great-grandmother was Irish?”
“You mean Mary Frances Rafferty King who was born in County Sligo and met your great-grandfather when he was taking a tour of Ireland? He saw her in a pub. On a Tuesday, wasn’t it?” Maura smiled. “Aye, you might have mentioned her once or twice.”
He grinned at her. “Didn’t mean to bore you.”
“Did I say I was bored?”
“No.” He stepped closer and she felt the heat of him reaching for her, charging the icy air. “But let me know if you feel yourself nodding off and I’ll try harder to enchant you.”
“You mean to say you’ve got to try to be appealing?” she quipped, taking a quick step or two back from him. “I’m disappointed. Here I thought you were just a born charmer.”
“Did you?” he asked, closing the distance between them again with a single, long step. “Now, isn’t that interesting?”
“I didn’t say your charm was working on me, mind you,” Maura told him, enjoying their sparring far too much. It had been a long time since she’d met a man who appealed to her on so many different levels. A shame, she reminded herself, that he was only here temporarily. Better that she keep that thought in mind before her body and heart became too involved for their own good.
“You can’t fool me, Maura. I’m wearing you down.”
“Is that right?”
“It is,” he said. “You haven’t threatened to throw me off your property in almost—” he checked his watch “—six hours.”
Still smiling, she said, “I could remedy that right now.”
“Ah, but you don’t want to.”
“I don’t?” That smile of his should be considered a lethal weapon, she told herself.
“No,” he said, “because you actually like having me around, whether you’ll admit to it or not.”
Well, he was right about that now, wasn’t he, she thought. But then what single woman in her right mind wouldn’t enjoy having a man such as Jefferson King about the house? It wasn’t every day a rich, gorgeous man showed up on her doorstep wanting to rent her farm. Could she really help it if she was enjoying the negotiations so much that she was rather dragging the process out?
“Admit it,” he said, his voice low enough that it was barely more than a breath. “I dare you.”
“You’ll find, Jefferson,” she said softly, lifting her eyes to meet his, “that if I want you…around, I’ll have no trouble admitting it. To you or to myself.”
Chapter Two
In the village of Craic, Jefferson King was big news and Maura had half the town nagging her to sign his silly papers so they could all “get famous.” Not a moment went by when she didn’t hear someone’s opinion on the subject.
But she wasn’t going to be hurried into a decision. Not by her friends, not by her sister and not by Jefferson. She’d give him her answer when she was ready and not before.
She should have thought twice about suggesting to him they go to the village pub for supper. Should have known that her friends and neighbors would pounce on the opportunity to engage Jefferson in conversation while managing to give Maura a nudge or two at the same time. But, the truth was, she had been feeling far too…itchy to trust herself alone in her house with him. He was a fine-looking man after all, and her hormones had been doing a fast step-dance since the moment she’d first laid eyes on him.
Now, Maura had to wonder if coming into the Lion’s Den pub for a meal hadn’t been a bad idea after all.
Of course, she was surrounded by villagers, so there was no chance at all her hormones would be able to take over her good sense. But the downside was, she was surrounded by villagers, all of whom were vying for Jefferson’s attentions.
In early December, the interior of the pub was dim, with lamplight gleaming dully on paneled walls stained with centuries of smoke from the peat fires kept burning in a brazier. The floor was wood as well, scuffed from the steps of thousands of patrons. There were several small round tables with chairs gathered close and a handful of booths lining two of the walls. The bar itself was highly polished walnut that Michael O’Shay, the pub owner, kept as shiny as a church pew. And beside the wide mirror reflecting the crowd back on itself, there was a television perched high on a shelf, displaying a soccer game with the sound muted.
Michael sauntered up to their table with a perfectly stacked pint of Guinness beer for Jefferson and a glass of Harp beer for Maura. As he set them down, he gave a swift, unnecessary swipe of the gleaming table with a pristine bar rag. Then he beamed at them both like Father Christmas. “I’ll have your soup and bread up for you in a moment. It’s potato-leek today. My Margaret made it and you’ll enjoy it I’m sure. When your movie folk arrive,” he added with a grin for Jefferson, “I’ll see that Margaret makes it by the boatload for you.”
Maura sighed. Hadn’t taken him long to get Hollywood into the conversation.
“Sounds good,” Jefferson said, taking a sip of his thick black beer.
“Has your Rose had her baby yet, Michael?” Maura asked, then said in an aside to Jefferson, “Michael and Margaret are about to become grandparents.”
“We are indeed,” the pub owner said and gave Maura a knowing look, “so the extra money made when your film crew arrives will be most welcome.”
Maura closed her eyes. Clearly, all anyone wanted to talk about was the notion of having a film made in their little village. Michael had hardly left to bustle back to his bar when three or four other locals found a reason to stop by the table and talk to Jefferson.
She watched him handle the people she’d known all her life with courtesy and she liked him for it. Surely a man like him didn’t enjoy being the center of attention in a village less than a third the size of the town he called home. But rather than being abrupt, he seemed to almost encourage their chatter.
Maura listened with half an ear as Frances Boyle raved about her small traveler’s inn and the good service she could promise King Studios. Then Bill Howard, owner of the local market, swore he’d be happy to order in any and all supplies Jefferson might require. Nora Bailey gave him her card and told him again that she ran a full-service bakery and would be happy to work with his caterers and finally Colleen Ryan offered her skills as a seamstress, knowing that being so far from Hollywood, his costume people might be needing an extra hand, fine with a needle.
By the time they wandered off, each of them giving Maura a nudging glare, Jefferson was grinning and Maura’s head pounded like a badly played bodhran drum.
“Seems as though you’re the only one who doesn’t want my business,” he said, then took another sip of his beer.
“Aye, it does at that, doesn’t it?”
“So why are you holding out?”
“Holding out?” Maura pretended surprise. “I’ve not promised you a thing, have I?”
“No,” he said, smiling.
