Pursued by the Rogue (The Fairy Tales of New York Book 1) (3 page)

She’d been so starved for love and attention back then.

So very enamored of Faith’s fun-loving brother whose passion for music had poured from his fingertips.

So here she was, ten years later, heading back to that place with mixed feelings.
Surely
he wouldn’t be there.

Finbar Sullivan was probably somewhere in Europe right this minute, mesmerizing crowds with the music he coaxed from his ten million dollar violin.

He’d become a concert violinist at some point during these past ten years. A composer, a recording artist, a star of the classical music world – all of those things. Chances of finding him at the pub tonight were slim.

Which was why Dawn had cancelled all her afternoon meetings in order to stand in front of her cupboard in the hope of figuring out what to wear to a reunion with old friends, and possibly, maybe, but probably not Finn.

Who was probably in Berlin, playing with the Philharmonic there this evening.

Or something.

In the end, she’d chosen to wear comfortable jeans, a forest-green silk camisole and a dusky pink jacket that fell to mid-thigh. She’d been to an upmarket hair care salon in an attempt to make her blonde hair fall sleek and straight to frame a face that hadn’t grown prettier with age, even if she now had a much better clue when it came to making the best of it.

She looked as good as she was ever going to look and it still wasn’t enough to satisfy the insecurity gnawing at her belly. Because apart from the ghost of her first lover to contend with, she was also catching up with Faith for the first time in years.

Dawn hadn’t had much to do with Faith after the incident with the altar wine all those years ago. She’d blamed it on her punishments, on her study load, on them being relegated to different dorm rooms and on Mercy and Zel being gone. Anything but the truth.

Truth was, Dawn hadn’t been able be around Faith and not think of Finn and guilt and loss. She hadn’t had the emotional strength for it back then. Even now, her emotions felt stretched thin.

She’d cut Faith out of her life completely, and Faith – who’d once been as close as a sister – had thought it was because of the altar wine incident.

Dawn had a
lot
of making up to do if she wanted Faith Sullivan to call her a friend again.

The cab pulled up in front of Sully’s all too soon and Zel paid the fare as they all piled out.

Trying desperately not to chew on her lip and ruin her understated lipstick, Dawn followed the others into the pub’s gaping maw.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior.

And during that time she knew without seeing that Finbar Sullivan wasn’t performing on the world stage this evening.

He was right here.

She knew it by the prickle of awareness that burrowed beneath her skin and nested low in her belly. A sixth sense that she couldn’t explain and barely believed in. And then she saw him, and it was as if her world narrowed down to the head of a pin and there was nothing else in it but for a pair of shamrock-green eyes focused utterly on her. There was a body to go with it, long and lean. A mess of shaggy dark hair. A wave of feeling big enough to drown in.

Heartbreak and regret. Longing and insecurity.

Need.

Oh, the need to simply reach out and touch him was still there in spades as Finn focused on her lips for a fraction longer than was polite. And then he blinked, and ruefully shook his head as his gaze reconnected with hers.

She wondered what he saw. If he still thought her pretty or whether the years had put paid to that crazy notion altogether.

In the end it was Dawn who dragged her gaze away from his in order to greet a smiling Faith. In the end it was Faith with her wild brown curls, who threw her arms around Dawn and held on tight.

“Hey, you,” murmured Faith. “It’s been a long time.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Busy years.”

She pulled back awkwardly and let Faith study her.

“So sleek and classy,” Faith said at last.

“It’s the clothes.”

“It’s your confidence.”

If only.

And then Faith let her go and the next person in line to greet her was Finn, leaning casually against the bar as if it belonged to him and, oh.

Well.

There was a scent she remembered.

Up close she could see the details she’d missed earlier. All those long lines and lean muscles, the five o’clock shadow and the smile that spoke of confidence aplenty and a fine appreciation for others. He’d always had that smile. Even back then.

“Hello, Finn.”

“You remember me.”

“Seriously?” she offered dryly. “How many famous concert violinists do you think I know?”

Mercy caught her eye and mouthed ‘rockstar,’ and it was so ridiculously playful and innocent that Dawn laughed and tried for her own sake to push her inner insecurities aside. “Yes, Finn. I remember you.”

Faith groaned. “Don’t encourage him, Dawn. His ego’s big enough already.”

“Don’t listen to her, Dawn.” Finn’s voice carried a hint of Irish in it. “Encourage me more.”

This
was what she’d suffered for all those years ago. A warm and easy welcome from a lover who knew nothing of the heartbreak that had followed their one night together. This laughing reunion. This meeting of adults who’d made their own way, secure in their choices and decisions.

She’d earned this.

“You’re making beautiful music these days,” she told him. “I even went to one of your concerts once, years ago when you played at the Lincoln Center.”

“Did you like it?”

“It was magic,” she told him with simple sincerity. He’d cut an impossibly romantic figure against the glitteringly formal backdrop of the orchestra. He’d been dressed all in black and had been so far beyond her reach that he hadn’t seemed like a real person at all, but his music had been real enough to wrap around her like a lover and drench her in beauty. “And that’s about all the flattery I have for you.”

“Pretty sure we can help her come up with more,” murmured Zel.

“Goodbye, Finn. Moving on,” Faith warned and ushered her old school friends towards a faraway booth. Dawn couldn’t help but take one last look as she walked away, still hungry to catalogue the changes the years had provoked. New memories to replace the old.

Better ones.

He was looking down at his hands, shadows playing merry with his eyelashes and the planes of his face. As for those fingers, they were long and strong with immaculately kept nails. A musician’s hands; made for wringing every last drop of emotion from an instrument. Or a lover.

Dawn stumbled over the leg of a chair and quickly looked away.

That was probably enough new memories for now.

“What are we drinking?” she asked as Faith stopped by the bar and waved them towards the last booth in a long row of booths set neatly against the wall.

“I have a plan,” said Faith. “It involves Guinness for you. That okay?”

Dawn nodded and followed the other two women to the window booth with the ruby red seats and battle-scarred wooden tabletop. There was safety in being squeezed in between Mercy and the wall, with Zel sitting opposite.

Safety in not looking towards Finn at all.

Grasping for anything that involved the here and now, Dawn turned her attention to the drinks Faith set down in front of them. Guinness for her, Faith and Mercy. Something icy and minty for Zel. “What’s that?”

“A virgin Mojito. I’m trialing a couple of cocktails for the bar, with and without the alcohol. Zel’s my jetsetting guinea pig who’s graced the fancy bars of the world. She’s going to tell me if this one’s any good.”

“I feel so loved,” said Zel, with a wicked grin.

“Next round is mine,” said Mercy. “I’m a one Guinness woman and then I’m switching to orange juice.” She glanced at Faith’s and Dawn’s full pints’ and then back down at her half pint. “Seriously, how do you drink that much beer?”

“Practice,” said Faith and Dawn nodded sagely and reached for hers.

“I’m mostly in it for the froth.”

“Head,” corrected Faith. “And next time – if Pop’s not looking – I’ll make yours bigger.”

“Only if your pop’s not looking?” Mercy teased.

Faith nodded, her bright blue gaze encompassing Dawn and Mercy both. “There are rules concerning how much head to put on a glass of Guinness. Commandments, some might call them. Not to be messed with. I value my own head also.”

Dawn laughed, and then not two seconds later lost her grip on the glass and narrowly missed spilling the lot. As it was, a good quarter of it ended up on the table. “Good job, genius,” she muttered, reaching for napkins to mop up the spillage. “Sorry. I’m nervous. Also a klutz.”

“What’s to be nervous about?” Mercy reached over and squeezed her fingers as Faith called for a cloth from the barman.

“Oh, you know.” Vague was good, Dawn decided. Vague and klutzy went well together.

“
I
know,” murmured Faith, as she leaned over and cleaned up Dawn’s mess. “Impressing old friends is hard. Try being the barmaid in this equation.”

“As if that’s all you do here,” Mercy said. “Just like all Zel does is stand in front of a camera and look beautiful. Just like all I do is pick grapes back in Argentina.”

“Dawn runs her own genetic research company,” Faith pointed out.

“Yeah, but she’s a klutz.” Zel came on board the conversation with a lazy wave of her hand. “I vote we keep her anyway.”

“Exactly.” Mercy grinned. “The beauty of old friends is that don’t
have
to impress them.”

Just like that the years fell away and Dawn sat back and relaxed into the warmth these three other women provided. Reunions didn’t have to be a stilted show-and-tell full of awkward silence. Maybe they could just sit here and get to know each other all over again.

Maybe she could dream of Finn now and know that things had worked out for the best.

“Is he still watching you?” Faith asked.

“Who?”

“Finn.”

“No,” she said, and it was true, for his attention had shifted to a dark-haired boy of around four years old who was running towards him with no signs of stopping. A slender, dark-haired woman followed at a more leisurely pace. Finn crouched down and hugged the kid, picking him up so that they were shoulder to shoulder and head to head.

Finn had a son?

Finn spared a kiss for the woman.

Finn had a wife?

That was …

So …

Expected.

Perfectly normal. And that pang of bitter envy in the vicinity of her heart?

Indigestion.

No children for Dawn and no regrets.

Honest.

“What are you looking at?” asked Zel.

“Finn’s son.”

Zel turned, so did Faith. Mercy was already facing that way.

“Godson,” Faith corrected. “That’s Gil. A friend of Finn’s died young and his wife, Emmeline, gave birth two months later. Finn had already agreed to be godparent. One thing I will say about my brother is that he took that promise seriously. He doesn’t always nail the religious aspects of the job but the male influence and the music … he’s all over that.”

“That’s so sweet,” said Mercy.

“Yes.” Dawn picked up her Guinness and drank.

Her gaze met Finn’s again and held.

Yes, it was.

‡

F
inbar Sullivan had
a decision to make, and it wasn’t a Beethoven versus Mozart type call. He could declare his interest in Dawn to the world – or at the very least to his sister –and set about making something happen, or he could try to ignore the inexplicable hold Dawn Turner had on him and carry on as usual.

Not much of a decision at all.

Two days had passed since Faith’s reunion with her school friends. Two days of Gil-loaded activities involving Times Square, junk food and music carefully chosen to suit the attention span of a small boy.

But Gil was back with Emmy now – a small violin in tow, and Finn smirked afresh at the memory of the dismayed resignation on Emmy’s face when Gil had shown her his new favorite instrument.

“It’s time,” Finn had told her simply. “Josef would have wanted it. Gil knows what to do between now and when he sees me next.”

“You’re not the one who has to listen to him practice,” Emmy had murmured on her way out the door.

So true.

“Thank you,” she’d whispered and bussed his cheek for good measure. “I know Joey would have wanted music for his children. My son’s a lucky boy.”

Life was good.

That wasn’t to say it couldn’t be better.

Finn slid behind the bar and began stacking glasses into the dishwasher. It was always easier to get Faith’s attention when he was doing something useful. “So how went the reunion the other night?”

“Not bad. Kind of a testing of the waters and the waters were … warm.” Faith’s eyes took on an unholy gleam. “Dawn thought Gil was your son.”

Finn coughed. “What?”

“I hated to disabuse her.”

“But you did. You disabused her, right?”

“What does it matter?”

It mattered. “So are any of your school friends married now? Partners, significant others, children of their own?”