The Mighty Quinns: Brian

Lily pushed Brian back into the leather seat of the limo. Brushing his shirt aside, she smoothed her hands over his chest, hard and muscular, then leaned forward and pressed her lips to the soft dusting of hair beneath his collarbone. But when she let her fingers drop to his trousers, Brian grabbed her hands and drew them away.

“Are you sure about this, Lily?”

She smiled. He didn’t have to be such a gentleman, but Lily was glad he made the attempt. “There’s nothing wrong with two…” She moved back to his trousers. “Consenting adults…” She worked the button open. “Engaging in mutually satisfying…” She slowly drew the zipper down. “Sex.”

Most guys had probably dreamed about hearing those words. And Lily never dreamed she’d be the one saying them. But she’d had enough of “relationships.” What was wrong with taking her pleasure where she found it?

“Haven’t you ever just been swept away by the moment?” she asked, playfully nipping at his neck.

“Yeah,” Brian groaned, pulling her closer to him. “I think that’s happening now….”

Dear Reader,

It’s hard to believe that I’m almost at the end of my Quinn saga. Yet another handsome Quinn brother has fallen victim to love, and this time I almost didn’t want to type the last page of the manuscript. I’ve gotten used to having these Quinns around!

Conor, Dylan, Brendan, Keely and Liam all found love, and now it’s Brian’s turn. And this stubborn and single-minded news reporter needed just the right kind of woman to tempt him. Public relations expert Lily Gallagher was the one, though falling in love was the last thing she wanted to do.

I’ve been so grateful for all the notes that you’ve sent me about the Quinns and I hope you’ll follow their stories right to the end. Next month Brian’s twin brother, Sean, meets his match. And after that, I guess I’m going to go through a little Quinn withdrawal. But I’m sure I’ll find a handsome hero waiting around the next corner.

Be sure to visit my Web site at www.katehoffmann.com for information on all my releases.

Happy reading,

Kate Hoffmann

The Mighty Quinns: Brian

Kate Hoffmann

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Prologue

WIND-DRIVEN RAIN LASHED at the windows of the house on Kilgore Street. The storm had rolled off the North Atlantic a day ago, a nor’easter with the force of a tropical hurricane and the chill of a midwinter blizzard. Brian Quinn stared out at the flooded street from the second-story bedroom window, his forehead pressed against the glass.

He knew the Mighty Quinn was a seaworthy boat and that it had weathered storms much worse than this, but Brian still couldn’t banish the worry from his head. Seamus Quinn was a great captain and he didn’t need the Coast Guard to tell him the forecast—he felt it, he smelled it in the air and saw it in the clouds. But the Mighty Quinn was late coming in, already six days past the longest trip that Brian’s father had ever made. And Brian could see the worry in Conor’s eyes and the grim set of Dylan’s mouth. They were worried, too.

The fishing had been bad all summer and the Mighty Quinn had been forced farther and farther out to find swordfish. But now, the season was winding down and the weather becoming more unpredictable. After the last trip, Conor had tried to convince their father to head south as so many other fishermen did during the fall and winter.

Though it would mean the six Quinn boys would be on their own for five or six months, Conor had assured Seamus that he could handle things at home as long as the money kept coming in. He had run the household for seven years now, ever since their mother had walked out. Conor cooked and cleaned, he helped with homework and meted out discipline. And he tried his hardest to keep their situation from teachers and neighbors and anyone who might consider Seamus a neglectful father. A heavy load for a fourteen-year-old.

Brian glanced over his shoulder. His twin brother Sean was already in bed, the threadbare quilt pulled up around his chin, his nose buried in a comic book. Liam, the youngest Quinn, had crawled into bed next to Sean, curling up against him for warmth. The seven-year-old had given up begging his brother to read the comic for him and was now mouthing the words as he read for himself.

“Bri! Check those buckets in the hall,” Dylan shouted from the bottom of the stairs. “It won’t do any good if they overflow.”

Brian sighed. One of these days there would be enough money to fix the leaky roof and to paint the sagging porch and to pay the phone bill before it got disconnected. There was always the next run to the Grand Banks and dreams of a hold full of swordfish and the chance to offload first and command the highest price. But Brian had learned that his father’s big dreams very rarely came true.

Though they didn’t talk about their father’s drinking and gambling out loud, Brian knew his older brothers had tried their best to deal with the lack of money. Conor had taken to meeting the Mighty Quinn when it came in, hoping to deter Seamus from a visit to the pub and a drunken all-night poker game. And Dylan had learned to hide the money jar after Seamus got home, knowing that it would gradually disappear at their father’s hand.

“He’s not comin’ home tonight,” Sean said. “He won’t bring the boat in in this weather.”

“Is Da all right?” Liam asked.

“Yeah, he’s all right,” Brian murmured, getting up from the window. He wandered out to the hall and checked the row of buckets that Conor had set out to counter the leaking roof. Then he hurried back to the bedroom and hopped into bed, pulling the covers up over his chest.

If he just went to sleep, then it would be morning and the storm would be over and his father would be home and everything would be all right. “Your feet are cold, Li,” Brian complained. “Keep ’em to yourself, ya little dosser.”

“Shut yer gob,” Liam said. “Read me. Come on, Sean. Read me just a little.”

The stairs creaked. “Conor’s coming up,” Sean said. “Ask him for a story.”

But instead of Conor, their brother Brendan poked his head in the room. “Con says lights out,” he said. “School tomorrow.”

“Will Da be home tomorrow?” Liam asked.

Brendan forced a smile then shrugged. “Don’t know, Li. But he’ll be home soon.”

Liam sat up and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Is he all right? My teacher said the storm was bad.”

Brendan sat down on the edge of the bed and grabbed Liam’s foot beneath the quilt, tickling it playfully. “Of course he’ll be all right. Da can steer through any old storm.” He glanced back and forth between Brian and Sean, a silent warning not to contradict him.

“Yeah,” Brian agreed. “When I went out with Da last summer, he told me about a storm that had fifty-foot waves and wind so strong it could blow a man right off the deck. This isn’t near as bad, Li.”

Liam’s expression shifted, now more worried. “How high are the waves?”

“They’re just wee little waves,” Brendan said. “Why don’t you shove over and I’ll tell you a story.” He crawled in between Liam and Brian, leaning back against the headboard. “What story do you want to hear?”

The stories were a Quinn family tradition and when Seamus was home, he told a different tale nearly every night. They were wonderful stories of their legendary ancestors, the Mighty Quinns, those brave and clever men who vanquished evil. But when Seamus told the stories, the fables also featured scheming women. At first, Brian hadn’t understood why the Quinns distrusted women so. But then he’d come to realize that the tales were laced with Seamus’s own opinions about women—opinions based on their mother’s desertion.

Her name was never spoken in the presence of their father but Conor talked about her every now and then. She had been beautiful, with long dark hair and pretty green eyes. And though Brian had been only three when she left, he remembered one thing—the red flowered apron that she wore every morning. He could still feel the starched fabric between his fingers.

“Odran and the giant,” Sean said.

“Murchadh Quinn, the mighty seaman,” Liam suggested.

“Eamon and the enchantress,” Brian insisted. Though Brendan was only eleven, he told the tales the best. He wove stories full of excitement and vivid images, better than any action movie or comic book.

“I just remembered a story that Da told a long time ago when Con and Dylan and I were younger,” Brendan said. “I don’t think you’ve ever heard this one. It’s about Riddoc Quinn who was the smartest of all our Quinn ancestors. In fact, Riddoc Quinn knew everything.”

“No one can know everything,” Brian said.

“Ah, but Riddoc did. For he was a very watchful lad. He didn’t talk much, but saw a lot.” Brendan pointed to his temple. “And he was also a great thinker. Like me. And a little like Liam, too.”

“Get on with the story, gobdaw,” Sean said.

Brendan cleared his throat. “Riddoc Quinn lived in a tiny village on the Irish seacoast in a small stone cottage perched on a craggy cliff. His parents were plain and simple folk who couldn’t read or write, but Riddoc taught himself to do both. He read every book in the village and when there were none left, he visited nearby towns to borrow more. But that wasn’t enough. Riddoc spoke with every person who passed through the village, asking of their travels, wanting to know about the rest of the world.”

“Is this going to be one of those stories that we’re supposed to learn something from?” Sean muttered. “Like study hard and stay in school?”

Brendan reached over Liam’s head and gave Sean a cuff. “Shut up or I’ll make you tell the story. And you’re just about the worst storyteller in all of Southie.”

“Keep going!” Liam cried.

“Riddoc and his family lived near a powerful sorcerer named Aodhfin and Aodhfin had two daughters named Maighdlin and Macha. Aodhfin spoiled his daughters, giving them anything they wished for, conjuring up pretty dresses and expensive gifts. The beautiful Maighdlin became very selfish and greedy. Her sister Macha was a plain and guileless girl and so it was as they grew older. Maighdlin demanded more and more of her father, putting on the airs of a princess while Macha concentrated on her studies, learning Latin and Greek and reading great books.

“As time passed, Aodhfin knew that he’d have to choose an heir to his magical powers. Though Maighdlin was grasping and unfeeling, Aodhfin knew she could become a powerful sorceress, maybe the most powerful in the land. But Macha was compassionate and generous, the type of person who would use her power for good.

“The old sorcerer was torn between his two daughters and spent many sleepless nights pondering his decision. He asked his friends to help him, but they were unable to make a choice for they were afraid that if they chose wrong, they might suffer later. As he was walking in the forest one day, Aodhfin came upon a peasant and decided to ask his advice. The peasant grinned and told him, ‘You should ask Riddoc Quinn for he will know the answer. He knows everything.”’

“He would know,” Liam said. “Riddoc Quinn was the smartest boy in Ireland.”

“That he was. But he wasn’t just book-smart. Riddoc understood others, their flaws and their strengths, for he had met many people in his quest for knowledge and understanding and had learned from each of them.

“And so Aodhfin sent for Riddoc Quinn and brought him to his home, a dark castle deep in the forest. The old sorcerer couldn’t believe that this boy dressed in rags was the person he sought. ‘I have heard you possess great knowledge,’ the sorcerer said. Riddoc nodded. ‘Then I will leave the decision to you,’ said the sorcerer. ‘You will choose between my two daughters and tell me which one will become a great sorceress. But first, you must tell me how you plan to decide.’ Riddoc thought about this for a long moment. ‘I will give them a test,’ he said. ‘I will ask them three questions which they must answer honestly.”’

Sean groaned. “Oh, no. Like a spelling test? This is a dumb story. I want the Odran story.”

“It’s the right way to decide,” Brian countered. “It’s the most fair.”

“The day of the test approached,” Brendan continued, “and the sorcerer grew worried that Riddoc was not the right person for the job. After all, he possessed no mystical powers—he was just an ordinary boy. Perhaps it would be better to use magic, a potion or a spell to make the decision clear. For the first test, Riddoc placed three items on a table in front of each of the daughters—a ruby, pearl and a simple stone polished smooth by the sea. He asked Maighdlin to choose the most beautiful stone. Of course Maighdlin chose the ruby for it was the most valuable. But when he asked Macha, she chose the stone from the sea.”

“Macha is too dumb to be a sorceress,” Sean said.

“The sorcerer thought so, too,” Brendan continued. “How could Macha be a sorceress if she couldn’t even recognize the value of a jewel? But Riddoc saw that Macha recognized the beauty in simple things. The next question was more difficult. Riddoc brought three men before the girls—a handsome knight, a wealthy shopkeeper and a monk. He gave Maighdlin a pouch of gold coins and asked her to give it to the man who needed it most. But Maighdlin was not about to be fooled. She gave a third to the knight for his protection, a third to the shopkeeper for a bolt of silk, and a third to the monk for his blessing. When Macha came into the room and was faced with the same choice, she held on to the bag of gold. ‘I cannot give this bounty to any of these men for none of them need it. The knight is cared for by his liege and the shopkeeper makes his living from the goods he sells. And the monk has taken a vow of poverty. Where is the poor farmer whose crop has failed or the mother who has too many children to feed?”’

Brian nestled down in the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. The wind still rattled the windows and water still dripped into a plastic bucket beside the bed. But as he listened to Brendan’s story, he felt the real world fade away. He saw the sorcerer’s castle in his mind, the deep forest. He saw Riddoc’s tiny cottage near the sea. Though he’d been born in Ireland, he remembered nothing of that country. But he could feel it pulsing through his body now.

“The old sorcerer sighed. Macha was too tender-hearted to ever wield great power. But Riddoc knew that Macha was kind and generous and sympathetic to those less fortunate. There was one final question that Riddoc decided to give to the daughters. ‘You may ask me one question,’ he said. ‘A question that you want answered more than any other.’ They pondered their choices for a long time. ‘Will I be the most powerful sorceress in Ireland?’ Maighdlin asked. ‘Will I ever find true love?’ Macha asked. This proved what Riddoc already knew—Macha had a pure heart. He turned to the sorcerer. ‘You must give Macha your power,’ he said.”

“This is so mushy,” Sean said. “I s’pose now Riddoc is going to kiss her and they’ll fall in love and get married.”

“Not yet,” Brendan said. “Because before the sorcerer died, Maighdlin took Macha deep into the forest and left her there, certain that she’d be devoured by wolves or starve to death.”

“Did she die?” Sean asked.

“No. For Riddoc knew that Maighdlin would try something evil. He watched over Macha and followed the girls wherever they went. And he rescued Macha from the forest. He took her back to the castle and told the sorcerer of Maighdlin’s evil deed. It was only then that the sorcerer knew the answer to his question. Now he could die peacefully. And so Macha became a sorceress. And Riddoc her most trusted advisor.”

“And Maighdlin?” Brian asked.

“She became a toad. A slimy warty toad with a purple nose.”

Brian laughed and Liam giggled. Sean just blinked in confusion. “She didn’t try to turn Riddoc into a toad?”

Brendan shook his head. “No. He was too smart to let that happen.” He cleared his throat and continued. “After a time, Macha and Riddoc married. And they had sons, who had sons, who had sons. But none of them needed magical powers for they inherited something more valuable from their father—a clever mind and a thirst for knowledge.”

“Are you sure Riddoc didn’t throw Macha over the cliff?” Sean asked. “Or maybe he took her back into the forest and chopped off her head? Da tells his stories different.”

“This isn’t Da’s story, it’s mine,” Brendan said.

Brendan always told the Mighty Quinn tales differently, Brian mused. In his versions, the women weren’t always the villains. “I liked this story just the way you told it.”

Brendan nodded. “I did, too. And now you know that we’re descended from kings and queens, knights and ladies, plain farmers and a powerful sorceress. It’s time for you to get to sleep. It’s late.” He crawled off the bed and pulled the blankets up around the three brothers. As he walked to the door, Brendan flipped off the light.

The room went dark and Sean rolled over, tugging on the blankets. Liam flipped over and nestled up against Brian for warmth and security. Brian threw his arm over his head and stared up at the ceiling. Images of the story still swirled in his head. The tale of Riddoc Quinn appealed to him—the clever boy and the beautiful sorceress living in their forest castle.

“Do you think Da is all right?” Liam asked, his voice timid.

“Da is a Quinn. He’s like Riddoc, he’s clever,” Brian murmured.

“I’m scared. What if he doesn’t come back? They’ll come and get us and take us away. We’ll never see each other again.” Liam’s voice trembled and Brian could tell he was on the verge of tears.

“Conor would never let that happen,” Brian said. He reached out and smoothed his hand over his little brother’s hair. “We’ll be together forever. Don’t worry, Li.”

The little boy sobbed softly and burrowed under the covers. Brian curled beneath the threadbare blankets and closed his eyes. But sleep refused to come. When the house grew silent, he slipped out of bed and grabbed his winter jacket from the floor, pulling it on to ward off the chill in the air. As he passed the other bedroom, he peeked inside to find his older brothers sprawled out on their beds.

The stairs creaked as he tiptoed down. When he reached the front parlor, he sat down in front of the portable television that Dylan had rescued from a junk pile in the alley. Brian flipped it on and the snowy picture illuminated the dark room. The antenna, draped with tinfoil, did little to bring the picture into focus. Brian could barely make out the weather forecaster standing in front of the map.

“This is Storm Central on WBTN-TV. Forecasters say the storm is worsening in the North Atlantic. The waves are battering the New England coast and causing many residents to head for higher ground. The barometer continues to fall, which means that we’re still not over the worst of the storm. Marinas from Long Island to Maine have reported hundreds of boats ripped from moorings and destroyed. Many commercial fishing boats have also been damaged, a blow to those fishermen who have already had a bad summer season.”

Brian leaned forward, trying to study the map, wondering where in the Atlantic his father was. He’d traced the route on the school atlas, but it had looked so simple then. He’d been on the boat before, far from the sight of land. Out there, everything looked the same.

“Meanwhile, the Coast Guard has had its hands full with distress calls from boaters and fishermen caught out on the Atlantic when the storm blew up. The fishing boat Selma B. out of Boston sank after taking on water, but the crew was airlifted off the deck to the safety of a Coast Guard helicopter. The Willow put into Gloucester a few hours ago after a search by Coast Guard cutters. Their radio had been knocked out.”

A knot twisted in Brian’s stomach and a wave of nausea washed over him. They all knew the dangers that faced a commercial fisherman. Brendan’s teacher had once said that commercial fishing was the most dangerous occupation of all, more dangerous than driving a race car or flying an airplane. That knowledge had stuck with Brian over the years and now it seemed like a weight pressing down on him.

He stared at the man on the screen. If anything happened to the Mighty Quinn, the newscaster would know first. He’d know if the boat was sinking. He’d know whether Seamus was alive or dead. Like Riddoc Quinn, this man knew everything.

Brian pulled his knees up under his chin and shivered, refusing to allow himself the luxury of tears. “Someday, I’ll be the first to know. And then I won’t ever have to worry again.”

1

THE NEWSROOM WAS a picture of controlled chaos as Brian Quinn strode through. Weekends were always a little crazy, the junior staff at WBTN-TV working with a skeleton crew. As he walked to his cubicle, Brian tugged on the starched collar of the pleated shirt, the fabric chafing his neck. He didn’t wear a tux often, but when he did he found the experience wholly uncomfortable.

He caught his reflection as he walked by a plate glass window. The monkey suit did have an undeniable effect on the ladies, though. What was it about a black suit and a bow tie that made women swoon? A tux was no more unusual than a white T-shirt and faded jeans. Brian frowned. Women seemed to like that combination as well. That and plain old boxer shorts.

Too bad this wasn’t a social occasion, he mused. At least then, maybe the starched shirt would have paid off in the end. Though there were bound to be more than a few beautiful women at the fund-raiser tonight, Brian was attending the party for business reasons. And he never mixed business with pleasure.

“Look at you.”

He glanced to the left and saw Taneesha Gregory leaning over the wall of one of the cubicles, her smile wide, her dark eyes bright with humor. Taneesha was his favorite cameraman—or camera goddess as she preferred to call herself. Shameless and fearless, she often had to muscle her way through a crowd of male news photographers to get the best shot, shoving her camera into a person’s face to catch the nuances of their reaction to a question. When it came to a hard-hitting investigative piece, Taneesha was the person Brian wanted to be there to get the shot.

“Don’t even start,” he warned, wagging his finger at her.

“You da bomb,” she said, laughing and clapping her hands. She came around the cubicle, then reached up and straightened his bow tie. “But I think a tux is a little over the top for a weekend anchor. I hear you’re doing the eleven o’clock news tomorrow night.”

“Yeah. But the tux isn’t for that. I’m working on a story.”

“I hope you don’t need me for this story. Because you know I don’t wear a—”

“Dress,” Brian finished. “Yes. I know. The last time you wore a dress was your wedding.”

“That’s right,” she said, brushing a speck of lint off his shoulder. “And I promised Ronald that I’d wear a dress on our silver wedding anniversary. That’s still eleven years off.”

“Don’t worry,” Brian assured her. “Tonight I’m just checking out a lead. Richard Patterson, our sleazy neighborhood real estate developer is hosting a fund-raiser tonight. And I’m going to crash the party and get a look at his guests.”

Taneesha groaned. “Are you still on that story? If the boss finds out you’re chasing Patterson around town, he’ll have your head. Or have you forgotten just how much money Patterson spends on advertising with this station?”