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Authors: Debby Conrad

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BOOK: Bailey's Irish Dream
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Not bothering to argue, he headed for the back door, Bailey at his heels. 

She followed him up the stairs and waited while he unlocked the door.  Ducking under his arm she made her way into his apartment and went to the refrigerator.  With the handle end of a butter knife, she chipped away at a large clump of ice, breaking it into small pieces and artfully arranging them in the center of a dishtowel. 

While she fooled with the ice, Quinn poured himself a hefty amount of bourbon and tossed back half of it in one gulp.  With his drink in hand he sank into the sofa, threw his head back and closed his eyes.

A few moments later, Bailey’s cool fingers touched his sore cheek.  “Poor baby,” she soothed, almost purring.  Quinn opened his eyes and looked at her.  Her hair was swept away from her face and secured with a large barrette.  Tiny curling tendrils had escaped the heavy mass and teased her cheekbones. 

She’d rested her butt on the arm of the sofa, her face too close to his for comfort.  “Here,” she whispered.  “Let me . . .”  Leaning across him, her breast grazed his upper arm as she pressed the towel-wrapped ice chunks to his cheek and right eye.  “There.  Does that feel any better?”  Her breath felt warm and moist against his face.

“Much,” he mumbled, his good eye watching her closely, his pulse kicking up.  What was he saying?  He didn’t want her here, but he didn’t seem to have the strength to tell her so.  His gaze fell to the creamy expanse of her neck, wishing she’d worn something more revealing than the prim, white, sleeveless blouse she’d chosen. 

“I suppose you want me to kiss it and make it all better too,” she purred, making Quinn lose his grip on the glass he’d been holding. 

“Damn,” he swore, nudging her away and getting to his feet. 

Bailey’s eyes settled on the wet crotch of his jeans, then promptly looked away, obviously embarrassed.

“I spilled my drink,” he quickly explained before she jumped to any conclusions.  But there was nothing he could do to hide the fact that he’d been aroused by her.  Settling himself in the recliner he set his empty glass on the floor.  “What’s this all about, Bailey?  Are you trying to seduce me again?”

Her mouth flew open.  “In your dreams!”  She averted her eyes and tightened the knot on the dishtowel.  

“Yeah?  I’m starting to think you and I have been having the same erotic dreams.”

Flushing at the enormity of his words she stood and heaved the ice at him.  The cold hard bundle landed directly in his lap, making Quinn jump in his seat.  “You trying to disable my manhood or what?” he yelled.

“I was only trying to be sympathetic,” she said, folding her arms in front of her.  “Sympathetic!  Lady, you have a strange way of showing sympathy.”

“Men are such babies when it comes to a little pain.”

“When women start throwing things at my balls, I tend to get a little touchy.”

She rolled her eyes and dropped her hands to her sides.  “We’re talking about two entirely different things here.  I was talking about your face, and you were talking about your . . .”  Her eyes dropped to his crotch, then shot upward, her face and neck turning a pretty shade of pink.

He’d be willing to bet she wouldn’t offer to kiss
that
and make it feel better.  Sighing, he rose from the chair and pressed the ice to his eye.  “What do you want, Bailey?” he asked again.

“I came out of concern for you.”

Quinn snorted.  “Concern for
me
?”

“Yes,” she said, her fingers twisting together.  “I was worried my father would somehow find you and . . .” 

“And what?”

Shrugging, she said, “Nothing.  It was silly of me to worry.”

“Why would your father want to find me?  You told him the marriage was off, didn’t you?” he asked, testing her, knowing she’d lie to him.

She averted her kaleidoscope eyes.  “Well, not exactly.”

“What
did
you tell him?”

“Nothing, really.”

Quinn took a step forward and, with his free hand, tilted her chin toward him.  “What does
nothing really
mean?”  He waited, challenging her to go through with the lie.

She met his accusing eyes without flinching.  “He thinks I’m pregnant.”

“He
thinks
?  Why would he
think
something like that? 
Are
you?” he asked, desperate to know the truth. 

Swallowing hard, she said, “No.”

Quinn didn’t know why, but he felt relieved.  He let his hand slip away from her chin.  He didn’t know why, but he didn’t trust himself touching her.

“So, where would your father get a crazy idea like that?  And why didn’t you tell him the truth when you had the chance?”

She shrugged.  “I don’t know--”

“Cut the crap, Bailey!”  He saw her flinch at the tone of his voice.  “You lied to me.  You told me last night that you’d told your mother you weren’t pregnant.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, slapping her hands to her sides.  “I guess I must have led them to believe that.  I was going to tell my parents the truth last night, right after you left, but I just couldn’t.  And then the next thing I knew, I’d told them I was pregnant.  I couldn’t help it.  The words just came out of my mouth, all by themselves.”

Quinn shook his head.  “I’ll bet.”

“And then this morning, I tried to tell my mother the truth, but she wouldn’t believe me.”  She crossed her arms again and rested her weight on one hip, drawing his attention to her bare shapely legs beneath the hem of her linen shorts.  “This is partly your fault, you know.”

“My fault?” he asked, incredulously.  “How is any of it my fault?”

“Well,” she said, “if you hadn’t kissed me last night, then maybe I would have been able to think straight after you’d left, but instead . . .”  She bit her lip and looked away.

“Don’t stop now,” he invited.  “It’s just getting interesting.”  Lifting her chin once again, he studied her face.  “What did my kissing you have to do with telling your parents you were pregnant?”  He’d spaced the words evenly. 

She licked her lips and blinked her eyes at the same time before smiling weakly.  “After you kissed me . . . I sort of had this crazy fantasy that you and I--”

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

“Stop right there!” Quinn said, dropping his hand and moving away from her.  “I don’t think I want to hear this.”  The lady never ceased to amaze him.

“That’s a relief,” Bailey said convincingly.  After a moment’s silence, she smiled.  “I guess I should be going.  You probably want to get back to your
life
.”  She backed toward the door.  “Anyway, thanks for what you did last night.  Not that it helped matters any, but that’s not
your
problem, right?”

Right!
he thought.

“So, I’m going to go home and make my parents listen to me.  I’ll just tell them I’m a compulsive liar.  I’m sure they’ll understand.”  Her fingers twisted nervously against her thighs. 

“I’m sure they will,” he agreed, nodding his head.  “You’re doing the right thing.”

“Yes, well . . .”  She lingered at the door, her hand resting on the knob.  “I know you said you didn’t want the money I promised you, but I insist you at least keep the ten-thousand-dollar check I gave you.”

“Too late,” Quinn said.  “I’ve already torn it up.”

Smiling, she said, “You’re just too honest.”

“Yeah, you should try it sometime.”

She laughed softly, then opened the door and disappeared.  Quinn scrubbed his hands over his face and said on a sigh, “Good-bye, Bailey.” 

* * * * * * * * * *

Downstairs at the bar, two men came in and sat on either side of Pete.  The one to Pete’s left reeked of after-shave.  Lemon-lime.  Pete hated lemon-lime. 

They were big men, and they reminded him of Popeye and Brutus dressed in suits.  Pete tried to decide which of them was the ugliest.  Shrugging, he decided it was a toss-up. 

The man on his left spoke first.  Popeye.  “Any idea who owns that fancy Italian bike parked out front?”  His voice was deep and gravelly.  Just like Popeye’s.

“Maybe,” Pete answered, unsure about this guy. 

“I’ve always wanted a bike like that,” the man on his right said.  Brutus.  “I’d pay top dollar if the owner was willing to sell.”

Shaking his head, Pete said, “I don’t think the owner wants to sell the Ducati.  That’s his baby.”

“You know the owner?” Popeye asked.

Uh, oh.  “Maybe,” he answered in a non-committal tone.  He’d already fingered Quinn once today.  He was going to play this cool.  Real cool.

“I could have sworn my good buddy, Stanley Davenport, rode up on that bike, but I don’t see him around anywhere.” 

Stanley Davenport?
  How many people had Quinn told his name was Stanley?  “You know
Stanley
?” Pete asked, dumbfoundedly. 

The man slapped his hand on the bar.  “Don’t tell me he’s a friend of yours too!”

“Well, yeah.”  That is if Stanley, or Quinn rather, was still speaking to him.

“Why, I haven’t seen old Stanley in years.  Any idea where we could find him?”

Pete took a drink from his mug, shifting his eyes between the two men.  His mother didn’t raise no fool.  These guys looked like thugs to him.  Setting the mug down, he said, “You guys aren’t gonna beat him up or anything, are you?”

Popeye and Brutus laughed.  And then Pete laughed too.  “Nah, we just want to talk to him.  About the bike.”

“Oh.  Okay.”  Pete wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.  “I guess I could tell you then.  I think I heard the manager say he was in the upstairs apartment around back.”

Popeye and Brutus slapped Pete on the back.  “Thanks, buddy.”  Popeye signaled the bartender and said, “Give this guy whatever he wants.”  He slapped a twenty down on the bar and walked away with his ugly friend. 

This was turning out to be a profitable day, Pete thought, smiling. 

* * * * * * * * * *

Moments after Bailey had left, there was a knock at Quinn’s apartment door.  Why should he think he could get rid of her that easily?  Tugging the door open, he said, “Forget it.  I’m not going to lie for you anymore.”  To his chagrin, he saw two ugly guys without necks staring back at him. 

“Stanley Davenport?” the shorter of the two asked.  The shorter man was six-three and smelled liked he’d spilled a bottle of after shave on his suit.  The hairy ape on the right was at least six-eight and bore a three-inch scar on his right cheek.

Quinn squared his shoulders.  “Who wants to know?”

“Leo Burns sent us.”  Shorty pushed his way inside.

“Look,” Quinn said, “if Leo’s one of Bailey’s relatives, tell him I never touched her.”

The two men looked at each other.  The tall, hairy man with the scar came inside, and closed the door behind him. 

“Look, whatever this is about, my name’s not Stanley.  Okay?”

“Sure, okay.  That your bike out front?  The Ducati?” 

“Yeah, why?”

Shorty laughed, then rammed his fat fist in Quinn’s gut.

Quinn doubled over in pain, stumbled backward and sucked air into his lungs.  “My name’s not Stanley Davenport,” he managed to wheeze out.

“Yeah, right.  That’s why the red-headed man was looking all over town for you earlier.  Told everyone you drove a Ducati.  Described it in detail too.  We spotted it without any trouble at all.”  Shorty grinned, a gold tooth twinkling.  “He also described you.  About six-one, one hundred ninety pounds, dark hair.”  He looked over his shoulder at the tall man.  “Whadda ya think, Harry?  This look like Stanley to you?”

“Yep,” Harry answered.

That was the second time today that damn bike had gotten him punched.  That was it!  He was selling it first chance he got.  Time to start keeping a low profile.

“And the fat guy at the bar downstairs seemed to know you pretty well too, Stanley.”

Quinn shook his head.  What the hell did Pete have against him all of a sudden?  Shorty wrinkled his nose as his eyes roamed around the small apartment.  “I can’t understand why you’d choose to hang out here, rather than that nice house you got on the beach.  Probably figured we wouldn’t find you here, huh?”  He sneered and then said, “We waited for you at your beach house last night, but you never came home.”

Harry spoke next.  “And then this morning we got lucky.  The red-headed guy started poking around your house, looking in the windows, so we followed him.  And he led us right to you,” he said, chuckling. 

“Look,” Quinn said, “My name is Quinn.”  He reached around his back pocket for his wallet.  “I can prove it.”

“Save it,” Shorty said.  “So you’ve got a fake ID.”  He shrugged one big shoulder.  “We don’t care about that.  All we care about are the diamonds.”

“And Loretta,” Harry threw in.  “Don’t forget about Loretta.”

“Oh, yeah,” Shorty said, pressing his left fist into his right hand.  “Leo wants Loretta back too.  Where is she, by the way?”

Quinn straightened to his full height.  He knew it was pointless to argue, but he tried just the same.  “Look, I don’t know anyone by the name of Loretta, and I don’t know anything about any diamonds.  I’m telling you you’ve got the wrong guy.  Now it’s time for you two to take a hike, or I’m calling the cops.”

Harry reached inside his jacket, pulled out a .38 and waved it at him.  “Don’t act stupid, Davenport.  I’d hate to have to hurt that cute little redhead we saw leaving here.”

Bailey.  He was talking about Bailey.  Jesus.  Quinn just glared at them, rather than argue anymore.

“Leo doesn’t like being double crossed.  If you think you can raise the price for the diamonds, you’re mistaken.”

“Look . . .” Quinn started, then closed his mouth, knowing it was useless trying to convince these guys. 

Harry nodded to Shorty and, before Quinn knew what had hit him, Shorty’s fist connected with his cheek and eye.  The left side of his face this time.  “Damn,” he swore, bringing his hand up to cradle the damage. 

“Next time we’ll break those dainty little fingers of yours,” Shorty threatened.  “See if you can still perform then.  Funny, I would never have guessed you were some sissy piano player.” 

With watery eyes, Quinn looked at his fingers.  They were anything but dainty, but he was through arguing with these two.

“What on earth is going on!” Bailey shouted from the doorway, holding the dragonfly lamp he’d seen in her living room last night.

Quinn’s stomach lurched.  “Bailey, get the hell out of here!” he yelled. 

Ignoring his order, she set the lamp on the bar, pursed her lips and planted her hands on her hips.  “You fellows are going to have to leave.  I’m sorry, but you just can’t go around beating up on people because you didn’t like what you ordered to eat.  Shame on you both.” 

He should have known better.  She was too naive for her own good. 

Harry nonchalantly tucked the gun inside his jacket pocket.  “Afternoon, ma’am.  We were just leaving.”

Bailey’s eyes conveyed the fury within her.  “I certainly hope so.”

“Remember what we said, Davenport,” Harry said in a low voice.  “You have until Saturday at noon to get us that package.  We’ll be in touch.”  With that Harry pushed Shorty toward the door, and then they were gone.

Quinn released a long breath and hurled himself at Bailey.  “What the hell are you doing here?”  His voice was harsh and raw.  “Damnit, they could have hurt you.”

“Why would they want to hurt me?  I didn’t do anything to make them mad,” she reasoned.

Rolling his eyes, and shaking his head, Quinn went to the kitchen for more ice.

Bailey followed closely behind him.  “I was halfway down the street when I remembered I’d brought the lamp I promised you.  I think it’ll look nice in here.  It will brighten the place up a bit, don’t you think?”  She quieted for a moment, as if she’d suddenly remembered something of great importance.  “That guy--the one with all the hair--called you Davenport.”

Okay, so she was a little slow, but she wasn’t stupid, he thought.  “Give the lady a cigar.”

Surprise siphoned the blood from her face and a small gasp escaped her lips.  “Omigod!  They thought you were Stanley.”  She hesitated, blinking with bafflement, then went on.  “Didn’t you tell them you weren’t?”

Quinn shot her a look that said “Get real.”

“But why would they want to hurt Stanley?”

“That’s a good question.”  Quinn grabbed a handful of ice cubes from the freezer and pressed them directly to his sore face.  “Ahhh,” he moaned.  “Just what the hell was your fiancé up to anyway?”

“Stanley’s not my fiancé anymore, remember?”  Bailey tilted her head, trying to assess the damage to his face.  Grimacing she said, “And I don’t know what he was up to.  He led a very normal life.  Except for playing the piano, he was mostly pretty . . . boring.”

“Yeah, well he obviously has some diamonds that belong to a guy named Leo Burns, and Harry and Shorty are coming back on Saturday to collect them.  They also expect me to turn over a woman by the name of Loretta.”

Bailey shook her head.  “Loretta?  I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Well, apparently Stanley does.  And she’s apparently missing.  Obviously she belongs to this Leo guy.  Probably a girlfriend, or maybe his wife.”

Her expression took on a whole new look.  “That weasel!” she said.  “I
thought
I’d heard a woman’s voice when Stanley called me from the airport two days ago.”

The ice in Quinn’s hand had begun to melt and drip down the front of his face, the cold helping to numb and soothe his swollen cheekbone. 

“Why don’t you let me help you?” Bailey offered, touching his arm. 

The alley kitchen was too small, and too confining, for the two of them.  He needed to get away from her before he did something stupid like kiss her again.  When he was around her he wasn’t himself.  Quinn shrugged her off.  “No.  Stay away from me.  I’m beginning to think you’re a jinx.  That’s twice today I’ve been beaten up because of you.”

Bailey’s mouth dropped open.  “But you said the first time it was an unhappy customer.”

Frowning, Quinn said, “You’re right.  My mistake.”  He didn’t know why, but he decided to protect Doyle Maguire.  At least for the time being.

“You’re confused, maybe delirious.  Let me help you,” she said, touching his arm again.  “You should probably lie down.” 

Quinn let her steer him to the couch.  “If you want to do something to help, you could get me that bottle of aspirin on the counter and something to drink.  A double bourbon, no ice.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea to mix aspirin and liquor?”

“Right now, I really don’t care if it’s a good idea or not.  The way I figure it
, I’m a dead man come Saturday anyway.  Thanks to you,” he added, mumbling.

* * * * * * * * * *

Poor Quinn
, Bailey thought as she watched him lying on the sofa, nursing his drink and dabbing ice on his face and eye.  He was so tall his feet hung over one arm of the sofa. 

She sat, legs tucked beneath her, in the leather recliner.  “So, what are you going to do?” she asked after some time had passed. 

Quinn peered out of one eye at her.  “What am I going to do?” he repeated as if he hadn’t heard the question correctly.

BOOK: Bailey's Irish Dream
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