Nicole might have mastered calculus by the age of eight but she’d never mastered basic political correctness 101. “I said no.”
His eyes darkened, and without another word, he strode off.
Uneasy, Nicole watched him go and wondered if she’d just screwed herself by not screwing the boss.
SHE WENT HOME. On the front steps of the building sat a brass lion, its mouth open wide in a silent roar. Shaking her head, she walked past it. Just inside were a vintage-looking gramophone, an ornately decorated headboard leaning against the wall and a marble clock.
Taylor, the poor little rich girl. She’d inherited this building without any of the money she’d become accustomed to in her spoiled youth, with the exception of the antiques she’d been collecting all her life. She’d been selling off the beloved pieces to cover the costs of bringing the building back to its former glory. Resourcefulness. It was one of the things Nicole appreciated most about Taylor, as Nicole had been forced to be resourceful all her life.
A three-foot-high wooden carved bear holding a fish and wearing a grin sat on the first flight of stairs. Along the second flight were stacks of prints. Nicole was staring at one of a bowl of fruit, thinking she was just starving enough to actually eat fruit, when Taylor stuck her head out of her apartment.
Damn. More party plans. “I’m really tired,” Nicole said pathetically, figuring Taylor would take pity on her.
Instead Taylor reached out, snagged her wrist and yanked her into her apartment. “We need to talk.”
“But-”
“You’re tired, yeah, yeah. I know. I figured that much and planned the party without you.”
Gratitude filled Nicole, and she felt a little bad about her peevishness. “Thank-”
“Don’t thank me yet, Super Girl. You’re going to need a dress.”
“Oh, no-”
“Oh yes. And know it up front, we’re going fancy on this one.”
“But-”
“That’ll teach you to leave me alone to plan things.”
“Well, unplan them.”
“No.” Taylor leveled her stubborn gaze on Nicole. “Suzanne deserves this.”
“Yes, but-”
“Fancy,” Taylor said firmly. “As in silk and lace and high heels and makeup and hairdos and everything.”
Nicole had faced two life-threatening surgeries that day. She’d faced Dr. Watts. And she’d rather face a fire-breathing dragon on top of all of it than get “fancy.” “You’re kidding me.”
“Honey, I never kid about fashion.”
Nicole paled. “Fashion?”
“You and me. At the mall. Your next day off.”
Nicole let out a string of curses that had Taylor laughing. “Oh, and since you owe me on planning the party without you, you can pay up right now. I need a little favor.”
Nicole thought of her bed and sighed. “Taylor-”
“Don’t worry, it’s not difficult. I just need you to run to Ty’s office and give him these.” She dumped a large set of plans into Nicole’s arms. “And this.” She added a file. “Did you like him?”
“What?”
“Did you like Ty?” Taylor laughed at her expression. “What’s not to like, right? He’s sexy as hell, and in possession of a body I could just gobble up.” She sighed dramatically. “It’s too bad we’re too much alike. We’d kill each other.”
Nicole shook her head. “I’m not going to ask.”
“But I’m going to tell. Ty and I, we’re fellow wanderlust spirits.”
“You’ve got wanderlust?”
“Through and through, until I came here and found home. But Ty hasn’t found his home yet. Fighting our own prospective and warring needs would be like living in a battlefield. Nope, much as I’d like a good, naughty affair-and I’m quite certain Ty can do good and naughty-he’s not for me.”
Nicole put her hands over her ears-or at least she tried to around all the stuff in her arms-and Taylor laughed again. “Just go. Tell him I’m giving him the job. The address of his office is on the label, and it’s only three minutes from here.”
Before Nicole could blink, she’d been turned around and shoved out the door. She whirled, but only to hear Taylor’s lock click into place. “I’m not doing this,” she said through the wood.
“Then come back in and help me pick out napkins and plates and menus for the party.”
Nicole stared down at Ty’s name and address and felt a peculiar flutter in her belly. Why was it that every time she thought of him her skin went all hot and itchy and her nipples got happy? “This is a bad idea, Taylor.”
“Since when are you afraid of anyone, much less a man?” Taylor asked through the door.
Since that man could simply look at her and make her feel things she didn’t understand. “I…can’t.”
“Just drop the plans off, Nicole. You don’t have to marry him.”
Yeah, Nicole. You don’t have to marry him. Somehow that didn’t make her feel any better. With a sigh, she headed down the stairs instead of up, and got back into her car.
TY HAD a headache and another e-mail. This was not what he needed after a long day at work. He stood staring at it. He shut his eyes, swore, and stared at it again.
I think you’re Ty Patrick O’Grady of Dublin.
I think you were born to Anne Mary Mulligan of Dublin. Please confirm.
Margaret Mary
Why a Margaret Mary would be looking for him was anyone’s guess, only none of them were good.
Who was this formal-sounding woman, and why did she care who he was? What did she know of the boy he’d been? And he had been a boy when he’d left Dublin, a young boy who’d never looked back. Why should he? He had nothing to look back for, no roots, nothing. His father had taken himself to an early grave in a drunken brawl when Ty had been a year old. His mother had run a tavern with rooms above it she’d used as an inn when they’d needed the money. Which had been all the time. Ty had been nothing more than a mistake she didn’t like to be reminded of.
That had often worked in his favor, as he’d had the freedom to do as he pleased. And since his mother rarely remembered to feed him, much less clothe him, and only begrudgingly gave him a mat to sleep on, the freedom pleased him plenty. He “borrowed” clothes, stole food and ran with a crowd that made the L.A. gang-bangers look friendly.
When he’d turned ten he’d witnessed his first murder. Over a pair of boots. When he’d turned eleven, his mother had sold the inn and moved on.
Without him.
By the time he’d turned sixteen, he’d been beyond redemption. Or so he’d thought. That’s when he’d made the mistake of trying to pick the pocket of a vacationing Australian. The man, Seely McGraw, had been a cop, of all things, and instead of dragging Ty off to jail, he’d dragged him home with him. To Australia. Ireland had been happy to see him go.
In Australia, Seely had seen him through the rest of his school years. Civilized. Humanized. And yet the vagabond within him had survived.
When Seely had died, Ty had given in to his wanderlust, going wherever he wanted, when he wanted. Europe, Asia, Africa. Even South America. Then he’d come here, to the States, and had landed in California.
For the first time in his life, he’d fallen in love with a place. Created a home for himself.
He wondered how long that would last before the wanderlust yearning overcame him again. Given his past, he didn’t figure it would be long. But for now he enjoyed himself, occasionally marveling over how far he’d come.
Life was good right here, right now. He had a job he loved, and money with which to do as he pleased when he pleased.
But now someone wanted him to think about his past, where he’d been a son-of-a-bitch Irish runaway.
Rare temper stirring, he hit Reply and typed:
Who wants to know?
No, that would only encourage this, when he wanted nothing more than to forget all about it. But before he could delete it, he heard a knock at the front door, which he’d left open for the pizza he’d ordered. He needed that pizza. “Back here!”