Brendan cursed softly. God, he hated fighting. But sometimes, a guy just couldn’t avoid it. “No army,” he said, turning away. “Just me.” Brendan drew his fist back, then launched a roundhouse punch that caught the guy on the nose. He howled in pain as blood spurted from his nose.
Then Brendan turned around to the hulk who was holding the waitress. A left cross and a punch to the kidney was enough for the guy to let her go. Brendan grabbed her arm, but to his shock, she pulled away from him.
“Let me go!” she cried.
He grabbed her again. “Don’t make me carry you out of here,” he warned. “Because, I’m not going to do it.” This was how it all began—for Conor and then for Dylan. Not the fight, but the rescue. This was exactly how they ended up trapped by a woman’s charms and madly in love. They each had saved a damsel in distress and their lives were never the same again. The hell if he was going to make that mistake.
“I’m not leaving! I can take care of myself!” With a curse, she jammed her heel onto his instep.
Pain shot up his leg. He ground his teeth and tried desperately to hold his tongue. “Listen,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “I’m not going to tell you again.” He grabbed her arm more firmly this time and dragged her toward the door.
“Help!” she screamed. “Help me!”
“I’m not going to do it,” Brendan muttered. “I’m not going to throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here. If I do, it’ll be the end of my life as I know it.”
“Someone, please. He’s kidnapping me!”
“Aw, hell.” Brendan stopped, bent over, grabbed her around the legs then hoisted her over his shoulder and strode to the door. A few of the patrons not involved in the fight cheered and some threw popcorn like rice at a wedding. With a tight smile, Brendan waved at them then yanked the door open and walked outside into the cold night.
When he got outside, he looked up and down the dark street. The sound of sirens approaching told him he’d gotten out of the bar just in time. Considering he’d instigated the fight, it might be best to avoid the authorities.
“Put me down,” the waitress said, wriggling and kicking.
“Not yet,” Brendan replied as he started across the street. He headed toward the docks and when they were far enough from the bar to escape notice, he bent over and set the girl on her feet. But he didn’t let go right away. “You aren’t going to run back inside, are you? Because I’d hate to think that I almost killed myself saving your pretty little backside only to have you jump right back into the fight.”
“The cops are here,” she murmured. “I’m not going back inside.”
Satisfied, Brendan unwrapped his arms from around her legs and straightened. They stood under a bright streetlamp near the end of the pier. Brendan’s gaze skimmed over her features. Despite the unflattering glare, he was even more astounded by her beauty. She didn’t have the cool, sophisticated features of Olivia, Conor’s wife. Or the cute, natural beauty of Dylan’s Meggie. This girl had a look that was wild and unpredictable, edgy and rebellious, as if she didn’t care what people thought of her.
She obviously didn’t care what he thought of her. The glare she sent his way bordered on murderous. “If you’re expecting me to thank you, I wouldn’t hold my breath.” She rubbed her arms and shivered, her chin tipped up defiantly.
The temperature was below freezing and all she wore was a skimpy T-shirt. Brendan slipped out of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. “My boat’s just down the dock here,” he said. “Why don’t you come with me and I’ll make us some coffee. The cops should be gone in about a half hour and then you can go back.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Why should I go with you? How do I know you’re not exactly like the guy you punched out, all paws and no brain?”
“Fine,” Brendan said. “Stand out here in the cold.” He turned on his heel and started down the dock. He smiled as he heard footsteps behind him.
“Wait!” she called.
Brendan slowed his steps until she joined him. When they reached his boat, he held her hand as she stepped up on an overturned crate and jumped lightly to the deck. Her fingers felt small and delicate in his hand and he held on for a bit longer than necessary.
The lights inside The Mighty Quinn burned brightly. When he opened the hatch and showed her through the companionway, she sighed softly. “I didn’t take you for a fisherman,” she said.
“I’m not,” Brendan replied, following her down the steps into the main cabin. “My father was. When he retired, I started living on the boat. I’ve gradually restored it, changed a few things around, opened up the galley. It makes a nice place to live, especially in the summer.”
She rubbed her arms again, this time through the soft leather of his jacket. “In the winter, too,” she said as she turned to face him.
Brendan’s gaze skimmed her features and stopped at a red welt on her cheekbone. He reached out and touched her there, realizing his mistake the moment he made it. A current of attraction, as strong as an electrical shock, shot through him as his fingertips made contact with impossibly soft skin. “You’re hurt,” he murmured.
Her gaze locked with his, her blue eyes wide and wary. She reached up and covered his fingers with hers. “I am?”
He nodded. The urge to kiss her was strong and undeniable, even though every shred of common sense told him that it was completely inappropriate. They’d known each other ten minutes at the most. Hell, he didn’t even know her name, yet here he was, tempted to sweep her into his embrace and taste her mouth! Brendan swallowed hard then realized exactly what was happening.
This was a self-fulfilling prophecy! He’d carried her out of the bar and now he could expect to fall head-over-heels in love with her…just like Conor…just like Dylan. Well, it wasn’t going to happen. He liked his life exactly the way it was—free and unencumbered. Brendan drew his hand away. “I’ll get you some ice,” he muttered. He motioned to the table in the corner of the cabin. “Sit. It’ll just take a second.”
She did as she was told, sliding into a spot at the table then playing distractedly with a pencil she found there. He reached over and moved his laptop computer out of the way then straightened a stack of manuscript pages, tucking them beneath a file folder.
“So, if you’re not a fisherman, what do you do?”
“I’m a writer,” Brendan said grabbing a handful of ice from the small fridge in the galley. He wrapped it in a cotton towel then sat down next to her and gently pressed it to the red mark on her face. Without thinking, he brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. Then he realized how intimate the action seemed.
“I should go,” she said, scrambling out of her place and putting a few feet of space between them.
At first, he thought he’d frightened her. But then he noticed the flicker of attraction in her eyes, the way her gaze flitted from his face to his body and back again. He wondered if he’d leaned forward and kissed her would she have drawn away or would she have responded?
She slipped out of his jacket and set
