Irish Eyes (Stolen Hearts Romance) (5 page)

“Years ago, this building housed a prestigious parochial high school.” She walked at a brisk pace up the aisle created by rows of metal bunkbeds. “When they consolidated with another school and moved to a new facility, this building was left standing empty. After a time, several local churches bought the place, converting the upstairs classrooms into offices. The downstairs with its gym, cafeteria, and lockers was set up as the shelter. I want to be very clear about that, you are volunteering at an emergency shelter, not a housing program.”

“Meaning?” He had stopped and bent slightly to peer at the underside of an upper bunk.

“Meaning I’m going to need you the most at bedtime.” She realized she’d said it wrong even as the words were leaving the tip of her tongue and yet she had been powerless to reel them back in. “I’m so sorry, that sounded--”

“Someone will be wanting this, I’m thinkin’, and by the way, don’t apologize. It’s been a long time since anyone needed me…” He reached beneath the bed and retrieved a tattered photograph from the bedsprings and in a few steps stood almost over her, offering it and a soft smile as her murmured, “…especially at bedtime.”

She drew in the musty odor of the linens, the faint scents of the occupants who had spent the night here only a few hours earlier. She glanced at the photo, somebody’s mom or girlfriend she figured. The fact that he had understood someone who had so little in life would value it enough for him to rescue it told her he was both keenly observant and not unfeeling. The fact that he had confessed to her that he hadn’t been needed at bedtime for a long time?

Thoughts swirled in her head and she needed to clear them. Her soft-soled shoes slapped against the hard floor as she rushed across the room to push open another swinging door. “Through here, we have the lockers and showers.”

“I’m sure those are appreciated.” He peered in for an instant just as she released the heavy door and it fell shut.

“We rent the lockers for a nominal fee to the working homeless. It gives us a little bit of revenue and them a place to store their things while they’re on the job.”

“Working homeless? How can there be such a thing?”

Julia smiled at the rhetorical question that Cameron murmured under his breath. Unfeeling was the last word she’d use to describe this man. That did not mean she was safe with him here, though.
She led on, steering him back out into the main hallway with a determined stride. “That’s the cafeteria. I’ll show it to you on the way back.”

As if determined to slow her breakneck progress, Cameron stopped to peek through the small rectangular window in one of the doors she had just given a dismissive wave. “Tis empty.”

“Trust me, it doesn’t stay empty.” She moved on, unwilling to let him drag the tour on a moment longer than necessary. “Hot meals are a big part of our service.”

He nodded.

“Still, I have wondered if we’d do better to cut those out in order to utilize that space as a full-time shelter for women with children.”

At the end of the hall, she worked the wobbling knob of a heavy, steel door, opening it to reveal a dirty little courtyard and loading dock. “This door is locked at all times except two hours in the morning for deliveries.”

She let the door fall shut, pivoted on her heel and headed back toward Cameron. Her pulse drummed like the William Tell Overture in her ears as she raced on to wind up the tour and see him on his way. She slipped past Cameron, her mind on getting through this, then on to her real problems. Something warm and quite insistent met her arm. Cameron’s hand, curved over the crook in her elbow, stopped her just as she moved to pass him.

Was it the sudden halt of her bum’s rush or the nearness of the green-eyed Irish man that made Julia feel as though she’d just stepped off a Tilt-a-Whirl? She angled her chin upward, meeting his gaze with what she hoped could pass for curiosity, not cowardice.

“Excuse me, lass, but did you say children?”

“What?” She felt her brow wrinkle.

“If I heard you right, you said you thought you should use the cafeteria for homeless women with children.” He emphasized the last two words with hushed disbelief.

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s true. I wish it weren’t.” She slipped her arm from his distracting grasp.

He shook his head and a lock of golden hair fell against his forehead. “I thought things had gotten so much better. You hardly hear about homelessness on the news anymore.”

“And since it’s not in the news, it’s not on people’s minds or in their hearts as much, and so the funding starts to fade and—” She sighed. “At this rate, I don’t see how we can keep the existing shelter open, much less add new services.”

He scowled, his handsome face cast downward.

Julia seized the opportunity to edge by him, eager to get on with the tour.

“The kitchen is through here.” She flattened her palm on the still-warm door of the perpetually hot room. She turned when she sensed he had not followed her.

Seeing him standing a few steps away, just where she had left him, tugged at her heart. “Cameron? Are you all right?”

“I just hadn’t expected...” He placed one large hand over his folded parka. “This job is turning out to have facets I hadn’t counted on.”

She nodded. “You aren’t the first volunteer to feel a bit overwhelmed by it all. After a while you realize you can’t solve it all, and you accept that and adapt.”

“How can you accept the idea of children saying their bedtime prayers in a converted cafeteria?”

The quiet power of his question spoke straight to her being.

“You can accept something without liking it, with still wanting to change it, Mr. O’Dea.” She moved to bridge the few feet between them, her hand reaching out to touch his forearm. “There have always been the poor. I suppose, despite the effort of good people, there always will be.”

“You’re a good woman, Julia Reed.” They were so close she could feel the fabric of their sweaters rubbing together. His chest, his lips, those beckoning eyes just inches from her.

“You’re here to volunteer,” she managed to whisper then found the breath and courage to ask what she needed to ask, even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear that answer. “Can’t I assume that you’re a good man, Cameron O’Dea?”

“I wish I could say I’d come out of a calling in my heart but, lass, it simply isn’t so.” His large hand closed around her upper arm.

She stepped back. The heel of her shoe banged against the worn brass kickplate of the kitchen door. Her fingertips brushed the old ridges in the wood as she pressed her spine to the sturdy support. She imagined someone pounding on the closed door couldn’t make any more noise than the hammering beat of her pulse.
“
You know, don’t you?”

*

“I know a great deal.” Evasiveness to the rescue again. Cameron felt bad for not confiding in her, but he couldn’t. Not yet. First he had to discern just how deep Miss Julia Reed had buried herself in this mess. From what he knew from her digital footprint and now in person, he suspected she was involved right up to her hairline. Still, he had to have that suspicion confirmed before he divulged anything of his mission.
He cocked his head and notched up the old Irish charm, focusing a wee bit of a smile on the lass as he murmured in a lilting baritone. “What interests me, Julia Reed, woman with a heart after saving the world, is what
you
know.”

Fear flickered in the depths of her dilated pupils but she did not cower before him.
“What I know, Mr. O’Dea, is that if you or your phony-baloney Officer Shaughnessy—”

“Shaughnessy? Michael Shaughnessy?” The name made Cameron’s blood run cold. “I wondered if you’d crossed his path. Tell me, how much do you know about him?”

She opened her mouth to speak but made only a few sounds. She pressed her lips closed, frowned then met his eyes and at last her expression and whole posture melted into a trusting surrender. “Only that he isn’t a real police officer and that he’s the one who took the boy.”

“The boy” he echoed.
The boy
was his nephew, Devin, who was now being used as bait.When Cameron had returned to the billboard, Devin had vanished. Cameron had only been gone twenty minutes or so, just long enough to walk to the market where he could get a signal on his cell. He’d called for police help in retrieving the gold, then picked up something for the boy to eat—they’d been out all day and the child had been famished.

A late night phone call had informed him that Michael Shaughnessy, a man Cameron had once considered like a brother, had taken Devin hostage. The kidnapper intended to hold the boy until Cameron turned over the gold. Michael hadn’t known how close he’d been to nabbing the treasure himself, nor had he mentioned any run-ins with Julia or any other person for that matter.

Greed, it seemed, had made his old friend, and current nemesis, sloppy. That was good news for Cameron and his quest. But Michael’s blinding lust for the gold could certainly prove a very dangerous thing for the woman who knew that he had the boy—especially since she had the gold. If she did have the gold.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “So you saw Shaughnessy take the boy?”

“Saw him?” She snuffed out a quick sound of self-disgust. “Mister, I handed the poor child right over to that imposter, and I could just kick myself for it. But that’s nothing compared to what will happen to you and your pal Shaughnessy if you harm one red hair on that precocious leprechaun’s head.”

“Leprechaun?” His voice squeaked out the word so peculiarly thrust into the weighty discussion.

“That was the kid’s story, not mine,” she hurried to explain.

“He actually told you he was a leprechaun?” Cameron laughed.

“With an accent thick as peat moss and a tale as intricate as Irish lace,” she said, her body relaxing just an inch. “He even went so far as to grant me his buried—”

She jerked as if pricked by a pin. Her fingers went to her lips as if to seal the rest of the sentence in.

Cameron’s head snapped up. He pushed forward a step, standing so close that he felt her shallow breathing against the parka wadded between them. “He granted you his buried what? Tell me.”

She jerked her head to one side. “The tour is over now, Mr. O’Dea. I’ll thank you to be on your way.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me.” He would not release her from his heated gaze.

“I’m warning you, Mr. O’Dea. If you don’t leave this very minute, I’ll—

“What?” He leaned in. Menacing, he supposed, but with a purpose. Still, when he saw the glimmer of distress in those lovely eyes and knew he had been the cause of it, Cameron winced.

“I mean it,” she said again with growing fervor. “Leave at once or I’ll—I’ll scream. One scream from me would draw every person in this building. They’d be on you like that.” She snapped her fingers. “And it wouldn’t take long then for the police to show up.”

“No, Miss Reed, I dare say it wouldn’t take long at all.” He reached into his back pocket and eased out his billfold. Like all the detectives on all the old TV shows he’d ever seen, he used a sharp flip of his wrist to pop open the leather wallet and flash his shiny gold badge.

Her lips fell open. Her gaze darted from the badge and ID to his face, then back to the ID again.

“As you can see, the police are already here,” he said, no longer able to try to jiggle the information gently out of a seemingly innocent conversation with her. “Now, why don’t you tell nice Special Agent O’Dea what you’ve done with your pot of leprechaun’s gold?”

CHAPTER THREE

“Julia, this could only happen to you.”

Her shoulders tightened in defense at Craig’s teasing. “What?”

“Only you could go along innocently pursuing your simple quest to rescue each and every single lost soul you ever happen to come across—” he wrinkled his nose and lowered his voice, “—and end up with Double-O-Seven rifling through your office safe.”

“I’m with Interpol, not Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” came the deep, Irish-accented voice from inside the half-open closet.

“He’s with Interpol.” Julia echoed Cameron’s correction. Her swivel chair groaned as she leaned away from her desk, trying to see how far Cameron had gotten in accounting for all the gold coins.

“Interpol. M16.” Craig overplayed a shrug. “What’s the difference?”

Cameron stood and turned. He braced his forearm against the open closet door and fixed a hard gaze on Craig. “One is a multinational cooperative of police agencies targeting international criminal activity, the other is a work of fiction.”

“Which is which?” Craig deadpanned.

“Craig!” They were in enough trouble without her assistant antagonizing the man sent to deal with them.
She drew a deep breath then glanced at Cameron, forcing a humorless chuckle up from her clenched chest. She’d thought him a powerful man the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. Open and approachable, but capable of taking care of himself, his business, and anyone else who needed it. Now that she knew more about him, her estimation had grown. But so had her apprehensions.