Night Of The Blackbird

“I do.” He grinned and feigned a slight accent. “She’s a lovely lady, she is.”

“Um. My dad’s ill.”

“Oh.” Josh was quickly serious. “I’m sorry.”

“I—” She hesitated. That wasn’t really it. “I think he’s going to be okay, although it appears he may need another surgery.”

“So you want to go home for Saint Patrick’s day.”

“I know we were supposed to be shooting at the theme parks in central Florida, and I know how hard you worked to straighten out all the paperwork and rights and—”

“Things have been postponed before.”

“I truly appreciate your attitude,” she told him softly, swallowing her draft, her eyes lowered.

“I never believed we’d be going to Florida in March.”

She looked at him and flushed. “You think I have no spine?”

“I think your mother could take on the Terminator.”

She flashed him a grateful smile. “I do have another idea. We can do a real ethnic Irish show and arrange with the Leisure Channel to do a live feed. It really might be a great idea. I think the viewers would love it.”

Josh mused over the idea. He lifted his hands. “You could be right. ‘Fun, food, and fantasy—live from the home of the hostess herself.”’

“How do you feel about Boston in March?”

“Wretched, but then, it’s not much worse than New York.” He smiled at her suddenly. “Actually, I thought something like this might come up. I’ve had Michael checking into the permit situation in Boston as well as Orlando.”

“You’re kidding! He didn’t say a word.”

“He knows how to keep a confidence. I didn’t want you to suspect I was second-guessing you.”

“Great.”

“Hey, kid, it’s a show we should have done before this.”

She grinned, suddenly feeling a tremendous sense of relief. “But you and Gina were looking forward to doing the whole Disney thing.”

“We’ll still do it. We’ll just reschedule. And the kids won’t mind—they didn’t really understand what was going on anyway.”

She smiled. He had a point. At eight months, the twins undoubtedly didn’t care one way or the other whether they got to see Mickey Mouse or not.

“Do you want something to eat?” he asked her. “Or are you just going to drink your lunch?” He indicated her beer glass. It was empty, and she didn’t even remember drinking the whole thing.

“I am Irish,” she muttered.

He laughed, leaning forward again. “Hey! No ill will intended. I just wondered if you wanted food or not.”

“Yes, yes, I guess I should eat.”

“They make a nice salad here.”

“Great. I think I’ll have a hamburger.”

“Ah, we’re being a wild renegade today, eh?” He teased, motioning to their waiter.

“What? Are you trying to be just a wee bit condescending, so I don’t have to be eternally grateful for making you change the entire schedule for the season?”

He laughed. “Maybe. Maybe it’s just amusing to see you so afraid of going home.”

“I am not afraid of going home! I go home all the time. Here comes the waiter. Just order me a hamburger—and another beer.”

Josh did so diligently, but there was still a sparkle in his eyes.

“So what are you so afraid of?” he asked softly, once the waiter had taken their order and departed.

“I’m not afraid. I go home all the time.”

“But this time you seem uneasy. Is it the fact that you think we should film at your home as an excuse to go there? The whole thing does fit nicely. There are a lot of Irish in the United States. And on Saint Patrick’s Day—”

“Everyone is Irish. Yes, I know,” she murmured. Her second beer arrived. She flashed the waiter a smile. He grinned and left. She took a sip of the brew immediately, then sat back, running her fingertip along the edge of the glass.

“So? It’s perfect.” Josh said.

“Perfect—and what a cast of characters we have.”

“Your mother is charming. So is your father.”

“Mmm. They are. Just…”

“Just what?”

“Well, they are…eccentric.”

“Your parents? No.”

“Stop teasing. You know Granny Jon. She had me convinced for years that I had to be really good or the banshees would get me on the way to the outhouse. I think that Colleen, Patrick and I were all out of high school before we suddenly realized the great flaw in her terror tactics—we didn’t have an outhouse.”

“Your grandmother is adorable.”

“Like a hedgehog,” Moira agreed. “Then there’s my father, who has yet to accept the fact that in the U.S., the Fighting Irish are a football team.”

“Not true! I’ve watched college football games with him. Though he does root for Notre Dame, I’ll give you that.”

“My mother will give speeches on how the traditional dish is bacon and cabbage, not corned beef, and somewhere along the line, if you’re not careful, Dad will get going on English imperialism against the rights of the Gaelic-speaking people of the world, and then he’ll get going on the wonders of America. He’ll forget that as a country we massacred hundreds of thousands of Indians and he’ll start to list famous Americans of Irish descent, from the founding fathers to the Civil War—both sides, of course.”

“Maybe he’ll avoid talking about Irishmen who rode with Custer.”

“Josh, I’m serious. You know my dad. Please, God, make sure no one brings up the question of Irish nationalism or the IRA.”

“Okay, we’ll keep him off politics.”

She barely heard him as she rested an elbow on the table, leaning over, preoccupied. “Patrick will bring my little nieces and nephew, so Mum, Dad and Granny Jon will all be running around pretending there are stray leprechauns in the house. They’ll have beer kegs everywhere, and everything will be green.”

“It sounds great.”

“We’ll have all kinds of company—”

“The more the merrier.”

She straightened and looked him in the eye. “Danny is coming,” she told him.

“Oh, I see,” he said softly.

He awoke very late and very slowly, and in luxurious comfort. The mattress he lay on was soft, the sheets cool and clean. The woman beside him still smelled sweetly of perfume, and of the scent of their lovemaking. She was young, but not too young. Her skin was tanned and sleek. Her hair was dark, and a wealth of it graced the hotel pillow. She’d had her price, but what the hell, so did he. They’d had fun together.

Coffee had brewed in a pot he’d set to go on a timer last night. Brewed and probably burned. He’d never imagined he would sleep so late.

He leaned against his pillow and the headboard.

America was good.

He had always enjoyed it.

There was so much here. Such an abundance. And such foolish people, who didn’t begin to understand what they had. Aye, they had their problems; he wasn’t at all blind to the world, nor did he lack compassion. But problems were different here. Spoiled rich kids, racial tensions, Republicans, Democrats…and, he had to say, though with all compassion, if they didn’t have enough problems, they just made more for themselves. But it didn’t change the fact that life was good.

The phone rang. He reached to the bedside table; picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Have you the order ready, sir?”

“I do. Shall I deliver, or do you want to come here?”

“It’s probably better if you come here. We may have more business to discuss.”

“That will be fine. When?”

He was given a time; then the phone clicked. He hung up.

The woman at his side stirred and moaned. She turned toward him; her eyes flickering open. She smiled. “Morning.”

“Morning.” He leaned over and kissed her. She was still a cute little thing. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, tanned.

She reached for him beneath the sheets, her hand curling around his sex.

He arched a brow at her.

She laughed. “Freebie. I don’t usually stay until morning—”

“I don’t usually keep a who—a woman—till morning,” he amended kindly.

Her fingers were talented, and he found himself quickly aroused. He noted, though, the light that was beginning to show around the edges of the curtains.

“What’s the matter?” she asked him.

He smiled, crushed out his cigarette. “Nothing,” he told her, drawing her head toward his, kissing her lips, then drawing her downward to continue a more liquid approach to her sensual assault on his body. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time.

She was very good, and it had been a long time since he’d had such an opportunity to dally. He let her have her way, then returned the favor, and when he made love to her—if one could, even politely, call the act “making love” when it with a woman who was a stranger and a whore at that—he did so with energy and pleasure, a courteous partner despite the fact that he swiftly climaxed. Even as he rolled to her side, he checked his watch again.

“Late,” he muttered, then kissed her lips and headed for the shower. “Coffee’s on. Cigarettes are by the bed.”

He showered quickly, with an economy of motion learned over the years. He emerged well scrubbed, hair washed. He grabbed a towel from the rack and studiously worked at drying his hair while he opened the bathroom door and exited, head covered, body naked.

“Did you get your cof—” He began politely, but then paused, muscles tightening “What are you doing?” he asked sharply.

She was on her knees, his pants in her hands.

“I—” she began, dropping his pants, looking at him. She stumbled to her feet. Had she been about to rob him?

He wondered what she had seen. He noted quickly that she had been through more than his pants. Drawers weren’t quite closed; the dust ruffle around the bed was still up at the foot of it. What had she discovered that had caused the look of fear she wore?

Or was it merely what she was seeing in his eyes?

She stood, clad in her bra slip and stockings. He watched the workings of her mind. She was wishing she’d got dressed and got the hell out while he had showered.

But she hadn’t.

Her eyes, glued to his, registered her fear. He didn’t look away; he saw the room with his peripheral vision. She’d done a good job in the time she’d had. Thorough. She was just a working girl—and, it appeared, a thief.

Or was she?

“I was just looking around, just curious,” she said, moistening her lips.

Whatever else she was, she was a damn poor liar.

“Ah, love,” he said softly. “Hadn’t you ever heard? Curiosity killed the cat.”

“Ah, your good friend Daniel O’Hara,” Josh teased. “Think of it. If it hadn’t been for old Danny boy, you and I might be married now.”

“And divorced—we’d have killed each other in a week,” Moira reminded him.

“Maybe, maybe not. Let’s see, you were intellectually in love with me, but you lusted after your old flame. I was the good, decent man who meant to do all the honorable things, but he was an unobtainable, intriguing and dashing young lover, and though never present, he took your heart as well as your—well, you know.”

“Josh, we would never have gotten married.”

“Probably not,” he agreed, a bit too cheerfully.

“Well, I don’t appreciate the dramatics. He’s an old family friend—”

“And the fact that he’s built like a linebacker and looks like an Adonis has nothing to do with it?”

“You’re being incredibly…shallow. As if I don’t judge men by other standards. Besides, you’re a very good-looking man yourself.”

“Thanks. I’ll take that. But I’m not sure I compare with your exotic foreign lover. And no, it’s not just his looks that affect you. It’s the accent, the voice, the tradition, the fact that he’s an old family friend.” He put on a Hollywood Irish accent. “Aye, me lass, your lover has a definite presence.”

“He’s not my lover!”

“How quickly you protest.”

“I haven’t even seen him in years.”

“I can tell you when you saw him last. Summer, almost three years ago. And you wound up lying to your family, saying you were coming back to New York, but you stayed at the Copley with him in Boston. You thought he’d stay here, because you wanted him to. He wasn’t ready, you got mad. And when he called again the following Christmas, you refused to see him.”

“I never told you all that!”

“Well, I may not have made it as husband material, but I am your best friend. And there’s something about him you can’t quite shake.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

“Trust me, I have shaken him.” She looked at her watch. “How time flies when you’re being tortured by your supposed best friend. I have to meet Mrs. Grisholm. She missed her connection this morning. She’s the lady from that little mystery theater group in Maine where the audience joins in and they do the show together. They even cook and eat dinner together. You know. I told you all about her, and it sounds like a—”

“What’s Michael going to say about the return of your old flame? Did you ever tell him about Daniel O’Hara?” Josh interrupted, amused.

“Dan is my past, Michael is none of your business.”

Josh started laughing. Her cheeks flamed.

“Saint Patrick’s Day could be lots of fun. Your sleeping arrangements may be none of my business, but we hired Michael as location manager before you two became involved, so I assume he’ll be joining us in Boston.”

“Yes, of course he’ll be joining us in Boston.”

Josh was still grinning.

“Oh, will you wipe that smirk off your face?”

“I’m sorry. As your one-time would-be lover, I find it amusing that you’ve spent half your adult life in celibacy and now you’re going to have both of the great loves of your life home for the holiday.”

“Josh…” she said warningly.

“Maybe that’s not so bad. Mum and Dad can protect you.”

She stood up. “I would thank you for being such a great business partner—”

“If I wasn’t being such a prick.” He was still laughing.

“I could tell your wife you’re being a horse’s ass.”

“She knows all about my ancient crush on you. I think she’ll find the situation just as much fun as I do.”

“You’re impossible, and I’m leaving.”

“You’re leaving because you’re late, and you love me anyway,” he called after her, since she was already heading for the door.

“I don’t love you,” she called, turning around. “Make sure you get the check, and leave a decent tip.”

“You adore me!” he called after her.

At the door, she looked back. He was still wearing the same shit-eating grin. He arched a brow to her and started humming “Danny Boy.”

2

It had been a damned long day. Michael McLean took his work to heart, and he accomplished what he set out to do, whether it took diplomacy and tact or a dead-set determination and a few strong-arm techniques.

When the phone rang, Michael jumped. He’d been lying there, half asleep, and though his work meant that he got calls at all hours, he hadn’t been expecting the abrasive ring. He’d been traveling large expanses of the country—they had to be prepared for every contingency—and he was tired. For a moment the ringing was simply jarring, and he let it go on. Then he forced himself up, dragging his legs over the side of the bed, running his fingers through his hair. He started for his bedside phone, then realized that it was his cellular ringing. He rose, running his fingers through his hair, found his pants and dug out the phone.

He glanced at the caller ID. Moira.

“Hey, babe, what’s up? You’re all right, aren’t you? It’s late.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I should have called earlier.”

“You can call me any time, day or night. You know that.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice soft.

There were lots of women in the world. He’d known his share. But the tenor of her voice slipped into him. There were others, yes. But none quite like her. He pictured her. Moira was a beauty, with her true deep red hair and blue-green eyes. Tall, elegant, with a natural sophistication and the ability to dirty her hands and nails, laugh at any obstacle and get involved with the most absurd situations. When he’d answered the ad for an associate producer and locations manager for KW Productions, he’d known her from seeing her on the air, having studied what tapes he could find before applying for the job. She was good on tape. She was even better in person. He hadn’t been ready for the excitement she could create or the emotion she could invoke. He wished she were there right now. Amazing what the sound of her voice could do to a man.

“I should have called you—could have called you—hours ago,” she went on, then halted suddenly. “You haven’t heard from Josh already, have you?”

“No.”

He heard her sigh. “Yeah, he would make me do this one myself. And it’s so late because I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to call you.”

He was about to assure her that she never needed nerve to call him when she rushed on.

“I know how much work you’ve already done—”

“You are the boss, you know.”

“Not really. Josh and I have always made decisions together, and since you’ve been with us, well, you’ve just been the perfect addition to the show…. Oh, Lord, Michael, I’m so sorry to be doing this, but…we’re making a sudden switch in plans.”

He’d been expecting this; still, he felt every muscle in his body tense. He knew what she was about to say.

“I know that you and Josh have made an incredible effort on the Orlando angle, that acquiring permits to tape has been a bitch…but we’re switching locations for Saint Patrick’s Day. I’m so sorry. I know—”

“Family pressure, eh?” he asked quietly.

“My father has to go in for tests next week. Nothing serious, Mum assures me, but I’m willing to bet he’s still working the pub himself until all hours of the night. Anyway, she made it sound as if I were punching the Easter Bunny or something, and I…I caved in.”

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’ve already looked into the Boston situation.”

“What?”

“Josh and I both kind of expected this,” he said.

She was silent.

“Moira, it’s all right. Hey, I’m going to love meeting your family. I’ll get to feel important, right? The man in your life, someone who means everything in the world to you, right?”

“You’re incredible, you know that?”

“Well, of course, you’d have nothing less, right?” he said.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“You sound so good.”

Her voice was almost like silk.

“I was just thinking the same about you.”

“They’re crazy, you know.”

“Who?”

“My folks.”

“Moira, you’ve hit the right guy here. My family is Irish, too. Okay, we don’t own a pub and no one runs around whistling ‘Danny Boy’ all day, but I can deal with the leprechaun and banshee stories. Don’t be so worried.”

She was still silent. Then she said, “Mine do.”

“What?”

“They run around whistling ‘Danny Boy’ all the time.”

He laughed. “I’ve got nothing against the song. Hey, Josh and I had a wager going, you know.”

“Who bet that I wouldn’t cave in to family pressure?”

“Neither of us. The wager was on the date you’d finally do it.”

“I can’t wait to see you,” she said. Once again, he pictured her. Not the woman on television. The one who should be here with him now. Softly scented, sleek and smooth, hair down and wild, naked as the day she was born. Maybe that was part of her allure. She could be so elegant and almost aloof in public, and so incredibly sensual and volatile in private.

“I don’t think there are any planes at this time of night,” he said regretfully. “Can’t even hop a train. I could rent a car…if you’re really needy.”

“You’re good. Very good.”

“No, what I am is—”

“Never mind,” she said, laughing again. “You know you can’t rent a car in Florida and be here that quickly. And I have to—have to—tie up a few things here tomorrow and then head up right after. That will give us a week before the actual big day. Time so I can see my folks and so we can give the Leisure Channel a really good show.”

“I can be there, if you want.” He wondered if he should tell her that he wasn’t in Florida. Maybe he’d better leave that one for Josh.

He was silent for a moment. Yes, there were other women in the world, he knew that well. The fingers of his free hand tensed and eased, tensed and eased. But none like her.

“Aye, me love, at ye olde pub!” he said, giving her his best Irish accent. “If you insist that we wait that long.”

“You’d really drive all night…?”

“I would.”

“I’d rather have you alive in the future than dead in such an effort,” Moira said firmly. “Boston, night after next, Kelly’s Pub, you’ll meet the folks. I’ll see you there?”

“All right,” he told her. Then, though he had expected it, he found himself dreading the fact that they would all be in Boston together. He, Moira, her family, her past—and the future. “I love you,” he added, and he was surprised by the almost desperate ardor in his voice.

“I love you, too,” she said, and he believed her.

A few moments later, they rang off.

Though it was late and he was still exhausted, Michael found himself rising and getting dressed. He glanced at the clock. Not that late; just after midnight.

He dressed and left the hotel room.

His destination was within easy walking distance. Boston was a good city in that respect. Narrow, winding streets in the old section and even in the newer areas. There was little distance here between the colonial and the modern. He liked Boston. Great seafood. A sense of history.

He walked quickly and came to the street he had checked out earlier that day. There, in the middle of the block, beneath a soft yellow streetlight, was the sign.

Kelly’s Pub.

He stood there, staring at it.

And damning the days to come.

The doors were still open, though it looked quiet within. Weeknight. He thought about sauntering in, quietly ordering a draft, sitting in a corner, taking a look.

No.

At twelve-thirty, he turned and walked away.

Twelve forty-five.

From the shadows cast by the long buildings, another man watched Michael McLean leave the premises. He hadn’t really seen his face, had never known the man previously, but even so, he was fully aware of who he was.

Dan O’Hara watched the man thoughtfully until he had disappeared. He had avoided the streetlight on the opposite side of the block and therefore had hardly been even a dark silhouette in the night.

He leaned against the old building. With the street clear, he lit a cigarette, slowly allowing the smoke to filter out of his lungs. Bad habit. He needed to quit, he thought idly. So that was Michael. He didn’t have enough basis for any rational judgments, but by virtue of instinct, he disliked the guy. But then, Moira could be seeing a Nobel Peace Prizewinning certified saint and he would still dislike the guy.

He had to force himself to hold back any conclusions on Michael McLean. He couldn’t even blame the guy for wanting a good look at the pub.

Kelly’s. Dan loved the place himself.

How long had he been gone this time? Too long. Of course, last time he had come back, things had been different. No Moira.

How many times had he pushed her away? Doing the right thing, of course. At first she’d been too young. Then, even when they’d become lovers, he’d just known that he was wrong for her. Yet he hadn’t realized that he still lived with the belief that she was his, that she would still be there. He truly wanted her to be happy, but he wasn’t a man without an ego. Somewhere inside, he had believed that happiness for her would mean waiting for him.

Okay, so he was an ass.

An ass…yet he had done the right thing. She was a strong character, with a sense of the world, of right and wrong and everything that being an American meant. He hadn’t been able to help it; he was Irish. An Irishman who loved America, but who felt…

Obligated.