8

IF IT WAS THURSDAY—and Annie wouldn’t bet the farm on it—this must be Seattle.

Wednesday had been endless. Daniel had given her an o’dark in the morning wake-up call, then kept her running—and continually clueless about their plans—until three in the morning. He’d brought her to a rough south-side social club where beer, neighborhood gossip and city politics were the specials of the day. They had returned to Mulvaney’s, where she’d conducted a what-would-you-do-differently-if-you-had-designed-this-pub? interview with Brian Naughton, while Daniel had chatted up the bar customers.

She’d visited an Irish dance school with harried moms waiting in one room and kids hammering away on hard shoes in the next. That night had been spent at two restaurants and three different bars, one of which was Korean, forcing Annie to accept that she would never find the common link in Flynn’s secret itinerary.

In the course of their travels, she’d met a judge, sanitation workers, the manager of a five-star hotel, a woman Annie remained convinced was a high-priced call girl and a group of musicians just over from Ireland.

When she’d returned to her hotel room for what rest their next day’s flight schedule would permit, she’d been relieved to see her missing suitcase, but too tired for real rejoicing. As she’d tossed around in bed waiting for sleep to come, two things had ground at her.

Tops on the list was the way it seemed that Flynn had done everything short of duct-taping someone to his side to avoid being alone with her. Granted, she might simply be wallowing in a little stress-induced paranoia. It wasn’t often she felt like a stranger in her own damn country.

And that was gripe number two. Daniel knew more people in a city thousands of miles from his home than she knew back in Ann Arbor. Her last waking thought had been that she really needed to get out of the office more.

After a miserable night’s rest, she’d been semilucid on the trip to the airport and dead out—not to mention probably drooling in her sleep—on the plane. Now, as she and Daniel rode in the back of a cab to their downtown Seattle bed-and-breakfast, she thumbed through pages of a travel guide in hopes of creating the illusion of security in her surroundings.

Really, though, she felt like a refugee—tired, poor and yearning to huddle somewhere. She half wondered whether he’d run her into the ground just so she couldn’t obsess over the flight. If so, she owed him major thanks. And he owed her about twelve hours of downtime.

The cab slowed, then pulled to the curb. Annie looked out at a row of fairly worn-out looking retail spaces, dotted with the occasional gentrified gallery or shop.

“Is this the right place?” she asked Daniel, since he’d told her earlier that he’d asked Mrs. D. to book them here.

He checked a slip of paper. “It is. There’s the door,” he added, pointing to one inset between two shops. “The bed-and-breakfast is above the book store.”

“Adult book store,” she clarified.

Flynn was nearly whistling a happy tune. “Have faith, Annie.”

It must be painful, being that optimistic all the time.

Once the cabbie had been paid, Flynn hefted their suitcases from the trunk. With her new clothing purchases added to the packing scheme, she’d had to sit on both her carry-on and her regular bag to close them. She knew that she should probably have thrown out some of her old stuff, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. She grabbed the carry-on. In the spirit of letting Flynn feel macho—not that there seemed to be much evidence of risk to the contrary—she let him haul the bigger bags.

The dimly lit and ancient elevator groaned under their collective weight, but survived the trip to the second floor. Once there, Annie saw the light—literally.

Leaving her luggage just outside the elevator, she walked to a bank of windows that gave an incredible view over the rooftops and to Elliott Bay, just a few blocks west. To her left was the classic red Public Market sign for Pike Place Market, perched on the building’s roof. She smiled at the sight, remembering how she’d sighed over Sleepless in Seattle as a dateless, movie-addicted college freshman.

“How’d you hear about this place?” she asked as she walked back toward Flynn, who she had to admit was looking a little worse for the wear, himself. His smile was marginally less cocky and his normally vivid blue eyes seemed somehow subdued.

“A friend of a friend,” he said with a shrug.

Annie sensed a sort of “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon” game in the offing, but her brain was too mushy to get a handle on it.

While Flynn kicked back on a sofa in the sitting area, she registered. Since it was before official check-in time, she tried to muzzle her sniveling when the innkeeper told her that their rooms wouldn’t be ready for another couple of hours.

Once their luggage was safely stowed in the B and B’s little office, she wandered over to the blue corduroy sofa that Flynn had been occupying. He’d charmed the innkeeper into letting him check his e-mail on the office computer, which Annie figured would take hours, given the man’s popularity. At least she’d gained some nap time.

She tested the sofa’s cushions with both palms. Content with its possibilities, she settled in. She had just wriggled into optimum comfort position when Flynn seized her ankles and swung her feet back to the ground.

“No, you don’t,” he said, immediately sitting next to her and eliminating the possibility that she could stretch out again. “I let you sleep on the plane, and that was bad enough.”

“Come on, Flynn. Give me a break.” She was whining, and she never whined. Bitched, maybe.

“You need to get your body clock straightened round. If you don’t, you’ll be up till dawn.”

“I don’t suppose it would help to point out that you’re probably going to have me up until dawn anyway?”

“Not a bit.” He stood, grabbed both her hands and hauled her up. “Till tonight, we’re going to treat you as a concussion victim and keep you moving.”

It seemed cheesy to ply her limited—and currently pretty ripe—physical charms on this guy, but she was desperate. And just maybe he was tired enough to get sucked in. Annie ran a hand up Flynn’s chest. He felt so damn strong and good beneath her palm that she almost forgot she was in wheedle mode.

“Not even a little nap?”

He settled his hand over hers and drew it toward his mouth. “Not so much the closing of one eye.”

No problem, since Annie’s susceptible heart had started to race. His mouth was hot against her palm, and his kiss was slow enough that while reaction zinged from skin to nerve to brain, the rest of her bland dating life passed in front of her eyes. At least she’d have one decent memory to take with her. And when he released her hand, Annie knew there was an excellent chance she’d never sleep again.

IT WAS A PERILOUS and slippery slope from kissing Annie’s hand to kissing the countless other places Daniel had taken to speculating about. And he’d been fool enough to begin the slide.

Luck and schedule had been his allies yesterday. He’d had little time alone with Annie and thus little time to cave to temptation. But just now he’d love to throw the back cushions off that sofa and curl up with her in his arms, not really caring a dog’s arse about the B and B’s other customers. Because that would be wrong for Annie—and for him—it was time to move.

“Hungry?” he asked.

She nodded. “A little.”

“Let’s visit the market, then.”

“Don’t you ever get tired?”

She didn’t know the half of it. Fighting the urge to have her was one bloody exhausting battle.

They left the B and B, then cut through Post Alley to the market itself. It was nearly eleven, and the place teemed with even more people than products.

“Let’s take a look, then try a restaurant,” he said to Annie.

She agreed, so on they walked.

Daniel was blissfully distracted by the color, scents and variety. Row after row of silvery-scaled fish bordering produce and then into candles, honey, flowers, touristy odds and ends and—hello, what have we here?—an entire store devoted to condoms. To be sure, they sold them in Ireland, but not with quite the same happy abandon.

“Can we please move along?” Annie said as he lingered at the display.

He glanced over at her. “So who do you think buys the striped ones?”

“Clowns.”

“And the glow-in-the-dark?”

“The visually impaired.”

“And the giant one, any thoughts there?”

An unwilling smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Do you want to go inside and check out the stock? Think you could make me blush more that way?”

He brushed the hair away from her perfect shell of an ear. “That couple in the room next to yours at the Almont, Annie, what kind would they be buying?”

“Spiked,” she replied, then strolled away.

Daniel stood there, only the fact that the air had left his lungs stopping him from laughing. He’d been accused of many things in his day, but he’d never been mistaken for a buyer of spiked condoms. Life around Annie Rutherford was a brilliant thing. He’d truly miss her when the time came to leave.

When he’d checked his e-mail earlier, amid all the spam regarding miracle growth to parts he was already reasonably content with, there had waited some real news. The most alarming was a quick message from his friend Aislinn, telling him that James and Da had gotten in an argument, and James had stormed off and taken a job at a hotel in Salthill, leaving the family shorthanded at the pub.

Daniel knew he couldn’t move on just yet. Since he’d arrived, his talks with Hal had taken an odd turn. It seemed that for all the older man said, more was going unspoken. Perhaps in a few weeks, Daniel could unravel the question of truly why he’d been brought to Ann Arbor. It damn well wasn’t all about pubs. Once he understood and had done what he could to help Hal, he’d be free to go home.

But then there’d also been a tempting note. One of his New York friends had had enough of city life. He was giving notice at work and planned to start an eco-touring company with his girlfriend in Belize. Paul and Meri wondered whether Daniel would be willing to pitch in, and he could nearly see himself doing it.

Steps ahead, Annie was picking her way through a table filled with souvenirs, including, God help her kitchen, a selection of Space Needle salt-and-pepper shakers. He wasn’t sure what purpose the bizarre structure continued to serve in Seattle, let alone in Annie’s kitchen. For the sake of diplomacy, he took his time catching up to her.

As he did, Daniel tried to ignore the market’s press of tourists that grew stronger as lunchtime approached. To him, this was nearly intolerable, and life in New York unthinkable. He could understand why, after five years, Paul and Meri would now want to move to a slower pace. In their shoes, he’d be asylum bound.

“Flynn,” Annie called. “What do you think of these?” She held aloft a pair of the shakers.

“Grand,” he said, managing not to grimace too horribly.

His effort was worth the smile he received in return. Even tired, grumpy and frayed around the edges, Annie Rutherford was the prettiest woman he’d seen in some time. And since kissing her would be a fool’s act, he bought those howlingly ugly salt-and-pepper shakers instead. A fool’s act, too, but safer by miles than another kiss.

THIS MORNING, DANIEL FLYNN had bought her a gift. Okay, so it wasn’t expensive or sentimental, but even hours after sunset, Annie couldn’t lose the involuntary smile that had settled on her face. She knew she was no better—and probably even worse—than the other women who were total tongue-draggers in his presence. But, hey, she had the Space Needle set and they didn’t.

Before heading out for the evening, she’d also been given the luxury of a little time to fuss over her appearance, even if it had been in one of the B and B’s shared baths. Flynn, it turned out, had been unknowingly upgraded to a suite on the third floor. He’d offered his facilities, but the implied intimacy had been more than Annie could handle.

Tonight, she wore an amber-and-ivory flirty little dress that she’d picked up in Chicago. It was short enough that her legs didn’t look stumpy, yet just long enough that her every thought wasn’t consumed by just how high it might ride.

Good thing, too, since Flynn had made her get behind the bar and learn to draw pints at their first stop, a small bar just off Pioneer Square, which of course had been owned by one of Flynn’s countless “friends of a friend.” She’d bowed out of the stout business when the dinner rush had started. Strappy, high-heeled sandals and the round drainage holes in bar mats didn’t coexist well.

Dinner had been more like a party, with fourteen people at a long table swapping jokes and stories. Daniel had been wonderful and funny and so clearly interested in everyone. Annie had tried to keep up, but she had a soft voice that refused to carry in a crowd. Besides, she was so punchy with lack of sleep that she really didn’t trust herself not to say something totally off-the-wall.

Now, she and Flynn sat at the bar of another pub, this one nearly beneath their bed-and-breakfast, looking out onto the row of shops and restaurants lining Post Alley.

Annie looked around. “Why do you think Hal wants this so much?”

Daniel glanced her way. He seemed to have been checking out his neighbor’s cigarette. As casual as ever, he gave a shrug that was no more than a brief raise of his left shoulder. “To grow his business, I suppose.”

“You can cross that one off the list. As far as business decisions go, this is about as bad as one can get.” She sipped at her stout, wrinkling her nose at the taste. It was like drinking a loaf of dark, lead-based bread. “I think maybe he’s delayed his midlife crisis until now. Back when he would have been scheduled to have it, one of his sons went off the deep end.”

“Ah, Rob,” Flynn said.

“He told you about him?”

Daniel nodded.

Annie stared into her pint, not sure what to make of this. Hal never spoke of Rob, his eldest son. Annie only knew because Sasha had told her the tale of her wild uncle Rob, who’d cashed out of the family business back when she’d been a kid.

He’d taken the money his dad had given him, moved to Florida, partied hard, then left the planet in a Miami Vice blaze of glory, totaling a cigarette racer into about a billion tiny pieces. According to Sasha, family lore had it that her grandfather had turned into a total hard-ass after that.

Annie frowned, thinking of the two unanswered messages she’d left for Sasha today. Thirteen years of friendship couldn’t possibly fizzle in a week. At least, she was pretty sure of that.

“You’re not liking your pint?” Daniel asked, pulling her back from an incipient case of the blues.

Annie looked at him. Up close, it was hard to miss his thick lashes. They weren’t curly, but so lush that it was a crime for a guy to have them.

“I’m more of a fluffy-drink girl,” she replied.

“I think we need to be broadening your horizons.”

“They’re plenty broad already, thanks.”

“Then you can tell me the difference between Irish whiskey and Scotch?”

“Their island of origin?” She figured it was a smartassed answer, but one hard to refute.

“True, but sadly vague.”

“It’s as good as you’re getting.”

“And you expect me to bring you back to Hal with your Irish education lacking?”

“It works for me. I never drink hard liquor. I hate the taste of it.”

“How would you know if you’ve never drunk it? Rory,” Flynn said to the bartender, “let’s have a top-shelf tasting—Irish, Scotch and single malt.”

The bartender nodded and began setting up small shots of liquor in glasses. Beneath each glass he placed a cocktail napkin on which he’d written the brand name. And the row of those names was beginning to stretch out too long for Annie’s comfort.

“Flynn…”

“Trust me,” he said.

The scary thing was, she had begun to sort of trust him. Of course, that was news she didn’t need to share. “Right. You’re not the one who’s facing a night before the white porcelain god.”

He leaned forward and grabbed an empty pint glass from beneath the counter. “Sip, then spit.”

As if she really wanted Daniel Flynn watching her spit.

“Now, here we go. There are three differences between Scotch and Irish whiskey. First, Irish is triple-distilled, which makes it smoother. Second, we don’t go roasting our barley over a peat fire, so you won’t taste smoke in Irish whiskey. Third—and this is the important one—no matter what those wee Scot bastards say, the Irish invented whiskey.”

“Along with arrogance, huh?”

Daniel laughed. “Start with this one,” he said, handing her a glass. “Smell it, as if it were a fine wine.”

She did her best not to roll her eyes. The whiskey was a pretty color, almost matching one of the shades of deep amber in her new dress, but she’d never been the sort of fool to buy her drinks to match her dress. At least, not in a long, long time.

Annie sniffed at the glass’s contents. “It’s actually kind of nice,” she said to Flynn. “Nearly sweet.”

She sipped, then clutched the bar’s edge. Gasoline. She’d just swallowed stinkin’ gasoline. She squeezed her eyes shut as her brain seized up, barraged with competing mental commands of “swallow!” “gag!” and “spit!”

“Annie?” She could feel Daniel’s hand close over hers. “Try a drink of water, love.”

Love.

Shock at his word choice got the whiskey down, but it was a damn close call. After chugging the water, she looked at him through teary eyes, and got one of his smiles.

“It’s an acquired taste, but once it’s yours, there’s nothing better,” he said.

She knew that he was referring to the whiskey, but a foolish, greedy voice inside Annie whispered, “He could be talking about you.”

Totally panicked, Annie lifted the next glass in the tasting row. That foolish, greedy voice was about to go brain-deep in Irish gasoline.

DANIEL WAS HAVING a hard time grasping the particulars of the event, but it appeared that Annie had just invited herself into his room. After switching on the lights, Daniel checked his watch—past two in the morning. Perhaps he’d done too fine a job in keeping Annie moving. She seemed to have danced straight on into the next day.

Already, she prowled his suite. “My room’s nice, but besides the nonexistent bathroom, I also don’t have a kitchen, or a huge living room…” She pulled back the drapes. “Or a balcony!”

She slipped outside before he could catch up to her. Daniel counted to ten, hoping she’d have the sense to come inside on her own. When she didn’t, he uttered a string of his finest Irish obscenities and joined Ms. Annie outside.

She was leaning over the railing at what he considered a life-endangering angle. If he weren’t so damn worried for her, he might have better enjoyed the ripe curve of her bottom.

“It’s starting to rain. You might be wanting to come inside,” he suggested.

She looked back over her shoulder, but didn’t budge. “Hey, there. Great view you’ve got, but it’s really a long way down.”

He edged a step closer, thinking he stood no risk of dying a brave man.

Annie slipped one foot between the balcony’s bars. Daniel forced himself not to show his panic. After all, it was his bloody phobia and he didn’t need to go sharing it.

“Do you ever have daydreams about what you’d do in an emergency situation?” she asked, one hand swinging casually into that long drop to a hard landing. “I mean, suppose there was a fire. Would you have the guts to jump?”

Not likely. He did manage to will himself one more step forward.

“You might want to try the fire ladder,” he said, looping an arm around her waist and drawing her back from the wrought-iron rail.

“Good point,” she said ever so cheerfully. “I must be slipping. I always check each new place I’m in for the emergency exits.” She walked to the side of the balcony where the ladder was bolted on, then patted it. “Good thing to have, you know?”

Annie clearly had no fear of heights to go with her fear of flying. He, on the other hand, imagined paradise as a very flat place, one with no balconies or views from skyscraper windows.

“Wow, it’s raining,” she said, finally noticing. She held out one hand to catch some drops. “Let’s go inside.”

Which, just now, was close enough to paradise for Daniel. Especially with Annie in it.

“I’m still not sure about that whiskey thing,” she said. “I’ll agree that the Irish stuff was better than the Scotch, though.”

“Diplomatic of you,” he replied, trailing after her as she stepped into the kitchen area and began opening the cupboard doors.

“I think I probably should have eaten some more tonight. If I add up my meals since Tuesday, it’s looking kind of like a twisted spa regime.” She moved to the fridge and rattled about. “Empty, dammit.”

Annie gave up on her kitchen hunt and walked a circle around him, instead. “If I weren’t starved and tired and probably a little too buzzed, I’d be smart enough to shut up now, but I’m not. So…name your price, Daniel Flynn. What would it take to have you teach me to be like you?”