back was starting to ache. 'Performing would be second nature to you. You'd enjoy the stage, the lights, the applause.'
Shawn snorted. 'She'll lap it up like cream. Vanity is our Darcy's middle name.'
'Can I help it if all the good looks in the family waited for me?'
'I don't know, as I haven't seen your face without a layer of paint since you were thirteen.'
'The pity of it is I have to see yours every time I turn around.'
'Since looking at each other is the next thing to looking in a mirror, you could find something else to argue over.' Aidan held up a finger before either of his siblings could snipe. 'Let Jude finish.'
'I nearly am.' Amazing, she thought, how quickly she'd become used to the rhythm of this family. 'I imagine you'd enjoy being onstage, playing to the audience. But, if the idea of it terrified you, if you hated the very thought of it, you'd do it anyway. You'd do anything for these two.'
Though the statement was perilously close to the end of her conversation with Trevor, Darcy let out an amused snort. 'I do to please myself.'
'In a great many things,' Jude agreed. 'This you'd do for Aidan, and Aidan's the pub. You'd do it for Shawn, and Shawn's the music. Last of all you'd do it for yourself. For the fun.'
'The fun's a factor, isn't it?' Darcy rose, started to move casually to the stove, but Aidan caught her hand as she went by.
He tugged, she resisted. He tugged again. With a little sigh, she went into his lap. 'Tell me what you want, Darcy darling.'
'A chance, I suppose.'
He nodded, met Shawn's eyes across the table. 'Let's give it a day or two to simmer. Then I'll talk to Magee again and see just what's up his sleeve.'
CHAPTER Nine
The hums and grumbles and thuds outside her window drove Darcy out of bed early every morning. Whenever she thought about it going on for nearly another year, she was tempted to bury her head under the pillow and smother herself.
Since suicide wasn't in her makeup, though, she tried to make the best of it. She could turn up her music loud, or just lie there and pretend she was in a big, noisy city.
New York, Chicago. All that noise was really traffic, and people bustling under her lovely, lofty penthouse flat.
Most of the time that worked. When it didn't, she got up and spent quite a bit of time in the shower cursing.
Otherwise, if she was in the mood, she'd wander over to look down and watch the work for a while. And look for Trevor. She didn't allow herself to do it daily-or allow herself to be seen daily.
That would be predictable.
She liked looking at him, seeing what he was up to that morning. Some days he was standing on the edge of things, his hair blowing in the wind, discussing something or other with Brenna or Mick O'Toole in the way men did, with thumbs tucked into pockets and wise, sober expressions on their faces.
And others-and she liked the others best-he was in the middle of the thing, hammering or hauling or drilling, stripped down to his shirtsleeves, and if the angle was right she could watch a ripple of muscle.
It was odd. Not that she hadn't always enjoyed taking a good, long look at men, but she couldn't remember ever being so interested in the look of one man before. Or being so fascinated by studying him as he went about manual labor.
He had a fine build, she mused as she stood framed in the window. That was part of it. A woman who didn't appreciate a long and wiry build on a man, well, she had a problem, as far as Darcy was concerned. It was the way he moved, too. Light on his feet, confident and in control.
She imagined, and why wouldn't she imagine, that he would be just as confident and in control with a female in bed. Control would make a man thorough, and a thorough loving was no small matter to a woman.
Still, she had to wonder what it would take to snap that control. A loving wild and fierce was no small matter either.
It concerned her in a mild sort of way that she thought of him as often as she did. Looked for him as often as she did. In the mornings like this, at midday, in the evening.
Sometimes he came into the pub. Sometimes he didn't. She was certain it was purposeful on his part. That lack of predictability. They were gaming with each other, and both knew it perfectly well.
And damn, but didn't she like that about him! The man was every bit as arrogant as she was herself.
She hadn't arranged for a night off. That was purposeful on her part. It was true enough that she liked keeping him waiting. But she was keeping herself waiting as well, with a delicious sort of tension inside her. She understood that when they spent the evening together, it wouldn't be just a matter of having dinner.
Dinner wasn't what either of them wanted.
It had been a long time since she'd had an urge for a man. A particular man. She missed the feel of one against her, that was true. The strength and the heat, that flash of fire in the belly that came just before release.
She was a woman who enjoyed sex, Darcy admitted, the problem being there'd been no one to tempt her for more than a year.
Sure and she was tempted now, she thought when Trevor looked up and their eyes met. She enjoyed, absorbed, the edgy little thrill that whipped down her spine. The man tempted her in all manner of ways. So- it was time to arrange for that night off.
She smiled down at him, slow and sly, then deliberately stepped back. Let him do some thinking about that, she decided.
Restless, not ready to face the long day, or even dress for it as yet, she wandered her rooms. She put on the kettle for tea more out of habit than desire. The rooms, such as they were, were the first she'd had all to herself in all of her life. It had been a shocking surprise to realize she missed the company of her brothers. Even their untidiness.
She'd always liked things just so, and her rooms reflected it. She'd painted the walls a quiet rose. Well, she'd browbeaten Shawn into doing most of the work, but the results were pleasing to her. From her bedroom at home, she'd taken her favorite framed posters. Monet's water lilies and a forest scene she'd found in a bookshop. She liked the dreaminess of them.
She'd made the curtains herself, as she had a fine hand with a needle when she wanted to. The pillows she piled on the ancient sofa were from her hand as well. A practical woman who preferred nice things understood it was cheaper by far to buy a length of satin or velvet and put in the time than to plunk down the cost for ready- made.
And it left more spending money for shoes or earrings.
Standing on a table was her wish jar, full of coins that came from tips. And one day, she thought, one fine day, there would be enough for her to take the next trip. An extravagant trip next time, to anywhere.
A tropical island, maybe. Where she could wear an excuse for a bikini and drink something foolish and fruity out of a coconut shell. Or Italy, to sit on some sunbaked terrace and look out over red-tiled roofs and grand cathedrals.
Or New York, where she would stroll along Fifth Avenue and gaze at all the treasures behind the forest of shop windows and pick out what was waiting just for her.
One day, she thought, and wished whenever she imagined it that she didn't see herself alone.
It didn't matter. She had enjoyed her week in Paris alone, so she would enjoy the others, in their time. Meanwhile, she was here, and so was the work.
She brewed the tea first, and told herself that since she was up early she'd lounge on the sofa, page through one of her glossy magazines and enjoy a quiet morning.
Before she settled in, her gaze landed on the violin she kept on a stand, more for decoration than convenience. Frowning, she set her cup aside and picked up the instrument. It was old, but had a clear voice. Would it be this,
