Reunited

“Seamus Quinn is my father,” Keely admitted, nestling closer to Rafe.

Rafe froze, afraid Keely might sense his reaction. He tried to keep his voice quiet, indifferent. “So…your name isn’t Keely McClain. It’s Keely Quinn.”

“Umm. Keely Quinn,” she murmured drowsily.

Rafe closed his eyes and cursed inwardly. This couldn’t be happening to him. He’d been planning his revenge for months and everything had been set in motion just days ago. He couldn’t stop now. Seamus Quinn had murdered his father and he’d have to pay!

But Keely was a Quinn. And with the exception of his mother, she was also the first woman he’d ever cared about. Rafe carefully slipped out of bed and walked to the windows. Streetlights still twinkled around Boston Harbor as the deep blue sky gave way to blazing orange and pink. He pressed his palms against the cold glass as he tried to bring order to the chaos raging in his head.

Rafe turned and looked back at Keely, curled up in his bed, the sheets twisted around her slender body. She looked so naive, so beguiling, her hand splayed over his pillow—such a stark contrast to the woman who’d driven him mad with lust the night before. He’d come to crave that contrast, the sexy siren trapped inside the innocent’s body.

But how much longer would she want him? And how much time did he have to make her want him more than she wanted her family?

Dear Reader,

Over the past few months I’ve been overwhelmed by the amount of wonderful e-mails and letters I’ve received regarding my MIGHTY QUINNS series, published by Harlequin Temptation in September, October and November 2001. Many of you have already fallen in love with Conor, Dylan and Brendan, and are anxiously waiting to get your hands on the stories of the youngest three Quinn brothers. But for my first single-title release, I wanted to do something a little different. So I’m thrilled to introduce you to another member of this irresistible Irish family—Keely Quinn, a woman who finds not only her family, but a man she can’t live without. And through it all, she finds herself.

It felt a little odd to leave the Quinn brothers behind and focus on figuring out what a female Quinn would be like. But as I wrote about Keely, I found she wasn’t much different from her brothers—stubborn, impetuous, passionate. And in order to balance the scales, I had to give Keely a great hero. I think I found him in Rafe Kendrick—a guy who can stand up to any one of the Quinn brothers, and actually does just that to claim the woman he loves.

Enjoy,

Kate Hoffmann

Reunited

Kate Hoffmann

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For my siblings, Eileen, Lisa and Brad

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

PROLOGUE

A COLD WIND RATTLED the windows of the tiny apartment above the brick storefront. Keely McClain pushed aside the lace curtains and stared out at the dark street in her quiet Brooklyn neighborhood. Snow gathered on the ground and she said a quick prayer that the storm would worsen and school tomorrow would be canceled. She had a math test and had frittered away her study time today at school passing notes to her friends and drawing cartoon pictures of the nuns.

“Please snow, please snow,” she murmured. She pressed her palms together and said a quick prayer, then crossed herself.

Keely turned from the window and then hopped up on her bed, standing on the mattress so she could see herself in her dresser mirror. Carefully, she rolled up the waistband of her plaid skirt until the hem rose to midthigh, just to see what it looked like. Three rolls and a tug and the hem was perfectly even, as if her mother had made it that short. The nuns at Saint Alphonse required that school uniforms reach the floor when kneeling, a notion that every other girl in the all-girl school found positively prehistoric, especially in 1988.

“Have you finished your homework?”

Her mother’s voice echoed through the tiny apartment. For as long as Keely could remember, it had been just them. She’d never known her father. He’d died when she was just a baby. But Keely carried a picture of him in her mind, an image of a strong, handsome man with a charming smile and a tender heart. His name was Seamus and he’d come to the United States from Ireland with her mother, Fiona. He’d worked on a fishing boat and that’s how he’d died, in a terrible storm at sea.

Keely sighed. Maybe if she’d had a father around, she and her mother might have gotten along a little better. Fiona McClain had strong ideas about how her daughter should be raised and first and foremost was that Keely McClain would grow up a good Catholic girl. To Keely that meant no makeup, no parties, no boys—no fun. Instead of meeting her friends on Saturday morning to hang out at the mall, she was forced to help her mother at Anya’s Cakes and Pastries, the shop right below their apartment.

When she was younger, she’d loved watching Anya and her mother decorate the many-tiered wedding cakes. Sitting on a high stool in the bakery’s kitchen had been one of her first memories. And when she’d finally been given the responsibility of a real job, Keely had been too excited to speak. Every Wednesday afternoon, she’d dust the glass shelves that held the cake toppers and wedding favors and crystal goblets. She had passed the time by making up romantic stories about each of the little ceramic couples on the cake toppers, giving the grooms dashing names like Lance and Trevor and the brides pretty names like Amelia and Louisa.

She’d been just a kid then and her idea of true love had been more of a fairy tale than anything else. It wasn’t the clean-cut, heroic guys that caught her attention now. Instead, Keely had found herself interested in the kinds of boys that her mother would call “bowsies” and “dossers.” Boys who smoked cigarettes and boys who cursed. Boys who were bold enough to walk right up to a Catholic schoolgirl and start a conversation. Boys who made her heart beat a little bit faster just to look at them, and boys who weren’t afraid to steal a kiss now and then.

Keely took one last look at her skirt, then jumped down from the bed. She grabbed her schoolbag. She’d always worked so hard to please her mother, but slowly she’d come to realize that she was not the kind of daughter her mother really wanted. She couldn’t remain a little girl forever. She was twelve years old, nearly a teenager!

And she couldn’t always be the dutiful daughter, couldn’t always remember her manners and the proper way to sit in a skirt or eat soup with a spoon. There were times when she didn’t care to think everything through and make the right decision. She reached into her schoolbag and pulled out a lipstick tube. A wave of nausea washed over her, and for a moment she was certain she’d throw up, just as she had after she’d walked out of the drugstore.

Her mother had always told her that her nervous stomach was a sign from God. He was trying to drive the impurities out of her. Keely figured it was just punishment for allowing her impulses to control her behavior. But she had to admit that this time she’d probably gone too far.

It had been a dare and Keely had been too proud and stubborn not to accept it. Her friend, Tanya Rostkowski, had challenged her to walk into Eiler’s Drugstore and steal a lipstick or else be banished from the cool girls’ group. Keely had known it was a sin, but she never backed down from a dare, not even one that involved breaking the law. Besides, she wanted lipstick, and if she’d bought one with the money she made at Anya’s, Mrs. Eiler would certainly have ratted on her to her mother.

“Keely Katherine McClain, I asked you a question! Have you finished your homework?”

“Yeah, Ma,” Keely shouted. Yet another lie she’d have to confess to, though it paled in comparison to the lipstick.

“Then get ready for bed and don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

Keely groaned. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, instantly regretting the curse the moment it left her lips. She already had enough on her curse list for Friday night confession. Lying and stealing would probably be worth at least five Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. And Father Samuel was particularly harsh with foul language, although “bloody” couldn’t possibly be a curse word, since her mother said it all the time—at least, when she thought Keely wasn’t there to hear it.

“Bloody, bloody, bloody,” Keely muttered as she undressed and hung up her school uniform precisely as her mother required. Then she slipped into a flannel nightgown and jumped into bed. When she realized that she hadn’t brushed her teeth, she reached into the drawer of her bedside table and pulled out an old tube of toothpaste she’d hidden there. She put a dab on her tongue, then winced at the taste.

The trick always worked—unless her mother checked to see if her toothbrush was wet. It was just a tiny rebellion, but Keely felt that her teeth were her own and if she wanted them to turn black and fall out of her mouth when she was twenty, it was certainly her choice.

She leaned over the edge of the bed and reached beneath her mattress to pull out her journal. Sister Therese, her fifth grade teacher, had urged her students to start keeping a journal, hoping to perfect their penmanship and their grammar skills. And since that very first little clothbound book two years ago, Keely had written in her journal every night.

At first it had been a diary of sorts, but now that Keely had something truly interesting to write, she couldn’t possibly write it, for fear that her mother might read it. So instead, she filled the book with drawings and stories, each one another tiny little rebellion. She drew wedding cakes, wild, crazy designs, decorated with colored pencils and markers. And designs for sleek, sexy dresses with high hemlines and daring necklines. And she wrote passionate, romantic stories and poems. And though she gave her heroines a different name, when Keely read them, they became stories of her own future.

And sometimes she wrote stories about her father. Her mother had always been tight-lipped about Seamus McClain, and Keely suspected that his death was still too much for her to bear. So Keely had been left to create a past for them both, a wonderful, romantic past. Fiona McClain became the most tragic of heroines, grieving so deeply that she couldn’t keep a photo of Seamus around the apartment.

“Seamus,” Keely murmured, scribbling his name on the corner of a page. It was an odd, but exotic name to her ears. In her imagination, he had dark hair, nearly black like her own. And pale eyes that were a mix of green and gold, the same eyes she saw in the mirror every morning. A vision of her father flitted through her mind. He was dressed in a fine uniform with shiny buttons and gold braid on the shoulders. And his fishing boat was really a huge sailing ship that crossed the ocean.

“One night, as Seamus’s ship was nearing New York Harbor,” Keely murmured as she wrote in a haphazard script, “a terrible storm blew in from the north. Being a fine sea captain, Seamus ordered his men to take down the sails to protect his ship from crashing on the cliffs near the harbor. He stood in the driving rain, his hands fixed to the wheel, his only thoughts of the important passengers sleeping below.”

Keely reread what she had written and smiled. “But as lightning flashed, Seamus noticed debris floating around the bow of his ship. Another ship had crashed against the cliffs! Through the dark and rain, he could hear a soft and plaintive cry.” Keely covered her mouth with her cupped hand to make the cry more realistic. “Help. Help. Save me.”

Vivid images focused in her mind. “Seamus turned the wheel over to his first mate and ran to the bow. There, in the water below, was a woman, struggling to hold on to a jagged piece of the broken ship. ‘Do not fear,’ he called. Seamus tore off his jacket and linen shirt, his broad shoulders and strong arms gleaming in the rain.” Keely pressed her hand to her chest to feel her heart beating a bit faster. “And then he dove into the icy water and swam toward the drowning girl.”

This would be the best part, Keely mused, when they spoke for the first time. “‘What is your name?’ Seamus asked as he brushed her long, flowing hair from her eyes. ‘I am Princess Fiona,’ the girl said. ‘And if you save me, I promise to marry you and love you for—”’

“Are you in bed, Keely McClain?”

Keely jumped, startled from her dreaming. “Yes, Ma,” she called, glad that she didn’t have to lie officially. That saved her at least one Hail Mary at confession.

“And then Seamus took Fiona’s hand and swam for the ship,” Keely continued in a whisper, scribbling as she went. “Waves crashed around them, but Seamus would not let Fiona drown. For the moment he looked into her eyes, he knew he loved her. His crew dropped a rope ladder over the side, but the ship pitched and rolled and—”

“Did you brush your teeth, Keely?” her mother called.

Keely sighed dramatically. “Mary, mother of—” She stopped herself. Taking the Lord’s name in vain was one of those things that might get her an entire rosary. “I’m going to do that right now,” Keely shouted.

She tossed the quilt back, scrambled out of bed and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. She brushed up and down twenty-five times on each side and thirty in the front.

After she’d spit and wiped the paste off her mouth, Keely smiled. “And as Seamus carried his new ladylove up the ladder to the safety of his ship, the rain suddenly stopped and the moon broke through the clouds. And beneath the starry sky, Seamus leaned forward and kissed Fiona, sealing their love forever and forever.”

“It’s nearly ten and you should be in bed.”

Keely looked in the mirror and saw the reflection of her mother standing at the bathroom doorway. She held a dish towel in her hands and slowly wiped her fingers. Even though her hair was pulled back in a tidy bun and she wore a plain housedress, she still looked like the princess in Keely’s mind, with her bright green eyes and her mahogany tresses.

“Sorry, Ma.”

Fiona McClain sighed, then stepped into the bathroom. She reached out and smoothed Keely’s long, dark hair, staring at their reflection in the mirror over Keely’s shoulder. “You’re getting to be such a grown-up young lady. I almost don’t recognize you.” She flicked her hands through Keely’s bangs. “We need to cut these. They’re gettin’ in your eyes and I won’t have you goin’ to school looking like some shaggy mutt.”

Fiona’s lilting accent was soothing to Keely’s ears, like one of those pretty Irish love songs that her mother played over and over on the old stereo in the front room. Keely had tried so many times to imitate her, but her tongue just couldn’t get the sound right. “Do I look like my da?” Keely asked. “Do I look like Seamus McClain?”

“What?”

She saw the flash of pain in her mother’s eyes. But then it disappeared as quickly as it appeared. Over the past few days, her mother had been in one of her “moods.” She’d grown silent and sad, her expression distant. She’d stare out the window for hours, her attention fixed on the front walk of their flat, as if she were watching for that someone, waiting for that person’s arrival. And Keely’s conversations about her day at school went unheeded and unquestioned. Today was one of those sad days, a day when Keely was certain that Fiona was remembering her long-lost husband.

“Have you said your prayers?” her mother asked.

“Yes,” Keely lied. “Three Hail Marys and an Our Father.” Forget the lie. She’d do penance later. “Tell me about him, Ma.”

Her mother’s eyebrow shot up. “Three Hail Marys? Did you do something bad at school today?”

“No. I was just getting a little ahead. In case.”

“To bed with you,” Fiona ordered, clapping her hands. Keely hurried into her bedroom and pulled the covers over her. Fiona sat down on the edge of the bed and kissed Keely on her forehead. For the first time in almost two whole days, she smiled. “It’s time for you to sleep,” her mother murmured. “I have an early day tomorrow. We have to make the cake for the Barczak wedding. Three tiers with a fountain in the middle. And if you’re very good, you can come with me on Saturday when we deliver the cake.”

It had been her favorite thing to do when she was younger. But now it was just a chore, time spent away from her friends and a free Saturday afternoon. But this time Keely didn’t complain. Her mother had seemed so sad that she was willing to do anything to keep her mood bright. “Will we get to see the bride?” Keely asked, the same silly question she used to ask.

Fiona laughed softly. “Yes, we’ll be stayin’. The bride wants us to cut the cake and help serve.” She reached out and drew the covers up to Keely’s chin. “Now, lay yourself down and go to sleep. And may you dream of angels.”

“But what about my father?” Keely blurted out. “You always said you’d tell me when I was older and now I’m older. I’m almost thirteen and thirteen is a teenager. And a teenager is old enough to know about her father.”

Fiona McClain stared down at her hands, twisted around the dish towel in her lap. “I’ve already told you. Your father died in a terrible accident at sea and he—”

“No,” Keely interrupted. “Tell me about him. What was he like? Was he handsome? Or funny?”

“He was very handsome,” Fiona said, a reluctant smile touching her lips. “He was the most handsome boy in all of County Cork. All the girls in Ballykirk were taken with him. But he was from a poor family and my family had a bit of money. My da didn’t want me to marry him. They called him a ‘culchie,’ a country boy, although we lived in the country, too. But they thought he was lower class.”

“But you married him anyway,” Keely said, “because you loved him.”

“He didn’t have two pennies to rub together, but he had such grand dreams. Finally, I convinced my da that I couldn’t live without him and he gave us his blessing.”

“What else?” Keely asked.

“What else?”

“What did he like to do? What was he good at?”

“He liked to tell stories,” Fiona said. “Your da could tell such stories. He had a silver tongue, he did. That’s how he courted me, with his stories.”

This was something new! Keely felt an instant connection to the man she’d never seen. She loved stories and all her friends told her she was good at telling them. “Do you remember any of the stories? Can you tell me one?”

Fiona shook her head. “Keely, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can! You can remember. Tell me.”

Her mother shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “No, I can’t. Your da was the one who could tell the stories. I never had the talent. The only talent I had was for believin’ them.”

Keely sat up and threw her arms around her mother’s neck, giving her a fierce hug. “It’s all right,” she said. “Just knowing he told good stories makes me imagine him better.”

Her mother kissed her on the cheek, then reached over and turned off the lamp. In the shadows, Keely saw her brush a tear from her cheek. “Go to sleep now.”

She walked to the door and closed it behind her. A pale stream of light from the streetlamp filtered through the lace curtains, creating a pretty pattern on the ceiling. “He told stories,” Keely murmured to herself. “My da told really good stories.”

And though it was only a little bit of who Seamus McClain must have been, it was enough for now. For it gave her a small insight into the person she was. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be the good girl that her mother wanted her to be. Maybe she was really more like her father—bold, adventurous, imaginative and daring.

Keely sighed softly. Still, she knew in her heart that her father, whoever he was, would never approve of her pinching a lipstick from Eiler’s Drugstore. She made a silent vow to herself to return the lipstick first thing tomorrow.

CHAPTER ONE

A BRISK WIND buffeted the spot where Keely McClain stood. She turned into the breeze and inhaled the salttinged air. Far below her, the sea crashed against jagged rocks at the base of the cliff. Above her, clouds scudded across the sky, casting shadows on the hills around her. A memory from her childhood flashed in her mind as she recalled the fairy tale she once scribbled in her journal, the fanciful story of how her parents had met on a storm-tossed sea.

She tipped her face into the breeze, bathing in the mysterious spell that Ireland had cast. Time and time again, she’d felt this odd sense, a sense of belonging to this place she’d never seen before. This was land that had nurtured her mother and father, green and lush, colored by an unearthly light that made everyday scenery look magical. She could almost believe in leprechauns and gnomes and trolls, and all the other fairy creatures that populated this island.

Keely turned away from the sea and stared at the stone circle she’d come to find. It had been clearly marked on the road map, and though she’d been anxious to arrive in the small town that had once been her mother’s home, she had decided to take a short detour.

She’d followed a narrow country lane off the highway, steering the rental car beneath arching fuchsia bushes and between drystone fences. And then, when the sky had reappeared, she found herself in yet another breathtaking spot, a wide field above the sea where cows lazily grazed. Closer to the cliff’s edge, a stone circle sat silently in the dappled sunlight, a monument to Ireland’s pagan past.

Back home in New York City, she had barely given a second thought to her surroundings, the scraggly trees or patches of trampled grass, the brick buildings that lined her street in the East Village. But here, the world was so incredibly beautiful that it begged to be noticed. She took one last long look, committing the sights and sounds and smells to memory, then hiked back to her car.

She hadn’t intended to come to Ireland. She’d been in London, presenting a seminar with a famous French pastry chef and teaching new techniques for marzipan modeling. Since she’d taken over the bakery from Anya and her mother, she’d become known as one of the most talented cake designers on the East Coast, creating bold and original confections for a wide variety of special events.

She’d been so busy with work that she’d never been able to justify a vacation, so she’d decided on a working vacation. Between seminars, she’d seen a few musicals in the West End, searched antique stalls at the Portobello market for the old pastry molds she collected, and visited all the popular tourist sights.

But impulse drew her away from the bustle of the city, compelled her to hop a train that wound across England and Wales to the Irish Channel and to board a ferry that crossed choppy water to a town with the quaint name of Rosslare. Yesterday, from the deck of the ferry, she’d caught her first glimpse of Ireland and, at that moment, felt something deep inside her soul shift, as if she had suddenly discovered a facet of herself that had been hidden until this moment.