The Irishman's Christmas Gamble
Page 3
It wasn’t until the blood from his broken nose dripped onto her cheek that she stirred. “You’re bleeding. We need to get you taken care of.” She had sat up and pulled his shirt on over her head as though it was an everyday occurrence. Taking his hand to rise to her feet, she looked him in the eye and said, “Thank you for saving me from my own stupidity. I’ll never let happiness make me careless again.”
He still didn’t know what good fortune had made her forget her dangerous surroundings.
As the big limo glided to a stop, Frankie tried to peer out the window to see what restaurant Liam had chosen, but he flung open the door and leapt out before she had a chance. On the ride to dinner, she’d been too focused on the man seated beside her to track their progress through the city. Being closed into the dark, private space with her oldest friend had brought back a rush of feelings and memories she had a hard time swimming through. It also brought a physical awareness that had her noticing every shift of his weight on the leather seat, every brush of his shoulder against hers, every rise and fall of his rumbling voice.
When he’d walked into her office in his dark, well-tailored suit, his auburn hair and blue eyes catching glints of firelight while shadows emphasized the hard angles of his face, she’d felt the pull of him low in her gut, not as a friend but as a powerful, sexual man.
He was Liam and not Liam. She would fall into a relaxed camaraderie with him and then he would say something to remind her that he had worked at an elite level on the international sports stage for many years. It unbalanced their old relationship where she was the wise, experienced mentor and he the eager, young follower.
The first time she’d seen Liam playing on the mudhole that passed for a local soccer pitch, he’d made every other player look like they were moving in slow motion. But it had been the desire and drive he telegraphed in every pass, every fake, every kick that snagged her attention. He burned with the passion to win. That was the moment she decided she would do everything in her power to get this brilliant kid out of the pit of despair that was Finglas. Maybe she wouldn’t make it, but he would.
“Where are we?” Frankie said, setting her high heels on a gritty cement sidewalk and allowing Liam to help her out of the car. A curved stone wall rose up beside them and she tilted her head back to look up at it. The shape and texture were familiar but she had no way to orient herself after her inattention during the drive.
“The most expensive restaurant in New York City.” His smile flashed white in the streetlights. “This is the private entrance to the Owner’s Box in Yankee Stadium.”
Frankie laughed. “You always could surprise me.”
“When no one else could.”
She didn’t want to feel this bubble of delight expanding in her chest. “Don’t you have to own the Yankees to eat here?”
“Or you can work for the owners, like I do.” He held out his elbow and she put her hand through it. “In the off-season, they were willing to allow their newest hire to borrow it.”
He led her toward a polished steel door with the New York Yankees logo set into the sidewalk in front of it. It opened at their approach, held by a balding man in a blue coverall. They walked to an elevator where the door keeper inserted a key and sent them soaring upwards.
The elevator opened onto a hallway with walls covered in blue suede and a floor paved with speckled granite. Liam led her to a double set of steel-and-glass doors. On each hung a wreath of entwined holly and ivy, adorned with a red velvet bow.
She slid a quick glance toward Liam. The holly and ivy were an Irish tradition, but were also not uncommon in her adopted country. He met her eyes but said nothing.
Pushing open the door, he bowed her through into a foyer before hanging her coat in the closet. When she stepped into the next room, Frankie gasped. Dozens of candles were lined up along the counter in front of the huge plate glass windows that formed one wall of the owner’s box, their flames casting a flickering golden light.
“Mary and Joseph candles,” Frankie whispered, her throat too clogged with tears to say it any louder. “To light their way to the stable on Christmas Eve.”
“I saved one for you, even though it’s not Christmas Eve.” He brought her to an unlit candle at the end of the counter. The tall pillar of white wax was a foot tall and at least three inches in diameter, with raised golden angels molded into its sides. He picked up a long, fireplace match from the counter and handed it to her. “I figured because you were the eldest daughter in your family, you never got to light the candle.”
As she took the match, memory yanked her back to the day the priest had given her a half-burnt church candle to place in the window of their flat on Christmas Eve. They didn’t have the money to spend on useless decorations, so this was a magical gift. But tradition held that the youngest daughter was given the task of lighting the beacon for the weary travelers seeking an inn. Frankie was ten years old, with three younger sisters by then. She’d watched in envy as five-year-old Shauna’s face had been illuminated by the glow of the flame when she kindled it to life.
Suddenly, tears painted warm tracks down Frankie’s cheeks. She tried to hold the tip of the match to the nearest candle flame, but her hand shook. Liam took the match from her, his long fingers brushing hers. “I didn’t expect this to upset you,” he said, his voice tight with concern.
“Not upset, touched.” She wiped at the wet streaks with the back of her hand. She’d never told Liam that story, just as she’d never told him so many of the squalid secrets of her family life. Yet he’d seen her gaze longingly at the candles flickering in the windows of the rich people’s houses they’d walk past. “You were sweet to remember how much I loved the candles.”
He put one of those long fingers under her chin to tilt her face up, his dark blue gaze locked on her. “I remember everything about you, Frankie.”
“So the wreaths….”
“Just like the one on the door of the posh house in Ballsbridge you loved. The one that you said you were going to buy when you made your fortune.”
She swallowed, searching his face for a clue as to why he was doing this. All she saw was the drama of his slashing brows, the strength of his square chin, and the lines etched at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Lines that hadn’t been there when they parted twenty-three years before. Lines that only made him more beautiful because they showed he was a man, not a boy.
He still didn’t know what good fortune had made her forget her dangerous surroundings.
As the big limo glided to a stop, Frankie tried to peer out the window to see what restaurant Liam had chosen, but he flung open the door and leapt out before she had a chance. On the ride to dinner, she’d been too focused on the man seated beside her to track their progress through the city. Being closed into the dark, private space with her oldest friend had brought back a rush of feelings and memories she had a hard time swimming through. It also brought a physical awareness that had her noticing every shift of his weight on the leather seat, every brush of his shoulder against hers, every rise and fall of his rumbling voice.
When he’d walked into her office in his dark, well-tailored suit, his auburn hair and blue eyes catching glints of firelight while shadows emphasized the hard angles of his face, she’d felt the pull of him low in her gut, not as a friend but as a powerful, sexual man.
He was Liam and not Liam. She would fall into a relaxed camaraderie with him and then he would say something to remind her that he had worked at an elite level on the international sports stage for many years. It unbalanced their old relationship where she was the wise, experienced mentor and he the eager, young follower.
The first time she’d seen Liam playing on the mudhole that passed for a local soccer pitch, he’d made every other player look like they were moving in slow motion. But it had been the desire and drive he telegraphed in every pass, every fake, every kick that snagged her attention. He burned with the passion to win. That was the moment she decided she would do everything in her power to get this brilliant kid out of the pit of despair that was Finglas. Maybe she wouldn’t make it, but he would.
“Where are we?” Frankie said, setting her high heels on a gritty cement sidewalk and allowing Liam to help her out of the car. A curved stone wall rose up beside them and she tilted her head back to look up at it. The shape and texture were familiar but she had no way to orient herself after her inattention during the drive.
“The most expensive restaurant in New York City.” His smile flashed white in the streetlights. “This is the private entrance to the Owner’s Box in Yankee Stadium.”
Frankie laughed. “You always could surprise me.”
“When no one else could.”
She didn’t want to feel this bubble of delight expanding in her chest. “Don’t you have to own the Yankees to eat here?”
“Or you can work for the owners, like I do.” He held out his elbow and she put her hand through it. “In the off-season, they were willing to allow their newest hire to borrow it.”
He led her toward a polished steel door with the New York Yankees logo set into the sidewalk in front of it. It opened at their approach, held by a balding man in a blue coverall. They walked to an elevator where the door keeper inserted a key and sent them soaring upwards.
The elevator opened onto a hallway with walls covered in blue suede and a floor paved with speckled granite. Liam led her to a double set of steel-and-glass doors. On each hung a wreath of entwined holly and ivy, adorned with a red velvet bow.
She slid a quick glance toward Liam. The holly and ivy were an Irish tradition, but were also not uncommon in her adopted country. He met her eyes but said nothing.
Pushing open the door, he bowed her through into a foyer before hanging her coat in the closet. When she stepped into the next room, Frankie gasped. Dozens of candles were lined up along the counter in front of the huge plate glass windows that formed one wall of the owner’s box, their flames casting a flickering golden light.
“Mary and Joseph candles,” Frankie whispered, her throat too clogged with tears to say it any louder. “To light their way to the stable on Christmas Eve.”
“I saved one for you, even though it’s not Christmas Eve.” He brought her to an unlit candle at the end of the counter. The tall pillar of white wax was a foot tall and at least three inches in diameter, with raised golden angels molded into its sides. He picked up a long, fireplace match from the counter and handed it to her. “I figured because you were the eldest daughter in your family, you never got to light the candle.”
As she took the match, memory yanked her back to the day the priest had given her a half-burnt church candle to place in the window of their flat on Christmas Eve. They didn’t have the money to spend on useless decorations, so this was a magical gift. But tradition held that the youngest daughter was given the task of lighting the beacon for the weary travelers seeking an inn. Frankie was ten years old, with three younger sisters by then. She’d watched in envy as five-year-old Shauna’s face had been illuminated by the glow of the flame when she kindled it to life.
Suddenly, tears painted warm tracks down Frankie’s cheeks. She tried to hold the tip of the match to the nearest candle flame, but her hand shook. Liam took the match from her, his long fingers brushing hers. “I didn’t expect this to upset you,” he said, his voice tight with concern.
“Not upset, touched.” She wiped at the wet streaks with the back of her hand. She’d never told Liam that story, just as she’d never told him so many of the squalid secrets of her family life. Yet he’d seen her gaze longingly at the candles flickering in the windows of the rich people’s houses they’d walk past. “You were sweet to remember how much I loved the candles.”
He put one of those long fingers under her chin to tilt her face up, his dark blue gaze locked on her. “I remember everything about you, Frankie.”
“So the wreaths….”
“Just like the one on the door of the posh house in Ballsbridge you loved. The one that you said you were going to buy when you made your fortune.”
She swallowed, searching his face for a clue as to why he was doing this. All she saw was the drama of his slashing brows, the strength of his square chin, and the lines etched at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Lines that hadn’t been there when they parted twenty-three years before. Lines that only made him more beautiful because they showed he was a man, not a boy.
