The Seduction of Shamus O'Rourke j-4 Read online

  He hadn't had a real good look at her before she'd climbed back into her car, but he figured that she was about five-five, five-six, give or take an inch. The oversized, pullover sweater she was wearing had partially concealed her figure, but Shamus knew women, and from what he'd seen, she had a nicely rounded figure beneath her clothing.

  She hadn't believed him when he'd told her that she was beautiful, but what she hadn't realized was that he wasn't just talking about her physical appearance.

  Not that she wasn't beautiful in a physical sense, because she was. Her light brown hair barely came to her shoulders and was tousled as if she'd shoved her fingers through it to comb it. Her skin was smooth and clear, her nose slightly tilted upward.

  Her eyes were a pale blue, but they appeared troubled, as if she had a lot on her mind. Thin lines radiated out from the corners, a testament to the fact that she was a few years older than him. Shamus thought they gave her face character.

  Her lips were full, but she hadn't been wearing lipstick. They were shiny though, as if she was wearing some kind of gloss.

  His body responded, his cock stirring, making his jeans slightly uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat to alleviate the pressure. There was something about her physical appearance that appealed to him, but it went much deeper than that.

  Shamus trusted his instincts. He'd always been able to see beyond the physical, to see the real person beneath. It worked with both men and women, allowing him to really understand the people around him.

  Cyndi Marks was a woman who hadn't had an easy life. It was evident in the shadows in her eyes. This woman had walls around her, large walls, to protect herself from hurt. Which meant that she'd been emotionally wounded a time or two in her lifetime.

  She was an intelligent woman. That much was evident from the way she'd gotten back into her car and locked the doors as he'd approached. Some men might have been insulted. He was impressed by her common sense. He'd also noticed that she had her cell phone in her lap with her fingers poised and ready to dial.

  There was a real substance to this woman. Maybe that's why he was drawn to her. While he enjoyed dating women his own age, so far he hadn't found the deeper connection he was looking for. That was fine for a casual date, but in a serious relationship, a man wanted more. At least this man did.

  He drove into town and continued on down Main Street, waving to people he knew as he went. Turning off onto Peach Street, he drove to the small house near the end, pulling into the driveway. He was home.

  Climbing out of his truck, he stood and just stared at the house that had been his home almost all of his life. Once it had been white, now it was a cheerful red with white shutters adorning every window.

  He had a lot of wonderful memories of growing up in this house, alongside his brother and sister. Because of the deaths of their parents when they were all still young, they'd grown very close as a family. When he was still a teenager, his sister, Dani, had married Burke Black, and all of them had moved into the farmhouse Burke had purchased just outside of town. On his nineteenth birthday, he'd moved back in and claimed the house as his own. He'd eventually bought it from Dani and lovingly renovated it one room at a time, making it his own.

  He'd considered moving more than once. Maybe getting something a bit larger and keeping this place to rent out for extra income. He didn't think he'd be able to bring himself to sell it. Some of the best times of his life had occurred in this home.

  Walking up the front steps, he unlocked the door and let himself inside. Unlacing his boots, he yanked them off and laid them on the mat just inside the door. As he stretched his arms over his head, working out the kinks of a hard day's work, he found his thoughts returning to Cyndi Marks. What was she doing? Where would she be staying? And would he see her again?

  Only time would tell. Whistling, he bound up the stairs, stripping off his dirty work shirt as he went. A nice, hot shower waited. Then he'd find something to eat.

  Cyndi sat in her car and stared at the mansion in front of her. She'd grown up in this place, but it had never felt like home. It was the place she'd slept, the place that still haunted her dreams.

  Opening the car door, she slid out. She reached back in and grabbed her purse before she shut the door with a heavy thunk. She was still reeling over the fact that her father, from who she'd been estranged for fourteen years, had left her everything.

  Yes, the lawyers had told her that when they'd first contacted her weeks ago to start the paperwork, but she really hadn't grasped just how much money and property it had amounted to until she'd talked to them this afternoon. Seems as if her father had dedicated the last years of his life to making money. Not that it was much different from the way he'd spent his entire life when she thought about it.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped toward the house. It loomed large, like something from a gothic novel. The wind rushed through the trees, sending leaves skittering across the large expanse of the front lawn. The flowers were long dead, the flowerbeds now covered in dried leaves and twigs.

  The brick building seemed cold and forbidding as she approached it. Reaching into her purse, she dug out the set of keys that Mr. Harris had given her. Now there was a man too much like her father. He'd subtly let her know that he didn't approve of her casual manner of dress. It wasn't befitting a James. Now that was something she'd heard daily for the first twenty-five years of her life. She'd calmly told him she was no longer a James. He'd pursed his lips so hard, he'd reminded her of a prune.

  She made a mental note to start searching for a new attorney tomorrow. There was nothing in the paperwork that said she had to keep using the firm of Harris and Hammond. Likely, neither her father nor his lawyers even considered the fact that she might switch. Well, they were in for an unwelcome surprise.

  Sticking the key in the lock, she turned it, hearing the tumble as the bolt drew back. She clasped the handle and pushed, her moist palm slipping on the metal. The door creaked slightly, the sound grating her already frayed nerves.

  "Buck up, Cyndi,” she muttered, stepping inside. The foyer was large and formal, its walls painted in a dark burgundy that seemed to suck all the light out of the place. Reaching out, she flicked the switch to turn on the overhead lamp. She was thankful the lawyers had seen to keeping the heat and electricity on at the house.

  The dim glow from the overhead chandelier didn't help much. It was as if the house preferred to stay in the shadows. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes. From what she could tell, the house hadn't changed at all. She could almost hear the echo of her father's voice, scolding her, taunting her, belittling her.

  Opening her eyes, she closed the door behind her. A part of her wanted to run screaming from the place from which she'd escaped all those years ago. The more mature part of her insisted she had to deal with her past if she ever hoped to find some happiness in her future. The house was just stone and wood. It couldn't hurt her. The person who had done that was dead.

  Her sneakers made little sound on the hardwood floor as she made her way down the hall. There was a small parlor off to the left, used for more casual meetings with guests. To the right was the larger, more formal living room, complete with fireplace and several huge picture windows.

  Shadows crept in through those windows, reminding her that it was getting late. She turned on more lights as she went further down the hall. Her father's office was off to the left, the door shut tight. She didn't bother to open it. A shiver skated over her skin as she passed. She'd deal with that particular room in the light of the day.

  The library was next, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves barely visible due to the thick, dark curtains drawn over the tall, thin windows. The formal dining room was on the right, the antique table large enough to seat two dozen comfortably. A heavy, oak sideboard placed against one wall held the china and crystal necessary to set the table. Again, the color was dark. In this room, it was a hunter green.

  She hurried past that room and on to the kitchen. I
t was the one room of the house that didn't bear her father's stamp. He'd probably never set foot in the place his entire life. They'd always had a cook and a maid, and meals were always taken in the formal dining room. Mr. Harris had informed her he'd let the staff go immediately after her father's death.

  Cyndi flicked on the light, and her breath caught. This room had obviously been remodeled at some point in the past few years. Gleaming stainless steel appliances waited to be used. Granite countertops seemed to go on forever. Banks of crisp white cupboards filled the space. It would have been a cold room, except that the floors were oak and the walls were a buttery yellow.

  She found herself drawn into the room. She didn't even want to contemplate the cost of the granite countertops. The sum would be shocking. She couldn't believe that the floor was hardwood and not tile. But that was her father. He'd want the best money could buy even if he never stepped foot in the place. He would have seen tiles—even slate—as cheap. Reaching out, she stroked her hand over the countertops. The stone seemed almost warm beneath her palm and for the first time, she felt a sense of welcome from the house.

  Sighing in pleasure, she made herself move on. She had the entire upstairs to explore. She didn't bother to look in the downstairs powder room, laundry room, pantry, or utility room. Those could wait. Striding quickly, she went back to the main staircase and walked up. Portraits of family members who had long since died, lined the walls. Stern visages seemed to watch her every move as she made her way to the top.

  She ignored her father's suite, just off to the right of the stairs, which included a bedroom, sitting room, and full bath. As with his office, she'd deal with it after she'd had a good night's rest. The doors were open to the six guest rooms that graced the top floor. Each room had an attached bathroom. Some just had shower stalls, while others had full baths. Her father often had business associates staying over and, as always, he had an image to upkeep. Only the best would do.

  Her room was the first one to the left with the door closed. Her hand shook as she reached out and turned the handle. A musty smell assailed her nostrils, as if the room had been shut up for a long time. She reached for the light switch, illuminating the space where she'd spent most of her childhood and early adulthood.

  Cyndi froze as she viewed the scene in front of her, her blood turning to ice. It was exactly the same. Exactly. Nothing had changed from the day she'd fled Jamesville. The dress she'd worn that morning to have breakfast with her father was still lying in a heap on the floor at the end of the bed. Dresser drawers were open from where she'd stuffed a change of clothing into her small knapsack. Her jewelry box was upended on the bed, diamonds, emeralds, and rubies scattered across the carpet. She'd taken the two pieces of her mother's jewelry—a silver locket and a silver bangle given to Cyndi when she was still a very small child—and left everything her father had ever given her. Most of it was ostentatious and not to her taste at all.

  Her hand automatically went to her neck and the small silver chain tucked beneath her sweater. She'd bought this for herself after she'd gotten her first job. It was the very first piece of jewelry she'd owned not bought or given to her by her father. The gem on the end of the braided chain was an amethyst set in silver. Her father would have deemed it inappropriate, torn it from her neck, and tossed it into the trash. Then he would have lectured her as he beat her.

  Cyndi sucked in a breath and tucked her necklace safely back below her collar. “He can't hurt you anymore,” she whispered, hoping that saying the words aloud would make them feel truer. The man was dead, and she couldn't bring herself to be sorry.

  The room seemed to mock her with its pristine white decor. The only color was artful splashes of red, deemed “the latest thing” by the decorator her father had hired to do her room. Cyndi had always hated the room, but she hadn't been consulted. Her opinion hadn't mattered.

  She had to get out of here. Her heart was pounding, her breathing was fast and shallow, and she was beginning to feel lightheaded. Turning from the dark reminders of her past, she fled, slamming the door behind her.

  Pounding down the stairs, she tore open the front door and raced toward her car. She slid on the slick leaves and tried to catch herself. Her foot twisted and she threw out her hand to break her fall as she felt herself go down. She cried out, hitting the ground hard, and scraping her hand on some twigs and rocks. Breathing heavily, she lay there for a moment and assessed the situation. Nothing seemed broken or permanently damaged. Carefully, she rolled onto her knees, cradling her hand against her chest. It was bleeding, but the cut didn't seem to be too deep.

  Pushing herself to her feet, she staggered to her car, her purse bumping against her hip. She yanked the door open and slid into the safe confines of her vehicle. Behind her, the house was lit up like a beacon. All the lights were on downstairs and she could even see the hall light from upstairs. The front door was gaping open.

  "Great.” She rested her head against the steering wheel and took a deep breath, then another. Her heart was still racing, but she felt slightly better.

  She jumped and struck her head, yelping in pain when her phone suddenly rang. Swearing, she grabbed her purse and rummaged around inside until she found it. “Hello."

  "Are you all right?” The voice, no-nonsense and female, came across the line like a comforting caress. “Cyndi?"

  "I'm fine, Aunt Verna.” She hesitated, knowing the other woman didn't believe her and would wait until she spilled her guts. “Okay, so I'm not fine."

  "Where are you now?” She could hear the concern in her aunt's voice.

  "I'm just outside the house.” She bit her bottom lip and stared at the light spilling out the front door. “I've already been inside."

  "I can be there tomorrow."

  Cyndi shook her head before she remembered that her aunt couldn't see her. She really was rattled. “No. I'm okay with this. It's something I have to do myself. You know that."

  Her Aunt Verna sighed. “I know it, child, but that doesn't mean I have to like it."

  "The room is the same,” she blurted out.

  "What?"

  "My room. It's exactly the same as the day I left. It's as if he just closed the door and left it that way.” She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel and jiggled her leg up and down. When she realized what she was doing, she made herself stop.

  "That's just...” Her aunt's voice trailed off.

  "Sick,” she offered.

  Her aunt chuckled. “I always said your father was one demented bastard."

  "I know, and this is just one more thing that proves it. I'm staying here.” Although her intention all along, saying it aloud, now that she was here, solidified it.

  "You sure that's wise?"

  "Maybe not, but it's what I have to do. I'll call you in the morning."

  "Keep your phone close to you all night and call me if you need me."

  Cyndi could feel her aunt's concern. “I will,” she promised. “Love you."

  "I love you too, Cyndi. I might just come on up there in a week or so for a short vacation."

  Cyndi laughed. “Give me a some time to get the place in order first."

  "Okay,” the older woman replied. “But I won't wait long."

  "I know.” Cyndi began to relax as she listened to the sound of her aunt's voice. Verna Mitchell had been married years ago, but her husband had died tragically in a car wreck only one short year later. They hadn't had any children and Verna had never remarried. She'd taken Cyndi under her wing, protecting and nurturing her as if she was her own child.

  They chatted for another minute or so before Cyndi ended the call. Climbing back out of the car, she went around to the trunk. Her hand was stinging something fierce and she glanced down at it. It was definitely bleeding and she'd gotten blood on her sweater and her jeans. “Wonderful,” she muttered as she dragged her two suitcases out of the trunk. Picking up the first one, she hauled it to the front door.

  Ten minutes later, the las
t box was inside and she closed the door, sealing herself inside the house for the night.

  Chapter Three

  Shamus was in an upbeat mood as he strode into Jessie's the next morning. Usually, he grabbed a bite to eat at home or stopped by his sister Dani's place for breakfast. This morning, he'd awoken with a need to go to Jessie's—just in case Ms. Cyndi Marks decided to drop by.

  She'd been on his mind most of the night. He'd tossed and turned for hours and, when he did sleep, she'd even invaded his dreams. It wasn't every day a beautiful, intriguing stranger came to Jamesville.

  He said hello and nodded to a few early folks like himself who were all perched on the stools lining the counter, and slid into a booth in front of the window. His sister-in-law Shannon, who was Jessie's niece and worked at the diner, strolled toward him, coffee pot in hand, before he'd even finished sitting.

  "Morning, Shamus. We don't usually see you here this time of day.” She smiled as she filled his coffee cup.

  As she leaned in front of him, he dropped a quick kiss on her cheek. “Morning, Shannon. Woke up this morning and felt like something different."

  She laughed, her long, reddish braid gleaming in the morning sunlight. He liked Shannon, a lot. She was a big reason why his brother Patrick had moved back to Jamesville. She also made Patrick a very happy man. Like his brother, she'd had her share of problems, but together, the two of them had worked things out and were building a life together. Now, they'd been married for a year.

  "Jessie's in the kitchen whipping up batter for blueberry pancakes.” Her eyes twinkled as she tempted him.

  "Sold.” He picked up his coffee and drank down a large swallow.

  "Good enough. I'll tell her they're for you.” With a quick grin, Shannon was gone to attend to the other customers.

  Shamus leaned back and stretched his legs out beneath the table. Jessie would put a little extra on his plate. She always did. Shamus had gotten to know Jessie really well a little more than a year ago. He'd stayed with Jessie when Shannon's ex-husband had been released from prison and was terrorizing her. They'd all been afraid that her crazy ex might target her family, which meant Jessie. Shamus had moved in to help protect the older woman, while Patrick had moved in with Shannon.