Rogue on the Rollaway Read online

  He was clearly disappointed at her admission. “I had hoped you bought it here. My wife would love to have one like it. I thought it might be Celt from the design. Would you mind…” He motioned toward the amulet.

  “No, not at all.” Colleen unclasped the necklace and placed it before him on the counter. The man bent to look more closely, tucking a long auburn curl behind his ear when it tumbled into his face. He frowned then glanced around as if searching for something. Taking a book magnifier from a nearby display, he examined the curious markings on the star again.

  “Do you know what the language is?” she asked. “I thought it might be Gaelic or something like that, but–”

  “It’s not,” he interrupted her. “Unless I’m mistaken, this predates that. Ever hear of the Irish Book of Invasions?”

  “Um…no?” she said, furrowing her brow at the strange question.

  “One of the invasions was the Tuatha De Danann, the faery folk. Legend has it they brought the magick to Eire. This lettering appears to be similar to what’s in the book.” He straightened and put the magnifier back on the display. “I’d offer to buy it, but I know it’s not for sale,” he said with a shrug. “And even if it were, it would far surpass what I could afford. This is very, very old. I’d be careful with it.” He warned, then with a twinkle in his dark green eyes added “And I suggest you not be wishin’ for anything you don’t truly want while you’re wearin’ it. Just in case it was to be enchanted by the sidhe, you know.”

  With a polite nod and a smile, he picked up his bag and left the shop. She refastened the necklace and patted the amulet, a rush of excitement flooding through her at the mere thought of faeries and mystical talismans. “One necklace to rule them all.” She giggled but after a moment gazed off when the full impact of his strange words hit her. “What would I wish for…” she mused, making a mental note to search the Book of Invasions on the internet after dinner.

  The museum closed promptly at five-thirty, but the gift shop stayed open until six to catch the remaining stragglers. Colleen glanced at the clock and cringed in anticipation of the inevitable.

  “Colleen!” a bright voice called out, interrupting her thoughts and dashing her hopes of avoiding what she knew would be an unpleasant encounter.

  “Marc,” Colleen said, not raising her head. Resigned to her fate, she sprayed glass cleaner and wiped down the immaculate counter top again, giving the nonexistent grime her full and undivided attention.

  Marc Simmons–assistant museum curator, ex-husband and official bane of her existence–sauntered in and up to the counter. At just over six feet tall with an athletic build, Marc still looked exactly like what he used to be twelve years ago–a former student body president and All American collegiate football star until a knee injury ended his budding career. “Listen, I just wanted to stop by and say…I know what yesterday was. I’m sorry things had to work out as they did. Everything going okay with you?” He managed to look almost interested for a moment before something under his fingernail caught his full attention.

  Narcissistic creep. “I’m doing great, thanks,” Colleen lied. She continued to wipe like a woman possessed. June Cleaver would have been proud.

  Marc leaned against the counter, placing one hand squarely on the area she had just cleaned and smoothed back his collar length blond hair. “Wonderful to hear. Are you seeing anyone yet? You really should, you know. Get right back into the dating game. Best thing for getting over the…uh, unpleasantness…of the past.”

  Correction. Narcissistic arrogant creep. “Yes, actually I am,” she lied again. “We’re really happy. Move, please,” she said, wiping his smudged handprints off the glass. Add inconsiderate to that. Oops–news flash, her inner voice muttered, you already knew that. She would have laughed, had she not been so annoyed.

  The smug smile on Marc’s face faded just a little. “That’s wonderful,” he said, his voice lacking a little of his earlier enthusiasm. “Anyone I know?”

  “No, you don’t know him. He’s…not from around here,” she said. “And I’m meeting him for dinner, so I need to finish up here if you don’t mind.” She stepped around him, walked to the front door and held it open.

  He took the hint and walked outside. “I’d like to meet him sometime. Maybe we could all go out to dinner some night, me, Brandi, you and…”

  Colleen ignored the obvious question as she locked the heavy door behind him. “I’ll mention it to him if I remember. Tell Barbie hello,” she called back over her shoulder, making a concerted effort to not stomp her aggravation out for him to witness.

  “It’s Brandi,” Marc corrected, his breath fogging the recently cleaned glass pane. He used his jacket sleeve to wipe it away and gave her the practiced All American Boy grin that used to melt her heart. Now it just left her cold.

  “Whatever,” Colleen muttered. Without looking back again, she gathered up the last of her dignity and the cash envelope to drop in the office on her way out.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. She fumed all the way home, lecturing herself on the thirty minute commute from downtown Tampa to Brandon in the sports coupe Marc had begrudgingly conceded to her as part of the divorce settlement. She reminded herself to slow down, groaning aloud in mortal vexation. “Just had to go and open your big, fat mouth. We’re really happy,” she mimicked herself, smacking first her forehead then the steering wheel for good measure. “Why the hell did I tell him I have a boyfriend? When he finds out I don’t…”

  She knew what would happen. He’d give her pitying glances whenever she saw him at work, and she’d rather set herself on fire than have him give her one more of those poor thing you just can’t get over me sighs. A single tear slid down her cheek, and she swiped at it angrily with the back of her hand.

  The truth was she wouldn’t have him back no matter how hard he begged. She did find the visual most appealing, though, preferably with him prostrate on the ground in front of her with all of their former friends and acquaintances in attendance. Pay per view would be good, she decided, enjoying an imagined setting somewhere between Gladiator and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome. “Thumbs down,” she would snarl to the cheering mob, who naturally would be calling for his head on a platter. As an afterthought, she added pitchforks and torches to the scene and smiled.

  Marc’s callous betrayal after eight years of marriage came out of far left field. It was obvious everyone in the free world knew the up and coming assistant curator was screwing his perky–something she’d never be, even on a good day–colleague. But no one–not even those she considered friends–had the guts to come forward and tell her. Her sham of a marriage was officially pronounced DOA the day she walked in on the two of them bent over the top of the large oak desk in his office, vigorously engaging in what his overpriced lawyer later claimed he was driven to by a cold and unresponsive wife.

  Stomping into the condo in high dudgeon, she kicked off her low heeled pumps and padded in her stocking feet to the kitchen. “Food therapy it is. Mmm…what’s for dinner?” She picked out one of the entrees–some sort of suspicious looking fish she elected not to examine too closely–put it back, picked out another and stuck it in the microwave. While it heated up, she went to change from her slacks and blouse into a long baby blue satin nightgown, tying the matching robe around her. “Saturday night. Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, Mel,” she sighed, dropping Braveheart in the DVD player and pressing the start button.

  She ate her turkey and dressing in silence while she watched the historical drama unfold, using her finger to get at the last of the cranberry compote. When she finished, she paused the movie and took her tray to the kitchen, washing her fork before putting it in the dishwasher. She was headed for her bathroom to brush her teeth when the house phone in the kitchen rang. “Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered, seeing the museum office number on the caller ID. Against her better judgment, she answered it anyway. “Hello?”

  “Yo, it’s me.”

  Quadruple damn. “Yes
, Marc?” Colleen answered coolly.

  “Thought you were going out to dinner,” he said, his tone smug.

  “We are, just getting a later start than we had planned. What do you want?” Besides checking up on her story.

  “Brandi and I have reservations at Bern’s this evening. Thought maybe we could all meet up for a drink later,” Marc suggested. “You know, just to show there are no hard feelings.”

  He never took her there, Colleen caught herself thinking. “I don’t know…what our…exact plans are. Maybe another time…” She glanced around frantically for an excuse to end the call. “My cell’s ringing in the other room. That’ll be him. Gotta go!” She hung up quickly to end her misery.

  With a heart weary sigh, she went to brush her teeth. Afterward in her bedroom, she splayed both hands on the dresser and leaned against it. “I’m not going to be able to go on like this,” she said to herself in the mirror. “I know how this is going to play out. He’s going to pester me to death unless I come up with the boyfriend to end all boyfriends.” She began searching her brain for all the good looking single men she knew. It was a very short search. She sighed. “I don’t want to go out with one of Bill’s accountant friends just to get Marc off my back,” she said, stamping her foot in exasperation like a five year old. “I want to find my own man who will love me for me, faithful, funny, intelligent, strong, thoughtful, and drop dead gorgeous. And loves movies,” she added as an afterthought. “Seriously. Is that too much to ask for?” She directed that last question at the ceiling. “The movies part is a deal breaker, just so you know.”

  …I suggest you not be wishin’ for anything you don’t truly want while you’re wearin’ it. Just in case it was to be enchanted by the sidhe…

  The strange comment came drifting back and she lifted the amulet she still wore to eye level. “I don’t know if you work or not, but now’s your chance to convince me. I wish for the man of my dreams,” she intoned formally. “The one I just described. Please. Um…thank you.” She held her breath and listened for several long moments. When there was no blare of trumpets announcing her Prince Charming’s arrival, her shoulders sagged. “I am such a–”

  An intense flash of white light from the living room interrupted her tirade right before her personal paradigm took a fierce and permanent shift.

  2

  The blinding light followed by the loud, splintering crash was alarming in itself, but the deep masculine groan captured Colleen’s full and undivided attention. Diving for cover behind the bed, she peeked wide eyed over the rumpled comforter. She kept her eyes glued to the bedroom door, feeling around next to her nightstand for the Louisville Slugger she kept tucked away. Heaving a silent sigh of relief when her fingers closed around the bat, she slid it from its hiding place and shouldered it. She took a deep breath and mouthed her get it together mantra - panic later, calm now, panic later, calm now. Noise coming from the living room, blocking the only exit. Second story condo. She eyed the window and winced at the thought of jumping, then dismissed the idea knowing full well that she’d never get the window open without making a huge racket in the process.

  Plan B–call 911. Where was her…shit. She groaned, visualizing her cell phone right where she’d left it on the end table in the living room. Important safety tip–if she lived through this, phone in pocket at all times from now on. She stiffened her resolve and began the slow process of creeping toward the bedroom door.

  With her heart hammering in her chest, she held her breath as she lingered in the doorway and listened. When she heard nothing, she ventured a step out and peered toward the front door. Still locked. She relaxed a tiny bit and lowered the bat just a fraction while she inched her way around the corner and into the living room.

  Any sense of wellbeing she had fled again when she heard another low groan. “Bloody hell, that hurt,” the deep voice complained. More wood creaked and splintered, followed by a soft grunt.

  She raised the bat again in a stance that would have done Babe Ruth proud and bellowed in a gruff voice, “Who’s there?”

  The only answer she got was a heavy sigh and another groan. “Identify yourself,” she demanded. “I’ve got a bat and I will beat the living shit out of you if you so much as blink. I’ve got a black belt,” she lied frantically, “and…and…a gun. A big one.”

  “From the frying pan straight into the fire,” muttered the strangely accented voice. “Lay down yer arms, lady, I mean ye no harm.”

  Colleen inched forward, peeped over the back of the couch and gasped. Sprawled on his back in a pile of magazines and demolished wood that appeared to be the remains of her coffee table was quite possibly the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He lay still as a stone, his long black hair spread out around him, eyes closed as if he were asleep. “Who are you?” she asked again.

  Several slow blinks revealed deep cerulean eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. He met and held her gaze, a lazy smile spreading across handsome chiseled features. “Beautiful lass, ye are,” he murmured. His eyes roamed over her in an inappropriate–although flattering, she had to admit–way, given his current circumstances.

  Colleen flushed under his perusal and struggled to regain her composure. “I asked you a question,” she snarled, “and I get an answer. Right now, mister or I call the cops.” She gave the bat a menacing shake for emphasis, grateful he couldn’t see her knees knocking through the couch.

  A look of uncertainty passed across his face. “Cops?” He lifted his head to survey his surroundings and his brow furrowed. “And what have I done for ye to threaten me with that club ye carry?” He struggled to sit up but fell back into the pile of wood, muttering a dark curse under his breath. “And have I no’ told ye already I mean ye no harm. If ye’d stop yer blustering for a moment, ye’ll see that I’m tied up tight, and I’d greatly appreciate it if ye’d remedy that.”

  Wait… What? “Why should I trust you?” she asked, a little less sharply than before. “How do I know you won’t…”

  He gave her a small smile that did strange and wonderful things to her heart. “Because I’m giving ye my word, and ’tis something I doona do lightly. Please.”

  Against her better judgment, she lowered the bat and moved toward him. He rolled to his side, and she saw he was telling the truth. His hands and arms were bound close behind him. She surveyed the tight knots. “Wait right there,” she said, and ran to the kitchen to get something sharp enough to cut away the thick bindings.

  The man rolled his eyes. “Och, aye. I’ll stay right here. And where exactly would I be going, do ye think?” he called after her.

  She returned a moment later with a steak knife. “No need to get snotty about it. I’m still thinking about calling the police,” she snapped before she began sawing away at the heavy ropes.

  He glanced back over his shoulder. “My apologies, lass. Just uncomfortable, I warrant.” His gaze wandered around the room, but when he looked back again it was to find her staring at his profile while she struggled to free him. “Far be it for me to tell ye yer business, but if ye doona mind, I’d appreciate it an’ ye’d pay a wee bit more attention to what yer cutting.” He softened the rebuke with a lopsided grin.

  Frowning with embarrassment, she returned her gaze to the task at hand, trying to place the strange accent and his odd manner of speech. The first rope fell away beneath the serrated blade and she started on the second with enthusiasm. He shifted as the ropes loosened, and sighed in relief when the final one was cut. Rubbing his wrists to get the blood flowing again, he sat up and regarded her with a solemn bow of his head. “Ye have my thanks. What’s yer name, lady?”

  “Colleen,” she answered.

  His full lips curved into a dazzling smile that stole her breath, his straight teeth flashing white against his bronzed skin. “’Tis a pretty name for a pretty lady. What’s yer family name?”

  Dimples. Sweet Jesus, the man had dimples. “O’Brien,” she said, regrouping rapidly from the effects of the s
tunner smile. “And you haven’t gotten around to telling me your name yet. And I’d like to know how you came to be lying on what’s left of my coffee table.”

  He ignored her question. “So yer a princess, then. I thought ye had a look of the Irish about ye with those enchanting green eyes,” he remarked, looking around the condo. “’Tis fine enough to be a palace, I’m thinkin’.” He saw Mel Gibson frozen on the TV screen and was transfixed, puzzlement evident on his face. Tearing his gaze away, he glanced back at Colleen, but his eyes kept flickering over to the screen as if expecting Mel to charge out at any minute brandishing his claymore.

  Colleen missed his disconcertion and snorted. “Princess? You must have hit your head pretty hard.”

  He turned an incredulous gaze to her before explaining, “O’Brien is the family name of the descendents of Brian Boru, the High King of Ireland. Yer of royal blood.” He stretched his arms and legs, blowing out a contented sigh when his joints cracked. “So tell me, Princess, where have I found myself? Yer accent is strange to me.”

  Well, then. It was obvious. She’d fallen asleep on the couch and was going to wake up any minute. This was definitely one of the most bizarre dreams she’d ever had. The man was seriously hot, though. Insane, but cute.

  “You’re in Brandon, Florida.”

  “Flo-ri-da?” he echoed.

  “United States,” she clarified. Any minute now…

  He shook his head and shrugged. “I suppose it matters not. What day is it?”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “I’m not telling you anything else until you tell me your name.”

  “Faolan MacIntyre at yer service, m’lady,” he grinned, inclining his head.

  “Fee-lawn,” Colleen repeated, “that’s an unusual name. I was trying to place your accent…”

  When he didn’t answer right away she realized she had lost him. His full attention was snared by the TV guide last seen lying on the coffee table, minding its own business. He rubbed the paper between his fingers then pointed to the cover. “Is this date correct?” he asked, the blood draining from his face.