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She was out of control…

Lily pushed Brian back into the leather seat of the limo. Brushing his shirt aside, she smoothed her hands over his chest, hard and muscular, then leaned forward and pressed her lips to the soft dusting of hair beneath his collarbone. But when she let her fingers drop to his trousers, Brian grabbed her hands and drew them away.

“Are you sure about this, Lily?”

She smiled. He didn’t have to be such a gentleman, but Lily was glad he made the attempt. “There’s nothing wrong with two…” She moved back to his trousers. “Consenting adults…” She worked the button open. “Engaging in mutually satisfying…” She slowly drew the zipper down. “Sex.”

Most guys had probably dreamed about hearing those words. And Lily never dreamed she’d be the one saying them. But she’d had enough of “relationships.” What was wrong with taking her pleasure where she found it?

“Haven’t you ever just been swept away by the moment?” she asked, playfully nipping at his neck.

“Yeah,” Brian groaned, pulling her closer to him. “I think that’s happening now….”

Dear Reader,

It’s hard to believe that I’m almost at the end of my Quinn saga. Yet another handsome Quinn brother has fallen victim to love, and this time I almost didn’t want to type the last page of the manuscript. I’ve gotten used to having these Quinns around!

Conor, Dylan, Brendan, Keely and Liam all found love, and now it’s Brian’s turn. And this stubborn and single-minded news reporter needed just the right kind of woman to tempt him. Public relations expert Lily Gallagher was the one, though falling in love was the last thing she wanted to do.

I’ve been so grateful for all the notes that you’ve sent me about the Quinns and I hope you’ll follow their stories right to the end. Next month Brian’s twin brother, Sean, meets his match. And after that, I guess I’m going to go through a little Quinn withdrawal. But I’m sure I’ll find a handsome hero waiting around the next corner.

Be sure to visit my Web site at www.katehoffmann.com for information on all my releases.

Happy reading,

Kate Hoffmann

The Mighty Quinns: Brian
Kate Hoffmann

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Prologue

WIND-DRIVEN RAIN LASHED at the windows of the house on Kilgore Street. The storm had rolled off the North Atlantic a day ago, a nor’easter with the force of a tropical hurricane and the chill of a midwinter blizzard. Brian Quinn stared out at the flooded street from the second-story bedroom window, his forehead pressed against the glass.

He knew the Mighty Quinn was a seaworthy boat and that it had weathered storms much worse than this, but Brian still couldn’t banish the worry from his head. Seamus Quinn was a great captain and he didn’t need the Coast Guard to tell him the forecast—he felt it, he smelled it in the air and saw it in the clouds. But the Mighty Quinn was late coming in, already six days past the longest trip that Brian’s father had ever made. And Brian could see the worry in Conor’s eyes and the grim set of Dylan’s mouth. They were worried, too.

The fishing had been bad all summer and the Mighty Quinn had been forced farther and farther out to find swordfish. But now, the season was winding down and the weather becoming more unpredictable. After the last trip, Conor had tried to convince their father to head south as so many other fishermen did during the fall and winter.

Though it would mean the six Quinn boys would be on their own for five or six months, Conor had assured Seamus that he could handle things at home as long as the money kept coming in. He had run the household for seven years now, ever since their mother had walked out. Conor cooked and cleaned, he helped with homework and meted out discipline. And he tried his hardest to keep their situation from teachers and neighbors and anyone who might consider Seamus a neglectful father. A heavy load for a fourteen-year-old.

Brian glanced over his shoulder. His twin brother Sean was already in bed, the threadbare quilt pulled up around his chin, his nose buried in a comic book. Liam, the youngest Quinn, had crawled into bed next to Sean, curling up against him for warmth. The seven-year-old had given up begging his brother to read the comic for him and was now mouthing the words as he read for himself.

“Bri! Check those buckets in the hall,” Dylan shouted from the bottom of the stairs. “It won’t do any good if they overflow.”

Brian sighed. One of these days there would be enough money to fix the leaky roof and to paint the sagging porch and to pay the phone bill before it got disconnected. There was always the next run to the Grand Banks and dreams of a hold full of swordfish and the chance to offload first and command the highest price. But Brian had learned that his father’s big dreams very rarely came true.

Though they didn’t talk about their father’s drinking and gambling out loud, Brian knew his older brothers had tried their best to deal with the lack of money. Conor had taken to meeting the Mighty Quinn when it came in, hoping to deter Seamus from a visit to the pub and a drunken all-night poker game. And Dylan had learned to hide the money jar after Seamus got home, knowing that it would gradually disappear at their father’s hand.

“He’s not comin’ home tonight,” Sean said. “He won’t bring the boat in in this weather.”

“Is Da all right?” Liam asked.

“Yeah, he’s all right,” Brian murmured, getting up from the window. He wandered out to the hall and checked the row of buckets that Conor had set out to counter the leaking roof. Then he hurried back to the bedroom and hopped into bed, pulling the covers up over his chest.

If he just went to sleep, then it would be morning and the storm would be over and his father would be home and everything would be all right. “Your feet are cold, Li,” Brian complained. “Keep ’em to yourself, ya little dosser.”

“Shut yer gob,” Liam said. “Read me. Come on, Sean. Read me just a little.”

The stairs creaked. “Conor’s coming up,” Sean said. “Ask him for a story.”

But instead of Conor, their brother Brendan poked his head in the room. “Con says lights out,” he said. “School tomorrow.”

“Will Da be home tomorrow?” Liam asked.

Brendan forced a smile then shrugged. “Don’t know, Li. But he’ll be home soon.”

Liam sat up and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Is he all right? My teacher said the storm was bad.”

Brendan sat down on the edge of the bed and grabbed Liam’s foot beneath the quilt, tickling it playfully. “Of course he’ll be all right. Da can steer through any old storm.” He glanced back and forth between Brian and Sean, a silent warning not to contradict him.

“Yeah,” Brian agreed. “When I went out with Da last summer, he told me about a storm that had fifty-foot waves and wind so strong it could blow a man right off the deck. This isn’t near as bad, Li.”

Liam’s expression shifted, now more worried. “How high are the waves?”

“They’re just wee little waves,” Brendan said. “Why don’t you shove over and I’ll tell you a story.” He crawled in between Liam and Brian, leaning back against the headboard. “What story do you want to hear?”

The stories were a Quinn family tradition and when Seamus was home, he told a different tale nearly every night. They were wonderful stories of their legendary ancestors, the Mighty Quinns, those brave and clever men who vanquished evil. But when Seamus told the stories, the fables also featured scheming women. At first, Brian hadn’t understood why the Quinns distrusted women so. But then he’d come to realize that the tales were laced with Seamus’s own opinions about women—opinions based on their mother’s desertion.

Her name was never spoken in the presence of their father but Conor talked about her every now and then. She had been beautiful, with long dark hair and pretty green eyes. And though Brian had been only three when she left, he remembered one thing—the red flowered apron that she wore every morning. He could still feel the starched fabric between his fingers.

“Odran and the giant,” Sean said.

“Murchadh Quinn, the mighty seaman,” Liam suggested.

“Eamon and the enchantress,” Brian insisted. Though Brendan was only eleven, he told the tales the best. He wove stories full of excitement and vivid images, better than any action movie or comic book.

“I just remembered a story that Da told a long time ago when Con and Dylan and I were younger,” Brendan said. “I don’t think you’ve ever heard this one. It’s about Riddoc Quinn who was the smartest of all our Quinn ancestors. In fact, Riddoc Quinn knew everything.”

“No one can know everything,” Brian said.

“Ah, but Riddoc did. For he was a very watchful lad. He didn’t talk much, but saw a lot.” Brendan pointed to his temple. “And he was also a great thinker. Like me. And a little like Liam, too.”

“Get on with the story, gobdaw,” Sean said.

Brendan cleared his throat. “Riddoc Quinn lived in a tiny village on the Irish seacoast in a small stone cottage perched on a craggy cliff. His parents were plain and simple folk who couldn’t read or write, but Riddoc taught himself to do both. He read every book in the village and when there were none left, he visited nearby towns to borrow more. But that wasn’t enough. Riddoc spoke with every person who passed through the village, asking of their travels, wanting to know about the rest of the world.”

“Is this going to be one of those stories that we’re supposed to learn something from?” Sean muttered. “Like study hard and stay in school?”

Brendan reached over Liam’s head and gave Sean a cuff. “Shut up or I’ll make you tell the story. And you’re just about the worst storyteller in all of Southie.”

“Keep going!” Liam cried.

“Riddoc and his family lived near a powerful sorcerer named Aodhfin and Aodhfin had two daughters named Maighdlin and Macha. Aodhfin spoiled his daughters, giving them anything they wished for, conjuring up pretty dresses and expensive gifts. The beautiful Maighdlin became very selfish and greedy. Her sister Macha was a plain and guileless girl and so it was as they grew older. Maighdlin demanded more and more of her father, putting on the airs of a princess while Macha concentrated on her studies, learning Latin and Greek and reading great books.

“As time passed, Aodhfin knew that he’d have to choose an heir to his magical powers. Though Maighdlin was grasping and unfeeling, Aodhfin knew she could become a powerful sorceress, maybe the most powerful in the land. But Macha was compassionate and generous, the type of person who would use her power for good.

“The old sorcerer was torn between his two daughters and spent many sleepless nights pondering his decision. He asked his friends to help him, but they were unable to make a choice for they were afraid that if they chose wrong, they might suffer later. As he was walking in the forest one day, Aodhfin came upon a peasant and decided to ask his advice. The peasant grinned and told him, ‘You should ask Riddoc Quinn for he will know the answer. He knows everything.”’

“He would know,” Liam said. “Riddoc Quinn was the smartest boy in Ireland.”

“That he was. But he wasn’t just book-smart. Riddoc understood others, their flaws and their strengths, for he had met many people in his quest for knowledge and understanding and had learned from each of them.

“And so Aodhfin sent for Riddoc Quinn and brought him to his home, a dark castle deep in the forest. The old sorcerer couldn’t believe that this boy dressed in rags was the person he sought. ‘I have heard you possess great knowledge,’ the sorcerer said. Riddoc nodded. ‘Then I will leave the decision to you,’ said the sorcerer. ‘You will choose between my two daughters and tell me which one will become a great sorceress. But first, you must tell me how you plan to decide.’ Riddoc thought about this for a long moment. ‘I will give them a test,’ he said. ‘I will ask them three questions which they must answer honestly.”’

Sean groaned. “Oh, no. Like a spelling test? This is a dumb story. I want the Odran story.”

“It’s the right way to decide,” Brian countered. “It’s the most fair.”

“The day of the test approached,” Brendan continued, “and the sorcerer grew worried that Riddoc was not the right person for the job. After all, he possessed no mystical powers—he was just an ordinary boy. Perhaps it would be better to use magic, a potion or a spell to make the decision clear. For the first test, Riddoc placed three items on a table in front of each of the daughters—a ruby, pearl and a simple stone polished smooth by the sea. He asked Maighdlin to choose the most beautiful stone. Of course Maighdlin chose the ruby for it was the most valuable. But when he asked Macha, she chose the stone from the sea.”

“Macha is too dumb to be a sorceress,” Sean said.

“The sorcerer thought so, too,” Brendan continued. “How could Macha be a sorceress if she couldn’t even recognize the value of a jewel? But Riddoc saw that Macha recognized the beauty in simple things. The next question was more difficult. Riddoc brought three men before the girls—a handsome knight, a wealthy shopkeeper and a monk. He gave Maighdlin a pouch of gold coins and asked her to give it to the man who needed it most. But Maighdlin was not about to be fooled. She gave a third to the knight for his protection, a third to the shopkeeper for a bolt of silk, and a third to the monk for his blessing. When Macha came into the room and was faced with the same choice, she held on to the bag of gold. ‘I cannot give this bounty to any of these men for none of them need it. The knight is cared for by his liege and the shopkeeper makes his living from the goods he sells. And the monk has taken a vow of poverty. Where is the poor farmer whose crop has failed or the mother who has too many children to feed?”’

Brian nestled down in the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. The wind still rattled the windows and water still dripped into a plastic bucket beside the bed. But as he listened to Brendan’s story, he felt the real world fade away. He saw the sorcerer’s castle in his mind, the deep forest. He saw Riddoc’s tiny cottage near the sea. Though he’d been born in Ireland, he remembered nothing of that country. But he could feel it pulsing through his body now.

“The old sorcerer sighed. Macha was too tender-hearted to ever wield great power. But Riddoc knew that Macha was kind and generous and sympathetic to those less fortunate. There was one final question that Riddoc decided to give to the daughters. ‘You may ask me one question,’ he said. ‘A question that you want answered more than any other.’ They pondered their choices for a long time. ‘Will I be the most powerful sorceress in Ireland?’ Maighdlin asked. ‘Will I ever find true love?’ Macha asked. This proved what Riddoc already knew—Macha had a pure heart. He turned to the sorcerer. ‘You must give Macha your power,’ he said.”

“This is so mushy,” Sean said. “I s’pose now Riddoc is going to kiss her and they’ll fall in love and get married.”

“Not yet,” Brendan said. “Because before the sorcerer died, Maighdlin took Macha deep into the forest and left her there, certain that she’d be devoured by wolves or starve to death.”

“Did she die?” Sean asked.

“No. For Riddoc knew that Maighdlin would try something evil. He watched over Macha and followed the girls wherever they went. And he rescued Macha from the forest. He took her back to the castle and told the sorcerer of Maighdlin’s evil deed. It was only then that the sorcerer knew the answer to his question. Now he could die peacefully. And so Macha became a sorceress. And Riddoc her most trusted advisor.”

“And Maighdlin?” Brian asked.

“She became a toad. A slimy warty toad with a purple nose.”

Brian laughed and Liam giggled. Sean just blinked in confusion. “She didn’t try to turn Riddoc into a toad?”

Brendan shook his head. “No. He was too smart to let that happen.” He cleared his throat and continued. “After a time, Macha and Riddoc married. And they had sons, who had sons, who had sons. But none of them needed magical powers for they inherited something more valuable from their father—a clever mind and a thirst for knowledge.”

“Are you sure Riddoc didn’t throw Macha over the cliff?” Sean asked. “Or maybe he took her back into the forest and chopped off her head? Da tells his stories different.”

“This isn’t Da’s story, it’s mine,” Brendan said.

Brendan always told the Mighty Quinn tales differently, Brian mused. In his versions, the women weren’t always the villains. “I liked this story just the way you told it.”

Brendan nodded. “I did, too. And now you know that we’re descended from kings and queens, knights and ladies, plain farmers and a powerful sorceress. It’s time for you to get to sleep. It’s late.” He crawled off the bed and pulled the blankets up around the three brothers. As he walked to the door, Brendan flipped off the light.

The room went dark and Sean rolled over, tugging on the blankets. Liam flipped over and nestled up against Brian for warmth and security. Brian threw his arm over his head and stared up at the ceiling. Images of the story still swirled in his head. The tale of Riddoc Quinn appealed to him—the clever boy and the beautiful sorceress living in their forest castle.

“Do you think Da is all right?” Liam asked, his voice timid.

“Da is a Quinn. He’s like Riddoc, he’s clever,” Brian murmured.

“I’m scared. What if he doesn’t come back? They’ll come and get us and take us away. We’ll never see each other again.” Liam’s voice trembled and Brian could tell he was on the verge of tears.

“Conor would never let that happen,” Brian said. He reached out and smoothed his hand over his little brother’s hair. “We’ll be together forever. Don’t worry, Li.”

The little boy sobbed softly and burrowed under the covers. Brian curled beneath the threadbare blankets and closed his eyes. But sleep refused to come. When the house grew silent, he slipped out of bed and grabbed his winter jacket from the floor, pulling it on to ward off the chill in the air. As he passed the other bedroom, he peeked inside to find his older brothers sprawled out on their beds.

The stairs creaked as he tiptoed down. When he reached the front parlor, he sat down in front of the portable television that Dylan had rescued from a junk pile in the alley. Brian flipped it on and the snowy picture illuminated the dark room. The antenna, draped with tinfoil, did little to bring the picture into focus. Brian could barely make out the weather forecaster standing in front of the map.

“This is Storm Central on WBTN-TV. Forecasters say the storm is worsening in the North Atlantic. The waves are battering the New England coast and causing many residents to head for higher ground. The barometer continues to fall, which means that we’re still not over the worst of the storm. Marinas from Long Island to Maine have reported hundreds of boats ripped from moorings and destroyed. Many commercial fishing boats have also been damaged, a blow to those fishermen who have already had a bad summer season.”

Brian leaned forward, trying to study the map, wondering where in the Atlantic his father was. He’d traced the route on the school atlas, but it had looked so simple then. He’d been on the boat before, far from the sight of land. Out there, everything looked the same.

“Meanwhile, the Coast Guard has had its hands full with distress calls from boaters and fishermen caught out on the Atlantic when the storm blew up. The fishing boat Selma B. out of Boston sank after taking on water, but the crew was airlifted off the deck to the safety of a Coast Guard helicopter. The Willow put into Gloucester a few hours ago after a search by Coast Guard cutters. Their radio had been knocked out.”

A knot twisted in Brian’s stomach and a wave of nausea washed over him. They all knew the dangers that faced a commercial fisherman. Brendan’s teacher had once said that commercial fishing was the most dangerous occupation of all, more dangerous than driving a race car or flying an airplane. That knowledge had stuck with Brian over the years and now it seemed like a weight pressing down on him.

He stared at the man on the screen. If anything happened to the Mighty Quinn, the newscaster would know first. He’d know if the boat was sinking. He’d know whether Seamus was alive or dead. Like Riddoc Quinn, this man knew everything.

Brian pulled his knees up under his chin and shivered, refusing to allow himself the luxury of tears. “Someday, I’ll be the first to know. And then I won’t ever have to worry again.”

1

THE NEWSROOM WAS a picture of controlled chaos as Brian Quinn strode through. Weekends were always a little crazy, the junior staff at WBTN-TV working with a skeleton crew. As he walked to his cubicle, Brian tugged on the starched collar of the pleated shirt, the fabric chafing his neck. He didn’t wear a tux often, but when he did he found the experience wholly uncomfortable.

He caught his reflection as he walked by a plate glass window. The monkey suit did have an undeniable effect on the ladies, though. What was it about a black suit and a bow tie that made women swoon? A tux was no more unusual than a white T-shirt and faded jeans. Brian frowned. Women seemed to like that combination as well. That and plain old boxer shorts.

Too bad this wasn’t a social occasion, he mused. At least then, maybe the starched shirt would have paid off in the end. Though there were bound to be more than a few beautiful women at the fund-raiser tonight, Brian was attending the party for business reasons. And he never mixed business with pleasure.

“Look at you.”

He glanced to the left and saw Taneesha Gregory leaning over the wall of one of the cubicles, her smile wide, her dark eyes bright with humor. Taneesha was his favorite cameraman—or camera goddess as she preferred to call herself. Shameless and fearless, she often had to muscle her way through a crowd of male news photographers to get the best shot, shoving her camera into a person’s face to catch the nuances of their reaction to a question. When it came to a hard-hitting investigative piece, Taneesha was the person Brian wanted to be there to get the shot.

“Don’t even start,” he warned, wagging his finger at her.

“You da bomb,” she said, laughing and clapping her hands. She came around the cubicle, then reached up and straightened his bow tie. “But I think a tux is a little over the top for a weekend anchor. I hear you’re doing the eleven o’clock news tomorrow night.”

“Yeah. But the tux isn’t for that. I’m working on a story.”

“I hope you don’t need me for this story. Because you know I don’t wear a—”

“Dress,” Brian finished. “Yes. I know. The last time you wore a dress was your wedding.”

“That’s right,” she said, brushing a speck of lint off his shoulder. “And I promised Ronald that I’d wear a dress on our silver wedding anniversary. That’s still eleven years off.”

“Don’t worry,” Brian assured her. “Tonight I’m just checking out a lead. Richard Patterson, our sleazy neighborhood real estate developer is hosting a fund-raiser tonight. And I’m going to crash the party and get a look at his guests.”

Taneesha groaned. “Are you still on that story? If the boss finds out you’re chasing Patterson around town, he’ll have your head. Or have you forgotten just how much money Patterson spends on advertising with this station?”

“He’s got six fast-food restaurants and a car dealership which represent a fraction of his total business worth. And it’s station policy that the sales department and the news department are independent of each other.”

“That’s what they say, but without advertising, WBTN wouldn’t exist. And you’d be left shouting your stories from the top of Beacon Hill.”

“I know there’s a story here,” Brian said in a serious tone. “I can feel it. I’m going to corner him and see what happens. Hell, what can he do? All those rich folks and him wanting to buy a place on the social ladder. I don’t think he’s going to haul off and hit me.”

“Are you crazy? They’ll toss you out of there so fast you’ll—”

“Don’t you think the public has a right to know? Three other developers spend seven years in court, trying to get approval on that property. Patterson buys it and he gets the zoning variance within weeks. He paid for that variance and I want to know how much it cost him and who got the money.”

“Guys like that cover their tracks well.”

“Shady real estate deals, backroom bargaining and a lot of money changing hands. Sooner or later, they’re going to get lazy and make a mistake. Patterson’s deals always seem to come too easily. My brother-in-law, Rafe Kendrick, is a developer and even he says that Patterson isn’t legal.”

“You realize that the guy who owns this television station is an old friend of Richard Patterson’s? Maybe you should think about your career here?”

Brian laughed. “I’ve become the top investigative reporter in Boston in just over a year and I pull in the viewers. They’re not going to fire me.”

“But they may not offer your cocky ass the weekend anchor position. And you know the weekend anchor will be the one to replace Bill when he retires in two years.”

The rumors had been swirling around the station since the last ratings period but Brian tried not to listen to them. “You think I want to sit in front of a camera and read news for the rest of my career?” he asked.

“Well, you certainly have the face for it,” Taneesha said, giving his cheek a playful pat.

Brian shouldn’t have been surprised by the talk. He had moved up the ladder pretty quickly at WBTN and though he wanted to believe it was because of his journalistic abilities, he suspected that it had a lot to do with his looks. The demographics said it all. He was the most popular newsperson in the entire city with women aged twenty-one through forty-nine. And his numbers with the male audience weren’t too bad either. The women in focus groups liked the way he looked and men liked that he was just a regular guy from Southie. The people of Boston trusted Brian Quinn to tell them the truth.

“I may have the face, but not the stomach for it. Any more than you’d be able to handle standing behind a studio camera. You’re like me. You like to be out on the streets.”

“But if you don’t want the promotion, why do you work so hard?”

Brian shrugged. “Because I like to be the first to know.”

“Taneesha! We’ve got a three-alarm fire in Dorchester. You’re up.”

Taneesha turned and waved at one of the junior reporters who was racing toward the door. “Let’s go, then.” She gave Brian a smile. “When you break this story, don’t you forget your favorite camera goddess. I’ll stick that camera so far up Patterson’s nose, we’ll be able to read his mind.”

“You’ll be there,” Brian replied. He watched as Taneesha hurried off to the waiting news truck, then opened his desk drawer and pulled out the handheld tape recorder. He popped in a new tape, pausing to think about what Taneesha had said.

He knew that management had plans for him, that he was fast becoming “the new face of WBTN-TV.” And until this moment, he’d been caught up in all the excitement of his meteoric rise. But Brian knew what he wanted and it wasn’t an anchor job, even if it meant big money and a high profile in town. All he really cared about was telling a good story.

When he’d gotten out of college, he’d been determined to work in print journalism. So he’d paid his dues with small newspapers in Connecticut and Vermont. But he’d wanted to get back to Boston and when he’d been offered an entry-level news-writing job at WBTN, he’d taken it. He’d never once expected it to blossom into the career it had.

Brian slipped the tape recorder into his jacket, then pulled his car keys out of his trouser pocket. As he headed toward the door, Taneesha’s warning still niggled at his brain. He’d worked with her for over a year and she’d never steered him wrong—when it came to a story or personal advice. But every instinct told him that, contrary to public opinion, his career wasn’t headed in the right direction. And Brian trusted his instincts.

Hell, he could just quit right now and start over again, find a job at a decent newspaper and work his way up. But he was thirty years old. At that age, a guy was supposed to have his life in order, his priorities straight. But then, he hadn’t been brought up in a conventional family, so maybe he had a good excuse.

Life in the Quinn house had taught all six of the Quinn brothers to live from moment to moment. Their father, Seamus, was rarely at home, his job as a commercial fisherman keeping him away from Southie for weeks at a time. And Brian’s mother had left the family when Brian was only three years old. He and his brothers had raised themselves, with oldest brother Conor serving as the parental figure.

They’d all gotten in their share of trouble, but Brian and his twin, Sean, had been the wildest. They’d managed to compile a rather impressive record of petty crimes with the police, but luckily, by the time the trouble got serious, Conor had begun working as a cop. He’d thrown them in jail for three days after they’d stolen a neighbor’s car, then made them spend the summer painting the guy’s house as punishment. The neighbor was happy to have the help and Brian and Sean decided that a life of crime truly didn’t pay.

So Brian turned his energies to his studies and took a part-time job loading newspapers on the trucks at the Globe. And when he graduated from high school, he became the second Quinn to attend college after his older brother, Brendan. When he registered, he’d been asked to declare a major and asked the pretty girl next to him in line what she was majoring in. Journalism had simply been a fallback position, but it had been the best place to meet passionate girls, short of the nursing program. And the classes had been surprisingly interesting, especially when he discovered he had a knack for constructing a story.

Brian jogged to his car in the station parking lot. If he was lucky, he’d get what he needed early in the evening and he could spend the rest of his Saturday night at Quinn’s Pub, relaxing over a pint of Guinness and charming a few good-looking women. Brian chuckled. Maybe he’d even wear the tux. Though it probably meant at least an hour’s worth of good-natured ribbing, he’d at least have his pick of the beauties in the bar.

“First business, then pleasure,” he murmured as he started the car.

BY THE TIME THE TABLES were cleared and the band began playing, Lily Gallagher was ready to go home—or back to her hotel, which was home for now. She leaned on the bar and ordered her first glass of champagne, then winced at her sore feet, chiding herself on her choice of footwear. Though the strappy designer shoes went perfectly with her gown, they weren’t made for a long evening on her feet.

She’d flown into Boston just that afternoon from Chicago, curious as to the reasons she’d been summoned. Richard Patterson had personally contacted her boss at DeLay Scoville Public Relations and requested her services. According to Don DeLay, Richard Patterson was willing to toss down a hefty retainer without any explanation of what he wanted her for.

Lily wasn’t about to refuse. A job like this was her ticket to the top, just one step away from a vice presidency and a corner office. And right now, that office was in her sights. Though nothing had been explained up front, Lily suspected why she’d been the chosen one. Patterson was a big real estate developer and just last year she’d handled a huge scandal with a real estate developer in Chicago.

Crisis public relations was her specialty. People called her when things went bad and it was her job to make them better. On the plane trip from Chicago, Lily had read everything she could about Patterson Properties and Investments, a company that owned shopping malls and motels and fast-food restaurants. Richard Patterson was well-connected politically and was slowly climbing the social ladder in Boston, despite his humble beginnings in a working-class Boston neighborhood.

For Lily, it had been a relief to be offered a job outside of Chicago, though she missed her new house and her best friend, Emma Carsten. She and Emma worked together at the agency and often talked about breaking out and starting a company of their own. But the practicalities of paying a mortgage had made a promotion at DeLay the primary goal for the moment.

Hopefully, Richard Patterson would have some juicy crisis that she could sink her teeth into, some touchy political problem or maybe a community relations issue that she could solve. She’d fix what needed fixing and have a nice addition to her portfolio when she went back to Chicago in a few months. Then she could demand that promotion.

“Lily?”

She turned to find Richard Patterson standing behind her. He was a handsome, forty-something guy with graying temples and impeccable grooming. He wore a beautifully tailored tuxedo, probably from one of the best menswear designers. If he hadn’t been a client—and he hadn’t been married—Lily might have considered him a possibility. But she never mixed business with pleasure. “The party is wonderful,” she said. “You’ve done a terrific job as chairman, Mr. Patterson.”

He forced a tight smile. “I didn’t do anything. I hired a party planner and my wife took care of the rest. Listen, I have to leave. I’ve got a flight to catch. An emergency with a group of investors from Japan. I know we haven’t had a chance to talk and I’ll be out of town for the next few days. But I want you to call my secretary on Monday. She’ll set up appointments with my key management people. You’ll be up to speed when I get back.”

“Good. I need to know everything I can. Maybe if you tell me what you’d like me to work on, I can get a head start and when we meet I—”

“We’ll discuss that on Tuesday,” he interrupted, glancing over his shoulder.

“All right.”

“If there’s anything you need, call Mrs. Wilburn. Boston is beautiful in the month of June. Get out and see some of the sights.” With that, he turned and strode away, leaving Lily to wonder why it had been so important for her to arrive today—and to attend this party.

Lily glanced around, deciding that she’d wait until she was sure Richard was gone and then call it a night. She took another sip of her champagne as she studied the couples on the dance floor. The ballroom at the Copley Plaza was beautifully decorated to look like the gardens at Versailles. Fountains trickled and arbors were laced with heavily-scented flowers and tiny white lights making an incredibly romantic scene. She sighed softly.

There were other reasons she was glad to leave Chicago. Her engagement to attorney Daniel Martin was now officially off. After two years of dating and a four-month engagement, she’d thought she’d finally found the man of her dreams—until she’d discovered him naked and in bed with an exotic-looking brunette and her two artificially enhanced breasts. She’d never expected him to sink to such depths and his only excuse had been that he just wasn’t ready to commit.

Lily had planned her life around this man, had invested her future with him, and suddenly it was over and she had been forced back to square one in her personal life—forced to admit that she’d surrendered far too much for love. Sometimes Chicago felt like a desert for single women. Plenty of great-looking men on the horizon, but when you got too close, they were simply a mirage, a figment of a desperate imagination.

She took another sip of her champagne and glanced around the room. Maybe it was time to stop being desperate, to quit looking so hard for love and just settle for…a little lust. She’d made the first move toward independence, buying a house of her own. “I know exactly what I need now,” Lily murmured. “A nice, tidy, but very passionate, one-night stand.”

She hadn’t gone looking for creeps and jerks, but the men who wandered into her life had always been strangely unavailable—engaged to someone who didn’t understand, married to a woman they’d forgotten to mention, emotionally cold, commitment-phobic, fascinated with ladies’ footwear, contemplating a change in sexual preference, and then Daniel, a unrepentant philanderer. She’d even tried to make a bicoastal relationship work with a Los Angeles writer which racked up an impressive number of frequent-flyer miles but ended with him falling in love with a vapid starlet.

But now she had an opportunity to have a man on her terms. She was the unavailable, commitment-phobic party, living and working in Boston for only a few months, uninterested in a long-term relationship. She could play the field, have a little fun and avoid all the messy strings that seemed to keep two people tied together for far too long.

Lily sighed. This fund-raiser was the last place she’d find a single man. The only reason men attended a charity event was that their wives insisted. In truth, most of the men in attendance probably didn’t want to be there at all. Lily had always wanted to plan an “un” event. An imaginary charity dinner and dance that people paid not to attend. Then all the money could go to charity rather than to overblown decorations and overpriced foie gras and over-the-top designer gowns.

She quickly snatched another glass of champagne from a passing waiter and stared up at the balconies, deciding to find a table on the second level where she could observe the party in peace. A few minutes later, she settled down in a quiet corner on the opposite end from the dance band. She kicked off her shoes and rubbed her feet together, finally feeling a nice buzz from the champagne she’d gulped down. A waiter stopped at her table and offered her another glass and she took it and set it across from her, as if she were expecting someone to join her.

“A woman as beautiful as you shouldn’t be sitting here alone.”

Lily’s gaze slowly rose to a man standing beside her table, wondering at her luck. But though he was attractive enough, his smile was just a little too…practiced. His dark hair was slicked back and he wore an ill-fitting tuxedo. Still, she decided to at least give him a chance. “Actually, I’m fine,” she said.

He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down, despite the champagne goblet. “Well, I’m not,” he said. “I’m here alone and everyone else is here with a significant other. I’m Jim Franklin.”

“I’m Lily,” she said.

“Just Lily?”

“Lily Gallagher.”

“Well, Lily Gallagher, since we both seem to be alone here, maybe we can be alone together. Tell me about yourself.”

Lily opened her mouth to respond, but Jim Franklin didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m an investment analyst with Bardwell Fleming. Let me tell you, these parties are a great investment. My bosses buy a spot at the table and then send us guys in to drum up some business. We don’t sell stocks and bonds, but we offer analysis services for all types of investments. I’ve lived in Boston for about five years. Got transferred up here from our New York office.”

After all her bravado, when it came down to it, lust was a tricky thing. Either a girl felt it or she didn’t. And Lily already knew that this was a guy who didn’t make her pulse pound.

“So, what do you do, Lily?”

“Mr. Franklin, I’m really not—”

“Jim,” he insisted. “Do you have a retirement plan? Have you invested your money wisely?”

Lily grabbed her glass and drained it, then quickly stood. “I’m just going to get myself some more champagne. If you’ll excuse—”

“And here’s a waiter now,” Franklin said, flashing her a blinding smile.

Lily bit back a curse and sat down again. If this wasn’t pure torture, she didn’t know what was. It wasn’t her habit to be rude, especially in a business situation, but she doubted that Richard Patterson was friends with Jim Franklin, investment analyst.

As Franklin prattled on about liquid assets and high-yield bonds, Lily let her gaze wander, interjecting a word every now and then to answer one of Franklin’s questions, before he resumed his Wall Street chatter. She pasted a bland smile on her face and fixed her gaze just over his right shoulder, wondering how long she’d be obligated to carry on this one-sided conversation. Her mind scrambled for an excuse, something that would politely put him off. Then she noticed a man standing behind Franklin, his shoulder braced against a marble column, an amused grin twitching his lips.

Lily quickly glanced away, but when she looked back, she found him still staring at her. Then he looked at his watch and pretended to yawn and Lily couldn’t help but smile. She took another sip of her champagne and observed the man from over the rim of the glass.

Unlike Jim Franklin, this guy was downright gorgeous. He had dark hair, just long enough to brush his collar but perfectly trimmed. Dark brows accented eyes of an indeterminate shade, but Lily knew they were probably some uncommon and very arresting color. Her gaze skimmed over his body, finding him taller than average and beautifully built, his tailored tux accenting wide shoulders and a narrow waist.

When she returned to his face, his smile was a bit wider. He nodded at her, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. And then he pushed away from the column and started toward her. Lily held her breath, her eyes still fixed on his, her heart beating a little faster.

“Sweetheart,” he said, stopping next to the table. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

He reached out and Lily hesitantly placed her hand in his. But to her surprise, he drew it up and placed a kiss near her wrist. She swallowed hard. “Darling,” she said. “You’re late.”

“Not too late, I hope. You will forgive me, won’t you?”

She slowly stood. “Of course.” Lily glanced over at Jim Franklin as she grabbed her shoes from the floor. “Thanks for the investment advice, Jim. Have fun at the party.”

The stranger tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and started toward the nearest exit. When they reached the hall, he stopped. “You’re safe now.”

“I wasn’t really in any danger,” Lily said. “Unless boredom is fatal.”

“With a guy like that, you never know. I wasn’t willing to watch you throw yourself over the railing just to get away from him.”

“Thanks for saving me,” Lily said.

“No problem. So, are you here alone? Or did your date desert you?” He paused. “Or maybe that was your date?”

Lily shook her head. “I’m here alone. A professional obligation.”

“And when is that obligation finished?” he asked.

“Right now.” Lily smiled hesitantly, realizing that she might have given him the wrong idea. Suddenly, she wasn’t interested in going back to the hotel. She’d just met an attractive, sexy, and witty man—a rare occurrence in her life. “What about you? I suppose you have a reason for being here—besides rescuing me from the scintillating Mr. Franklin.”

He chuckled. “Actually, I crashed the party. The band sounded good so I thought I’d check it out. But the crowd was a little bit too stuffy for me…until I saw you.” He let his gaze rake over her body and Lily shivered. “Has anyone told you that you look incredible in that dress?”

“You flatter me,” she teased, keeping the banter light. “And I don’t even know your name.”

“Oh, let’s not play that game. And let’s not talk about what we do for a living. Or where we come from. And the weather is off-limits, too.”

“All right,” Lily said, intrigued by the game. “We can talk about art and literature and music. But I have to call you something.”

“Darling was kind of nice,” he said with a devilish grin.

“I guess you can call me sweetheart, then,” Lily countered. Though their conversation had a provocative tone, she couldn’t help but giggle. From the amused expression on his handsome face, he wasn’t taking this any more seriously than she was.

“Sweetie for short,” he said. “Come on, sweetie, they’re playing our song. I think we should dance, don’t you?” He took the shoes from her hand, flipped them over his shoulder and sauntered toward the stairs.

Lily watched him for a long moment, her gaze fixed on his wide shoulders. Why not enjoy this handsome stranger for a night and leave it at that? She’d hoped to find a man in Boston and this stranger certainly fit the bill. And if she admitted up front that there was no possibility for a real relationship, then she couldn’t get hurt again.

He stopped walking and glanced over his shoulder. “Are you coming, darling?”

Lily laughed softly before she picked up her skirts and hurried after him. “Have you forgotten my name already? I’m sweetheart. You’re darling.”

THE BAND HAD JUST BEGUN their rendition of “Isn’t It Romantic” when Brian drew the beautiful stranger in the gold gown out onto the dance floor. He twirled her beneath his arm and then pulled her against his body, moving along with the music. Her gown dipped low on her back and he spread his palm over her warm skin, surprised at how soft it felt.

The evening had quickly turned from business to pleasure. When he’d arrived, he’d easily talked his way inside without an invitation, but the opportunity to confront Richard Patterson hadn’t materialized. According to one of the guests, Patterson had left a few minutes before due to some business emergency. Brian had decided to check out the crowd from the balcony in hopes that he might spot some of Patterson’s cronies. But once he’d set eyes on the girl in the gold dress, he’d pretty much forgotten about everything else.

“You’re a very good dancer,” she said.

“And you are, too,” he returned.

He found their little game endlessly intriguing. But he wasn’t sure where the game ended and reality began. She acted as if she didn’t recognize him and with his face on billboards and busboards all over town, that was a bit difficult to believe. Maybe she didn’t watch the news. Or maybe she didn’t live in Boston.

He was willing to play along, at least for the time being. Though he’d seduced his fair share of women before, he’d always taken a straightforward approach to the matter. But this was different. They’d constructed a silly set of rules. Were the rules there to protect them both from their desires—or to liberate them from their inhibitions?

“I took dance lessons from age seven to age twelve,” Lily said. “My mother insisted. She said I’d need it someday and I didn’t believe her. I guess I was wrong.” She smoothed her hand over his shoulder. “And how about you?”

“I just have natural grace and athletic ability. Plus, you’re making me look a whole lot better than I really am.”

Brian looked down at her and couldn’t take his eyes off her face. She was beautiful, with lively green eyes and a riot of auburn curls cascading from the crown of her head. Little tendrils had escaped the mass of curls and caressed her cheeks and forehead and Brian fought the urge to brush them away.

But then he realized there was no need to just contemplate touching her. Nothing in her manner made him believe his touch would be unwelcome. He reached up and smoothed his fingers along her cheekbone, tucking the strands behind her ear. For a moment, her breath stilled and their gazes locked. And then he grabbed her around the waist. “Dip,” he said, leaning her back.

They continued to dance, whirling around the floor as if they were Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. In truth, Brian was surprised at how easy it was to have her in his arms. She seemed to anticipate his every move. With her, he did look like the best dancer on the floor. And in his eyes, she was the most beautiful woman in the room.

“So if we don’t talk about our jobs, or the weather or where we’re from, what should we talk about?” she asked.

“Whatever you want,” Brian said. “I’ll give you five questions and you give me five. Anything. No restrictions. And we have to answer honestly. That should start some interesting conversation, don’t you think?”

“I’ll start,” she said. “Are you married?”

“No. Never been married. Are you?”

“No, never.” The orchestra segued into “Embraceable You” and they continued to dance. “I came close once, but it didn’t work.” She considered her next question carefully. “Involved?” she asked.

He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Oh, sweetie, you’re going to burn a question on that? No, I’m not involved. And I won’t ask you that one, because I don’t care if you are involved. You’re here with me now, and that’s all that matters.”

“One more question,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Brian,” he said. “Brian Quinn.” He paused, waiting for her to offer her own name, then realized she was going to force him to ask. “And what about you?”

“It’s Lily Gallagher. That’s three for me, and two for you. Don’t you want to ask me another question?”

“Are you from Boston?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

“For the time being. But I live in Chicago.”

So she really didn’t know who he was. They were essentially strangers. “It’s nice to meet you, Lily,” he murmured. “Lily. I like that name. It suits you.”

“And why is that?” She winced. “And that wasn’t one of my five questions. Just curiosity.”

“Oh, now here’s the test for me. I’m going to have to come up with something very poetic to say about your name or you’ll realize that I’m not as smooth as I’m pretending to be.”

“I’m a big fan of poetry, Brian Quinn.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, unless it’s a dirty limerick, I think you’re out of luck with me.”

“Hey, I’ll take a limerick.”

Brian groaned softly. “I guess I stepped in that one.” He thought for a moment, all the off-color limericks he’d ever heard racing though his mind. “I’m Irish, so this could come naturally. There once was a girl dressed in gold, who I approached in a way very bold. We danced through the night, held each other so tight, and left all our sad stories untold.”

Lily laughed. “That wasn’t bad. But it didn’t answer the question.”

“That’s because the only words that rhyme with Lily are filly, frilly and dilly.” He paused, studying her until she was forced to avert her gaze. “Lily suits you because I like the sound of it when I say it. And I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone named Lily, so whenever I hear that name, I’ll think of you first.”