ANNIE RUTHERFORD wasn’t always a woman of her word.
This revelation was nothing short of a gobsmack to Daniel, who’d watched for her in the hotel lobby until nearly nine-forty. Being Irish, he held a loose appreciation of time and was willing to wait. Not to mention that the chance to go outside and sneak a cigarette—truly his last—had also held some appeal. Still, even an Irishman knew when casual crossed the line to late. After a call to Annie’s room had gone unanswered, he’d ventured to the bar, where he’d found her.
She’d looked at him over the rim of her martini and informed him that she’d be ready to “get this over with” once she’d finished her dinner. That meal had consisted of French fries, shrimp cocktail and chocolate cake. At least she was open to diversity.
“We’ll be starting at Mulvaney’s,” he told her as they finally stepped outside the hotel.
“A chain with locations in L.A., Vail, Chicago, Coconut Grove and Boston,” she shot back, eyes straight ahead. “A moderately successful IPO two years ago. Gross annual sales in excess of thirteen million.”
So they were back to the sharp-tongued Ms. Annie who’d met him at the airport days earlier. “Grand then, you’ve heard of it.”
She turned left and marched down the walk. “I did my research.”
He moved a step ahead of her. “Then you’d be knowing you’re headed the wrong way?”
That, at least, brought her up short.
“No sense of direction,” she replied before turning about.
As they traveled the blocks to the pub, Daniel tried some chat, but she limited her responses to two words or less. And not bloody once would she look his way.
“Is something wrong?” he asked as they walked past the bright shop windows on Michigan Avenue.
“No,” she said in a cheery voice that somehow also carried a layer of frost. Where did women learn how to do that? It had to be some sort of skill passed from mother to daughter in utero.
Daniel stretched out his stride. He’d never had difficulty keeping up with a woman half his damn size. “Did I miss a message? Was I to meet you in the bar?”
“No message.”
Other than the one she was sending now. He considered himself a fair sort of man. He didn’t mind taking a kick in the arse when he’d done wrong. Problem of it was, he’d done nothing wrong.
“Turn here,” he said when they reached Ontario Street.
She nodded.
And he got not another word out of her the rest of the way to Mulvaney’s. He opened the pub’s door, shaking his head at the layers of paint some poor fool had had to coat the bloody thing with to make it look old. Next he’d be finding water stains artfully applied to the ceiling.
He glanced back and discovered that Her Royal Highness wasn’t ready to enter.
“Not yet,” she said while pulling out a camera.
Daniel ushered in two women who’d been walking behind them. “But it’s dark,” he said to Annie.
“I’ll use a flash.”
He stepped away from the door and patiently waited while she took photos of the pub’s sign, trim and whatnot. Finally, she tucked the camera back into her handbag.
“Shall we?” he asked, gesturing at the entrance.
“Fine.”
Right, then. About as fine as a three-bottle whiskey hangover. Still, Daniel knew no way through this evening but to finish it.
He was holding the door open for her when she said, “Hang on.”
He waved on two more couples and wondered whether his friend Brian might be seeking a doorman for the place. He was well auditioned by now.
Annie beckoned him over, then headed around the corner. Against his better judgment, Daniel followed. She stopped in front of what had to be the dozenth cell phone store he’d seen that day. The glow from the street lights gave him the unhappy set of her face. She wasn’t alone in that.
“I think we need to have a talk,” she said.
And here he’d been fairly certain that she’d forgotten how.
Daniel watched as she gripped the straps of the handbag she’d slung over her shoulder. His gaze traveled downward—Ms. Annie had been shopping. If he weren’t so balls-out irked at the way she was acting, he might tell her that she looked utterly sexy. Her fitted white top and short black print skirt celebrated a figure made to know the sweep of a man’s hands. His, perhaps.
“I’m a pretty liberal person,” she announced. “You can’t live in a college town without having seen—or heard—nearly everything once.”
Daniel was sure this was leading somewhere, but just now he was as directionless as Annie.
“And I don’t believe in prying into people’s personal lives. I mean, different strokes for different folks and all that. But here’s the thing, Flynn. You and I have to work together. I can be as professional as the next person, but I don’t think I can sit through meetings and whatever without thinking about…about…”
She’d stretched out that last word until he felt as though he were sitting for a fill-in-the-blank exam. “About what?”
“You know what!”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t be asking if I did.”
“I heard you, Flynn…in your room.”
He was beginning to believe that he was nearly as thick as his eejit brothers. “My room? The hotel room?”
She stared intently at the concrete beneath their feet. “Yes.”
“The room next to yours?”
“Yes, the room next to mine. Are you going to make me spell this out?”
He’d begun to grasp the general idea, but remained tempted to ask for specifics simply for entertainment’s sake. But he also recalled her tears at O’Hare, and he never wanted to make her cry.
“Annie, I changed rooms this afternoon,” he said. “The cold water tap in mine wasn’t closing well. I went to tell you, but you weren’t there.” He shrugged. “It didn’t seem worth leaving a message when I knew I’d be seeing you tonight.”
Finally, she met his eyes. “This afternoon? Not tonight?”
“Not long after we’d checked in,” he confirmed.
“But I heard…”
“It wasn’t me, though I can be guessing what you heard.”
Her laughter was muffled, but there nonetheless. “You might be in the ballpark, but trust me, you can’t guess.”
He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or insulted that she’d imagined him engaging in obviously other than the standard activities, and so soon after they’d arrived, too. No decision on the point seemed to best suit the bill. Nor did he have to talk, because Annie was now deep in discussion with herself.
“Wow,” she said as she paced three strides away. “You weren’t even in there.” She tipped back her head and laughed. “Embarrassing. Major-league embarrassing.” Hands on hips, she looked at the night sky for a moment, then walked the three steps back to him.
“I take it you won’t be giving me the gritty details of what you heard?”
“No time soon,” she said, softening the words with a smile. “But I do owe you an apology. Even if it had been you in that room, really, it’s none of my business.” She paused for a moment, frowning. “You know, maybe it’s the stress of traveling. I’m not very good at it.”
“You’re doing a grand job,” Daniel said, feeling charitable. Ms. Annie had apologized, and even to his skeptical ears it had sounded real.
He tried to imagine how he’d feel had he heard Annie making love. The first word that came to him was no surprise—excited. Hard. One after another, the thoughts rolled.
Hungry.
Angry.
Jealous.
Damn, he hadn’t known her a week and he was acting as though she were his!
Daniel took a mental step back and tried to grab hold of his common sense. Perhaps it wasn’t so much Annie who appealed, as it was the challenge she represented. He’d been seized by the goal of swaying a woman who could scarcely stand to look at him. Except he knew that wasn’t the full truth. If she hated him, she’d not care if he had women three-deep lining the hotel’s hallways.
Then what was it about Annie? It occurred to him that for all the girlfriends he’d had, he really didn’t know feck-all about attraction. Just as quickly, he accepted that he was better off that way, too. He’d rather go with the moment than think it to bloody death.
“So is my apology accepted?” she asked.
“It is.” He took Annie’s hand and drew her back around the corner. “And now it’s time to have some fun.”
Which was, he had begun to suspect, something that Annie Rutherford sorely needed.
ANNIE HAD NEVER BEEN in anything resembling a real pub. As she looked around Mulvaney’s, with its expensive furnishings and fixtures, she suspected that her record still held. This was a pub on steroids, one whose owner had the cash for the best of everything. She knew she should be puzzling out why Flynn had chosen to bring her here in search of authenticity, but she was too giddy with relief to go beneath the surface.
Thank God it hadn’t been Flynn on the receiving end of that “spank me!” command. She’d just begun to like him, to believe that he was possibly more than the sum of his good looks and glib tongue.
“Let me give word we’re here,” Daniel said, edging with her to one of the few open spots in the busy pub.
Annie surveyed the place, then snapped a few more pictures. She’d bet that the tables were wait-listed for a good hour or more. It didn’t look as though the people waiting especially minded—always a good sign. In the very front of the pub, a group of people sat on a combination of benches, bar stools and chairs in a circle. They were drinking and talking at the moment, but all had an instrument of one sort or another at rest.
She glanced over at Flynn, who was smiling and laughing with the hostess.
“Come on back to the service bar,” he said once the conversation was finished. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
The floor was noisy and crowded, but Flynn took her hand and ran interference for them, weaving through groups with such confidence that Annie felt as though she was witnessing the pub version of the parting of the Red Sea.
At the far end of the long mahogany-colored bar was a small annex that she knew was used to tend to servers’ orders. On the edge of this area, Flynn stopped in front of a man wearing an emerald-green polo shirt with the Mulvaney’s logo. He was shorter than Flynn and had red hair that had begun to recede. He and Flynn engaged in that handshake/backslap ritual that was exclusively a male greeting. When they were done, both turned to her.
“Annie,” Flynn said over the noise, “this is Brian Naughton, an old friend from university. Brian’s in charge of everything east of the Mississippi, unless he’s been overstating his importance.”
“Only the Mulvaney’s Pubs,” Brian qualified. “Welcome, Annie. Any friend of Daniel’s is a woman to be pitied.”
Flynn laughed. “Save the insults. Annie has a low enough opinion of me already.”
Annie shook hands with Brian. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“And you,” Flynn’s friend said. “Daniel’s said he’s going to be working with you for a while.”
“He’s helping get a project off the ground.”
Brian nodded. “So he’s mentioned. Can I get you something to drink?”
She’d learned on Friday night that alcohol and emotion were a toxic mix in her system. “Just some water, thanks.”
“Daniel?”
He eyed the bar. “A pint of stout, I’m thinking.”
“Maura, water and a pint,” Brian called to the service bartender.
The water appeared almost instantaneously. The pint, Annie noted, was a slower process, with the glass three-quarters poured, then left to settle.
Annie thanked Brian for the water and sipped at it while the two guys caught up on common friends.
“So, Annie, have you been with the Donovan family long?” Brian asked as he handed Flynn his now fully poured pint.
“A little over five years,” she answered, scooting back a bit to let a waiter by, his tray heavy with drinks. She bumped into Flynn, who settled a calming hand on her shoulder. At least it should have been calming, except for the jump to her pulse.
“Ah, that’s nothing, yet,” Brian said. “I’m nearing ten years with Mulvaney’s.”
“Either sounds like torture to me,” Flynn commented.
“And sometimes to me,” Brian replied, then raised a cautionary hand. “Don’t be getting me wrong, I have the perfect job for my particular talents.” He smiled at Annie, then added, “Daniel, here, has this way of making the rest of us poor work-a-day slobs wonder ‘what if?’ We don’t travel half the year and we never meet royalty.”
“Royalty? At your family pub?” she asked Flynn.
“No, unless you count Mad Johnny McMahon, the self-proclaimed King of Clifden. The royalty—and minor at that—was actually an interview for a magazine I write for. You won’t find it outside Europe.”
“Ah. Small potatoes, then,” she said, slipping into his casual tone.
“Exactly.”
Brian laughed. “You see? He’s humble, too. He’s not even mentioning his novel.”
Annie thought she might have caught Flynn glaring at his friend.
“The one that earned me nearly enough for a sack of groceries?” he asked. “Why mention it at all?”
“See, there’s no living with him,” Brian said to Annie.
A server waiting in line at the service bar turned and joined the conversation. “You’re the infamous Daniel Flynn, right?” she asked.
“I am.”
“Why don’t you let us hear if you’re as awful at music as Brian has been saying.”
Flynn smiled, but didn’t budge. “Worse, I promise.”
“One song,” she wheedled.
“Go on,” Annie said. “I’ll talk business while you’re gone.”
“I’d rather you did it in front of me,” he said, but allowed himself to be dragged off all the same.
“So you’ve not heard Daniel play?” Brian asked.
“No.” Between the writing and the university education, Annie wasn’t sure she was ready to, either. She’d had Flynn nicely pigeonholed, but he’d flown the coop.
“Come on,” Brian said. “We’ll find a spot toward the front.” He signaled one of the staff over and asked him to bring some chairs. As Annie and Brian were cutting through the throng, he said over his shoulder, “Daniel told me that old Hal Donovan has decided to start a pub chain.”
“That’s the general plan.”
“And here I am consorting with the enemy.” Laughing, he shook his head. “Only for Daniel Flynn.”
They had worked their way up to the musicians’ area. The waiter arrived, carrying two low stools over his head. He set them just outside of the circle, next to a table that held a clutter of the musicians’ drinks.
Brian nodded his thanks to his employee. They sat, Annie facing the circle, and Brian, more angled away. She did her best to keep her attention trained on Brian, but it was a losing battle. She watched as Flynn took an offered fiddle, gave his thanks to the owner, then turned away from the circle of musicians and well, fiddled, she guessed, until satisfied that he knew the instrument.
“‘Miss Monaghan’s Reel’,” he said to the others in the circle.
Everybody readied. Daniel began to tap out a rhythm, then started to play. After a few moments, the other musicians joined in. Annie, who had quit piano lessons after three miserable years, was floored. Flynn wasn’t one of those cheesy fake-a-few-songs-to-get-the-girls-hot dabblers that she recalled from college. He could really play.
Other than a short-lived phase at age fifteen, she had never considered “groupie” as a career path. As she watched Flynn—and watched the other women in the area watch Flynn…bitches—Annie did some serious rethinking. The pay wouldn’t be all that great, but she had a feeling that the fringe benefits would sweeten the deal. Considerably.
“Annie?”
She dragged her focus from just over Brian’s shoulder to his face. “Yes?”
“I was asking how quickly you turn tables in one of Donovan’s restaurants.”
“Oh…fifteen minutes, I think.”
“Fifteen?”
Annie winced when she realized what she’d said. She’d never acted this unprofessionally, not even during endless management meetings when she fantasized about using fat black binder clips to clamp shut Hal’s sons’ mouths.
“Sorry, I misspoke. I meant fifty. And I should warn you, pubs and food service in general aren’t exactly my areas of expertise. I’m more about analyzing industry numbers and trends. I’ve kind of been drafted into this particular project.”
“Ah, I see. Well, we’re a bit slower turning tables here, but with our drink revenues, we’re glad to let them sit and listen to the entertainment. Have you thought about bringing in some J1s?”
She was pretty sure she’d read about that on another restaurant’s Web site while cyber-pub-surfing over the weekend. “Students on visas, right?”
He nodded. “Exactly. Come summer, you can have half your staff Irish. There’s nothing like a bit of added color.”
Annie’s gaze wandered back to Flynn. He’d segued from one song to the next. This one followed the same beat, yet was a little sharper, a little more wry. He glanced her way and their gazes locked.
Yes, added color was a fine, fine thing.
When she looked back to Brian, another pub employee was there, saying something to him in low tones. Brian stood.
“Sorry, but I’ve got a bit of a situation to tend to,” he said to Annie. “Why don’t you and Daniel come by tomorrow around two? I’ll take you through the kitchen, and we can talk some more about what it is you’re wanting to do.”
“That would be great,” Annie said. And hopefully by tomorrow she would have gotten hold of herself, since what she was “wanting to do” right now involved Flynn exclusively and would definitely fall under the category of “too much information” if she shared the news with Brian Naughton.
The song ended. Flynn called out, “And that was ‘Ms. Annie’s Reel’.”
The smile he then gave her was intimate, knowing, and scared the hell out of her. The truth was inescapable—when it came to Daniel Flynn, Annie was growing weak-kneed, up-against-the-wall easy.