Kiss Me, I'm Irish Page 5

“People drink on vacation,” Deuce corrected her. “At least at night.” He slapped his hands on his thighs and slid them over his khaki pants, a smug smile in place. “I think it’s a great idea.”

  They all looked at her expectantly. Was she going to back down? Let Deuce appear more willing to take the challenge than she was?

  No one came in that bar looking for a drink anymore. What remained of the liquor bottles had to be regularly dusted. She’d been running Monroe’s as though it were a coffee shop and Internet café for a long time; her customers were loyal online users. The people looking for a neighborhood bar went to the bigger chains that had come into town.

  “Okay. Fine. Whatever you want, Seamus.”

  “I want you both to have a chance.” He stood slowly, his gaze moving between them. “I’d like to see the decision be made by you, not me.”

  “We’ll let the people of Rockingham decide,” Deuce said, looking at Diana as he echoed her thoughts. Sure, now they were allies.

  But Deuce had no idea what he was up against, getting between a woman and her dream. Twice.

  Her Internet café was significantly more profitable than a bar, and Diana and Seamus’s trip was only two weeks long. There was no way Deuce could turn a profit in less than a month.

  Seamus stepped toward Diana and slid his arm around her again. “Tomorrow, Diana and I are leaving for Boston, New York and San Francisco for meetings arranged with investors and banks.” He paused and pulled Diana closer, sharing that secret smile again. “And we’ve decided to tack on an early honeymoon.”

  “What do you mean?” Kendra asked.

  “We were going to tell you this morning, honey,” Diana said, “but we were so surprised by Deuce’s visit.”

  “Tell us what?” Deuce looked horrified. “Did you already get married?”

  Diana laughed lightly. “No. But I found the most amazing timeshare in Hawaii. A gorgeous house in Kauai, on the water. We couldn’t resist.”

  “How long will you be gone?” Kendra asked, a sinking sensation tugging at her stomach.

  Seamus grinned. “A month in Hawaii, plus the two weeks of business trip.”

  “A month?” Kendra looked from one to the other. “You’ll be gone for six weeks?”

  “Great,” Deuce said, standing up. “Diana, do you think you can find me a place to rent until I sell my house in Vegas?”

  Kendra glared at him. “Why don’t you wait to sell your place until we see who…what happens.”

  “You can stay here,” Diana offered. “Newman seems to have taken a liking to you.”

  “I take care of Newman,” Kendra said. Good Lord, she didn’t want Deuce a hundred yards away from her for six weeks.

  “You can handle him in the evenings,” Deuce said, his gaze on her. “I’ll be at the bar.”

  “There’s no way you’re going to be there, in charge and alone,” she said quickly. “I’ll do my paperwork at night.”

  “Then I’ll do mine during the day.”

  Kendra hadn’t noticed that Seamus and Diana had slipped into the kitchen, until she heard their soft laughter. They stood with their heads close to each other, slowly walking toward the hallway.

  “I kind of hate to leave,” Seamus whispered. “Just when it’s getting interesting.”

  Deuce grinned at Kendra. She glared at him.

  “This is so not interesting,” she mumbled, turning to retrieve her papers and put them back in order.

  “I disagree,” he said, suddenly way too close to her back. “This could be very interesting. Remember the night we—”

  She spun around and stuck her finger right in his face. “Don’t go there, Deuce Monroe.”

  With a playful smile, he put both hands over his heart, feigning pain. “Was that night so horrible that you can’t even think about it?”

  If only he knew. If only. But he wouldn’t, Kendra swore silently. He would never know.

  She gave him a blank stare. “What night, Deuce? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Is that right?” His voice was silky smooth, and the dark glimmer in his eyes sent firecrackers right down to her toes. “I bet I can make you remember.”

  “One bet’s enough for me today,” she said, seizing one of the sketches of the new Monroe’s layout and holding it in front of her face. “And I bet I get this.”

  He slid the paper out of her hand, and leaned so close to her mouth she could just about feel that Hollywood stubble as it threatened to graze her.

  “Let’s play ball,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WITHOUT KNOCKING, Deuce leaned against the solid wood door that separated a back office from the storage areas piled high with empty computer hardware boxes. He’d done as much as he could for the past two days from Diana’s home. He’d stopped into Monroe’s a few times, perused the small kitchen and made a few changes around the bar. But he hadn’t yet entered what he still thought of as Dad’s office. Which was always occupied by Kendra Locke.

  He eased the door open without any hesitation over the latch. Because there was no latch. There’d never been a working latch as long as he could remember. But, were the employees of Monroe’s still as trustworthy today as in the past? He might have to get that old lock fixed after all.

  Despite the unfamiliar high-tech logos and the aroma of a Colombian countryside surrounding him, the solid mass of wood under his shoulder felt very much like home. As the door creaked open, he half expected his father to look up from the scarred oak desk, his broad shoulders dropping, his eyes softening at the sight of his son—right before he launched into a speech about how Deuce could do something better.

  Instead of his father’s Irish eyes, he met a blue gaze as chilly as the glycol cooling block he’d just assembled on the long-dormant beer tap behind the bar.

  “It’s five-thirty,” he announced to Kendra. “Time for coffee drinking Internet surfers to pack up and go home. Monroe’s is open for business.”

  She lowered the lid of her laptop an inch as she lifted her brows in surprise. “Today? Tonight? You’ve only been in town for two days. Don’t you have to unpack, get settled and give me a week or two or three to prepare for these temporary changes in my business?”

  “I’m ready for business. Tonight.”

  He stepped into the tiny space, noting that the old green walls were now…pinkish. The window that was really a two-way mirror over the bar was covered with wooden shutters that belonged on a Southern plantation. “And there’s nothing temporary about…” He closed the door and peeked at the space behind it. Aw, hell. “What happened to the plaques commemorating Monroe’s sponsorship of Rockingham’s state champion Little League team?”

  Her gaze followed his to yet another of those black-and-white nature still-life shots that he’d seen in about six places now. He could have sworn her lips fought a smile.

  “Diana Lynn took that photograph,” she said simply. “She was inside a sequoia in California. Pretty, huh?”

  He didn’t comment. He’d find the Little League plaques. Dad must have stored them somewhere. “There are two freaks left on the computers out there,” he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “And they are both immersed not in the new millennium, but in the middle ages from what I can see.”

  “Runescape,” she answered with a nod. “That’s a very popular online medieval strategy game. And they are not freaks. That’s Jerry and Larry Gibbons. Those brothers spend hours in here, every day.”

  “Do they drink beer?”

  She shrugged. “It might impair their ability to trade jewels for farming equipment.”

  “They have to—”

  “Stay,” she interrupted, jerking her chin up to meet his gaze, even though he towered over her desk. “You can’t kick out my customers at night. If they want to sit on those computers until 2:00 a.m., there’s no reason for them not to.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said affably. “But the TV monitors are about to be tuned into S
ports Center, and the jukebox will be on all night. Loud.”

  She flipped the laptop open again and looked at the screen. “The jukebox hasn’t worked for a year. My customers prefer quiet.”

  “It works now.”

  She gave him a sharp look. Did she have her head so deep in the books that she hadn’t noticed him out there yesterday morning, installing a CD system in the box?

  “No one is going to show up for a drink tonight,” she said, turning her attention back to the computer.

  “You don’t know that.” He resisted the urge to reach out and raise that sweet chin, just to see those mesmerizing eyes again. Regardless of how chilly they were. “With the front door open, anyone who passes by could stop in. Walk-in business is the heart of a bar.” The fact that he’d worked the phone and called every familiar name in a fifty-mile radius wouldn’t hurt either.

  She shook her head slightly, her smile pure condescension. “Deuce, I hate to break it to you, but Monroe’s pretty much shuts down around the dinner hour. We might have a few stragglers come in after seven or so, and Jerry and Larry usually stay until they realize they’re hungry, but there’s no business done here at night.”

  “And you just accept that? Don’t you want to build nighttime revenue? I thought you were an entrepreneur. A capitalist.” He almost made a Harvard joke, but something stopped him.

  “I’m a realist,” she said. “People pop into an Internet café during the day, when they need access to cyber space or a break in their schedule. At night, at home, they have computers.”

  “So change that,” he countered.

  “I’m working on it.” She leaned back in the chair—not Dad’s old squeaker, either, this one was sleek, modern and ergonomic. Crossing her arms over the rolling letters spelling Monroe’s on her chest, she peered at him. “Were you paying any attention the other day or were you so wrapped up in resentment that you didn’t even see my presentation? Remember the plans? The theater? The artists’ gallery? The DVD-rental business?”

  He’d gotten stuck on one word. “Resentment? Of what?”

  “Of the fact that your father has found…love.”

  His elbow throbbed, but he ignored it. “I don’t begrudge my dad happiness. You’re imagining things.”

  One blond eyebrow arched in disbelief.

  “I don’t,” he insisted. “His…lady friend seems…” Perfect. Attractive. Successful. Attentive. Why wouldn’t he want all that for his dad? “Nice.”

  “She is that, and more.” She shifted her focus to the keyboard again, and she began typing briskly. “Now, go run your bar, Deuce. I have work to do.”

  You’re dismissed.

  “I can’t find any wineglasses.”

  She gave him a blank look, then resumed typing. “I have no idea where they are anymore. I may have given them away.”

  She wanted to play hardball? With him? “Fine. I’ll just serve chardonnay to the ladies in coffee mugs.”

  That jerked her chain enough to drop her jaw. But she closed it fast enough. “You do that.” Type, type, type.

  “And you don’t mind if I use those coffee stirrers for the cocktails?”

  She narrowed her eyes and studied the screen as though she were writing War and Peace. “Whatever.”

  “And until I have time to place some orders for garnishes, I’ll be dipping into your supply of fresh fruit for some cherries and orange slices. Will that be a problem?”

  Her fingers paused, but then blasted over the keys at lightning speed. Unless she was the world’s fastest typist, she couldn’t possibly be writing anything comprehensible. “I do a tight inventory on every item in stock,” she said over the tapping sound. “Please have anything you use replaced by tomorrow.”

  “Will you give me the names of your suppliers?”

  She hit the spacebar four times. Hard. “I’m sure you can find your own.”

  “Can I borrow your Rolodex?”

  Now her fingers stilled—as though she needed all her brain power to come up with a suitably smartass answer. “There’s a Yellow Pages in the storage room.”

  She launched into another supersonic attack on the keyboard, her body language as dismissive as she could make it.

  Aw, honey. You don’t want to do this. You’ll lose when I start throwing curves.

  She typed. He waited. She typed more. He wound up.

  “Kendra?”

  “Hmmm?” She didn’t look up.

  “That window right there. You know it’s a two-way mirror into the bar?”

  “I’m aware of that,” she said, still typing. “I don’t need to monitor my patrons’ activities. I have staff for that, and no one is in there getting drunk or stupid. At least not on my watch.”

  Low and inside. Strike one.

  “That’s true, but…” Slowly, he crept around the side of the desk toward the fancy white shutters. “Aren’t you just a little bit curious about what I’ll be up to out there?”

  “Not in the least. I expect it’ll be you and the empty bar for most of the night. Pretty dull stuff.”

  A slider. Strike two.

  He opened the shutters with one flick, giving a direct shot through the mirror that hung over his newly assembled beer taps. “I’d think a girl who’d spent so many hours with her face pressed to the heat register just to hear the boys in the basement would be naturally voyeuristic.”

  He heard the slight intake of breath just as he turned to see a screen full of jibberish. She opened her mouth to speak. Then closed it with the same force with which she snapped down the lid of the laptop. A soft pink rush of color darkened her pretty cheeks.

  “Come to think of it, I’ll work at home tonight.”

  Steee-rike three.

  “That’s not necessary.” He grinned at her, but she was already sliding a handbag over her shoulder.

  As she opened the door, she tossed him one last look. There was something in her eyes. Some shadow, some secret. Some hurt. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

  “Good luck tonight,” she said, then her pretty lips lifted into a sweet, if totally phony, smile. “Call me if you get hammered with the big nine-o’clock rush.”

  When the door closed behind her, the room seemed utterly empty, with only a faint lingering smell of something fresh and floral mixed with the aroma of coffee.

  Taking a deep breath, he turned to the California sequoia, ready to remove it for spite. But that would be childish.

  Instead, he looked through the two-way mirror in time to see Kendra pause at the bar to check out the newly assembled beer taps. She touched one, yanked it forward, then flinched when it spurted.

  She bent down, out of his view for a moment, then arose, a coffee mug in hand. Pulling on the tap again, she tilted the mug and let about six ounces of brew flow in, expertly letting the foam slide down the side.

  She lifted the mug to the mirror, offering a silent, mock toast directly at him. Then she brought the rim to her mouth, closed her eyes, and took one long, slow chug. Her eyes closed. Her throat pulsed. Her chest rose and fell with each swallow.

  And a couple of gallons of blood drained from his head and traveled to the lower half of his body.

  When she finished the drink, she dabbed the foam at the corner of her mouth, looked right into the mirror and winked at him.

  THE TASTE OF THE bitter brew still remained in Kendra’s mouth several hours later. She’d walked Newman, made dinner, reviewed her inventory numbers, puttered around her bungalow, and even sunk into a long, hot bath.

  But no distraction took her mind off Deuce Monroe. Her brain, normally chock-full of facts, figures and ideas, reeled with unanswered questions.

  How could she get through six weeks of this? Where would she get the fortitude to keep up the cavalier, devil-may-care, I-don’t-give-a-hoot acting job she was digging out of her depths? What could she do to make him go away? What if he discovered the truth about what happened nine years ago?

  There were no answers, o
nly more questions. The last one she asked out loud as she opened Diana’s door for a third time to gather up Newman. “Why does that man still get to me after all these years?” The dog looked up, surprised.

  “I’m lonely, Newman,” she admitted. “Let’s take another walk.”

  Newman never said no. He trotted over to the hook where Diana hung his leash.

  Sighing, Kendra closed the slider and wrapped the strap around her wrist letting Newman scamper ahead while her gaze traveled over the wide beach. In the moonlight, the white froth sparkled against the sand, each rhythmic crest rising over the next in an unending tempo.

  It had been a night much like this one, on a beach not three miles away, that Kendra Locke had given her love, loyalty and virginity to a boy she’d adored since first grade. And now, so many years later, that boy was at her café, driving away her customers, changing her plans and upsetting her peaceful existence.

  “And he probably doesn’t have a clue how to close the place,” she told Newman, who barked in hearty agreement. “What if he screws up?” she asked, picking up her pace across the stone walkway to her beach house. “He doesn’t know how to cash out or power down the computers.”

  Newman barked twice.

  “I agree,” she whispered, tugging his leash toward her beach house. “We better do what we can to save the place.”

  In ten minutes, she’d stripped off her sweats and slipped into khaki pants, an old T-shirt, sandals and, oh heck, just a dash of makeup. She rushed through the process, not wanting to change her mind, but definitely not wanting to arrive too late and find the café abandoned, the back door open, the computers still humming.

  Kendra navigated the streets of Rockingham, mindful of the ever-growing population of tourists and locals. Something huge must be going on because even the tiny parking lot behind Monroe’s was full. She finally nailed a parallel parking space a block away, and it was already ten-fifteen when she and Newman hustled down High Castle Boulevard toward Monroe’s. He’d probably bailed by the time the Gibbons brothers left, around eight-thirty.

  She expected the front door to be locked when she tugged at the brass handle. But the door whipped open from the other side, propelled by a laughing couple who almost mowed her down in their enthusiasm to get to their car. Kendra stood in the doorway, stunned as they brushed by her and mumbled excuses.