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She tilted her head toward me, her gaze thoughtful.

Without a doubt, she was out of my league. How often had I turned the television to channel 549, hoping to glimpse Calla Sweet’s newscast, and then clicked the remote, selecting a high-definition channel where I could appreciate her every nuance? The shimmer in her eyes. The curve of her lips.

How long had I been obsessed with her? I dismissed that thought. Obsession was for the crazed. I settled on star-struck, a more apt description of my infatuation.

Admiring her from behind the television screen was one thing, but meeting the captivating woman face-to-face proved another story. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, dousing the flames of desire with hard denial.

I snuck a sideways glance.

Willowy, tall for a woman. Her skin glowed, almost ethereal. She sat straight-backed, a shining black mane flowing over her shoulders. Even bathed in mud, she was more than beautiful. My heart coiled in my chest, yearning for her smile, for her gaze to reach mine. Beneath those wild locks lay a woman teeming with intelligence, a formidable adversary, more than a prize worth winning.

The car’s front end dipped, hitting a pothole. She didn’t notice.

I ran through the scenarios and found none worth considering. The sooner I rid myself of this pretty package, the better. Beautiful women spelled trouble. Nothing but trouble.

“Not much anymore. There’s a big match every festival day. Ardara versus Glenties. It’s a big event for Ardara.” I tried to deny her hold on my heart and failed.

“Festival day?” She lifted her eyelashes, gazing through those famous dove-grey eyes.

“Aye, the Irish Calendar: quarter days, cross-quarter days. Bealtaine is the next one.” I considered the days remaining and my flight schedule.

“Hmm, maybe.” She stared me down but didn’t commit. There was a definite reluctance in her gaze. Reading people was a way of life, but trusting my instincts kept me alive.

“What brings you across the pond? To Ireland?” I shifted gears and glanced her way. She looked down whenever she smiled. If someone caused the rare beauty pain, we should string them up and flay their skin from their bones. Rage ate away at my gut, every bone in my body ready to defend her from harm.

“Aren’t you the curious one? You know what they say…curiosity killed the cat.” She clenched her fingers, then released them. “I inherited a property outside of town from a relative I didn’t know I had.”

“Here in Ireland?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. I had so many questions. I sensed she would shut me down if I pushed too hard.

She reminded me of a hummingbird––her movements were quick yet fluid. The melodic hum of her voice awakened every nerve in my icy heart. My sweating palms made holding the steering wheel difficult. Those physical reactions were unfamiliar to me. Long ago moments flashed through my mind, happy times when love mattered. Life changed me into something else, someone I didn’t recognize.

“Abracadabra, right? It's one of those Faerie tale kinds of things. What brings you back to Ireland?” She shifted in the bucket seat. She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them.

Her every action spelled trouble.

“The ould one turned seventy last week. My father,” I said, answering her curious gaze. “Tell me, who was your relative? If you don’t mind me asking?”

My fingers itched to tame that glossy mane, to smooth the cowlick swirling the crown of her head. Her high cheekbones, elegant jawline, and pointed chin were testaments to the remarkable features of a people who once called Ireland their own—a people who prized physical strength and revered intelligence—an ancient civilization that battled for our homelands. Those memories had long since faded into the mists of time.

“Dermot Sweet of the Glengesh Pass, an older man who passed last year.” She shrugged, lifting her palm in explanation.

“Hmm, I can’t say I’ve heard of a Dermot Sweet, but I could ask around.” My pulse hammered, and cold sweat collected beneath my collar. From the way her lips curved up, I had the distinct impression she found me amusing. And too pushy. I opened my mouth to say something but decided against it.

“Why?” Her piercing gaze read me like a book. “We have the same last name. Maybe he’s my biological father. It is odd, though.” She surprised me by sharing more. “Here’s a clue. I was born in Ireland and then adopted. There’s no record of my birth. I arrived in Canada with a name—already labeled. Calla Rioghain Sweet.” She moistened her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue.

“So, you’re an Irish lass.” I turned my gaze back to the winding road.

“Technically speaking.” She gazed out the passenger window, lost in the rolling hills.

I wanted those soft eyes to melt into mine.

“Makes sense.” I nodded, multiple scenarios buzzing in my head.

“What do you mean?” She rewarded me with another version of Calla Sweet—the look she would flash toward the television cameras. Her face revealed a myriad of emotions, reminding me of a storm cell swirling through winter clouds. There was a presence about her, something dark, something magical. The mystery intrigued me.

“You look Irish. Pale skin. Black hair. Ree-en is an Irish name. And your adoptive parents had no other information?” I tapped the steering wheel, my hunger rising. I told myself I was not one of those crazed stalkers star personalities protected themselves against.

“They died last year in a house fire. The records were burned.” Her voice didn’t waver. Her poker face hid all emotion.

“My condolences.” The need to comfort her overwhelmed me. Indecision filled my mind, and doubt filled my heart. Her plight called to the hero in me, if one ever existed.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her gaze meeting mine.

“And you left Canada? Just like that? I’m badgering, aren’t I?” I accepted one thing. She could out-stare me any day of the week.

“There’s nothing left for me there. I lost my job.” She shrugged, yet her bottom lip quivered. “I got fired.”

“Fired? From the network?” I gaped at her. I tuned in, captivated by her candid humor and her empathy. How often did she report tragedy after tragedy, with tears falling from her eyes? “Good evening, this is Calla Sweet on location.” Her throaty voice flying through my surround sound system would stop me in my tracks. She mesmerized the world. What army of eejits fired a girl like her? “You were grand, Calla. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well, thanks, but I’m fine. It was a job. Besides, it’s time for a fresh start.” She swept her tongue across her lower lip.

“That’s quite a start, moving to another continent, a place you’ve never been. All on your own.” Making conversation with her came easily. I admitted, not one of my strong suits.

“Yes, well…no reason to stay is a reason to go.” She pressed her lips together and then looked away.

“Well said.” I gripped the wheel, hoping she would return to me.

“Hmm, thanks. I read that somewhere.” Her voice faded, lost in the wind’s sigh.

My blood chilled. The terror filled my mind as it so often had. Ciarán, my brother, the youngest O’Donnell, disappeared from the world of the living seven years ago. I found it impossible to let him go, to let his memory rest in peace.

My superior officer questioned my stability. I could not deny the charge. But did I need to leave? They offered help. Help, I refused. I sought solace in a bottle. I became someone else. I walked away from everyone and everything I loved.

“Hey? Are you okay? Do you want me to drive?” Her voice brought me back from the dead.

I straightened my whitened knuckles, my stomach turning, Ciarán’s face flashing before my eyes with each bend in the road. The O’Donnells embraced the supernatural as an integral part of our lives.

“The past haunts me sometimes.” I focused on her lush mouth, the crystals flickering in her deep-set eyes, and her translucent skin, highlighted by delicate blue veining. Calm flowed over me and through me. I stared, unbelieving.

My thoughts twisted, and I battled my conscience—right from wrong, good from evil. Did I even know the difference?

“I know what that’s like.” She didn’t smile. Instead, she gazed into the thick foliage, green sails whipping by. “Tell me, Colm O’Donnell. What do you dream of?”

“That’s a funny question.” I pressed the brakes, anticipating the next switchback.

“Not really.” She twined her hands behind her head. “Most people spend their lives searching for something.”

“Here we are. This is Ardara.” I punched the accelerator, following the banks of the Owentocker River.

The town showed itself, one slate roof after another rising in the distance.

“Oh, it’s so pretty.” She gazed up the big hill.

The center diamond, a cobblestoned gathering place, separated two intersecting roads into three distinct paths. Pubs, restaurants, and woolen shops galore lined the main street.

“There’s my brother’s place. Hugh Jr.—Doctor Hugh.” I motioned toward the white stucco house on the corner.

“A doctor?” She noted the location of the walk-in clinic.

“Aye. Hugh can cure all that ails ye. Made the folks proud, that he did.” Guilt stabbed my heart. “Why did I leave the force? Why did I run?” I questioned my decisions for the first time in a long time. Life could have remained simple.

“Do you like being a tree farmer, Colm O’Donnell? You seem, I don’t know, so much more.” Her curious gaze stopped my heart for the second time. I created a mental image of my home. Sheltered by the mountain’s slope deep within the Cape Breton Highlands sat a log cabin built with my own hands. It was a quiet life and one I had become accustomed to.

“Are you a clairvoyant, Calla Sweet? Are you reading my mind?” I chuckled, unable to shake the mind-bending sensation akin to a bow screeching across the taut strings of a fiddle. I sighed inwardly, refusing to acknowledge her question or answer it. Lies became easier with time. I left the military with a specialized skill set, highly trained as a sharpshooter. Those who required my services knew where to find me. If they offered forgiveness, would I be deserving? I thought not.

She blinked, releasing me from her scrutiny.

“Here we are. The Black Horse.” I pointed toward the stone building rising two floors high, the steep roof lined with slate. I drove beyond the pub, pulling into the next available parking space.

“Thanks. Can I reimburse you for the gas?” She searched her backpack and pulled out a glittering pink change purse.

“No need, luv.” I jumped from the vehicle, weaving through car bumpers. I clasped the passenger door handle just in time.

“Colm O’Donnell. Good day to you, lad. You’ll be needing a trim soon enough.” A familiar voice summoned me—Joseph, the bald barber, jutted his chin in my direction, concluding that a haircut was due.

“Likely so, Joseph, likely so.” I gave the man a quick smile while confronting the certainty of my situation. She was more than dangerous. She was an affliction. My mind stewed, gnashing at options. She owed me a raincheck, and I intended to collect.

She swung her long legs onto the pavement. Her gaze found Joseph and then flickered toward me. She took a long step, avoiding the puddle, but lurched forward and tripped on the broken curb.

“Jaysus, watch yourself.” I grasped her elbow, lifting her upward.

Lightning bolts flowed through me, and Hell’s breath took mine. The aura surrounding her changed from day to night.

“You’re too late.” Her eyes blazed, and shadows rippled across her face. She snatched her arm away.

“Too late for what? Calla?” The dark halo dissipated, replaced by the slamming of car doors and the honking of horns. Joseph said something about Wednesday at five o’clock.

She lifted her eyelashes, revealing my reflection rippling in the dark, glassy water. Without a backward glance, she turned and walked away, leaving me gasping for air and drowning in a sea of salty tears.