A Woman's Heart. JoAnn Ross

a lovely day, after all.”

      “Your father said he’d take me if he wasn’t so busy with his ledger book,” Quinn said conversationally.

      “Ledger book?” Nora’s hands stilled for a moment, and she glanced at him in surprise. “The farm account book?”

      “That’s what it looked like.”

      “Well.” She shook her head and began pounding harder at the dough.

      “Something wrong?”

      “Wrong?” She was refusing to look at him, her voice had taken on a sharp edge, and she’d begun attacking the dough as if she bore it a personal grudge. “What could be wrong with a man tending to business?”

      What indeed? Quinn wondered. But something definitely had her ire up. Electricity was practically radiating from every pore.

      “Well, that’s done for now.” She turned the dough into two oblong pans, covered them with a cotton dish towel, then brushed her palms together to dust off the flour. “It’ll just take me a few minutes to wash up and—”

      “I’ll do that,” a voice offered from the doorway. Both Quinn and Nora turned to see Mary.

      “You’re volunteering to do dishes?” Nora’s eyes narrowed. “Saints preserve us,” she said with an exaggerated brogue that reminded Quinn of her father’s. “Ring up Father O’Malley right away, because it’s sure we’re witnessing a miracle.”

      “I’ve done dishes before. Lots of times,” Mary countered with a toss of her dark head. “Gran sent me in to finish washing up so you and Mr. Gallagher could leave for the village.”

      “And isn’t that thoughtful of your grandmother,” Nora said dryly. She washed the remaining bits of dough off her hands beneath the tap, dried them on her apron, then took it off and hung it on a wooden hook on the wall. “If you’re ready, then, Mr. Gallagher.” After plucking a set of keys from another hook, she walked out the kitchen door, leaving Quinn to follow.

      “What the hell is that?” He stared at the huge garishly painted old Caddy sitting in the driveway where earlier red-feathered chickens had scratched.

      Nora arched a brow. “Are you telling me you’ve never seen a miracle-mobile, Mr. Gallagher?”

      “This is a first. Is it yours?” He assured himself that he’d survived far worse in his lifetime than being seen by any of the crew in what looked like an amateur artist’s rendition of the Sistine Chapel ceiling.

      “Don’t worry, it’s Fionna’s. Mine is the blue one parked behind it. We fetched it from the pub after mass this morning.”

      Thank God. “Nice car,” he murmured.

      Nora laughed in a way that told him she knew exactly how relieved he was feeling. “Thank you. It’s a wee bit boring compared to Fionna’s. But I like it.”

      The car, like most he’d seen in Ireland, was a compact sedan that could probably fit into the rear of the Chevy Suburban parked next to the Porsche in his three-car garage back in Monterey.

      “I really am sorry to inconvenience you this way,” he said into the well of strained silence surrounding them as they drove through the rolling green hills. It was obvious that her brief humor over his reaction to her grandmother’s colorful Cadillac had faded, leaving her still upset about something.

      “It’s no inconvenience,” Nora snapped. Then, as if realizing how brisk she’d sounded, she sighed and rubbed at her temple, as if trying to ward off a headache. “I’m sorry. Truly I don’t mind driving you into the village, Mr. Gallagher. It’s just that I’m a little put out at my family at the moment.”

      “For throwing us together.”

      She shot him a surprised look. “You knew that’s what they were doing?”

      He watched the color—like wild primroses—rise in her cheeks, tried to remember the last time he’d been with a woman capable of blushing and came up blank. Even as he reminded himself that innocence held no appeal, Quinn found the rosy hue enticing.

      “It was pretty obvious.”

      “I’m sorry.” She combed a not very steady hand through her riot of curls. In the midday light her hair glowed like a burning bush. Her wrists were narrow, her fingers slender, her short nails unlacquered, once again bringing to mind a nun. A sensible man would give her a wide berth. Quinn reminded himself he’d always considered himself a sensible man.

      “It’s not right that you should have to deal with their foolish matchmaking schemes while you’re a paying guest.”

      “I’ve survived worse.”

      “But you shouldn’t have to, you see.”

      “Why don’t you let me worry about it?” he suggested mildly.

      “It’s just so…embarrassing. And annoying. As if I’m some over-the-hill spinster who can’t get a man on my own.”

      Since she’d practically handed him a gilt-edged invitation, Quinn allowed himself the luxury of an in-depth perusal of the woman sitting so close to him. His eyes, safely hidden behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, looked her over with slow deliberation, from the top of her fiery head to her sneaker-clad feet, where he found a surprisingly whimsical touch—white cotton socks trimmed with lace. And although he knew his mind had no business going off in such a dangerous direction, he wondered if she was wearing more white lace beneath those jeans and that sweater.

      “The gold wedding band on your finger proves you’re no spinster. And I’ve no doubt there are more than a few men in Ireland who’d want you, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”

      The color in her cheeks deepened. “I’ll be taking that as a compliment, Mr. Gallagher.” Although her voice remained steady, her eyes had gotten that guarded look again. “Especially since you’ve already assured me I’m not your type of woman.”

      He’d been wondering if she was going to bring that up. “I suppose this is where I apologize for my boorish behavior. Although being drunk’s no excuse, I can’t remember the last time I got so wasted. Believe me, I usually display a helluva lot more finesse when I’m seducing a woman.”

      “And are you in the habit of seducing women who aren’t your type?”

      Quinn gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Hardly. In fact, last night was a first.”

      “It was probably the drink,” she offered helpfully.

      “Probably,” he agreed, not believing it for a minute. “I suppose that’s what I get for trying to keep up with all the toasts.”

      Quinn had quickly discovered that when anyone in the pub offered to stand for a drink, it was bad manners to refuse. Then, of course, you had to return the compliment. Next it would be someone else’s turn. And on and on until he was amazed anyone was left standing at the end of the evening.

      “My father doesn’t usually drink so much,” Nora volunteered, as if needing to defend Brady’s behavior. “It’s his habit to drink a pint or two and get his enjoyment from telling his tales.”

      “Alcohol’s a slippery slope. Sometimes people can lose their footing.”

      “True enough.” She slanted him another curious glance. “You sound as if you have some personal experience with such things.”

      “My mother was a drunk.” Quinn had never told another living soul about his mother. He wondered why the hell he’d just told Nora Fitzpatrick.

      “Oh.”

      She fell silent. And seemingly thoughtful as she drove down the ribbon of road past hedgerows thick with lacelike flowers. The fruit trees blooming in yards along the roadway looked like pink and white bouquets against the blue sky. The windows of the car were open, allowing in air so fresh Quinn felt