Her Irish Rogue

Claire had known from the moment she’d met him. All her life, she had waited for the perfect man. She’d even made a list of all the attributes she sought in a husband and Eric had fulfilled every last one of them.

Careful planning and detailed lists had been Claire’s specialty since she was a young girl. A shrink would probably tell her that it was simply a way of coping with a chaotic childhood. She’d grown up in a tiny three-bedroom house, with five older brothers, and parents who did little to control the boys. It was noisy and messy and she was almost always ignored when competing against their boisterous antics.

So Claire often escaped to her grandmother’s house, where it was quiet and pretty, and she could talk about important matters, like all the things she was going to do with her life. Her grandmother had encouraged her to write it all down in a little journal. “Only when you write it down will it become true,” she had said. Later, as each of her dreams were fulfilled, Claire would tick them off in the journal.

Claire tossed the lotion on the bed and grabbed her bags. As she unpacked, she neatly arranged her clothes in the antique dresser against the far wall. She found her birth control pills in a side pocket and popped one out of the package and into her mouth. She and Eric would be together again. She had to believe that.

As she passed the leaded glass windows that lined one wall, a draft chilled her, goose bumps prickling her arms. She found a match on the mantel and lit the crumpled paper beneath the oddly shaped logs. Warmth from the fire began to seep into her skin and a sharp scent hung in the air. But at the same time, the room started to fill with smoke. Claire realized she hadn’t opened the flue and scrambled to find a knob or a lever.

It wasn’t on the outside of the fireplace and she couldn’t see it on the inside through the smoke. She ran to the window and threw it open, then tore off her towel and began to fan the smoke out the window.

The smoke continued to pour out of the fireplace and Claire realized she’d have to smother the fire to make it stop. She beat at the flames with the damp towel and the fire was nearly out when the smoke alarm went off.

Frantically, she searched the room for the alarm, hoping to disable it before Will Donovan responded. But a moment later, he burst into the smoky room, a fire extinguisher in his hand. Claire screamed and held the scorched towel up to her naked body.

“What the hell is going on?” In three easy strides, he reached the fireplace and smothered the remainder of the fire with foam from the extinguisher. He turned to her, a look of concern etched on his face. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Claire said. “I just—why would someone lay out a fire and not open the flue?”

He stared at her, his gaze raking over her body. Claire clutched the towel more tightly to her chest, fumbling as she wrapped one end around her hip.

“Why would someone put match to peat without checking the flue first?” he asked.

“It’s—it’s freezing in here,” she countered.

“The window is open.” He walked across the room and closed it, Claire scampering to stand against the wall. Will grabbed the bedspread from the bed and held it out in front of him. Hesitantly, Claire stepped forward and he wrapped it around her body, enveloping her in a soft cocoon.

“I suppose I’m going to have to give you another room,” he murmured as he gently rubbed her arms. “You can’t sleep in here.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, risking a glance up at him. Tears of frustration pushed at the corners of her eyes. She was tired, she was cold, her life had become a huge mess and all she really wanted to do was crawl into bed and cry for the next day or two. He had no idea what it was taking to hold herself together.

He looked down and their gazes met—and locked. Claire opened her mouth to speak, to apologize for her emotional state, but then couldn’t remember what she’d intended to say. She heard him draw in a sharp breath as his gaze fell to her lips. She knew what was about to happen and simply waited, unwilling to stop him.

“You’re sure you’re all right,” he whispered, leaning closer.

“Fine,” she replied in a strangled voice.

Claire’s heart slammed in her chest and she closed her eyes and tried to maintain her composure. But Will took her action as his cue and a moment later, his mouth covered hers. It wasn’t the typical first kiss, clumsy and a bit tentative. Instead, he kissed her as if he’d been doing it for years, possessing her mouth as if it had always belonged to him, his tongue teasing at hers, challenging her to respond.

The kiss seemed to go on forever, growing deeper and more passionate as it continued. She couldn’t remember ever being kissed like this, with such reckless abandon and unfettered intensity. Claire felt his hands slide from her shoulders to her hips, the quilt slipping down between their bodies.

A tiny moan slipped from her throat as she pressed her hips into his, fumbling to maintain some semblance of modesty. His hands came back to her face, cupping her cheeks in his palms. She didn’t want it to end, the pleasure surging up inside of her, the crazy sensations coursing through her body. But at the same time, Claire knew that kissing a near stranger while wearing just a bedspread was probably a mistake.

When he finally drew away, she gulped down a deep breath and opened her eyes. She found Will staring at her, a perplexed expression wrinkling his brow. “Jaysus,” he murmured. He stepped back and raked his hand through his hair. “What the hell.”

Claire swallowed hard, clutching the bedspread to her body. “Wh-why did you do that?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I just—” Will cursed softly. “I don’t know. Did you not want me to do that? Because, I got the feeling you did. Was I wrong?”

“No,” Claire replied. “I mean, yes. I was just surprised, that’s all. It was…unexpected.”

“But welcomed? Please, tell me it was welcomed.”

Claire thought about her answer for a moment. Should she tell the truth? “Yes,” she finally said. “At the least it wasn’t unwelcome.”

“Good.” A smile twitched at his lips. “I guess I’ll leave you to get dressed.” Will glanced around the room. “You’re not going to start any more fires are you, Miss O’Connor?”

She shook her head. “Not right now. And you don’t have to call me Miss O’Connor. I mean, considering you just…well, you know. Call me Claire.”

“All right. Claire?”

“Yes, Claire,” she said.

“Save the fires for later, Claire,” he said, nodding. “If you’re hungry, I have supper downstairs. And after that, I’ll find you another room. A warmer room.” He wrinkled his nose. “And one that doesn’t smell of smoke.”

“Thank you,” Claire said.

He stepped back, but not before reaching up and brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. When the door closed behind him, she sank down on the edge of the bed. Smoke still clouded the room and for a heartbeat, she wondered if she’d imagined what had happened between them, if it had all been part of some bizarre, jet-lag-induced fantasy.

She touched her lips and found them damp. This was a disturbing turn of events. How was she supposed to react? She didn’t feel indignant or insulted. Nor did she feel guilty or ashamed. In truth, there was a nice, warm sensation deep inside of her, something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

There was definitely an attraction between them. What woman wouldn’t be attracted? Will Donovan was undeniably handsome. And very different from… well, from Eric.

Her relationship with Eric hadn’t been entirely perfect. In truth, lately it had become ordinary, not that she’d realized it until this very moment. It had been months since he’d made her heart skip a beat or her breath come in tiny gasps, months since he’d kissed her with that type of passion. And now this stranger, this Irishman, had accomplished both in a matter of minutes.

And there were things about Eric that had begun to bug her—his vanity, for one. His selfishness. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love where she’d been completely and utterly satisfied. Will Donovan was probably the kind of man who’d leave a woman pleasantly, thoroughly exhausted.

Claire jumped up from the bed and rummaged through her suitcases, searching for something nice to wear. She hadn’t planned on experiencing this particular element on her trip, so she’d brought along comfortable clothes—jeans, T-shirts and sweaters. She decided on a pair of black pencil-leg jeans and a translucent white silk blouse. To add a hint of interest, she’d wear a black bra beneath. She retrieved her hair dryer and the converter plug she’d brought along, then headed to the bathroom to get ready.

A half hour later, her hair was dry and her lipstick was on. Claire gave herself one last critical look in the mirror, then sighed as she stared at her reflection. What was she expecting? This was crazy! Did she plan to seduce this man over dinner? Grabbing a tissue, she wiped off her lipstick and tied her pale hair back with a silk scarf. “You’re in love with Eric,” she reminded herself. “And he still loves you. He just doesn’t realize it.”

The inn was quiet as she walked down the stairs. A fire crackled in the front parlor hearth and she walked through the spacious rooms, searching for the dining room. But when she found it, it was dark and empty.

“I thought we could eat in the kitchen. It’s nice and warm in there.”

Claire glanced up to see a shadowy form standing in the doorway, broad-shouldered, a hip braced against the doorjamb. Her heart fluttered and she cursed inwardly at the unbidden response. All right, there was definitely a spark. But that didn’t mean she had to fan it into a raging inferno. She smoothed her hands over her blouse and forced a smile. “Of course. And thank you.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For making me dinner.”

“You haven’t tasted my cooking,” he replied with a low chuckle. He held open the door to the butler’s pantry and Claire walked through the cabinet-lined room to the kitchen.

Unlike the rest of the house, the kitchen was sleek and modern, with granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances. But an old stone hearth burned brightly with a peat fire, the scent familiar to her now. She walked over to it and held her hands out. “Why am I so cold? The winters in Chicago are brutal, but I don’t feel the cold like I do here.”

“We live on the ocean. It’s damp,” Will explained. “That’s why it feels colder. There’s no getting away from it.” Will pulled a stool out from beneath the huge worktable that dominated the center of the kitchen. He nodded his head. “Have a seat.”

Claire perched on the stool and watched Will as he moved around the room. She was glad to see that he wasn’t going to too much trouble, choosing to make sandwiches. “Do you always cook for your guests?” she asked.