>
Tonight she was smokin’ and ready for anything.
There was a do-me flicker in Tessa’s eyes that threatened to knock Gabe flat on his ass. He nodded once, acknowledging her, and went to guide her towards the door. They were already late for the party.
But guiding her would involve touching her. And he knew – even crazed and unthinking as he currently was – that was a bad idea. He dropped his hand and waited for her to open the apartment door herself.
A drop of sweat beaded on the back of his neck.
Trouble. And he’d spotted it right off the bat. He knew Tessa. He knew that tilt in her chin, that kick in her walk. When she got like that… Maybe it was time to stop playing games?
Gabe trapped her between the door and the wall, her lean body tight to his. He could feel every inch of her – the fluttering pulse, the tight nipples, the soft hips. She drew in a breath, soft and shaky, and the air burned. His hands itched to explore and discover this new and marvellously arousing Tessa. Instead, he hung on to the last edge of control that he possessed. But for how long…how long?
Kathleen O’Reilly is an award-winning author of several romance novels who is pursuing her lifelong goal of sleeping late, creating a panty-hose-free work environment and entertaining readers all over the world. She lives in New York with her husband, two children and one rabbit. She loves to hear from her readers at either www.kathleenoreilly.com or by mail at PO Box 312, Nyack, NY 10960, USA.
Dear Reader,
I confess. I have a weakness for bars. It seems as if particular eras in my life are defined by particular bars because I am a creature of habit – not all of them good! In college it was the Dixie Chicken, the most glorious hole-in-the-wall ever created by man. Anyone who’s set foot in that rattlesnake-infested place (and you think I’m kidding) will back me up on this. In those colourful years directly after college we spent hours at TGI Fridays, sitting on a high bar stool, talking about dreams and men (sometimes dreamy men).
When I read about two single guys in New York who opened a salad bar that all the single women flocked to, I laughed. A salad bar. I could trump that, I thought. I would create a bar that was comfortable and classy, give it a long and tawdry history, well stocked with top-shelf liquors and top-shelf men. It was surprisingly easy. My editor wanted three brothers, and I knew they had to be Irish (blame that on my great-grandfather, who I suspect was a frequenter of bars, as well). Gabe, Daniel and Sean, my sexy O’Sullivans. Those are my heroes. I hope you fall in love, because I already have.
Cheers,
Kathleen
SHAKEN AND STIRRED
BY
KATHLEEN O’REILLY
MILLS & BOON
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With special appreciation
for bartenders everywhere.
I don’t know what we’d do without you.
1
WHEN SUMMER BROKE in Manhattan, the sun burned hotter, the days turned muggy, men demanded their beer ice-cold, and women expected the martinis chilled. The sun was setting on one such blistering Thursday evening when the middle-aged female approached the long mahogany bar, a blush on her cheeks and her mouth creased in an apologetic smile.
Gabriel Cormac Silas O’Sullivan, owner, bartender and general patsy of a brother, felt a familiar sense of inescapable doom.
“I think there’s a problem with the ladies’ room,” the woman began. “For the last ten minutes the door’s been locked, and there’s…moaning coming from inside. Sometimes female, sometimes male. I think there’s something lewd going on in there.”
Tessa Hart, an employee whom Gabe had previously considered loyal, turned to him, trying not to laugh. “He’s your brother.”
Ah, yes, his brother. More like the worm in his tequila, the backwash in his beer, the sediment in his wine. And that was being kind. “I don’t want to claim him. Not really.” There were three O’Sullivan brothers, but Gabe and Daniel were normal. Sean, not so much.
Tessa pointed an accusing finger at him. “You own this place. Do your job.”
Thus he was shamed into performing his duty as owner of Prime, the infamous Manhattan bar that had been in the O’Sullivan family for nearly eighty years. Nowadays, the wooden floors creaked when you walked across them, but they glistened from fresh polish. Three dark mahogany bars shaped to form a “U” around the room, a brass railing running underneath.
Rows of photographs covered the walls. Some famous mugs, some mugs not so famous. Front and center behind the main bar were the pictures of the last four noble generations of O’Sullivans. An O’Sullivan had poured for sitting Presidents, Mafia dons, Joe DiMaggio and Bob Dylan—and now, apparently, this fine establishment was serving as the No-Tell Motel for one Sean O’Sullivan.
Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
Gabe scanned the bar, wondering which nubile young thing Sean had torpedoed this time. Slowly it dawned on him exactly who was missing and he grinned. Okay, maybe Sean wasn’t so bad. Unfortunately that didn’t put the ladies’ room back in business.
He took the old, narrow staircase down to the twin doors that marked the ladies’ room and the men’s room, then rapped once on the former, hard and authoritative.
“Open up. It’s the police. According to regulation ten-forty-three of the NY City Code, lascivious conduct is forbidden in public places.”
From beyond the door came Sean’s voice, stuck in the throes of more passion than Gabe wanted to imagine. “This wasn’t a public place until you stuck your yap in it, Officer. And by the way, there’s no Regulation ten-forty-three. I know the law.”
“Are you insulting one of New York’s finest?”
“No,
