“Seamus Quinn is my father,” Keely admitted, nestling closer to Rafe.

Rafe froze, afraid Keely might sense his reaction. He tried to keep his voice quiet, indifferent. “So…your name isn’t Keely McClain. It’s Keely Quinn.”

“Umm. Keely Quinn,” she murmured drowsily.

Rafe closed his eyes and cursed inwardly. This couldn’t be happening to him. He’d been planning his revenge for months and everything had been set in motion just days ago. He couldn’t stop now. Seamus Quinn had murdered his father and he’d have to pay!

But Keely was a Quinn. And with the exception of his mother, she was also the first woman he’d ever cared about. Rafe carefully slipped out of bed and walked to the windows. Streetlights still twinkled around Boston Harbor as the deep blue sky gave way to blazing orange and pink. He pressed his palms against the cold glass as he tried to bring order to the chaos raging in his head.

Rafe turned and looked back at Keely, curled up in his bed, the sheets twisted around her slender body. She looked so naive, so beguiling, her hand splayed over his pillow—such a stark contrast to the woman who’d driven him mad with lust the night before. He’d come to crave that contrast, the sexy siren trapped inside the innocent’s body.

But how much longer would she want him? And how much time did he have to make her want him more than she wanted her family?

Dear Reader,

Over the past few months I’ve been overwhelmed by the amount of wonderful e-mails and letters I’ve received regarding my MIGHTY QUINNS series, published by Harlequin Temptation in September, October and November 2001. Many of you have already fallen in love with Conor, Dylan and Brendan, and are anxiously waiting to get your hands on the stories of the youngest three Quinn brothers. But for my first single-title release, I wanted to do something a little different. So I’m thrilled to introduce you to another member of this irresistible Irish family—Keely Quinn, a woman who finds not only her family, but a man she can’t live without. And through it all, she finds herself.

It felt a little odd to leave the Quinn brothers behind and focus on figuring out what a female Quinn would be like. But as I wrote about Keely, I found she wasn’t much different from her brothers—stubborn, impetuous, passionate. And in order to balance the scales, I had to give Keely a great hero. I think I found him in Rafe Kendrick—a guy who can stand up to any one of the Quinn brothers, and actually does just that to claim the woman he loves.

Enjoy,

Kate Hoffmann

Reunited
Kate Hoffmann

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my siblings, Eileen, Lisa and Brad

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

PROLOGUE

A COLD WIND RATTLED the windows of the tiny apartment above the brick storefront. Keely McClain pushed aside the lace curtains and stared out at the dark street in her quiet Brooklyn neighborhood. Snow gathered on the ground and she said a quick prayer that the storm would worsen and school tomorrow would be canceled. She had a math test and had frittered away her study time today at school passing notes to her friends and drawing cartoon pictures of the nuns.

“Please snow, please snow,” she murmured. She pressed her palms together and said a quick prayer, then crossed herself.

Keely turned from the window and then hopped up on her bed, standing on the mattress so she could see herself in her dresser mirror. Carefully, she rolled up the waistband of her plaid skirt until the hem rose to midthigh, just to see what it looked like. Three rolls and a tug and the hem was perfectly even, as if her mother had made it that short. The nuns at Saint Alphonse required that school uniforms reach the floor when kneeling, a notion that every other girl in the all-girl school found positively prehistoric, especially in 1988.

“Have you finished your homework?”

Her mother’s voice echoed through the tiny apartment. For as long as Keely could remember, it had been just them. She’d never known her father. He’d died when she was just a baby. But Keely carried a picture of him in her mind, an image of a strong, handsome man with a charming smile and a tender heart. His name was Seamus and he’d come to the United States from Ireland with her mother, Fiona. He’d worked on a fishing boat and that’s how he’d died, in a terrible storm at sea.

Keely sighed. Maybe if she’d had a father around, she and her mother might have gotten along a little better. Fiona McClain had strong ideas about how her daughter should be raised and first and foremost was that Keely McClain would grow up a good Catholic girl. To Keely that meant no makeup, no parties, no boys—no fun. Instead of meeting her friends on Saturday morning to hang out at the mall, she was forced to help her mother at Anya’s Cakes and Pastries, the shop right below their apartment.

When she was younger, she’d loved watching Anya and her mother decorate the many-tiered wedding cakes. Sitting on a high stool in the bakery’s kitchen had been one of her first memories. And when she’d finally been given the responsibility of a real job, Keely had been too excited to speak. Every Wednesday afternoon, she’d dust the glass shelves that held the cake toppers and wedding favors and crystal goblets. She had passed the time by making up romantic stories about each of the little ceramic couples on the cake toppers, giving the grooms dashing names like Lance and Trevor and the brides pretty names like Amelia and Louisa.

She’d been just a kid then and her idea of true love had been more of a fairy tale than anything else. It wasn’t the clean-cut, heroic guys that caught her attention now. Instead, Keely had found herself interested in the kinds of boys that her mother would call “bowsies” and “dossers.” Boys who smoked cigarettes and boys who cursed. Boys who were bold enough to walk right up to a Catholic schoolgirl and start a conversation. Boys who made her heart beat a little bit faster just to look at them, and boys who weren’t afraid to steal a kiss now and then.

Keely took one last look at her skirt, then jumped down from the bed. She grabbed her schoolbag. She’d always worked so hard to please her mother, but slowly she’d come to realize that she was not the kind of daughter her mother really wanted. She couldn’t remain a little girl forever. She was twelve years old, nearly a teenager!

And she couldn’t always be the dutiful daughter, couldn’t always remember her manners and the proper way to sit in a skirt or eat soup with a spoon. There were times when she didn’t care to think everything through and make the right decision. She reached into her schoolbag and pulled out a lipstick tube. A wave of nausea washed over her, and for a moment she was certain she’d throw up, just as she had after she’d walked out of the drugstore.

Her mother had always told her that her nervous stomach was a sign from God. He was trying to drive the impurities out of her. Keely figured it was just punishment for allowing her impulses to control her behavior. But she had to admit that this time she’d probably gone too far.

It had been a dare and Keely had been too proud and stubborn not to accept it. Her friend, Tanya Rostkowski, had challenged her to walk into Eiler’s Drugstore and steal a lipstick or else be banished from the cool girls’ group. Keely had known it was a sin, but she never backed down from a dare, not even one that involved breaking the law. Besides, she wanted lipstick, and if she’d bought one with the money she made at Anya’s, Mrs. Eiler would certainly have ratted on her to her mother.

“Keely Katherine McClain, I asked you a question! Have you finished your homework?”

“Yeah, Ma,” Keely shouted. Yet another lie she’d have to confess to, though it paled in comparison to the lipstick.

“Then get ready for bed and don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

Keely groaned. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, instantly regretting the curse the moment it left her lips. She already had enough on her curse list for Friday night confession. Lying and stealing would probably be worth at least five Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. And Father Samuel was particularly harsh with foul language, although “bloody” couldn’t possibly be a curse word, since her mother said it all the time—at least, when she thought Keely wasn’t there to hear it.

“Bloody, bloody, bloody,” Keely muttered as she undressed and hung up her school uniform precisely as her mother required. Then she slipped into a flannel nightgown and jumped into bed. When she realized that she hadn’t brushed her teeth, she reached into the drawer of her bedside table and pulled out an old tube of toothpaste she’d hidden there. She put a dab on her tongue, then winced at the taste.

The trick always worked—unless her mother checked to see if her toothbrush was wet. It was just a tiny rebellion, but Keely felt that her teeth were her own and if she wanted them to turn black and fall out of her mouth when she was twenty, it was certainly her choice.

She leaned over the edge of the bed and reached beneath her mattress to pull out her journal. Sister Therese, her fifth grade teacher, had urged her students to start keeping a journal, hoping to perfect their penmanship and their grammar skills. And since that very first little clothbound book two years ago, Keely had written in her journal every night.

At first it had been a diary of sorts, but now that Keely had something truly interesting to write, she couldn’t possibly write it, for fear that her mother might read it. So instead, she filled the book with drawings and stories, each one another tiny little rebellion. She drew wedding cakes, wild, crazy designs, decorated with colored pencils and markers. And designs for sleek, sexy dresses with high hemlines and daring necklines. And she wrote passionate, romantic stories and poems. And though she gave her heroines a different name, when Keely read them, they became stories of her own future.

And sometimes she wrote stories about her father. Her mother had always been tight-lipped about Seamus McClain, and Keely suspected that his death was still too much for her to bear. So Keely had been left to create a past for them both, a wonderful, romantic past. Fiona McClain became the most tragic of heroines, grieving so deeply that she couldn’t keep a photo of Seamus around the apartment.

“Seamus,” Keely murmured, scribbling his name on the corner of a page. It was an odd, but exotic name to her ears. In her imagination, he had dark hair, nearly black like her own. And pale eyes that were a mix of green and gold, the same eyes she saw in the mirror every morning. A vision of her father flitted through her mind. He was dressed in a fine uniform with shiny buttons and gold braid on the shoulders. And his fishing boat was really a huge sailing ship that crossed the ocean.

“One night, as Seamus’s ship was nearing New York Harbor,” Keely murmured as she wrote in a haphazard script, “a terrible storm blew in from the north. Being a fine sea captain, Seamus ordered his men to take down the sails to protect his ship from crashing on the cliffs near the harbor. He stood in the driving rain, his hands fixed to the wheel, his only thoughts of the important passengers sleeping below.”

Keely reread what she had written and smiled. “But as lightning flashed, Seamus noticed debris floating around the bow of his ship. Another ship had crashed against the cliffs! Through the dark and rain, he could hear a soft and plaintive cry.” Keely covered her mouth with her cupped hand to make the cry more realistic. “Help. Help. Save me.”

Vivid images focused in her mind. “Seamus turned the wheel over to his first mate and ran to the bow. There, in the water below, was a woman, struggling to hold on to a jagged piece of the broken ship. ‘Do not fear,’ he called. Seamus tore off his jacket and linen shirt, his broad shoulders and strong arms gleaming in the rain.” Keely pressed her hand to her chest to feel her heart beating a bit faster. “And then he dove into the icy water and swam toward the drowning girl.”

This would be the best part, Keely mused, when they spoke for the first time. “‘What is your name?’ Seamus asked as he brushed her long, flowing hair from her eyes. ‘I am Princess Fiona,’ the girl said. ‘And if you save me, I promise to marry you and love you for—”’

“Are you in bed, Keely McClain?”

Keely jumped, startled from her dreaming. “Yes, Ma,” she called, glad that she didn’t have to lie officially. That saved her at least one Hail Mary at confession.

“And then Seamus took Fiona’s hand and swam for the ship,” Keely continued in a whisper, scribbling as she went. “Waves crashed around them, but Seamus would not let Fiona drown. For the moment he looked into her eyes, he knew he loved her. His crew dropped a rope ladder over the side, but the ship pitched and rolled and—”

“Did you brush your teeth, Keely?” her mother called.

Keely sighed dramatically. “Mary, mother of—” She stopped herself. Taking the Lord’s name in vain was one of those things that might get her an entire rosary. “I’m going to do that right now,” Keely shouted.

She tossed the quilt back, scrambled out of bed and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. She brushed up and down twenty-five times on each side and thirty in the front.

After she’d spit and wiped the paste off her mouth, Keely smiled. “And as Seamus carried his new ladylove up the ladder to the safety of his ship, the rain suddenly stopped and the moon broke through the clouds. And beneath the starry sky, Seamus leaned forward and kissed Fiona, sealing their love forever and forever.”

“It’s nearly ten and you should be in bed.”

Keely looked in the mirror and saw the reflection of her mother standing at the bathroom doorway. She held a dish towel in her hands and slowly wiped her fingers. Even though her hair was pulled back in a tidy bun and she wore a plain housedress, she still looked like the princess in Keely’s mind, with her bright green eyes and her mahogany tresses.

“Sorry, Ma.”

Fiona McClain sighed, then stepped into the bathroom. She reached out and smoothed Keely’s long, dark hair, staring at their reflection in the mirror over Keely’s shoulder. “You’re getting to be such a grown-up young lady. I almost don’t recognize you.” She flicked her hands through Keely’s bangs. “We need to cut these. They’re gettin’ in your eyes and I won’t have you goin’ to school looking like some shaggy mutt.”

Fiona’s lilting accent was soothing to Keely’s ears, like one of those pretty Irish love songs that her mother played over and over on the old stereo in the front room. Keely had tried so many times to imitate her, but her tongue just couldn’t get the sound right. “Do I look like my da?” Keely asked. “Do I look like Seamus McClain?”

“What?”

She saw the flash of pain in her mother’s eyes. But then it disappeared as quickly as it appeared. Over the past few days, her mother had been in one of her “moods.” She’d grown silent and sad, her expression distant. She’d stare out the window for hours, her attention fixed on the front walk of their flat, as if she were watching for that someone, waiting for that person’s arrival. And Keely’s conversations about her day at school went unheeded and unquestioned. Today was one of those sad days, a day when Keely was certain that Fiona was remembering her long-lost husband.

“Have you said your prayers?” her mother asked.

“Yes,” Keely lied. “Three Hail Marys and an Our Father.” Forget the lie. She’d do penance later. “Tell me about him, Ma.”

Her mother’s eyebrow shot up. “Three Hail Marys? Did you do something bad at school today?”

“No. I was just getting a little ahead. In case.”

“To bed with you,” Fiona ordered, clapping her hands. Keely hurried into her bedroom and pulled the covers over her. Fiona sat down on the edge of the bed and kissed Keely on her forehead. For the first time in almost two whole days, she smiled. “It’s time for you to sleep,” her mother murmured. “I have an early day tomorrow. We have to make the cake for the Barczak wedding. Three tiers with a fountain in the middle. And if you’re very good, you can come with me on Saturday when we deliver the cake.”

It had been her favorite thing to do when she was younger. But now it was just a chore, time spent away from her friends and a free Saturday afternoon. But this time Keely didn’t complain. Her mother had seemed so sad that she was willing to do anything to keep her mood bright. “Will we get to see the bride?” Keely asked, the same silly question she used to ask.

Fiona laughed softly. “Yes, we’ll be stayin’. The bride wants us to cut the cake and help serve.” She reached out and drew the covers up to Keely’s chin. “Now, lay yourself down and go to sleep. And may you dream of angels.”

“But what about my father?” Keely blurted out. “You always said you’d tell me when I was older and now I’m older. I’m almost thirteen and thirteen is a teenager. And a teenager is old enough to know about her father.”

Fiona McClain stared down at her hands, twisted around the dish towel in her lap. “I’ve already told you. Your father died in a terrible accident at sea and he—”

“No,” Keely interrupted. “Tell me about him. What was he like? Was he handsome? Or funny?”

“He was very handsome,” Fiona said, a reluctant smile touching her lips. “He was the most handsome boy in all of County Cork. All the girls in Ballykirk were taken with him. But he was from a poor family and my family had a bit of money. My da didn’t want me to marry him. They called him a ‘culchie,’ a country boy, although we lived in the country, too. But they thought he was lower class.”

“But you married him anyway,” Keely said, “because you loved him.”

“He didn’t have two pennies to rub together, but he had such grand dreams. Finally, I convinced my da that I couldn’t live without him and he gave us his blessing.”

“What else?” Keely asked.

“What else?”

“What did he like to do? What was he good at?”

“He liked to tell stories,” Fiona said. “Your da could tell such stories. He had a silver tongue, he did. That’s how he courted me, with his stories.”

This was something new! Keely felt an instant connection to the man she’d never seen. She loved stories and all her friends told her she was good at telling them. “Do you remember any of the stories? Can you tell me one?”

Fiona shook her head. “Keely, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can! You can remember. Tell me.”

Her mother shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “No, I can’t. Your da was the one who could tell the stories. I never had the talent. The only talent I had was for believin’ them.”

Keely sat up and threw her arms around her mother’s neck, giving her a fierce hug. “It’s all right,” she said. “Just knowing he told good stories makes me imagine him better.”

Her mother kissed her on the cheek, then reached over and turned off the lamp. In the shadows, Keely saw her brush a tear from her cheek. “Go to sleep now.”

She walked to the door and closed it behind her. A pale stream of light from the streetlamp filtered through the lace curtains, creating a pretty pattern on the ceiling. “He told stories,” Keely murmured to herself. “My da told really good stories.”

And though it was only a little bit of who Seamus McClain must have been, it was enough for now. For it gave her a small insight into the person she was. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be the good girl that her mother wanted her to be. Maybe she was really more like her father—bold, adventurous, imaginative and daring.

Keely sighed softly. Still, she knew in her heart that her father, whoever he was, would never approve of her pinching a lipstick from Eiler’s Drugstore. She made a silent vow to herself to return the lipstick first thing tomorrow.

CHAPTER ONE

A BRISK WIND buffeted the spot where Keely McClain stood. She turned into the breeze and inhaled the salttinged air. Far below her, the sea crashed against jagged rocks at the base of the cliff. Above her, clouds scudded across the sky, casting shadows on the hills around her. A memory from her childhood flashed in her mind as she recalled the fairy tale she once scribbled in her journal, the fanciful story of how her parents had met on a storm-tossed sea.

She tipped her face into the breeze, bathing in the mysterious spell that Ireland had cast. Time and time again, she’d felt this odd sense, a sense of belonging to this place she’d never seen before. This was land that had nurtured her mother and father, green and lush, colored by an unearthly light that made everyday scenery look magical. She could almost believe in leprechauns and gnomes and trolls, and all the other fairy creatures that populated this island.

Keely turned away from the sea and stared at the stone circle she’d come to find. It had been clearly marked on the road map, and though she’d been anxious to arrive in the small town that had once been her mother’s home, she had decided to take a short detour.

She’d followed a narrow country lane off the highway, steering the rental car beneath arching fuchsia bushes and between drystone fences. And then, when the sky had reappeared, she found herself in yet another breathtaking spot, a wide field above the sea where cows lazily grazed. Closer to the cliff’s edge, a stone circle sat silently in the dappled sunlight, a monument to Ireland’s pagan past.

Back home in New York City, she had barely given a second thought to her surroundings, the scraggly trees or patches of trampled grass, the brick buildings that lined her street in the East Village. But here, the world was so incredibly beautiful that it begged to be noticed. She took one last long look, committing the sights and sounds and smells to memory, then hiked back to her car.

She hadn’t intended to come to Ireland. She’d been in London, presenting a seminar with a famous French pastry chef and teaching new techniques for marzipan modeling. Since she’d taken over the bakery from Anya and her mother, she’d become known as one of the most talented cake designers on the East Coast, creating bold and original confections for a wide variety of special events.

She’d been so busy with work that she’d never been able to justify a vacation, so she’d decided on a working vacation. Between seminars, she’d seen a few musicals in the West End, searched antique stalls at the Portobello market for the old pastry molds she collected, and visited all the popular tourist sights.

But impulse drew her away from the bustle of the city, compelled her to hop a train that wound across England and Wales to the Irish Channel and to board a ferry that crossed choppy water to a town with the quaint name of Rosslare. Yesterday, from the deck of the ferry, she’d caught her first glimpse of Ireland and, at that moment, felt something deep inside her soul shift, as if she had suddenly discovered a facet of herself that had been hidden until this moment.

She was no longer just a New Yorker, or an American. This land was in her blood, part of her heritage, and she could feel it with every beat of her heart. Keely smiled to herself as she pulled the car door open. Though she’d been forced to drive in the wrong side of the car and on the wrong side of the road, she was getting better at navigating the country roads and narrow streets of the villages that she passed through. She nearly felt at home here.

A gentle rain began to fall and Keely ran to the car. She carefully turned around and started back down the lane, anxious to arrive in the little village she’d marked on the map. Ballykirk was only a few miles down the road, but as she came closer, her nerves got the better of her. She hadn’t told her mother she’d decided to go to Ireland, or come to County Cork. She knew the idea would be strongly discouraged. But her mother had never given her a decent reason for her feelings and this was one impulse that couldn’t be ignored. Besides, it had been a long time since she’d done anything to please her mother. She didn’t dress properly, she didn’t behave properly. And now, she didn’t travel properly either.

“The past is in the past and it’s best if it stays there,” Fiona would have said.

As Keely had grown older, she’d asked more questions about her parents’ past. And the more questions she’d asked, the more her mother had refused to speak—about her father, about Ireland, about relatives Keely had never known. “That was another life,” she’d say. But Keely had remembered one bit of information: Ballykirk, her mother’s birthplace in County Cork. A tiny village on the southwest coast, near Bantry Bay.

“So I’ll find out for myself.” Keely scanned the roadside for the landmarks on the hand-drawn map. She’d found the name in a phone book at the market in a nearby town. Quinn, her mother’s maiden name. Maeve Quinn was the only Quinn in Ballykirk and when she’d asked the elderly clerk whether Maeve Quinn was related to the Fiona Quinn who married Seamus McClain about twenty-five years ago, he gave her a puzzled frown, scratched his head, then shrugged. “Maeve would know,” he murmured as he scribbled a map to Maeve’s home.

She found the place exactly where the clerk had said it would be. The tiny whitewashed cottage was set close to the road, a rose arbor arched over the front gate serving as a landmark. Keely could tell that the home had stood in the same spot for many years. An overgrown garden, filled with a riotous mix of wild-flowers, filled the yard and nearly obscured the cobblestone walk to the front door. Had her mother lived here once, picked flowers in the garden, played hopscotch on the walk? Had she passed her father’s home or was it just over the next hill on the road?

Keely sat in the car, her mind forming images of her mother as a child—racing out of the front door to play, weaving a garland of daisies for her head, chasing butterflies down the narrow lane. With a soft sigh, she stepped out of the car, anxious to get a closer look.

As she approached the stone fence that surrounded the cottage, the front door opened. Keely hesitated, then decided to explain herself to Maeve Quinn and hope for news of her family.

The slender elderly woman with hair the color of snow was dressed in a brightly flowered dress. She held her hand out to the rain, then waved. “Come in, come in, dear,” she called, motioning to Keely. “Jimmy rang me from the market and told me you were on your way. Don’t make me wait a minute longer to meet you.”

Keely reached for the latch on the gate, unwilling to refuse such a friendly invitation. “I don’t mean to disturb you,” she said. “I’m Keely Mc—”

“I know exactly who you are,” the woman said, her Irish accent thick in each word. “You are Fiona and Seamus’s girl. You’re family, that you are, come all the way from across the ocean. And I won’t miss a chance to share a cup of tea with a relative.” She held out her hand and it trembled slightly. “I’m Maeve Quinn. I suppose I would be your cousin then. At least I’m cousin to your father Seamus. So what would that make us?” She waved her hand. “Oh, never mind. It makes no difference at all, does it?”

Keely hesitated. Surely the woman had misspoke. Maeve was a Quinn. She would have been related to Keely’s mother, not her father. Maybe she wasn’t a relative at all. “I think you must be mistaken,” Keely said. “My mother was Fiona Quinn.”

“Yes, yes,” Maeve said. “And she married my cousin, Seamus Quinn. She was a McClain, as I recall. From the McClains that lived down Topsall Road in that big house. Yes, that was it. Topsall Road.” Maeve smiled, her eyes lighting up. “She was the prettiest girl in the village and from a fine family. I was there at their wedding. And how is Fiona? Since her parents passed years back, we haven’t heard a thing from her, or from Seamus, for that matter. But then you wouldn’t have remembered your grandparents. You must have been just a wee child when they died. Donal and Katherine, God rest their souls, treasured each other until the day death separated them. Donal couldn’t live without her and he died just a week after she did. Many say from a broken heart.”

“Donal and Katherine?” Keely slowly sat down on the chair she was offered, trying to digest all the information. Katherine was her middle name! But it had been over twenty-five years since her parents had left. It was no wonder the elderly lady got things mixed up, names and places.

“I’ll get tea,” she said, as she hurried out of the parlor into the rear of the cottage. “I have the pot on right now.”

Keely glanced around the tidy room, from the handmade lace doilies to the delicate crystal figurines, pretty landscape paintings and embroidered pillows. Tiny reminders of her mother’s home were scattered around the room, knickknacks that she’d never known were of Irish origin. She reached out and picked up a delicate Belleek porcelain dish, examining the fine basketweave surface.

“Here we are,” Maeve chirped. “Tea and a bit of gur cake.” She set the tray down on the table in front of Keely and poured her a cup. “Milk or lemon?” she asked.

“Milk, please,” Keely said. She took the cup and saucer from Maeve, along with the thin slice of fruitcake tucked beside. She hesitated, then set the tea down in front of her. “There’s something I have to clear up,” she said. “It’s about my parents. My mother’s name was Fiona Quinn and my father’s name was Seamus McClain. Maybe it’s just a coincidence but—”

“Oh, no, dear. You must be confused.”

Keely sighed in exasperation. “I can’t be confused about my parents’ names. They’re my parents.”

Maeve frowned, then quickly stood. “Well, we’ll just have to sort this tangle out.” She crossed the room, opened a cabinet, and withdrew a leather-bound album. “Here,” she said, returning to Keely’s side. She sat down next to her and opened the album. “Here they are.”

Keely stared down at the picture. Her mother had never kept old photos around the house. She had never considered this odd until she’d grown older and asked about her long-dead father and her grandparents, suddenly anxious for any proof of their existence. There was even a time when she’d wondered if she’d been adopted or kidnapped by pirates or even left in a basket on the church…

Her gaze instantly froze on the pretty young woman standing near the sea. It was her mother, there was no doubt about that. She pointed to the photo. “That’s Fiona Quinn,” she said.

“Yes,” Maeve said. “And there’s your father, Seamus Quinn.”

“My—father?” Keely asked, her voice dying in her throat. She ran her fingers over the faded edges. “This is my father.”

“He was always a handsome devil,” the old woman said. “A favorite of all the girls in the village. But he only had eyes for your mother, and though her parents didn’t approve of the match, there was nothing that could stop them. I expect he still is quite dashing, though that black hair has surely turned to gray.”

Keely’s heart lurched and she felt the blood slowly drain from her brain. Her father was dead. Didn’t this woman know? He’d been gone for so many years, since just after she was born. Her mother had to have sent the news in a letter or at least made a phone call. Or maybe Maeve had simply forgotten her relatives so far away. Though the woman didn’t appear to be feebleminded, Keely decided to forgo the revelation about her father’s death. The last thing she wanted was her new cousin to collapse from a heart attack at learning the sad fate of Seamus McClain.

Instead, Keely continued to stare at the only image she’d ever seen of her father. He was handsome, with his dark hair and fine features. Had she passed him on the street in New York she would have turned for a second look. Now she had an image to fix in her mind, a face to put with her father’s name. “He is handsome,” Keely murmured.

“All the Quinn men were,” Maeve said. “And I do believe they knew it, too.”

“Here’s another photo taken that same day. I believe it was the day they left for America. Taken with the boys. I remember trying to get them all to stand still for a photo was nearly impossible.”

“The boys?” Keely asked, following Maeve’s finger to the next page of the album.

“And here they are again,” Maeve said, pointing to another photo.

Keely glanced down at the picture, the color images washed out by time. This time Fiona and Seamus were surrounded by five young boys of various ages and sizes. “Are these your children?” Keely asked.

Maeve laughed as she pulled the photo from the album. “Then you don’t recognize them? Why, these would be your brothers. Let me see if I remember correctly. The eldest was Conor. And then there was Brendan and Dylan, though I can’t remember which of those two comes first. I suppose they’re all grown and married now, with families of their own. And the twins. Now what were their names?” She turned the photo over. “I do believe your mother was pregnant.” She pointed to the swell beneath Fiona’s windblown dress. “That was probably you.”

Keely quickly pushed to her feet. This couldn’t be right. This wasn’t her family. This wasn’t her story. She didn’t have brothers. She was an only child! “I really should go,” she murmured. “I’ve already taken too much of your time.”

“But you haven’t touched your tea. Please stay and visit with me.”

“Perhaps I’ll come again tomorrow,” Keely said, desperate to find a moment to herself, a moment to think about what Maeve had told her.

“Well, here, then. Take this with you.” She handed Keely the photo, who reluctantly took it and tucked it in her purse before she hurried to the door.

“Tomorrow,” she said as she stepped outside into the soft rain that had begun to fall.

By the time she reached the car, her mind was spinning with confusion. She wanted to believe Maeve Quinn was a crazy old lady who couldn’t keep her facts straight. But every instinct told her that Maeve was in full possession of her faculties and she was the one who didn’t have the story right.

Keely numbly started the car and steered it down the road. But her head pounded and her stomach roiled. A wave of nausea overtook her and she slammed on the brakes and stumbled out of the car. Bracing her hands on the front bumper, she retched, her emotions overtaking her body. When her stomach finally settled, she took a ragged breath and pressed her palm to her forehead.

Damn it, why did this always happen to her! This was what she got for acting so impulsively. Yet she couldn’t be sorry she’d come. Ireland had revealed a past she’d never known, a past her mother had hidden from her for years. And if this wasn’t the truth, then she’d be damn sure she’d get the truth, either here or back in the States. On wobbly legs, she slipped back into the car.

Keely withdrew the photo from the pocket of her purse and stared down at it. The faces of the five boys were undeniably familiar. If they weren’t her brothers, then they were most certainly related. Minutes passed, but Keely couldn’t take her eyes off the photo. A knock on the car window startled her out of her thoughts and she turned to find a grizzled old man staring at her with a toothless smile. A tiny scream burst from her lips.

“Are ye lost?” he asked.

Keely rolled the window down a few inches. “What?”

“Are ye lost?” he repeated.

“No,” Keely said.

“Ye looked lost,” he said. He rubbed his chest then hitched his thumbs in the straps of his tattered overalls and glanced up at the sky. “It’s a soft auld day, that it is. You sure you’re not lost?”

“I’m not,” she snapped.

The old man shrugged and started down the road. But before he got more than a few yards from the car, Keely jumped out and ran after him. “Wait!” she called.

He turned and waited for Keely, his hands now shoved in the pockets of his overalls.

“Have you lived in this village for a long time?” Keely asked.

“All me life,” the old man replied. “Not long. But long enough.”

“If I wanted to find out about a family that used to live here, who would I ask?”

“Well, Maeve Quinn would be the one. She’s lived here for—”

“Besides her,” Keely said.

The old man scratched his grizzled beard, then moved on to the top of his balding head. “Ye can try the church,” he suggested. “Father Mike has tended this flock for near forty years. He’s married sweethearts and buried old folk and christened every child in the village.”

“Thank you,” Keely said. “I’ll talk to him.” She turned and started back toward the car, but once she got back inside, she was hesitant to put the car back into gear.

Did she really want to know the truth? Or would it be better to just believe that Maeve Quinn was some crazy old lady? But if Maeve did have her facts straight, it would explain a few things. How many times had she walked in on her mother, only to find her lost in her thoughts, a quiet pain suffusing her expression? And why was Fiona so reluctant to speak of the past, unless that past was one big lie? Did Keely really have five brothers? And if she had, what possible reason could there be for Fiona walking away from five fatherless boys?

Keely’s heart froze. Could her father still be alive? Was the story about his accident at sea just part of one big deception? Another surge of nausea made her dizzy. So many questions and no answers.

There was only one thing to do. First, she’d have to prove that Maeve Quinn had spoken the truth. And if she had, then Keely would catch the next flight home. She had a few questions that needed answering. And only Fiona McClain—or was it Fiona Quinn?—could answer them.

SMOKE HUNG THICK in the air at Quinn’s Pub, adding to the disreputable atmosphere already cultivated by spilt beer, loud music and raucous arguments. Rafe Kendrick sat at the end of the bar, a warm Guinness in front of him. The spot gave Rafe enough privacy for his own thoughts, yet also offered him a decent view of the patrons—and the men behind the bar.

That’s why he’d come here to South Boston, to get a good look at the Quinns. By his count, there were seven of them, six sons and the old man, Seamus Quinn. Rafe had entire dossiers on each one of them, every detail of their lives outlined by his head of security at Kencor. But Rafe Kendrick always believed that it was better to study the enemy close up, to learn their faults and their weaknesses firsthand. All the better to exploit those weaknesses later.

Fortunately, all the Quinns spent plenty of time at the pub. Over the past few months and three visits to the bar, he’d had plenty of time to observe each of them. There was Conor, the vice cop, quiet and serious, a man who took his responsibilities seriously, yet didn’t always abide by the rules. Dylan, the fireman, was easygoing and gregarious, the kind of guy who laughed at danger and everything else in life. The third brother, Brendan Quinn, made his living as an adventure writer and seemed to be the most introspective of the trio. Rafe had read two of his books and found them quite riveting. He’d been surprised at the guy’s talents.

Their professional talents were nothing compared to their talents with the ladies. An unending parade of women strolled through the front door of the pub, their sights set on attracting the attention of one of the bachelor Quinn brothers. If one of the older boys wasn’t interested, they were left with three other eligible candidates—Sean, Brian and Liam Quinn.

Like their older brothers, they were awash in feminine attention, holding court with any number of beautiful females. Rafe had found the whole thing amusing to watch, the casual flirtation, the circling and advancing, and then the final denouement when one of the brothers would walk out the door of the bar with a woman at his side. And none of the brothers were seen with the same woman two nights in a row.

But then Rafe had never considered that particular trait a weakness, since he possessed the same. Rafe had been with his share of women in his life, though they came from a world very different from Quinn’s Pub. They were cool and sophisticated, not nearly so obvious with their desires and their physical attributes. They were women who enjoyed the company of wealthy men, appreciating what money could provide, knowing how to play the game to their fullest advantage. And when Rafe became too busy or too bored, they’d accept the fact and move on to someone else without a second thought.

Rafe caught himself staring at a woman at the other end of the bar, a woman who had been flirting with Dylan Quinn until Quinn had focused his attention on her companion. Rafe looked away, but not soon enough. A few moments later, the woman slipped onto the stool beside him, tossing her honey-blond hair over her shoulder. She pulled out a cigarette and placed it between her moist lips, then leaned forward, offering a healthy view of her cleavage. Rafe knew what was expected. But he wasn’t interested, so he simply slid the book of matches across the bar.

The woman didn’t take the hint. She gave him a dazzling smile. “I’m Kara,” she murmured. “Would you like to join me for a game of pool?”

Rafe didn’t bother returning her smile. “I don’t play pool,” he said softly.

“Darts?” she said, arching her eyebrow and allowing her hand to brush against his sleeve.

Rafe slowly shook his head, then glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sure there are any number of men in this bar who’d enjoy your company tonight…Kara. I’m just not one of them.”

She blinked in surprise, then, with a sniff, slipped off the bar stool and returned to her friends at the other end of the bar.

“Can I get you another Guinness, boyo?”

Rafe glanced up from his warm beer. The patriarch of the Quinn clan stood in front of him, a towel tossed over his shoulder. His thick gray hair dropped in a wave over his forehead and his face was lined from years of harsh sun and sea spray. “Or maybe ye’d like a bite to eat? Kitchen closes in fifteen minutes,” Seamus added.

Rafe pushed the warm beer away from him. “Scotch,” he said. “Neat.”

Seamus nodded then went to fetch the drink. Rafe studied the old man coldly. How many times had he heard the name Seamus Quinn? His mother used to murmur it like a mantra, as if she had to remind herself over and over again that her husband was dead—and that Seamus Quinn was responsible.

Rafe glanced up when the old man returned with his drink. He couldn’t ignore the surge of hate that heated his blood, better than any twelve-year-old Scotch could. But he had to push that aside for now, for reckless emotion had no part in his plans for the Quinns. It wouldn’t be wise to tip his hand so early.

“You new around here?” Seamus asked, leaning an elbow on the bar.

Rafe took a sip of his Scotch and shook his head. “Not new to Boston,” he said. “Lived here for a while.”

“I know just about everybody in the neighborhood,” Seamus countered, eyeing him suspiciously. “Haven’t seen you around.”

“I’ve got…business in the area,” Rafe replied.

“Oh, yeah. Doin’ what?”

“Tying up loose ends,” he said with a shrug. He gulped the last of his Scotch, letting it burn a path down his throat. Then he stood up and pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket. Rafe tossed a twenty on the bar. “Keep the change,” he muttered before he turned and headed toward the door.

He shoved the door open and walked out into the September night, the streets illuminated by the feeble light from the streetlamps. Though Quinn’s Pub was located in a rough section of town, Rafe felt no qualms about walking the streets. He’d grown up on the streets and had learned to protect himself, first with his fists, then with his wits, and now with his wealth.

As he walked toward his car, he thought about the boy he’d once been, happy and carefree, certain of his parents’ love. But that had all changed one fall day, much like this one. Even now, a sick feeling twisted his gut at the memory of his father’s friends—the men who had worked the swordfishing boats with Sam Kendrick—walking up the front steps of their tiny house in Gloucester.

They hadn’t had to speak. Rafe knew what they’d come for. But still, he listened to the details of how his father had met with an unfortunate accident at sea. His father had been caught in a long line and yanked overboard on the Mighty Quinn, Seamus Quinn’s boat. By the time they’d gotten him back on deck, he was dead. Drowned. Like every fisherman’s kid, Rafe knew the dangers of working the North Atlantic, but he couldn’t believe his father could make such a stupid mistake. Even Rafe knew to be watchful when they were playing out the line.

That day had marked the end of Rafe’s childhood. Lila Mirando Kendrick, already frail of mind and health, took the news badly. Though she’d hated her husband’s choice of occupation, she’d loved Sam Kendrick. It had been an odd match, the rough-and-tumble Irish American and the delicate Portuguese beauty. But they had adored each other and the loss of him was more than she could bear. What emotional stability she had left was shattered along with the family’s financial stability.

Rafe had immediately gone to work to help supplement the insurance settlement his mother received. He had worked from the time he was nine years old, first delivering papers and collecting aluminum cans, until he could get a real work permit. After that, he took anything that would pay at least minimum wage. He worked construction to put himself through college, then parlayed a small investment in a crumbling storefront into a fortune in Boston’s booming real estate market.

By the age of twenty-five, he’d made his first million. And now, at thirty-three, he had more money than he could ever spend. Enough to make his life easy. Enough to buy his mother all the help she needed. And plenty of money to make revenge a simple matter. After all, that’s why he’d come to Quinn’s Pub—to avenge his father’s death and his mother’s grief.

Rafe turned back and looked down the darkened street to the neon lights blinking from the pub windows. He wasn’t sure why he had to do this. A shrink might say he had a need for closure, or a desire to work out his childhood rage. But Rafe didn’t put much stock in the science of psychiatry, even though he’d spent a fortune supporting the profession on behalf of his mother. His motive was much simpler.

He’d find a way to take something away from Seamus Quinn, the same way Quinn had taken something from him. An eye for an eye, wasn’t that how it was supposed to be? Maybe he’d find the means to buy the pub out from under him. Or maybe he’d get to Quinn through his sons. Or maybe he’d finally find the proof he needed to put Quinn in jail for the murder of Sam Kendrick.

Whatever it was, Rafe was determined to make it happen. Once he rid himself of the demons in his past, maybe he could finally get on with his future.

THE LIGHTS OF New York glittered against a carpet of black night. Keely stared out the window of the 747, her cheek pressed against the cool surface. She’d left Ireland five hours ago and somewhere over the Atlantic she’d come to the realization that her life had changed forever.

Her visit to the parish priest had been even more illuminating than her tea with Maeve Quinn. Though he couldn’t tell her if her father was still alive, Keely left believing that somewhere in the world, she at least had five brothers, and probably six. The baby that her mother was carrying when she left Ireland was more than a year older than Keely. She didn’t want to believe that the baby had been a girl and her mother had kept a sister from her for all these years.

Her thoughts wandered back to all the romantic stories she made up about her parents, their enduring love, his tragic accident, her mother’s grief. So what had really happened? If her father was still alive, he would have made some attempt to see her, wouldn’t he have?

“So, he’s not alive. That part of the story is the truth,” she told herself. “He would have made an attempt to see me if he could.” Seamus Quinn had died and her mother was left with five, or maybe six children. She couldn’t take care of them and she…put them into foster care? That would explain her mother’s melancholy moods. But why keep that all from Keely? And why, once she made a decent living at the cake shop, didn’t she find her sons?

Keely moaned softly, then rubbed her temples, working at the knots of tension that kept her head in a vice.

“Are you all right?”

She turned and looked at the businessman who sat next to her in first class. She hadn’t even noticed him, so preoccupied was she with her thoughts for the past five hours. “No,” she murmured.

“Can I get the flight attendant for you?”

“No,” Keely said. She forced a smile. “I’ll be fine, once we land.”

“It’ll be good to be home,” he said. “I don’t know about you, but I hate traveling. Not in the U.S., but this foreign travel is too much. The hotels are too small and the food is the worst. And I have to tell you…”

Keely smiled and nodded as the man prattled on and on, but she wasn’t listening to a word he said. She pulled the photo out of her purse and stared down at it. Where were her brothers now? Had they all been split up after her father had died? Did they remember her or had they been too young?

A tiny smile curled the corners of her mouth. They were handsome boys. No doubt they’d be handsome men. “Conor, Dylan, Brendan,” she murmured. “Brian and Sean.”

“Is that your family?”

Keely dragged her gaze from the photo. “What?”

The businessman pointed to the picture. “Your family?”

“No,” Keely said. She swallowed hard then forced a smile. “I mean, yes. This is my family. My brothers. And my parents.”

He took the photo from her fingers and she fought the impulse to snatch it back and hide it away where it would be safe. For now, all she had was the photo. But the idea of family—her family—belonged out in the open. She wanted to know these brothers she had lost. She wanted to know what really happened to her father and why she’d been forced to grow up an only child.

A different person would be stepping off the plane in New York. She’d gone to Ireland believing she knew who and what she was. She’d been content with her life. But now she was more than just Keely McClain—she was a sister and an only daughter to a man she didn’t know. She was a Quinn.

But she was also less. Everything she’d believed she was had been negated within the span of a few hours. All her memories of her childhood were now tainted with her mother’s betrayal. The woman she thought she knew better than anyone in the world had become a complete enigma.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re cleared for landing at JFK. We’ll be on the ground in about fifteen minutes.”

The flight attendant leaned over and grabbed the wineglass from Keely’s tray table, then asked her to fasten her seat belt. Keely accepted the photo back from the man next to her, feeling her stomach flutter nervously. For a moment she thought she might get sick the way she had that day outside Maeve Quinn’s cottage. She grabbed the airsickness bag from the pocket in front of her. But she couldn’t face the humiliation of losing her honey-roasted peanuts in front of everyone in first class.

Keely pushed out of the seat and hurried to the bathroom. The flight attendant tried to stop her, but she waved her off and locked herself inside. Leaning over the sink, she drew a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves. This was the second time this had happened! It had been years since her nerves had gotten the best of her. But now panic and nausea seemed to descend on her without warning.

“Calm down,” she murmured, staring at her reflection in the mirror. “No matter what the truth is, you’ll deal with it.”

She splashed some water on her face and ran her fingers though her short dark hair. She hadn’t told her mother that she was coming home early. Right now, she could only think a few minutes ahead. Once they landed, she’d decide how to approach Fiona.

A knock sounded on the bathroom door. “Miss? We’re on our final approach. You have to take your seat.”

Keely closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’ll be right out.” She reached for the latch, then pasted a smile on her face.

She found her seat moments before the plane descended to the runway. The next hour passed in a blur, her mind numb with fatigue and pent-up emotion. Like a robot, she walked through customs and immigration, flipping open her passport only to wonder whether she was reentering the country illegally. After all, her name wasn’t really McClain but Quinn. Then she dragged her luggage down the concourse to the taxi stand.

She gave the cabbie her address, then decided at the last minute that going home would be useless. She wouldn’t get any sleep until she’d talked to her mother. “No,” she said. “Take me to 210 East Beltran in Prospect Heights. There’s construction on Atlantic, so take Linden.”

Keely settled back into the seat, knowing that the ride could be excruciatingly long or mercifully short. Luckily, it was the latter and the cab pulled up in front of her mother’s place after only a half-hour ride. The bakery looked quite different from the building it had been in Keely’s childhood. It now had a distinctly sophisticated look, with a fancy sign hanging over the door that proclaimed it McClain’s—Fine Cakes and Pastries.

Anya had retired years ago, selling the business to Fiona. So she and Keely had carried on. After Keely graduated from high school, she had attended classes at nearby Pratt Institute, honing her artistic talents in design and sculpting. And four years ago, she’d taken over the day-to-day business from her mother. Just last year, as her popularity as a cake designer boomed, she had finally moved out, finding a loft with room enough for a small studio in a trendy location in the East Village. But the everyday baking and decorating was still done in Brooklyn.

Fiona worked at the shop every day, discussing cake designs with nervous brides and picky mothers. Keely rarely had time to get out of the kitchen, decorating cakes for lavish birthday parties and corporate receptions, movie premieres and store openings, as well as high-society weddings. She’d reached a landmark last month, selling a single wedding cake for the same amount of money that her mother had made in an entire year working for Anya. It still stunned her what a little bit of flour, sugar and butter was worth if it looked pretty enough.

Though she’d never intended to follow in her mother’s footsteps, she loved her job. She loved the excitement of making a crowning centerpiece for a wedding or birthday party. But all the way back from Ireland, she could barely even think of the work she had waiting for her. How could she possibly spend hour after hour, elbow-deep in buttercream, after what had happened?

The cab pulled up on Beltran and screeched to a halt. Keely paid the cabbie, then grabbed her bags from the trunk and hauled them to the front door of her mother’s flat. She fumbled for her key and unlocked the door, then left her things in the tiny foyer.

She slowly climbed the stairs. When she reached the top, Keely knocked softly, then pushed the door open. She found her mother standing near the door, her hand pressed to her chest.

“Keely! Lord, you frightened me! What are you doing here? You weren’t due home for another two days.”

Her mother’s voice sounded strange to her ears. Keely had always thought she had an accent, but compared to Maeve, her mother spoke with barely a hint of Ireland left in her voice. Fiona stepped up and drew her into a warm hug, but Keely stiffened, then pulled back. “I went to Ballykirk,” she murmured.

Fiona’s breath caught and her gaze met Keely’s. “What?”

“You heard me,” Keely said. “I visited Ballykirk. I thought I’d go to learn a little more about my ancestry. I thought it might be interesting. Little did I realize.”

Her mother’s face had gone pale and she pressed trembling fingers to her lips. “You know?”

“I want you to tell me,” Keely said, her voice filling with anger. “Tell me they all died in a terrible accident and you couldn’t bear to talk about it. Tell me they never existed and Maeve Quinn was wrong. Tell me because those are the only two reasons that I can accept for you lying to me all these years.”

“I can’t tell you that,” Fiona said, her eyes downcast. “It would just be another lie.”

“And of course lying is a sin, isn’t it, Ma? But then maybe that’s why you go to confession every week, so you can wipe away a lifetime of sin.” Keely drew a ragged breath. “For once, tell me the truth. I need to know who I am.”

She flopped down into one of her mother’s over-stuffed chairs, ready to listen to the real story of her life. And once she had the whole truth, then she’d decide what to do next.

CHAPTER TWO

“WHY CAN’T you understand? All my life, I’ve believed I was an only child. Do you know how that feels?” Keely snatched up a pastry bag and began to scoop icing into it. “There’s no one else in this world that I can call family except you. And what happens when you’re gone? Who will I have?”

“A nice thing, that,” Fiona murmured, a haughty arch to her brow. “Putting me in my bloody grave so soon, are you?”

Keely sighed, then tossed the spatula back into the bowl and began to pipe the Italian meringue icing over the first layer of the wedding cake. “Why shouldn’t I be angry with you? I have a father and six brothers. And you kept me from them.”

“How many times have we gone over this? It’s been a week since you got back from Ireland. When are you going to forgive me?”

“When you bloody well give me a good reason to,” Keely shot back. “I want to know everything. Why you left him, how you could walk away from your children, why you never told me. Until you’re honest about everything, then I’m going to keep bringing up the subject.”

Fiona sighed softly. “I wanted to keep you from being hurt. There are reasons I left your father. Good reasons.”

“I can understand that. Marriage is difficult. But how could you leave your sons? They were your children.”

As she had so many times over the past week, Fiona refused to explain further. At first, Keely had been furious with her, lashing back with anger and accusations. Then after a few days, her anger had abated and was replaced by cool intolerance. But now she was frustrated by her mother’s silence, curious to know more but stymied at every turn. Keely knew from the look in her mother’s eyes that the memories still brought back overwhelming pain. But she didn’t care! She picked up the bowl of buttercream and heaved it across the room. It bounced off the wall, then spattered all over the floor.

“Well,” her mother muttered, “that’s a fine way to behave.”

“If you won’t talk to me about this, then I have no choice. I’ll have to go to Boston and find out for myself.”

Her mother drew in a sharp breath. “You’ll only get hurt.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Fiona said.

“That’s not a reason!”

“They don’t even know you exist.”

Her words were barely a whisper, but they were like a dagger to Keely’s heart. She blinked as emotion welled up inside of her. “They—they don’t know about me?”

“I left Boston right after I learned I was pregnant with you. Your father didn’t know. I came here to get away, just for a little while, to decide what I wanted to do with my life. And I just never went back. When I had you, I put my maiden name on your birth certificate and started using that name. Anya was the only person who ever knew the truth. So if you’re determined to find them, you have to understand. They won’t know you. And they might not believe you.”

“I have a right to know them!” Keely cried, brushing a tear of frustration from her cheek.

“And what can I say to stop you?” Fiona asked. “If I tell you everything, you’ll still go.”

Keely shrugged. “So why not tell me?”

Fiona closed her eyes and tipped her head back. “It was a long, long time ago. Another life.”

“And you’ve made no move to contact them in all these years?”

“I was protecting you,” Fiona explained. “I thought my marriage was over. I knew that Seamus would never change. And when I walked out, I never intended to stay away for so long. I decided I’d go back after you were born. But by then, it was even more difficult to leave New York. I had a good job. I’d built a life for us.”

“But your sons,” Keely said. “How could you—”

Tears flooded Fiona’s eyes. “Do you think it was easy leaving them? I thought it would force Seamus to grow up if he had to be responsible for the boys for a while, if he had to pay the bills and take care of the house. I kept in touch with a neighbor for a time, just to make sure the boys were all right.” She paused. “I didn’t want to leave. But I was trapped. I would have taken them with me, but didn’t have a way to provide for the boys, and Seamus did. I’d never worked in my life before I took the job in the bakery.”

“I used to make up all sorts of stories about my father,” Keely said. “He was so heroic and brave and he died in a very tragic way. You see, I had to make up stories since you never told me anything.”

“Would you have been happy with the truth? Your father was a dirt-poor Irish fisherman who spent most of his time on a swordfishing boat out in the North Atlantic. When he was home, he was usually drunk. He gambled away most of what he earned. And when he went back out to sea, I was glad for it.”

Keely laughed softly. “And I imagined the reason that you never married again was that you never stopped loving him.”

“I’m a Catholic and divorce wasn’t an option.”

Keely gasped. “You’re still married?”

“I am,” Fiona said. “I’m not sure about your father. He could have another wife. I suppose that would make him a bigamist.”

Keely stared down at the piping on the cake, noticing that her work had become uneven and sloppy. With a soft curse, she picked up her spatula and smoothed the decoration out, preparing to start all over again. “I have to go,” she murmured. “I have to know who they are.”

“Even if it means you’ll get your heart broken? Please, Keely, don’t turn this into some romantic fantasy,” Fiona warned. “It’s more likely to be a disaster.”

“And maybe it won’t be. Maybe they’ll be happy to meet me.”

A long silence grew between them. “When will you go?” Fiona finally asked.

“I’ve asked Janelle and Kim to take care of the jobs for this weekend. You’ll have to do the Wilkinson cake and the Marbury cake. They’re both decorated with marzipan and I’ve made all of that ahead of time. You’ll just need to frost the tiers and do a little simple piping. I should only be gone about a day or two.”

“Then, you’ll need this,” Fiona said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a chain with a jewel-encrusted pendant. She held it out to Keely. “Take it,” she said.

Keely twisted the chain around her fingers and examined the necklace. “What is this?”

“It was given to me on my wedding day by my mother. It’s a McClain family heirloom. A claddagh. The Irish symbol of love. The heart is for fidelity, the hands for friendship and the crown for loyalty. I was saving it to give to you on your wedding day.” She paused. “Seamus knows this pendant. If you show it to him, he’ll know where it came from.” Fiona laughed softly. “In truth, this necklace was the reason I left your father.”

“It was?”

Fiona nodded. “He’d just come home after two months away. He was drunk and he’d just gambled away most of his pay down at the pub. He took the necklace to a pawn shop and sold it for gambling money. He said he needed to win back what he’d lost. Before I left Boston, I convinced the pawnbroker to let me buy it back over time. It took me three years.” She stared at the pendant, dangling from Keely’s fingers. “That’s the kind of man your father was…the truth be told.”

“Maybe he’s changed,” Keely said softly. “People can change, you know.”

“And maybe he hasn’t,” Fiona countered.

Keely slipped the necklace into her apron pocket. “I guess I won’t know for sure until I meet him myself.”

She turned back to her cake and studied it critically. Suddenly she didn’t have the patience for piping the delicate basket weave. Now that she’d decided to go to Boston and find her family, she wanted to pack her bags and leave right away. A tiny wave of nausea gave her pause, but she fought it back. She was brave enough to face whatever might happen in Boston.

And once she did, she’d be able to figure out who she really was—a McClain or a Quinn.

A CHILLY WIND stung Keely’s face as she walked down the rain-slicked sidewalk, her hands shoved into her jacket pockets, her gaze fixed a few feet ahead of her. She was almost afraid to look up, afraid to face what she had come to see.

The weather was cold for early October and a nasty storm was bearing down on the East Coast, the prospect of rain heavy in the air. But that hadn’t stopped her from driving to Boston. Since she’d returned from Ireland just over a week ago, Keely had dreamed about this day, going over it in her head, then with maps spread out on her bed. She had plotted how long it would take to drive from New York to Boston and back again.

She’d wanted to go the day after she’d returned from Ireland, the moment her mother told her that Seamus Quinn was in Boston. She’d found his address on the Internet and was ready to pick up the phone and call him. But she’d stopped herself, unwilling to act impulsively this time. For once in her life, Keely was determined to think before she acted and not rush headlong into something she knew might be dangerous.

Up until this moment, that had been the story of her life—impetuous decisions, impulsive actions, always leading to a severe reckoning. Like the time a friend had dared her to steal money from the offering basket at church. She’d tossed in a quarter and palmed a five-dollar bill, only to be caught by the old lady sitting next to her. Keely had been forced to clean the church bathrooms for six months to pay for that little lapse.

Then there was the time she’d run away with the drummer from a sleazy garage band. She’d been sixteen and had made it as far as New Jersey before the guy dumped her. Fiona hadn’t let her out of the house for almost six months for that unwholesome adventure. And just last year, she’d been hauled into jail for punching a policeman who’d been trying to roust a homeless man who lived in the alley behind her apartment. That had gotten her a substantial fine and a genuine police record.

But her trip to Boston, though risky, wasn’t really reckless. She had no other choice but to come. Only now that she was here, her only thought was how easy it would be to turn around and go home, to take the safe way out and resume her old life. But curiosity drove her forward, in spite of her pounding heart and her quickened breathing. Maybe her mother had been right. The past was the past, Fiona had said. Leave it alone.

The past that Keely had believed was her past had been nothing but a lie, a fabrication devised to quell a curious child’s questions. The father she thought had died in a commercial fishing accident was really alive. And the siblings she’d always longed for were living in a city just a few hundred miles from her home in New York, living lives that she could only imagine. Keely drew a shaky breath, then turned and looked across the street.

It was there, right where it was supposed to be, neon beer signs blazing in the plate-glass windows. Quinn’s Pub. She’d gone to her father’s house, screwed up her courage and knocked on the front door, only to have a neighbor tell her that Seamus Quinn was at the pub he owned, just a few blocks away.

“Seamus,” she murmured as she stared at the pub. “Seamus, Conor, Dylan, Brendan, Brian, Sean, Liam.”

Until a month ago, the names were those of strangers. But in just a few moments of shocking revelation in Maeve’s cottage in Ireland, they’d become her family. Now, she repeated the names over and over again, hoping the mere sound of the syllables would conjure up images of the men who belonged to them.

“All right,” she murmured. “What’s the plan?”

Maybe it would be best just to get a feel for the situation first. She’d go inside and order a beer, maybe get a look at her father. She crossed the street, but as she approached the bar, a man pushed open the front door and stepped outside, then another right behind him. An Irish tune drifted into the night from the interior of the pub, then disappeared on the wind. The lights flooding the front facade provided enough illumination for Keely to see both men, but her gaze was caught by the taller of the two.

It had to be him, though she wasn’t sure which him it was. His features were so unique, the dark hair, the strong jaw and the wide mouth, the very same features she looked at in the mirror every morning—only hers were softened to a feminine form—the same features she’d seen in the old photograph, now altered by age.

Keely had no choice but to continue walking. To turn and run would only draw attention to herself. As she passed the pair, she glanced up and her gaze locked with his. The recognition she felt was reflected in his own expression and, for a moment, Keely was sure he was going to stop and speak to her. A jolt of panic raced through her and she opened her mouth. But a casual greeting was too much. Instead, she just kept walking…walking until she felt a pang of regret at the missed opportunity.

“Keep walking,” Keely murmured to herself. “Don’t look back.”

When she reached the front door of the pub, she started up the steps, but her courage had already been severely shaken. If this was how she reacted to a stranger on the street—a stranger who might not even be one of her brothers—then how would she react when she spoke to her father for the first time in her life?

Another wave of panic overwhelmed and she spun on her heel and hurried back down the steps. She kept going until she reached the shadow of a panel truck parked along the curb. Then Keely turned and watched the two men as they got into an old car parked halfway down the block. Had he recognized her the same way she’d recognized him? Had he seen the same family resemblance that she’d noticed?

The car pulled away from the curb and the two men drove past her. At the last second she stepped into the light. “Wait!” Keely called, raising her hand to wave at them.

But her voice caught in her throat and the words were barely more than a sigh. “Wait,” she murmured as the taillights of the car disappeared into the rain and darkness. Keely stood on the sidewalk for a long time, letting the raindrops spatter on her face and the cold seep through her jacket.

A shiver skittered down her spine and Keely blinked, forced to admit that she had failed. With a softly muttered curse, she started back in the direction from which she had come. When she reached the safety of her car, Keely closed her eyes and tipped her head back, trying to ignore her disappointment.

“It was just a first step,” she murmured as her heart began to slow to its normal rhythm. “The second step will be much easier.”

She flipped on the overhead light and grabbed her purse from the floor, then pulled out the precious photograph. An Irish family—her family—standing on a rocky cliff overlooking the Atlantic. The five boys were so young. Conor, the oldest, was just seven or eight. Liam hadn’t even been born yet. They all looked so happy, so hopeful, ready to set out on the their grand adventure to America. Life was supposed to hold such promise, yet it had all gone so horribly bad.

As Keely rubbed her thumb over the photo, she tried to imagine her mother in those days before she walked away from her family. The notion of leaving her sons behind was impossible to imagine. And even worse was the realization that Keely had been to blame. That perhaps if her mother hadn’t been pregnant again, she might have stayed and tried to work things out.

Slouching down in her seat, Keely turned her gaze toward the door of the pub, watching as patrons walked in and out, hoping that she’d see another man who resembled a boy in the picture. “Conor, Dylan, Brendan,” she murmured. “Brian, Sean, Liam.”

Who were they? What kind of men had they grown up to be? Were they kind and understanding, compassionate and open-minded? How would they react to her sudden appearance in their life? She had grown up not knowing they existed. Would they accept her into the family or would they turn her away?

“Conor, Dylan, Brendan. Sean, Brian, Liam.” She paused. “And Keely.”

A tiny smiled curled the corners of her mouth. “Keely Quinn,” she said. It sounded right. Though she’d spent her life calling herself Keely McClain, Keely Quinn was her real name and it was time to start thinking of herself as someone with a real family—a father, a mother and six brothers.

She quickly formulated a timetable for herself, a habit that was a necessity in her career and now came in handy in her personal life. In a few weeks, she’d come back to Quinn’s Pub, walk inside and buy a drink. And a few weeks after that, maybe she’d speak to her father or one of her brothers. Now was the time for restraint, not recklessnesss.

By Christmas, Keely was determined that her family would know she existed. They didn’t have to accept her at first. In truth, she didn’t expect a tearful reunion and declarations of love. She expected shock and confusion and maybe a bit of resentment. But sooner or later, she would have the family that she always wanted.

With a soft sigh, Keely took a final look at the front door of Quinn’s Pub. This had been enough for one day. She’d found her father’s pub and maybe even seen one of her brothers. She’d go back to her hotel and get a good night’s sleep and come back to Boston another time. But the excitement of her discovery was too much to keep to herself. She’d made a promise to her mother to call as soon as she found her father and brothers. Keely reached into her purse and grabbed her cell phone, then punched in the phone number of her mother’s apartment.

Fiona would have left the shop around six. By seven, she was usually preparing her dinner and, by eight, she had settled comfortably in her favorite chair with an Agatha Christie mystery. Keely’s mind raced as she tried to decide what she’d say. Should she sound excited or should she keep her tone indifferent? Her mother picked up the phone on the other end.

“Mama?” Keely said, her voice trembling. “Mama, I found them.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Then you talked to Seamus?” Fiona asked.

“No, not yet. But I will. Soon.”

“Come home, Keely.”

“You know I can’t. I have to go now, Ma. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She snapped her phone closed and tossed it on the seat beside her. Then Keely reached for the ignition. But at the last minute, she changed her mind. She’d come all this way. Why not go inside now? She could walk through the door and ask to use the ladies’ room. Or maybe pretend to make a phone call. What did she have to lose? And if everything went all right, she’d just introduce herself.

The impulse was too strong to resist. “I can do this,” she said as she grabbed the keys and stepped out of the car. “I’ve come this far.”

She hurried back across the street, then smoothed her hair before starting up the front steps. But, suddenly, her doubts got the better of her. The second step was almost painful. When she reached the third step, she could see through the wide plate-glass window into the interior of the bar. Her gaze scanned the crowd and then came to rest on a white-haired man behind the bar.

The door opened and a couple stumbled outside, allowing voices to drift out into the night. She stepped aside, her gaze still fixed on the older man. Then Keely heard a patron shout the name of Seamus and the white-haired man raised his hand and waved to an unseen patron on the other side of the bar.

The reality of the situation hit her. Seamus was a flesh-and-blood man, not just a fantasy. Her stomach lurched and she grabbed the railing and hurried back down the steps. She only made it halfway down the block before her nausea overwhelmed her. “Oh, bloody hell,” she murmured as she bent over against a nearby car and tried to breath deeply.

If she ever expected to meet her father and brothers, she’d have to get control of her nerves! She wasn’t a child anymore, plagued with doubts and confusion. And she wasn’t a teeanager, riddled with guilt. This wasn’t like letting the air out of Father Julian’s bicycle tires or dropping a rotten tomato off the roof of the school at Sister Bertina or smoking cigarettes in the janitor’s closet. She deserved to be able to meet her family and know them without all this upset.

Keely turned away from the car, but her head began to swim. She closed her eyes. “Breathe,” she murmured to herself. “Breathe.”

RAFE SAW HER as he walked down the street toward his car. He stopped and glanced back over his shoulder, then slowly looked around. There was no one else on the street. Though he didn’t think twice about his own safety in Southie, a single woman on a dark street was a much more vulnerable target.

She was bent over, leaning back against the side of a car, her hands braced on her knees. He slowly approached and stood in front of her. “Are you all right?”

She glanced up at him, her wide gaze meeting his. For an instant, his breath caught in his throat. He’d expected one of the women who’d been hanging out at the bar. But this woman—or maybe “girl” was a more appropriate description—wasn’t exactly the type who hung out at Quinn’s. She wasn’t dressed in skintight jeans. She wore a black leather jacket, a tapered black skirt that showed off a fair amount of leg, and a T-shirt that clung to her curves.

The harsh light from the streetlamps revealed a flawless complexion, untainted by heavy makeup and bright lipstick. And her hair, damp from the rain, was actually a color that appeared to be quite natural. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

She held out her hand and opened her mouth as if to speak. But then she moaned softly, bent over, and immediately threw up on his Italian loafers. “Oh, hell,” she murmured. “Oh, bloody, bloody hell. I’m so sorry I—I didn’t mean to do that.”

Startled by her response, Rafe had no choice but to reach into his pocket and pull out a handkerchief. His mother had taught him from a young age that a gentleman always carried a handkerchief and it had been advice he’d never truly understood—until now. A guy never knew when a beautiful woman might throw up on his shoes.

She slowly straightened, then took the handkerchief from his fingers. She pressed it to her lips. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she murmured.

“Maybe you’ve had a little too much to drink?” Rafe suggested.

She shook her head. “No. It’s just…nerves.”

He nodded. “Right.”

“No, really,” she insisted. “I’ve just been a little upset lately. And I haven’t been eating well, or sleeping at all. And between all the antacids and the coffee, I just…all my stress seems to end up in my stomach.” She paused. “But then you’re really not interested in that, are you.”

“Can I call you a cab?” Rafe asked.

She shook her head. “No. I’ll be all right. My car is just down the street.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” Rafe said.

“Do what?”

“Drive,” he said. “Either you allow me to call you a cab or you allow me to drive you wherever you’re going.”

“I’m perfectly able to—”

Rafe held out his hand to silence her. “Come on. It’s cold out here. We can wait in my car for the cab.” He reached down, grabbed her hand, and tucked it in the crook of his arm. Then he slowly walked with her down the block. When they reached his Mercedes sedan, he turned off the alarm and opened the passenger side door. She hesitated for a moment.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “If you want to, we can stand out here. Or we can go back inside the bar.”

“No!” she said. “No, I don’t want to go back to the bar.” She shivered, then rubbed her arms. Suddenly, she looked like she was going to throw up again. “Put your head down,” he suggested. He gently pressed his hand against her back until she bent over at the waist. Then he took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the number for his security office at Kencor.

“This is Rafe. I want you to send a car around to Quinn’s Pub in Southie. Have the driver look for my Mercedes. I’m parked about a block away.” Rafe flipped the phone off, then slipped it back into his pocket. “It’ll just be a few minutes.” He leaned into the car and grabbed a bottle of water, then handed it to the woman. “Here,” he said. “To settle your stomach.”

“Thanks,” she said, still bent over.

“What’s your name?”

She straightened and took a tiny sip of the water. “Keely. McClain.” She swallowed hard. “Keely McClain. What’s yours?”

“Raphael Kendrick,” he replied. “Rafe.”

“Raphael. Like the artist.” She took another sip, then drew a deep breath. “Well, thank you, Raphael. But I feel much better now. I think I can drive back to my hotel on my own.”

“I’ve sent for a car.”

“But how will I get my car back?” Keely asked.

“I’ll take care of that. Where are you staying?”

“Downtown. At the Copley Plaza.”

“And what were you doing in this part of town? Southie is a long way from the Copley Plaza.”

She looked away, staring off down the street. “I was here to meet someone.” She glanced back at him. “How about you?”

“I was just having a drink at Quinn’s Pub.”

“Really? Do you drink there often?”

Rafe chuckled and shook his head. “No, not often.” He stared down at her for a long moment. Christ, she was beautiful. The more he looked at her, the more he was struck by that fact. He usually wasn’t attracted to her type, a quirky bohemian. But for some reason, he found himself fascinated by the color of her eyes, her upturned nose and her Cupid’s bow mouth, the way her short-cropped hair curled against her face.

She was small, no taller than five-five, and he was certain he could have spanned her waist with his hands. Her hair was tousled by the wind and damp, making it appear as if she’d just stepped out of the shower and arranged it with her fingers. And her features were nearly perfect, delicate and refined, from the tip of her nose to her impish smile. Though she looked young, he guessed she was about twenty-three or twenty-four, tops.

“So, why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here in Boston, Keely McClain?”

“I’m here on personal business,” she said. “Family business.”

“That sounds a bit mysterious.”

“It really isn’t,” she replied. She held out the handkerchief. “I can get back on my own. Really, I’m not drunk and I’m feeling much better now.”

Rafe was loath to let her go. But he had to admit that she didn’t appear to be drunk at all, just a little bit queasy. His mind scrambled for a logical reason to make her stay, but at some point in the last few minutes, he’d lost his ability to think clearly. “All right,” he said. “But you have to promise that if you start to feel sick again, you’ll pull over.”

“I don’t think I’ll have much choice on that,” Keely said.

Rafe took her hand. “Where’s your car? I’ll walk you there.”

Keely pointed down the block. They walked slowly and when he sent her a sideways glance, he caught her looking up at him.

“What is it?” Rafe asked.

“I don’t know. It’s just that you’re…nice. I didn’t think there were men like you left in the world. You know, chivalrous?”

“You puked on my shoes,” Rafe said. “What was I supposed to do? Keep walking?”

Keely winced, and in the meager light he saw a slight blush color her already rosy cheeks. “Your shoes. Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll buy you a new pair. Tell me, how much did they cost and where did you get them?”

Rafe shook his head. “That’s not necessary.”

“But it is,” Keely insisted. “You can’t wear them after I threw up on them.”

“I have plenty of other shoes at home that I can wear,” Rafe countered.

“But I insist,” Keely said.

God, she could be exasperating! But she was so damn beautiful when she was, her eyes bright, her color high. He was almost tempted to yank her into his arms and kiss her just to get her to shut up and accept his refusal. “All right,” Rafe said. “They’re handmade Italian. I think I paid a couple of thousand for them in Milan.”

Keely stopped short and her jaw dropped. “What? I threw up on two-thousand-dollar shoes? Oh, shit.” She clutched her stomach and bent over. “Two thousand dollars? I’m going to be sick again.” While she was bent over, she tried to wipe at the shoes with his handkerchief.

Rafe pulled her upright. “I was teasing,” he lied. “I think I got them downtown. And I never pay more than a couple of hundred for shoes.”

“And handkerchiefs?” she asked.

“I’ll toss that one in for free.”

They reached her car much sooner than he wanted to. He took the keys from her fingers, unlocked the driver’s side door, and pulled it open. She stepped around the door, then turned to him, her fingers clutching the top. “So, where should I send the money for the shoes?” she asked.

Rafe reached in his pocket for his wallet and withdrew one of his business cards. She stared at it for a long moment then smiled. “All right then, Rafe Kendrick. I guess I should thank you for your kindness.”

“No problem,” Rafe said.

“Good. Well…goodbye.” She quickly slipped into the car before he had a chance to consider kissing her. Reluctantly, he closed the driver’s side door and stepped away from the car. She started the Toyota, gave him a little wave, then pulled away from the curve.

Rafe stood in the street and watched as the taillights of her car disappeared down the street. He’d met a lot of women in his life in a lot of different places, but he’d never met a woman quite like Keely McClain. There had been no seductive flirtation, no coy glances and come-hither stares. She’d humiliated herself in front of him, yet he somehow found it charming. With her defenses down, he’d dropped his own. He’d been completely at ease with Keely McClain and he’d never really felt that way with a woman in his life.

“Then why the hell did you let her go?” Rafe asked himself. He started toward his car, and by the time he reached the Mercedes, he’d already decided. He wasn’t going to let her go. Nor was he going to trust her to contact him again. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he was certain that he’d see her again.

He pulled a U-turn in front of Quinn’s, then floored the accelerator, racing down the street after her. He’d just make sure she got back to her hotel safely and wish her good-night. And then, he’d casually ask her out to dinner. He’d never worried much about a woman accepting a date with him. If they did, he was usually pleased, and if they didn’t, he moved on to someone else.

But as Rafe drove toward the lights of downtown Boston, his thoughts weren’t on the Quinns or his need for revenge. Instead, he went over in his mind how best to ask Keely McClain out, the exact words he’d use to get her to say yes. Because, for the first time in his life, the answer would matter.

CHAPTER THREE

“YOU ARE SUCH a nitwit. A gorgeous hunk of man walks into your life and you just drive away. Have you forgotten that you haven’t had sex in nearly a year? That you’ve been reduced to watching music videos and wondering which of five guys in some boy band would be the best in bed? If you don’t take advantage of moments like those you’re going to end up lonely and completely celibate and turning to your seventeen cats for companionship. Come on, Keely, get a grip!”

She stared out the windshield of her car, waiting for the light to change, tapping her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. His card was in her jacket pocket. At least she had his name and number. If, after the excitement of the evening had worn off, she decided she wanted to see him again, she’d just call. Or maybe she’d personally deliver a new pair of shoes to his office.

“That won’t work,” she murmured. “I don’t know his size.”

One thing she did know was that Rafe Kendrick had nice taste in shoes. In truth, everything about Rafe was pretty nice, from his dark, smoldering eyes to his nearly black hair to his devastating smile. But it wasn’t just the way he looked. Rafe Kendrick was a true gentleman. After all, how many men would have been so kind and understanding?

She’d ruined a perfectly good pair of his shoes. And she knew they weren’t department store knock-offs. Rafe Kendrick dressed like a man who didn’t have to worry about maxing out his credit card on fine Italian footwear. From his leather jacket to his body-skimming sweater to his shoes, his appearance shouted sophistication and wealth.

She’d passed men like him every day on the streets of Manhattan, but she’d never considered those men her type. They were too handsome, too confident, too unattainable, the kinds of guys who made her feel naive and unschooled and clumsy.

There had been plenty of men in Keely’s life. Maybe that was the problem, there’d been too many and not a single one worth remembering. Once she’d reached legal age, she’d decided to wrest control of her social life from her mother and she’d never looked back. Along the way, there’d been a few serious relationships, but Keely had always grown bored and restless, certain there was a prince out there ready to replace the frog she was sleeping with.

She always went into a relationship looking for true love but she never seemed to find it. Her most recent “frog” had simply stopped calling and when she had finally got hold of him, he’d told her he was being transferred to New Zealand. Keely didn’t believe him and expected to see him any day now, shopping for fresh artichokes at D’Agostino or walking his dog in Central Park.

For some reason, the men in her life just never lived up to her fantasies…until now. Rafe Kendrick was pure fantasy material. A naughty, sweaty, erotic fantasy.

As she wove through downtown Boston, Keely replayed their encounter over and over again. He seemed to like her. In fact, he seemed to find her outrageous behavior charming. He’d been concerned for her safety and her health, and had teased her through one of the most embarrassing moments of her life. And when he’d touched her, her knees had gone all wobbly and her heart had begun to pound. Keely smiled to herself and began to hum a tune. When she realized it was “Someday My Prince Will Come,” she forced herself to stop.

After everything she’d been through the last month, she should know better than to allow herself to slip into another silly fantasy. Rafe Kendrick was just a man with all the flaws that came with his sex. All his money and good looks would soon fall away and she’d come to know him as the jerk he probably was. No doubt he’d charmed hundreds of women, promised to call the next day, then never had. And Keely was willing to bet that he had a date with two or three underwear models this very weekend.

She pushed those thoughts out of her mind and tried to focus on her next move with the Quinns. But images of Rafe Kendrick kept creeping back into her mind until she was certain she’d made the biggest mistake in her life by driving away from him.

Keely pulled the car up to the front entrance to the Copley Plaza and stepped out. She handed her keys to the parking attendant, then gave him a generous tip. As she turned to walk inside, she noticed a dark Mercedes pull up right behind her car. For a moment, she hesitated. There were a lot of black luxury sedans in Boston. She slowly walked toward the car. The door opened and Rafe Kendrick stepped out.

A tiny thrill raced through her. He’d followed her here. He was even more handsome than she remembered. And that memory was only minutes old! “I thought I told you I could get back on my own,” Keely said, unable to keep a smile from curling the corners of her mouth.

“I was just making sure you were all right,” Rafe countered. He leaned against his car and sent her a rakish smile. “Are you all right?”

Keely felt her blood warm and a flush creep up her cheeks. Here was her chance. “Would you like to join me inside for a drink?”

“A drink?” His eyebrow arched up. “Only if it’s a club soda.”

She laughed and patted her stomach. “That sounds good to me.”

“I’ll just park my car and I’ll meet you inside.”

A parking attendant jogged up to him. “I can park your car for you, sir.”

Rafe nodded, handed him the keys and then walked up to Keely. He placed his hand on the small of her back, the gesture oddly possessive. His touch sent another thrill coursing through Keely’s body and she steadied herself. Though she was as nervous as she’d been all day long, she didn’t feel sick now. She felt…exhilarated, full of anticipation. It felt good to have a man touch her again.

They walked inside, the doorman holding the door open for them both, then headed for the bar. The lobby of the Copley Plaza was as opulent as the rest of the hotel and one of the most elegant in Boston. Keely had decided she could afford one night there, especially since she’d come to Boston for such an important reason. But maybe it was fate that she’d made such a choice, rather than followed her usual practical impulse to find the cheapest room available at the nearest motor lodge.

The Plaza Bar was an inviting spot, furnished with leather chairs and comfy sofas and intimate tables. A jazz pianist played softly from a corner and Rafe steered her toward a sofa, then motioned to a cocktail waitress. He whispered something in the waitress’s ear and she nodded, then walked away.

Keely slowly sat down and he joined her, casually draping his arm over the back of the sofa. “This is a nice place,” she said, leaning into him ever so slightly, just until her shoulder touched his arm. “Have you been here before?”

Rafe nodded. “For business meetings. Are the rooms nice?”

“They’re very elegant.”

The waitress reappeared with their drinks. She set two crystal champagne flutes on the coffee table in front of them, then poured sparkling water from a small bottle into the flutes. Then she set a silver dish of strawberries and whipped cream down next to the drinks.

Keely giggled as she picked up one of the glasses and took a sip. “A very fine vintage. French, is it?”

“I thought you’d like it,” Rafe said. He leaned back and took a sip from his own glass. “So, I guess you should tell me something about yourself, Keely McClain. What do you do when you’re not throwing up on men’s shoes?”

“I bake cakes,” Keely replied as she munched on a strawberry.

“Cakes? A person can make a living baking cakes?”

“Sure. There’s no shortage of weddings and birthday parties and grand openings. And I have quite a reputation for designing unusual cakes. It’s kind of a family business. We have a bakery in Brooklyn. And what do you do?”

“Nothing quite so interesting,” he said. “I’m a businessman. I buy and sell buildings.” His fingers toyed with a strand of her hair, and for a moment, Keely couldn’t think. “You know, I’m a big fan of cake,” he murmured.

“Then I’ll have to bake you one.” At first, she regretted the offer. She was acting as if they’d see each other again after tonight. But why hide her desire? She was attracted to Rafe Kendrick and she shouldn’t be afraid to let him know. “What’s your favorite flavor?” Keely held up her hand. “Wait, let me guess.” She studied him for a long moment. “I’m usually very good at this. It’s obvious that yellow cake would be too ordinary for you. Most people would automatically think that you’re a chocolate man, bold and intense, but everyone loves chocolate and you’re a guy who doesn’t follow the crowd. You don’t look like a coconut man—too trendy. I’d peg you as a banana man.”

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