An Excerpt from Christy Lockhart's When Irish Eyes are Smiling Jack Quinn propped his elbow on the polished wood bar, drank deeply from the pint of Guinness, and watched her in action. Sinéad O’Malley. Hot. Sexy. Mortal enemy. And wasn’t it too bad about the “hands off” written all over her? Because he intended to possess her. Ride her. Claim her. Mark her as his. And claim revenge while he was at it. He’d chased her half way around the world, leaving the airport in Shannon sometime yesterday to connect in Atlanta to finally arrive in Denver this morning. He was jet-lagged. Jet-lagged and determined. He’d always wanted to come to the Mile High City and see the imposing grandeur of the Rockies. And this pub wasn’t half bad. In the heart of lower downtown, called LoDo by Denverites, it was filled with life and wanna-be Irishmen counting down the days remaining to Saint Patrick’s Day, and it had an energy that suited the woman on stage. Still and all, inaction churned in his gut. He wanted her now. Needed to get back to Ireland on the next flight. It took all his restraint not to grab her from the stage and fuck her ragged on a table. It was less than four weeks ‘til Saint Patrick’s Day, which meant he had less than a month to accomplish his goals. Jack Quinn was usually a patient man. But nothing stood between him and his goals. Sinéad was his goal. Jack wanted her willing. Nah, he wanted her begging. On her back. On all fours. On her stomach. She wasn’t what he had expected when his grandmother packed his bags and handed him his passport. He took orders from no one. But it’d take a bigger man than he to refuse Catherine Quinn anything. Not that she would really box the ears of her one and only beloved grandson. Would she? There was no sense in taking chances, though, was there, even if the task at hand required him to return home with Sinéad on his arm. No easy job that. After all, it was her family that had sworn out the curse that plagued his. Still, curse or no curse, Sinéad was worth the trip across the pond. She stood quite a bit shorter than he’d pictured, less than five-feet-two. Solid. Athletic. She had the body of a competitive Irish dancer, which, he’d learned, she was, in addition to her numerous other ... ahem ... talents. One of which he was enjoying right now. Uilleann pipes. She played the pipes. Hey up. The woman had a hell of a set of lungs. Uilleann pipes were traditionally Irish, yet Americans probably wouldn’t notice the difference between them and bagpipes. He noticed, though. Meant she didn’t have the expanded ribcage of a typical bagpipe player. The pipes worked well in this group, a Celtic-infused rock band that pulled from all nations. Truth to tell, she made it work. She moved to the front of the stage for a solo. He admired the muscled lengths of her legs, revealed by her way-too-short kilt. He recognized the tartan, Kelly, from her mother’s side of the family. One of the few Irish clans entitled to wear a tartan -- the same as the royal house of Stewart. He couldn’t quite read the writing on her t-shirt, but he definitely noticed the way the soft cotton clung to the swell of her breasts. The distance and dim lighting made it impossible to see the color of her eyes, but that didn’t stop him fantasizing about them. They’d be green, flashing with raw intensity to complement the streaks of fire highlighted in her blond hair. Right now, her hair was about her face in disarray. He couldn’t wait to see it mussed after a good, long, hard screw. “Got your eye on that one, have you, mate?” the barkeep asked, pocketing the tip Jack had left on the bar. “A right handful, she is. Won’t be having none of the likes of you. Any of us, for that matter.” “We’ll be seeing about that.” The twelfth-century curse said he had to bed and wed her. It could be worse, he supposed. This one was passionate, if her music was anything to go by. In need of taming, if the bartender was anything to go by. Passion and temper -- Jack’s two favorite qualities in a woman. Even if fate didn’t say they had to be together, he’d still want Sinéad. The way she moved made his cock harden. He could almost imagine the way she smelled, of musk and desire. He joined the applause as her solo ended, and she moved to the back of the stage. He enjoyed the rest of the set, watched her place the pipes on the wooden planks, then plop down on an amplifier. Her skirt rode even higher, and she didn’t sit like a lady. Another inch and he’d know whether or not she wore anything beneath her kilt. “Hey up,” he muttered, reaching for his Guinness. Now he knew why Yanks drank their beer so damn cold. ’Twas to cool the flames of ardor. He watched -- stared, more like it -- as she uncapped a bottle of water, tipped her head back, and drank deeply. Several stray drops spilled onto her chin. The band’s lead singer said a few words to Sinéad, then moved off, leaving her alone. Jack seized the opportunity. In several steps, he was on the stage. A couple more brought them face-to-face, or, in this case, her face to his crotch. And wasn’t this his lucky day? “Great show.” She smiled. That wouldn’t last long, not once she knew who he was. Now that he stood close enough to see a bead of sweat on her brow and the sweet curve of her upper lip, he was also close enough to read the writing on her in-your-face t-shirt: You’re not rich enough. Smart enough. Or man enough. They’d be seeing about that, as well. “Do you intimidate most men, Sinéad?” “You seem to have me at a disadvantage. I’m not sure as we’ve met.” She stood, as if that’d give her any hope of diminishing the size difference between them. He was nearly a foot taller and outweighed her by a good eighty pounds. “Jack.” He extended a hand. She ignored it. Smart lass. “Jack Quinn,” he said. “Jack Quinn?” Her mouth dropped open. A very perfect, very pink tongue snuck out. Hey up, didn’t that cause another fantasy? “The Jack Quinn?” He bowed a little. “The one and only.” “Funny. You don’t look like the boogeyman.” “And you don’t look like a witch.” “Touché.” She moved an electrical cord out of the way with her toes. “You are persistent.” “Six thousand miles,” he said. “To have me reject you in person?” “Ouch.” Maybe he should have ordered a second drink when he’d had the chance. “In case you missed my letters, email, or the fact I haven’t returned a single phone call, I’m not interested in your family’s problems or your proposition.” Her eyes flashed irritation, and her voice had dropped an octave or two. Not what he usually expected from a woman. When he pissed off women, they generally slapped his face. He admired this one’s restraint. “I’m not interested in you, Jack Quinn.” She’d added the last, he supposed, in case he’d missed her point. “You can get back on a plane and go home. County Mayo, is it?” As if she had to ask. Their shared history went back well over eight hundred years. The details of the sordid events were recorded for all time in The Annals of the Four Masters. Sinéad looked at him. Her eyes flashed venom. “Cuimhnich air na daoine o’n d’thainig thu,” she said. So she spoke the tongue, did she? “Remember the men from whom you are sprung,” he translated. “I, for one, will never forget.” “It seems we have a common problem, Ms. O’Malley.” “We?” she repeated. “We?” Her laugh was more like an unladylike snort. “Everything okay here, Sinéad?” the drummer asked, climbing onto the stage and offering her a short glass of amber liquid. Good Irish whiskey, Jack presumed. “I can handle Mr. Quinn by myself,” Sinéad said, accepting the glass. The young man glared at Jack when Jack unashamedly drank his fill of the woman in front of him. She tipped back her head, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat, then closed her eyes and downed the beverage in a single swallow. She made a soft kissing sound in apparent rapture. Lord have mercy. He ached to stroke his knuckles along the curve of her cheekbone, trail the pad of his index finger down her nape ... She sighed, then opened her eyes. “You’re not just a bad dream? More’s the pity.” She smiled at her protector. “Mr. Quinn was just leaving, Brandon.” “Bugger all,” Jack said. “You might as well hear me out.” “There are laws in this country against stalking,” she said, sliding the glass tumbler onto the speaker. “You sure you don’t need help?” Brandon asked. “Go on with you,” she said. Jack wondered if she’d be so blasé if she knew he intended to fuck her within the next twelve hours and have her pregnant in under a month. © Christy Lockhart, March 2007 All Rights Reserved