The Irishman's Christmas Gamble
Page 4
“Why, Liam?”
“Can’t you guess?”
She gave her head a tiny shake so he wouldn’t need to release his hold on her. She loved the feel of his finger on the fragile skin that stretched over her jaw.
“I told you when we said good-bye that I would find you—”
“You were a kid then.”
“I was no more a kid than you were. We grew up too fast because we had no choice.” His eyebrows pulled downward, putting a furrow between them. “I said I would find you, wherever you were.”
She held her breath because she remembered what he had said after that.
“I told you I’d find you,” he continued, “and convince you to love me.”
Chapter Three
His words sent a thrill of longing and denial shivering through Frankie. “You were eighteen. It was a long time ago.” She took a step backward. He matched her step, moving forward to stay near her. He ran his hands up her arms to grip her shoulders. “You can’t use my age as an excuse now.”
She closed her eyes, savoring the power of his hold on her, letting the heat of his hands sink deep into her body, wishing she didn’t feel a hundred years older than the man touching her. “Yes, I can,” she whispered. “You deserve a family.”
The silence made her open her eyes again. His eyes were lit with tenderness. “You are my family. You always have been.”
She started to shake her head.
“Give me a chance, a stór. You owe me that.”
“I don’t owe anyone anything,” she said. “All that I have, all that I am, I made myself.”
“Don’t you want someone to be sharing it with?” His voice was all Irish, a music soft as velvet.
The yearning his words stirred up nearly choked her. She forced her voice past the tightness in her throat, making it sound strong and certain. “I prefer my solitude. I don’t compromise well.”
Instead of being put off, he laughed. “Now that would be an understatement, if ever there was one.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “I’m going to change your mind about solitude, Frankie. I swear it.” He released her. “You still have to light the candle.”
This time she held the match steady, transferring the flame to the wick so it flared into light. For a moment, she just watched the flame, letting the sweetness of Liam’s gesture wash over her like a warm sea.
“Our dinner’s waiting for us.” He pivoted.
Following his motion, she saw the table set in the middle of the room, draped in green linen and lit by more of the pillar candles, their bases wreathed in garlands of holly and ivy. A plate covered with a silver dome sat at each of the two place settings. Champagne flutes sparkled in the candlelight, and a silver wine cooler stood on its own pedestal.
Liam held the chair for her. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stirred with pleasure at his nearness. He lifted the cover from her plate and walked to his own seat.
By the time he sat down across from her, Frankie had her armor firmly strapped on again. She touched the jewelry she wore, her favorite gems: black opal and diamond earrings and a triple strand of perfectly matched Mikimoto pearls. She had taken on men just as intimidating as Liam with these talismans and come out the victor.
A waiter in a white jacket materialized at the side of the table. When he plucked out the bottle to fill the paper-thin flutes, she saw that the champagne was Dom Pérignon. Memory flooded her again. When she’d begun to experiment with developing her own chocolates at Balfour Chocolatiers, she’d dreamed of flavoring them with champagne, but couldn’t afford the key ingredient. She’d told Liam that she’d know she had made it to the top of her profession when she could use not just any champagne, but Dom Pérignon.
“Your Dom Bombs are my go-to gift,” Liam said, proving that his choice of beverage was no accident. “Although my personal favorite is your Black-and-Tan bar.” He swirled the champagne in the glass. “The taste of your chocolate makes me feel young.”
The urge to plunge a wooden spoon into a vat of rich, thick, melted chocolate made her fingers curl with longing. “I don’t make chocolate anymore. Not since I sold Taste of Ireland to Giacometti International.”
He set down his glass and pulled his wallet out of his jacket pocket, the movement sending glints of candlelight waltzing along the waves of his thick hair, turning it copper. He extracted a folded newspaper clipping from a compartment in the dark leather billfold and handed it to her.
It was the Wall Street Journal article, worn along the creases, announcing the sale of her chocolate business to the Italian firm. She had the same article framed in her penthouse office. It was the day when the world found out that she was a billionaire.
“I tried to send you roses,” he said, “but no one would give me your address. I finally sent them to the corporate headquarters of Taste of Ireland, but they said you were already gone.”
Something in her chest warmed at the knowledge that he’d tried to celebrate with her.
“Of course, you’ve always been good at a quick exit.” His tone was dry.
“I didn’t leave you.” He had been the one to go. To the premier league soccer academy that launched him into the stratosphere of his sport. “It was lonely after you were gone.”
“Is that why you flew off to America without a word?”
“I had an opportunity and I took it.” She looked down at the plate in front of her. “I was afraid you’d leave the academy just to say good-bye. I didn’t want you to screw up your opportunity.”
She risked a glance at him. He sat back in his chair, his broad shoulders framed by the blue leather upholstery. It was hard to read his expression in the wavering candlelight. One moment he looked angry, the next he seemed sad.
“You were always more worried about my career than I was.” He gave her a crooked smile. “And I thank you for that.”
“You had a great talent, and the passion to go with it. I didn’t want you to squander it in Finglas.”
“Did you ever think you’d fail?”
She took a sip of champagne, enjoying the fizz that tickled her tongue. “Fail to do what? Get out? No. I knew that I would haul myself out of that pit, but that was setting the bar low.” She shrugged. “Anything else was a bonus.”
“Can’t you guess?”
She gave her head a tiny shake so he wouldn’t need to release his hold on her. She loved the feel of his finger on the fragile skin that stretched over her jaw.
“I told you when we said good-bye that I would find you—”
“You were a kid then.”
“I was no more a kid than you were. We grew up too fast because we had no choice.” His eyebrows pulled downward, putting a furrow between them. “I said I would find you, wherever you were.”
She held her breath because she remembered what he had said after that.
“I told you I’d find you,” he continued, “and convince you to love me.”
Chapter Three
His words sent a thrill of longing and denial shivering through Frankie. “You were eighteen. It was a long time ago.” She took a step backward. He matched her step, moving forward to stay near her. He ran his hands up her arms to grip her shoulders. “You can’t use my age as an excuse now.”
She closed her eyes, savoring the power of his hold on her, letting the heat of his hands sink deep into her body, wishing she didn’t feel a hundred years older than the man touching her. “Yes, I can,” she whispered. “You deserve a family.”
The silence made her open her eyes again. His eyes were lit with tenderness. “You are my family. You always have been.”
She started to shake her head.
“Give me a chance, a stór. You owe me that.”
“I don’t owe anyone anything,” she said. “All that I have, all that I am, I made myself.”
“Don’t you want someone to be sharing it with?” His voice was all Irish, a music soft as velvet.
The yearning his words stirred up nearly choked her. She forced her voice past the tightness in her throat, making it sound strong and certain. “I prefer my solitude. I don’t compromise well.”
Instead of being put off, he laughed. “Now that would be an understatement, if ever there was one.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “I’m going to change your mind about solitude, Frankie. I swear it.” He released her. “You still have to light the candle.”
This time she held the match steady, transferring the flame to the wick so it flared into light. For a moment, she just watched the flame, letting the sweetness of Liam’s gesture wash over her like a warm sea.
“Our dinner’s waiting for us.” He pivoted.
Following his motion, she saw the table set in the middle of the room, draped in green linen and lit by more of the pillar candles, their bases wreathed in garlands of holly and ivy. A plate covered with a silver dome sat at each of the two place settings. Champagne flutes sparkled in the candlelight, and a silver wine cooler stood on its own pedestal.
Liam held the chair for her. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stirred with pleasure at his nearness. He lifted the cover from her plate and walked to his own seat.
By the time he sat down across from her, Frankie had her armor firmly strapped on again. She touched the jewelry she wore, her favorite gems: black opal and diamond earrings and a triple strand of perfectly matched Mikimoto pearls. She had taken on men just as intimidating as Liam with these talismans and come out the victor.
A waiter in a white jacket materialized at the side of the table. When he plucked out the bottle to fill the paper-thin flutes, she saw that the champagne was Dom Pérignon. Memory flooded her again. When she’d begun to experiment with developing her own chocolates at Balfour Chocolatiers, she’d dreamed of flavoring them with champagne, but couldn’t afford the key ingredient. She’d told Liam that she’d know she had made it to the top of her profession when she could use not just any champagne, but Dom Pérignon.
“Your Dom Bombs are my go-to gift,” Liam said, proving that his choice of beverage was no accident. “Although my personal favorite is your Black-and-Tan bar.” He swirled the champagne in the glass. “The taste of your chocolate makes me feel young.”
The urge to plunge a wooden spoon into a vat of rich, thick, melted chocolate made her fingers curl with longing. “I don’t make chocolate anymore. Not since I sold Taste of Ireland to Giacometti International.”
He set down his glass and pulled his wallet out of his jacket pocket, the movement sending glints of candlelight waltzing along the waves of his thick hair, turning it copper. He extracted a folded newspaper clipping from a compartment in the dark leather billfold and handed it to her.
It was the Wall Street Journal article, worn along the creases, announcing the sale of her chocolate business to the Italian firm. She had the same article framed in her penthouse office. It was the day when the world found out that she was a billionaire.
“I tried to send you roses,” he said, “but no one would give me your address. I finally sent them to the corporate headquarters of Taste of Ireland, but they said you were already gone.”
Something in her chest warmed at the knowledge that he’d tried to celebrate with her.
“Of course, you’ve always been good at a quick exit.” His tone was dry.
“I didn’t leave you.” He had been the one to go. To the premier league soccer academy that launched him into the stratosphere of his sport. “It was lonely after you were gone.”
“Is that why you flew off to America without a word?”
“I had an opportunity and I took it.” She looked down at the plate in front of her. “I was afraid you’d leave the academy just to say good-bye. I didn’t want you to screw up your opportunity.”
She risked a glance at him. He sat back in his chair, his broad shoulders framed by the blue leather upholstery. It was hard to read his expression in the wavering candlelight. One moment he looked angry, the next he seemed sad.
“You were always more worried about my career than I was.” He gave her a crooked smile. “And I thank you for that.”
“You had a great talent, and the passion to go with it. I didn’t want you to squander it in Finglas.”
“Did you ever think you’d fail?”
She took a sip of champagne, enjoying the fizz that tickled her tongue. “Fail to do what? Get out? No. I knew that I would haul myself out of that pit, but that was setting the bar low.” She shrugged. “Anything else was a bonus.”
