seventy-five

Several hours after the guards hauled Nathan out of the marquee, Merrit used her status as party hostess to slip behind the bar. They’d hired Alan’s junior barman to tend to the drinks. He handed her a healthy glass of red wine with the comment that the party “rated as one for the books, anyhow.”

That was one way to put it. Merrit allowed the plummy wine to sit in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. The hailstorm had died down to a low groan of wind around the marquee, and the rain slid down the glass walls rather than smacking into them. A man from the marquee company had arrived to fix the tent. Now, with the shelter back up and the Sons of Erin whipping the dancers into a sweat, it was as if nothing had happened. No hailstorm. No crazed assault. No ambulance. Now it was pure booze, music, and faery lights.

Merrit pressed the wineglass against her lower lip, picturing Nathan as the paramedics bound him to a stretcher. His pain wrenched her. He was tragic, tragic as a lamb’s last romp before slaughter.

She shook her head against the image, against anything to do with lambs or sheep.

She held out her glass for the barman to top off, please, and wandered back to her matchmaking station. She’d yet to match anyone, unless she counted Marcus and Edna Dooley. Altogether, not an impressive debut showing. Joe Junior had never returned. She decided that inching Marcus and Edna closer together counted.

“Fancy some company?” Simon O’Neil dropped into the seat next to hers and clinked his pint against her wineglass.

“What are you still doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be performing Garda tasks?”

“To be continued tomorrow. The boss is long gone.” Simon scooted his chair closer to her. “Look at you, matchmaker. What would you say to me?”

“I’d say you were hankering for a shag, not love, and send you on your way.”

Simon laughed. “Drop and kick, the lady scores.” His skin was flushed from dancing, the hair brushing his forehead damp with sweat. He hooked an arm over the back of his chair and slouched comfortably, considering her. “You’re a hard one to read, eh?”

“Aloof, yes, I know. I’ve heard. And here I thought I was transparent.”

“Only when you’re panicking.”

That got a smile out of her. “Fair play to you, mister. What is it you want to read from me?”

“I fancy another outing, but I can’t tell whether you’re amenable to the idea.”

“Amenable.” She leaned back and mimicked his loose posture. “Nice word. For that, I might consider another outing.”

“All it takes is good vocabulary? In that case—” He straightened. “We’ve got company.”

Merrit turned to see Zoe with her hair pulled up into a messy knot and makeup smudged below her eyes. Despite the stresses of the evening, she gazed around with a smile. “I’m sorry I left you hanging, Merrit. It looks like the music sorted itself out, though. In fact, all looks right in the world.”

“You had other priorities,” Merrit said. “How is your father?”

“I drove all the way to the hospital, and they turned me away until tomorrow.” She sighed. “I hope he’s all right.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to see then,” Merrit said. “Why don’t you fetch yourself a drink? Tell the barman I said it was on me.”

“You are too sweet. Thank you.” Zoe ducked through the crowd and by the time she landed at the end of the drinks line, she was arm-in-arm with one of her men friends.

“That girl could float through a tsunami,” Simon said.

“Seems like it.” Merrit swallowed more wine, feeling deflated. “What a day.”

Simon scrutinized her with a look that Merrit wasn’t sure she wanted to decipher. He cupped her head in a gentle grip and bent closer still. “Enough with you,” he whispered, “come here.” He grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her over the red velvet cordon. Ten seconds later, he pulled her behind the puppeteer’s stage and out of sight of everyone else in the marquee. Before Merrit had a chance to react, he kissed her, long enough to savor but short enough to remain gentleman-like.

“What the hell?” she said when she pulled away.

He grinned. “Hope that helps salvage the day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be off to bed. No bank holiday for me tomorrow.”

Simon squeezed her hand in goodbye, leaving Merrit to pat her chest against the familiar panicky feeling. Faery lights reflecting off dripping rain created pretty water patterns on the windows that Merrit lost herself in while she got her breathing under control. She could take a lesson from the old proverb, Physician, heal thyself. Matchmaker, match thyself.

Yeah, right. She couldn’t decide whether Simon was presumptuous or exciting. Arrogant or seductive. Which probably explained his success with the ladies.

After a minute of deep breaths, her lungs calmed. It was just a kiss, nothing long-lasting or permanent. She was free to leave, leading with one of her lamb’s feet aimed back toward California. That was her right, especially because her life here came with conditions and expectations that she wasn’t sure she could manage—or wanted to manage.

“Shite on a stick,” she said, even though that phrase didn’t sound correct.

The specter of Liam’s impending death loomed large, larger than she’d wanted to admit. One thing to live here while he was alive, but after that?

So here she stood after kissing an attractive man, feeling nothing but lost.