Seduced by the Baron (The Fairy Tales of New York Book 4) (2 page)

The blood of
Christ
? They’d gotten pissed on
the blood of Christ
? “But…it wasn’t consecrated, was it?”

The Mother Superior gave a dismissive sniff. “I know you. You’re a good girl. I know it wasn’t you.”

She launched into a lecture about honesty and integrity and character. But that boat had sailed. Despite what the old nun thought, Faith
had
stolen the wine. And she was only compounding the sin by not cooperating. But if her friends could go through this
for her
and not crack then she sure as hell could.

The Mother Superior finally ran out of half veiled threats. “Now,” she said looking down her imperious nose, “I’m going to ask you one more time, Faith. Who stole the wine?”

Faith shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Faith.” Ty’s voice cracked into the ominous silence. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She looked at Ty. “I don’t know,” she repeated as calmly as she could considering she had a jackhammer pistoning inside her chest.

“For crying out loud,” he spat. “It was Zelda, wasn’t it? Just tell the Mother Superior the truth and it’ll all be over.”

The level of affront Faith felt on Zel’s behalf nearly swallowed her whole. It was so deep she almost confessed just to see the look on his face. But Zel’s darkly imparted
remember, no ratting
just before they were all frog marched to the Mother Superior’s office held her in check.

Why would Ty, her fair-minded, justice-for-all brother, jump to such a conclusion? How could he? He didn’t even know her. Yes, okay, Zel
was
kind of wild and Faith had told him about some of Zel’s crazier exploits but the leap Ty had just made did not befit him.

“I’m exercising my right to remain silent,” she said. Mostly because she knew it’d get up his nose but he deserved it for being such a judgmental ass.

“Oh no, not here you don’t,” he snapped. “Not with me.”

Faith looked away, glancing back down at her hands, her pulse tripping so fast she was afraid her heart might just suddenly give out. She’d never defied Ty like this. Hell, she’d practically hero worshipped him from as early as she could remember.

But blood was
not
thicker than water in this case.

Nor wine either.

She wished her father had sent Finn instead. They were closer. He would have understood. But Finn was only a year older and
not
studying law.

The Mother Superior raised her hand at Ty as he opened his mouth again. “It’s okay, Mr. Sullivan. Faith has chosen her path, now I must choose mine.”

Faith knew from that it wasn’t going to be good.

If she was expelled it would break her father’s heart. She almost prayed to be spared that particular penance but decided it was hypocritical. She would take her punishment, whatever it was, as the others had done.

“You are suspended for a month.”

Faith supposed that the Mother Superior wanted her to weep and protest then back down but she was so damn relieved she almost slumped forward.

“Thank you for being so lenient,” Ty said, his voice brisk as he spoke to the Mother Superior. “I can only apologize that it’s come to this.”

At some level Faith had expected Ty to object. To be on her side. But it was clear she’d disappointed him and suspension was far preferable to expulsion.

The Mother Superior nodded. “We’ll see you back here in four weeks, Faith. I trust there won’t be another incident like this again?”

“No, Mother Superior.”

Faith responded as was expected of her, her mind on other things completely. Like what was going to happen to Dawn and Zelda and Mercy and their friendship now? And how she was ever going to forgive herself?

At least she’d have her art for company during her exile. And one day when they were all adults and she was a famous painter with her own studio overlooking Central Park, they’d all get together and laugh about this.

One day…

‡

Ten years later, Sullivan’s Pub (Sully’s), Brooklyn.

I
t was official.
Rafael Quartermaine was freezing his gnads off. Too much longer out on the streets of Brooklyn and his ability to father a child at some stage in the future was going to be seriously impaired.

He hunched further into his jacket as he picked up the pace, the tops of his ears burning, his gloveless fingers curling deep into the pockets. He needed gloves. And a better scarf. Maybe a pair of long johns for under his Levis.

Minus five the CNN weather chick had said this morning. Or, more correctly,
twenty-three.
He really needed to wrap his head around the whole Celsius/Fahrenheit thing. But whatever way it was measured, New York in February was brutal! A far cry from a sweltering Australian summer.

Cold enough to freeze the tits off a bull as his old bushie grandfather would say.

For a moment Raf almost wished he was back home straddling his surfboard, the hot Aussie sun on his back, his feet dangling in the ocean, waiting in a line of surfers for the next big one to come in. Instead of here, killing off his sperm cells.

At the very least he should have decided to launch into the west coast market. It was warmer than this in California and he’d been there several times since his mother had moved back to the place of her birth after the divorce.

And
they had some wicked surf.

But he’d been looking for the right pub to launch Baron lager on the US market and Mercedes Hernandez, an old friend whose opinion he valued highly, had persuaded him that Sully’s in Brooklyn was the
perfect
neighborhood pub.
And
she could get him an intro to the owner.

So here he was. In New York. In February.

Freezing his gnads off
.

But at least now he could see the sign up ahead proclaiming Sullivan’s to not only be open
and
established since 1950 but a mere half a block away. Raf sped up, reaching for the brass handle on the heavy wooden door in under a minute, his fingers almost adhering to the cold metal as he yanked it open.

He paid little heed to the thick welcome mat at his feet or the dark wood paneling that lent the interior an old world charm, he just shut his eyes as warmth enveloped him like a long lost lover. His fingers and ears tingled as blood returned to his extremities. He had a feeling it would take longer for his balls to drop back down from inside him but it was a start.

He opened his eyes to find himself being thoroughly scrutinized. Three elderly guys sitting at the end of the long wooden bar, looked surprised to see him. Not that he could blame them – who would come out into this weather without good reason?

They continued to stare much to Raf’s amusement. Clearly they weren’t used to strange faces around here. A check in the pro column. A bar that attracted loyal regulars would be a good test market for him.

“G’day, gentlemen,” he murmured cheerfully. “Bloody cold out there today.”

“It’s not so bad,” the nearest one said. “Spring’s on its way.”

Jesus.
If this was spring on its way, Raf was pleased he’d missed full-on winter.

“Fire over there,” another one said indicating the crackling flames with a nod of his head.

Sounded pretty bloody good to Raf. “Thanks,” he said, nodding and headed in the direction of the fireplace.

The long wooden bar ran down one side of the pub. Stools with what appeared to be red leather seats were placed down the length of it about a foot apart. There must have been twenty at least. No one was behind the bar so Raf made a beeline for the massive fireplace past about a dozen dark panelled booths sporting the same red leather seats.

The orange flames danced behind the grate as he pulled his hands out of his pockets and held them close reveling in the heat licking up his arms and bathing his front. Reveling in the fact he was beginning to feel more like a human and less like a popsicle.

A large portrait of JFK hung over the mantle and he absently noted the tiled surround boasted shamrocks. He swiveled his head to the right noting an area with about a dozen small tables and chairs, their dark wood melding in with the overall cozy appeal. In the far left corner was a step up to what appeared to be a small stage. An upright piano that looked like it had seen better days fitted snugly against the wall. To the far right was an open door through which he could just glimpse a corridor and a staircase. The sign above the door indicated the location of the restrooms.

Satisfied with what he saw, Raf returned his attention to the fire. Sully’s was cozy. Just the kind of pub he had in mind.

Mercy had been right.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. Can I get you something?”

Raf turned at the sweet, husky inquiry to find a woman with wild brown curls smiling at him all open and easy. She was wearing jeans that clung in all the right places and a black t-shirt with a Sullivan’s logo and
The Best Beer In Brooklyn
stamped right across her breasts. She looked like a tropical mirage in the middle of the arctic and all the places that had felt cold only seconds ago flooded with warmth.

Blood flowed again.
Everywhere.
His balls suddenly dropped right back into place.

Raf checked his watch. Mercy wasn’t due for another half hour but it was after midday…His gaze drifted to her t-shirt as he walked towards her. “Looks like I’d better have a beer.”

“Oh,” she said and he could have sworn her cheeks turned a shade pinker. Her curls flopped forward a little to hide her face as she reached for a glass. “What’s your poison?”

Feeling more than a little warm now, Raf shrugged out of his coat, then his jacket and unwound his scarf as he pulled up a bar stool.

The view up closer was very fine indeed.

“What lager would you recommend?” he asked as he pushed up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows and leaned into the polished smoothness of the bar in all its dark, grainy glory.

Her gaze strayed to his bared arms and seemed to linger for a moment before she dragged it back to his face. She smiled at him again. “Guinness.”

Raf laughed. Pretty barmaid with quick wit and flirty tone – another check in the pro column. Get her on side and she could be his best asset as far as pushing his beer went.

“You don’t like lager?”

“We have ten beers on tap here. Two of them are lagers. You do the math.”

Normally them would be fighting words for Raf but the devil danced in her eyes and he knew better than to rise to the bait. He liked her voice though. The slight husky quality of it softened her accent to a nice warm hum.

“Well, I guess given that I’m in an Irish pub I have no choice but to try the Guinness.”

She nodded. “Good choice. When in an Irish pub in New York do what the Irish do I always say. Got a preference?”

Raf shook his head. “Whatever’s the most popular.” It paid to know the competition after all.

Raf watched her as she busied herself with his drink. Her technique at pouring Guinness was perfect – angling the glass, not letting the tap touch it in any way as she filled it three quarters then setting it down to rest for a bit.

His gaze roved over her face as she waited patiently for the beer to settle. She had a cute nose, dark blue eyes and chipmunk cheeks. She wasn’t wearing any makeup and he liked that he could see the
real
her.

She had an interesting face. It wasn’t classically beautiful but it had a certain something about it that was instantly fascinating. There was no pretention about it, just nicely assembled, including her mouth which seemed just right – not too big or too small, sitting perfectly right in the middle there. It looked like it laughed a lot.

Probably kissed a lot too.

And then there was her hair.

He’d bet money she hated it – he’d never met a woman with curly hair that didn’t hate it passionately. But it was the most glorious mahogany tumble, curls kicking around her face and brushing over her shoulders. He had the insane urge to reach out and pull on one and see how far it would unwind.

An even crazier urge to find out how good they’d look spread on his pillow. His blood stirred at the thought and his body warmed another degree.

When the beer had settled to her satisfaction she topped it up and handed it over. Raf pulled out a note but she waved the money aside. “Converting lager drinkers is my sport.”

Raf laughed as he pocketed the bill. “Never.” He took a moment to admire the perfect head of foam before taking a sip of the cold, creamy beer, flicking his tongue out to catch the froth he knew would be decorating his upper lip.

His belly tightened as her gaze briefly followed the action before she quickly looked away and fiddled with some glasses.

“It’s good,” he said, placing it down on the bar. “Smooth. There’s almost a chocolatey consistency to it.”

It reminded him of her hair – rich and complex.

“You’ve got a good nose.”

Raf smiled at the husky compliment deciding to omit telling her his beer background. Or that she had a lovely nose too.

And an even lovelier mouth.

“You don’t sound like you’re from around these parts?”