Few understood how difficult a task it was for him. In fact, there were those who thought he had a natural gift of the gab and many more who were sure he’d kissed the Blarney Stone during his stay in Ireland.
Outside the pub, though, he tended toward brooding silence. That was probably one reason why the handful of women customers he’d asked out over the years were so surprised to find him less than forthcoming on a date. And since he’d generally asked all the personal questions in which he had an interest during those evenings in the pub, it made him less than scintillating company. Since he had little interest in a long-term relationship, it generally worked out for the best all the way around. Few women pestered him for more than a single date. Those who took his moods as a challenge eventually tired of the game, as well.
Since Maggie O’Brien had never set foot in Ryan’s Place before, he had all his usual questions, plus a surprising million and one more personal queries on the tip of his tongue. But because asking them might give her an opening to turn the tables on him, he concluded he’d better keep his curiosity under control.
“Mind if I turn on the radio?” he asked, already reaching for the dial.
She seemed startled that he’d bothered to ask. “Of course not. Whatever you like.”
“Any preferences?”
“Jazz,” she suggested hesitantly. “Not everyone likes it, I know, but I can’t get a single jazz station where I live, and I really miss it.”
Ryan was surprised by the choice. “Now, I would have pegged you as a woman who likes oldies.”
“I do, but there’s something about a mournful sax that tears my heart up. It’s such a melancholy sound.” She regarded him worriedly. “If you hate it, though, it’s okay. Oldies will be fine.”
Ryan flipped on the radio, and sweet jazz immediately filled the car. He grinned at her. “Preset to the jazz station,” he pointed out. “It seems we have something in common, Maggie O’Brien. Wouldn’t that make Father Francis ecstatic?”
“Something tells me we shouldn’t offer him any encouragement,” she said dryly. “The man does perform weddings, after all. He’s liable to have us marching down the aisle before we even know each other.”
“Not likely,” Ryan murmured, then winced at his own harsh response to what had clearly been nothing more than a teasing remark. “Sorry. Nothing personal.”
“No offense taken,” Maggie said easily.
But Ryan noticed he’d managed to wipe the smile off her face. Once again she turned away to stare out the window, seemingly fascinated by the falling snow.
And he felt about two inches tall.
* * *
Even with the soothing sounds of her favorite jazz to distract her, Maggie couldn’t help wondering about the brooding man beside her. Time after time during her brief visit to his pub, she had seen him turn on the charm with his customers. She’d also noted the very real affection between him and the old priest and Ryan’s quick recognition of the older man’s exhaustion.
Now, however, he’d fallen into a grim silence, apparently content to let the radio fill the silence. She could as easily have been riding with an untalkative cabbie.
When she could stand it no longer, she risked a glance at him. Ever since his offhand comment about the unlikelihood of getting trapped into marrying her by the scheming Father Francis, he’d kept his gaze locked on the road as if it presented some sort of challenge. Since the sky south of town was still clear and bright with stars and there hadn’t been a patch of ice on the highway since they’d left downtown Boston, she concluded that he was trying to avoid looking at her. Maybe he feared she shared the priest’s determination to create a match between them.
Of course, it was probably for the best. From the moment she’d walked into Ryan’s Place and looked into the eyes of the owner, she’d felt a disconcerting twinge of awareness that went way beyond gratitude toward a man who’d offered, albeit reluctantly, to bail her out of a jam. Every time she’d ever gotten a twinge like that, it had landed her in trouble. She had a whole slew of regrets to prove it, though few were romantic in nature. Her impulses tended toward other areas. Some had cost her money. Some had gotten her mixed up in projects that were a waste of her time. Only one had been related to a scoundrel who’d stolen her heart.
Still, she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off him. He was, after all, every girl’s fantasy of a Black Irish hunk. She noted again that his coal-black hair, worn just a bit too long, gave him a rakish, bad-boy appearance. His deep blue eyes danced with merriment, at least when he wasn’t scowling over having been outmaneuvered by Father Francis, a wily old man if ever she’d met one. There was a tiny scar at the corner of his mouth, barely visible unless one looked closely, which, of course, she had. After all, the man had a mouth that any sane woman would instantly imagine locked against her own.
Yes, indeed, Ryan Devaney was the embodiment of every woman’s fantasy, all right. A very dangerous fantasy. It would be all too easy to fall in with Father Francis’s scheming.
Ryan Devaney was also a man of contradictions. For one thing, he might have his hard edges and unyielding black moods, but she herself had seen evidence of his tender heart in the way he’d bustled the protesting priest out of the bar and into his car for a ride the few blocks to the rectory. Maggie was a sucker for a man with that particular mysterious combination.
For another thing, Ryan was a successful businessman with the soul of a poet. The rhythm of his words, when he’d lapsed for a moment into an Irish brogue to tease a customer, had been like music to Maggie’s ears. She sighed just remembering the lilting sound of his voice. She could still recall sitting on her grandfather O’Brien’s knee years ago, enthralled by his tales of the old country, told with just such a musical lilt. Listening to Ryan Devaney, even knowing that the accent was feigned, had taken her back to those happy occasions.
She’d known the man less than two hours, and she was already intrigued in a way that had her heart thumping and her thoughts whirling. She blamed at least some of her reaction on her innate curiosity. Her father was a journalist, always poking his nose into things that he considered the public’s business, long before the public even knew they cared. Her mother was a scientist and professor at MIT, a profession that managed to combine her curiosity about how the universe worked and her nurturing skills.
Inevitably, living with two people like that, Maggie had grown up with an insatiable desire to understand what made people tick. She had a trace of her father’s cynicism, a healthy dose of her mother’s reason and an intuitive ability to see beneath the surface.
Among her friends she was the one they turned to when they were trying to make sense of relationships, when a boss was giving them trouble, when a parent was making impossible demands. Maggie always had a helpful insight, if not a solution, to offer.
The only life she couldn’t seem to make sense of was her own. She was still struggling to carve out a niche for herself. She had a degree in business and in accounting, but in one of those contradictions that she seemed to like in others, she kept searching for a creative outlet that would feed her soul as well as her bank account.
Her last job certainly hadn’t offered that. She’d loved the small coastal town in Maine, which was why she’d persuaded herself that she could be happy doing bookkeeping for a small corporation. In the end, though, the early-morning strolls on the beach, the quaint shops and the friendly neighbors hadn’t compensated
