Sheâd meant to sound firm and cool, yet her voice was anything but. Horrified, she ordered herself to put some space between them. Her feet, however, refused to move. And it was all Patrickâs fault. If he would just stop touching herâ¦
Unable to take her eyes from him, she reached blindly for his hand. âIâm fine,â she said huskily.
But instead of pushing him away, she clung to him like a lifeline.
The feel of her fingers wrapped around his caught Patrick off guard. This was crazy. Just that morning, sheâd been a suspect, and now all he could think about was the softness of her skin, her mouthâ¦and kissing her.
Dear Reader,
Before I started writing, I worked for the FBI in Washington, D.C., and loved it. So going back to D.C. thirty years later to research this book was almost like going home. A lot has changed since the late â70s: the street in front of the White House is closed to traffic and the FBI no longer gives tours. When I was working at the Bureau, all you had to do to take a tour of the White Houseâeven a candlelit one at Christmasâwas get in line.
Those days are gone, but Washington is still a wonderful city, and steeped in history. My kind of place! Thatâs why I love Mackenzie and Patrickâs story so much. If I ever had a bookstore, I would want it to look just like Sloan Antiquarian Books and Maps. Enjoy!
Linda Turner
The old tavern was packed with St. Patrickâs Day revelers who were loud, boisterous and in the mood to party. Rushing inside, his black, wavy hair and sharp features glistening with the damp mist that had socked in Washington, D.C., Patrick OâReilly wasnât surprised to find his two brothers already seated at their favorite table, right next to the fireplace, where a roaring fire took the chill off the air. They both worked just around the corner from the bar and didnât even have to move their cars. He, on the other hand, had been working a case across town and had been caught in traffic.
Devin spied him first as he made his way through the crowd and grinned, though there was little amusement in his steel-blue eyes. âItâs about damn time you got here. We started without you,â he said, and raised his Guinness in a salute.
âWe ordered you one,â Logan added. âDevin didnât think you were coming, so he drank it for you.â
âHey, it was getting warm,â he said, defending himself. âHere. You can have mine.â
âNo, thanks.â Patrick chuckled. âIâll get my own.â
Signaling the waitress for another beer, he sank into the wooden chair between his brothers and lifted a dark brow. âWell? Did you bring them?â
Devin and Logan didnât have to ask what he was talking about. They both pulled out a single piece of paper and tossed it onto the table, then waited for Patrick to do the same. Reaching into his inner coat pocket, he produced his own document and added it to the two on the table.
âThatâs a pretty sorry sight,â Logan retorted as the waitress delivered another round to their table. âThree brothers. Three divorces, all within six months of each other. Who could have guessed?â
âYou should have,â Patrick drawled, âat least when it came to yourself. You never believed in marriage anyway. How you let Jan talk you into walking down the aisle, Iâll never know.â
âYeah,â Devin said. âYou always said marriage was unnatural. Then the next thing we know, youâre planning a damn wedding.â
His green eyes twinkling ruefully, Logan shrugged. âWhat can I say? It was temporary insanity, and I learned my lesson the hard way.â
âYou werenât the only one,â Patrick said grimly. âAt least you didnât fall for a liar.
âI saw that look,â he added when his brothers exchanged speaking glances. âYou two are as bad as Mom. Just because Iâm never going to get married again doesnât mean Iâm bitter. Iâm just not stupid.â
Grinning, Logan held up his hands in surrender. âHey, you wonât get an argument out of me. Our mama didnât raise any idiots.â
âJust a bunch of cops who have bad taste in women,â Devin added, chuckling. âI think sheâd rather have idiots.â