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Jacob’s smile fell a bit, and the other men went still.
Gareth wanted to yank at his hair, wanted to shout at them to just behave normally, but he knew it had taken months of his withdrawing from them to get the men to this place where he was now unfamiliar. He didn’t want them to remember him this way after he was gone, but rather they should remember him as he had been. Might as well attempt to set things to rights.
With an air of feigned casualness, he retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a hundred note, sliding it across the table with the general irreverence he’d been known for over his lifetime. “But it’s not to say I can’t sweeten the pot for the man about to dive into the seedy Shadow Realm of bloody taunts and bodily wagers.”
The men leaned in as if he was their puppeteer, the money their master.
“Go on, then,” Jacob said, eyes bright.
“I’ve a hundred that says not a one of you can get the redhead to take you home tonight.”
“That was the wager—that you could talk her out of the bar and back to her place,” Jacob said, smirking.
“I’m not favored in this one, gents. It’s not fair for me to use my gods-given charms—plural—against the lot of you.” He leaned back, hands gripping the chair back, and kicked his feet out in front of him. “Too much like taking candy from babes. So, you care to play or is it all talk with the lot of ye?”
There was a great deal of shifting in seats and casual glances left and then right to see who would be the first to man up or bow out. Finally, a lad named Alex, slapped a ten-euro note on the scarred table and grinned. “I’ll take that wager.”
Gareth chuckled. “You’re barely out of short pants, Alex. What could you possibly know about seducing a woman?”
“Far more than you think, you gobshite,” he responded, his broad shoulders squaring. “I’ll have the lass eating out of me palm before sunrise.”
Gareth grinned. “And that, right there, is why you’ll lose.”
Alex’s brow furrowed.
Leaning forward with an air of absolute seriousness, Gareth clasped the younger man’s shoulder. “The goal in spending the night with a woman has nothing to do with feeding them like a wee bird.”
The men all laughed. Several more bills were added to the pile as their group grew more boisterous.
Gareth chanced a quick glance over his shoulder at the woman in question. If he was honest, what he really wanted was another look.
She’d nearly reached the bar. From somewhere deep in the group of men she passed through, a brawny hand snaked out and grabbed her backside hard enough he imagined she’d bruise.
He was out of his chair before his mind registered that he’d responded. It turned out his intervention wasn’t at all necessary.
In what appeared to be a single move, the bartender grabbed the offending man’s hand at the same time she whipped the tray out from under her arm and swung it down, edge first, on the tender spot between wrist and hand. Before the man could properly yelp, the woman spun the tray in her hand and smacked the man over the head with it. The tray splintered and the man slumped forward. Issuing rapid apologies, two of the patron’s companions eased him to the floor.
Gareth hardly spared the downed man a look. No, he was too fascinated by the woman standing over the proverbial body and holding nothing but the metal ring of what had been a wooden serving tray. She wielded it like a weapon. And standing over the man like she was, Gareth could imagine her gladly wrapping the ring around the offender’s neck should he offer anything other than an apology following his physical set-down.
But something about the woman, something he knew he had overlooked, forced him to focus on her with more intensity.
With her shoulders thrown back, her breasts appeared fuller, her body leaner, her waist thinner and her legs impossibly longer. Her hair seemed to crackle with life. And her eyes? They conveyed competence and fury in equal measure.
The man at her feet stirred and Gareth took a step forward, intent on aiding her whether she needed it or not.
As if she’d singled out his movement among the bar crowd, her eyes met his. Fists clenched, she tossed her hair and turned back to the man at her feet. A firm nudge of her toe had his head lolling back. A partial beer she claimed from another table roused him...when she tossed it in his face.
The bar quieted so much so that the commentary from the soccer game’s announcers seemed to skate across the tension strung person to person—tension that centered wholly on the redheaded woman.
It was sexy as hell.
Behind him, Jacob stood and sighed dramatically, propping his forearm on Gareth’s shoulder for mock support. “I’d love to be trapped between those thighs, gents. I’ve an inkling she’d hurt me in the best possible way.”
Gareth knocked the young man’s arm aside with only partially feigned irritation. “Sit down, Jacob. You’re no match for the likes of her.”
He continued to watch the woman. Something about her wasn’t quite right, but damn if he could put a finger on the vibe she emitted. It was nothing he’d ever encountered before. But before any of his trainees engaged her, be it in a bit of fun or...something else, he’d know who, and what, she was.
* * *
Ashley tossed the drink tray’s metal ring over the antlers of a large Irish sika deer with the misfortune to have found itself mounted on the wall in the name of art. She’d never understand men’s minds, no matter the effort she put into it. But if her epithicas was about to occur, she would indeed spend a great deal of time considering ways to harness one of them into giving up a week of his life for bed sport. A night? Oh, that was fine. But for her to be safe, to ensure her fertility remained suppressed and as undetectable as possible, she had to have a beck-and-call lover on hand for the hormonal surges. Only regular sex would satisfy that need. It had humiliated her for years until she’d come to realize it was either take a lover or risk end up a branded wife. There was always some part of her that wondered what it would be like to stay with a man by choice versus need, to wake up to him in the morning out of love and not compulsion. The epithicas had always destroyed that, though. Until she’d met Geoffrey the Swedish incubus, befriended him and set up a routine over the last several cycles. That this one might be early? She could call him...
Stepping behind the bar, she dropped the pass-through. It landed with a loud whump. The sound reanimated the crowd. Men and women alike began to chatter. More than one looked at her with open curiosity, and she knew that wouldn’t bode well. Strangers in Ireland never stayed strangers long. People were too friendly. And curious. No, not “curious”—wicked curious. A good Irishman or Irishwoman would have your life story from you before you’d finished your first cup of tea and your hopes, dreams and heartaches before you were halfway through your second. It was part of the reason she loved the obscurity of tending bar. Patrons came in looking to talk to her or with her, not about her. Until now. She’d botched that up with a fair hand.
Toeing her backpack not unlike a child affirming her security blanket’s location, Ashley couldn’t stop her shoulders from sagging in relief when her foot made contact with the worn canvas. It was there. She had choices, and choices, no matter how limited, were always better than the alternative.
She glanced up and searched out the table of men she’d just served, the antithesis of the smaller traditional Irishmen yet Irish through and through. They tried for inconspicuous as they stared at her with a strange, almost ravenous look. It wasn’t too disconcerting. However, the man who sat at the head of the table set her back a step.
His eyes were such an intense blue, heavy-lidded but not with lust. If she read him right from this far, and she prided herself on such things, he was sizing her up more as potential trouble than potential bedmate. That she wasn’t accustomed to. At all.
Calloused hands curled in on themselves, and he gave a short nod and three-fingered swiping gesture low and to his side. Acknowledgment, then. That single move said he’d recognized her as Other, and he’d just given her the same confirmation. Whatever brotherhood that group belonged to, it wasn’t the local farmers’ collective.
She knew he wasn’t phoenix. None of her kind was built with such a thick, muscular overlay. No, they were far leaner, faster. Potentially meaner.
A second glance at him and those blue eyes narrowed.
Okay. Maybe not meaner.
Heat pulsed through her veins, hotter than molten rock. Her knees buckled. The only thing to save her arse meeting the floor was dumb luck and fast hands as she grabbed the counter. Smells intensified—the weight of the Guinness she’d pulled, the pungent yet sweet smoke from the pipe of the old man sitting closest to the taps, the hot oil in the kitchen.
Her sex ached, and she issued a small, quiet curse. Definitely the epithicas, then, and damned early at that. It had never been early. Sure, it fluctuated a couple of days either way, but it was never weeks early. Ever.
Only one choice made sense, and that was to try to talk Geoffrey into leaving Sweden now. If he’d hole up with her in her small garage apartment, he could see her through the worst of the cravings.
A quick dip below the counter and she had her cell in hand. Geoffrey was buried deep in her contacts, but she found him without trouble and placed the call.
Three rings. Four. Then a breathless, “Ashley.”
“Tell me you’re free, Geoffrey.” The slightly manic edge to her voice irritated her. She wasn’t that person, wasn’t the woman to panic in a crisis, and she’d be damned if she’d start now.
“I’m not on your rotation for five more weeks.” He groaned and, in the background, a woman gasped.
Ashley shoved a hand through her hair, little static pops pricking her skin. Oh, yeah. It was time. “Things seem to be a bit early this cycle.” And there it was again—the wobble in her voice that brought her fear into the open.
“How soon?”
She bit her bottom lip and let herself simply be aware of her body. The vibration in her blood became a steady hum, the need a constant presence, and she knew it was as bad as she feared. Worse, her subconscious whispered. She swallowed and pinched the bridge of her nose with trembling fingers. “I’m guessing, since this is the first time this has happened, but based on the way things have happened in the past? I’m thinking I have two, maybe three days at best. Tomorrow at worst. Then it’s here.”
“I can’t get there, my love. It’s simply not possible. Prior commitments and all that.” He paused. “You could join us here.”
“I’m not one of the merry harem,” she said quietly. “You know the only reason I do this at all is necessity.”
“Sure. Admit it, though. It’s been good for both of us.”
True, damn him. But she wasn’t feeding his ego. “If things change, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll manage.”
“Be safe, Ashley.”
Hanging up, she assessed the bar again. She had to do something. If it meant finding a lover among the locals, she would. But he’d have to be strong—strong enough to ensure neither of them would be at risk if one of her clan or kind came after her. Sex would diffuse the call of her epithicas to the men of her kind, but they could still find her if she didn’t handle this right.
That could never happen.
Never.
The vehemence of her denial echoed through her so loudly she instinctively shook her head in response.
“Problem, Red?” The question was delivered with quiet indifference.
Her gaze shot across the bar where the largest man from the corner table now stood. The blond Adonis with the air of wicked sin made her heart race, but his aura winked around him for a split second, an aura so dark it shrouded him like a fathomless black hole. Worrisome, but not so much as the fact she hadn’t seen him cross the room.
“Oy! Guinness down the way!”
“On the way,” she called back without looking at the patron. She couldn’t take her gaze off the man across from her. She blindly retrieved a pint glass and began to expertly build the requested stout, managing the building head without trouble.
At her silence, the stranger’s eyes darkened, and he slipped onto the only vacant barstool.
Instinct had her backing up a step at his predatory, assessing look. She reclaimed her ground, but with caution, and fumbled with the Guinness tap. At more than four centuries old, she’d spent three and a half of those defending herself from men she’d never loved and never would. Over three centuries she’d been pursued, her freedom dependent on evading her clansmen with every epithicas. All of the time factors and stresses added up to harden her heart where men were concerned, no matter how pretty the man in question might be.
Like this one.
“Problem?” she asked, repeating his question as she slid the Guinness down the slick bar top. Without taking her eyes off the man across from her, she grabbed a cherry from the setup tray and popped the little fruit in her mouth. “The problem is that you’re far too pretty for my tastes yet you keep popping up in my line of sight.”
He grinned, slow and wicked. “And here I thought a woman like you would have refined ‘tastes.’ While it’s good to know, I’m not a menu item. Play with the boys in the corner if you’re looking for some flirtation.”
The hairs on her arms stood up. “I don’t play with boys, darling. And ‘flirtation’ is the last thing I’m about.” She pulled the cherry stem out of her mouth and held it up for him to witness the double knot she’d tied it into with just her tongue. “I’m very selective when it comes to choosing the man I take to my bed.”
“In the interest of seriousness, I’ll ask you for your name and a promise.”
“Ashley. No promises. Now run along before I change my mind and decide you’re my type.”
“Good enough. For now.” He nodded and moved away from her before she realized she hadn’t obtained his name in kind.
Foolish woman.
She watched as he settled into his seat at the table amid the jests and teasing from the younger men. They ended up huddled close together over the table, each of them pretending to watch the game on the screen.
Ashley knew better.
The problem she now faced was greater than the enigma of the man, though. She had limited time to find a bed partner. Having engaged the blond, she couldn’t seem to dredge up interest in anyone else. But she’d have to. Her mouth tightened and turned down at the corners in a righteous scowl.
Good luck with that, Ashley.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_c8309e56-56d0-5008-a996-baa036776cb1)
Gareth sat quietly, the young assassins teasing him mercilessly over their perception he’d failed to convince the bartender to play bedroom Twister with him despite his assertions he wasn’t interested in the bet. He even tossed another fifty euro into the kitty and bought a round of drinks in an attempt to get one of them to make a move on the woman. He wanted to see her reaction, take her measure and determine exactly what he was dealing with. Moreover, he wanted to take the focus off him and the change in his behaviors. Time passed and the woman, Ashley, avoided the table, leaving glasses empty as she kept well away from Gareth.
Deep in their cups and wrapped up in questionable boasts and a few outright lies regarding their virility, his men hardly paid him any mind as he gathered his belongings. Nothing could have changed his sudden intent to return to the keep. The interaction with the woman had left Gareth off-center and slightly nauseous, like something moved inside him without his permission. As he worked his way to the front door, he asked familiar faces about her and was surprised to find no one knew much beyond her name with any certainty. Several had crude nicknames for her based on some of the same physical attributes he’d admired, but he wouldn’t ever address her by such. Then, on the literal threshold of leaving the pub, he ran into a bit of luck. The young barmaid, a lass who had a bit of a thing for him, pushed on the vestibule door at the same time he pulled it open. She stumbled inside leaving Gareth the choice to let her fall or catch her. Grabbing her by the shirt-clad arms, he set her on her feet and smiled with as much charm as he could muster.
She fluffed her hair, arched her back to present her breasts like twin trophies and attempted to offer a pretty pout.
Gareth offered her a small smile. “Siobhan, how are you tonight?”
“Right as rain, love.” Reaching forward, she attempted to lay a hand against his chest. “What has you in a hurry to step into the squall tonight? It’s much warmer—more welcoming—inside. I assure you.”
The smell of secondhand smoke laced through her hair and clothes was overbearing. “Nothing worth fretting over, but I’ll thank you for your concern.” Dropping her arm, he stepped out of reach. “I’ve a favor if you don’t mind.”
Her dark eyes brightened. “Anything.”
“What do you know of the bartender?”
The interest in her eyes extinguished. “What’s it to you?”
Ah, jealousy. Such a pain in the arse. “She’s running a tab for me for the boys tonight. I’d like to pay her square come tomorrow, but I need to know she’ll be fair about it.” It was an outright lie, but he had no hope of ever reaching the fertile, peaceful lands of Tir na nÓg. He was bound for the Shadow Realm and the Well of Souls, and he knew it. One lie would neither suspend nor hasten his arrival.
“You must think I’m thick. Father Francis will have you doing penance for lyin’, and rightly so seeing as your tab is with the bar and not the bartender.” Siobhan outright scowled at him. “You know I’ve fancied you, and where I’d have been good to you, Ashley’s a right terror of a woman. Runs the bar front and the floor like a dictator, she does. Thinks she’s got the right to—”
Ashley.
So she’d given him her real name.
He glanced at the bar and caught her flipping a bottle through the air, catching it and pouring a generous shot for a young man who looked as if his heart had been broken. Ashley talked to him, apparently teasing and flirting in equal measures. The lad slid a coin across the bar, she tucked it in the till and grabbed another glass to join him in a drink. By the time the lad lifted the shot glass to his lips, she’d charmed a smile out of the man. She toasted him, and Gareth read to the words to freedom on her lips.
Lucky bloke.
“Ashley what? What’s her last name?” Gareth asked, still staring at the woman in question. Siobhan stopped her little tirade long enough he was forced to turn his attention back to her.
Siobhan sighed. “Her last name’s Clement.” She brushed passed him, her elbow grazing his bare wrist.
Gareth jerked away with a hiss at the burning contact, and Siobhan glared at him. “Would it cost you so much you can’t afford to offer me the courtesy of at least pretending you’re not repulsed by me?”
“You’re a fine lass,” he started, but she waved him off.
“Save it for Ashley. Where I’d have been good to you, charming that frigid bitch will take all the skill you allegedly possess.” She stormed away, wrestled into her little apron and shot him a final scathing look before slipping into the raucous crowd to take orders and clear empties.
The first table she hit was that of his boys.
The musicians tuned up and, with a shouted four count, began to play “Rocky Road to Dublin.” Boots stomping and hands clapping in time, patrons began to sing along, near raising the roof with their off-key help for The King’s Footmen. The musicians took it all in stride. If Guinness flowed like water, then Jameson’s created every tributary. The entire village would be sodding drunk before half past eleven tonight and hung over as hell come sunup.
Gareth turned in time to watch Ashley pour all but a drop from a liquor bottle, slide the shot to the customer and then tip the bottle back to her lips. He swore he felt the burn in his throat and the fine fumes that rose in his nose as he watched her throat work to swallow. It was all nonsense, of course. Bottom line, he was craving the solitude of home, and he intended to get there fast as possible.
