Cara O'Shea's Return (15 page)

Hannah’s smile was grateful. “I’ve been well, thanks.” She looked at Cara. “I hear your studio is coming along.”

Cara flicked a glance in Cheryl’s direction. The older woman quickly dropped her gaze. “Yes, it is. It’s still a mess, with the renovation work that’s being done, but it’ll be beautiful.”

Hannah nodded stiffly and smiled at Meggy. “How are things going with you, Meggy?”

“Fabulous.” Her smile was only slightly strained. “Cara, Shan, and I just bought Palmer House.”

“Really?” Genuine pleasure lit Hannah’s blue eyes. “That’s terrific. I didn’t know you were interested in opening your own place.”

“It’s always been in my long range plans. This opportunity just came along at the right time. Shan and I have been experimenting with recipes since we were kids. We love cooking together.” She smirked at Cara. “Cara burns toast.”

Cara bared her teeth at her friend in lieu of a smile. Hannah laughed softly along with Meggy. “I’ll remember that, and come in on the day
you’re
cooking.” She sent Cara a wary smile.

“That would be pretty much every day.” Meggy played with the straw in her glass. “Cara’s a silent partner, so you’re safe any day you want to come in.”

“I’ll do that.” Hannah fiddled with the strap of her purse as though she didn’t know what to do with her hands. “Well, it was nice to see you, girls. Take care.”

“You too,” Cara and Meggy said together.

Hannah returned to the counter to wait for her order.

“Cheryl Potter is such a cow.” Meggy kept her voice low, but she shot daggers at the woman with her eyes. Cheryl sniffed and looked away. “I thought she was going to strain a muscle, trying to overhear what we were saying.”

“Which wouldn’t have been an issue if Hannah had ignored us.” Cara pushed her plate to the side, no longer hungry.

“Maybe that’s why she stopped to say hi. She knows you don’t like her, and she’s not the kind of woman to force an issue. Can you imagine the grapevine tomorrow if the two of you were seen in here tonight, and hadn’t spoken to each other? She was just trying to prevent Cheryl from getting an exclusive.”

“Well, I’m not going to thank her.”

“She’s not so bad. I know, I know.” Meggy held up a hand before Cara could argue her point. “It’s just too bad. She’s always been nice to me.”

****

Cara had a bag packed and was ready to start work when the crew of six men arrived at seven the next morning. She had set coffee and donuts on the counter. The men drifted over to help themselves before getting started. Finn arched a brow in silent inquiry when he spotted the black duffle bag beside the front door.

She shrugged. “I was invited for a sleepover.”

To her relief, he smiled. Lifting the bag, he went outside to stow it in the cab of his truck.

Many hours later, her studio was the mess he had predicted. The work was dirty and dusty. Though the men wouldn’t hear of her chipping in with the heavy stuff, she contributed where she could, mostly by fetching tools and drinks, and lunch at noon.

The stairwell was gone and the back wall sported three large openings for the French doors. Heavy plastic sheets hung in their place. The staircase would be installed first thing tomorrow morning. She marveled at the difference she could already see.

Too tired and grimy to be overly self-conscious, she followed along docilely when Finn escorted her inside his home at the end of the day. Though it was possible her exhaustion kept her from noticing any tension on his part, she didn’t sense any. Whatever had been bothering him yesterday no longer seemed to be an issue.

He hefted her duffle over his shoulder and guided her up that amazing staircase to the second floor master bedroom. She eyed the king sized bed. Anticipation of the night to come vanquished her fatigue. As though reading her mind, he laughed and dropped her bag on the floor to drag her into the adjoining bathroom and the most decadent shower she’d ever seen.

Eight individually programmed, square showerheads graced the tiled space large enough for four full-sized men to do jumping jacks without getting in each other’s way. He snickered at her observation and soon all thoughts of jumping jack men flew from her mind as Finn introduced her to the erotic combination of water, shower gel, and a naked and aroused Finn the Fine.

Two hours later, they lay tangled together in his big bed, discarded Chinese food containers on the night stand. She ran her palm over the exciting expanse of his chest, while his fingers combed through her long curls.

“I love your hair.” He twisted a curl around one finger.

“It used to drive my mother crazy.” She laughed at the memory. “All those tangled curls needing to be tamed every morning before she’d let me leave for school.”

“It’s always been long?”

She lifted her head from its place on his shoulder to gaze into his face. “Ma cut it short once. What a disaster.” She smiled and let her head drop back on his shoulder. “There are a couple of pictures. I resembled a rabid, red poodle.”

His chuckle vibrated through her body where she pressed against him.

“I made a cedar hope chest for one of my cousins a couple of years ago.” He tickled her nose with the curl. “It was the same color.”

“Ceara.”

His hand stilled. “Excuse me?”

“Ceara. It’s the Irish form of my name. It means fiery red. My mother is obsessed with all things Irish. She took one look at me in the delivery room the day I was born, and that was that.”

“Were you named for your personality, or the color of your hair?” he asked deadpan, and then burst out laughing when she tugged at the hair on his chest in response. “I know Erin comes from Erin go Braugh.” He grinned. “Ryan doesn’t shut up when he’s had a few drinks. You’d be surprised what I know about your sister.” She snickered. “It sounds Irish, but where did Shan’s name come from?”

“Shannon is the name of a river in southwest Ireland.” Absently, she brushed the palm of her hand down his chest, and let her fingers dance across his ribs. “What about you?”

“You can’t get much more Irish than Michael Joseph Finnegan, other than putting an O in front of it. My mother was pure Italian.”

“I never met her,” she said softly. “I know she passed away shortly before we moved to town and your dad died a couple of years later. That must have been awful. Dad and I may not see eye to eye, but I can’t imagine losing either of my parents.”

“Yeah.” Sighing, he tucked her more closely to his side. “Mom was a pistol. I still miss her. Dad, too. He was never the same after we lost Mom. He went through the motions of living, but he quit caring. I think he was relieved when he got sick. He didn’t even try to fight it.” Finn went quiet for a moment. “But the family closed ranks and did their best to lessen the loss. Maive made it her mission to act as surrogate mother, and father too, after Dad died.”

“Maive.” Cara chuckled. “My sisters and I called her the dragon lady. God, she used to scare the crap out of me when I was a kid.”

“Just when you were a kid? Most people are still scared of her.”

“I happen to like her.”

“That’s because she let you steal the bookstore away from me.”

“Well, there is that,” she purred contentedly, and laughed along with him.

“She likes you, too. She’s a smart old termagant, I’ll give her that. She kept me from veering off the straight and narrow a few times over the years with her unsolicited advice.”

“She does give excellent advice.” She shrugged when he turned to give her a questioning glance. “I went to see her before I came to apologize.” His eyebrows rose in surprise. “I was afraid you’d refuse to do the renovation, even after I said I was sorry.”

He lifted on one elbow and gazed down at her. “And Maive helped you out with that?”

She batted her lashes. “A smart woman uses all the weapons at her disposal to stay on top of things.”

He didn’t have an answer. Instead, he pulled her beneath him, and settled himself between her thighs.

“Then again,” she purred as his lips lowered to hers. “Being on the bottom now and then has its rewards, too.”

“Shut up, O’Shea,” he growled into her mouth.

“Make me.” She challenged.

And he did.

“This looks promising.”

Cara gave the Dumpster a dubious glance as Finn swung the car off the dark cobbled street into an alley, nosing the front hood up against discarded crates and boxes. He grinned at her perplexed expression, shutting off the ignition.

He had surprised her when he suggested they go out for a real dinner at a nice restaurant, a change from the meals they’d shared in his bed the last few evenings. She expected him to take her to Spinellis, since it was the nicest restaurant in town. Instead, he pulled out onto the highway and headed south.

The lights of Boston had spread out before them, shimmering reflectively off the water of the bay like a postcard as they crossed the Tobin Bridge. Five minutes later, they exited into old Charlestown, bumping along the narrow, cobblestone streets toward the North End.

A diner’s Mecca, if Italian food was on the agenda, the streets of the North End teemed with activity. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks of Boston’s oldest neighborhood beneath antique streetlamps. Part of the Freedom Trail, along with points of interest like The Old North Church and Paul Revere’s home, the historic district boasted more Italian restaurants per square inch than anywhere on earth, outside of Italy.

“Is this a legal parking space?” She climbed out of his low-slung Jaguar and stood, glancing around.

“I called ahead.” He led her to the back door of the early nineteenth century brick building. “Antonio lets me park here and slip in the back. It keeps the vultures at bay.”

“Vultures?”

“The press,” he replied absently. They entered a kitchen swarming with activity and heavenly scents. He moved behind a tiny gray haired woman, nearly as wide as she was tall, working at one of the stoves. He bent to press a kiss to her cheek. “Hello, Marta. How’s my best girl?”

She jumped and turned. A smile spread over her moon shaped face. “Finn! Antonio said you were coming in tonight.”

“I needed a manicotti fix.”

Her smile widened. “I thought so. Tonight, it’s the special.”

Across the room at a long, stainless steel table, a short, frail-looking bald man in a food-stained apron glanced up. Below an incredibly thick, snow-white mustache, his mouth broke into a broad smile that wiped any hint of fragility from his bony face.

“Benvenuto, Super Bowl! Welcome.” He skirted the table to greet Finn in a heavy Italian accent. Finn shook his hand and returned his smile.

“Antonio, you’re looking fit.”

The older man laughed. Bushy white brows wriggled above dark chocolate eyes. He slid a sly smile toward Marta.

“My wife, she tells me this every night when I come to her bed.”

Finn laughed as Marta rolled her eyes. “Cara, this is Marta. She makes a mean cannoli, and this ugly short-order cook is Antonio Giordano.”

“Short-order cook.” Antonio snorted, mumbling in Italian. He tossed Finn a smirk, and focused sparkling brown eyes on Cara. “Cara, the beloved,” he murmured the Italian translation of her name. “Welcome to Giordano’s.”

Cara included Marta in her greeting smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Giordano.”

He harrumphed. “Antonio, please. Now, tell me why you waste your time on this overgrown Irishman.” He jerked his head toward Finn. “A woman as beautiful as you needs a nice Italian boy.”

Finn grinned and crossed his arms. “I’m sure Cara’s mother, Mary
O’Shea
, would be interested to hear that.”

“I tease.”

Cara was charmed by the faint blush spreading over Antonio’s cheeks.

Marta shook her head. “Pay him no mind, Cara. He longs for grandbabies. So far, our three sons are uncooperative when it comes to marriage.”

“My mother would understand completely. She’s not averse to demanding a few more grandkids.” She grinned. “A nice Italian boy, huh?”

Finn cleared his throat. Antonio laughed and gestured toward the kitchen door, leading them to the dining room, to see them seated at a booth at the back. “I save the best table for you. You’ll want Marta’s manicotti tonight, no?”

“And a bottle of that red I like.”

Antonio nodded and left Cara and Finn alone.

“You’re a regular?”

“I’ve been coming here off and on since college. Antonio’s a bit of a gambler. He won a bundle the year we took the Super Bowl.” He grinned. “I’ve been one of his favorites ever since. When you taste Marta’s manicotti, you’ll understand why I keep coming back.”

He relaxed against the bench seat and smiled across at her. The waiter arrived, and she folded her napkin across her lap as he presented the wine. Finn approved the selection and when the wine was poured, he clicked his glass to hers. She hummed her appreciation of the sumptuous merlot.

“Meggy and I used to come to the North End for The Feast every summer. She’d drag me around while she tried to sweet talk the locals into sharing their recipes.”

The Feast of St. Anthony had been a tradition in Boston for just short of a century. Thousands of the faithful returned every year for the pageantry of the parades, and to say a prayer and ask a favor at the feet of the statue of St. Anthony of Padua. Cara figured most of the rushing crowds were there for the incredible food.

“How long have you and Meggy been friends?”

She waited while the waiter delivered their plates. “I met her several weeks after we moved into town. She was my first friend in Palmerton.”

“She scares the hell out of me,” he said with a mock shudder. “She had the town council shaking in their boots last year when they were holding up some money for the girl’s athletic program at the high school.”

Cara laughed. “That’s Meggy. She takes no prisoners.” She scooped a bite of pasta and cheese on her fork and hummed in appreciation. Finn hadn’t exaggerated. Marta’s manicotti was the best she’d ever experienced. “I don’t know what I would have done without Meggy’s friendship over the years. She was as much a bodyguard as a friend, back when I was too shy to slap down the cretins.”