A Mighty Quinn Seduction
Auteur·e
Kate Hoffmann
Lectures
19,9K
Chapitres
6
Chapter 1
IAN STEPHENS GLANCED at his watch, then turned his attention back to the front door of the pub. They’d made an appointment for half past four and it was already five, the pub filling with the after work crowd. He wasn’t sure how much longer he ought to wait. What was the protocol for a business meeting in a pub?
“Can I get you something?” the barkeeper called. The patrons sitting at the bar all turned to look at him.
“No,” Ian said.
“Have you been stood up then?” he asked.
“No. No, it was just a business meeting. Not a...a date. I don’t—” Ian drew a deep breath. What the hell was he doing, spilling his life story to a stranger? And why was everyone suddenly interested in his social life. First his employer, Aileen Quinn, and now some random barkeeper.
No, he hadn’t had a date in nearly a year. And he hadn’t been involved in a long-term relationship for three years. By most measures, he was living the life of a monk. But that wasn’t entirely by choice. He merely happened to find most single women too focused on superficial things like looks and fashion, and not at all on intellectual matters.
All he really wanted was a smart, clever girl who was interesting to talk to. It wouldn’t hurt if that girl came in a pretty package, but for Ian, it wasn’t an absolute necessity.
“I got stood up just last week,” the barkeeper said. “I met this bit of skirt right here and she gave me her number and I rang her up. Turns out, it was the number for some phone sex line.”
“That’s not exactly getting stood up,” Ian said. “It’s more of an insult, I think.”
One of the patrons, a large, scruffy-looking fellow shook his head. “If you don’t mind my saying, you Brits always have a much darker outlook on life.”
“I’ll take a cup of tea if you have one,” Ian said, hoping to turn the conversation in a different direction.
“Give him a cup of your Irish tea, Rory,” the patron said. He patted the stool beside him. “Have a seat and tell us all your woes.”
Ian slid onto the bar stool. They probably weren’t interested in a scintillating conversation about the military prowess of the Duke of Wellington and Napolean Bonaparte. Ian suspected they’d rather discuss football or women or the weather.
Rory slid a drink onto the bar in front of Ian. “You’re in an Irish pub, mate” he said. “And in my experience, a pint of Guinness always improves the outlook. On me.”
“Thank you.”
The door to the pub opened and a young woman stumbled in, her dark hair dripping, her shoes muddy. She wore a black leather jacket and skin tight jeans and beneath the jacket, her pale peach-colored blouse was wet and nearly transparent.
“This was not the day to get a puncture. First off, it’s raining. And then, I’m wearing vintage silk for feck’s sake. And I’ve just ruined a perfectly decent pair of shoes. Bloody hell.” She kicked her foot and a heel flew across the bar and hit Ian in the chest. He quickly stood, the shoe clutched in his hand.
“And I suppose you’d be Ian Stephens?” she asked, limping over to him.
“You’re Claire Kennedy?”
She laughed. “What? You’re looking like someone just pissed in the punch bowl.”
“Now she’s worth waitin’ for,” Rory muttered.
“She’s feisty. I like a feisty lass,” the patron added.
“I don’t look like what you expected?” she asked, kicking off her other shoe. “Maybe if I wouldn’t have had to walk a full kilometer in pouring rain, I’d look more presentable. But I don’t, so deal with it.”
In truth, Ian was surprised that she managed to look as beautiful as she did considering what she’d been through. Her wet hair was cropped short, falling around her jaw line in an uneven fringe. She wore dark liner on her eyes—liner that was now smudged—and her lips were painted crimson.
“I—I think you look lovely,” he said. His complement took her by surprise. It took him by surprise, too. What the hell was he saying? This was a professional meeting, not some drunken hook-up. “I just meant—”
She cleared her throat and then brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Well, you don’t look like I thought you would either.”
Ian frowned. What was that supposed to mean? “What did you expect, some nebbishy old man with failing eyesight and a houndstooth jacket?”
She looked down at his jacket and grinned. All right, he was wearing houndstooth, but that’s only because it was chilly that morning and it was the first thing he grabbed from his closet. Just because he was a history scholar didn’t mean he ought to smell like musty books and wear sensible shoes. Granted, sometimes he did smell like musty books and wear sensible shoes, but—
“No,” Claire finally said. “Marlena Jenner said that you were quite handsome. I think James Bond might have been mentioned?” She plopped down on the stool beside him and held out her hand. “I’m Claire Kennedy.”
He took her hand and gave it a firm shake. “Ian Stephens. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Yes. Same here.”
“Why don’t we get a table,” he said, suddenly noticing that everyone in the bar was watching them. “Would you care for a drink?”
“Sure,” she said, glancing at his pint of Guinness. “I’ll have a whiskey. Two fingers, please.”
When he raised his eyebrow, she observed him coolly. “I’m having a bloody rotten day. I’m wet and cold and I probably look like a drowned rat. And according to that clock up there, it’s well past five.”
Ian walked with her to a table, then held out her chair. She gave him another odd look and then took her seat. “May I take your jacket?” he asked.
“I’m a bit chilled,” she said. “I think I’ll keep it.”
“It’s soaked. Let me take your jacket and you can have mine.” He waited while she slipped hers off. The silk blouse clung to her skin, making it completely transparent. He could see the outline of a lacy black bra beneath and he held out his jacket so she could slip her arms inside.
“Better?” he asked as he sat down across from her.
“Much,” she murmured. “Thank you.” Claire pulled the wool jacket tightly around her and sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so peckish. I’m usually a very nice person.”
Ian nodded. “I’m sure you are.”
The barkeeper brought her glass of whiskey and set it down in front of her. “Can I get you anything else?”
“I wouldn’t mind something to eat?” Claire said. “Have you had supper?”
“No, but I had a large lunch.”
“What’s the best here?” Claire asked.
“Ham sandwich,” he said. “And a cup of potato soup.”
“Sounds good,” she said.
“Me, too,” Ian added. He sat back. “So, I understand we’re going to be working together on the documentary.”
Ian had been working with novelist Aileen Quinn, helping to research the 97-year-old author’s family genealogy for her autobiography. He’d helped her discover a family she’d lost as a child—four brothers who’d been scattered to the winds when their parents had died. Since then, he’d coordinated a world-wide search to reunite Aileen with the descendants of those four brothers.
Recently, an American producer, Marlena Jenner, had arrived to make a documentary, hiring Claire’s brother, Dex Kennedy, to co-produce it. Claire would work with Ian to coordinate research for the film.
Ian wasn’t accustomed to working with a partner, but then, he’d never had a partner quite as beautiful as Claire. He watched as she tossed back the whiskey in one gulp then set the glass down in front of her. She folded her hands in front of her and leaned closer.
“Tell me about yourself, Ian Stephens.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Oh, none of the usual things. Tell me something interesting. Tell me something that no one else knows about you.”
Ian stared at her for a long moment. What did this have to do with the job at hand? “I—I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“Are you going to drink that beer or just let it sit there and get flat?”
“Help yourself,” he said, sliding it across the table. “Why don’t you start? I understand you’re a history teacher?”
“Yes. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.”
“I don’t believe that’s entirely true,” Ian said. “I spend a fair amount of my time teaching. It’s part of working in academia.”
“I’d hardly call what I do academia. Most of my students would much rather be playing video games or watching footy than sitting in my classroom.”
“But you wanted to be a teacher, didn’t you?” She laughed, a lovely, musical sound that he found tantalizing.
“Oh, God, no. I mean, I love it now. But I’d always planned to be a writer. I wanted to write novels just like Aileen Quinn does. But then a career as an aspiring novelist doesn’t exactly pay the bills now, does it?” She took a sip of his beer and nodded at him. “Now it’s your turn. What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Ian frowned. “I am grown-up.”
She forced a smile. “Yes. Yes, you are. You are very grown-up.” She pushed the beer back at him. “I think you need this more than I do.” Claire reached out and patted him on the arm. “Loosen up a bit.”
As Ian reached for the glass. He was normally cool in business situations, able to control the conversation and keep the discussion on track. But there was something about Claire Kennedy that made it impossible to think. Or maybe it was just that a careful study of her striking features was more important to him than the business at hand. He took a sip of the Guinness. She was right. He needed the beer much more than she did. If he was going to keep up with the fast-paced conversation, a little Irish courage might help.
* * *
HE WASN’T JAMES BOND. In truth, on the surface he was more like James Bland. But the more Claire got to know Ian Stephens, the more she realized that he was a very charming man—when he made an effort. She was used to dealing with blokes who were so full of themselves they were barely tolerable. And the last thing they were interested in was conversation, unless it led to a good drunk and a quick shag. But Ian was definitely not that sort.
They chatted over their supper of ham sandwiches and potato soup, getting to know each other, covering the usual subjects, education, employment and a mutual interest in history. Claire found him a very curious man indeed, full of tantalizing contradictions.
Though he tried to appear at ease, she could sense he wasn’t used to a woman who challenged him, who didn’t follow the proscribed rules of behavior. Her bold questions seemed to confuse him and amuse him all at once. But he didn’t react with bluster or ego. There were some hidden insecurities beneath the surface and Claire was curious about who Ian Stephens really was.
She had her own secrets, a painful past relationship that had colored her attitude about romance in the past decade. Had Ian been burned by love as well? His eyes would tell the story, she mused.
“Do you always wear those glasses?” she asked.
He reached up to touch the dark rims. “Yes. If I’m interested in seeing, I’m afraid I have to wear them.”
“You don’t wear contacts?”
“No,” he said. “They seem to be more trouble than they’re worth.”
“Hmm.” Claire studied him for a long moment. “Take them off.”
“But I—”
“Just for a moment,” she said.
He reluctantly did as she asked and the moment he did, Claire gasped softly. Oh, he was James Bond! And Mr. Darcy. And Heathcliff and every other stunning literary and cinematic hero she could think of. He had beautiful blue eyes and dark lashes that seemed impossibly thick for a man. And a perfectly straight nose and a strong jaw line that weren’t as noticeable when wearing the glasses.
She reached for his beer, hoping to cover her surprise behind a quick drink. But in her haste, she knocked it over, spilling the remains on the table and on his lap.
Claire jumped up from her seat. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I can be so clumsy.” She grabbed her napkin and began to sop up the Guinness, but she only slopped it onto his lap.
He took the wadded and wet paper from her hand. “Not to worry. It’s just beer. I can order another.”
She sat down and turned the glass upright. “You just can’t take me anywhere.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” he replied. Ian held out his hands. “There, now. No harm done. Let me just get you another.”
“Maybe we ought to forget the beer and talk about business,” Claire suggested, trying to hide her embarrassment. “That’s what we’re supposed to be doing, right? Talking about the film.”
Ian smiled and she felt a shiver skitter through her. He didn’t smile much, but when he did, it was devastating. It sent a wild and exhilarating sense of anticipation though her body, a feeling quite unfamiliar to her.
Claire usually took a more pragmatic approach to men, not allowing herself to get a swept away by dreams of romance. This came from a rather long and unsuccessful history with men. She always seemed to attract the wrong type, the bad boys, the chancers and the bowsies. In truth, she’d been glad when her brother, Dex, had started camping out on her sofa eight months ago. He’d given her a reason to suspend her social life and avoid yet another string of disastrous relationships.
Claire was well aware of why she made the choices she did. She sabotaged herself, knowing she just wasn’t ready to make a commitment to any man, or worthy of one who appeared to be perfect husband material. She’d always believed that no man could ever make her feel the way Simon Thorp had made her feel. He’d been the only man she’d ever loved.
Even now, ten years later, the thought of him still brought an ache to her heart. He’d come to Ireland on a university exchange and they’d fallen madly in love. It had been a fairytale romance, the kind of affair that was written about in books—an aristocratic Brit, a spunky Irish girl. He was handsome and charming and worldly, and she was young and full of romantic dreams. But when the summer was over, he’d gone home, back to his wealthy British family and his posh life, taking her heart and her virginity with him.
She’d been sure he’d come back to her and when he didn’t even write, she ran off to find him, only to have him cruelly reject her the moment she turned up at his front door. It was at that moment Claire realized the only male she could ever truly trust was her twin brother, Dex. The rest were to be treated with suspicion until they proved themselves—which, of course, they never did.
“And that’s where I think you ought to start.”
Claire blinked, suddenly drawn back to the present. “What?”
“Start,” Ian said.
“I—I’m sorry. I missed the last—I was...”
“I said, I’ve brought you a copy of the manuscript for Miss Quinn’s autobiography and I think you ought to read it and we’ll start there.”
“Right,” Claire said, feeling her face warm. “And where is this manuscript?”
“In my car,” he said.
“Well, let’s go get it then,” she said.
“Are we through here?” he asked.
“Yes.” She reached into her pocket for some money to pay for her dinner and he held out his hand.
“I’ll get it,” he said.
“I don’t expect you to—”
“No, it’s fine. Miss Quinn gives me money for expenses.”
“Well then, maybe you should take me out dancing as well.” He gave her an odd look. “Don’t worry, I’m not asking you for a date. I don’t date.”
Ian’s odd look registered his surprise. “Really? Neither do I. You’re married, are you? Or engaged?”
“No, I just don’t date. I think it’s a waste of time. I mean, it always ends badly, doesn’t it?” He held the door of the pub open and she stepped outside into the evening chill.
“It does,” Ian agreed as they started down the dimly-lit street. “It always ends badly. But how does one expect to meet the right person if one doesn’t date?”
“Oh, I meet plenty of men. I just don’t date them.”
“So you don’t...I mean, you haven’t...”
“Had sex? Oh, I don’t have anything against sex. I just don’t date the men I shag.”
Ian cleared his throat. “I was going to ask if you’d ever been in love.”
Claire stopped and thought about he question for a long moment. “I thought I was. Once. But now, I’m thinking maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I was too young. How about you?”
“No. Never,” he murmured.
They continued down the pavement until they reached a black Volvo sedan. Just as Ian reached for the door, Claire felt a raindrop hit her face and she looked up at the sky. “Really? You haven’t finished with me yet?”
“Come on, get inside,” Ian said. “We’ll drive back to your car and I’ll change the tire.”
Claire got inside and waited for Ian to jump in behind the wheel. When he settled himself in the driver’s seat he glanced over and smiled at her. “Where to?”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible,” Claire said.
“I can change a tire.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can. Or could. If I had a spare. But I don’t. I never replaced it after my last puncture.”
“So what do you want to do then?”
“I suppose you could give me a lift home? I’ll figure it all out later. I live in Killarney.”
Ian started the car. “Let’s figure it out now,” he said. “We’ll go get the tire and have it fixed and put it back on the car.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move, then Ian turned to her. “How does that work for you? I mean, using men for sex?”
Claire shrugged. “Pretty well, actually. There are no expectations.”
“And these men, these blokes as you call them, are all fine with this?”
She sent him a dubious look. “Really? Wouldn’t you be fine with a woman who wanted nothing but great sex with no strings attached?”
“I—I’m not sure. I’ve never met a woman like that.”
“You have now,” Claire said. She studied his handsome face and watched as he processed her revelation. “Does it bother you, the way I talk?”
“No. Well, perhaps. A bit. It knocks me off balance.”
“Good,” Claire said with a smile. “Then you won’t fall in love with me.”
“Do you have that problem with men?”
“Oh, all the time,” Claire teased.
“Well, I can see why,” Ian said soberly. “It wouldn’t be hard to fall in love with a woman like you. You’re perfectly charming. And clever.” He took a quick breath. “And, of course, beautiful.”
For a moment, Claire didn’t know how to reply. Was he teasing as well, or had he meant what he’d said? Though she’d become fluent in sarcasm, Ian didn’t seem like the type who spoke that language.
“I think we’ll get on quite well, don’t you?” Claire said.
He chuckled softly. “I think so, too.”
“But I don’t think we should date. We would only make a bags of it all. Agreed?”
He chuckled softly. “Agreed.”
