Quinn's Deirdre (2 page)

The incident rattled her, and she sought comfort
with Quinn. Deirdre gave up her apartment and moved in with him.
 
She spent most of her free time at his pub or
upstairs in the living quarters.
 
If she
ventured out, Quinn accompanied her. He kept her close during the months
leading up to the trial and hired a bodyguard to keep her safe.
 
When she testified, her story convinced the
jury to return a guilty verdict.
 
Deirdre
left the courthouse with relief, certain her ordeal had ended, on Quinn’s
arm.
 
When he went to retrieve the car
from the parking garage nearby, she waited on the corner.
 
Various people passed, some nodded or smiled,
others didn’t.
 
One man in a dark
pin-striped suit approached.
 
She
remembered thinking he looked like a lawyer, but he paused long enough to
whisper into her ear. “I’m gonna gank you, bitch, but first I’m going to cut
out your tongue. Then I’m going to ram my dick into your pussy till you
come.
 
And after that, I’ll ice the nice
Irish guy.
 
Maybe I’ll even make him
watch me kill you first.
 
You crossed the
wrong people, cunt.”

Before Deirdre could respond, he moved away and melted
into the crowds.
 
A bitter winter chill
brought her blood down to freezing, and she shuddered.
 
Fear clenched around her heart, tighter than
a fist.
 
Judging by what she’d seen, he
meant it.
 
Two hit men might be on their
way to prison, but more existed to fill their shoes.
 
The cold menace in his voice frightened her
more than if he’d displayed anger. His hardened face, lack of expression, and
granite eyes convinced her how serious the threat.
 
Moments later, Quinn pulled up to the curb
and she hurried to the SUV, still shaking.
 
Although she tried to force a smile and fake calm, she failed.

“Jesus, Mary, and her husband Joseph, woman,” he
said in his rich, beloved Irish brogue. “What’s wrong with
ye
?
You look awful,
acushla
.
”

She almost blurted it out, nearly told him but one
look at his beautiful eyes, his kind face and Deirdre balked.
 
If he knew, he could get hurt.
 
Knowledge put him in danger, so she sighed
and lied. “I’ve got one of my headaches,” she told him.
 
The throbbing in her temples indicated it
would be true soon. “I need to go home and lie down, I think.
 
Will that be all right?”

He’d planned to take her out for a celebration meal,
but she couldn’t face food at the moment.
 
Quinn nodded and reached out his right hand to cover hers. “Aye, of
course it is.
 
We can always do it
another day.
 
You’re not sick, are you?”

His concern almost undid her.
 
“No, it’s just a headache, but it’s a bad
one.”

Once settled into his comfortable king-sized bed,
Deirdre had burrowed beneath the blankets and cried.
 
Quinn had gone downstairs to the pub, and in
his absence she’d decided what she had to do.
 
Before the trial, the US Marshals office contacted her about the
possibility of entering the Federal Witness Security Program, but she had
laughed it off.
 
She failed to realize
the risk she took or the potential for payback.
 
“No, thanks,” she had said with a laugh. “I can’t leave my life, my man,
or my career.”
 

“If you change your mind,” the Marshal had replied.
“Call me.
 
Here’s my card.”

The moment she heard Quinn’s voice raised in song
below, Deirdre scooted out of bed and dug through her purse to find the
card.
 
She used her cell to dial the
number and told the Marshal, Thomas Madison, what had happened and what she
wanted to do.
 
They talked for two hours
and although he’d been reluctant about some details in the beginning, she won
him over and he agreed, pending formal agreement by his supervisors.

Driving north on the interstate now, Deirdre
remembered those last bittersweet weeks with Quinn.
 
After closing, he’d come upstairs and found
her sitting in the living room, a drink in her hand, staring through the window
at the downtown lights.
 

“Do you feel better at all, love?” he had
asked.
 

As her heart broke within, she had given him a
nod.
 
“Make love to me, Quinn,” she had
whispered. “Please.”

And he did, with his unique combination of hungry
enthusiasm and finesse.
 
Powerful
recollection swamped her with such force she took the next exit and pulled over
in a restaurant parking lot in Lamar.

His mouth came down on
hers in answer to her request, lips tasting of John Jameson’s finest whiskey,
and Deirdre responded as his heat conquered her cold fear.
 
Quinn took hold of her hands and raised her
to her feet, then kissed her deeper.
 
She
leaned against him, and he wrapped both arms about her, cuddling her
close.
 
As his kiss became more urgent,
her hands locked around his waist, her fingers strayed into his waistband and
untucked his shirt.
 
His grunt encouraged
her to do more, and she let her fingers climb his back.
 
Beneath her touch, his skin radiated warmth,
and she savored the smoothness.
 
At the
same time, her breath caught with desire.
 
This Irishman had captured her fancy the first time she’d met him, his
accent catching her attention before his personality won her heart.
 
They’d been together for two and a half
years, the best she could remember.
 
Until Quinn, she’d been lonely and alone.

Without breaking his
rhythm or stopping the kiss, Quinn managed to pull her thin nightgown over her
head.
 
Bare beneath it, Deirdre quivered,
eager for his touch.
 
He stroked her
breasts, his fingers as gentle as spring rain and without a word moved his lips
from hers to suckle her nipples, one at a time.
 
His warm mouth brought her buds to bloom, full and pink, so sensitive
she wanted to wince but didn’t.
 
Each of
her many nerve endings sang an ancient tune, a plaintive plea for an erotic
release.
 
Quinn shed his shirt and undid
his jeans.
 
Within moments, he stood
naked, so damned beautiful she wanted to weep with appreciation for his
physique.
 
Clothed, he was one hell of a
sexy guy, a good-looking Irishman blessed with charm and more than a bit of
blarney.
 
Nude, however, he became
something greater, an ancient Irish warrior or god, Cuchulain or maybe Lugh of
the Long Hand.
 
His long legs, his rock
hard muscles, his flat belly, and his broad chest could be those of a statue,
she thought, and understood why people once worshipped such deities.
 

As Quinn used his
tongue on her nipples, Deirdre cupped his balls in her hand.
 
She loved the way they felt, heavy and
warm.
 
Then she grasped his cock with her
right hand, pleased it became harder at her touch.
 
Deirdre stroked it then used her hand to
create friction.
 
Quinn’s moans of
pleasure delighted her and made her pussy wet.
 
The walls of her cleft ached for him to fill it, but she determined she
would be patient, savor each slow moment and make the exhilaration last as long
as possible. The sweet yet bitter need grew but with such intense sensations
that Deirdre craved more.

He kissed her breasts
and used his slender fingers to intrude into her pussy.
 
Her hips thrust at him with instinct, not
intent and he
laughed,
his soft chuckle sweeter than
music in her ears.
 
Quinn maneuvered her
into position, then lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed they
shared.
 
Once on her back, Deirdre spread
her legs wide, and he lowered his body between them. Quinn entered her with
rapid thrusts, swift and yet graceful with a swordsman’s skill.
 
She’d watched him at sword play before and
saw the echoes of his feint and parry now.

Deirdre’s body heated
until she burned with a fever sensual in origin.
 
She locked her legs tight around his torso
and trapped him in position.
 
He slowed
his entry and lingered, longer each time, moving his cock within her in slow
patterns until spirals of delight erupted.
 
They rippled through her body and shook her to the core.
 
Their shared heat centered in her loins and threatened
to consume her, body and soul.
 
Quinn
rocked her, moaning and whispering things she didn’t hear, until she sensed the
shift in him.
 
He pulled back, not all
the way, and then pounded into her with force and magnificence.
 

Pleasure burst over
her body and carried her into orgasm.
 
Deidre
clung to him, gasping and making inarticulate sounds to show her delight, and
strained with Quinn until he shuddered hard.
 
They came in a blinding wild rush of sensation so powerful she didn’t
think, just experienced and felt.
 
In
those moments, Deidre didn’t exist.
 
She
became part of Quinn, one body, one heart, and one soul.

Afterward, she basked
in his arms, body spent and sated.
 
Her
mind shifted into overdrive as she struggled to commit every moment, each
nuance into memory. It was necessary if she had the courage to carry out her
plan.

Over the next week,
they made love more often than ever before, every night and most mornings when
they awakened.
 
Deirdre spent fewer hours
at the television studios and more with Quinn.
 
They did things they’d never done so frequently together before, stuff
she had always wanted to but there hadn’t been time.
 
Now she made time for them to cook together,
to go to a few movies, to visit an art museum together, and to talk.
 
They listened to music, his Irish favorites
like Tommy Makem, the Clancy Brothers, and Mary O’Hara, then hers, AC/DC, KISS,
and Ozzy Osborne.
 

On Saturday, she
awakened early and watched Quinn sleep, committing the details of his face to
memory.
 
The night before, they’d
drank
too much and sang a lot in the pub, but she’d had
fun.
 
Deirdre almost lost her nerve and
changed her mind, but the US Marshal working with her, Marshal Madison,
confirmed the threat had been real.
 
She
loved Quinn more than life, more than herself and if the way to save him was to
leave him, she would.

Deirdre didn’t plan
for him to be awake, so there would be no goodbyes, but he woke up as she tried
to sneak out of the bedroom. “Where are you off to so early?” he asked. “Come
back to bed, woman. Whatever it is can wait.”

She forced a smile.
“It can’t.
 
There’s a sale at Macy’s I
don’t want to miss.”

He held out one hand,
his smile an invitation. “Go later.”

The lie came from her
lips. “I’ll be back before eleven, Quinn.”

The way he frowned
hurt her.
 
He didn’t understand, she
could tell, and hell, neither did Deirdre.
 
“Oh, all right then,
mo ghra,
go
but hurry back.
 
I
love you too much to do without ye long.”

Tears clogged her
throat and threatened to flow from her eyes.
 
“I love you too, Quinn.”

Deirdre leaned down,
kissed him, then grabbed her purse, all she dared take, and walked out of the
room and out of his life.
 
She drove to
Bannister Mall, left her car in the lot, and met the marshal.
 
He loaded her into his SUV and drove her far
away.

She cried now, parked in the lot of a convenience
store, the way she hadn’t then.
 
If she’d
wept then, she doubted she could have ever stopped.
 
Her new life began, but she’d left Quinn
behind.
 
Worse, the WITSEC program faked
her death, something off the record and seldom done.
 
They’d insisted, citing the extreme danger,
and she had agreed because she had come too far to back out.
 
Months later, she had looked up the newspaper
reports online.
 
Although it never
happened, she’d been reported as taken at gunpoint from the mall parking
lot.
 
Her car had been found down along
the Missouri River, burned.
 
A woman’s
body, scorched beyond recognition, had been inside.
 
The authorities identified Deirdre.
 
A photograph taken at her faux funeral
captured Quinn, head bowed with grief.
 
His sister, Eileen, stood beside him with one hand on his back to offer
apparent comfort.