“It’s not me I’m afraid of.” Her neck flushed crimson, and confusion laced her voice. “Do you do that a lot? Kiss women you’ve just met?”
“But we haven’t just met, have we? How did you sell it? Like Tristan and Isolde, we were destined to be together. Branwen, the goddess of love and beauty, helped us find each other. We met in a pub, and even though we lived on different continents, our paths overlapped many, many times. Before your granny immigrated to Queens in the 1900s, she lived two streets away from where I was eventually born and raised. I know all of your Irish relatives. I even went to school with your second cousins. The thin red thread of fate brought us together. We moved in after a week because we couldn’t live without each other. At least that’s how you sold it, right?”
Tessa crossed her arms again and locked them in place with a white-knuckle grip. A tight-lipped smile slashed a scarred line across her beautiful face. “Someone really screwed you over. God, I feel sorry for you.”
“Sorry for me? Are you for real?” Could she read the past in my eyes, see the cynicism and betrayal lingering there? Was her ability to read people the reason she was such a good con artist? And to think I wanted to help her. More fool me.
For a brief second, I closed my eyes and rubbed my eyelids. “You might think I don’t know you, but I do.” I stared her down. “You’re like every other woman who lies and cheats to get what she wants. A master manipulator who’s so entrenched in her own lies she doesn’t know what’s fact and what’s fiction.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
What was wrong with me? My emotions swung faster than a pendulum on a grandfather clock. I was acting like an arsehole. She was right. I was a jerk and everything else she’d accused me of. I wanted to pull her to me, apologize, to say I’d do all I could to help, but the words disintegrated on my tongue.
“Who’s being typical now?” My words went from sharp to soft. “Your tears won’t work on me, sweetheart.”
But they did.
Chapter Seven
Tessa
I barreled up the rest of the stairs, swiping the hot tears from my cheeks. Why couldn’t I ever get angry without tears? And more importantly, why had my body melted into Keegan’s the way it had with zero resistance? Wasn’t I supposed to hate him? Wasn’t I supposed to never fall for another Irishman?
Wanting to erase his taste, I scrubbed the back of my hand over my mouth. Useless. His taste lingered on my lips. His touch tingled my skin. And way he’d tugged my hair prickled my scalp.
The space between my thighs throbbed, swollen and damp. If his mouth elicited that kind of response, what could the rest of his body do? It was so, so tempting to find out if only to pacify the hormones pummeling my insides.
I shook my head and slapped my fists against the sides of my thighs. The schizoid Stockholm syndrome I was suffering from had to stop. I’d known him for less than twelve hours, yet here I was, ready to spread ‘em and have him take me against a freaking wall.
Destroying my livelihood and future was his goal for Christ’s sake, he was blackmailing me. Well, he wouldn’t get away with it. No matter what it took, I’d fight for what was mine, but I had to stay away from him until I got my libido on a leash.
I grabbed a set of linens from the laundry room and made my way to the Àine suite. After opening the door, I stood by the threshold, inspecting my home for the next week.
Besides two unlit sconces on either side of a shabby needlepoint tapestry of a bored lady on a white stallion, the exposed stone walls were bare. There was no real color scheme or much furniture.
Gray damask curtains hung by two latticed windows, and an ornately carved chair which wouldn’t look out of place in a church sat in front of a curved vanity table with an age-speckled mirror.
Two flowery wing-backed chairs stood at an angle by the weak fire Brendan had lit. In the center of the room was a bed—a four-poster queen canopied by sheer drapes.
Nope. Not happening. Not in this lifetime or the next. Since my body sent my mind on vacation whenever Keegan was around, we weren’t sharing a bed. He could sleep on the floor. Too bad for him if he didn’t want to. But maybe he… No.
I sighed and closed the door behind me. There was no point stalling in the hallway. This was my new home, whether I liked it or not.
I threw the linens hanging over my arm onto the unmade mattress. Brendan, being an angel as always, had brought up my suitcase.
Jack Frost dashed around the room, and I shivered under the vicious nip of his fingers. Needing to chase the chill from the air, I grabbed two pieces of peat from a brass bucket by the grate and threw them onto the wispy flames. Satisfied by the earthy aroma the spiraling smoke gave off, I toed off my boots and socks and kicked them toward the bed.
The flagstone floor cooled my burning insteps, and if my feet could talk, I was sure they would offer profuse thanks for their freedom.
I padded across the floor to the window. The storm outside showed no signs of letting up. Deceptively innocent snowflakes spiraled downward, disintegrating on contact with the sluggish Lough Veagh. By morning, a shell of ice and a blanket of snow
