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MILLS & BOON
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
Coming Next Month
Prologue
THE LATE AFTERNOON sun slanted through the grimy windows of the old stone stable. The stalls stood empty, their iron bars tangled with cobwebs and their old wooden doors battered and scarred. From the roof rafters, doves cooed softly, fluttering their wings and sending up motes of dust to dance in the sunlight.
Marcus Quinn huddled in the quiet shadows of the haymow, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. At his feet, a small pile of wood shavings lay scattered in the musty hay. This had become his secret spot, the place he retreated to when his world got too difficult to bear. Today was his eighth birthday and nothing had changed.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out the Swiss Army knife his father had sent him last year for his birthday. The blade was sharp, honed by his grandmother’s cook with the old whetstone she kept in the kitchen.
Marcus stared at the line of tiny figurines he’d set on a beam against the stable wall, counting them silently—birds, dogs, horses, fish, even an alligator he’d carved from a photo in a book. His very first carving, an owl, had been fashioned from a scrap of sapwood he’d found in the rubbish bin. Though it was crude and a bit uneven, Marcus liked the way its wide eyes watched him.
Over the past year his carvings had become much more detailed, aided by the old tools he’d found in a box in a dark corner of the stable. Marcus pulled the box from its hiding spot beneath a musty canvas and carefully inventoried the tools, touching each as he counted them. The handles were all worn smooth with age, but the edges were still as sharp as razors and free of rust.
Marcus reached down and ran his fingers over the initials carved into the front of the rough-hewn box. E.H.P. He’d wanted to ask his grandmother who the tools belonged to, but he was afraid she’d take them away from him, fearful that he’d hurt himself. Everyone treated him like a baby, always hovering over him, always concerned for his feelings. But Marcus was much stronger than they gave him credit for.
The stable door creaked and Marcus quickly shoved the toolbox back beneath the canvas, then shimmied against the wall. Holding his breath, he waited, praying that the shadows would hide him.
“Marcus! Jaysus, Marcus, come on. Nana is waiting in the car and she’s pissed.”
Marcus scowled. He and his two older brothers, Ian and Declan, had lived with their Grandmother Callahan for two years now, but Marcus still couldn’t bear to call this place home. It was half a world away from his mother and father and the rest of his siblings, this big fancy house in a strange land where everyone talked in a funny voice and they played cricket and soccer instead of baseball and football.
Ian cursed. “Don’t be such a baby. Just come on out. Nana said we can go to the cinema for your birthday. And then we’ll have ice cream. She says it’ll be a grand time.”
Cinema? The movies. That’s what it was called—the movies. Already his brothers had started talking like their mates at school, lacing everything they said with colorful curses and strange slang. Marcus shifted, sinking farther back into the dark. A strand of hay tickled at his nose and he fought against a sneeze, covering his face with his hands. The last of his tears still clung to his cheeks, and Marcus wiped his runny nose with his wrist, willing himself to remain silent.
His grandmother had ordered a wonderful birthday celebration with gifts and a cowboy cake and an afternoon outing in nearby Dublin. Though everyone had worked so hard to lift his spirits, it wasn’t enough. After two birthdays away from home, he thought maybe this time he’d get to enjoy a celebration with his family, his ma and his da and all six of his older siblings.
He remembered the day he’d turned five, waking up in the morning and going downstairs to find the kitchen table covered with presents, all wrapped in the Sunday comics. He couldn’t remember what gifts he’d received, but he remembered his mother sitting at the end of the table and watching him with tear-filled eyes.
She’d cried a lot that month and Marcus hadn’t understood why. And then, one terrible night, his father had gathered them all around the kitchen table to tell them that their mother was very ill. Marcus remembered his confusion over the word: cancer. He’d never heard it before, but it was his father’s somber expression and watery eyes that told him how serious it was.
Marcus wondered if she were crying now. There would be a phone call later that day from Da and Ma, as there had been for his sixth and seventh birthdays, and Marcus felt a sick knot growing in his stomach. It was always difficult to talk to his mother, to ignore the tears in her voice and pretend everything was all right, to lie to her and insist that he was happy living in Ireland.
Everything wasn’t all right! His ma was sick—so sick, she could no longer care for her three youngest sons. So sick, his father had to go back to fishing with his uncle Seamus to make enough to pay the hospital bills. So sick that he and Ian and Declan had been sent away to Ireland so they wouldn’t have to watch their mother die.
A fresh round of tears threatened and Marcus swallowed them back. She couldn’t die, she wouldn’t, if they’d only let him go home and take care of her. Marcus had always been able to make her laugh. He’d been her sweet baby, her silly clown, her wee boy. If anyone could make her well, he could.
“Come on, Marky!” Ian shouted. “We know you’re in here. Nana’s gonna take us to see Top Gun. It’s supposed to be really neat, with jets and bombs and stuff.”
“Maybe he’s not here,” Dec muttered. “We didn’t search the attics. The little sissy could be hiding there.”
“I’m not a sissy!” Marcus shouted. As soon as the words slipped out, he knew he’d made a foolish mistake.
“See?” Ian said. “I told you.”
Marcus scrambled to the edge of the mow and peered down at his brothers. “I don’t wanna go to the movies,” he said defiantly. “You can go without me.”
“It’s your birthday,” Ian said. “If you don’t go, then Nana won’t let us go. Grady is waiting to drive us.”
“Maybe we can talk him into taking us to Aliens,” Dec said excitedly. “Davey says it’s really cool. There’s this monster that comes out of this guy’s chest and it’s all gooey with big fangs and—”
Ian gave Dec a shove. “Yeah, right. Can you see Grady sittin’ through that? He’d piss his pants.” Ian looked up at Marcus. “What’s the problem? Why are you actin’ like a baby?”
“I’m not a baby. I just wanna go home. It’s my birthday and I wanna see Ma and Da.”
“We can’t go home,” Ian explained. “Not until Da says it’s okay.”
Ian always acted as if he knew everything, Marcus mused. He was only eleven, but he acted like the boss. And Dec wasn’t any better even though he was just a couple years older than Marcus. They were always bullying him around. “You act like you don’t even miss them,” Marcus murmured, a hot tear trailing down his cheek.
Ian’s expression softened. “I do. I miss them a lot. I miss Ma’s cooking and I miss Da’s singing.”
“I miss ’em, too,” Dec admitted. “I miss the way Ma would read to us before she tucked us into bed. Haven’t slept right since we came here.”
Ian crawled up the ladder to the top of the mow and plopped down next to Marcus. A few seconds later, Dec joined them. They sat on the wide plank floor, their legs dangling over the edge.
“It’s pretty cool up here,” Dec commented.
“Nice animals,” Ian added, pointing to the menagerie lined up against the wall. “Is that what you do up here? Carve those little animals?”
Marcus nodded. Though he’d always considered this spot his private retreat, it was nice to have his brothers paying attention to him for once. They usually didn’t want anything to do with him. “I miss her smile,” Marcus murmured.
Dec and Ian nodded, and they all sat silently, staring down into the barn. “I know a secret,” Marcus ventured.
Dec turned to look at him. “You do not.”
“I do, I do,” Marcus insisted. “I found a treasure map.”
“You’re full of shite!” Ian declared. “Where?”
Marcus hesitated. He’d hoped to find the treasure himself. He’d been studying the map for months and couldn’t figure it out, so he’d already resigned himself to asking for help. Between the three of them, they could figure it out.
“If we find the treasure, we split it three ways,” Marcus said. He spit on his palm and held it out. “Swear.”
Dec quickly shook his brother’s hand. “I swear on my mother’s—” He stopped suddenly. “I swear,” he murmured.
Ian wasn’t so quick to join in the deal. Finally he shrugged and added his promise. With that, Marcus scrambled to his feet and crossed the plank floor to the far wall. Ian and Declan followed him and waited as he brushed aside a small pile of hay.
“Here,” Marcus said, pointing to a cubbyhole in the stone wall. Tucked inside was a yellowed piece of paper, rolled tightly and secured with a leather string. From the string dangled a small gold medallion with an odd inscription embossed into it.
“What’s that?” Dec asked.
Marcus held up the medallion. “It’s very old. I think it’s a charm, like for luck. Or maybe it’s magic.” He unwound the medallion from the paper and showed it to his brothers, then smoothed the map out on the floor so they could all read it.
The two older boys bent down to study the pencil drawing. Dec reached out and touched a mark on the map. “X marks the spot,” he said, his voice filled with disbelief. “Do you think it’s pirates?”
“Could be,” Ian said.
“Maybe there’s gold,” Marcus said, “or jewels. Enough so we could buy plane tickets to go back home.”
Ian studied the medallion. “Maybe this is a clue, too. It’s in some kind of different language.”
“Maybe it’s Irish,” Dec suggested.
Ian gave him a shove. “Jaysus, Dec, you are a smart lad.”
“We need to keep this a secret,” Dec said. “We can’t tell anyone, not even Nana.” Dec wrapped the medallion around the paper and tucked it back into its hiding spot. “We’ll come back later to study it.”
They all crawled down from the haymow. Ian slipped his arm around Marcus’s shoulders as they walked to the door. Marcus leaned into him, desperate for any reassurance that he still had a family.
“You’re a clever lad, Marky,” Ian said.
Marcus smiled. “If I were to ask Nana real nice, I bet she’d take us to see Aliens.”
Ian chuckled, and Dec reached out to ruffle Marcus’s hair. “Now there’s an idea,” Ian said. “Pretty damn smart for a seven-year-old.”
“Eight,” Marcus corrected.
“Yeah, right,” Ian replied. “I guess you’re a big guy now. Just like us.”
A wide grin broke across Marcus’s face. They were brothers and no matter what happened along the way, that would never change. Maybe now that he was eight, they would forget that he was the baby of the family. “I’m smart enough to know a treasure map when I see one,” he said.
“That you are, Marky,” his brothers said. “That you are.”
1
“DO YOU EVER WONDER whether they’re worth it? Women, I mean.”
Marcus Quinn glanced up from the bucket of varnish he was stirring to see a gloomy expression cloud his brother Ian’s face. “I don’t know,” he replied with a slight shrug.
“I guess I can’t imagine what it would be like without them,” Ian said. “They’re nice to look at and they smell good. And sex…well, sex wouldn’t be the same without them.” He sank back into the battered couch, staring at his beer bottle as he scraped at the label with his thumbnail. “It just seems like it never gets anywhere. I remember the first girl I kissed like it was yesterday. And since then my life has gone straight to hell. You can’t do with ’em and you can’t do without ’em.”
A chuckle echoed in the stillness of the boathouse, and they both looked over at Declan, who sat amidst the awls and chisels on Marcus’s workbench, his legs dangling. “I remember that day. You looked like you were about to lose your lunch all over her shoes.”
“You weren’t even there,” Ian challenged.
“I was,” Dec replied. “Me and my mates used to watch you guys all the time. We were trying to pick up tips. The older lads were so smooth with the ladies. Except you, of course.”
“Hell, you get French kissed when you’re twelve years old and see if you can handle the shock,” Ian snapped back.
Dec jumped down from the workbench and tossed his empty beer bottle in the rubbish, then strolled to the small refrigerator in the corner to fetch another. “She was a flah little scrubber all right,” he said, thickening the Irish accent that still colored the Quinn brothers’ voices. “By the time Alicia Dooley got around to you, she’d already kissed half the boys in your form at school. She even let a boy feel her up for a bag of crisps and a candy bar.”
Ian’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t.”
Dec twisted the cap from the beer and took a long swig. “I was supposed to refuse? She was thirteen. And she had the nicest knobs at St. Clement’s. I’d have been off my nut not to take advantage of a deal like that. Besides, I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”
Ian turned to Marcus, sending him an inquiring look, but Marcus shook his head. “Don’t look at me.”
“By the time Marky was old enough to have those thoughts, Alicia had got herself knocked up by Jimmy Farley and closed up her little schoolyard enterprise,” Dec explained.
A comfortable silence descended over the boathouse. The Friday-night ritual between Marcus and Ian and Declan had begun. Usually they’d meet for a few beers, sometimes at a pub, sometimes at Ian’s place in town and sometimes in the old boathouse at their father’s boatyard. They’d catch up with the week’s events, the talk centering on work or sports. But occasionally they talked about women.
Marcus grabbed the bucket of varnish and climbed the ladder he’d propped up against his newest project, a twenty-one-foot wooden-hulled sloop that had been commissioned by a Newport billionaire for his son’s sixteenth birthday. He’d been designing and building boats for three years now, working out of the old boathouse and living upstairs in a loft that was half studio and half apartment.
“Considering the number of women we’ve collectively been with, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’d shared a few others,” Declan murmured.
“There’s a code among brothers,” Ian countered. “You just don’t mess with your brothers’ girls, current or ex.”
“You’re right,” Dec said. He crossed the room and held out his hand to Ian. “Sorry, bro. Won’t happen again. You’ve got my word.”
Marcus smiled to himself. The three Quinn brothers had formed an unshakable bond at an early age. After their mother’s illness had been diagnosed and they’d been shipped off to Ireland to live with their grandmother, they’d learned to depend upon each other. From the moment they’d arrived in Dublin, they’d been outsiders, wary Americans forced to live in a culture whose rules they didn’t understand.
And after they’d returned from Ireland, they’d become known as “those” Quinn boys, with their odd Irish accents and their independent ways, young men who could string curse words together like seasoned sailors and beat the stuffing out of men twice their size in a fistfight.
Ian had been eighteen when they’d returned and had immediately enrolled in college, anxious to get a start on his adult life. When he was accepted into the Providence Police Academy, he’d continued his education at night, graduating with a degree in criminal justice. Two years ago, he’d left the Providence PD and taken the job as police chief of their hometown, Bonnett Harbor, a picturesque Rhode Island village on the western shore of Narragansett Bay.
A year younger than Ian, Declan returned in time for his senior year in high school, bringing his grades up so he could apply to MIT. Four years of college, a knack for electronics and a stint with naval intelligence had paved the way for a job in corporate security. Declan’s security consulting firm was the favorite among corporate bigwigs and multimillionaires along the East Coast.
Marcus had made the most difficult transition. He’d spent the majority of his childhood on Irish soil, away from his parents from age five to fourteen. He’d come back to a country that was as foreign to him as Ireland had been nine years before. School had been hell, and he’d avoided it whenever possible, retreating into solitude and avoiding close friendships. His brothers had been his only friends.
But his talent in art, especially carving and sculpture, had set him on an odd career path—first art school and then a few years working as a wood-carver with a boat-design firm in Boston. He’d been recruited as an instructor at a small school for boat restoration in Massachusetts. Now he ran his own show, doing commissioned wood carvings and building pretty wooden sloops based on vintage designs.
“Maybe we should take a break,” Dec suggested, flopping down next to Ian on the sofa and kicking his heels up on the battered crate that served as a coffee table.
Marcus glanced up from the cockpit combing he’d been varnishing. “I’m the only one doing any work here, unless you call drinking my beer and eating my food ‘work.’”
Dec grabbed the can of peanuts from Ian. “I was talking about women. We should take a break from women. You know, step back and try to gain a little perspective. We can’t see the feckin’ forest for the trees.”
“What are you saying?” Ian asked.
“He’s saying, in order to understand women, we should give up women,” Marcus translated.
Giving up women would be impossible for Ian. He lived on his charm, able to navigate the most difficult situations with ease. While Marcus had few friends, Ian knew everyone and they loved him. Dec, on the other hand, was more focused. He was the thinker in the family, the one guy who was driven by the need to succeed. Any challenge, whether it was in his professional or personal life, was met with unrelenting resolve.
“We should study them,” Declan suggested. “We’re three relatively clever guys. If we put our heads together, we should be able to figure women out. But you can’t figure them out while you’re sleeping with them, I know that. I’ve been sleeping with them for years and I’m no better off than I was the night I first did it.”
Ian nodded. “The more women I know, the less I understand them.”
Marcus rested his arms across the top of the ladder. “Maybe they’re not the problem. Maybe we are.”
“Speak for yourself,” Dec said. “I know what the hell I’m doing in the sack. No one’s ever complained.”
Marcus shook his head. “I mean with…relationships. Isn’t that what you’re talking about?”
“And what the hell would I do with a relationship?” Dec asked. “I don’t have time for that.”
Marcus chuckled. “I rest my case.”
“He’s right,” Ian said. “We want what everyone else wants. To get married. Start a life. Have a family. Look at our cousins, Uncle Seamus’s boys. There are six of them and they’re all married now.”
“So we’ve got issues,” Dec said defensively.
Ian straightened, as if offended by the comment. “What issues? If I had issues, I’d know about it.”
“Not necessarily,” Dec continued. “I once dated this psychology grad student, and after she heard about our childhood, she said it wasn’t any surprise that I had an attachment disorder. She was right, because after I listened to a few more hours of her psychobabble, I detached her from my life.”
“You have this disorder?” Ian said.
Marcus climbed down the ladder as he spoke. “We all probably do. You gotta admit, after we were separated from the family, the only people we really trusted were each other.”
“What about our cousins?” Ian asked. “They had the same start in life as we did, their da off working the Mighty Quinn and their ma disappearing on them. Did they have this disorder?”
Marcus shrugged. “Maybe. But they obviously overcame it since they’re all married now.”
“Where did you hear about this disorder?” Ian asked Marcus.
Marcus set the bucket of varnish on the workbench and searched for the turpentine to clean the brush. He shrugged. “Sometimes I watch Dr. Phil while I’m eating lunch.”
He dropped the brush into a can of paint thinner then fetched a beer for himself. After sprawling himself in a ragged easy chair across from the sofa, he took a long drink of the cold beer.
“The way I see it, women are like peanuts,” Ian declared, breaking the silence.
Dec laughed. “All right, ya daft wanker, I’ll bite. How are women like peanuts?”
He held up the jar, then tipped some peanuts into his hand and popped them into his mouth. “The first handful is great,” he said as he chewed. “The best thing you ever tasted. But then you keep eating them and eating them and they don’t taste that special. After all, they are just peanuts, right? But then, you don’t have them for a week or two and they’re good again.”
“And by not having them, you understand the nuts? You gain insight into their behavior?” Declan asked.
“It’s not the best metaphor,” Marcus said, jumping into his role as peacemaker between his two older brothers.
“How did we even get on the subject of women?” Ian asked.
Dec grabbed the peanuts and poured a measure into his hand. “Women spend most of their time together talking about men. If we spent more time talking about them, even objectively observing them, we’d be better off. And in order to do that, we need to stop sleeping with them. And stop socializing with them. Everything, full stop.”
“No women? For how long?” The scowl on Ian’s face was enough to tell that he wasn’t in favor of the plan.
“As long as it takes,” Dec said.
“My social life is crap anyway,” Ian finally replied. “Since I moved back to Bonnett Harbor, I can’t sneeze without half the town knitting me a bleedin’ afghan. If I started dating, there’d be all sorts of gossip.”
Dec looked over at Marcus. “What about you?”
“He barely dates as it is,” Ian said. “This shouldn’t be any problem for Marky.”
“I date,” Marcus said. “I just don’t talk about it with you tossers.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem for him,” Dec said. “He’s stuck out in Newport on a boat for the rest of the summer.”
“Just you and your tools?” Ian asked.
Marcus nodded. “Dec got me a job with Trevor Ross.”
Dec held up his hands. “I got you in the door. You got the job.”
Dec had provided security at a number of Ross’s corporate events and parties and also advised his corporate office on a variety of matters. A passing conversation about Ross’s sailing yacht and Marcus’s talents had landed Marcus a new commission and a potential business partner with limitless capital.