Sullivan's Child. Gail Link

knew what the problem was. Memories. Ever since that fancy envelope ripped open the tenuous hold she maintained over her thoughts on the past, the magnetic pull of recollections gripped her senses, nudging aside her hunger for sleep, for forgetfulness.

      It had been almost seven years since she had seen the father of her child. Even though he was no longer a part of her personal life, he was still very much a part of her professional life. Because of the popular history books that he’d written, books that she carried in her store, that fact was inescapable. His sharp black-and-white photograph adorned dust jackets: He was the quintessentially handsome, brilliant college professor, a man of undeniable magnetism and taste who could wear, she recalled, a tuxedo or jeans with equal aplomb. The kind of drop-dead-gorgeous looks that constantly stirred and fluttered female hearts—and would until his dying day.

      Frustrated, Cat threw back the fluffy white comforter, leaving the bed that offered her no sanctuary from the seductive rush of memories. Slipping on her comfortable hunter-green chenille robe, she padded barefoot to her cozy kitchen for a soothing cup of hot chocolate.

      While waiting for the water to boil, she looked out the window over the sink to the sky, touched by a splattering of diamond-chipped stars.

      She had thought that he’d been like them: brilliant, remote, out of her reach.

      The kettle’s whistle signaled to her that the water was ready. Cat poured the boiling liquid over the cocoa mix, her free hand automatically reaching for a spoon and stirring the contents of the mug. Her mind dwelled on the fact that the unthinkable had happened, that without her having to reach for them, the dreams, the fantasies, had come to her.

      And that’s all they were, she thought as she sipped the rich taste of the chocolate. Fantasies.

      Without foundation. Without strength. Nothing to build upon, she sadly acknowledged. First love had swept her away on a tide of rising emotions, breaking through the barriers around her heart. She could see it all so clearly: He was again the instructor, she the willing student.

      Her memory slipped back, caught in the seductive web of the past….

      Cat was running late, the result of having gotten stuck in traffic. Today of all days, she thought as she pulled her car into the small parking lot that adjoined the reconverted barn that housed her bookstore and gift shop.

      She’d been open less than a year, and this was her first really big event, hosting a signing of an important new book. All her hard work lobbying the small-press publisher had paid off. She had the first appearance of a man who was getting extensive, glowing media coverage for his introductory foray into the crowded field of historical writing. After reading an advanced copy of the book, Cat had been determined to get the author in her store, especially since he was teaching a semester at Cedar Hill. So impressed was she by his stirring command of words that she wanted to share her enthusiasm with the public. She and her assistant had sent out invitations to a select mailing list, then crossed their fingers that all the people who had responded affirmatively would show up.

      Cat finally relaxed about a half hour later after making sure all the details were taken care of: that she had enough chairs to hold the people rapidly filling the store, that the coffee and tea were ready, and that the small iced cookies and cupcakes her assistant, Mary Alice, had picked up from a local bakery were set out. She checked the small pine table holding the large stack of books, fussing with the display until she had it just right.

      She chatted with a few of her regular customers while they waited for the author to show up. Several of them had already purchased the book on her recommendation earlier in the week and were as anxious as she was to meet the writer.

      Still, Cat was totally unprepared for the shock that hit her squarely in the chest when the door opened several minutes later, and the author sauntered in.

      He was the handsomest man she had ever seen. Photographs, she realized, didn’t completely do him justice. Tall, whipcord lean, he entered the room like a conquering prince of old, pride stamped indelibly on the aristocratic planes of his face. Casually dressed in a pale blue oxford shirt and tight indigo jeans, topped by a black leather jacket, Cat couldn’t take her eyes off him.

      She was instantly mesmerized by the brilliant blue of his eyes, deep and dark, as he looked in her direction. Kerry blue to be sure, surrounded by thick dark lashes many women would envy, and curving black eyebrows. Black hair, thick and slightly wavy, fell to his nape. His mouth was wide with a sensually full lower lip.

      And then he smiled. Caitlyn saw his mouth quirk to one side, a dimple evident in one cheek, the white flash of his teeth glowed against his lightly tanned skin.

      She watched as he brushed away a stray lock of hair from his forehead. His fingers were long and slender. A silver Claddagh ring gleamed on his right hand.

      Unbidden and quite unexpected came the thought—what would those hands feel like on her body?

      Like heaven, she answered her own question, imagining the outcome.

      Heat flushed her cheeks as she realized the sensual path her mind was taking.

      Apologizing for his tardiness, he quietly introduced himself to Cat, whose heart started to pound deep in her chest. She introduced him to the crowd, then stepped back to let him begin.

      She, along with the assembled customers, was enthralled both by the sound of his voice and by the subject matter he discussed. He made history come alive, as if he were relating events that happened just yesterday instead of centuries ago.

      With a will of their own, her eyes returned to feast on him. A poet, a warrior-king, a rebel; all these things and more Cat saw mirrored in his compelling face. His was a countenance that personified all that was masculine and beautiful, all that was heroic about the Irish.

      The day was a huge success. The cash register hummed with activity as close to a hundred copies of the book were sold. People lined up to chat with the author, some, Cat noted, shamelessly flirting.

      He seemed to take it all in stride, staying later, making sure everyone who wanted a signed copy got one.

      A few customers still milled about the store, talking and adding items to their planned purchases while Cat straightened up.

      “Miss Kildare?”

      She almost dropped the empty china plate she was holding when he spoke. “Yes?”

      “Any more left?”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Of the cookies or the cupcakes?”

      “Sorry, no,” she responded. “Looks like the food was as big as hit as you were, Dr. Sullivan.”

      He smiled. “Rory, please.”

      Her tongue snaked out to wet her suddenly dry lips.

      He checked the watch on his right wrist. “It’s well past lunch and a bit early for dinner, but I’m rather hungry. What about you?”

      Cat hadn’t eaten since a hastily grabbed breakfast this morning, and while she was indeed hungry, not to mention intrigued at the thought of sharing a meal with this man, she had a business to run. “Thanks for the offer, but I really can’t. There’s too much to do here.”

      Mary Alice entered the conversation, not having missed the intense looks her boss had given their guest speaker. “I can close up today, Cat.”

      Cat threw her assistant a grateful glance. “You’re sure? You were scheduled to leave in half an hour.”

      “No problem. I’ll just make a phone call and let my husband know I’ll be home later.”

      “Thanks.”

      “It’s settled then,” Rory added, waiting while Cat gathered her purse and gave a few last-minute instructions to her assistant. When Cat joined him, he leaned close to her and whispered, “I know a wonderful place not far from here.”

      That was the beginning.

      Time