 

"It's streaming out." His gaze rested on Brianna. "Almost like magic. Maybe it's the atmosphere. It's a magical place, Ireland."

 

"He works hard," Brianna put in. "Sometimes he doesn't come out of his room for days at a time. And it doesn't do to disturb him. He'll snap at you like a terrier."

 

"And do you snap back?" Arlene wanted to know.

 

"Not usually." Brianna smiled as Gray covered her hand with his own. "I'm used to that sort of behavior with my sister."

 

"Oh, yes, the artist. You'd have experience with the artistic temperament."

 

"I do, indeed," Brianna said with a laugh. "Creative people have a more difficult time than the rest of us, I think. Gray needs to keep the door of his world closed while he's in it."

 

"Isn't she perfect?"

 

"I believe she is," Arlene said complacently.

 

A patient woman, she waited until after the meal before making her next move. "Will you have dessert, Brianna?"

 

"I couldn't, thank you."

 

"Gray will. Never gains an ounce," she said with a shake of her head. "You order something sinful, Gray. Brianna and I will go into the ladies' room where we can talk about you in private."

 

When Arlene rose, Brianna had little choice but to follow suit. She cast one confused glance at Gray over her shoulder as they walked away.

 

The ladies' lounge was as glamorous as the barroom. The counter was set with bottles of scent, lotions, even cosmetics. Arlene sat before the mirror, crossed her legs, and gestured for Brianna to join her.

 

"Are you excited about the premiere tonight?"

 

"Yes. It's a big moment for him, isn't it? I know they've made movies of his books before-I've seen one. The book was better."

 

"Thatta girl." Arlene laughed, tilted her head. "Do you know Gray has never brought a woman with him to meet me before you?"

 

"I..." Brianna fumbled, wondered how best to respond.

 

"I find that a very telling thing. Our relationship goes beyond business, Brianna."

 

"I know. He's so fond of you. He speaks of you like family."

 

"I am family. Or as close as he'll let himself come to it. I love him dearly. When he told me he was bringing you to New York, I was more than surprised." Casually Arlene opened her compact, dabbed powder under her eyes. "I wondered just how some little Irish tart had gotten her hooks in my boy."

 

When Brianna's mouth opened, her eyes iced, Arlene held up a hand.

 

"An overprotective mother's first reaction. And one that shifted as soon as I got a look at you. Forgive me."

 

"Of course." But Brianna's voice was stiff and formal.

 

"Now you're annoyed with me, and you should be. I've adored Gray for more than a decade, worried about him, harassed him, soothed him. I'd hoped he could find someone he could care for, someone who would make him happy. Because he's not."

 

She snapped her compact closed and, out of habit, took out a tube of lipstick. "Oh, he's probably the most well-adjusted person I know, but there's a lack of happiness in some corner of his heart."

 

"I know," Brianna murmured. "He's too alone."

 

"He was. Do you know the way he looks at you? He's almost giddy. That might have concerned me, if I hadn't seen the way you look at him."

 

"I love him," Brianna heard herself say.

 

"Oh, my dear, I can see that." She reached out to clasp Brianna's hand. "Has he told you about himself?"

 

"Very little. He holds that in, pretends it isn't there."

 

Arlene's lips thinned as she nodded. "He's not one to share. I've been as close to him as anyone can be for a long time, and I know next to nothing myself. Once, after his first million-dollar sale, he got a little drunk and told me more than he'd meant to." She shook her head. "I don't feel I can tell you. Something like a priest in confession- you'd understand that."

 

"Yes."

 

"I'll say this. He had a miserable childhood and a difficult life. Despite it, maybe because of it, he's a kind and generous man."

 

"I know he is. Sometimes too generous. How do you make him stop buying you things?"

 

"You don't. Because he needs to do it. Money's not important to Gray. The symbol of it is vital, but the money itself is nothing more than a means to an end. And I'm about to give some unsolicited advice and tell you not to give up, to be patient. Gray's only home in his work. He sees to that. I wonder if he realizes yet you're making him a home in Ireland."

 

"No." Brianna relaxed enough to smile. "He doesn't. Neither did I until a bit ago. Still, his book's almost finished."

 

"But you're not. And you've got someone very much on your side now, if you feel the need for it."

 

Hours later, as Gray tugged up the zipper of her dress, Brianna thought over Arlene's words. It was a lover's gesture, she thought as Gray planted a kiss on her shoulder. A husband's.

 

She smiled at him in the mirror. "You look wonderful, Grayson."

 

So he did in the black suit, tieless, with that casual sophistication she'd always associated with movie and music stars.

 

"Who's going to look at me when you're around?"

 

"All the women?"

 

"There's a thought." He draped the pearls around her throat, grinning as he clasped them. "Nearly perfect," he judged, turning her to face him.

 

The tone of the midnight blue warmed against her creamy skin. The neckline was a low scoop that skimmed the soft curve of breasts and left her shoulders bare. She'd put her hair up so that he could play with the tendrils that escaped to tickle her ears and the nape of her neck.

 

She laughed as he turned her in a slow circle. "Earlier you said I was perfect."

 

"So I did." He took a box out of his pocket, flipped open the top. There were more pearls inside, two luminous teardrops that dripped from single flashing diamonds.

 

"Gray-"

 

"Ssh." He slipped the earrings over her lobes. A practiced move, she thought wryly, smoothly and casually done. "Now, you're perfect."

 

"When did you get these?"

 

"I picked them out when we bought the necklace. Marcia was delighted when I called and had her send them over."

 

"I bet she was." Helpless to do otherwise, she lifted a hand and stroked an earring. It was real, she knew, yet she couldn't imagine it-Brianna Concannon standing in a luxurious New York hotel, wearing pearls and diamonds while the man she loved smiled at her.

 

"It's no use telling you that you shouldn't have done it?"

 

"No use at all. Say thank you."

 

"Thank you." Accepting, she pressed her cheek to his. "This is your night, Grayson, and you've made me feel like a princess."

 

"Just think how nifty we'll look if any of the press bothers to snap a picture."

 

"Bothers to?" She grabbed her bag as he pulled her toward the door. "It's your movie. You wrote it."

 

"I wrote the book."

 

"That's what I said."

 

"No." He slipped an arm around her shoulders as they walked to the elevator. She may have looked like a glamorous stranger, he noted, but she still smelled like Brianna. Soft, sweet, and subtle. "You said it was my movie. It's not. It's the director's movie, the producer's movie, the actors' movie. And it's the screenwriter's movie." As the doors opened he led her inside, pushed the button for lobby. "The novelist is way down on the list, honey."

 

"That's ridiculous. It's your story, your people."

 

"Was." He smiled at her. She was becoming indignant for him, and he found it charming. "I sold it, so whatever they've done-for better or worse-you won't hear me complain. And the spotlight most certainly will not be on 'based on the novel written by' tonight."

 

"Well, it should be. They'd have nothing without you."

 

"Damn right."

 

She cut him a glance as they stepped into the lobby. "You're making fun of me."

 

"No, I'm not. I'm adoring you." He kissed her to prove it, then led her outside where their limo was waiting. "The trick to surviving a Hollywood sale is not to take it too personally."

 

"You could have written the screenplay yourself."

 

"Do I look like a masochist?" He almost shuddered at the thought. "Thanks, but working with an editor is as close as I ever want to come to writing by committee." He settled back as the car cruised through traffic. "I get paid well, I get my name on the screen for a few seconds, and if the movie's a hit-and the early buzz seems to indicate this one will be-my sales soar."

 

"Don't you have any temperament?"

 

"Plenty of it. Just not about this."

 

Their picture was snapped the moment they alighted at the theater. Brianna blinked against the lights, surprised and more than a little disconcerted. He'd indicated that he'd be all but ignored, yet a microphone was thrust at him before they'd taken two steps. Gray answered questions easily, avoided them just as easily, all the while keeping a firm grip on Brianna as they made their way toward the theater.

 

Dazzled, she looked around. There were people here she'd only seen in glossy magazines, on movie and television screens. Some loitered in the lobby, as ordinary people might, catching a last smoke, chatting over drinks, gossiping or talking shop.

 

Here and there, Gray introduced her. She made whatever responses seemed right and filed away names and faces for the people back in Clare.

 

Some dressed up, some dressed down. She saw diamonds, and she saw denim. There were baseball caps and thousand-dollar suits. She smelled popcorn, as she might in any theater on any continent, and that bubble gum scent of candy along with subtle perfumes. And over it all was a thin, glossy coat of glamour.

 

When they took their seats in the theater, Gray draped his arm over the back of her chair, turned so that his mouth was at her ear. "Impressed?"

 

"Desperately. I feel I've walked into a movie instead of coming to see one."

 

"That's because events like this have nothing to do with reality. Wait until the party after."

 

Brianna let out a careful breath. She'd come a long way from Clare, she thought. A long, long way.

 

She didn't have much time to chew over it. The lights dimmed, the screen lit. In only moments she felt the sharp, silvery thrill of seeing Gray's name flash, hold, then fade.

 

"That's wonderful," she whispered. "That's a wonderful thing."

 

"Let's see if the rest is as good." She thought it was. The action swept by, that edge-of-the-seat pace that had her immersed. It didn't seem to matter that she'd read the book, already knew the twists of plot, recognized whole blocks of Gray's words in the dialogue. Her stomach still clenched, her lips still curved, her eyes still widened. Once Gray pressed a handkerchief into her hands so she could dry her cheeks.

 

"You're the perfect audience, Brie. I don't know how I've watched a movie without you."

 

"Ssh." She sighed, took his hand, and held it through the breathless climax and through the closing credits while applause echoed from the walls. "I'd say we've got a hit."

 

"They won't believe me," Brianna said as they stepped out of the elevator in the Plaza hours later. "I wouldn't believe me. I danced with Tom Cruise." Giggling, a little lightheaded on wine and excitement, she turned a quick pirouette. "Do you believe it?"

 

"I have to." Gray unlocked the door. "I saw it. He seemed very taken with you."

 

"Oh, he just wanted to talk about Ireland. He has a fondness for it. He's charming, and madly in love with his wife. And to think they might actually come and stay at my house."

 

"It wouldn't surprise me to find the place lousy with celebrities after tonight." Yawning, Gray toed off his shoes. "You enchanted everyone you spoke with."

 

"You Yanks always fall for an Irish voice." She unclasped her necklace, running the strands through her hands before she laid them in their box. "I'm so proud of you, Gray. Everyone was saying how wonderful the movie was, and all that talk about Oscars." She beamed at him as she slipped off her earrings. "Imagine, you winning an Oscar."

 

"I wouldn't." He took off his jacket, tossed it carelessly aside. "I didn't write the movie."

 

"But..." She made a sound of disgust, stepping out of her shoes, lowering the zipper of her dress. "That's just not right. You should have one."

 

He grinned, and taking off his shirt glanced over his shoulder at her. But the quip dried like dust on the tip of his tongue.

 

She stepped out of her dress and was standing there in the little strapless fancy he'd bought to go under it. Midnight blue. Silk. Lace.

 

Unprepared, he was hard as iron as she bent to unsnap a smoky stocking from its garters. Pretty hands with their neat, unpainted nails skimmed down over one long smooth thigh, over the knee, the calf, tidily rolling the stocking.

 

She was saying something, but he couldn't hear it over the buzzing in his head. Part of his brain was warning him to get a choke hold on the violent flare of desire. Another part was urging him to take, as he'd wanted to take. Hard and fast and mindlessly.

 

Her stockings neatly folded, she reached up to unpin her hair. His hands fisted at his sides as those fired-gold tresses spilled down over bare shoulders. He could hear his own breathing, too quick, too harsh. And could almost, almost feel that silk rip in his hands, feel the flesh beneath go hot, taste that heat as his mouth closed greedily over her.

 

He forced himself to turn away. He needed only a moment, he assured himself, to reclaim control. It wouldn't be right to frighten her.

 

"And it'll be such fun to tell everyone." Brianha set down her brush and giving into the new laugh, turned another pirouette. "I can't believe it's the middle of the night and I'm so wide awake. Just like a little child who's had too many sweets. I don't feel as though I'll ever need to sleep again." She spun toward him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing against his back. "Oh, I've had such a wonderful time, Gray. I don't know how to thank you for it." "You don't have to." His voice was rough, every cell in his body on full alert.

 

"Oh, but you're used to this sort of thing." Innocently she planted a quick line of friendly kisses from shoulder to shoulder. He ground his teeth to hold back a moan. "I don't suppose you can really imagine what a thrill all this has been for me. But you're all knotted up." Instinctively she began to rub his back and shoulders. "You must be tired, and here I am, chattering like a magpie. Lie down, won't you? And I'll work these kinks out for you."

 

"Stop." The order sliced out. He whirled quickly, gripping her wrists so that she could only stand and stare. He looked furious. No, she realized. He looked dangerous.

 

"Grayson, what is it?"

 

"Don't you know what you're doing to me?" When she shook her head, he jerked her against him, his fingers biting into flesh. He could see the puzzlement in her eyes give way to dawning awareness, and to panic. And he snapped.

 

"Goddamn it." His mouth crushed down on hers, hungry, desperate. If she'd pushed him away, he might have pulled himself back. Instead she lifted a trembling hand to his cheek, and he was lost.

 

"Just once," he muttered, dragging her to the bed. "Just once."

 

This wasn't the patient, tenderhearted lover she'd known. He was wild, on the edge of violence with hands that tugged and tore and possessed. Everything about him was hard, his mouth, his hands, his body. For an instant, as he used them all to batter her senses, she feared she might simply break apart, like glass.

 

Then the dark tide of his need swept her along, shocked, aroused, and terrified all at once.

 

She cried out, staggered, as those restless fingers shot her mercilessly to peak and over. Her vision hazed, but she could see him through it. In the lights they'd left blazing, his eyes were fierce.

 

She said his name again, sobbed it out as he pulled her up to her knees. They were torso to torso on the rumpled bed, his hands molding her, pushing her ruthlessly toward madness.

 

Helpless, she bowed back, shuddering when his teeth scraped down her throat, over her breast. There he suckled greedily, as if starved for her taste, while his impatient fingers drove her mercilessly higher.

 

He couldn't think. Each time he'd loved her he'd struggled to keep one corner of his mind cool enough to make his hands gentle, his pace easy. This time there was only heat, a kind of gleeful, glorious hell that seeped into mind as well as body and burned away the civilized. Now bombarded by his own lust, craving hers, control was beyond him.

 

He wanted her writhing, bucking, screaming.

 

And he had her.

 

Even the torn silk was too much of a barrier. Frantic now, he ripped it down the center, pushing her onto her back so that he could devour the newly exposed flesh. He could feel her hands drag through his hair, her nails score his shoulders as he worked his way down her, feasting.

 

Then her gasp, the jolt, the muffled scream when his tongue plunged into her.

 

She was dying. No one could live through this heat, through the pressure that kept building and exploding, building and exploding until her body was only a quivering mass of scored nerves and unspeakable needs.

 

The sensations pounded at her, massing too quickly to be separated. She only knew he was doing things to her, incredible, wicked, delicious things. The next climax slammed into her like a fist.

 

Rearing up, she grabbed at him, thrashing until they were rolling over the bed. Her mouth sprinted over him, just as greedy now, just as frenzied. Her questing hands found him, cupped him, so that her system shivered with fresh and furious pleasure when he groaned.

 

"Now. Now." It had to be now. He couldn't stop himself. His hands slid off her damp skin, gripped hard at her hips to lift them. He drove himself inside her deep, panting as he positioned her to take even more of him.

 

He rode her hard, plunging further each time she rose to meet him. He watched her face as she plummeted over that final, vicious peak, the way her clouded eyes went dark as her muscles contracted around him.

 

With something perilously close to pain, he emptied himself into her.

 

Chapter Seventeen

 

He'd rolled off her and was staring at the ceiling. He could curse himself, he knew, but he couldn't take back what he'd done.

 

All of his care, all of his caution, and in an instant, he had snapped. And ruined it.

 

Now she was curled up beside him, quivering. And he was afraid to touch her.

 

"I'm sorry," he finally said and tasted the uselessness of the apology. "I never meant to treat you that way. I lost control."

 

"Lost control," she murmured and wondered how it could be a body should feel limp and energized all at once. "Did you think you needed it?"

 

Her voice was shaky, he noted, and rough, he imagined, with shock. "I know an apology's pretty lame. Can I get you something? Some water." He squeezed his eyes shut and cursed himself again. "Talk about lame. Let me get you a nightgown. You'll want a nightgown."

 

"No, I don't." She managed to shift enough to look up and study his face. He didn't look at her, she noted, but only stared at the ceiling. "Grayson, you didn't hurt me."

 

"Of course I did. You'll have bruises to prove it."

 

"I'm not fragile," she said with a hint of exasperation.

 

"I treated you like-" He couldn't say it, not to her. "I should have been gentle."

 

"You have been. I like knowing it took you some effort to be gentle. And I like knowing something I did made you forget to be." Her lips curved as she brushed at the hair on his forehead. "Did you think you frightened me?"

 

"I know I frightened you." He shifted away, sat up. "I didn't care."

 

"You did frighten me." She paused. "I liked it. I love you."

 

He winced, squeezed the hand she'd laid over his. "Brianna," he began without a clue how to continue.

 

"Don't worry. I don't need the words back."

 

"Listen, a lot of times people get sex confused with love."

 

"I imagine you're right. Grayson, do you think I would be here with you, that I would ever have been with you like this if I didn't love you."

 

He was good with words. Dozens of reasonable excuses and ploys ran through his mind. "No," he said at length, settling on the truth. "I don't. Which only makes it worse," he muttered, and rose to tug on his trousers. "I should never have let things go this far. I knew better. It's my fault."

 

"There's no fault here." She reached for his hand so that he would sit on the bed again rather than pace. "It shouldn't make you sad to know you're loved, Grayson."

 

But it did. It made him sad, and panicked, and for just a moment, wishful. "Brie, I can't give you back what you want or should have. There's no future with me, no house in the country and kids in the yard. It's not in the cards."

 

"It's a pity you think so. But I'm not asking you for that."

 

"It's what you want."

 

"It's what I want, but not what I expect." She gave him a surprisingly cool smile. "I've been rejected before. And I know very well what is it to love and not have the person love you back, at least not so much as you want, or need." She shook her head before he could speak. "As much as I might want to go on with you, Grayson, I'll survive without you."

 

"I don't want to hurt you, Brianna. I care about you. I care for you."

 

She lifted a brow. "I know that. And I know you're worried because you care more for me than you've cared for anyone before."

 

He opened his mouth, shut it, shook his head. "Yes, that's true. It's new ground for me. For both of us." Still uncertain of his moves, he took her hand, kissed it. "I'd give you more if I could. And I am sorry I at least didn't prepare you a little better for tonight. You're the first... inexperienced woman I've been with, so I've tried to take it slow."

 

Intrigued, she cocked her head. "You must have been as nervous as I was, the first time."

 

"More." He kissed her hand again. "Much more, believe me. I'm used to women who know the ropes, and the rules. Experienced or pro, and you-"

 

"Pro? Professional?" Her eyes went huge. "You've paid women to bed them?"

 

He stared back at her. He must have been even more befuddled than he'd realized to have come out with something like that. "Not in recent memory. Anyway-"

 

"Why would you have to do that? A man who looks like you, who has your sensibility?"

 

"Look, it was a long time ago. Another life. Don't look at me like that," he snapped. "When you're sixteen and alone on the streets, nothing's free. Not even sex."

 

"Why were you alone and on the street at sixteen?"

 

He stood, retreated, she thought. And there was shame in his eyes as much as anger.

 

"I'm not going to get into this."

 

"Why?"

 

"Christ." Shaken, he dragged both hands through his hair. "It's late. We need to get some sleep."

 

"Grayson, is it so hard to talk to me? There's hardly anything you don't know of me, the bad things and the good. Do you think I'd think less of you for knowing?"

 

He wasn't sure, and told himself he didn't care. "It's not important, Brianna. It has nothing to do with me now, with us here."

 

Her eyes cooled, and she rose to get the nightgown she'd said she didn't want. "It's your business, of course, if you choose to shut me out."

 

"That's not what I'm doing."

 

She tugged the cotton over her head, adjusted the sleeves. "As you say."

 

"Goddamn it, you're good, aren't you?" Furious with her, he jammed his hands into his pockets.

 

"I don't know your meaning."

 

"You know my meaning exactly," he tossed back. "Lay on the guilt, spread on a little frost, and you get your way."

 

"We've agreed it's none of my business." Moving toward the bed, she began to tuck in the sheets they'd ripped out. "If it's guilt you're feeling, it's not my doing."

 

"You get to me," he muttered. "You know just how to get to me." He hissed out a breath, defeated. "You want it, fine. Sit down, I'll tell you a story."

 

He turned his back on her, rummaging through the drawer for the pack of cigarettes he always carried and smoked only when working.

 

"The first thing I remember is the smell. Garbage just starting to rot, mold, stale cigarettes," he added, looking wryly at the smoke that curled toward the ceiling. "Grass. Not the kind you mow, the kind you inhale. You've probably never smelled pot in your life, have you?"

 

"I haven't, no." She kept her hands in her lap, and her eyes on him.

 

"Well, that's my first real memory. The sense of smell's the strongest, stays with you-good or bad. I remember the sounds, too. Raised voices, loud music, someone having sex in the next room. I remember being hungry, and not being able to get out of my room because she'd locked me in again. She was stoned most of the time and didn't always remember she had a kid around who needed to eat."

 

He looked around idly for an ashtray, then leaned back against the dresser. It wasn't so hard to speak of it after all, he discovered. It was almost like making up a scene in his mind. Almost.

 

"She told me once she'd left home when she was sixteen. Wanted to get away from her parents, all the rules. They were square, she'd say. Went nuts when they found out she smoked dope and had boys up in her room. She was just living her own life, doing her own thing. So she just left one day, hitched a ride and ended up in San Francisco. She could play at being a hippie there, but she ended up on the hard edge of the drug culture, experimented with a lot of shit, paid for a lot of it by begging or selling herself."

 

He'd just told her his mother was a prostitute, a junkie, and waited for some shocked exclamation. When she only continued to watch him with those cool, guarded eyes, he shrugged and went on.

 

"She was probably about eighteen when she got pregnant with me. According to her story, she'd already had two abortions and was scared of another. She could never be quite sure who the father was, but was pretty certain it was one of three guys. She moved in with one of them and decided to keep me. When I was about a year old, she got tired of him and moved in with somebody else. He pimped for her, supplied her with drugs, but he knocked her around a little too much, so she ditched him."

 

Gray tapped his cigarette out, paused long enough for Brianna to comment. But she said nothing, only sat as she was on the bed, her hands folded.

 

"Anyway, we can fast forward through the next couple of years. As far as I can tell, things stayed pretty much as they were. She moved around from man to man, got hooked on the hard stuff. In enlightened times, I guess you could say she had an addictive personality. She knocked me around a little, but she never really beat me-that would have taken a little too much effort and interest. She locked me in to keep me from wandering when she was on the street or meeting her dealer. We lived in filth, and I remember the cold. It gets fucking cold in San Francisco. That's how the fire started. Somebody in the building knocked over a portable heater. I was five, and I was alone and locked in."

 

"Oh, my God, Grayson." She pressed her hands to her mouth. "Oh, God."

 

"I woke up choking," he said in the same distant voice. "The room was filled with smoke, and I could hear the sirens and the screaming. I was screaming, and beating at the door. I couldn't breathe, and I was scared. I remember just lying down on the floor and crying. Then a fireman crashed through the door, and he picked me up. I don't remember him carrying me out. I don't remember the fire itself, just the smoke in my room. I woke up in the hospital, and a social worker was there. A pretty young thing with big blue eyes and soft hands. And there was a cop. He made me nervous because I'd been taught to distrust anyone in authority. They asked me if I knew where my mother was. I didn't. By the time I was well enough to leave the hospital ward, I'd been scooped up in the system. They put me in a children's home while they looked for her. They never found her. I never saw her again."

 

"She never came for you."

 

"No, she never came. It wasn't such a bad deal. The home was clean, they fed you regular. The big problem for me was that it was structured, and I wasn't used to structure. There were foster homes, but I made sure that didn't work. 1 didn't want to be anyone's fake kid, no matter how good or how bad the people were. And some of them were really good people. I was what they call intractable. I liked it that way. Being a troublemaker gave me an identity, so I made plenty of trouble. I was a real tough guy with a smart mouth and a bad attitude. I liked to pick fights, because I was strong and fast and could usually win.

 

"I was predictable," he said with a half laugh. "That's the worst of it. I was a product of my early environment and damned proud of it. No fucking counselor or shrink or social worker was going to get through to me. I'd been taught to hate authority, and that was one thing she'd taught me well."

 

"But the school, the home... they were good to you?"

 

A mocking light shimmered in his eyes. "Oh, yeah, just peachy. Three squares and a bed." He let out an impatient breath at her troubled expression. "You're a statistic, Brianna, a number. A problem. And there are plenty of other statistics and numbers and problems to be shuffled around. Sure, in hindsight, I can tell you that some of them probably really gave a damn, really tried to make a difference. But they were the enemy, with their questions and tests, their rules and disciplines. So following my mother's example, I ran off at sixteen. Lived on the streets, by my wits. I never touched drugs, never sold myself, but there wasn't much else I didn't do."

 

He pushed away from the dresser and began to prowl the room. "I stole, I cheated, I ran scams. And one day I had an epiphany when a guy I was running a short con on got wise and beat the living shit out of me. It occurred to me, when I came to in an alley with blood in my mouth and several busted ribs, that I could probably find a better way to make a living. I headed to New York. I sold plenty of watches along Fifth Avenue," he said with a hint of a smile. "Ran a little three-card monte, and I started to write. I'd gotten a fairly decent education in the home. And I liked to write. I couldn't admit that at sixteen, being such a tough sonofabitch. But at eighteen, in New York, it didn't seem so bad. What seemed bad, what suddenly began to seem really bad, was that I was the same as she was. I decided to be somebody else.

 

"I changed my name. I changed myself. I got a legit job bussing tables at a little dive in the Village. I shed that little bastard layer by layer until I was Grayson Thane. And I don't look back, because it's pointless."

 

"Because it hurts you," Brianna said quietly. "And makes you angry."

 

"Maybe. But mostly because it has nothing to do with who I am now."

 

She wanted to tell him it had everything to do with who he was, what he'd made himself. Instead she rose to face him. "I love who you are now." She felt a pang, knowing he was drawing back from what she wanted to give him. "Is it so distressing to you to know that, and to know I can feel sorry for the child, for the young man, and admire what evolved from them?"

 

"Brianna, the past doesn't matter. Not to me," he insisted. "It's different for you. Your past goes back centuries. You're steeped in it, the history, the tradition. It's formed you. and because of it, the future's just as important. You're a planner, long term. I'm not. I can't be. Damn it, I don't want to be. There's just now. The way things are right now."

 

Did he think she couldn't understand that, after all he'd told her? She could see him all too well, the battered little boy, terrified of the past, terrified there was no future, holding on desperately to whatever he could grab in the present.

 

"Well, we're together right now, aren't we?" Gently she cupped his face. "Grayson, I can't stop loving you to make you more comfortable. I can't do it to make myself more comfortable. It simply is. My heart's lost to you, and I can't take it back. I doubt I would if I could. It doesn't mean you have to take it, but you'd be foolish not to. It costs you nothing."

 

"I don't want to hurt you, Brianna." He linked his fingers around her wrists. "I don't want to hurt you."

 

"I know that." He would, of course. She wondered that he couldn't see he would hurt himself as well. "We'll take the now, and be grateful for it. But tell me one thing," she said and kissed him lightly. "What was your name?"

 

"Christ, you don't give up."

 

"No." Her smile was easy now, surprisingly confident. "It's not something I consider a failing."

 

"Logan," he muttered. "Michael Logan."

 

And she laughed, making him feel like a fool. "Irish. I should have known it. Such a gift of gab you've got, and all the charm in the world."

 

"Michael Logan," he said, firing up, "was a small-minded, mean-spirited, penny-ante thief who wasn't worth spit.

 

She sighed. "Michael Logan was a neglected, troubled child who needed love and care. And you're wrong to hate him so. But we'll leave him in peace."

 

Then she disarmed him by pressing against him, laying her head on his shoulder. Her hands moved up and down his back, soothing. She should have been disgusted by what he'd told her. She should have been appalled by the way he'd treated her in bed. Yet she was here, holding him and offering him a terrifying depth of love.

 

"I don't know what to do about you."

 

"There's nothing you have to do." She brushed her lips over his shoulder. "You've given me the most wonderful months of my life. And you'll remember me, Grayson, as long as you live."

 

He let out a long breath. He couldn't deny it. For the first time in his life, he'd be leaving a part of himself behind when he walked away.

 

It was he who felt awkward the next morning. They had breakfast in the parlor of the suite, with the view of the park out the window. And he waited for her to toss something he'd told her back in his face. He'd broken the law, he'd slept with prostitutes, he'd wallowed in the sewers of the streets.

 

Yet she sat there across from him, looking as fresh as a morning in Clare, talking happily about their upcoming trip to Worldwide before they went to the airport.

 

"You're not eating your breakfast, Grayson. Aren't you feeling well?"

 

"I'm fine." He cut into the pancakes he'd thought he'd wanted. "I guess I'm missing your cooking."

 

It was exactly the right thing to say. Her concerned look transformed into a delighted smile. "You'll be having it again tomorrow. I'll fix you something special."

 

He gave a grunt in response. He'd put off telling her about the trip to Wales. He hadn't wanted to spoil her enjoyment of New York. Now he wondered why he'd thought he could. Nothing he'd dumped on her the night before had shaken that steady composure.

 

"Ah, Brie, we're actually going to take a little detour on the way back to Ireland."

 

"Oh?" Frowning, she set her teacup down. "Do you have business somewhere?"

 

"Not exactly. We're stopping off in Wales."

 

"In Wales?"

 

"It's about your stock. Remember I told you I'd have my broker do some checking?"

 

"Yes. Did he find something unusual?"

 

"Brie, Triquarter Mining doesn't exist."

 

"But of course it exists. I have the certificate. I've got the letter."

 

"There is no Triquarter Mining on any stock exchange. No company by that name listed anywhere. The phone number on the letterhead is fake."

 

"How can that be? They offered me a thousand pounds."

 

"Which is why we're going to Wales. I think it would be worth the trip to do a little personal checking."

 

Brianna shook her head. "I'm sure your broker's very competent, Gray, but he must have overlooked something. If a company doesn't exist, they don't issue stock or offer to buy it back."

 

"They issue stock if it's a front," he said, stabbing at his meal as she stared at him. "A scam, Brie. I have a little experience with stock cons. You get a post office box, a phone number, and you canvas for marks. For people who'll invest," he explained. "People looking to make a quick buck. You get a suit and a spiel, put some paperwork together, print up a prospectus and phony certificates. You take the money, and you disappear."

 

She was quiet for a moment, digesting it. Indeed she could see her father falling for just such a trick. He'd always flung himself heedlessly into deals. In truth, she'd expected nothing when she'd first pursued the matter.

 

"I understand that part, I think. And it's in keeping with my father's luck in business. But how do you explain that they answered me, and offered me money?"

 

"I can't." Though he had some ideas on it. "That's why we're going to Wales. Rogan's arranged for his plane to meet us in London and take us. It'll bring us back to Shannon Airport when we're ready."

 

"I see." Carefully she set her knife and fork aside. "You've discussed it with Rogan, him being a man, and planned it out between you."

 

Gray cleared his throat, ran his tongue over his teeth. "I wanted you to enjoy the trip here without worrying." When she only pinned him with those cool green eyes, he shrugged. "You're waiting for an apology, and you're not going to get one." She folded her hands, rested them on the edge of the table, and said nothing. "You're good at the big chill," he commented, "but it isn't going to wash. Fraud's out of your league. I'd have taken this trip by myself, but it's likely I'll need you since the stock's in your father's name."

 

"And being in my father's name makes it my business. It's kind of you to want to help."

 

"Fuck that."

 

She jolted, felt her stomach shrivel at the inevitability of the argument. "Don't use that tone on me, Grayson."

 

"Then don't use that irritated schoolteacher's tone on me." When she rose, his eyes flashed, narrowed. "Don't you walk away, goddamn it."

 

"I won't be sworn at or shouted at or made to feel inadequate because I'm only a farmer's daughter from the west counties."

 

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" When she continued to walk toward the bedroom, he shoved away from the table. He snatched her arm, whirled her back. A flicker of panic crossed her face before she closed up. "I said don't walk away from me."

 

"I come and go as I please, just as you do. And I'm going to dress now and get ready for the trip you've so thoughtfully arranged."

 

"You want to take a bite out of me, go ahead. But we're going to settle this."

 

"I was under the impression you already had. You're hurting my arm, Grayson."

 

"I'm sorry." He released her, jammed his hands in his pockets. "Look, I figured you might be a little annoyed, but I didn't expect someone as reasonable as you to blow it all out of proportion."

 

"You've arranged things behind my back, made decisions for me, decided I wouldn't be able to cope on my own, and I'm blowing it all out of proportion? Well, that's fine, then. I'm sure I should be ashamed of myself."

 

"I'm trying to help you." His voice rose again, and he fought to bring it and his temper under control. "It has nothing to do with your being inadequate; it has to do with you having no experience. Someone broke into your house. Can't you put it together?"

 

She stared, paled. "No, why don't you put it together for me?"

 

"You wrote about the stock, then somebody searches your house. Fast, sloppy. Maybe desperate. Not long after that, there's somebody outside your window. How long have you lived in that house, Brianna?"

 

"All my life."

 

"Has anything like that happened before?"

 

"No, but ... No."

 

"So it makes sense to connect the dots. I want to see what the whole picture looks like."

 

"You should have told me all this before." Shaken, she lowered to the arm of a chair. "You shouldn't have kept it from me."

 

"It's just a theory. Christ, Brie, you've had enough on your mind. Your mother, Maggie and the baby, me. The whole business about finding that woman your father was involved with. I didn't want to add to it."

 

"You were trying to shield me. I'm trying to understand that."

 

"Of course I was trying to shield you. I don't like seeing you worried. I-" He broke off, stunned. What had he almost said? He took a long step back, mentally from those tricky three words, physically from her. "You matter to me," he said carefully.

 

"All right." Suddenly tired, she pushed at her hair. "I'm sorry I made a scene about it. But don't keep things from me, Gray."

 

"I won't." He touched her cheek and his stomach trembled. "Brianna."

 

"Yes?"

 

"Nothing," he said and dropped his hand again. "Nothing. We'd better pull it together if we're going to get to Worldwide."

 

It was raining in Wales and too late to do more than check into the drab little hotel where Gray had booked a room. Brianna had only a fleeting impression of the city of Rhondda, of the bleak row houses in the tight groups, the sorry skies that pelted the road with rain. They shared a meal she didn't taste, then tumbled exhausted into bed.

 

He expected her to complain. The accommodations weren't the best and the traveling had been brutal, even for him. But she said nothing the next morning, only dressed and asked him what they would do next.

 

"I figured we'd check the post office, see where that gets us." He watched her pin up her hair, her movements neat, precise, though there were shadows under her eyes. "You're tired."

 

"A bit. All the time changing, I imagine." She glanced out the window where watery sunlight struggled through the glass. "I always thought of Wales as a wild and beautiful place."

 

"A lot of it is. The mountains are spectacular, and the coast. The Lleyn Peninsula-it's a little touristy, full of Brits on holiday-but really gorgeous. Or the uplands, very pastoral and traditionally Welsh. If you saw the moorlands in the afternoon sun, you'd see just how wild and beautiful the country is."

 

"You've been so many places. I'm surprised you can remember one from another."

 

"There's always something that sticks in your mind." He looked around the gloomy hotel room. "I'm sorry about this, Brie. It was the most convenient. If you want to take an extra day or two, I'll show you the scenery."

 

She smiled over it, the thought of her tossing responsibility aside and traveling with Gray over foreign hills and shores. "I need to get home, once we've finished what we've come for. I can't impose on Mrs. O'Malley much longer." She turned from the mirror. "And you're wanting to get back to work. It shows."

 

"Got me." He took her hands. "When I finish the book, I'll have a little time before I tour for the one that's coming up. We could go somewhere. Anywhere you like. Greece, or the South Pacific. The West Indies. Would you like that? Some place with palm trees and a beach, blue water, white sun."

 

"It sounds lovely." He, she thought, he who never made plans was making them. She felt it wiser not to point it out. "It might be difficult to get away again so soon." She gave his hands a squeeze before releasing them to pick up her purse. "I'm ready if you are."

 

They found the post office easily enough, but the woman in charge of the counter appeared immune to Gray's charm. It wasn't her place to give out the names of people who rented post office boxes, she told them crisply. They could have one themselves if they wanted, and she wouldn't be discussing them with strangers, either.

 

When Gray asked about Triquarter, he received a shrug and a frown. The name meant nothing to her.

 

Gray considered a bribe, took another look at the prim set of the woman's mouth, and decided against it.

 

"Strike one," he said as they stepped outside again.

 

"I don't believe you ever thought it would be so easy."

 

"No, but sometimes you get a hit when you least expect it. We'll try some mining companies."

 

"Shouldn't we just report everything we know to the local authorities?"

 

"We'll get to that."

 

He checked tirelessly, office after office, asking the same questions, getting the same answers. No one in Rhondda had heard of Triquarter. Brianna let him take control, for the simple pleasure of watching him work. It seemed to her that he could adjust, chameleonlike, to whatever personality he chose.

 

He could be charming, abrupt, businesslike, sly. It was, she supposed, how he researched a subject he might write about. He asked endless questions, by turns cajoling and bullying people into answering.

 

After four hours she knew more about coal mining and the Welsh economy than she cared to remember. And nothing about Triquarter.

 

"You need a sandwich," Gray decided.

 

"I wouldn't say no to one."

 

"Okay, we refuel and rethink."

 

"I don't want you to be disappointed we haven't learned anything."

 

"But we have. We know without a shadow of doubt there is no Triquarter Mining, and never has been. The post office box is a sham and in all likelihood still being rented by whoever's fronting the deal."

 

"Why would you think that?"

 

"They need it until they settle with you, and any other outstanding investors. I imagine they've cleaned most of that up. Let's try here." He nudged her into a small pub.

 

The scents were familiar enough to make her homesick, the voices just foreign enough to be exotic. They settled at a table where Gray immediately commandeered the thin plastic menu. "Mmm. Shepherd's Pie. It won't be as good as yours, but it'll do. Want to try it?"

 

"That'll be fine. And some tea."

 

Gray gave their order, leaned forward. "I'm thinking, Brie, that your father dying so soon after he bought the stock plays a part in it. You said you found the certificate in the attic."

 

"I did, yes. We didn't go through all the boxes after he'd died. My mother-well, Maggie didn't have the heart to, and I let it go because-"

 

"Because Maggie was hurting and your mother would have hounded you."

 

"I don't like scenes." She pressed her lips together and stared at the tabletop. "It's easier to step back from them, walk away from them." She glanced up, then away again. "Maggie was the light of my father's life. He loved me, I know he did, but what they had was very special. It was only between them. She was grieving so hard, and there was already a blowup about the house being left to me, instead of my mother. Mother was bitter and angry, and I let things go. I wanted to start my business, you see. So it was easy to avoid the boxes, dust around them from time to time, and tell myself I'd get to it by and by." "And then you did."

 

"I don't know why I picked that day. I suppose because things were settled quite a bit. Mother in her own house, Maggie with Rogan. And I ..."

 

"You weren't hurting so much over him. Enough time had passed for you to do the practical thing."

 

"That's true enough. I thought I could go through the things up there that he'd saved without aching so much for him, or wishing so hard things had been different. And it was part ambition." She sighed. "I was thinking I could have the attic room converted for guests."

 

"That's my Brie." He took her hand. "So he'd put the certificate up there for safekeeping, and years passed without anyone finding it, or acting on it. I imagine they wrote it off. Why should they take a chance of making contact? If they did any checking, they'd have learned that Tom Con-cannon had died, and his heirs hadn't dealt with the stock. It might have been lost, or destroyed, or tossed out by mistake. Then you wrote a letter."

 

"And here we are. It still doesn't explain why they've offered me money."

 

"Okay, we're going to suppose. It's one of my best things. Suppose when the deal was made, it was a fairly straightforward scam, the way I explained in New York. Then suppose somebody got ambitious, or lucky. Expanded on it. Triquarter was out of the picture, but the resources, the profit, the organization was still there. Maybe you run another scam, maybe you even get into something legit. Maybe you're just playing with things on the right side of the law, using them as cover. Wouldn't it be a surprise if the legal stuff started to work? Maybe even made more of a profit than the cons. Now you've got to shed that shadowy stuff, or at least cover it up."

 

Brianna rubbed her temple as their meal was served. "It's too confusing for roe."

 

"Something about those loose stock certificates. Hard to say what." He helped himself to a healthy bite. "Nope, doesn't come close to yours." And swallowed. "But there's something, and they want them back, even pay to get them back. Oh, not much, not enough to make you suspicious, or interested in further investing. Just enough to make it worth your while to cash in."

 

"You do know how all this business works, don't you?"

 

"Too much. If it hadn't been for writing..." He trailed off, shrugged. It wasn't something to dwell on. "Well, we can consider it luck that I happen to have some experience along these lines. We'll make a few stops after we eat, then run it by the cops."

 

She nodded, relieved at the idea of turning the whole mess over to the authorities. The food helped pick up her spirits. By morning they'd be home. Over her tea she began to dream about her garden, greeting Con, working in her own kitchen.

 

"Finished?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

Gray smiled at her. "Taking a trip?"

 

"I was thinking of home. My roses might be blooming."

 

"You'll be in the garden by this time tomorrow," he promised and, after counting out bills for the tab, rose.

 

Outside, he draped his arm over her shoulder. "Want to try local public transportation? If we catch a bus we'll get across town a lot quicker. I could rent a car if you'd rather."

 

"Don't be silly. A bus is fine."

 

"Then let's just... hold it." He turned her around, nudging her back into the pub doorway. "Isn't that interesting?" he murmured, staring down the street. "Isn't that just fascinating?"

 

"What? You're crushing me."

 

"Sorry. I want you to keep back as much as you can and take a look down there, just across the street." His eyes began to gleam. "Just on the way to the post office. The man carrying the black umbrella."

 

She poked her head out, scanning. "Yes," she said after a moment. "There's a man with a black umbrella."

 

"Doesn't look familiar? Think back a couple of months. You served us salmon as I recall, and trifle."

 

"I don't know how it is you can remember meals so."

 

She leaned out further, strained her eyes. "He looks ordinary enough to me. Like a lawyer, or a banker."

 

"Bingo. Or so he told us. Our retired banker from London."

 

"Mr. Smythe-White." It came to her in a flash, made her laugh. "Well, that's odd, isn't it? Why are we hiding from him?"

 

"Because it's odd, Brie. Because it's very, very odd that your overnight guest, the one who happened to be out sightseeing when your house was searched, is strolling down the street in Wales, just about to go into the post office. What do you want to bet he rents a box there?"

 

"Oh." She sagged back against the door. "Sweet Jesus. What are we going to do?"

 

"Wait. Then follow him."

 

Chapter Eighteen

 

They didn't have long to wait. Barely five minutes after Smythe-White walked into the post office, he walked out again. After taking one quick look right, then left, he hurried up the street, his umbrella swinging like a pendulum at his side.

 

"Damn it, she blew it."

 

"What?"

 

"Come on, quick." Gray grabbed Brianna's hand and darted after Smythe-White. "The postmistress, or whatever she is. She told him we were asking questions."

 

"How do you know?"

 

"Suddenly he's in a hurry." Gray checked traffic, cursed, and pulled Brianna in a zigzagging pattern between a truck and a sedan. Her heart pounded in her throat as both drivers retaliated with rude blasts of their horns. Already primed, Smythe-White glanced back, spotted them, and began to run.

 

"Stay here," Gray ordered.

 

"I'll not." She sprinted after him, her long legs keeping her no more than three paces behind. Their quarry might have dodged and swerved, elbowing pedestrians aside, but it was hardly a contest with two younger, healthy pursuers on his heels.

 

As if he'd come to the same conclusion, he came to a stop just outside a chemist's, panting. He dragged out a snowy white handkerchief to wipe his brow, then turned, letting his eyes widen behind his sparkling lenses.

 

"Well, Miss Concannon, Mr. Thane, what an unexpected surprise." He had the wit, and the wherewithal, to smile pleasantly even as he pressed a hand to his speeding heart. "The world is indeed a small place. Are you in Wales on holiday?"

 

"No more than you," Gray tossed back. "We've got business to discuss, pal. You want to talk here, or should we hunt up the local constabulary?"

 

All innocence, Smythe-White blinked. In a familiar habit, he took off his glasses, polished the lenses. "Business? I'm afraid I'm at a loss. This isn't about that unfortunate incident at your inn, Miss Concannon? As I told you, I lost nothing and have no complaint at all."

 

"It's not surprising you'd have lost nothing, as you did the damage yourself. Did you have to dump all my dry goods on the floor?"

 

"Excuse me?"

 

"Looks like the cops, then," Gray said and took Smythe-White by the arm.

 

"I'm afraid I don't have time to dally just now, though it is lovely to run into you this way." He tried, and failed, to dislodge Gray's grip. "As you could probably tell, I'm in a hurry. An appointment I'd completely forgotten. I'm dreadfully late."

 

"Do you want the stock certificate back or not?" Gray had the pleasure of seeing the man pause, reconsider. Behind the lenses of the glasses he carefully readjusted, his eyes were suddenly sly.

 

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

 

"You understand fine, and so do we. A seam's a scam in any country, any language. Now, I'm not sure what the penalty for fraud, confidence games, and counterfeiting stocks is in the United Kingdom, but they can be pretty rough on pros where I come from. And you used the mail, Smythe-White. Which was probably a mistake. Once you put a stamp on it and hand it over to the local post, fraud becomes mail fraud. A much nastier business."

 

He let Smythe-White sweat that before he continued. "And then there's the idea of basing yourself in Wales and doing scams across the Irish Sea. Makes it international. You could be looking at a very long stretch."

 

"Now, now, I don't see any reason for threats." Smythe-White smiled again, but sweat had begun to pearl on his brow. "We're reasonable people. And it's a small matter, a very small matter we can resolve easily, and to everyone's satisfaction."

 

"Why don't we talk about that?" "Yes, yes, why don't we?" He brightened instantly. "Over a drink. I'd be delighted to buy both of you a drink. There's a pub just around the corner here. A quiet one. Why don't we have a friendly pint or two while we hash all this business out?" "Why don't we? Brie?" "But I think we should-"

 

"Talk," Gray said smoothly and, keeping one hand firmly on Smythe-White's arm, took hers. "How long have you been in the game?" Gray asked conversationally.

 

"Oh, dear, since before either of you were born, I imagine. I'm out of it now, truly, completely. Just two years ago, my wife and I bought a little antique shop in Surrey."

 

"I thought your wife was dead," Brianna put in as Smythe-White led the way to the pub.

 

"Oh, no, indeed. Iris is hale and hearty. Minding things for me while I put this little business to rest. We do quite well," he added as they stepped into the pub. "Quite well. In addition to the antique shop, we have interests in several other enterprises. All quite legal, I assure you." Gentleman

 

to the last, he held Brianna's chair out for her. "A tour company, First Flight, you might have heard of it."

 

Impressed, Gray lifted a brow. "It's become one of the top concerns in Europe."

 

Smythe-White preened. "I like to think that my managerial skills had something to do with that. We started it as rather a clandestine smuggling operation initially." He smiled apologetically at Brianna. "My dear, I hope you're not too shocked."

 

She simply shook her head. "Nothing else could shock me at this point."

 

"Shall we have a Harp?" he asked, playing the gracious host. "It seems appropriate." Taking their assent for granted, Smythe-White ordered for the table. "Now then, as I said, we did do a bit of smuggling. Tobacco and liquor primarily. But we didn't have much of a taste for it, and the touring end actually made more of a profit with no risk, so to speak. And as Iris and I were getting on in years, we decided to retire. In a manner of speaking. Do you know the stock game was one of our last? She's always been keen on antiques, my Iris, so we used the profits from that to buy and stock our little shop." He winced, smiled sheepishly. "I suppose it's poor taste to mention that."

 

"Don't let that stop you." Gray kicked back in his chair as their beer was served.

 

"Well, imagine our surprise, our dismay, when we received your letter. I've kept that post office box open because we have interests in Wales, but the Triquarter thing was well in the past. All but forgotten really. I'm ashamed to say your father, rest him, slipped through the cracks in our reorganization efforts. I hope you'll take it as it's meant when I say I found him a thoroughly delightful man."

 

Brianna merely sighed. "Thank you." "I must say, Iris and I very nearly panicked when we heard from you. If we were connected with that old life, our reputation, the little businesses we've lovingly built in the past few years could be ruined. Not to mention the, ah..." He dabbed at his lip with a napkin. "Legal ramifications."

 

"You could have ignored the letter," Gray said.

 

"And we considered it. Did ignore the first. But when Brianna wrote again, we felt something had to be done. The certificate." He had the grace to flush. "It's lowering to admit it, but I actually signed my legal name to it. Arrogance, I suppose, and I wasn't using it at the time. Having it float to the surface now, come to the attention of the authorities could be rather awkward."

 

"It's as you said," Brianna murmured, staring at Gray. "It's almost exactly as you said."

 

"I'm good," he murmured and patted her hand. "So, you came to Blackthorn to check out the situation for yourself."

 

"I did. Iris couldn't join me as we were expecting a rather lovely shipment of Chippendale. Admittedly, I got a charge out of going under again. A bit of nostalgia, a little adventure. I was absolutely charmed by your home, and more than a little concerned when I discovered that you were related by marriage to Rogan Sweeney. After all, he is an important man, a sharp one. It worried me that he would take charge. So ... when the opportunity presented itself, I took a quick look around for the certificate."

 

He put a hand over Brianna's, gave it an avuncular squeeze. "I do apologize for the mess and inconvenience. I couldn't be sure how long I'd have alone, you see. I'd hoped if I could put my hands on it, we could put a period to the whole unhappy business. But-"

 

"I gave the certificate to Rogan for safekeeping," Brianna told him.

 

"Ah. I was afraid of something like that. I find it odd he didn't follow up."

 

"His wife was about to have a baby, and he had the opening of the new gallery." Brianna stopped herself, realized she was very nearly apologizing for her brother-in-law. "I could handle the matter myself."

 

"I began to suspect that as well after only a few hours in your home. An organized soul is a dangerous one to someone in my former trade. I did come back once, thinking I might have another go, but between your dog and your hero in residence, I had to take to my heels."

 

Brianna's chin came up. "You were looking in my window."

 

"With no disrespectful intent, I promise you. My dear, I'm old enough to be your father, and quite happily married." He huffed a bit, as if insulted. "Well, I offered to buy the stock back, and the offer holds."

 

"A half pound a piece," Gray reminded him dryly.

 

"Double what Tom Concannon paid. I have the paperwork if you need proof."

 

"Oh, I'm sure someone with your talent could come up with any paper transaction he wanted."

 

Smythe-White let out a long-suffering sigh. "I'm sure you feel you have the right to accuse me of that sort of behavior."

 

"I think the police would be fascinated by your behavior."

 

Eyes on Gray, Smythe-White took a hasty sip of beer. "What purpose would that serve, really now? Two people in their golden years, taxpayers, devoted spouses, ruined and sent to prison for past indiscretions."

 

"You cheated people," Brianna snapped back, "You cheated my father."

 

"I gave your father exactly what he paid for, Brianna. A dream. He walked off from our dealing a happy man, hoping, as too many hope, to make something out of next to nothing." He smiled at her gently. "He really only wanted the hope that he could."

 

Because it was true, she could find nothing to say. "It doesn't make it right," she decided at length.

 

"But we've mended our ways. Changing a life is an effortful thing, my dear. It takes work and patience and determination."

 

She lifted her gaze again as his words hit home. If what he said of himself was true, there were two people at that table who had made that effort. Would she condemn Gray for what he'd done in the past? Would she want to see some old mistake spring up and drag him back?

 

"I don't want you or your wife to go to prison, Mr. Smythe-White." "He knows the rules," Gray interrupted, squeezing Brianna's hand hard. "You play, you pay. Maybe we can bypass the authorities, but the courtesy is worth more than a thousand pounds."

 

"As I explained-" Smythe-White began.

 

"The stock isn't worth dick," Gray returned. "But the certificate. I'd say that would come in at ten thousand."

 

"Ten thousand pounds!" Smythe-White blustered while Brianna simply sat with her mouth hanging open. "That's blackmail. It's robbery. It's-"

 

"A pound a unit," Gray finished. "More than reasonable with what you've got riding on it. And with the tidy profit you made from the investors, I think Tom Concannon's dream should come true. I don't think that's blackmail. I think it's justice. And justice isn't negotiable."

 

Pale, Smythe-White sat back. Again, he took out his handkerchief and mopped his face. "Young man, you're squeezing my heart."

 

"Nope, just your bankbook. Which is fat enough to afford it. You caused Brie a lot of trouble, a lot of worry. You messed with her home. Now, while I might sympathize with your predicament, I don't think you realize just what that home means to her. You made her cry."

 

"Oh, well, really." Smythe-White waved the handkerchief, dabbed with it again. "I do apologize, most sincerely. This is dreadful, really dreadful. I have no idea what Iris would say."

 

"If she's smart," Gray drawled, "I think she'd say pay up and count your blessings."

 

He sighed, stuffed the damp handkerchief into his pocket. "Ten thousand pounds. You're a hard man, Mr. Thane."

 

"Herb, I think I can call you Herb because, at this moment, we both know I'm your best friend."

 

He nodded sadly. "Unfortunately true." Changing tactics, he looked hopefully at Brianna. "I really have caused you distress, and I'm terribly sorry. We'll clear the whole matter up. I wonder, perhaps we could cancel the debt in trade? A nice trip for you? Or furnishings for your inn. We have some lovely pieces at the shop."

 

"Money talks," Gray said before Brianna could think of a response.

 

"A hard man," Smythe-White repeated and let his shoulders sag. "I suppose there's very little choice in the matter. I'll write you a check."

 

"It's going to have to be cash."

 

Another sigh. "Yes, of course it is. All right then, we'll make arrangements. Naturally, I don't carry such amounts with me on business jaunts."

 

"Naturally," Gray agreed. "But you can get it. By tomorrow."

 

"Really, another day or two would be more reasonable," Smythe-White began, then seeing the gleam in Gray's eyes, surrendered. "But I can wire Iris for the money. It will be no trouble to have it here by tomorrow."

 

"I didn't think it would."

 

Smythe-White smiled wanly. "If you'd excuse me. I need the loo." Shaking his head, he rose and walked to the rear of the pub.

 

"I don't understand. I don't," Brianna whispered when Smythe-White was out of earshot. "I kept quiet because you kept kicking me under the table but-"

 

"Nudging you," Gray corrected. "I was only nudging you."

 

"Aye, and I'll have a limp for a week. But my point is, you're letting him go, and you're making him pay such a huge amount. It doesn't seem right."

 

"It's exactly right. Your father wanted his dream, and he's getting his dream. Good old Herb knows that sometimes a con goes sour and you count your losses. You don't want to send him to jail and neither do I."

 

"No, I don't. But to take his money-"

 

"He took your father, and that five hundred pounds couldn't have been easy for your family to spare."

 

"No, but-"

 

"Brianna. What would your father say?"

 

Beaten, she dropped her chin on her fist. "He'd think it was a grand joke."

 

"Exactly." Gray cast his eyes toward the men's room, narrowed them. "He's taking too long. Hang on a minute."

 

Brianna frowned into her glass. Then her lips began to curve. It really was a grand joke. One her father would have greatly appreciated.

 

She didn't expect to see the money, not such a huge amount. Not really. It was enough to know they'd settled it all, with no real harm done.

 

Glancing up, she saw Gray, eyes hot, storm out of the men's room and head toward the bar. He had a quick conversation with the barman before coming back to the table.

 

His face had cleared again as he dropped into his chair and picked up his beer.

 

"Well," Brianna said after the moment stretched out.

 

"Oh, he's gone. Right out the window. Canny old bastard."

 

"Gone?" Staggered by the turn of events, she shut her eyes. "Gone," she repeated. "And to think, he had me liking him, believing him."

 

"That's exactly what a con artist's supposed to do. But in this case, I think we got more of the truth than not."

 

"What do we do now? I just don't want to go to the police, Gray. I couldn't live with myself imagining that little man and his wife in jail." A sudden thought stabbed through, making her eyes pop wide. "Oh, bloody hell. Do you suppose he really has a wife at all?"

 

"Probably." Gray took a sip of beer, considered. "As to what we do now, now we go back to Clare, let him stew. Wait him out. It'll be easy enough to find him again if and when we want."

 

"How?"

 

"Through First Flight Tours. Then there's this." Before Brianna's astonished eyes, Gray drew out a wallet. "I picked his pocket when we were out on the street. Insurance," he explained when she continued to gape. "After all these years, I'm not even rusty." He shook his head at himself. "I should be ashamed." Then he grinned and tapped the billfold against his palm. "Don't look so shocked, it's only a little cash and I.D."

 

Calmly Gray took bills from the wallet and stuck them in his own pocket. "He still owes me a hundred pounds, more or less. I'd say he keeps his real money in a clip. He's got a

 

London address," Gray went on, tucking the lifted wallet away. "I glanced through it in the men's room. There's also a snapshot of a rather attractive, matronly looking woman. Iris, I'd think. Oh, and his name's Carstairs. John B., not Smythe-White."

 

Brianna pressed her fingers between her eyes. "My head's spinning."

 

"Don't worry, Brie, I guarantee we'll be hearing from him again. Ready to go?"

 

"I suppose." Still reeling from the events of the day, she rose. "He's a nerve, that one. He clipped out, too, without buying us the drinks."

 

"Oh, he bought them." Gray hooked an arm through hers, sending a salute to the barman on the way out. "He owns the damn pub."

 

"He-" She stopped, stared, then began to laugh.

 

Chapter Nineteen

 

It was good to be home. Adventures and the glamour of traveling were all very fine, Brianna thought, but so were the simple pleasures of your own bed, your own roof, and the familiar view out your own window.

 

She would not mind winging off somewhere again, as long as there was home to come back to.

 

Content with routine, Brianna worked in her garden, staking her budding delphiniums and monkshood, while the scent of just blooming lavender honeyed the air. Bees hummed nearby busy flirting with her lupine.

 

From the rear of the house came the sound of children laughing, and Con's excited barks as he chased the ball her young American visitors tossed for him.

 

New York seemed very far away, as exotic as the pearls she'd tucked deep inside her dresser drawer. And the day she had spent in Wales was like some odd, colorful play.

 

She glanced up, adjusting the brim of her hat as she studied Gray's window. He was working, had been almost around the clock since they'd set down their bags. She wondered where he was now, what place, what time, what people surrounded him. And what mood would he be in when he came back to her?

 

Irritable if the writing went badly, she thought. Touchy as a stray dog. If it went well, he'd be hungry-for food, and for her. She smiled to herself and gently tied the fragile stems to the stakes.

 

How amazing it was to be wanted the way he wanted her. Amazing for both of them, she decided. He was no more used to it than she. And it worried him a bit. Idly she brushed her fingers over a clump of bellflowers.

 

He'd told her things about himself she knew he'd told no one else. And that worried him as well. How foolish of him to have believed she would think less of him for what he'd been through, what he'd done to survive.

 

She could only imagine the fear and the pride of a young boy who had never known the love and demands, the sorrows and the comforts, of family. How alone he'd been, and how alone he'd made himself out of that pride and fear. And somehow through it, he'd fashioned himself into a caring and admirable man.

 

No, she didn't think less of him. She only loved him more for the knowing.

 

His story had made her think of her own, and study on her life. Her parents hadn't loved each other, and that was hurtful. But Brianna knew she'd had her father's love. Had always known it and taken comfort from it. She'd had a home and roots that kept body and soul anchored.

 

And in her own way Maeve had loved her. At least her mother had felt the duty toward the children she'd borne enough to stay with them. She could have turned her back at any time, Brianna mused That opinion had never occurred to Brianna before, and she mulled it over now as she enjoyed the gardening chores. Her mother could have walked away from the family she'd created-and resented. Gone back to the career that had meant so much to her. Even if it was only duty that had kept her, it was more than Gray had had.

 

Maeve was hard, embittered; she too often twisted the heart of the scriptures she so religiously read to suit her own means and uses. She could use the canons of the church like a hammer. But she had stayed.

 

With a little sigh Brianna shifted to stake the next plant. The time would come for forgiveness. She hoped she had forgiveness in her.