The Irishman's Christmas Gamble
Page 2
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Her chest went hollow as she recognized the toast they always drank while they plotted their paths away from their dismal beginnings. Away from each other.
“We made it out, Liam,” she said, savoring the warmth of the spicy, single-pot still liquor. “We made a damned good future.”
“It could be better.” He tossed back the whole drink. “Have dinner with me tonight. We can catch up on the twenty-three years since we last saw each other.” There was that edge in his voice again.
She should say no, partly just to douse his assumption that she would be available on such short notice. “Seven-thirty,” she said. “We can use the private dining room here at the club.”
“No, Frankie, I’m going to treat you, just like I promised back then. We’re going to the most expensive restaurant in New York City. I’ll pick you up at seven.” He leaned down to brush a kiss across her lips, the gossamer touch igniting the blood in her veins again. “A stór.”
And he was gone.
Frankie sank into the nearest chair, staring out at the sinuous snow-dusted curves of the modern sculpture in her garden. Trying to separate the memory of Liam from the reality of him.
All the photographs she’d collected as his athletic career skyrocketed hadn’t prepared her for the way his youthful arrogance had transformed into a confidence that he wore like a second skin. He moved as though the world would get out of his way.
And he’d reduced her to a hungry young girl again.
She hated that.
Chapter Two
Liam jogged up the stone steps of the Bellwether Club. At least this time he didn’t have to call his old friend Donal to get him through the well-guarded portal adorned with lush pine wreaths. The door swung open as he reached the portico, revealing a lean man dressed in a dark suit. He had the cold, blank stare of one of the thugs from the old neighborhood in Dublin. “Welcome, Mr. Keller,” the man said, in an entirely American accent. “I’ll take you to Ms. Hogan’s office.”
It was intimidating, the Bellwether Club. Not because he hadn’t been in plenty of other grand places with miles of mahogany paneling and fancy Oriental rugs, but because his old pal Frankie had created it, paid for it with her own money. It reminded him all too vividly that even the enormous sum of money his agent had wrung out of the mad Americans was peanuts compared to Frankie’s fortune. Which was going to make his task that much harder.
His cold-eyed escort gestured him through the door into the waiting room outside her office. She was standing by the garland-draped fireplace, staring into the flames. The firelight turned her silver hair to molten gold and sent light and shadows flickering across the sharp, clean lines of her face. Her beauty was achingly familiar, yet the years had changed it in subtle ways. As a girl, she had burned like a wild, blazing torch. Now her intensity was as sharp as a cutting laser.
Yet when she turned, warmth lit her gray eyes. “Liam,” she said. “I can’t quite get used to the sight of you. It’s like seeing a ghost.”
“Then let me convince you that I’m flesh and blood,” he said, moving quickly to place a kiss on her soft lips, the contact brief but firm.
There was a tiny hitch in her voice as she said, “Proof positive you’re human.”
“And you as well. Not just a dream anymore.” He let his eyes skim down the simple black dress she wore that hinted at dangerous curves underneath. She’d always had gorgeous legs and that hadn’t changed. All the boys in their slum neighborhood of Finglas had wanted her, drawn to her fiery brilliance like moths to a flame. But she would have nothing to do with any of them.
Except for him. Because his plans were almost as big as hers. She’d shown him how to use his raw talent to leave the burnt-out cars and graffiti-scarred walls far behind. She’d researched which soccer leagues attracted the scouts from the English clubs and pushed him into them. When he needed to practice extra hours, she’d done his schoolwork for him. In the glorious moment when the Arsenal Academy had recruited him, she’d filled out the scholarship forms. Finally, she’d forced his mother to give her blessing to his departure, although he’d only discovered that years later.
Yet Frankie had refused to be anything more than his friend.
He brought his gaze back to her face, looking for a reaction to his blatantly appreciative survey, but she had her guard up now. She wasn’t going to be surprised into letting him hold her in his arms again. When she had laid her cheek against his chest for that brief, stunning moment, his heart had stopped. It was more than he had expected, less than he had hoped for.
She reached for the coat draped over a chair by the fire, but he swept it up first, holding it so that he had an excuse to brush his fingers against the nape of her neck and feel the silk of her hair on the back of his hands.
“Your reflexes haven’t slowed,” she said as she picked up her purse.
“On the soccer pitch they have. That’s why I’ve been coaching these last five years.”
“Was it hard to stop playing?” Her gaze was locked on his face.
“The hardest thing I’ve ever done but for one.” He knew he could play soccer. But when he retired, he’d had no idea if he could lead a team from the sidelines. “Was it hard to sell your company?”
“It was my goal from the day I started it.” She headed for the door.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
She stopped, her back to him. “I had no idea what to do after I signed the contract.”
“They didn’t have you stay on for the transition?”
“I told them I wouldn’t.” She pivoted back to him. “Can you imagine me taking orders from an outsider who knows less about the business than I do?”
“I thought you might have mellowed over the years.”
But of course she hadn’t. Even when she was young, she’d been tougher than the boys who followed her around like panting dogs. Thank God they did because when she’d been dragged into an alley by a drug dealer, a knife to her throat, one of the boys had seen the grab. The lad had run to tell Liam, thank Mary and Jesus. He’d sprinted as though he was trying out for Team Ireland, and hauled the thug off Frankie before her attacker had been able to pry her naked and bruised thighs apart.
The memory of her curled into a ball on the filthy cement littered with broken glass still made his gut clench. She hadn’t cried. She just lay there as he tore the tee shirt off his back and draped it over the shreds of her clothing, begging her to tell him where she was hurt.
“We made it out, Liam,” she said, savoring the warmth of the spicy, single-pot still liquor. “We made a damned good future.”
“It could be better.” He tossed back the whole drink. “Have dinner with me tonight. We can catch up on the twenty-three years since we last saw each other.” There was that edge in his voice again.
She should say no, partly just to douse his assumption that she would be available on such short notice. “Seven-thirty,” she said. “We can use the private dining room here at the club.”
“No, Frankie, I’m going to treat you, just like I promised back then. We’re going to the most expensive restaurant in New York City. I’ll pick you up at seven.” He leaned down to brush a kiss across her lips, the gossamer touch igniting the blood in her veins again. “A stór.”
And he was gone.
Frankie sank into the nearest chair, staring out at the sinuous snow-dusted curves of the modern sculpture in her garden. Trying to separate the memory of Liam from the reality of him.
All the photographs she’d collected as his athletic career skyrocketed hadn’t prepared her for the way his youthful arrogance had transformed into a confidence that he wore like a second skin. He moved as though the world would get out of his way.
And he’d reduced her to a hungry young girl again.
She hated that.
Chapter Two
Liam jogged up the stone steps of the Bellwether Club. At least this time he didn’t have to call his old friend Donal to get him through the well-guarded portal adorned with lush pine wreaths. The door swung open as he reached the portico, revealing a lean man dressed in a dark suit. He had the cold, blank stare of one of the thugs from the old neighborhood in Dublin. “Welcome, Mr. Keller,” the man said, in an entirely American accent. “I’ll take you to Ms. Hogan’s office.”
It was intimidating, the Bellwether Club. Not because he hadn’t been in plenty of other grand places with miles of mahogany paneling and fancy Oriental rugs, but because his old pal Frankie had created it, paid for it with her own money. It reminded him all too vividly that even the enormous sum of money his agent had wrung out of the mad Americans was peanuts compared to Frankie’s fortune. Which was going to make his task that much harder.
His cold-eyed escort gestured him through the door into the waiting room outside her office. She was standing by the garland-draped fireplace, staring into the flames. The firelight turned her silver hair to molten gold and sent light and shadows flickering across the sharp, clean lines of her face. Her beauty was achingly familiar, yet the years had changed it in subtle ways. As a girl, she had burned like a wild, blazing torch. Now her intensity was as sharp as a cutting laser.
Yet when she turned, warmth lit her gray eyes. “Liam,” she said. “I can’t quite get used to the sight of you. It’s like seeing a ghost.”
“Then let me convince you that I’m flesh and blood,” he said, moving quickly to place a kiss on her soft lips, the contact brief but firm.
There was a tiny hitch in her voice as she said, “Proof positive you’re human.”
“And you as well. Not just a dream anymore.” He let his eyes skim down the simple black dress she wore that hinted at dangerous curves underneath. She’d always had gorgeous legs and that hadn’t changed. All the boys in their slum neighborhood of Finglas had wanted her, drawn to her fiery brilliance like moths to a flame. But she would have nothing to do with any of them.
Except for him. Because his plans were almost as big as hers. She’d shown him how to use his raw talent to leave the burnt-out cars and graffiti-scarred walls far behind. She’d researched which soccer leagues attracted the scouts from the English clubs and pushed him into them. When he needed to practice extra hours, she’d done his schoolwork for him. In the glorious moment when the Arsenal Academy had recruited him, she’d filled out the scholarship forms. Finally, she’d forced his mother to give her blessing to his departure, although he’d only discovered that years later.
Yet Frankie had refused to be anything more than his friend.
He brought his gaze back to her face, looking for a reaction to his blatantly appreciative survey, but she had her guard up now. She wasn’t going to be surprised into letting him hold her in his arms again. When she had laid her cheek against his chest for that brief, stunning moment, his heart had stopped. It was more than he had expected, less than he had hoped for.
She reached for the coat draped over a chair by the fire, but he swept it up first, holding it so that he had an excuse to brush his fingers against the nape of her neck and feel the silk of her hair on the back of his hands.
“Your reflexes haven’t slowed,” she said as she picked up her purse.
“On the soccer pitch they have. That’s why I’ve been coaching these last five years.”
“Was it hard to stop playing?” Her gaze was locked on his face.
“The hardest thing I’ve ever done but for one.” He knew he could play soccer. But when he retired, he’d had no idea if he could lead a team from the sidelines. “Was it hard to sell your company?”
“It was my goal from the day I started it.” She headed for the door.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
She stopped, her back to him. “I had no idea what to do after I signed the contract.”
“They didn’t have you stay on for the transition?”
“I told them I wouldn’t.” She pivoted back to him. “Can you imagine me taking orders from an outsider who knows less about the business than I do?”
“I thought you might have mellowed over the years.”
But of course she hadn’t. Even when she was young, she’d been tougher than the boys who followed her around like panting dogs. Thank God they did because when she’d been dragged into an alley by a drug dealer, a knife to her throat, one of the boys had seen the grab. The lad had run to tell Liam, thank Mary and Jesus. He’d sprinted as though he was trying out for Team Ireland, and hauled the thug off Frankie before her attacker had been able to pry her naked and bruised thighs apart.
The memory of her curled into a ball on the filthy cement littered with broken glass still made his gut clench. She hadn’t cried. She just lay there as he tore the tee shirt off his back and draped it over the shreds of her clothing, begging her to tell him where she was hurt.
