The Mighty Quinns: Riley

Praise for Kate Hoffmann

from RT Book Reviews …

“Hoffmann’s deeply felt, emotional story is riveting.

It’s impossible to put down.”

— on The Charmer

“Fully developed characters and perfect pacing make

this story feel completely right.”

— on Your Bed or Mine?

“Sexy and wildly romantic.”

— on Doing Ireland!

“A very hot story mixes with great characters to

make every page a delight.”

— on The Mighty Quinns: Ian

“Romantic, sexy and heartwarming.”

— on Who Needs Mistletoe?

“Sexy, heartwarming and romantic … a story to settle

down with and enjoy—and then re-read.”

— on The Mighty Quinns: Teague

Dear Reader,

With this book we begin another MIGHTY QUINNS trilogy. Ten years ago, the first Quinn book hit the shelves and to be honest, I never thought I’d still be writing them after all this time. But obviously, there’s something about a sexy Irish hero that people find irresistible. I’ll admit, I’ve got a bit of a weakness for them.

I guess you do, too!

I’ve set Mighty Quinn stories in Boston, New York and even in Australia. But, fittingly, I think, I’ve put the books that mark a decade of hot Quinn heroes back on the Emerald Isle again.

Although I have only a few drops of Irish blood running through me, there’s something about that beautiful country that I find really compelling. It’s my hope that you’ll feel the same sense of wonder I did, in the pages of this book.

Once you’ve been charmed by Riley, watch for his equally irresistible brothers, Danny and Kellan, to show up in the Blaze lineup in November and December 2012.

Happy reading,

Kate Hoffmann

KATE HOFFMANN began writing for Mills & Boon® in 1993. Since then she’s published sixty-five books, primarily in the Blaze® lines. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys music, theater and musical theater. She is active working with high school students in the performing arts. She lives in southeastern Wisconsin with her cat, Chloe.

The Mighty Quinns: Riley

Kate Hoffmann

MILLS & BOON

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To Birgit Davis-Todd, who gave me the idea for the

Mighty Quinns over ten years ago. Thank you!

Prologue

THE LIGHTS IN THE SMALL bedroom had been put out a half hour before, but the three brothers were too occupied with the raging storm outside than with falling asleep. Riley Quinn sat at the window, watching as the rain slashed against the glass. The rosebushes in the garden were bent so low by the wind coming off the sea that they touched the ground.

“Jaysus, it’s bucketing out there,” Riley said. “Noah and his ark will be floating by any second now.”

“Do you think this is like the storm that made Ma fall in love with Da?” Danny asked.

Daniel, the youngest of the three Quinn brothers, sat in the center of his bed, the covers pulled up to his chin. The eight-year-old had an imagination that never seemed to stop. He could see dragons and sea serpents wherever he looked and though he was a bit of a baby, Riley was beginning to like him more as he got older. Danny could fashion all sorts of wild things, using his little pocketknife to carve monsters and ogres and bloodthirsty insects. His rucksack was always filled with blocks of wood and bars of soap, just in case he imagined something to make.

“I suppose it was,” Riley said, plopping down on the bed next to him. “Da said it was blowing so hard he couldn’t stand up straight.”

“Do you think our ma was selkie, like da says she was?”

“No,” Riley said. His father had always been fond of telling fanciful tales of the night he’d met their mother. “And she wasn’t a mermaid or a faerie, either. She was just our ma, only younger.”

Riley missed those bedtime stories, filled with characters from Irish myths and legends. There had been time for them back when life was much different around the Quinn house. Before his father had been sacked from his job, before he’d decided to buy in to the Speckled Hound, an old pub in Ballykirk.

Long hours serving the local crowd and occasional tourists meant that Eamon and Maggie Quinn were never home to put their boys to bed. Riley’s older sisters, Shanna and Claire, did all the cooking and cleaning around the small white-washed cottage. The boys took care of the garden and milked the cow and tended the chickens they kept.

“We should go out there,” Riley said. “Let’s see if the wind will knock us down like it did to Da.”

“Will you two just lay off and go to sleep?” Kellan looked over from the book he was reading. “Blathering about the weather isn’t going to change it. And if you go out there Da will whip your arse until you can’t sit down.”

Kellan was the eldest, and the most clever of the three. At age twelve, Kellan was almost a teenager and Riley and Danny usually deferred to him. But Kell had been a real puss-face lately. All he seemed to care about was school and exams and making his grades.

“Piss off,” Riley muttered. “This is our room, too, and we can talk as long as we want.”

Riley had never been much concerned about his schoolwork. Except when the music teacher, the beautiful Miss Delaney, came round to their room. He loved to sing and the days she brought instruments along, he was always the first to try them, able to play by ear in a matter of minutes.

She’d even lent him a fiddle, which he’d been teaching himself how to play, and she’d promised to bring a guitar once he’d mastered three tunes. But what he truly loved was the songs she taught—old Irish songs, children’s songs and ballads and pub tunes. And then, she’d sing in the simple and sweet style called Sean Nós, her beautiful, clear voice ringing through the room, unaccompanied by instruments.

“Listen to that,” he said, leaning closer to the window. “The storm is singing.” He hummed along with the sound, then added words to the tune.

The only good that had come out of his parents’ work at the Hound was that the five Quinn children were expected to help out on the weekends, which was when the pub hosted local musicians. Rather than dragging his feet to work, Riley arrived early so he could finish his tasks in time to sit in a dark corner of the pub and listen to the music.

Riley pushed away from the window and crawled into the bed he shared with Danny. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “The storm can’t get us.”

“Sing me a song,” Danny said, snuggling beneath the worn bedspread.

“What do you want to hear?” Riley asked.

“The barley song. I like that one.”

“‘The Wind That Shakes the Barley,’ it’s called.” Riley sang the song softly. “‘I sat within a valley green, I sat me with my true love. My sad heart strove to choose between, the old love and the new love.’”

“Why are there always girls in the songs?” Danny interrupted.

“I guess people like to hear about love,” Riley said. He really didn’t understand it, either. He would have preferred songs about battles or murder or even aliens. But most of the songs he knew were about love and sadness. And someone was always dying. “Da says if you can sing a sad tune, the lassies will love you.”

“Go to sleep!” Kellan shouted.

“Feck off!” Riley and Danny said simultaneously. They started to laugh, then pulled the bedcovers over their heads.

“Stupid gits,” Riley whispered.

“Sing the rest of the song,” Danny begged.

Riley continued, the sound of the wind and rain his only accompaniment. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever like a girl enough to sing her a song. And if he did, would she follow him around the same way the girls followed Kellan?

Love was much easier to understand when it was words in a song than when it happened in real life.

1

THE LINE FOR Customs and Immigration snaked around the room and out the sliding glass doors into the hallway. Nan Galvin searched for a clock, not sure about the local time. Back home in Madison, Wisconsin, it was five in the morning. Here in Ireland, at Shannon Airport, it was … “Eleven o’clock,” she murmured, catching sight of a clock on the wall.

She smiled to herself. Though she’d planned hundreds of exciting trips in her head and flipped through travel books during her lunch hours, this was the first time she’d actually gotten on a plane and flown across an ocean. Everything around her seemed exotic, from the shape of the trash cans to the voice over the loudspeaker to the signs written in Gaelic.

“I’m in Ireland,” she said, smiling to herself.

The line moved and she pulled her luggage along with her, getting ever closer to the row of desks and dour-faced immigration officials.

Her mother had visited Ireland, the summer after her college graduation. Twenty-seven years ago, Laura Daley had stepped off a plane, just as Nan had just done, ready to begin a wonderful adventure in the land of her ancestors. Nan could only imagine the young woman her mother had been. Laura Daley Galvin had died of cancer when Nan was eight.

This trip was a way to discover the other side of her, she’d decided. After her mother’s death, she’d cared for her father, keeping house, excelling in her schoolwork, living at home while she attended college and after she took her first job. As time went on, she’d become more like him—a quiet homebody, satisfied to find adventure between the pages of a book rather than in the real world.

A year ago, she’d buried Jim Galvin beside her mother. But it was the discovery of a trunk full of her mother’s memories that caused Nan to reevaluate the person she was. The contents provided a window into the woman Laura Daley Galvin had been—adventurous, curious, spontaneous. And a packet of letters revealed a lasting friendship with an Irish woman named Carey, a woman that Nan was determined to meet.

She’d decided to start saving for an adventure and, to her surprise, it had taken her only nine months to save enough for ten days in Ireland. What would she discover here? Would she have an adventure as her mother had? Was there anything left of Laura Daley inside of her?

Somewhere, outside the terminal, a driver was waiting for her, ready to whisk her away to the pretty little seaside town of Ballykirk in County Cork and the beautiful country cottage she’d rented over the internet. Nan glanced at the clock and winced. He’d been waiting for three hours.

“Next!”

Nan stepped up to the desk and slapped down her passport and the immigration form she’d completed on the plane.

“Tiernan Galvin?” the agent said.

She never used her Irish given name, mostly because no one in Wisconsin could pronounce it properly. So, she’d adopted her father’s nickname for her—Nan. “Yes,” she said. “Tiernan Galvin.”

“Are you here on business or pleasure?” the woman asked.

Nan couldn’t help but smile. Just the sound of the woman’s Irish accent fired her imagination. Her mother had loved this land so much that she’d given her only child a strange Irish name. Maybe she’d even walked through this very same gate at Immigration. “I’m here on vacation,” she said. “Pleasure.”

“Are you visiting anyone in particular?”

“No one. Well, actually, his name is …” From her jacket pocket Nan pulled out the email she’d printed out and showed it to her. “His name is Riley Quinn. From Ballykirk. But I don’t know him. I’m just staying in his family’s house. Guesthouse. He’s picking me up. At least he was supposed to three hours ago. The plane was late taking off and now this line has gone on forever. God, I hope he’s still there.”

The woman examined Nan’s documents, then nodded.

“If you have anything to declare, go through the red channel. If not, the green channel,” she said. “And welcome to the Republic of Ireland. Enjoy your holiday.”

“Thanks,” Nan said. “I will.”

She followed the green signs and walked out into the baggage claim area. When she found the correct carousel, her luggage was already making its way around on the conveyor. She grabbed her bag and hauled it onto the floor at her feet. Hoisting her carry-on bag to her shoulder, Nan started toward the exit, her suitcase rolling along behind her.

She passed by a line of drivers holding cards with names on them and she searched for hers. When she didn’t find it, Nan walked outside into the late-morning sun.

A row of cabs waited at the curb but there were no other cars or drivers with signs for arriving passengers. Nan cursed softly. What was she supposed to do now? Renting a car was ridiculously expensive and well outside her budget. She’d already paid to use the car provided with the guesthouse.

Though the drive to Ballykirk might be a wonderful adventure, Nan wasn’t sure she could steer and read a map at the same time while driving on the wrong side of the road. There was adventure and then there was adventure. She dragged her luggage over to the first cab in line and leaned into the passenger side window. “How much to go to Ballykirk?”

The driver regarded her with a scowl. “It’s a two-hour round trip. About a hundred and forty kilometers. That would be two-hundred thirty euros.”

“I only have American dollars,” she said. “I haven’t converted my money yet.”

“Oh, I don’t take dollars,” he said. “Don’t really know the conversion rates. You could convert your money inside, but those money changers are all a pack of thieves.”

Nan sighed. “How about a credit card?”

He shook his head. “That I won’t, dearie. Check one of the other lads, they might. Try the bus. Or you can hire a car.”

“All right,” she said. “Thanks.”

This wasn’t exactly the way she’d pictured the start of her vacation. She’d planned so carefully, right down to the last dollar and the last minute. Not only had her plane been late taking off from Chicago, but she’d also nearly missed her connection in New York. Then they’d had to wait three hours until a storm system passed before leaving New York. The meals on the transatlantic flight were barely edible and she’d been stuck beside a crying child for the entire trip to Shannon. And now she was hungry and had a headache that made any more stress difficult. She had Riley Quinn’s phone number. She’d call and find out where he was. But first she’d have to get some change for the pay phone.

“Money first,” she murmured to herself.

“Do you have a light?”

Nan turned to find a man standing behind her, an unlit cigarette between his lips. Her breath caught and she stepped back, her gaze fixed on his handsome face. This was exactly how she’d imagined Irish men … except for the cigarette, of course. He had shaggy dark hair and chiseled features and eyes that were so blue they were almost gray. The shadow of a week-old beard darkened his features, making him look a bit dangerous. “What?” she croaked.

“A light?” he repeated.

Faded jeans hugged his long legs, and a T-shirt and a leather jacket hid wide shoulders. Dangerous, she thought to herself. And wild. And slightly disreputable. Not the kind of man she was usually attracted to. So why had her breath suddenly left her body? “No,” she murmured. “I—I don’t smoke.”

He groaned, shaking his head. “Oh, you’re one of those.”

“Those?”

He shook his head. “Americans. Now you’re going to tell me all about the health hazards and how secondhand smoke affects everyone and how—”

“No!” she interrupted, insulted by his assumption. This always happened to her. People assumed that as a librarian, she was fussy and prudish and hyperorganized. But this man didn’t know she was a librarian and still he was judging her.

She was on vacation. No one knew her here. She could be whoever and whatever she wanted and she didn’t want to be that person who shushed students at the library and told them they couldn’t have sex in the stacks. She wanted to be worldly and adventurous and maybe even a bit alluring. “I just don’t carry matches because I don’t smoke. And I rarely have need to start a campfire or … light some dynamite. And if you want to kill yourself, I’m not going to stand in your way.”

He stared at her for a long moment, an odd look on his face, her attempt at humor falling flat. Then he chuckled. “Sorry. I’m a little touchy. I gave up the cigs a year ago but when I find myself getting irritated or tired, I go back to old habits.” He broke the cigarette in half and tossed it to the curb.

“Isn’t that littering?” she asked.

“I prefer to call it minding my health.”

She stepped off the curb to pick up the discarded cigarette. But an instant later, he grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the way of a fast-approaching taxi. The taxi tires screeched and she screamed, slamming hard into his chest as she stumbled.

He held tight, pulling her away from the traffic, his body warm and hard with muscle. She drew a deep breath and the scent of his cologne teased at her nose. Though he was a complete stranger, she felt safe in his arms. In truth, she felt more than safe. She felt alive, every nerve in her body tingling with excitement.

“Careful now,” he said, his voice soft, his concerned gaze scanning her face. “I can’t be saving your life all the time. And it wouldn’t do to get yourself killed your first day in Ireland.”

Nan’s heart fluttered. They were close enough to kiss. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. His gaze shifted and suddenly, she felt as if he could read her thoughts. Embarrassed, Nan pulled out of his embrace, straightening her jacket and trying to remain calm.

Though there’d been men in her life, she’d never felt such an immediate and intense reaction to any of them. But then, most of the men she dated didn’t look like this one—drop-dead gorgeous. “Thank you,” she said, forcing a smile.

“’Twas nothing any other Irishman wouldn’t do for a beautiful lady,” he teased, his brogue more exaggerated.

Nan glanced nervously down the line of cabs. Had he just called her beautiful? She’d always prided herself in an absolute objective assessment of her strengths and weaknesses, and beautiful was not a term she usually applied to her appearance. He was beautiful. She was ordinary.

“Are you looking to hire a cab?” he asked.

“Do you have a cab?” Maybe now that they’d struck up a conversation of sorts, he’d agree to take her to Ballykirk. “Is that taxi yours?” she said, pointing to a cab idling at the curb.

“No. The bloke who drives it just went inside to use the loo. I’m watching it for him, in exchange for that cig you made me toss.” He paused. “Are you looking for a ride?”

Nan nodded. “Someone was supposed to meet me here, but I think he may have left. My plane was late.”

“Husband?”

“No,” Nan said.

“Fiancé?”

“No!”

“Boyfriend, then.”

“No, just a ride.”

“Well, then, my day has just taken a turn for the better. I’d be happy to give you a ride. I was supposed to pick up some old lady and drive her to Ballykirk, but she never showed.”

Nan gasped. “That’s where I want to go! What a coinci—” She stopped, then regarded him suspiciously. “Are you Riley Quinn?”

The grin faded and he raked his hand through his hair. “Oh, shite,” he muttered. “I’ve stuck my foot in it now. You’d be Nan Galvin?”

“I would be her,” Nan said. He assumed she was an old woman? What had she ever said or done that had given him that impression? “You were supposed to wait at baggage claim with a sign.”

He held out his hands and shrugged. “I figured I’d recognize you when you came out. But you’re not old. I expected some lady with white hair and spectacles and sensible shoes.”

“Why, because I’m a librarian? That’s just silly stereotyping and I—”

“No,” he interrupted. “Well, partly. But there were … clues. You sounded old.”

“We’ve never spoken. We’ve only emailed. How could you possibly guess my age from a few emails?”

“I don’t know. You write old. And you just seemed so …”

“So what?”

“So … prissy. Not in a bad way, mind you. Your spelling was perfect and your emails were so organized and precise.”

“They were not!” In truth, they probably were. Nan prided herself on proper grammar and spelling. It was a professional responsibility that spilled into her personal life.

“You requested that I provide a premium brand of toilet tissue. And that the house be clean of all insects, spiders and bugs, living and dead. I’d call that finicky. Besides, you said you’d wanted to visit the land of your ancestors before you died, so I put two and two together and came up with … well, definitely not you.”

Nan held fast to her temper. It wouldn’t do to make this man angry now. He was her only mode of transportation. “You did say you’d meet me at baggage claim. And you weren’t there. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I got tired of waiting. I’ve been standing around here for two feckin’ hours waiting on you.”

“I was supposed to arrive three hours ago.”

“Well, I was running late. I’ve got things to do today and I’m wasting my time searching for an old lady who doesn’t exist. I have to get back to the pub.”

“I’m sorry to keep you from your late-morning drinking,” she snapped. Yes, he was sexy, but he also could be a bit of an ass.

“My family owns a pub,” Riley explained. “I work there, along with my brothers.”

“And you run a guesthouse?”

“It doesn’t take much running, but, yes, I do that, too—plus lots of other things. Like driving demanding tourists home from the airport.” He shook his head. “You could have told me you were a fine bit of stuff.”

Though she should have been insulted, Nan’s irritation suddenly vanished and she smiled reluctantly.

“‘Stuff’? What do you mean by that?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m saying,” he replied. “You’re beautiful, so don’t get your knickers in a twist if I call you on it.” Riley reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, then handed it to her. “There’s your name. Come on. Spilt milk. I’m in the car park.” He grabbed her suitcase and started across the road. When she didn’t follow, he turned around and strode back, grabbing her carry-on. “It’s this way,” he said. “Don’t expect I’ll carry you, too.”

Nan followed him across the road, hurrying to catch up with his long strides. “Maybe you should have had that cigarette,” she shouted. “Or maybe a big handful of mood elevators would help your negative attitude.”

He laughed out loud. “Now, why would you say that? I’ve been nothing but pleasant since the moment we met.”

“And I haven’t?”

He sent her such a charming smile that Nan couldn’t do much more than laugh herself. “You’ve been a darling,” he said.

It was impossible to be angry with the man, no matter how irresponsible he might appear to be. “Be careful,” she called as he hauled her suitcase up a set of steps. “That’s brand-new luggage.”