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Chapter Thirteen

Nancy

I clasped my hands nervously together in Liam’s truck. Being alone with him in the dark made all my doubts come rushing back, mixed with a big dose of simmering lust.

So strange, to think how convinced I’d been that I was in love with Freedy, Ron, and Peter, but I’d never felt like this with them. Not ever. This hot buzz. Raw, thrumming, glowing. A live wire with the casing peeled off.

I cast around for something neutral to talk about, but I was too flustered. “What a stroke of luck to find Eoin,” I said. “He solves all our problems in one go. Plus, he seems like a total sweetheart. How old is he, anyway?”

“Twenty-one, if I remember correctly.”

“God. Just a baby. Looks like he hit it off with Matt and Eugene, too. And he’s available for the tour, thank God. Does he have a green card?”

Liam hesitated. “We’re working on it,” he said guardedly.

“I can help with that,” I assured him. “Uilleann pipers are rare. It’s a highly specialized skill.

I’ll write a raft of urgent letters to the INS about how desperately we need him for this gig or that gig, this recording or that tour.

It may take a while, but they’ll come through eventually.

” I caught his smile before he turned away.

“Why are you smirking? Do I amuse you, Liam Knightly?”

He pulled up at the Midtown tunnel toll booth, batted away my handful of money, and paid the toll himself. “You’re very sweet, Nancy.”

My cheeks grew warm. “Thanks for saying that, but I’m actually not doing anything altruistic. Drafting Eoin into Mandrake is good business. In fact, he’s saving our asses.”

“And the green card?”

“That’s in my best interests, too,” I retorted.

“Why does it embarrass you when I tell you that you’re sweet?”

I thought about it for a minute. “I feel as if you’re condescending to me.”

“Sweet isn’t a bad thing,” he said. “You think being sweet equals being vulnerable?”

“Don’t tell me how I feel. I’m not in the mood.”

“Ah, she’s back! The tough broad with the attitude. But you don’t fool me. You’re tough, but you’re sweet. Lucia knew it. She admired it. And I’m not condescending to you at all. On the contrary. I respect you for it.”

I was intensely uncomfortable. This exposed feeling was unbearable. The tunnel spat us up into Midtown, thank God, and I busied myself giving him directions.

“Take the FDR Drive south.” I held up my hand at his expression.

“I swear, I kept my promise. I’m camped out at Nell’s, but I had to take my cat, and I didn’t have enough arms to carry all her stuff yesterday.

I need to get her food, I need toys, I need kitty litter. I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but?—”

“Don’t apologize again. Please. It bugs me.”

That squelched further attempts at conversation. I just muttered “right” and “left” at the appropriate times until I indicated my entryway down in Alphabet City.

Liam took note of the door, drove on past without stopping, and found himself a parking space three blocks down.

That gave me pause. I hadn’t expected him to actually find parking near my place.

God knows, I never did. I’d expected him to drop me off at the door, and maybe gallantly wait as I fumbled out my keys.

But no. Here he was, legally parked. Motor off, with that what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it look in his eyes.

Liam Knightly, at my apartment, at three in the morning—wow. It flung open doors in my mind that I wasn’t quite ready to walk through.

I sighed. For God’s sake, the man had just driven an hour out of his way to take me home in the middle of the night. The least I could do was to offer him coffee for the drive home. I gulped in air. “Do you, uh, want to come up for coffee?”

“Yes,” he said.

The word seemed invested with infinite shades of meaning. My knees went rubbery.

“My apartment isn’t neutral ground,” I said.

His eyes gleamed. “I’ll be good.”

Would he, now. Loaded words, if there ever were ones.

Liam slung his fiddle and flute and whistle bag cases over his shoulder and took her arm.

He looked around at the block of cramped, humble turn-of-the-last-century buildings as if he expected the garbage cans to animate and attack them.

They had been built to house the sweatshop workers that had been coming in droves on the boats from Europe to work in the garment district.

The apartments were tiny, pinched, light-starved, airless, but you wouldn’t know it from the ridiculous rents they charged.

I fished out my house keys. The bulb that lit the stairs was dim and flickering.

The place looked tragically shabby at three A.M. I fought the urge to apologize.

To say something disparaging about the missing floor tiles or the wall graffiti.

To make snide comments about Manhattan real estate prices.

But I would be dignified if it freaking killed me. My high-heeled boots echoed on the stairway, but Liam’s footfalls were quiet. I wanted to say something to break the tension, but my brain had ceased all nonessential functioning.

So when the grotesque, faceless ghouls hurtled around the corner of the landing above and leaped at us, I sucked in air. No time to scream.