Kiss Me, I'm Irish: The Sins of His Past / Tangling With Ty / Whatever Reilly Wants...

DEUCE DID A CLASSIC double take as they rounded the last corner to where a rambling, dilapidated mansion built by the heir to a sausage-casing fortune once stood.

“Whoa.” He blew out a surprised breath. “I bet old Elizabeth Swain would roll over in her grave.”

Kendra tried to see the place through his eyes. Instead of the missing shingles, broken windows and overgrown foliage he must remember, there stood a rambling three-story New England cape home with gray shake siding and a black roof, trimmed with decks and columns and walls of glass that overlooked Nantucket Sound. The driveway was lined with stately maples sprouting spring-green leaves. The carpet of grass in the front looked ready for one of Diana’s lively games of croquet.

“Dad lives here?” Before she could, he corrected himself. “I mean, his…his friend does?”

Kendra laughed softly. “He almost lives here. But he’s old-fashioned, you know. He won’t officially move in until they get married.”

Deuce tore his gaze from the house to give her a look of horror. “Which will be…?”

As soon as the expansion of Monroe’s was financed and finalized. “They’re not in a hurry, really. They’re both busy with their careers and—”

“Careers?” He sounded as though he didn’t think owning Monroe’s was a career. Well too bad for that misconception. It was her career. “Not that I think they should rush into anything,” he added.

He pulled into the driveway that no longer kicked up gravel since Diana had repaved it in gray-and-white brick. As he stopped the car, he rubbed his elbow again and peered up at the impressive structure.

“I can’t believe this is the old Swain place. We used to break in and have keg parties in there.”

Oh, yes. She remembered hearing about those. At three years younger than Jack and his Rock High friends, Kendra had never participated in a “Swain Brain Drain,” but she’d certainly heard the details the next day.

Her information had come courtesy of the heating duct between her bedroom and the basement in the Locke home. When the heat was off, Kendra could lie on her bedroom floor, her ear pressed against the metal grate, and listen to boy talk, punctuated by much laughter and the crack of billiard balls.

It was her special secret. She knew more about Deuce than all the girls who adored him at Rock High. Jackson Locke’s little sister knew everything. At least, as long as the heat wasn’t turned on.

“You won’t recognize the inside of this house,” she told him. “Diana’s got a magical touch with decor. And she’s an amazing photographer. All the art in Monroe’s is her work. And look at this place. She’s never met a fixer-upper she couldn’t—”

He jerked the car door open. “Let’s go.”

She sat still for a moment, the rest of her sentence still in her mouth. What did he have against this woman he’d never even bothered to meet? It was almost ten years since his mother had died. Didn’t he think Seamus deserved some happiness?

She hustled out of the car to catch up with him as he walked toward the front door. “We can just go in through the kitchen,” she told him.

He paused in mid step, then redirected himself to where she pointed. “You’re a regular here, huh?”

A regular? She lived in the unattached guest house a hundred yards away on the beach. “I come over with the sales reports every day.” She jiggled the handle of a sliding glass door and opened it. “Diana! Seamus? Anybody home?”

In the distance a dog barked.

“I have a surprise for you,” she called. Did she ever.

“We’re upstairs, Kennie!” A woman’s voice called. “Get some coffee, hon. We’ll be down as soon as we get dressed.”

She felt Deuce stiffen next to her.

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “They’re always…well, they’re in love.” She didn’t have to look at him to get his reaction. She could feel the distaste rolling off him. As if he’d never spent the night at a woman’s house.

“Have a seat.” She touched one of the high-back chairs at the table under a bay window. “Want a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks.” He folded his long frame into a chair, his gaze moving around the large country kitchen, to the cozy Wedgewood-blue family room on the other side of a long granite counter, and the formal dining room across the hall. “You’re right. I can’t believe this is the same old wreck.”

She decided not to sing Diana’s praises again. Taking a seat across from him, she set a mug of steaming coffee on the table, and carefully placed the envelope in front of her.

With one long look at Deuce, she took a deep breath. Before Diana swooped in here and charmed him, before Seamus barreled in and coached him, before the rest of Rockingham discovered him, she had to know. She just had to know for herself.

“Why did you come back?”

He leaned the chair on two legs and folded his arms across the breadth of his powerful chest, the sleeves of his polo shirt tightening over his muscular arms. She willed her gaze to stay on his face and not devour every heart-stopping ripple and cut.

“Well, I’m retired now, as you know.”

The whole world knew he wasn’t retired. His contract had been terminated after he blatantly disregarded the fine print and took to a race track—and wrecked a car—with a couple of famous NASCAR drivers. But, she let it go.

“Are you planning to…” Oh, God. Ask it. “…live here?” Please say no. Please say no. Could her heart and head take it if he said yes?

“Yes.”

She sipped her coffee with remarkable nonchalance.

“I’m sick of living in Vegas,” he added, coming down hard on the front two legs of the delicate chair.

“I thought you lived outside of Las Vegas.”

He lifted one shoulder. “Same difference. I have no reason to stay there if I’m not playing ball for the Snake Eyes.”

“What about coaching? Don’t a lot of major leaguers do that after they…after they quit?”

He massaged his right arm again, a gesture she knew so well she could close her eyes and see it. But this time, his features tightened with a grimace.

“I don’t know. We’ll see. I’ll need to find a good PT. You know any?”

A physical therapist who worked on professional athletes? On Cape Cod? “You’ll have to go to Boston.”

“That’s over an hour from here.”

Then go live there. “Two, now, with traffic.” She sipped the coffee again and tried for the most noncommittal voice she could find. “So, what are you going to do here?”

Instead of answering, he snagged the envelope. She lunged for it, but he was too fast. “What is this?”

She wasn’t ready to reveal her plans to Deuce. His dad would probably tell him all about their grandiose scheme, but she didn’t want to. She’d shared her dreams with him a long time ago, and here she was, nine years later, and she still hadn’t realized them. And he was the reason why.

“Just some paperwork on the café.”

“It’s a bar,” he corrected, dropping the packet back on the table. “Not a café.”

“Not anymore.”

“Oh my God.” Diana Lynn’s gravelly tone seized their attention.