“Would you like to kiss me?” Amy asked

At Brendan’s questioning look, Amy shrugged. I was just curious. I mean, I know you were just trying to warm me up. But since I’m almost naked, and you’re almost naked and we’re lying in bed together, it’s the next logical step, isn’t it?”

Just the thought of kissing her, of pulling her body against his, pressing her breasts to his chest and cradling her hips in his brought a flood of desire rushing through Brendan. And it would be so easy. Just a pull here, a tug there and there would be nothing between him and Amy but skin.

So much for his self-control, Brendan thought, sitting up and raking his hands through his hair. Would he ever understand her? How could they go from discussing her background to… Brendan cursed softly as realization dawned. Amy had wanted to divert his questions about her past. Well, if she wanted a diversion…

Leaning back toward her, he braced his hands on either side of her head. “So, you want to know if I want to kiss you?” he asked innocently.

Amy’s eyes went wide and she gave him a tiny nod.

“I think you deserve an answer, don’t you?” he said, before bringing his mouth down on hers.

Dear Reader,

Planning and writing a trilogy is always a daunting experience. Throughout the planning of THE MIGHTY QUINNS, I often wondered if I’d finish. And now that I have, I’m sorry the miniseries is all over. Conor, Dylan and Brendan Quinn have been three of my most intriguing heroes. And when you spend months with men like these, it’s a little hard to move on to someone else!

THE MIGHTY QUINNS concludes this month with Brendan’s story. He’s seen what’s happened to his two older brothers and he’s determined to avoid the same fate. This Quinn is not falling in love! Then he meets Amy Aldrich, a waitress in a waterfront bar, who is so much more than she appears to be. She moves into his life and soon, into his heart. And before he knows it, Brendan is the third Mighty Quinn to succumb to the love of a woman.

For those of you who aren’t ready for this series to end, I have a surprise for you. In June 2002, a fourth Mighty Quinn book, Reunited, will hit the shelves as a single-title release. If you’ve been reading carefully, you might already know what’s in store. So enjoy Brendan’s story and watch for Reunited in June. And drop by my new Web site at www.katehoffmann.com for more information on all my books and future releases.

Enjoy,

The Mighty Quinns: Brendan
Kate Hoffmann

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my little sister, NeeNee

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Prologue

THE MIDSUMMER HEAT shimmered off the pavement of Kilgore Street as Brendan Quinn slowly climbed the front steps of his house, a weatherbeaten two-story in the middle of the block. The screen door hung crookedly from its hinges and all the windows were thrown open allowing even the smallest hint of a breeze to ruffle the old lace curtains. He listened for his brothers and when he didn’t hear any voices, he breathed a slow sigh of relief, then wiped a trickle of sweat from his cheek.

Though an occasional thunderstorm would provide a respite from the heat, the six Quinn brothers had taken to sleeping on the rickety back porch of the house, turning necessity into yet another adventure. Last night they’d even started a fire in the backyard and cooked hot dogs and marshmallows on sticks, just as if they were on a real vacation at the Grand Canyon or maybe the Rocky Mountains, rather than in the middle of a sweltering Boston summer.

There were no family vacations for the Quinns. Their father, Seamus, had been out to sea on his swordfishing boat for nearly a month. In a few days, he’d arrive back home and stay long enough to get drunk five or six times, gamble away most of the money he had made and reacquaint himself with his sons. Then he’d head out again.

Slowly, Brendan lowered himself onto the top step, wincing against the pain as he moved. He didn’t want to go inside. After nearly a week of ninety degree days in the South Boston neighborhood, Brendan was sure it would be more pleasant walking into a blast furnace than into the Quinn house. Besides, he didn’t want to face the inevitable questions—like how he got the black eye and the bloody nose and the cut lip.

If he was lucky, sixteen-year-old Conor would be at work at a nearby grocery store where he had a job as a bag boy. And Dylan, two years younger, would be washing cars with his buddy Tommy Flanagan over at Tommy’s house.

But Brendan couldn’t be bothered with work. There were too many adventures to be had in the summer, too many places to be seen to be tied down with a regular job. Just last week he’d taken the train all the way to New York City and back again, without paying, and the images of skyscrapers still swirled in his mind. The week before, he’d hopped a Greyhound bus for the exotic sounding destination of Nova Scotia, making it to the Canadian border before the driver realized he had a stowaway. And in a few weeks, he’d take a turn on his father’s swordboat. But today, he’d stuck closer to home, wandering through the neighborhood for lack of anyplace better to go.

“Someday, I’ll have enough money to travel the world,” he murmured, staring down at the ragged toe of his tennis shoe. “And nothing will keep me here.”

A few seconds later, his little brother Liam burst out of the house, the screen door slamming behind him. He stopped cold at the sight of Brendan, his eyes growing wide. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked.

“Geez, Liam, don’t you be swearing now. You’re only nine years old and it isn’t proper.”

Liam spun on his heel and tore back into the house. “Con! Con! Come quick. Brendan’s had the livin’ crap beat out of him.”

Brendan groaned at his little brother’s colorful language. Though he, Conor and Dylan tried to maintain some level of discipline with the younger boys, the task was sometimes impossible. Liam reappeared at the door, followed closely by Conor who gave the boy a cuff on the head. “Stop your swearin’, Liam Quinn, or I’ll beat the livin’ crap out of you.”

His older brother stepped out onto the porch, his gaze fixed on Brendan’s face. “Ya look like you’ve been run over by a truck, boyo.”

Con sat down beside him, then began to poke and prod at the scrapes on Brendan’s face. Besides the split lip and the sore ribs, Brendan felt pretty damn good, though he wasn’t keen to dance a jig any time soon.

“Who did this to you?” Con asked.

“Angus Murphy,” Brendan said. “He and a couple of his goons jumped me just a few blocks from here.” Angus Murphy—all five feet six, two hundred pounds of him—was well-known to anyone living within a five block radius of Kilgore Street. As the designated neighborhood bully, he had it out for the Quinns. He’d tried to beat up Conor a few years back, but had lost badly. So he’d moved on to Dylan and got himself roundly pummeled. Brendan had known sooner or later his number would come up.

“I swear, Angus Murphy is the size of a small truck. When I first punched him, my fist just sank into that fat gut of his. Like punchin’ a pillow and he didn’t even blink. But then I got him a good puck in the gob and the fight was on. Surprised him that.”

“Just tell me one thing, Bren,” Dylan said. “Does he look worse than you?”

Brendan smiled up at his brother who’d just emerged from the house with a handful of ice cubes wrapped in an old dishtowel. Dylan handed the ice to Brendan then sat down on the other side of him. A few seconds later, the twins, Brian and Sean, appeared from the backyard, their clothes covered with dirt.

Brendan pressed the ice to his swollen lip. “He looked worse than me before the fight. That boy is as ugly as a mud fence.” He grimaced. “God, I hate fighting.”

In truth, Brendan had had his hands full with Angus. Though he didn’t give anything away to him in height, Angus was at least seventy pounds heavier. But his weight made him slow on his feet and with every punch thrown, Brendan simply dodged and weaved, suffering a few glancing blows.

“I was winnin’ for sure until I knocked Angus half-senseless.” Brendan chuckled. “Then he fell on top of me. Like a big tree. And when he hit the ground, I felt the earth shake. I swear I did! Just like that giant, Fomor, in the story of Mighty Odran Quinn.”

Liam’s eyes brightened at the mention of one of the Mighty Quinns. Liam loved the stories. For as long as Brendan could remember, the stories had been part of their lives. They’d started after his mother had walked out. At the time, Brendan hadn’t made the connection, but as he got older he realized that Seamus Quinn’s tall tales about their mighty Quinn ancestors were nothing but cautionary tales meant to warn his sons about the dangers of love.

After Fiona Quinn had walked out nearly eight years ago, life had never been the same. Though Con and Dylan had memories of her, Brendan had only been four years old. He had vague images of a dark-haired woman who sang songs and made him cookies. He remembered a birthday cake in the shape of a car. And a beautiful necklace she always wore. But beyond that, Brendan had relied on his older brothers for a picture of his mother for there were no mementos of her left in the house.

She was beautiful and affectionate and understanding, all the best qualities magnified a hundred times in their imaginations. Alone at night, he and Con and Dylan used to wonder aloud whether she might still be alive, whether she had miraculously walked away from the auto accident that his father insisted had claimed her life. Brendan liked to believe that she had amnesia and that she was living another life with a new family and that someday she would suddenly remember the boys she’d left behind.

“God, I hate fightin’,” Brendan repeated. “I mean, what good does it do? Angus will still be a bully. He’ll just move on to someone else.” He glanced at the twins. “You’re next, you know.”

“Some goms only respond to the sting of a fist or the taste of blood on their lip,” Conor said.

“If you ask me,” Dylan said, “someone ought to whack that boy over the head once or twice with a nice thick plank, maybe jangle his brain a bit.”

“You were like Dermot,” Liam said, his eyes filled with awe. “Remember Dermot Quinn? How he fought off all those boys from the village.”

Brendan reached out and ruffled his little brother’s hair. “I’m not sure I do remember Dermot,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me, Liam. Maybe it will make me feel a little better.”

His little brother drew a deep breath and began. “Some boys who were jealous of Dermot decided to drown him. They pretended they were swimming and—”

“That’s not where it starts,” Sean insisted. “It starts when Dermot catches the deer.”

Brian shook his head. “No, it starts when Dermot is born inside the giant oak tree.”

Liam leaned over and braced his elbows on Brendan’s leg. “You tell it,” he pleaded. “You do it best.”

Brendan took a deep breath. “Well, Dermot Quinn was raised in the forest by two strong and wise women, one a Druidess and the other a warrior. They raised him after his father was killed by an evil chieftain. Living all that time in the forest, Dermot became a fine hunter. One day, he was walking with the two women and they spotted a herd of deer. ‘I would love to have venison for dinner tonight,’ the Druidess said. But none of them had brought along a weapon.”

Liam sat up and continued. “‘I can catch that deer for you,’ Dermot cried. And he did. He ran after the herd and he captured a huge buck with his bare hands and wrestled it to the ground.”

“That he did,” Brendan said. “And then, the two women told Dermot since he was now a great hunter, he must learn to become a great warrior. So they sent him on a long journey to search for a teacher.” Brendan glanced over at Conor who nodded and continued the story, drawing Liam’s attention away from Brendan’s bleeding nose.

“One day, Dermot passed a group of boys playing a game,” Conor said. “They invited him to play, but they made him play by himself against five of the boys. Dermot won the game. The next day, they put ten boys against him and still he won. And the next day, all the boys in the village played and he won again. The boys were embarrassed and complained to the chieftain. A vengeful and powerful man, the chieftain told the boys that if they didn’t like Dermot, they must kill him.

“So the next day, they decided to invite Dermot to swim with them in the lake. They ganged up on him and tried to drown him, but Dermot was strong and in the end, he drowned nine of the boys defending himself. When the chieftain heard this, he suspected that Dermot was the son of his old enemy, a man he murdered many years before. He set out to find Dermot and deal him the same fate.”

“But Dermot didn’t want to fight,” Brendan said. “He was a peaceful person. So he decided to become a poet, for poets were held in very high esteem in Ireland. The evil chieftain would be unable to harm him if he were a poet. Dermot returned to the forest and found a teacher who lived near a great river. His name was Finney and every day they would talk as Finney fished in the river, hoping to catch a magic salmon who lived in the shallow water.”

“The fish was charmed,” Liam said. “And whoever ate the fish would have—have—”

“Knowledge of all things,” Brendan completed. “Finney was keen to catch this fish. For years he fished and Dermot patiently watched him and one day Finney finally caught the fish. He gave it to Dermot to cook for him, but he warned him that he must not taste the fish for it held powerful magic. Dermot did as he was told but as the fish cooked in a tasty stew, a drop of the stew splashed on Dermot’s thumb. He cried out and put his thumb in his mouth to cool the pain.”

“So he did taste the fish,” Liam said.

“That he did,” Brendan replied. “And when he served the fish to Finney, he admitted as much. ‘Then you must eat the salmon,’ his teacher said. ‘And from this fish you will receive a gift so precious to poets— the gift of great words. And after that, Dermot’s poetry became the most beloved in all of Ireland.”

“Are you going to fight Angus again?” Liam asked.

“Nope,” Brendan replied. “I don’t like fighting. I think I’m going to become a poet like Dermot Quinn. For Dermot proved that words can be as mighty as weapons.”

As Brendan sat on the front porch of the house on Kilgore Street, he thought about the Mighty Quinns, all those ancestors that had come before, all those Quinns who’d made something of themselves. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but Brendan was certain that something special was waiting for him out in the world. But it wouldn’t come to him if he stayed here. He’d need to go find it.

1

BRENDAN QUINN sat in a dark corner of the Longliner Tap, nursing a warm beer and watching the patrons wallow in their Friday night rituals. The Longliner was a popular spot for commercial fishermen, their families and their friends, located on the rough and tumble waterfront of Gloucester, Massachusetts, homebase to the North Atlantic swordfishing fleet.

His own home, The Mighty Quinn, was tied up at a dock just a few hundred yards from the bar. Though the early December cold had set in, his father’s old swordboat was tight and cozy, providing a perfect spot for him to tie up the loose ends on his latest book.

He’d come to the Longliner to talk just once more to those family members and friends of the fishermen he’d profiled, hoping to find a new slant to his book about the dangers and adventures the men faced while making a living on the open ocean. He’d interviewed six different people that night, scribbling notes on scraps of paper in between conversations, plying his subjects with free beer to loosen their tongues.

Now that he’d finished, he just wanted to relax and absorb the atmosphere. The majority of the Gloucester fishermen who frequented the Longliner had already headed south for the season, but there were a few stragglers who hadn’t picked up a job on a boat for the winter, men used to working hard and playing even harder. And then there were the girlfriends and wives of those who were gone. They came to the bar to share their loneliness with other women who understood what they went through year after year.

Brendan’s gaze fastened on a petite blond waitress who wove through the crowd, a tray of beers held high over her head. Throughout the night, his gaze had come back to her again and again. There was something about her that wasn’t quite right, something that didn’t fit. Though she wore the standard costume—a canvas apron, impossibly tight jeans and a low-cut T-shirt that looked like it might have been painted on—she still didn’t seem to fit.

It wasn’t the hair, bleached a honey-blond, or the makeup, the dark eyes and bright red lips. Or even the three earrings she wore in each ear. He watched her for a long moment as she served drinks to a table of rowdy men. It was the way she moved. So unlike the other waitresses, with their hips swinging and breasts thrown out in obvious invitation. She was graceful, refined, not at all provocative. She seemed to glide across the floor almost like a dancer. The arch in her long neck and the turn of her arm added to the illusion that she wasn’t serving beers to a bunch of waterfront rats but floating across the stage with Baryshnikov.

She turned away from the table and Brendan raised his hand, curious enough about her to order another beer. But just as he caught her eye and she moved toward him, one of the wharf rats at the table grabbed her from behind and dragged her into his lap. In an instant, his paws were all over her.

As the tawdry scene unfolded, Brendan groaned inwardly. The situation was fast getting out of control and no one else seemed overly concerned. He knew of only one solution. “God, I hate fighting,” he muttered. He shoved his chair back and stalked across the bar to stand beside the table. “Take your hands off the lady,” he ordered, his fists clenched at his side, his instincts sharp.

The drunken lout looked up at him and gave him a sneer. “What did you say, pretty boy?”

“I said, take your hands off the lady.”

The waitress reached out and touched his arm. He looked down at her and was immediately struck by how young she was. For some reason, he’d expected a face lined by years of hard work and hard living. But instead he found a complexion so fresh, so perfect, that he was tempted to reach out and touch her to see if she was real.

“I can handle this,” she said. “You don’t need to get involved. I’m very good with conflict resolution and interpersonal communications. I took a seminar once.”

Her voice was low and throaty, the sound like whiskey on a cold night, drawing him in closer, warming his blood. Brendan reached down and took her hand, then pulled her to her feet. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.”

This time she clutched his jacket sleeve with her fingers. Her touch sent a current shooting up his arm. “No, really. I can take care of this. There’s no need to fight. Violence never solves anything.” She stared up at him with eyes so blue it hurt to look at them. “Please,” she pleaded.

Brendan wasn’t sure what to do. It wasn’t in his nature to just walk away from a woman in need. Especially not after being raised listening to all those Mighty Quinn tales of heroic deeds and chivalrous behavior. He glanced over to find the rest of the patrons silently watching, holding their collective breaths to see whether he’d turn tail or stay and fight. And in that brief instant, the decision was made for him.

When he turned back around to the waitress, he saw a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. The beer bottle came flying at his head and Brendan dodged. It whizzed past his ear and hit one of the drunks at the table, catching him on the temple before it fell to the floor and shattered. After that, all hell broke loose.

The waitress grabbed a plastic pitcher of beer and poured it over her attacker’s head then began to beat him with the pitcher. Brendan dodged another bottle and then a fist before catching a glancing blow to his chin. Determined to retreat before either one of them got seriously injured, he grabbed the waitress’s arm and dragged her away from the nucleus of the brawl. But she slipped from his grasp and jumped on the back of one of the drunks, boxing his ears with her fists.

Brendan had to admire the patrons of the Longliner Tap. They chose sides and they did it quickly, then threw themselves into the middle of an escalating melee, either with their fists or with verbal encouragement.

“God, I hate fighting,” he muttered. He was tempted to turn and walk away. But he couldn’t just leave the waitress in the middle of it all. He glanced over at her as she wielded a tray like some Ninja weapon. She whacked one drunk across the head then stomped on the instep of another when he came to the aid of his injured friend.

No one seemed to be concerned for her safety. Those patrons not involved in the fight were cheering her on. The rest of the waitresses had perched on the bar to get a better view of the fight. One bartender was on the phone, probably summoning the local constables, and the other had pulled out a baseball bat and was waving it in a threatening manner. But as the fight escalated, Brendan wondered whether the police would get there in time.

When a burly fisherman grabbed the waitress from behind and picked her up off her feet, Brendan took a step forward. She kicked the guy in the kneecap with the heel of her boot, then screamed for help. Although a voice in his head told him to mind his own business, Brendan knew he was about to end up right back in the middle of the mess.

The original lout stood in the midst of the brawl. Brendan saw him step up to the waitress, shout something at her, then draw his hand back to slap her. Though he wasn’t anxious to play white knight, Brendan couldn’t seem to help himself. Hitting a woman was unacceptable. He stepped between the man and the waitress. “Don’t even think about it,” Brendan warned.

“You gonna stop me?” the man growled. “You and what army?”

Brendan cursed softly. God, he hated fighting. But sometimes, a guy just couldn’t avoid it. “No army,” he said, turning away. “Just me.” Brendan drew his fist back, then launched a roundhouse punch that caught the guy on the nose. He howled in pain as blood spurted from his nose.

Then Brendan turned around to the hulk who was holding the waitress. A left cross and a punch to the kidney was enough for the guy to let her go. Brendan grabbed her arm, but to his shock, she pulled away from him.

“Let me go!” she cried.

He grabbed her again. “Don’t make me carry you out of here,” he warned. “Because, I’m not going to do it.” This was how it all began—for Conor and then for Dylan. Not the fight, but the rescue. This was exactly how they ended up trapped by a woman’s charms and madly in love. They each had saved a damsel in distress and their lives were never the same again. The hell if he was going to make that mistake.

“I’m not leaving! I can take care of myself!” With a curse, she jammed her heel onto his instep.

Pain shot up his leg. He ground his teeth and tried desperately to hold his tongue. “Listen,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “I’m not going to tell you again.” He grabbed her arm more firmly this time and dragged her toward the door.

“Help!” she screamed. “Help me!”

“I’m not going to do it,” Brendan muttered. “I’m not going to throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here. If I do, it’ll be the end of my life as I know it.”

“Someone, please. He’s kidnapping me!”

“Aw, hell.” Brendan stopped, bent over, grabbed her around the legs then hoisted her over his shoulder and strode to the door. A few of the patrons not involved in the fight cheered and some threw popcorn like rice at a wedding. With a tight smile, Brendan waved at them then yanked the door open and walked outside into the cold night.

When he got outside, he looked up and down the dark street. The sound of sirens approaching told him he’d gotten out of the bar just in time. Considering he’d instigated the fight, it might be best to avoid the authorities.

“Put me down,” the waitress said, wriggling and kicking.

“Not yet,” Brendan replied as he started across the street. He headed toward the docks and when they were far enough from the bar to escape notice, he bent over and set the girl on her feet. But he didn’t let go right away. “You aren’t going to run back inside, are you? Because I’d hate to think that I almost killed myself saving your pretty little backside only to have you jump right back into the fight.”

“The cops are here,” she murmured. “I’m not going back inside.”

Satisfied, Brendan unwrapped his arms from around her legs and straightened. They stood under a bright streetlamp near the end of the pier. Brendan’s gaze skimmed over her features. Despite the unflattering glare, he was even more astounded by her beauty. She didn’t have the cool, sophisticated features of Olivia, Conor’s wife. Or the cute, natural beauty of Dylan’s Meggie. This girl had a look that was wild and unpredictable, edgy and rebellious, as if she didn’t care what people thought of her.

She obviously didn’t care what he thought of her. The glare she sent his way bordered on murderous. “If you’re expecting me to thank you, I wouldn’t hold my breath.” She rubbed her arms and shivered, her chin tipped up defiantly.

The temperature was below freezing and all she wore was a skimpy T-shirt. Brendan slipped out of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. “My boat’s just down the dock here,” he said. “Why don’t you come with me and I’ll make us some coffee. The cops should be gone in about a half hour and then you can go back.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Why should I go with you? How do I know you’re not exactly like the guy you punched out, all paws and no brain?”

“Fine,” Brendan said. “Stand out here in the cold.” He turned on his heel and started down the dock. He smiled as he heard footsteps behind him.

“Wait!” she called.

Brendan slowed his steps until she joined him. When they reached his boat, he held her hand as she stepped up on an overturned crate and jumped lightly to the deck. Her fingers felt small and delicate in his hand and he held on for a bit longer than necessary.

The lights inside The Mighty Quinn burned brightly. When he opened the hatch and showed her through the companionway, she sighed softly. “I didn’t take you for a fisherman,” she said.

“I’m not,” Brendan replied, following her down the steps into the main cabin. “My father was. When he retired, I started living on the boat. I’ve gradually restored it, changed a few things around, opened up the galley. It makes a nice place to live, especially in the summer.”

She rubbed her arms again, this time through the soft leather of his jacket. “In the winter, too,” she said as she turned to face him.

Brendan’s gaze skimmed her features and stopped at a red welt on her cheekbone. He reached out and touched her there, realizing his mistake the moment he made it. A current of attraction, as strong as an electrical shock, shot through him as his fingertips made contact with impossibly soft skin. “You’re hurt,” he murmured.

Her gaze locked with his, her blue eyes wide and wary. She reached up and covered his fingers with hers. “I am?”

He nodded. The urge to kiss her was strong and undeniable, even though every shred of common sense told him that it was completely inappropriate. They’d known each other ten minutes at the most. Hell, he didn’t even know her name, yet here he was, tempted to sweep her into his embrace and taste her mouth! Brendan swallowed hard then realized exactly what was happening.

This was a self-fulfilling prophecy! He’d carried her out of the bar and now he could expect to fall head-over-heels in love with her…just like Conor…just like Dylan. Well, it wasn’t going to happen. He liked his life exactly the way it was—free and unencumbered. Brendan drew his hand away. “I’ll get you some ice,” he muttered. He motioned to the table in the corner of the cabin. “Sit. It’ll just take a second.”

She did as she was told, sliding into a spot at the table then playing distractedly with a pencil she found there. He reached over and moved his laptop computer out of the way then straightened a stack of manuscript pages, tucking them beneath a file folder.

“So, if you’re not a fisherman, what do you do?”

“I’m a writer,” Brendan said grabbing a handful of ice from the small fridge in the galley. He wrapped it in a cotton towel then sat down next to her and gently pressed it to the red mark on her face. Without thinking, he brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. Then he realized how intimate the action seemed.

“I should go,” she said, scrambling out of her place and putting a few feet of space between them.

At first, he thought he’d frightened her. But then he noticed the flicker of attraction in her eyes, the way her gaze flitted from his face to his body and back again. He wondered if he’d leaned forward and kissed her would she have drawn away or would she have responded?

She slipped out of his jacket and set it on the table beside him. “The cops have probably cleared out the rowdies by now and I’m working for tips. People are going to want their drinks and they’re paying me to fetch them.”

She turned toward the hatch, but Brendan grabbed her arm. He picked up his jacket and held it out to her. “Take this. It’s cold outside.”

She shook her head, her pale hair tumbling around her face. “No, I’m fine.” She hesitated then gave him a quick smile, the only smile she’d cast his way since they’d met. “Thanks. For the jacket. And for coming to my rescue.”

With that she was gone, disappearing into the cold December night and returning to a world to which she didn’t seem to belong. Brendan almost went after her, curious to know her name and her story, wondering what had brought her to work at the Longliner. Was she the girlfriend of a fisherman? Had she grown up in Gloucester? And why did her eyes remind him of the sky on a perfect spring day?

He backed away from the hatch and shook his head. He’d had his doubts about carrying her out of the bar. That had been his first mistake. It would be stupid to compound the error by going after her. She was out of his life, no harm, no foul. He should be happy he’d gotten away so cleanly.

Yet as he made himself a pot of coffee and settled down to work at his laptop computer, Brendan’s thoughts returned to her again and again, to that winsome smile and that spark of mischief in her eyes. To the curious air of mystery that seemed to surround her. And to the way he felt the instant he touched her, as if they’d made some strange, magnetic connection.

Brendan shook his head and refocussed on his work. She was gone and he was better off for it. Though Conor and Dylan had fallen into lifelong commitment and everlasting love, Brendan was pragmatic enough to know that he wasn’t meant to do the same. His work required the freedom to come and go at will and he had to protect that freedom at all costs.

Even if it meant walking away from the most intriguing woman he’d met in years.

“YOU CAN’T FIRE ME! It wasn’t my fault.”

Amelia Aldrich Sloane stood outside the Longliner, staring up at the second floor above the bar. The owner of the bar was silhouetted in the window of her tiny room. He tossed out a garbage bag stuffed with her belongings and it landed with a “whoof” at her feet.

“I warned you the last time,” he said, leaning out the window. “One more fight and you were through. Do you know how much damage you caused?”

“It’s not my fault,” Amy repeated.

“The hell it isn’t,” he shouted back.

“How is it my fault?” she demanded.

“You’re too damn pretty,” he said tossing her suitcase out the window. “You’re like catnip to a bunch of tomcats. Men can’t seem to keep their hands off you and that starts fights. And fights cost me money, sweetheart. Much more than you’re worth as a waitress.”

“But I need this job,” Amy cried, running to grab her suitcase as it hit the ground and burst open.

“I hear Buddy’s House of Crabs is hiring. Get a job there.” With that he slammed the window shut, leaving Amy to stand on the silent street. She cursed softly then grabbed her jacket from the heap and slipped it on. “Well, I wanted adventure in my life,” she muttered, gathering her things. “I guess I should be careful what I wish for.”

It was half past two in the morning and she’d just lost her room and her job all in one fell swoop. She should have known something was wrong when she had returned to the bar and the other waitresses had refused to talk to her. The owner had been summoned by the police and when he finally got the full story, he’d pulled Amy aside and told her to clear out.

At first, she thought he was kidding. But when he climbed the stairs to her room and started tossing her belongings out onto the street, she had no choice. She’d raced outside to collect what she could before the bar patrons stumbling home after closing time were able to grab a souvenir or two. As it was, they all got a nice round of chuckles from her predicament.

“Now what am I supposed to do?” she murmured. Working at the Longliner had been the perfect setup. She needed to stay below the radar and seeing as she worked for tips only, the owner had no need for proof of her identity or her social security number. But the wandering hands of a customer and her rather indignant response had put an end to what she’d hoped would be a long-term job.

She hadn’t had much of a plan when she’d left her life back in Boston, only that she was determined to get as far away from her old life as possible—away from her dictatorial father and her socialite mother, away from their powerful influence over her life. And most of all, far away from her scheming fiancé, the man who’d grown to love the Aldrich money more than he loved Amy.

Her life had been planned for her from the moment she was born, the only child of Avery Aldrich Sloane and his beautiful wife Dinah. And for most of her life, she’d dutifully followed the plan. But then one day, just a week before her big society wedding to Craig Atkinson Talbot, she’d come to the realization that if she stayed, she would never really live her own life.

She had been on the run for nearly six months, lucky enough to keep just one step ahead of the private detectives her father had hired. She’d lived in Salem, in Worcester and in Cambridge, picking up odd waitressing jobs and calling on old friends to put her up on their sofas. She figured if she could just keep out of sight for another six months, then she was in the clear. The trust fund her grandmother had set up for her would be all hers, no strings attached. The day she turned twenty-six years old, she’d become a comfortably wealthy woman, a woman free to experience all the things she’d missed in life, free to search for adventure and excitement.

As she arranged her belongings neatly on a bench in front of the bait shop, she thought about what the money would mean. She’d always rejected her parents’ obsession with financial matters, thinking their avaricious nature somehow unseemly. But since she’d been trying to live on her own, Amy had realized that money, at least a small amount of it, came in pretty handy.

Though she’d been brought up in the lap of luxury, Amy had always wanted to test her parents’ boundaries. She’d argued for public school, but was forced to attend an exclusive private prep school. When she’d insisted on a public university, a big college where she could get lost in the crowd, her parents gave her a choice of Sarah Lawrence or Vassar. That time she won a small victory, choosing Columbia University in New York.

It was at graduate school at Columbia where she’d met her fiancé, a wonderful man from a good Boston family who was studying law, hoping to open a community law office. When she’d first introduced him to her parents, they’d been pleased with his family connections but worried over his career prospects. He was the perfect man for her next rebellious step.

But that soon changed once Craig fell under the spell of her father’s money and influence. It wasn’t long before he was working for Aldrich Industries as a corporate lawyer. A few months before their wedding, he was promoted to Executive Corporate Counsel, a powerful position that came with a six-figure salary and stock options. It was then that Amy realized his dream of a community law office had been put aside and that the man she’d fallen in love with was not the man she was about to marry.

So she ran. Just a week before she was scheduled to walk down the aisle, she packed a bag in the middle of the night, drove her car to the train station and hopped the last train out of town. She’d cleaned out her checking account the day before, giving her enough cash to live on for three months. That cash was long gone.

Amy reached into her pocket and withdrew a wad of bills she’d collected as tips. By the light from the streetlamp, she began to count it, wondering if she’d have enough for a room for the night. She glanced up at the sound of footsteps, quickly hiding the money in her jacket pocket. But then she recognized the man who approached. It was the guy who’d started the fight in the bar, the man responsible for her predicament.

It was as if he appeared from nowhere again to rescue her, her hero with the dark windblown hair and the chiseled features. Amy swallowed hard. A shiver of attraction raced through her but she refused to acknowledge it. She was cold. She’d been sitting outside for fifteen minutes and she was simply cold, that’s what caused the shiver. “What are you doing here?” she asked when he stopped in front of the bench.

“I was just taking a walk to clear my head,” he said. “What are you doing sitting out here? You shouldn’t be here all alone. Are you waiting for a ride home?”

“Actually, that was home,” she said, pointing back to the Longliner. “I lived above the bar…until about fifteen minutes ago. Until you got me booted out of my job and my place to stay.”

“Me?”

“You heard me,” Amy said. “Because of you, I lost my job and my place to stay, not to mention two decent, though incredibly greasy, meals a day. I told you I could take care of that guy.”

“He had his hands all over you.”

Amy laughed softly. “You don’t hang out much at the Longliner, do you? That’s par for the course. Besides, a little grope here and there makes the tips better. I know my own limits and I know how to enforce them.”

He shook his head. “The owner couldn’t have fired you just because of one fight—a fight that really wasn’t your fault. Let me go talk to him. I’ll—”

“This was my third fight, if you must know. I guess he was getting a little sick of paying for shattered glasses and broken tables.”

He sat down next to her, bracing his elbows on his knees. “You must have friends or family you could call.”

Amy shook her head, warmed by his concern. “No. My family lives on the west coast,” she lied. “Besides, we don’t talk much. And I haven’t been here long enough to make friends.”

“Well, where are you going to go?”

Amy shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll figure out something.”

He cursed beneath his breath. “I suppose you don’t have money for a motel room?”

She heard the concern in his voice, caught the trace of guilt in his expression. He did believe this was his responsibility, even though Amy knew it really wasn’t. She reached in her jacket pocket and pulled out the cash she’d made on tips—barely thirty dollars. “It’s your fault, you know. I was handling the problem. If you wouldn’t have butted in, I could have stopped the fight. But as soon as you pulled me out of there, all hell broke loose.”

“If you had stayed, you would have gotten hurt,” he said.

“We’ll never know, will we.”

They sat on the bench for a long time, staring out at the harbor, their breath clouding in front of their faces. Then he stood up and grabbed the garbage bag and her leather suitcase. “Come on, then,” he muttered.

Amy stood up and snatched the bag from his hand. “Come on where?”

“You can stay with me. There’s a crew cabin on my boat. It’s clean and warm. You can spend the night and tomorrow you can find a new job and a new place to live.”

Amy gasped, completely taken aback by his offer. She’d expected a few extra dollars for a motel room, maybe an offer of a ride. “Stay with you? I don’t even know your name. How do I know you’re not some psychopathic serial killer?”

“I guess you don’t,” he said.

“What’s your name?”

“Brendan Quinn,” he replied. “What’s yours?”

“Amy Aldrich.” She stared at him for a long moment. “Brendan Quinn. I suppose that doesn’t sound like a serial killer’s name.”

“I told you, I’m a writer.”

She motioned him closer. Reaching out, she touched his chin and tipped his head up to the light. “You look like you have an honest face. I’m very intuitive and I’m sure I’ll be safe with you.”

“I’m sure you will,” Brendan replied. He held out his hand and she hesitantly placed her fingers in his. “It’s nice to meet you, Amy Aldrich.”

They started off back down the dock, Amy glancing over at him every now and then. He really was quite handsome. She’d noticed that the moment he’d walked up to her in the bar. His dark hair was just a bit too long, brushing the collar of his leather jacket, and his face was covered with the dark stubble of a day-old beard. But it was his eyes that captured her attention. They were an odd mixture of green and gold, not exactly hazel, something much more intriguing.

When they reached his boat, he tossed her belongings onboard then helped her on deck. She lugged her suitcase toward the hatch and then dragged it down the steps. As she took in the cozy interior, she sighed in relief. Although she’d be sleeping in a strange place, Amy somehow knew that she’d be safe here. In truth, this would be the perfect spot to stay for the next few months.

“Can I make you anything to eat?” he asked.

Amy nodded, looking around the cabin, searching the place for more clues about the man she was entrusting with her safety. He lived comfortably. Though the interior of the cabin wasn’t luxurious, it was functional. And tidy. The shelves of books and the laptop computer proved his claim to be a writer.

“Where do I stay?” she asked.

He pointed forward. “First door on your right. There should be an empty bunk.”

“Where’s the head?” she asked.

He paused and looked at her. “You know boats?”

Amy shrugged and started forward. “My dad had a small boat.” She stepped inside the crew cabin. In truth, her father had a huge boat, a yacht on which she and her mother had spent summer vacations cruising the Mediterranean while her father stayed in Boston. She tossed her things on one of the lower berths, then rummaged through a bag for clean clothes. What she wore smelled of smoke and stale beer.

When she emerged from the bathroom with a freshly scrubbed face and clean clothes, she found him waiting for her at the table. She sat down next to him and picked up the glass of milk he’d poured for her then took a slow sip. “I really appreciate this,” she said, setting the milk down and licking her upper lip.

“No problem,” he murmured, his gaze fixed for a moment on her mouth.

To distract his attention, she took a bite of the ham sandwich he’d prepared. She’d been so used to eating bar food for every meal that a simple ham sandwich tasted like gourmet fare. “Why did you jump into the middle of that fight?” Amy asked. “I was in a roomful of men and you were the only one who came to my aid. Why was that?”

“I don’t know,” Brendan said. “You just looked like you needed me.”

“The same way I needed you outside the bar?” Amy asked.

“Yeah, maybe.” Brendan chuckled.

“But why?”

He shrugged. “When I was a kid my Da used to tell us stories about our ancestors. The Mighty Quinns. They were always the heroes, brave and strong, chivalrous. I guess the stories stuck.”

Amy smiled, then leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m glad they did,” she murmured. She picked up her sandwich and her milk and pushed away from the table. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

When she reached the safety of her cabin, Amy shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, clutching the milk and her ham sandwich to her chest. She smiled, then took a bite of the sandwich. It was nice to have a hero, someone who cared more about her than the Aldrich money. But how far would this stranger— would Brendan Quinn—go to help her?

Amy sighed. There was an even bigger question out there. How long would she be able to resist such a handsome and charming protector?

2

HE WASN’T completely asleep when he heard the knock on the door of his cabin. At first, Brendan thought it was his imagination, part of a dream he had briefly slipped into before drifting off. But the knock came again and he pushed up on his elbow and rubbed his eyes. There could be only one person on the other side and considering his earlier reaction to Amy Aldrich, Brendan wasn’t sure that a late-night visit was in his best interest. He rolled over and closed his eyes.

She knocked again, this time more insistently. With a soft curse, he reached out and turned on the light beside his berth. “Come in,” he called.

The door opened a crack and Amy peered inside. “I’m sorry to wake you,” she said in a low whisper. “But my cabin is freezing. Do you have another blanket?”

Brendan groaned inwardly. He wasn’t really set up for guests on The Mighty Quinn. When one of his brothers stayed overnight, they usually didn’t require much in terms of amenities. The only other blanket he had was the down comforter that he was sleeping beneath and if he gave that up, he wouldn’t be able to sleep at all. “Put on another layer of clothes,” he suggested.

She opened the door wider and in the dim light, he could see that she’d already done that. She looked like a refugee from some bizarre slumber party, layers of clothing and pajamas turning her pretty figure into one that resembled the Pillsbury Doughboy. Topping it all off, she wore a hooded sweatshirt with the hood tied tightly around her face. He could hear her teeth chattering from across the room. If he had any worries about his attraction to her, they ended with the red wool gloves she wore on her hands and the fuzzy slippers on her feet.

“I’m going to die of hypothermia,” Amy said. “And it’s going to be all your fault.”

Brendan groaned and flopped back on the bed, his arm over his eyes. “Why is it that everything bad that happens to you is my fault?”

She walked across his cabin and sat down on the edge of his berth, tugging the edge of down comforter over her shoulders. “Because it is,” she murmured. “You could give me this blanket.”

Though Amy didn’t look as sexy as she potentially could, the notion of her sitting on his berth in the middle of the night was a bit disconcerting for him. He’d never brought a woman home to The Mighty Quinn before. The boat was his own personal space and Brendan had always felt that inviting someone here, especially for the purposes of pleasure, would be a violation of his privacy. Sure, Olivia had been on his boat and so had Meggie. Olivia had even slept in his bed—with Conor. And now that Amy Aldrich was here, he wasn’t even sure why he was so concerned. She was simply a guest, after all, not a lover.

But that changed the instant Amy lay down beside him. Pulling the down comforter over top of her and wriggling up against him, she settled in. He became acutely aware that he wasn’t wearing anything but the comforter and an uneasy smile, not that she could tell through the five layers of clothes she wore. “What the hell are you doing?” Brendan asked.

“I’m just going to lie here until I warm up. Then I’ll go back to my cabin,” she murmured. “You know, it’s really not the cold. It’s the damp. It just goes right to the bone.”

Brendan sat up and jammed the coverlet between their bodies. He didn’t mean to act like a prude, but this was totally unacceptable. “You’re not going to sleep in here,” he said. “This is my cabin.”

Amy turned over. “What’s the big deal? It’s not like anything is going to happen. I’m just trying to get warm.”

“Go back to your own cabin, Amy,” he said through clenched teeth.

“No,” she replied, tugging the comforter more tightly around her. “I want to stay here.” She watched him warily. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to attack you while you sleep. I’m not even attracted to you. You’re just a warm body.” With a frustrated sigh, she pulled one of the pillows from beneath his head. “You do have a huge ego. As if I couldn’t resist you. Please. You’re not that cute.” She laughed, then turned her back to him.

Well, he had his answer. If he thought there was even a flicker of attraction between them, he now knew it was strictly one-sided. She had no reservations about spending the night in his bed. Never mind that he was naked and in a state of tightly checked arousal. All she wanted was a warm place to sleep and he could provide that for her. But at what cost?

Brendan stared at her long and hard, then reached out and impatiently flicked a strand of her silken hair off of his pillow. “You stay on your side of the berth and I’ll stay on mine,” he warned. “Or you’ll be sleeping on the floor.”

“All right,” she murmured, snuggling more deeply beneath the comforter.

But the barrier between them was very thin indeed. His berth was barely bigger than a twin-size bed and even jammed up against the wall, her backside came dangerously close to his lap. Brendan lay frozen in place, afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe.

Though it had been a long time since he’d slept with a woman, he’d never expected his next time to be like this. Sharing a bed with a woman usually meant a night of passion and excitement, culminating in an exquisite release. Instead, he was here with Nanook of the North, whose only interest in him was in how much body heat he might provide.

Brendan wasn’t sure how long he lay like that, only that it was long after Amy had fallen asleep. She’d managed to wiggle up against him until his body cradled hers, until her hair tickled his face and her slow, even breathing was the only sound in the cabin. He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, unbidden fantasies swirled in his head. He imagined himself undressing her, tossing aside all those layers of clothes and pulling her body against his, skin meeting skin, the exchange of heat tantalizing and exciting, not a matter of practicality at all.

A cramp clutched at his leg and he groaned softly. The only way to stretch was to throw his leg over her hip. He did and the pain immediately eased. But a moment later, he realized what the action had cost him. He was now fully pressed against her backside and unable to quell a flood of arousal. With a low curse, Brendan backed away, but there was no more room on his side of the bed.

There was only one thing to do and the mere thought of it irritated him to no end. He scrambled over top of her and jumped out of the berth then snatched up a pair of jeans from a nearby chair and tugged them on.

He stood in the cabin and stared down at his guest, sleeping so peacefully, her body tucked into his bed. Any thought of sleep would be impossible as long as she was here. He considered carrying her back to her own cabin, but wasn’t prepared for the protest that would certainly ensue. Instead, Brendan slipped out the door, walked into Amy’s cabin and crawled beneath the rough wool blankets of her berth. The crew berths weren’t really meant for comfort. They made efficient use of a small amount of space, allowing no room to stretch out, especially for anyone over six feet tall.

Brendan folded his hands over his chest and stared up at the bottom of the bunk above him. What in the world had ever possessed him to invite her to spend the night? From the very start, he knew she was trouble. She said whatever was on her mind, even if it was insulting. She acted as if he was the cause of all of her troubles, dishing up the guilt until he had no choice but to respond. And then she had the audacity to crawl into bed with him as if her behavior wasn’t at all out of the ordinary!

Amy Aldrich definitely wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever met before. She lived her life by a whole different set of rules and standards. Or maybe it was the complete lack of rules in her life that made her different. Either way, Brendan found himself completely intrigued, captivated by her beauty but even more caught by the woman behind that luminous skin and those tantalizing blue eyes.

Tomorrow he’d get up early and find a place for her to stay. Even if he had to pay for a week or two at some local motel, it would be well worth the price. Amy Aldrich had swept into his life and upset the balance he worked so hard to achieve. If he let her stay, there was no telling what might happen. He might completely lose his mind and fall in love, just like Conor and Dylan had done with such startling speed.

No, this was not going to result in the fall of another Mighty Quinn! Brendan Quinn was much stronger, more determined than his brothers and he wouldn’t allow himself to give in to such temptation. Once Amy was off his boat and out of his life, he’d be safe again. He just had to make sure that happened as quickly as possible.

AMY STRETCHED sinuously beneath the down comforter, enjoying the warmth that enveloped her body. She opened her eyes and glanced around the cabin, taking in her surroundings. Light poured through the small portholes, dust motes dancing in the drafts that swirled through the chill morning air.

She knew she was alone, yet hadn’t recalled just when Brendan had crawled out of his bed. The clock on the bedside table read 9:00 a.m., a bit earlier than she usually rose after a night of waitressing at the Longliner. Amy sighed. But she was no longer a waitress. Today, she’d have to go out and find another job and another place to live, someplace clean and affordable. She’d have to play the games that she’d learned to play so well, hiding her real identity, employing clever strategies that would thwart the private detectives hired to find her.

Though the thought of starting all over again was a hassle, it was part of the life she’d chosen, a life filled with new experiences and adventures. In the six months since she’d left home, Amy had never once regretted her decision to run away. She paused. Well, maybe once or twice, when she thought about her grandmother.

Adele Aldrich was—and always would be—the single most important influence in Amy’s life. Her father’s mother had never resigned herself to the role her own parents had groomed her for. At age eighteen she’d received her trust fund and had immediately set off on a round of scandalous adventures—a safari in Africa, a trek through the Andes, even a boat trip down the Amazon. Then, to her parents’ dismay, she learned how to fly and lent those skills to the war effort in England.

Amy smiled. “I’m having my adventure, Grandmother,” she murmured. “But it would be a whole lot easier with money in my pocket.”

She sat up and grabbed the down comforter, wrapped it around her shoulders, and went in search of Brendan. Maybe she could convince him to give her just one more night here. It wasn’t easy to find a job that met all her criteria—no government forms, cash instead of a paycheck and meals included. Finding a place to stay was even harder. With only thirty dollars to her name, she barely had a few days’ rent, much less a deposit.

When she reached the main cabin, Brendan was nowhere to be found. Amy walked back and listened at the door of the head. Then she opened the door to her cabin and found him curled up in her berth, blankets twisted around his waist and his chest bare. For a moment, she forgot to breathe, startled once again by how handsome he was.

Luckily she’d been able to put thoughts like those out of her mind last night. Sharing a bed with a complete stranger was one thing. But sharing a bed with the sexiest man she’d ever met was quite another. Maybe it was best that she leave today. Her life was complicated enough already. Involving a man in it— even a man as desirable as Brendan Quinn—would only make things worse.

With a soft sigh, she gently laid the down comforter on top of him and wandered back to the main cabin. She had felt safe here, at least for one night. Amy tossed off her gloves and set out to make a pot of coffee. Before long, the rich smell filled the cabin and she poured herself a mug and sat down at the table.

Idly, she flipped through a stack of papers slowly realizing that she was looking at a book manuscript. Beneath another pile was a book jacket. She pulled it out and found herself staring at a picture of Brendan Quinn, looking slightly dangerous, like a modern-day pirate. “Bestselling author of Mountain Madness,” she murmured. A list of quotes by other authors gave glowing reviews of Brendan’s last book about a rescue on the north face of Mount Everest.

She went back to the manuscript and slid it in front of her. This book wasn’t about mountain climbing. It was about the men and women she’d come to know while working at the Longliner. The commercial fishermen who fished the North Atlantic and the families who waited for them to come back from the sea.

Amy was drawn immediately into the story, Brendan’s prose illuminating the reasons why men fished, why they risked their lives every day in a dangerous job to make a living that was backbreaking and often heartbreaking. Characters came to life and she recognized many of the qualities that her customers at the tavern possessed. Though the fishermen were a hard-living bunch, Brendan gave them all a quiet dignity as he explained how their way of life was slowly disappearing.

On and on she read, pouring a fresh cup of coffee for herself when her first cup got cold. As she read, she not only got to know the fishermen of Gloucester, she also learned more about the author—about what he respected and what he cherished in life, about the way he looked at the world.

“What are you doing?”

Amy jumped at the sound of his voice, pressing her palm to her chest. “You scared me,” she said.

His expression was cool with just a hint of aggravation. She put the manuscript down, realizing that she’d made a mistake in looking at it at all. “I’m sorry. I just picked it up and started reading. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. It’s just that once I started, I couldn’t stop.” Amy smiled up at him. “It’s a wonderful book.”

He shifted, clearly surprised by her compliment. His eyes were still sleepy and his hair mussed, and the stubble of beard that had shadowed his face the night before looked even more rakish. He wore only a pair of jeans and Amy couldn’t help it when her eyes returned again and again to his broad chest and muscled belly. How could he possibly be so perfect, she wondered. There had to be a flaw somewhere.

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” she said with a light laugh. “I’m just a curious person. I always have been.”

He shrugged. “It’s not finished yet.”

“I know,” Amy said, picking up the pages and flipping through them. “If you ask me, the book needs a bit more depth. I wanted to know more about the personal lives of these men, what they wanted to be when they grew up, what their dreams were. Why they decided that fishing was their only option in life. And their wives and their friends, I wanted to know them, too. Did you ever think about interviewing them? It might add more color to your story.” She stopped short, realized that she might have insulted him. Why was she always so quick to give her opinion, even when it wasn’t requested? “Not that it needs more color. It’s very colorful as it is.” She drew a deep breath. “I really don’t know what I’m talking about, so just ignore me. Besides being a snoop, I often stick my foot in my mouth.”

Brendan stared at her for a long moment. “You know something about writing,” he said. “You have good instincts.”

She smiled at the compliment. “I studied American literature in college.” The smile wavered. “Before I dropped out, that is. And I read a lot. Fashion magazines, mostly.” It wouldn’t do for him to think she was too smart. He might start to ask questions.

“Where did you go to college?” Brendan asked as he moved to pour himself a mug of coffee.

“A small junior college near Los Angeles,” Amy lied. She made a mental note to keep her story straight. Her family was on the West Coast, though she hadn’t named a definite location. Now, she claimed to attend a nameless junior college in California. “You know, I could help you with your book. I noticed that you have all these notes and they’re very disorganized. I could type and proofread and make suggestions. I could be your assistant.”

He laughed. “I don’t need an assistant,” Brendan said, raking his hands through his hair as he took a place across the table from her.

She picked up the notes he’d scribbled on Longliner cocktail napkins. “I think you do. From what I can tell, you still need to check facts and there are some gaps in your research. And once you finish this book, you must have other projects. I could help you with all of that. Besides you do owe me.”

His eyebrow rose. “Owe you?”

“It’s because of you that I lost my job. And my place to stay.”

He stared at her for a long moment and hope began to grow in her heart. Was he actually considering her proposal? And if she did become his assistant, did that mean she could continue to stay on his boat? “All right,” he finally said. “Just for grins, let’s say I did need an assistant. What sort of compensation would you expect?”

“Three hundred dollars a week,” Amy said firmly. “Cash. Plus a place to stay.”

Brendan shook his head. “Three hundred dollars a week? I’m not a rich man. Besides, if I paid you that much, then I’d sure as hell want to deduct it on my taxes. One hundred dollars a week in cash.”

“Two-fifty,” Amy countered, then quickly amended it to two hundred. “Cash and a place stay. And that’s my final offer.”

“Two hundred cash and a place to stay?”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I was making at the bar.”

Brendan drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Amy waited, silently praying that she hadn’t made a mistake by asking for too much. “All right,” he said. “But for two hundred—cash—you do anything I ask.”

She frowned, her eyes narrowing. “Oh, no,” Amy said, pushing to her feet. “I may be desperate, but I’m not that—”

“That’s not what I mean,” Brendan said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not talking about sexual favors,” he replied. “If you’re going to be my assistant, then I may ask you to take care of some things that might not be writing-related. Like grocery shopping or running errands or cleaning up the galley. An assistant needs to be prepared to do anything to make a writer’s life easier.”

“I can do that,” Amy said.

“And you sleep in your own cabin. I’ll get you some new blankets and a space heater. And you ask before you snoop through my things. I value my privacy. I’m not used to having people around and I don’t want you to get underfoot.”

“All right,” Amy said. Though she made the promises, she didn’t intend to keep all of them. She’d always been a naturally curious person, so snooping was part of her nature. She was also gregarious, so getting underfoot was just her way of socializing. And after one night in Brendan Quinn’s bed, Amy had the distinct impression that it wouldn’t be her last. “But I have one request. I mean besides two hundred a week and a place to stay and a new down comforter of my own.”

“What is that?” Brendan asked.

She stared down at her coffee mug, trying to decide exactly what to tell him. Or whether to tell him at all. “If anyone comes around here, looking for me, no matter who it is, I want you to say that you don’t know me and that you’ve never seen me before in your life. Can you do that?”

“Someone’s going to come here looking for you?” he asked. “Who?”

“Never mind,” she said. “Can you do that for me?”

“What’s this all about?” Brendan asked, a suspicious edge to his voice. “Are you in trouble with the law?”

“No. I can honestly say, swear to God, that I’m not in trouble with the law. It’s just a private matter that will work itself out over time.”

“All right,” Brendan said. “It’s a deal.”

With a tiny scream of joy, Amy jumped up and grabbed him across the table, wrapping her arms around his neck and giving him a fierce hug. “I would have done it for nothing,” she cried. “Anything so I wouldn’t have to take another waitressing job.” She stepped back. “But I’ll do a good job. I swear. You won’t have any complaints.”

“I hope not,” Brendan murmured. He picked up his coffee and stood as if he needed to put some space between them.

Amy gave him an apologetic smile. “Right. You’re a very private person and I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

Brendan turned and grabbed a leather case from a locker in the main cabin and set it on the table. “You can use this laptop,” he said. “You do know how to use a computer, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she replied, unzipping the case.

He grabbed two microcassettes and a recorder from the counter in the galley and set them down beside the case. “These need to be transcribed. Typed, doubles-paced. After you’re done with that, you can arrange these interview notes by subject. Then you can take this list and run to the grocery store. We’re going to be working late and we’ll need a lot of coffee. And you’ll need to buy whatever you like to eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Can you cook?”

“No. But I have a very good instinct for takeout. I can tell by just reading the menu whether the food will be great or mediocre. You’re paying for my meals, right?”

Brendan chuckled. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Aldrich.”

She sent him a sly grin. “I suppose I do, Mr. Quinn.”

“I’ve got to run into Boston,” Brendan said. “I’ll be back sometime later this afternoon.” He reached in his wallet and pulled out fifty dollars. “For the groceries.” With that, he took his coffee and walked back to his cabin. When she heard the door snap shut behind him, Amy did a little jig around the room, giggling with excitement.

This was perfect. It was everything she could have hoped for. She had a job and a nice place to stay. Her employer was just about the most handsome man she’d ever met. And though he refused to admit it, there was a tiny spark of attraction between them. Who knows where that might lead, she mused. Wherever it eventually did lead, it sure would be an adventure getting there!

BRENDAN HEFTED the box of books onto his shoulder, balancing it carefully before he started up the front steps of Dylan’s flat. “This will be something new,” he called to Conor. “Books in Dylan’s apartment. I guess he’ll have to throw away his collection of girlie magazines to make room.”

Meggie Flanagan, Dylan’s fiancée, stood on the porch, her hands braced on her hips, her cheeks rosy from the cold. “We already got rid of them,” she teased, slapping Brendan’s arm playfully as he passed. “Now if I could only get rid of that awful leather recliner, I’d be happy.”

Dylan emerged from the front door and grabbed her from behind, giving her a playful kiss on the neck. “I haven’t really showed you what we can do in that recliner,” he teased. “You may come to appreciate it much more.”

Moving day had been planned for almost two weeks and it was a tradition in the Quinn family that hiring professional movers was a waste of money—especially when a guy had five strong and willing brothers to do the job. It had never been a chore, since the six brothers enjoyed each other’s company—and they didn’t change their addresses that often. Besides Brendan hadn’t seen any of his brothers since Conor and Olivia’s wedding and it was nice to catch up.

Brendan grinned at Meggie. “Yeah, wait till he shows you how he can balance a beer can on one arm and a bowl of chips on the other while he wields the remote. You’ll never love him more.”

Meggie’s giggle followed him as he slowly climbed the stairs to the second-floor flat. Though Brendan hated to admit it, the more time he spent with Dylan and Meggie—and Conor and Olivia—the more he was beginning to feel like an outsider in his own family. Just a few months ago, all six Quinn brothers were happily unattached—and planning to stay that way. Now, it was as if some disease had befallen the two oldest sons. Conor had already made a trip to the altar and Dylan was due to march to his doom sometime in June. But they didn’t act like men who had succumbed to some disaster. Instead, they behaved as if they shared a special secret that they weren’t telling anyone else.

Brendan certainly didn’t begrudge his brothers their happiness. But he had to wonder how they could have turned from confirmed bachelors into lovestruck fools in such a short time. Brendan couldn’t imagine the same thing happening to him. He’d always been able to keep the women in his life in proper perspective— separate from his career and the life he had chosen to lead. He had thought his brothers possessed the same talent, but he’d obviously been wrong.

“You haven’t said much today,” Conor commented, stepping up behind him to help him lower the box of books to the floor. “Everything going all right with the book?”

“Fine,” Brendan said, wiping his hands on the thighs of his jeans.

“No problems getting it all done?”

“Not anymore. I’ve hired an assistant to help me out.”

Conor blinked in surprise. “You’ve never had an assistant before,” he said. “Why now?”

Brendan smiled. He really hadn’t intended to tell anyone about Amy. But there were certain concerns he had, concerns that Conor, a police detective, might help to alleviate. “She just stumbled across my path and she needed a job, so I gave her one.”

Conor stared at him for a long moment, then walked into the kitchen and retrieved a couple of bottles of beer from the refrigerator. Using the front of his T-shirt, he twisted one open and handed it to Brendan, then opened the other for himself. “You just gave her a job?”

Brendan nodded, taking a quick sip of the cold beer. Even though the temperature outside was below freezing, climbing up and down the stairs with heavy boxes had worked up a decent sweat. “Yeah, I know it sounds a little rash. But I was partly responsible for getting her fired from her regular job. And getting her kicked out of the room she was renting. I felt a responsibility to give her a place to stay for the night.” He shrugged. “Then, all of a sudden, she talked me into offering her a job. I pay her in cash, give her a place to stay and she’s at my beck and call.”

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