The Mighty Quinns: Dylan

Then, stepping between her legs, he pulled her nearer, molding her body against his naked chest. She was so warm and soft, he couldn’t get enough of her.

But her sweater was becoming a hindrance. Impatient to continue, Dylan reached down and grabbed the hem, then slowly tugged it up. Meggie met his gaze and the desire burning in her eyes startled him. With a soft sigh, she brushed his hands away and, in one quick motion, pulled off her sweater, then tossed it aside.

Dylan could barely breathe. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Meggie started shivering, and Dylan could see the indecision in her eyes. But just when he was about to call an end to this intimate exploration, Meggie reached out and slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans. Scooting back onto the pool table, she pulled him with her, until he was nearly lying on top of her.

“I’m not very good at this game,” she murmured.

Dylan groaned. “Honey, if you were any better, the game would already be over….”

Dear Reader,

Who can pass by a fire station without hoping to catch a glimpse of the ultimate hero—the firefighter? I’m not sure about you, but I think those fire stations have more than their share of hunks in residence. So, when I started planning THE MIGHTY QUINNS miniseries, I decided it was time to turn one of those real-life heroes into a romantic one—Dylan Quinn.

Like all hunks, Dylan has left a trail of broken hearts behind him. In fact, my heroine, Meggie Flanagan, was one of Dylan’s first casualties. So, years later, when he pulls her out of her smoky coffee shop and falls for her immediately, what’s a girl to do but take advantage of the situation?

I hope you enjoy watching the second Mighty Quinn fall. Look for Brendan’s story next month, the final book in THE MIGHTY QUINNS trilogy. And then visit my Web site at www.katehoffmann.com to learn about my first single-title release, Reunited, which features another Quinn sibling, available in June 2002.

Happy reading,

Kate Hoffmann

The Mighty Quinns: Dylan

Kate Hoffmann

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Bunny

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Prologue

THE WINTER’S SNOW had melted and a damp wind blew off the Atlantic, bringing the scent of the ocean into the South Boston neighborhood around Kilgore Street. Dylan Quinn climbed higher into the old tree, scrambling up branches that were just beginning to show their springtime buds, branches that could barely hold the weight of a squirrel much less an eleven-year-old boy. If he could just get a wee bit higher, maybe he could see the ocean from his perch. His da was due home today after almost three months away.

Winter was always a difficult time for the six Quinn boys. When the weather became too brutal in the North Atlantic, the swordfishing fleet drifted south, following the fish into warmer waters. And The Mighty Quinn, his father’s boat, followed the fish wherever they went. With the coming of winter came the familiar fear that always grew in the pit of Dylan’s stomach. Would Da remember to send them money for food? Would Conor be able to keep the family together? And would they all avoid the mistakes that might bring the social workers calling?

“Can ya see him?”

Dylan glanced down to find his younger brother Brendan standing beneath the leafless tree. He wore a tattered coat and his da’s cast-off wool cap and his breath frosted in the air around his head. Like all the Quinns, he had nearly black hair and pale eyes that were an odd mixture of green and gold, strange enough to cause comment whenever they all appeared as one.

“Get away,” Dylan yelled. Though he and Brendan were close in age, lately he’d come to resent his little brother’s constant presence. After all, Dylan was eleven and Brendan was only ten. The kid didn’t have to follow him everywhere he went, hanging on his every word.

“You’re supposed to be watchin’ Liam and the twins,” Brendan said. “If Conor comes home and finds you out here, he’ll eat the head off you!”

Their older brother, Con, had left the two of them in charge while he walked to a nearby market to buy food. They were down to their last dollars and if Da didn’t come home today, Con would be forced to pinch whatever he could from the grocery to feed them for the weekend. They got breakfast and lunch at school, so it was easy to get through the week. But weekends were the worst—especially when the money ran out.

“Ah, shut your gob, you maggot,” Dylan shouted, the ache of hunger acute in his stomach. He hated being hungry. It was the worst feeling in the world. When the pangs got too bad, he focused on his future, on a time when he’d be grown and living on his own. He’d have power over his own life then and the first thing he’d be sure of was that his cupboards would always be filled with food.

He saw the hurt in Brendan’s eyes and immediately regretted his angry words. They’d always been the best of friends, but something inside Dylan had changed. Lately, he felt the need to distance himself, to rebel against the hand he’d been dealt. Maybe it would have been different if his mother had stayed. Maybe they’d be living in a nice warm house, wearing new clothes and having food on the table every night. But any dream of that ended six years ago, when Fiona Quinn left the house on Kilgore Street never to return again.

There were still traces of her to be found, in the lace curtains that now hung limply from the kitchen window and in the pretty rag rugs that she’d brought from their home in Ireland. Dylan really didn’t remember much of Ireland. He’d only been four years old when they’d left. But Ireland was still thick in his father’s voice, and he held on to that—maybe because it was the only thing he had of Seamus Quinn that he could hold on to.

But his mother was a different matter. He’d lie in bed at night and close his eyes and try to conjure a picture of her in his head, of her dark hair and pretty face. But the image was always faded and blurry and just out of reach. He remembered her voice though, the lilting sound of Ireland in her every word. He wanted to feel safe again, but Dylan knew that the only thing in the world that could make him feel that way was her. And she was gone—for good and forever.

“If you fall out of that tree and break your leg, you’ll bring that witch from social services back down on us,” Brendan called.

Dylan cursed beneath his breath, then slowly made his way down the tree. Usually Con was the one with all the common sense and Brendan was up for a bit of trouble. About ten feet above Brendan’s head, Dylan swung from a branch and then dropped lightly to muddy ground beside him. With a playful growl, Dylan grabbed his brother in a headlock and rubbed his skull with his knuckles. “Don’t give me any of your guff, boyo!”

They both raced toward the house and once inside, kicked off their muddy boots and shrugged out of their coats. In comparison to the damp outside, the house almost seemed warm, but Dylan knew that within a few minutes, the chill would begin to seep into his bones and he’d wrap himself in his coat again.

He wandered into the front parlor where Con had set up a small space heater. The floor was littered with blankets and pillows. The six of them slept here, together, for most of the winter. Dylan walked over to the heater and kicked away the sweater that Sean had so carelessly tossed aside. “Keep your stuff away from the heater,” he shouted. “How many times do I have to tell you that? It’ll start a fire and we’ll all be burned to a crisp.”

Dylan sat down in the center of the room and grabbed the stuffed bear that was Liam’s favorite, then made it dance on the floor in front of his little brother. Brendan brought out a deck of cards and a box of stick matches and then dealt three hands of poker between him and the twins, Sean and Brian. Though it was nearly five o’clock, no one mentioned dinner. It was better not to think about it and simply pray that Da would come soon, his pockets bulging with money.

The front door creaked and they all turned, each of them hoping to see Seamus Quinn enter. But it was Con who came in, holding a single grocery bag in his arms. Though he was only thirteen, in Dylan’s eyes Conor was already a man. Tall and strong, he could best any boy his age and five years older on the neighborhood playgrounds. And no matter how bad things got, Con was always there, silent yet reassuring.

He glanced up at them then grinned against the hopeful looks sent his way. “Da will be home soon,” he said. “And I’ve got dinner.” He pulled a TV dinner from the bag. “Three for a dollar. There’s spaghetti and fish sticks. Dylan, why don’t you tell the boys a story, while I warm these.”

“A story,” Brian cried. “Tell us a Mighty Quinn story.”

“Let Brendan tell,” Dylan grumbled. “He’s better at stories than I am.”

“No,” Conor said. “It’s your turn. You’re just as good at stories.”

Grudgingly, Dylan settled himself on the floor. The twins wriggled closer and Liam crawled into his lap and looked up at him with wide eyes. Conor’s stories always featured the supernatural—elves and trolls and gnomes and fairies. Brendan had a knack for stories of faraway places and magical kingdoms. Dylan’s specialty was action, stories filled with deeds of derring-do—highwaymen who robbed from the rich and gave to the poor or brave knights who rescued fair maidens.

They had all played storyteller at one time to the younger boys, a trait inherited from their father. Seamus Quinn was always ready with a mythical tale of the Mighty Quinns, long-ago ancestors who followed only one rule—they never succumbed to the love of a woman. For Seamus Quinn believed that once a Mighty Quinn gave his heart away, his strength would leave him and he’d become weak and pitiful.

“This is the story of Odran Quinn and how he battled a giant to save the life of a beautiful princess,” Dylan began.

Brendan flopped down on his stomach and cupped his chin in his hand, ready to listen. They’d all heard the tale many times before from their father, so Dylan knew they would correct any mistakes he made in the telling of it.

“You know the story of how Finn sent his son Odran Quinn to serve the great king of Tiranog. Odran was brave and loyal and the king wanted him to live in his kingdom and rule beside him. Tiranog was a paradise beneath the waves, where the trees were heavy with fruit and there was wine and food aplenty. The king sent his most beautiful daughter, the Princess Neve, to convince Odran to come. Of course, Odran didn’t really like Neve, but he decided to go anyway, just to see what this fancy place, Tiranog, was all about.”

“That’s not the way it goes,” Conor called from the kitchen.

“He fell in love with the Princess Neve. She was beautiful and she had a dowry of gold and silver,” Brendan added.

“Well, he may have liked her a wee bit,” Dylan said. “But he was careful not to love her.”

“He said, ‘Father, she is the most beautiful woman I have ever met,”’ Brendan countered.

“All right, who’s telling this story, you or me?”

“You!” Liam said.

“It was with a heavy heart that Odran left his father’s home and rode away with the Princess Neve. They rode swiftly across the land and when they reached the sea, their white horses danced lightly over the waves. And then the sea parted and Odran Quinn found himself in a beautiful kingdom, full of sunshine and flowers and tall castles.”

“When does the part about the giant come?” Liam asked.

Dylan gave him a playful hug. “Soon. On their long ride to the king’s castle, Neve and Odran came upon a fortress. Odran asked Neve, ‘Who lives in this place?’ and Neve answered, ‘A lady lives there. She was captured by a giant and he keeps her prisoner until she agrees to marry him.”’ Dylan paused. “Odran Quinn looked up and saw the lady sitting by a window in the highest tower. A tear on her cheek glinted in the sunlight and Odran knew what he had to do. ‘I must save her,’ he said.”

This was the part that Dylan liked the best, for when he told it, he pictured his mother as the lady sitting by the window. She was wearing a beautiful gown, all shiny and new, and her dark hair was braided and twisted elaborately around her head. And at her neck she wore a pendant, sparkling with emeralds and sapphires and rubies. His mother had a necklace like that and he remembered her rubbing it between her fingers when she looked worried.

“The giant’s name was Fomor,” Sean interrupted. “You forgot that part.”

The image dissolved and Dylan turned back to his brothers. “And he was as tall as two houses with legs like huge oaks,” he continued. “He carried a sword that was as sharp as a razor.”

“Tell us about his hair,” Brian pleaded.

Dylan lowered his voice and bent closer. “It was long and black and infested with spiders and weevils and his tangled beard nearly reached the ground.” His brothers’ eyes widened in fear. “And he had a big belly for every day he ate three little boys for lunch and three more for dinner. Bones and all.” When they were properly terrified, Dylan sat back. “For days and days, they fought, the giant with his strength and mighty Odran Quinn with his cunning. And on the tenth day, when he was near death himself, Odran dealt the giant a mortal blow with his sword, and the giant came crashing down, the earth trembling all around. He was cold and dead as a stone.”

Sean clapped. “And then Odran cuts his head off!”

“And then he climbs the castle wall and rescues the woman from the fortress and frees her from her prison,” Brian added.

“That he does,” Dylan said. “That he—”

The front door crashed open and they all turned to look. A moment later, Seamus Quinn strode in with a chilly gust of wind. “Where are my boys?” he shouted, his voice slurred. With joyous cries, Brian and Sean and Liam scrambled to their feet and went running toward their father, ending the tale of Odran and Fomor. Brendan and Dylan gave each other a long look, one laced with both relief and resignation. Though they were glad to see him, it was clear that Seamus had stopped for a pint or five before he’d come home. At least he’d come home.

“In all your stories, there’s always a rescue,” Brendan commented softly.

Dylan shrugged. “There’s not,” he replied. But he knew that wasn’t true. With every story he told, he imagined himself as the Mighty Quinn, risking his life to save others, hailed as a hero by one and all. And the princess in need of rescuing always looked like his mother, or what he remembered his mother to look like. Dylan got to his feet, ready to greet his da. Someday he would be a hero. Someday, when he was all done growing and he could fend for himself, he would ride to the rescue and save those in trouble.

And maybe, against all his father’s warnings, there would be a beautiful damsel who would thank him for his good deed by loving him forever.

1

THE ALARM SOUNDED at precisely 3:17 p.m. Dylan Quinn looked up from polishing the chrome fittings on Engine 22. He couldn’t count the times he’d spit-shined the engine only to have the alarm sound. Most of the men of Ladder Company 14 and Engine Company 22 were upstairs relaxing after a long lunch but as they started to come down, Dylan tossed the polishing cloth aside and moved toward the alcove that held his boots, jacket and helmet.

A voice blared over the speaker system, the dispatcher repeating the address of the fire three times. The moment Dylan heard the address, he paused. Hell, it was just a few blocks from the station! As the others pulled on their gear, Dylan stepped out the wide garage doors and looked down Boylston Street.

He couldn’t see any smoke. Hopefully, they’d arrive to find a contained fire that wasn’t blazing out of control. The buildings in the older areas of Boston were built one right next to the other, and though firewalls prevented the spread of a blaze, the cramped spaces made it harder to get to a fire and then fight it.

The horn of the fire engine blared and Dylan slowly turned and gave Ken Carmichael, the driver, a wave. The truck pulled out of the station and as it passed, Dylan hopped on the rear running board and held on as they swung out onto the street. His heart started to beat a little quicker and his senses sharpened, as they did every time the company headed out to a fire.

As they wove through traffic on Boylston Street, he thought back to the moment he’d decided to become a firefighter. When he was a kid, he’d wanted to be a highwayman or a knight of the Round Table. But when he graduated from high school, neither one of those jobs were available. He wasn’t interested in college. His older brother, Conor, had just started at the police academy, so Dylan had decided on the fire academy, a place that felt right the moment he walked in the door.

Unlike the days of his reckless youth when school barely mattered, Dylan had worked hard to be the top recruit in his class—the fastest, the strongest, the smartest, the bravest. The Boston Fire Department had a long and respected tradition, founded over three hundred years before as the nation’s first paid municipal fire department. And now, Dylan Quinn, who had had the most rootless upbringing of all, was a part of that history. As a firefighter, he was known to be cautious yet fearless, aggressive yet compassionate, the kind of man trusted by all those who worked with him.

Only two other firefighters in the history of the department had made lieutenant faster than him and he was on track to make captain in a few more years, once he finished his degree at night school. But it wasn’t about the glory or the excitement or even the beautiful women who seemed to flock around firefighters. It had always been about the opportunity to save someone’s life, to snatch a complete stranger from the jaws of death and give them another chance. If that made him a hero, then Dylan wasn’t sure why. It was just one of the perks of the job.

The engine slowly drew to a stop in the middle of traffic and Dylan grabbed his ax and hopped off. He double-checked the address, then noticed a wisp of pale gray smoke coming from the open door of a shop. A moment later, a slender woman with a soot-smudged face hurried out the front door.

“Thank God, you’re here,” she cried. “Hurry.”

She ran back inside and Dylan took off after her. “Lady! Stop!” The last thing he needed was a civilian deliberately putting herself in harm’s way. Although at first glance the fire didn’t look dangerous, he’d learned to be wary of first impressions. The interior of the shop was filled with a hazy smoke, not much thicker than the cigarette smoke that hung over his father’s pub after a busy Saturday night, but he knew a flare or an explosion could be just a second away. The acrid smell made his eyes sting and Dylan recognized the odor of burning rubber.

He found her behind a long counter, frantically beating at a small fire with a charred dish towel. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her back against him. “Lady, you have to leave. Let us take care of this before you get hurt.”

“No!” she cried, trying to wriggle out of his arms. “We have to put it out before it does any damage.”

Dylan glanced over his shoulder to see two members of his team enter, one of them carrying a fire extinguisher. “It looks like it’s contained in this machine. Crack it open and look for the source,” he ordered. Then he pulled the woman along beside him toward the door.

“Crack it open?” The woman dug in her heels, yanking them both to a stop.

Even beneath the light coating of soot, Dylan could see she was beautiful. She had hair the color of rich mahogany and it tumbled in soft waves around her shoulders. Her profile was perfect, every feature balanced from her green eyes to her straight nose to the sensuous shape of her wide mouth. He had to shake himself out of a careful study of her lips before he remembered the job at hand.

“Lady, if you don’t leave right now, I’m going to have to carry you out,” Dylan warned. He let his gaze rake her body, from the clinging sweater to the almost-too-short leather mini to the funky boots. “And considering the length of that skirt, you don’t want me tossing you over my shoulder.”

She seemed insulted by both his take-charge attitude and his comment on her wardrobe. Dylan studied her from beneath the brim of his helmet. Her eyes were bright with indignation and her breath came in quick gasps, making her breasts rise and fall in a tantalizing rhythm.

“This is my shop,” she snapped. “And I’m not going to let you chop it apart with your axes!”

With a soft curse, Dylan did what he’d done hundreds of times before, both in practice and in reality. He bent down, grabbed her around the legs, then hoisted her over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in a second,” he called to his crew.

She kicked and screamed but Dylan barely noticed. Instead, his attention was diverted by the shapely backside nestled against his ear. He probably could have spent a little more time convincing her to leave the shop, but her stubborn attitude indicated that it would probably be a long fight. Besides, she was just a slip of a girl. He’d once carried a three-hundred-pound man down three flights. She weighed maybe one-twenty, tops.

When Dylan got her outside, he gently set her down next to one of the trucks, then tugged at the hem of her miniskirt to restore her dignity. She slapped at his hand as if he’d deliberately tried to molest her. His temper flared. “Stay here,” he ordered through clenched teeth.

“No!” she said, making a move toward the door.

She slipped past him and Dylan raced after her, catching up a few steps inside the door of the shop. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back against him, her backside nestling into his lap in a way that made him forget all about the dangers of fire and focus on the dangers of a soft, feminine body.

They both watched as Artie Winton hooked his ax behind the smoking machine and yanked it onto the floor. Then he dragged it into the middle of the shop, raised the ax and brought it down. A few moments later, Jeff Reilly covered the mess of twisted stainless steel with a coating of foam from the extinguisher.

“This is the source,” Jeff called. “It looks like that’s all the farther it got.”

“What was it?” Dylan asked.

Reilly squatted down to take a better look. “One of those frozen yogurt machines?”

“Nah,” Winton said. “It’s one of those fancy coffee-makers.”

“It’s an Espresso Master 8000 Deluxe.”

Dylan glanced down to see the woman staring at the mess of stainless steel. A tear trickled down her cheek and she gnawed on her lower lip. Dylan cursed softly. If there was one thing he hated about fighting fires, it was the tears. Though he had given bad news to victims before, he’d never really known what to do about the tears. And to his ears, his words of sympathy always sounded so hollow and forced.

He cleared his throat. “I want you two to check around,” he ordered as he patted the woman’s shoulder. “Make sure we don’t have any electrical shorts or hot spots in the walls. We don’t know what kind of wiring they’ve got in here. Look for a breaker panel and see if it’s flipped.”

He pulled off his gloves and took the woman’s hand in his, then gently pulled her toward the door. He should have been thinking about what to say, but instead he was fascinated by how delicate her fingers felt in his hand. “There’s nothing you can do in here,” he said softly. “We’ll check everything out and if it’s safe, you can go back in after the smoke clears.”