Fiona so reluctant to speak of the past, unless that past was one big lie? Did Keely really have five brothers? And if she had, what possible reason could there be for Fiona walking away from five fatherless boys?
Keely’s heart froze. Could her father still be alive? Was the story about his accident at sea just part of one big deception? Another surge of nausea made her dizzy. So many questions and no answers.
There was only one thing to do. First, she’d have to prove that Maeve Quinn had spoken the truth. And if she had, then Keely would catch the next flight home. She had a few questions that needed answering. And only Fiona McClain—or was it Fiona Quinn?—could answer them.
SMOKE HUNG THICK in the air at Quinn’s Pub, adding to the disreputable atmosphere already cultivated by spilt beer, loud music and raucous arguments. Rafe Kendrick sat at the end of the bar, a warm Guinness in front of him. The spot gave Rafe enough privacy for his own thoughts, yet also offered him a decent view of the patrons—and the men behind the bar.
That’s why he’d come here to South Boston, to get a good look at the Quinns. By his count, there were seven of them, six sons and the old man, Seamus Quinn. Rafe had entire dossiers on each one of them, every detail of their lives outlined by his head of security at Kencor. But Rafe Kendrick always believed that it was better to study the enemy close up, to learn their faults and their weaknesses firsthand. All the better to exploit those weaknesses later.
Fortunately, all the Quinns spent plenty of time at the pub. Over the past few months and three visits to the bar, he’d had plenty of time to observe each of them. There was Conor, the vice cop, quiet and serious, a man who took his responsibilities seriously, yet didn’t always abide by the rules. Dylan, the fireman, was easygoing and gregarious, the kind of guy who laughed at danger and everything else in life. The third brother, Brendan Quinn, made his living as an adventure writer and seemed to be the most introspective of the trio. Rafe had read two of his books and found them quite riveting. He’d been surprised at the guy’s talents.
Their professional talents were nothing compared to their talents with the ladies. An unending parade of women strolled through the front door of the pub, their sights set on attracting the attention of one of the bachelor Quinn brothers. If one of the older boys wasn’t interested, they were left with three other eligible candidates—Sean, Brian and Liam Quinn.
Like their older brothers, they were awash in feminine attention, holding court with any number of beautiful females. Rafe had found the whole thing amusing to watch, the casual flirtation, the circling and advancing, and then the final denouement when one of the brothers would walk out the door of the bar with a woman at his side. And none of the brothers were seen with the same woman two nights in a row.
But then Rafe had never considered that particular trait a weakness, since he possessed the same. Rafe had been with his share of women in his life, though they came from a world very different from Quinn’s Pub. They were cool and sophisticated, not nearly so obvious with their desires and their physical attributes. They were women who enjoyed the company of wealthy men, appreciating what money could provide, knowing how to play the game to their fullest advantage. And when Rafe became too busy or too bored, they’d accept the fact and move on to someone else without a second thought.
Rafe caught himself staring at a woman at the other end of the bar, a woman who had been flirting with Dylan Quinn until Quinn had focused his attention on her companion. Rafe looked away, but not soon enough. A few moments later, the woman slipped onto the stool beside him, tossing her honey-blond hair over her shoulder. She pulled out a cigarette and placed it between her moist lips, then leaned forward, offering a healthy view of her cleavage. Rafe knew what was expected. But he wasn’t interested, so he simply slid the book of matches across the bar.
The woman didn’t take the hint. She gave him a dazzling smile. “I’m Kara,” she murmured. “Would you like to join me for a game of pool?”
Rafe didn’t bother returning her smile. “I don’t play pool,” he said softly.
“Darts?” she said, arching her eyebrow and allowing her hand to brush against his sleeve.
Rafe slowly shook his head, then glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sure there are any number of men in this bar who’d enjoy your company tonight…Kara. I’m just not one of them.”
She blinked in surprise, then, with a sniff, slipped off the bar stool and returned to her friends at the other end of the bar.
“Can I get you another Guinness, boyo?”
Rafe glanced up from his warm beer. The patriarch of the Quinn clan stood in front of him, a towel tossed over his shoulder. His thick gray hair dropped in a wave over his forehead and his face was lined from years of harsh sun and sea spray. “Or maybe ye’d like a bite to eat? Kitchen closes in fifteen minutes,” Seamus added.
Rafe pushed the warm beer away from him. “Scotch,” he said. “Neat.”
Seamus nodded then went to fetch the drink. Rafe studied the old man coldly. How many times had he heard the name Seamus Quinn? His mother used to murmur it like a mantra, as if she had to remind herself over and over again that her husband was dead—and that Seamus Quinn was responsible.
Rafe glanced up when the old man returned with his drink. He couldn’t ignore the surge of hate that heated his blood, better than any twelve-year-old Scotch could. But he had to push that aside for now, for reckless emotion had no part in his plans for the Quinns. It wouldn’t be wise to tip his hand so early.
“You new around here?” Seamus asked, leaning an elbow on the bar.
Rafe took a sip of his Scotch and shook his head. “Not new to Boston,” he said. “Lived here for a while.”
“I know just about everybody in the neighborhood,” Seamus countered, eyeing him suspiciously. “Haven’t seen you around.”
“I’ve got…business in the area,” Rafe replied.
“Oh, yeah. Doin’ what?”
“Tying up loose ends,” he said with a shrug. He gulped the last of his Scotch, letting it burn a path down his throat. Then he stood up and pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket. Rafe tossed a twenty on the bar. “Keep the change,” he muttered before he turned and headed toward the door.
He shoved the door open and walked out into the September night, the streets illuminated by the feeble light from the streetlamps. Though Quinn’s Pub was located in a rough section of town, Rafe felt no qualms about walking the streets. He’d grown up on the streets and had learned to protect himself, first with his fists, then with his wits, and now with his wealth.
As he walked toward his car, he thought about the boy he’d once been, happy and carefree, certain of his parents’ love. But that had all changed one fall day, much like this one. Even now, a sick feeling twisted his gut at the memory of his father’s friends—the men who had worked the swordfishing boats with Sam Kendrick—walking up the front steps of their tiny house in Gloucester.
They hadn’t had to speak. Rafe knew what they’d come for. But still, he listened to the details of how his father had met with an unfortunate accident at sea. His father had been caught in a long line and yanked overboard on the Mighty Quinn, Seamus Quinn’s boat. By the time they’d gotten him back on deck, he was dead. Drowned. Like every fisherman’s kid, Rafe knew the dangers of working the North Atlantic, but he couldn’t believe his father could make such a stupid mistake. Even Rafe knew to be watchful when they were playing out the line.
