Night Of The Blackbird (7 page)

The first strains of the violin brought a sigh from the crowd. Moira reflected briefly that, with this particular audience, she and Colleen could have sung like two crows and sentiment alone would have evoked wild applause. But she did love the song, and she and Colleen had done it together since the Saint Pat's program at church when they had been in grammar school. Her sister's voice harmonized perfectly with hers. They might not have produced the most melodious Irish beauty ever, but they did the song proud. She loved the music. There was a magic to it, to being home, to singing with Colleen…and even in knowing that Daniel O'Hara was playing a soft beat on the drums behind her.

Naturally the crowd went wild when they ended the tune. Of course, here, it was singing to a group of proud relatives. Moira smiled along with Colleen, thanking those who called out compliments. She felt an arm around her, and before she could completely stiffen, she realized it was her brother.

“Patrick, hey.” She hugged him.

“What about me?” Jeff protested.

Jeff Dolan looked like a latter day hippie. She gave him a hug and a kiss. Jeff had put himself through the wringer. On drugs, off drugs, politically wild—protesting everything from toxic waste to government spending. He'd survived. Cleaned up. He was still an activist, but one with temperance and vision. At least, she hoped so. She gave him a warm hug, along with the three other regulars, Sean, Peter and the odd man out, Ira, an Israeli.

“Did you notice me back here?” Danny asked her. “Or am I supposed to line up?”

“Danny,” she murmured, trying to sound as if missing him was an oversight. She kissed his cheek perfunctorily. “How could anyone ever forget you?”

He grinned, catching her after the kiss, hugging her tightly and planting a kiss firmly on her lips. She escaped his touch as quickly as possible. It was far too easy to underestimate Danny. The quick strength with which he held her belied the lean appearance his height afforded him. Energy always seemed to radiate from Danny. In a flash of time, she felt as if her flesh burned.

“Good to see you, Danny,” she murmured.

“Something light, fellows,” Jeff instructed the band members.

“‘Rosie O'Grady,”' Ira suggested.

Stepping from the stage, Moira looked across the room to the bar—and froze. Josh and Michael were in the pub, standing behind the taps near her father.

They had arrived far earlier than she had anticipated.

Josh had a camera running. Michael was still applauding, meeting her eyes, a sparkle in his. She wasn't sure why, but she felt as if she had been caught off guard. She was irritated with Josh, filming her unaware, and yet warmed by Michael's presence and his never faltering support. She also wondered if Danny, pounding out a new beat, was aware that Josh had arrived with another man. She was sure that he had noticed; Danny always seemed to be aware of what was happening around him. And certainly, since Danny had apparently been there awhile, he had spoken with her parents and knew there was a man in her life.

She wasn't given to effusive public demonstrations, but she smiled at Michael and hurried across the room, leaning past a bar stool to give him a welcoming, openmouthed kiss. Very emotional, she thought. And perfectly natural, despite the sound of her father clearing his throat. She hadn't seen Michael in a while. He'd been traveling, making connections, when she'd made the decision to come here for Saint Patrick's Day.

“Beautiful, babe,” he said softly.

“Thanks.”

“Very nice,” Josh agreed.

She gritted her teeth, wondering why she was so irritated with Josh for taping the performance and wondering just how much of it he had captured on camera. Why was she angry? This was the centerpiece of their planned coverage: an Irish pub in America. She was a performer; she was on a show almost every day of her life, vulnerable to criticism and ridicule. Part of the game. But this…

This was her personal life. Danny had kissed her on stage.

An old friend, that was all.

And she herself had opened this can of worms.

She lowered her head, counting for a minute.

Her smile was still forced when she looked at Josh. “Josh, you know my dad. And, Dad, I guess Josh has introduced you to Michael…. I didn't know they'd be arriving so early.”

“I did all the introductions,” Josh said.

“Great. When did you arrive?” she asked him.

He arched a brow, knowing her well, and noting the tone of her voice when no one else did. “In time to tape the whole thing,” Josh told her.

“You know your partner,” Eamon said, making an attempt to speak lightly. She grimaced inwardly, aware that her father was a bit put out that she had greeted a man he had just met with such public affection.

“It was terrific,” Josh said, determined to show her that he was amused by her restrained annoyance. “A real demonstration of the diversity of Americana. You'll like it—trust me.”

“How did you two manage get here so early?” she queried.

Michael slipped an arm around her, grinning. He had a terrific smile. Dimples. A square face that still offered a fine bone structure and a strong chin. He was tall, well-built, as gorgeous as usual in a handsome business suit. She loved the aftershave he used. Everything about him was perfect—perfect for her. She knew her own mind and who she should be with.

As long as Michael was there. As long as he stood beside her.

“Josh gave me a call at the hotel and said you'd left already, so he managed to get us on an earlier flight, as well,” Michael said. “I met him at the airport, then we came straight here.”

“Wonderful,” she murmured

“I can tell you're thrilled,” Josh teased.

“I like to know when on I'm on camera,” she said.

“Well, there, then, that's the beauty of it, eh?” Liam chimed in. Her father's cronies never seemed to think that there might be a conversation in which they weren't included. “You're doing a real live Saint Paddy's Day show, me darling, and what's better than a picture of you and your sister singing ‘Danny Boy' at home? It was lovely, girl, lovely.”

“Thank you, Liam.”

“Your nose isn't a-shinin' or anything, Moira Kathleen,” Seamus added.

“Thanks, guys, thanks so much,” she said softly, and her words were genuine. The men were all sincerity, her true supporters. “Dad, I think I'll take Michael up to meet Mum—”

“Aye, daughter, don't be a' leaving me now! The place is getting busy. Come back here and give your old man a hand.”

“Colleen—”

“Now, do you see your sister? She's escaped somehow.”

“I'll take Michael up to meet your mother and Granny Jon,” Josh volunteered cheerfully.

She tried to skewer him with her eyes.

Michael looked at her with a rueful smile and a shrug, his countenance assuring her that he totally understood her situation. “I'll be fine with Josh.”

“Be prepared for strong tea,” she warned him, walking around the bar to join her father.

He caught her hands and whispered softly, “Save those kisses for later. Maybe at the hotel—after pub hours? Totally discreetly, of course,” he teased, his eyes rolling. “I don't want your father hating me before he gets to know me.”

“Just make sure he knows your family is Irish. He'll love you,” she whispered.

“Come on, Michael,” Josh said. “I'll show you the back way.”

As Josh brushed by Moira, she caught his arm and hissed at him. “Just you wait! See if I ever baby-sit again.”

“Turning coward on me now, are you, Moira Kathleen?” he teased. “Sorry, kid, face this den of lions yourself. Or is it only one lion that frightens you?”

With that, he was gone, leading Michael behind the office and storeroom to show him the stairs.

“Bastard,” she muttered.

“You don't mean me, do you, Moira Kathleen?”

She spun around. She should have known that Dan O'Hara had joined her behind the bar. He wore his distinctive brand of aftershave. She should have felt him there, next to her, helping himself to a beer from the tap.

“Does it fit?” she inquired sweetly.

He didn't respond, just drank deeply and looked her up and down. “Maybe it does,” he said at last, with a casual shrug. “You're looking quite the sophisticated lady. Lovely, as usual.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Work is good?”

“Wonderful. And you? Stirring up strife and rebellion, as usual?”

“Ah, now, my weapon, if I have one, is the pen, you know. Or the computer, these days.”

“Whatever.”

“You never understood me, love.”

“I think I understood enough.”

He leaned against the bar next to her. Too close. “You need to spend time with me, Moira.”

“Can't, this trip. Sorry, I'm in love.”

“Ah, yes, with perfect Michael.”

“He's quite wonderful, really.”

“As good as me?”

She was surprised to find herself moving closer to him, eyes slightly narrowed. “Better. So damned good, in fact, that it was only my father's presence that kept me from full-fledged sex on the bar.”

To her annoyance, he started to laugh.

“I'm so glad I always amuse you.”

He shook his head, sobering. “Sorry. It's just that…well, if he were that good, you wouldn't have felt the need to tell me.”

She straightened, staring at him with all the cool dignity with which she could cloak herself. “No, no, it's different this time. Sure there were those years when I just hopped from man to man, affair to affair, my heart bleeding for you, but things change. Now I'm in love.”

“Sure you are. And like hell you hopped from man to man. You want a dossier on a man before you go to dinner with him.”

She turned, clearing away empty glasses. “Things change, your ego doesn't. Did you really think you were the only man who ever made me happy and fulfilled?”

She was surprised at the seriousness with which he spoke. “I didn't think I could ever make you happy, and that's why I never stayed,” he said. His tone changed instantly, so that she thought she might have imagined the strange passion in his first comment. “Now, as to the fulfilled part…come see me. I understand the love of your life travels all the time, as well. On your business, of course, but still…I'll be just down here, right in ye olde guest quarters, for the next few days. Come see me when you admit to yourself that it's exactly what you want to do.”

He tipped an imaginary hat to her and started around the bar.

“That will be a freezing day in hell, Danny boy,” she called softly after him.

She couldn't see his face as he left her, but she thought she saw his shoulders shaking slightly.

He was laughing.

He stopped, suddenly and came back to her, leaning against the bar. “A freezing day in hell before you admit it—or before you do it?” he asked.

She didn't respond fast enough.

“I feel a chill coming on,” he said softly, and once again turned to thread his way through the crowd and head for the stage.

This time, he didn't turn back.

She was tempted to throw a glass.

Is it only one lion that frightens you?

Josh's words came back to haunt her. She wasn't frightened, she was furious. And she was furious because…

Because she was afraid of lions. Or at least…

One lion.

Yet, turning to look at that lion, she realized he wasn't looking at her. Danny was playing the drums again, apparently enjoying his time with the band. His interest seemed to be totally on the task at hand.

Yet when he looked up, she got the sense that he was watching the room. Not casually. It was as if he was looking for something, or someone, in particular.

Moira looked around. The room had gotten busy. Couples, nine-to-fivers easing down after work, the old crowd at the bar, a few loners at tables. One man alone, in a casual suit, sitting at a table in the far corner. Business traveler, probably.

Everyone seemed as ordinary as ever.

So just who was Danny looking for?

Josh's word flitted through her mind again.

Lions.

That was it. Danny was watching the room like a lion. Lying in the sun. Tail twitching. Calculating. Watching…

As if he could spring into action at any moment. She couldn't help but wonder, just what prey was Danny watching?

Strangely, she felt a sense of fear. As if something near and dear to her was somehow being threatened.

She turned to a man at the bar who had asked her for something, determined then to shake her feelings. It was Danny doing this to her, damn him.