“Well, explain this Internet-dating scheme to me then, ’cos I just plain don’t get it.”
“You don’t have to get it. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Doesn’t it?”
She swung round so suddenly he walked straight into her and had to reach out his hands to grasp hold of her upper arms to steady them both.
Maggie felt her skin heat where he was touching, felt the warmth moving up her arm and spreading across her chest. Her heart fluttered and she looked up at him from beneath long lashes. Sean looked down at her with his deep, fathomless dark eyes, the smile still on his lips, and her cheeks flushed a deeper red than before.
Swallowing, she took a shaky breath and asked, “How could it possibly have anything to do with you?”
TRISH WYLIE
resides in the border counties between the north and south of Ireland, splitting her not-long-enough days between her horses and her writing. She started writing in primary school and dreamed about writing romances from the moment she first read one in her early teens. She admits that it’s important she’s a little in love with her heroes. That way she can write what her heroine is feeling with more conviction and keep alive the hope that her own Mr. Right might still be out there!
O’Reilly’s Bride
Trish Wylie
For Steve & Esther, who got their family.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
‘WE’RE just going to have to face up to the fact that we have no choice but to sleep together.’
Maggie watched with widening eyes as Sean launched himself into the air and landed on his side on the huge double bed. After a couple of large bounces, caused more by the weight of his large frame than overly generous springing inside the hotel bed, he rolled onto his side and propped an elbow so he could rest his head on his hand.
He patted the mattress with his free hand. ‘Come on over.’
She blinked as he winked at her.
‘You know you want to.’
Hell, yes, she wanted to. As the local-TV news team, they’d just spent the last seventeen hours following the police covering the disappearance of a missing twelve-year-old. Thankfully the search had happily ended in the boy being found, cold and hungry, inside the cellar of a derelict house.
Now Maggie was exhausted, her eyes dry and red with lack of sleep. The very idea of a comfy double bed with soft covers and cushions to put her head on was enough to practically draw a low moan from her lips. But the sight of her cameraman’s long, lean body lying on it was enough to keep her from the delights of sleep.
There was no way she was going to share a bed with him. Uh-uh. Nope. Just not happening. There was only so far friendship between men and women stretched these days. Well, at least once you’d passed the age of about ten. And Sean was a good twenty years past ten. Twenty-three years, five months and four days if her analytical mind remembered the facts correctly.
With a deep sigh and the folding of her arms across her chest she answered his invitation with a calm voice. ‘You can have the sofa. You’re used to roughing it. I’m not.’
He grinned. ‘I’m too big for that wee sofa. And you wouldn’t sleep if you were lying feelin’ all guilty about how cramped up I’d be. I know you.’
Her small burst of laughter came out with what she hoped was a graceful snort. ‘I’d give it a bloody good try.’
‘It’s not my fault there was only this room left.’
‘No, and it’s not my fault that tradition dictates that, as the only man here, you should at least pretend to be gentlemanly.’
‘Don’t get your corset in a twist, Miss Austen. We live in a modern age of equality now.’
‘I am not sleeping in that bed with you.’
‘You’re small enough for the sofa.’
Her green eyes flickered towards the small sofa. It looked plush enough but it was tiny. She guessed the usual occupants of this particular room didn’t have that great a need for sitting. Sean continued grinning and running his hand back and forth along the duvet cover. ‘Seems an awful waste of a honeymoon suite though. Don’t you think?’
She laughed, knew she shouldn’t have when she saw the answering
