Determined Billionaire

Bollocks.

Jack Quinn propped his elbow on the polished wood bar of the lower downtown Denver pub and drank deeply from the pint of stout as he watched the petite and smoking-hot Sinead O’Malley move into action for a solo on the bagpipes.

A month ago, he’d hired his friend and fellow Titan, Celeste Fallon, to do a deep background check on his sworn enemy. Two weeks ago, the Fallon Group had sent through a dossier rich in detail.

He’d learned Sinead was a world-champion Irish step dancer. In addition to the bagpipes, she played three different types of drums and had written a song that had done respectably well on the charts.

Every once in a while, she toured with the Celtic World Nations as a way to pick up a little extra money to help the family. Jack hadn’t taken the time to listen to the audio file provided of her music, and he was surprised by how much he enjoyed the sound of their unique rock band. Or maybe he was just intrigued by the lass and wasn’t really hearing the music.

She was single, after a relationship ended on a particularly sour note. The Fallon people had managed to talk to her ex—a piece of rubbish in Jack’s opinion. Donal hadn’t had much nice to say about her. Funny, he’d been prepared to marry her until she dumped him.

But it was what her friends said about her that intrigued him most. She was known for her fierce loyalty and her love of family. She’d do anything for anyone.

Those were the qualities that would make her an excellent wife.

The problem was capturing his elusive quarry.

She’d spent the past fortnight refusing to take his calls. In frustration, he’d packed his bags and jumped on a plane to fetch her.

During the never-ending transatlantic flight, he’d studied the provided images. Most were curated from social media, and they were grainy, unremarkable since they were taken in dark bars. But her formal headshot, for the promotion of an album, was spectacular. She was at once innocent and simultaneously a vixen with a come-hither smile that promised nothing more than heartbreak.

Even though he’d looked at her for hours on end, he’d been staggeringly unprepared for his first in-person sight of her.

Sure, he’d known she was beautiful, but when he swept his gaze over her athletic body, he’d been gutted by an immediate, raw, and fucking unwanted reaction.

Her cutoff white T-shirt was too tight across the swell of her breasts and left part of her toned midriff bare. If she was wearing a bra, it wasn’t very serviceable. Was it just his imagination, or could he see her nipples all the way from here?

Her kilt was way too damn short for his future bride. It barely covered her well-shaped arse. And when she danced he saw a flash of sexy black underwear, trimmed with tantalizing lace. In his experience, most Irish step dancers wore some sort of shorts, material that covered everything and preserved modesty. Jack supposed he should thank Christ she wasn’t commando beneath the skirt. No part of him could deal with that.

Her muscular legs were bare, and her white socks had pooled around her ankles.

Noise in the room continued to diminish, and more gazes turned toward the stage. Every man in the place was likely sporting an erection—including him. Lust was palpable. If she were his woman, he wouldn’t stand for her being dressed that way in public. At the same time, he’d want her wearing a whole lot less in private.

He took another long drink from the glass. No doubt he’d be ready for another pint in less than a minute. A man needed fortification to manage the likes of a headstrong woman such as Sinead O’Malley. But manage her he would.

He wouldn’t be leaving Denver without her in tow. He intended to possess her. Ride her. Claim her. Dominate her. Make her his submissive. And damn it to hell, marry her.

The eight-hundred-year feud between their clans ended now even if he had to tie her to his bed and spank the sass out of her.

Since it wouldn’t be seemly to drag her off the stage, bend her over, yank down her panties, make her call him Sir as he fucked her senseless on top of a table, he shook his head and resigned himself to be patient.

A spotlight hit her. He recognized the Kelly tartan—from her mother’s side of the family. The Kellys were one of the few Irish clans entitled to wear a tartan—the same as the royal house of Stewart.

Because of the distance and the way she held the bagpipes, he couldn’t quite read the writing on her white T-shirt. The dim lighting made it impossible to see her eyes, even though the information he had on her said they were green.

Then again, the file said she had blonde hair. It hadn’t mentioned the fiery highlights that seemed to ignite in the overhead lighting. It hadn’t mentioned that the lengths fell in bedroom-mussed disarray across her forehead and around her face and shoulders.

It looked the way it might after a good, long, hard screw.

“Got your eye on that one, have you, mate?” the barkeep asked, pocketing the tip Jack had left on the bar. “She’s been in here half a dozen times in the past year. A right handful, she is. Won’t be having none of the likes of you.” He glanced at her, then back at Jack. “She won’t be having any of us for that matter.”

“We’ll be seeing about that.”

“Ah. That’s how it is, is it?” He wiped his hands on a rag. “She vanishes after the show and doesn’t stay at the same place the rest of the band does. Sinead is talented, all right. But she ain’t interested in any socializing. She’ll cut any man to the quick.”

Jack nodded, considering himself warned. “Be a good man and fetch me another pint.”

The bartender nodded and moved off.

Glad to see the back of the man, Jack returned to watching the woman. It could be worse, he supposed. She was passionate, if her music was anything to go by. In need of taming, if the bartender’s words were anything to go by.

Her passion turned Jack on.

He’d want Sinead, no matter what his máthair chríona, grandmother, said. The way Sinead moved her hips fired his need to dominate her. He could almost imagine the way she smelled, of musk and desire.

He joined the applause as she ended her solo, and she moved to the back of the stage.

He drank his second stout and enjoyed the rest of the set. Part of him wished she would dance again. Another part of him was relieved she didn’t. He wasn’t sure his libido could take seeing her underwear and bare midriff.

At the end of the set, the gathered crowd roared with applause. Sinead placed the pipes on the wooden planks, then plopped herself down on an amplifier.

Her skirt rode even higher, and she didn’t sit like a lady. Now he knew why Yanks drank their beer so damn cold. ’Twas to cool the flames of ardor.

He watched—or stared, more like it—as she uncapped a bottle of water, tipped her head back, and drank deeply.

The band’s lead singer said a few words to Sinead, then nodded and moved off, leaving her alone.

Jack seized the opportunity.

In a few steps, he was on the stage. A couple more brought them face-to-face, or, in this case, her face to his crotch. And wasn’t this his lucky day? It wouldn’t be long before he’d have her on her knees, hands secured behind her as she submitted to him. “Great show.”

She smiled. It wasn’t a warm and welcoming smile. It was more the smile of a princess. It was polite enough, required, even. But it sure as hell wasn’t inviting.

The houselights came up a little more.

This close to her, he saw a few beads of sweat on her brow and across the sweet curve of her upper lip. And he was also close enough to read the writing on her in-your-face T-shirt: You’re not rich enough. Smart enough. Or man enough. Don’t even try.

They’d be seeing about that as well. “Do you intimidate most men, Sinead?”

“Most? No. All of them.” She recapped her water bottle. “I don’t have time for men.” She leveled a gaze at him. “Even if I wanted a quick toss, it wouldn’t be with an anonymous man. You groupies are all the same.”

The way she talked about sex, with her brogue and feminine sensuality that nothing could disguise, made his cock throb. He wasn’t just hard now. Not at all. He was ready. “Although I wouldn’t mind bedding you, I’m not in the market for a quick toss, Ms. O’Malley.”

“An autograph? Do you have a pen? Then perhaps you’ll leave me the hell alone?”

Polite, wasn’t she? “I’m not looking for an autograph.”

“In that case, then, if you’ll excuse me?” She stood and turned away. By the time she took two steps, he’d caught her shoulder and applied enough pressure that she stopped.

Slowly she turned back to face him again. Since he stood nearly a foot taller than her, she had to tip her head back in order to meet his gaze. “Take your damn hand off me. I’ve another set to prepare for.”

Her eyes were green. Not an ordinary shade, but that of newborn spring on the Emerald Isle’s coast. “I’ve traveled halfway round the world to meet you.”

“You should have bought the music, streamed it or something. You’d have saved yourself several hundred pounds in plane tickets at the very least.” Her smile was chilling. “You’ve met me.” She reached up to pry his fingers off her shoulder. “Release me before I call security.”

He was aware of the way she felt beneath him—womanly, but with unaccountable strength. He wanted her. “We’ve important things to discuss, Sinead O’Malley.”

“You are beginning to annoy me.” She exhaled. “I’m thinking maybe you’re a bit off your rocker, Mr.…”

Because it was the right thing to do, and he wasn’t accustomed to manhandling any woman, he slowly released her.

“Jack.” He extended a hand.

She raised an eyebrow but nevertheless ignored him.

Smart lass. “Jack Quinn.”

“Jack Quinn?” Her mouth dropped.

A very perfect, very pink tongue sneaked out. Good God, didn’t that cause another fantasy?

“The Jack Quinn? My hated adversary. Mad as a hatter? Descendant of kidnappers and heathens?”

He didn’t quite know what to say to that. Perhaps a man who chased a woman halfway around the world because of a comb didn’t seem to be all there.

“Hiding the horns and forked tail, are you?”

His response was quieter, more restrained than he wanted it to be. “I’m far from the devil, Sinead.”

“Couldn’t prove that by my family.” She took her time looking him over from his head to his dusty shoes.

Judging by her sneer, she found him wanting.

As a man of means, and perhaps some charm and a smattering of good looks, this was not the usual reaction he received from the ladies.

“In addition to everything else, you’re a stalker?”

“Hardly.” Recoiling from her offense, he curled his hands into fists. “I’ve been trying to get an audience with Your Highness for a while now.” Emails, letters, phone calls, messages at venues along the way. Trouble was, she didn’t always show up with the band. On one occasion, he’d learned she’d filled in for an ill member of a pipe band in national competition while Celtic World Nations was in another city. “You’re a difficult woman to reach.”

“Not at all—if I want to be reached.” She drew a breath. “You’ve traveled all this way to have me reject you and your”—she sputtered—“ill-conceived, ridiculous, asinine, offensive marriage proposal in person.” She moved an electrical cord out of the way with her toes. “Since you’re apparently thick or stubborn or both, the answer to your proposal, Mr. Quinn, is not just no. It’s oh hell to the fuck no. I don’t care if it would make your grandmother happy or secure your family line. I will never lie with the likes of a Quinn man. Not now. Not ever.”

She gave him a sunny smile that really, he knew, meant fuck you.

“You are blunt.”

“I need to be, as you’re apparently a gimp.”

‘Twasn’t often people called him an idiot and got away with it.

“Now I’ll thank you to get the hell off the stage and out of my life.” She glanced toward the barkeep. “I will call the police on you.”

“We need to talk, Sinead. We will talk.”

“I have nothing beyond no to say to you.” She pulled back her shoulders. “I’m not interested in your family’s problems.” Her eyes flashed irritation, and her voice dropped. “I’m not interested in you, Jack Quinn.”

She’d added the last, he supposed, in case he’d missed her point. Yet she still stood there without summoning help. Was she as compelled by their connection as he was?

“Get back on a plane and go home. County Mayo, isn’t it?”

As if she had to ask. Their shared history went back well over eight hundred years. The details of the sordid events were recorded for all time in the Annals of the Four Masters. The compilation of Irish history—some said parts were more myth than fact—dated back nearly two thousand years.

Sinead looked at him. Her eyes flashed venom. “Cuimhnich air na daoine o’n d’thainig thu.”

You speak the tongue, do you? “‘Remember the men from whom you are sprung,’” he translated.

“I, for one, will never forget.”

“It’s not just my problem, Ms. O’Malley. It’s ours.”

“Ours?” She scoffed. “Ours?” Then she laughed, and there was no mirth in the sound. Instead, it was as dismissive as it was hostile.

“Is everything okay here, Sinead?” the drummer asked, climbing onto the stage and offering her a short glass of amber liquid.

A good Irish whiskey, Jack presumed.

“Everything is fine, Brandon. Thank you.” Sinead accepted the glass and gave the whelp an appreciative smile.

Brandon rocked forward onto the balls of his feet.

Jesus. Did the man child have a crush on Sinead? Fuck to hell and back, were they screwing each other?

Too bad if they were.

Sinead was his woman. Their fates were sealed near on a millennium ago. She would be his. No gobshite would stand in Jack’s way.

She tipped back her head, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat, then closed her eyes and downed the beverage in a single swallow.

She made a soft kissing sound as she closed her eyes in apparent rapture.

Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

He ached to stroke his knuckles along the curve of her cheekbone, trail the pad of his index finger between her breasts…

She sighed. When she opened her eyes, she asked, “You’re not just a bad dream? More’s the pity.” She smiled at her protector. “Mr. Quinn was just leaving, Brandon.”

“Bugger all,” Jack said. “You might as well hear me out.”

“Goodbye is the only thing I want to hear from you.” She slid the glass onto the speaker. “Or the sound of the door hitting you on the backside.”

“Ouch.” He gave her his quick, calculated, disarming grin that always scored points in contract negotiations. It didn’t seem to soften her at all.

“You sure you don’t need help taking out the rubbish?” Brandon asked.

“Go on with you. If he hasn’t left within a couple of minutes, we’ll have the barkeep kick him to the curb.”

Jack wondered if she’d be so blasé if she knew he intended to tie her up, tie her down, drag her back to Ireland and his family home within the next twelve hours. Kicking, screaming, biting, it didn’t matter. In fact, he looked forward to her fighting him. It would make his victory all the sweeter.

“Go,” she instructed Brandon again, this time more forcefully.

The overconfident pup looked over his shoulder and glared at Jack before moving off.

“The lad, Brandon. Is he a member of your fan club?”

“One of the hundreds.” She checked her watch, a whimsical piece with white gloves at the end of the hour and minute hands. “I’ll give you sixty seconds.” She folded her arms, with her left wrist on top, where she could keep an eye on the ticking seconds.

“Do you believe in curses, Ms. O’Malley?”

“Not on your life.”

She twitched. It was subtle, but her nose wrinkled, and her eyebrows furrowed. Being a descendent of the Kellys and O’Malleys, there was no way she didn’t believe in curses.

“Or the Banshee?” According to Celtic legend, the Banshee was either human, fae, or even spirit. To some she was young and beautiful; to others, an old hag. Often she was seen combing her hair. She wailed, keened, cried. At times, she dropped a comb as a portent of death or destruction.

“I believe in stuff you can touch, Mr. Quinn. Things you can see. Tangible items. Drums. Bagpipes. Balance sheets, ledgers.” She sighed, as if she’d gone someplace she didn’t want to. “I don’t have time to be fanciful.”

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a metal comb. “My máthair chríona found this on her pillow.”

As the silver winked, reflecting the overhead lights, color drained from her cheeks.

They both knew what that meant.

Death.

Automatically she reached for it, only to snatch her hand back.

Her recoil had been exactly the same as his grandmother’s.

As if to resist the invisible pull of the comb, she reached for her whiskey glass. Realizing it was empty, she rolled the glass between her palms. “My condolences, in advance, to your family.”

Bitch. Temper and temptation warred within him. His máthair chríona was the only family he had left. No one mattered more to him. Jack’s jaw tightened. The less civilized side of his nature demanded he sling Sinead over his shoulder, drag her from the room, then find the nearest wall and screw her up against it.

He deliberately put the comb back in his pocket, his actions controlled. Once his anger was in check, he captured her chin, not at all gently, between his thumb and forefinger.

At the touch, fire arced through him. It was deeper than a connection—recognition, perhaps. And he didn’t want to experience it any more than he could deny it.

Her lips parted. She’d felt it too. No fucking doubt.

When he was able to speak, his tone was harsh, his words blunt. “You deserve a good hiding for your callousness, Sinead.”

Heat chased up her cheeks, replacing the color that had momentarily drained away when she saw the comb. When she opened her mouth again, she was back in full form. “A good hiding, is it? I’ve already said you’re not man enough for me.”

“Shall we see?” He stroked his middle finger across the top of her lip. “I think I’m just the man to teach you to mind your manners, lass.”

“You won’t be touching me again, diabhal.”

Like hell he wouldn’t. He intended to be on her. In her. “You are aware, minx, that the Banshee doesn’t follow all families. She does not follow the Quinns.” He smiled viciously. “She follows the O’Malleys. As it is your family’s crest on the comb, my máthair chríona believes the warning was meant for you.”

The flush on her cheeks darkened.

With precise aim, firing back at the direct hit she’d scored, he added, “Not many of you left now, are there?”

“You really are a bastard, Quinn.”

She curled her hand into a fist, and Jack wasn’t sure whether or not she was going to take a swing at him. Part of him hoped she did. Then he wouldn’t just have reason to sling her over his shoulder and drag her back to his hotel, he’d have cause.

“Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat.”

May the cat eat you, and may the cat be eaten by the devil. Or her figurative meaning, screw you.

She trembled, though, despite her bravado, despite her hard words. He’d unnerved her. What bothered her most—him, or the Banshee? “The curse ends with us, Sinead. With you becoming my bride.”

She laughed. Really laughed. “You truly are mad as a hatter.”

Band members began moving toward the stage. The electric guitarist tuned his instrument, all but drowning their conversation.

Sinead unclenched her fist and then clamped her hand on his wrist. “Your time is up, Quinn bastard. I never want to see you again.”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I’ll be here when you’ve finished.”

“I’ve no use for you. Go back to your hellhole.”

“Aye. And when I do, you’ll be by my side. Mark my words, Sinead. You’ll be Mrs. Quinn.”

“When my ancestors roll in their graves.”

Her fingernails sliced into his skin. The woman had claws.

“This is no longer about you and me, lass.”

“Sinead!” Brandon called.

“We’re finished.” She pulled away from him, and Jack’s skin chilled where she’d touched him.

She flipped her hair over her shoulder as she moved away, defiant and delicious.

He moved back to the bar.

“This one’s on the house.” The bartender slid a complimentary pint in Jack’s direction. “I told you she was a tough one.”

Jack looked at his wrist and studied the half crescents carved into his skin by his fiery opponent. “You warned me.”

“She’s only been here a few times, but we already call her the Titanic.” The man swiped a white towel across the shiny wood. “Men see her lovely smile and think they’re in for smooth sailing. Then afore you know it, you hit the ice—the ice in her veins.”

Jack hoisted his glass in her direction.

Round one to the fiery lass from Westport.

Throughout the set, Sinead kept her gaze on Jack Quinn.

What in the name of God’s green creation was wrong with her? Every bit of her intuition had screamed at her to get away from him. But there she’d stayed, listening to his ramblings. Despite everything, he had some sort of pull over her. It wasn’t just his breathtaking good looks, with that terrible, firm jaw and kissable mouth. But there was the tension of a millennium, the whispering of fates between them.

Her blasé attitude was faked. The truth of it was that the damned comb and the man unnerved her. It took all her concentration to remain focused on the music.

She wanted to call Westport and check on her family. She wasn’t as fanciful as the rest of them, but the fact that his máthair chríona has supposedly found a comb bothered her. According to legend, he was correct. The Banshee followed her family.

He could be lying. Or his grandmother could have dropped the comb herself.

But the familiar shape of the design struck her.

She had seen a comb like that before, in her own máthair chríona’s home, shortly before the death of one of her aunts. At the time, Sinead had been a child, and after that, her grandmother had banned all combs from the house. No one, including Sinead, believed that act could change destiny.

She passed up the opportunity for the scheduled snare drum solo and remained at the back of the stage. She wanted to remain far away from his prying eyes—even though the color was a startling, inviting blue. Hiding from him was difficult, though. Jack watched her as intently as she watched him.

Ever since she was a little girl, she’d heard stories of the hated Quinns. According to the Annals of the Four Masters, a Quinn had kidnapped an O’Malley woman almost a thousand years ago, beginning a long feud that resulted in bloodshed.

The O’Malley family Bible had a drawing of a frightful devil, thin and red with a forked tail. She remembered crawling onto her great-grandmother’s lap to look at the fragile, ancient pages. The woman had pointed to the picture and whispered, “That’s what the Quinn men look like.”

Sinead had outgrown her fanciful notions or at least she’d thought she had.

When Jack had started trying to contact her, she imagined him as an odious little gnome, squat and balding. For good measure, she’d thought he might have a pair of spectacles resting at the end of a misshapen nose.

But in truth, the reality was much, much more disturbing.

Jack Quinn was tall and broad. His hair was dark, and perhaps a bit too rakishly long. Those piercing eyes seemed to see straight through any lie or subterfuge.

He was muscular and tough, as she’d discovered when she dug her fingernails into his wrist. A lesser man would have objected or at least winced. Not Jack Quinn.

It had been his scent, though, that had really smacked into her. He smelled fresh and crisp, like the untamed wild coast of home.

He was everything she desired in a man and her damp panties were proof of that.

Why, why, why did her body have to betray her? Why did she have to have such a feminine reaction to him? And when he threatened to give her a good hiding, she’d frozen on the spot. She hadn’t doubted for a moment that he was serious, and a searing white flash of desire had raced through her as she pictured herself upended over his knee.

She’d always dreamed of being with a man who was masculine enough for her. The men she knew were— She missed a beat on the snare drum. Lachlan, the band’s front man, turned and looked at her quizzically. After a quick, reassuring smile, she found her rhythm again.

Most of the men she’d been with were boring. Yet there’d been one who had introduced her to the darker delights of sex. She’d had enough of a taste to whet her appetite. But she’d learned most men had no interest in the same things she wanted. Their idea of a spanking was a gentle tap. As if that would get her anywhere.

But this man, Jack Quinn, hated enemy with his promises of a good hiding, was a rogue willing to follow her halfway around the world…even though she’d led him on a merry chase. Had she met someone capable of giving her what she needed? The idea scared her as much as it fascinated her.

She noticed that the barkeep was speaking to Jack. Seizing the opportunity to make an escape, she signaled to Brandon. She twisted her lips and pointed to her stomach, pretending to be ill.

When he responded with an understanding nod, she put down her drum, snatched up her handbag that was the size of a small piece of luggage, and made a mad dash toward the ladies’ room.

She stayed inside for only a few moments, then joined a group who were leaving together. For once, she was grateful women often traveled to the loo in small herds.

As short as she was, she didn’t stand out among them. She glanced over at the bar to make sure Jack was still occupied, then she ran for the kitchen.

Once there, she got several strange glances from the chef and other workers, but she waved and called out, “I have a crazy fan out there. Don’t tell him I came this way!”

One of the men brandished a meat cleaver. She rewarded him with a cheeky grin. “You’re my hero!”

Sinead made her exit, knowing she could count on the people in the kitchen to lie completely or to at least slow Quinn down, and she would send Brandon a text message. He’d be unhappy she wasn’t joining him for a drink after the show, but if she apologized and offered to buy him one the next time she saw him, he’d take good care of her instruments.

She hadn’t been kidding when she told Quinn that Brandon was among her admirers. If he had his way, they’d be intimate. Sidestepping his advances was a constant challenge and one of the reasons she didn’t always tour with the band.

Outside in the chilled evening air, she caught her bearings. The Rocky Mountains were always to the west, she’d been told. Using the snowcapped peaks as a guide, she turned right. She figured she was about four blocks from the Sixteenth Street Mall and she needed to take another right here.

She glanced over her shoulder before rubbing her arms against the cold and hurrying toward the pedestrian mall’s shuttle.

Keeping a wary eye on the people walking along the street, she hopped off the bus a stop early and took a detour to her hotel.

Fifteen minutes after she rushed out of the pub, the hotel’s doorman greeted her by name.

The elevator was waiting, and fortunately she had no problems with the electronic key card in her door.

Now, her entire body collapsed against the door, pulse pounding, she exhaled deeply. That was as big a celebration as she would allow herself. Sinead O’Malley wasn’t exactly the great escape artist.

After she caught her breath, she pushed away from the door. A hasty departure and scramble through downtown was easier when she wasn’t at this altitude.

Sinead was smart enough to realize she’d only earned a reprieve.

As usual, she’d opted not to stay with the rest of the band. She preferred this funky boutique Sterling hotel over all the other accommodations in Denver. As far as chains went, each of these hotels offered something different. Some were in historic renovated buildings. One was in an old bank. This one, according to the in-room book, was a former department store. Because it was small, she hoped this place wouldn’t be on Jack’s radar. Now that he was in the same city, staying ahead of him wasn’t going to be an easy matter.

He’d been after her for nearly two weeks with his insane idea that they should marry. When she read his first, formal letter, she’d scoffed. Marriage? Not now, not ever, and definitely not to a Quinn.

Eventually she’d be back in Ireland, and he would too. No matter how clever she was, she couldn’t hide forever.

Her pulse still faster than normal, she crossed to the small octagonal-shaped table near the door and dropped her handbag on top. The oversize bag had enough cargo capacity for her to make a quick escape if needed.

Proving Jack right, that the sight of the damn comb had bothered her, she dug in the cavernous depths of her bag for her mobile phone. After she located it, she checked the time back home. It was very early morning in Ireland, which meant she might wake people.

It was a risk, all right. One she needed to take.

She scrolled through her address book and dialed her mother’s number. After ten rings, Sinead punched the Off button. Then she rang her cousin in Murrisk, a small town in the shadow of Ireland’s holy mountain, Croagh Patrick. She got a perky, annoying voice mail. Her aunt Gemma in Westport didn’t answer either.

In frustration, Sinead rang off and told herself not to worry. Her mother might be getting on in age, but she walked every day and was as hale and hearty as a north wind. All of Sinead’s aunts were also in fine health, and her few cousins were young and vigorous, even if none of them had yet to produce a child. Quinn had been right. As it stood, there weren’t many of her line left.

She knew rationally that if there was bad news, someone from home would let her know. She was learning, though, that when it came to worry, rational thought didn’t matter. It was always possible her family might decide not to bother her while she was so far away.

If she didn’t get a return call by the time she finished her bath, she’d start dialing again.

That settled, she sent text a message to Lachlan to let him know she was resting. Then, after a big internal debate, she asked Brandon if Jack was still at the pub.

When she learned he was, she exhaled a sigh that was half satisfied, half triumphant, and dropped the mobile on the table. “Yes. Yes, yes!” She pulled her shirt over her head, then unzipped her kilt and wiggled out of it. In her usual manner, she left both articles of clothing in an untidy heap on the bright purple carpeting.

The uniqueness of this hotel suited her personality. The chairs and settee were oddly shaped. The lamps and table decorations were crafted from bold geometric designs. The walls were painted primary colors, and their contrast worked surprisingly well with the carpet.

It was a good thing the pub was footing the bill. She was on tour to earn much-needed funds for her family. Her bankbook would never stretch far enough to cover this sort of expense.

Once she’d toed off her shoes and taken off her socks, she padded into the bathroom, enjoying the sensation of cool ceramic beneath her feet.

She adored any place that actually had a bidet. An opportunity to orgasm without a vibrator.

It’d been so long since she’d had a climax, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Almost, but not quite. And after a day like today, a settling rush of endorphins was exactly what she needed.

For now, ignoring the bidet in favor of a hot, relaxing bath, she cranked open the bathtub’s faucet and adjusted the temperature from warm to scalding. As the tub filled, she stripped off her bra and underwear.

Then, standing in the bathroom naked, she reconsidered the bidet.

How long had it been? Her schedule left her exhausted. When she wasn’t on tour with the band, she ran Radharc Na Mara Manor, her family’s bed-and-breakfast. Turning their home into overnight accommodations and adding self-catering cottages had been the only way to save their ancestral estate. Every penny she made on the road, she sent home. So far, her family was managing, but the personal cost to Sinead was great. She was as tired as she was lonely. But honestly, the unrelenting demands left her without much of a craving for sex.

Even if that hadn’t been the case, she’d taken enough verbal lashings from her former fiancé to last a lifetime and make her wary of letting another man so close.

Donal had been everything she thought she wanted in a man. He was rich, successful, dedicated to the land. He made it clear they’d live at her ancestral home, raise their children on the grounds. She wouldn’t have to worry about anything ever again, and neither would her mother or other family members.

In the beginning, her family had thought the world of him, and she’d been head over heels. He’d been witty and charming, managing to hide his true personality. Everyone had seen him as more than a knight in shining armor. They’d seen him as lord and savior rolled into one.

A few weeks of happiness had followed before he started trying to control her. The first few times it happened, she ignored her intuition and rationalized away his behavior. He was in a new home, trying to find his place. Perhaps they’d find their rhythm as a couple.

Even when they went to bed, things didn’t improve. Their sex life had been totally, completely, mind-numbingly boring.

One night before bed he’d come out of the bathroom and asked what she was reading. Shyly she showed him the BDSM novel. The cover had a woman’s bare buttocks on it, and it was clear she was turned over a man’s knee.

Donal gasped in outrage. “Don’t be filling your head with that shite. Complete nonsense, Sinead.”

His reaction washed shame over her. Yet, there was no way she could go on like this for the rest of her life. “Do you… I mean…”

He yanked on his pajama bottoms, his back to her.

“Are you happy with…you know. What happens in the bedroom.”

“Most certainly. Things are quite satisfactory. Once we have children, we’ll be done with it.”

Done with it?

After that, they had relations perhaps once a week. When they did, Sinead lost herself in a fantasy world, then found her pleasure once he turned away from her and fell asleep.

Within a month, he also demanded she give up her music and dancing. Childish, nonsensical pursuits, as he’d called them. He’d refused to go with her to the pub one evening when a song she’d written would be performed for the first time. The entire family was there to celebrate her dream coming true, but Donal was home, fuming.

The next morning, while waiting for guests to depart a cottage so she could begin cleaning, she’d been scribbling ideas for another song in her notebook. He’d snatched it away from her and given her a scolding. She’d become lazy and needed to step it up, do the work required of her instead of daydreaming.

Still, she tried to make the relationship work, catering to his needs and trying to make him happy. Now she realized her family had seen through him long before she ever did.

“Are you happy?” her mother had asked.

“Of course.”

“You’ve not got a sparkle in your eye.” Sarah’s half-smile was more sad than anything. “Donal hasn’t been to see you perform, has he? And where’s the new song Lachlan and the rest of the band are asking you for? People want to hear from you.”

Truthfully, Sinead was still composing. Only this time, it was in secret.

“And what of affection?”

“What of it?” The truth was, Sinead wasn’t in love. And Donal never used the L-word, either. It was all right, she reassured herself. Surely, security was more important than an emotion that could make her question her decisions. She’d do her duty. After all, men and women had marriage for strategic advantage since the beginning of time.

A few months later, at a family dinner, Donal announced it was high time they married. There was much work to be done, and if he took over the management role, profits would improve.

Without ceremony, he shoved a ring box across the table.

She blinked, and her heart sank. For a moment, she considered saying yes, for the sake of her family’s fortune.

“Only do it if it will bring you joy.” Her mother shook her head.

This wasn’t the proposal she hoped for. He didn’t ask her, didn’t present her with a ring.

“Well aren’t you the romantic?” That was from Mary, one of Sinead’s cousins.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Donal scolded. “She doesn’t need romance. Unlike the rest of you, she doesn’t have her head in the clouds.” His eyebrows knitted together, he looked at Sinead.

How had she ever thought he was Mr. Wonderful?

“Put it on.”

His barked order infuriated her. With her back teeth clenched, she gave the box a mighty shove, sending it soaring it back toward him. It hit the saltshaker with a little thud.

Her mother was right. She deserved to be happy. Donal would bring her a lifetime of misery. “It’s high time you left.”

He sputtered. “You’ve gone and done it now, haven’t you?”

“Out.”

“Bravo!” Mary pushed to her feet and clapped. “Aunt Sarah, we have any champagne? Our Sinead is back!”

When his vehicle roared away with a squeal of tires, Mary popped the cork.

Earlier, Sinead told Quinn the truth of it. Since her relationship with Donal, she’d been cautious. She’d limited her romantic rendezvous to men she met on tour. Groupies. Roadies. Men who’d be reluctant to leave America. She rarely had sex, and when she did, the encounters were almost always less than satisfying. And then there was the morning-after awkwardness. A few months ago, she’d decided even that much effort wasn’t worth the trouble, and she’d sworn off relationships entirely.

Recently she’d taken to wearing cheeky T-shirts as armor. Still, some men took the printed sayings as jokes.

They weren’t. For the right man they were an invitation.

If he could see past the wording, see what she really wanted…

She yearned for someone persistent enough to crack her reserve, see the flaws beneath and not let it matter while she experienced the crazy carnival of lust.

Dreamer.

Sinead had responsibilities and obligations, a family business to preserve. She had to be focused. Practical. None of that ridiculous man nonsense for her.

The bathtub finally full, she turned off the tap and sank into the depths. She rested her head on the tub’s rim, letting the water cover her up to her neck.

And from where she was lying in the tub, she had a perfect view of the bidet.

With a sigh, she closed her eyes to block out the sight.

And she saw images of him, the obnoxious, overbearing, handsome Quinn.

Damn it. Damn him.

She hated him, and yet she was mortifyingly aroused.

After a second sigh, she opened her eyes again.

What could it hurt?

If she had an orgasm, maybe she could stop thinking about him, stop thinking about sex, stop thinking about being across his knee while he flipped up her skirt and yanked down her underwear.

Yielding to the tempo of need drumming inside her, she climbed from the bath and turned on the bidet’s tap. She dried off, then dropped the towel as the water warmed.

Finally, when the temperature was just right, she moved into position over the stream. The instant heat was a wonderful relief, and she gave herself over to the sensation.

It was nice…but not enough.

With a small, frustrated sigh, she spread her labia so she could get more pressure on her clit. She rocked her hips slowly, trying to find the pace that would take her over the top.

Closing her eyes, she allowed the encounter with Jack to replay in her mind. His voice was steel wrapped in velvet as he threatened to give her a spanking.

Those words shouldn’t have excited her or thrilled her, but they had.

His eyes had darkened, and there’d been a determined set to his mouth. Despite her bravado, she had no doubt he was man enough for her.

A tiny, renegade part of her wanted him to follow through on his threat.

She shook her head.

Fantasizing about her enemy was foolish.

He was a very rich man accustomed to women giving him anything he wanted. He’d use any means, cool determination, a warm, panty-melting smile, a wicked threat. He was ultramasculine, unlike any other man she’d ever met. He had the kind of resolve that turned her on even as it annoyed the hell out of her.

The image of his lightning-intense eyes weakened her.

With a little cry, she fingered the small nub of her clit and tilted her hips forward a little more. The warm water caressed her like a man would. Like he would?

She told herself that it didn’t matter if Jack Quinn were the man to give her what she craved. She’d never betray her family or herself by sleeping with the enemy, so she’d never know.

Sinead tried to chase thoughts of him from her mind. She kept her labia spread, then moved her other hand to cup her left breast and tease the nipple. The steaming water made her clit swell more and more.

She heard his words repeat in her mind as he told her that when he went home, she’d be by his side.

Ha.

Ever since Donal, Sinead had made her own decisions. Jack Quinn would not be allowed to change that. Imigh sa diabhal! The devil take him.

Determinedly, she summoned one of her favorite fantasies. She was a warrior, refusing to be intimidated by a much larger male opponent. She’d place her hands on her hips and tip her head back, meeting his icy glare in silent defiance.

In her imaginings her mystery man would be unimpressed with her behavior, seeing through it to recognize what she wanted. He’d abduct her and force her to surrender to her own darkest desires.

Even though she was a strong, powerful woman, the fantasy struck her as compelling and seductive. She yearned to have control yanked away, and yank it her mystery man would. And because she was helpless in his grasp, she could abdicate responsibility. Nothing but her pleasure would matter.

This man would claim her. Toss her over his shoulder. He’d keep her captive with his artfully tied knots and cleverly devised bonds. He’d torment and tease. He’d see through her sarcasm to her vulnerabilities. He’d cherish her, but tolerate no nonsense. He’d be the strength to the softness he brought out in her.

His tongue would caress her clit; he’d suck on it, lick it. He’d keep her pinned beneath him till she screamed her surrender, until she admitted he was not only her equal but her master…

And more than that, he’d demand her active participation. He’d hold her chin captive, much as Jack had at the pub. Her imaginary man would bluntly inform her he would not settle for anything less than her total commitment, emotionally and physically. He would not tolerate her simply saying the words and going through the motions.

She’d blossom, become aware of her sexuality.

And… And—

Her fantasy began to unravel as Jack Quinn once again took center stage. She no longer saw a nameless stranger, but a frightening enemy. Quinn had stormed into her life with his ridiculous ideas, commanding presence, and unsettling words.

Didn’t that beat all?

She tried to shut out his image by pretending she’d never set eyes on him.

With her jaw clenched, she fought desperately for a climax, squeezing her clit, pinching her nipples, gyrating her hips.

And there was…nothing. Nothing at all. It was as if the building sensations simply vanished.

But then she imagined the feel of Jack’s strong palm on her arse.

She gave up the fight and allowed the new images to race unfettered through her mind.

Jack would hold her firmly, one hand pressed on the small of her back. He’d stroke her buttocks, and she’d become damp with need. Then, only then, would he deliver a sharp stinging slap to her rear.

She’d beg and plead, she’d wriggle, she’d protest, but he’d be relentless.

He’d torment her until she orgasmed.

Like… Now.

She shouted out as she climaxed. Her entire body trembled with the overwhelming power.

Her hips continued to jerk as aftershocks assailed her.

Finally she drank in several gulps of the mile-high oxygen-depleted air, trying to restore her breathing to normal.

Bastard.

Damn the man and sentence him to half a dozen centuries in purgatory, anyway. Couldn’t she even masturbate in peace? She for sure wouldn’t be lighting a single candle to save his unholy soul.

Her lips curled around a very nasty curse, and she yanked the faucet closed. If she ever got her hands on him…

He was Satan incarnate, just like his pesky ancestors.

The water droplets that had fallen from her hair chilled on her shoulders, and she climbed back into the bathtub and sank in up to her chin, desperate to wash away thoughts of him.

With her eyes closed, she heard a sound.

A soft wailing came from next door. She exhaled in frustration. So much for her rest and relaxation.

After pulling the plug to drain the tub, she got out and slipped into a big, fluffy robe the hotel had thoughtfully provided. A few sips of whiskey from the minibar might help take off the edge so she could sleep.

In the living room, Sinead stubbed her toe.

Could the day get any worse?

She knelt to grab the object, probably one of her own shoes, carelessly strewn about.

Her heart stopped. Then her pulse slammed into her throat.

A comb.

Sinead wiped her shaking fingers across her mouth as she stared.

She couldn’t make herself bend to pick it up. Just like the one he had, this was silver, probably sterling, with an ornate inscription that resembled her family crest.

Dear God.

The wailing from next door!

Sinead shivered. She wasn’t superstitious, but damn…

As she and Jack had discussed, the Banshee only followed certain families. Including hers.

Standing, she backed away from the comb.

Breaths short, she dashed across the room for her mobile phone. She scrolled to the call log and pressed Redial on her mother’s number. When there was no answer, again, Sinead gave it one more try. “Pick up,” she ordered. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.” The phone rang without answer. She swore, ended the call, and determinedly pressed Redial again.

Finally, finally, her mother picked up, sounding tired, groggy, and a wee bit annoyed.

“Sinead?”

“I found a silver comb, Ma.”

She knew her ma would remember that all combs had been banned from their lives. This was serious.

“I was sleeping like the dead, if that counts,” her mother said.

She scowled. “That’s not funny, Ma.”

“I was sleeping,” Sarah repeated. “Until you woke me up.”

Realizing how ridiculous it all seemed, Sinead apologized.

“We’re all fine here, love.”

She remembered all the times in her childhood when her mother had told her to pull her head out of the clouds and stop dreaming.

“Enjoy your time in America. Have fun on your tour. It does you good to get away.”

“But—”

“Stop your worrying, lovie. Now unless you’re going to have a handsome young man brew me a cup of tea, I’m going back to bed.”

Sinead was quiet, not sure what to say next.

“Anything else, Sinead?”

She hadn’t told her mother about Jack Quinn, that he’d contacted her and chased her halfway around the world. She’d kept the entire situation private from her family, not seeing the sense in worrying them. Now she wished she’d have said something.

Explaining that his grandmother had found a comb and that the man himself was insisting on marriage would be a lot for her family to accept.

“Sleep well, Ma.” After a final apology, Sinead rang off. She’d thought that talking to her mother would help, but she was still unsettled.

Ignoring the comb, she continued to the minifridge and pulled out a small bottle of alcohol, priced about four times more expensive than it would have been in the shops. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

She decided right then that she would install these tiny well-stocked fridges in her family’s cottages. If other people were like her, having whiskey available on a whim was a heck of a way to make money.

She twisted off the cap and took a drink straight from the bottle. Tonight, more than any time in her life, she needed the fortification from a belt of good—or even bad—Irish distillate.

Unsure of what to do, she rested her hips against the windowsill and stared at the silver comb. It seemed to wink menacingly in the overhead lights.

It would be impossible to get back to the bathroom to brush her teeth without stepping over the damn thing.

As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, Sinead didn’t want to touch it.

And how was she supposed to sleep knowing it was there?

Calling housekeeping to come and remove it seemed absurd, but maybe…

She was barely surprised at the knock on her door.

If it had been anyone from the hotel—housekeeping or the front desk with a message—they would have announced themselves.

It had to be Jack.

How he found her, she didn’t know, but every feminine instinct screamed it was him, with only a panel of wood separating them.

For about thirty seconds she debated what to do.

She was on the fifth floor, and she was terrified of heights. So climbing out of a window wasn’t an option. She could call hotel security and have him removed, but she knew he’d wait her out. If he didn’t see her leave the hotel, he’d figure out where the band’s next stop was, and this whole thing would start again.

And damn it, the fact that she’d found a comb upset her and he was likely the only person in the entire country who would understand her agitation.

After that sensual fantasy, part of her wanted him, every bit as much as she wanted not to want him. Her shoulders slumped.

He knocked again, a determined, forceful sound. “I know you’re in there, Sinead. Open the goddamn door.”

He hadn’t traveled six thousand miles and traipsed across two continents to turn around and go back home when she ducked out the backdoor of a lower downtown Denver pub.

Temporarily beaten, she let out a shaky breath and placed the small bottle of liquor on the windowsill. She pulled the belt tighter around her waist and checked to be sure no cleavage showed.

It would be sensible to stall him while she dressed, but she doubted even a suit of armor would offer protection against the man.

She opened the door, and he took her breath away.

Damn but she wished she didn’t have to hate him.

His arms were folded across his chest. He wore a leather jacket, and he leaned against the jamb as if the room were his own. Just like the man of her fantasies, he had that rakishly long dark hair, and his was a bit tousled from the wind.

Despite her best intentions, Jack Quinn’s devastating good looks and piercing blue eyes weakened her knees. Oh, aye, not everyone would find him handsome, she supposed.

Beaten by the wind and weather, he was as rugged as a gale off the north Atlantic. His nose looked as if it had been broken in a rugby match. And it would be rugby. This one wasn’t as lean as footballers. He was broad as a ship’s bow, hewn by the elements.

His eyes, though, unnerved her.

Deep, dark blue, the color of the sky as the moon rose. He stared at her unblinkingly, as if seeing into her soul. Despite how warm she was from her bath, she shivered.

“I told you we weren’t finished yet.”