Tempting Irish Page 2

  I look away, more jealousy eating at me. Not for Delaney, but for the happiness my brother has found with her. I’m glad for them both. Never thought any woman would pull Cillian from his brooding long enough to tame him. But Delaney has. She’s good for him. Never seen him as happy as he’s been these past months.

  They’re all happy. Even Shane, with his evolving door of women. And I envy them. Not just their happiness, but their sense of identity, of knowing what they want and fighting like hell to get it.

  My own identity revolves around the people at this table.

  The band.

  My family.

  Cillian may be the only one related to me by blood, but Aiden and Shane are just as much my family, as well as Emer, and now Delaney. They’re the only thing in this world that matters. And I’d do anything to protect them. Nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice.

  The table goes silent as we watch the two women walk out of the restaurant towards the hotel foyer.

  “Emer’s right,” Aiden says when they’re out of earshot. “Ye need to go in and have yer head looked at again. Ye’re turning into a temperamental bastard these days. Skulking around like the world’s about to end.”

  I grunt, hearing the affection in his harsh, but true, words. “I don’t skulk.”

  “Ye do,” Cillian agrees.

  “He just needs to get laid,” Shane says, leaning back in his chair, eyeing two pretty blondes at the bar.

  Dressed in slinky little dresses that leave more skin exposed than covered, the women giggle when they catch Shane staring. When he gives them one of his fuck-me grins, the women slide off their stools and start towards us.

  Perfect. I roll my eyes, knowing the drill. Now that Cillian and Aiden are out of the game, I’m his wingman. Even though I have no doubt that Shane could, and probably will, handle both women all by himself. Tonight, I’m not in the mood for casual sex. For the desperate affections of fan girls who want nothing more than to fuck me so that they can brag about it.

  “Ye’re too fecking serious,” Shane says, shifting in his seat, and pulling out the chairs that Delaney and Emer had just been sitting in to allow the women to sit down. “Have a little bloody fun now and then.”

  The women continue to giggle as Shane leans back, arms resting on the backs of their chairs, a smirk plastered across his face before diverting his attention to one of the Barbie clones.

  When it’s obvious that Aiden and Cillian aren’t interested, the other blonde locks her gaze on me, her eyes roaming down my chest then back up to my face, her tongue darting out across her lips. She’s speaking to me, but I don’t care about the words coming from her mouth, or the way her manicured hand drops to my leg when she leans closer.

  I feel nothing. Just the damn numbness that never seems to go away.

  Maybe I’m fucking depressed. Or maybe I’m just tired of the same shit day in and day out. All I know is that something needs to change, before I end up drowning my wretchedness in more than just booze and women.

  I see the worried looks Aiden and Cillian give me. The same look they’ve been giving me since I had my head busted in last year by some drunk asshole who stuck his nose, or rather his fist, where it didn’t belong.

  I can hold my own in a fight. Hell, I’m Irish. I was born fighting. But the asshole clipped me with a dirty punch. One that landed me in intensive care with a brain bleed.

  I’ve heard them muttering that I haven’t been the same since. Maybe I haven’t. But I know this emptiness inside me started way before that incident. I just finally stopped trying to hide it.

  “Need to get some air,” I say, ignoring the blonde’s pout when I stand abruptly, causing her hand to drop from my leg.

  “I’ll come with ye,” Aiden says, pushing his chair back.

  “No. I’m good, man.” I don’t look back as I walk out of the hotel restaurant into the crowded Dublin streets.

  I love this city. Love the whole fucking country. But coming home is bittersweet. Because I have no clue what the hell I’m going to do with my life now that everything’s changed.

  Money isn’t an issue. I can live off the royalties from our last two albums. But going home, back to the empty house I built a year ago, and watching Cillian and Aiden settle down and raise their kids isn’t an appealing option.

  Shane and I discussed opening a recording studio here in Dublin. It’s something I’ve been tossing around for a while now. There’s so much talent out there, so many voices that just need a chance to be heard.

  The first couple drops of rain hit my face, but I barely notice when the clouds open up, causing the crowds to quickly disperse into the open pubs and restaurants that line the streets. I keep walking, pulling my hoodie over my head, stopping only when I reach the Liffey.

  Forearms resting on the stone wall that lines the river, I take a deep breath of the cool, salty air.

  There’s no other city in the world like Dublin. The old and the new merging. The steady, unrelenting heartbeat of a country that, despite all the tragedies of the past, can’t be snuffed out.

  Even through the splattering of rain, and the soft hum of vehicles, I can hear the sound of laughter and music coming from the different pubs.

  I think about going into the Brazen Head. Allow the folk music and a couple of pints of Guinness to fill some of the hollowness inside me. And I would if I thought I could sit in a back corner and drink myself into oblivion.

  But my face is too recognizable now. And I’m not in the mood to deal with fans, so I keep walking until my hoodie is soaked through to my t-shirt beneath, and my feet ache with the blisters I’ll have tomorrow, and try to find the lyrics that have been just at the edge of my mind lately. But they stay in the haze, unattainable, just like my own happiness.

  I’m too close to sober when I finally walk back through the hotel doors.

  The restaurant bar is closed, the guys gone, Cillian and Aiden probably up to their rooms with their wives, and Shane no doubt with either Barbie one or Barbie two, maybe both.

  Thank God for the stacked minibar in my suite.

  I curse under my breath when I remember that I emptied it earlier today.

  It’s late, well past midnight, and other than a woman checking in at the front counter, the lobby is empty.

  Despite hotel policy, I know from experience that a hundred euros should get me more than a handful of those mini liquor bottles delivered ASAP to my room.

  Dripping wet, I shove my hands in my pocket and wait while the mousy-looking concierge looks down his pointed nose at the woman whose back is towards me.

  Long dark hair, damp from the rain, hangs in a simple ponytail down her slender back, resting just above a perfectly shaped ass.

  “I’m sorry, Miss, but there aren’t any rooms available.”

  “I have my reservation number right here,” the woman says with an accent that I recognize as American. Most likely from one of the northern states as the words have a harder edge, rather than a slow southern drawl.

  Fumbling with her wallet, she pulls out a piece of paper. “Five, zero, T, two-”

  The concierge tilts his chin up at her, looking through narrow slits, and says without even a hint of apology, “That reservation is for tomorrow.”

  “I booked it for the eleventh-”

  “Which is tomorrow.” He says each word slowly, with more than a touch of disdain.

  My immediate reaction is to intervene. It’s after midnight, so it’s technically the eleventh. But I’m still holding out hope for the re-stock on my mini-fridge.

  “Your room will be ready after two tomorrow afternoon.”

  “And what am I supposed to do until then?” There’s a hint of panic in her voice now.

  The man just blinks at her, apathetic.

  “Look.” She places her forearms on counter. “I just spent seven hours on a plane, and another hour trying to get a damn taxi, which, after everything, ended up dropping me off at the wrong hotel. I walked another two block
s in the rain, and all I want is a damn bed and a shower-”

  “If you’d like to store your bags-”

  The woman lets out an exasperated breath that sounds more like a strangled cry. “I don’t want to store my bags. I want a room. Please.”

  “Miss.” Frustration creeps into the man’s tone, and he rolls his eyes at her. “If I had a room to give you, I would.”

  Even I don’t believe him.

  “Fine.” She throws her hands up. “I guess I’ll just walk the streets. But if I get mugged or murdered, it’s going to be all your fault.”

  The man’s face remains deadpan. “You’re more than welcome to sit in our lounge. Breakfast will available in five hours.”

  “Thanks,” she mutters, grabbing her purse, then leaning down to pick up her luggage.

  She must not have been aware that I was standing behind her, because she spins around quickly, all her frustration evident in the movement, and collides straight into me.

  I catch her elbow to steady her.

  “I’m sorry. I-” She blinks up at me, her mouth parted on the words she was going to say.

  The woman is beautiful. Her face is void of the heavy make-up most women wear. Her skin pale next to the dark strands that have escaped her messy ponytail. Bright blue eyes framed with thick, black lashes blink up at me.

  There’s something familiar about her. Something I can’t place. And for the first time in weeks, my cock reacts to something other than my own hand.

  The man behind the counter coughs. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Gallagher?”

  Red creeps into the woman’s cheeks and she glances away, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. Obviously either recognizing my face or my name, because I can see the star-struck look in her eyes. But somehow, with her, it’s different. Appealing, rather than a turn-off.

  “Mr. Gallagher?” the concierge repeats.

  “No,” I huff out, not looking away from the beauty in front of me, even when she takes a step back. Liquor is the last thing on my mind now.

  “Rough night?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, studying the soft lines of her jaw, then dropping my gaze to take in the rest of her perfections.

  “I just need a bed. Sleep,” she mumbles, not glancing away when I raise my eyes and catch her staring.

  A heated moment passes between us, and I can barely catch half of the emotions that flicker across her expression.

  The woman intrigues me, pulls at something inside of me.

  Yeah, yer dick, jackass, my brain warns. Despite the girl-next-door vibe she’s giving off, and the innocence in the startling blue of her eyes, trouble emanates from her. Not the kind of bad girl trouble I used to enjoy, but a sense that she’s got more baggage than just the luggage she’s holding.

  The trouble is, I’ve never been able to resist a damsel in distress. Emer calls it my white-knight complex. And this girl is in definite need of saving. At least, for tonight.

  The numbness from earlier is gone, replaced by a simmering heat from the way the woman looks at me. Need and something else that I can’t quite place, shimmering in her gaze.

  She’d taste sweet. Hell, after the dry spell I’ve been in, she’d probably taste like manna from heaven. I can almost feel the way the soft curves of her body would mold against mine, hear the soft moans she’d make when I dragged my tongue across her clit.

  Yeah, there’s no way this girl is sleeping in the fucking lobby.

  Without a second thought, and knowing I’ll probably regret it, I take her bag from her hand and toss it over my shoulder.

  “Wha-what are you doing?”

  I grin down at her. “Ye said ye needed a bed. I just happen to have one.”

  Chapter 2

  Bree

  Owen Gallagher is standing – no, hovering - above me with a giant smirk plastered across his handsome face. He radiates with sexual confidence, and I know exactly what he wants – a conquest.

  Desire gleams in his eyes, ripples through his words, and the cocky arrogance he emits lets me know he’s used to getting his way.

  The way his stormy eyes roam down and back up my body fills my core with a warmth I haven’t felt in a long time, or ever. But it also makes me wonder if he doesn’t recognize me, because if he did, I doubt he’d dare look at me the way he is now.

  Or be offering me his bed.

  “Excuse me?”

  He leans forward, his gray eyes searching mine, and I see the twinkle of humor in them. “I won’t be sharing it with ye if that’s what ye’re worried about.”

  “Sha-sharing?” I sound like a stuttering, star-struck idiot, which by his amused gaze, I’m sure he’s used to.

  Of course, he is. He’s Owen freaking Gallagher.

  “The bed.” His head angles as his gaze seems to swallow me whole.

  “Oh.” Even I hear the edge of disappointment in the word, and more heat creeps into my cheeks.

  He laughs, a melodic sound that seems to rumble inside me, going straight to my core.

  “Unless, of course, ye want me to.” One dark eyebrow cocks up.

  “No,” the word comes out forced, and I have to take in a deep breath to try and steady my wildly beating heart – and imagination. “I mean. I-I don’t want to impose.”

  “No imposition.” His gaze holds mine, and there’s a challenge in his eyes.

  I breathe out heavily and nervously tuck the damp hair that’s fallen across my cheek back behind my ear, my head still spinning at seeing him. Here. Now. As coincidental as it seems, it’s not. I knew he was staying in this hotel. Planned to be here to finally face him and my cousins. I just didn’t expect to be standing in the foyer of the hotel, with a slightly intoxicated Owen offering to take me up to his room.

  A bed. That’s all he’s offering, I remind myself. Yeah, right. Even I’m not that naive.

  I should tell him who I am, before things get awkward. Before…

  “Come on,” he says. “I’m freezing my ass off, and ye look like ye could use a hot shower.”

  The thought of him naked and wet sends all kinds of dirty thoughts racing through my mind. He must be able to read every single one of them in my expression, because his smirk only broadens and he lets out a low chuckle deep in his throat.

  I should say no.

  There’s still a part of me that’s angry at him for breaking the only promise he ever made to me. And then, there’s also the problem that I’m now ninety-nine-percent certain he has no clue who I am. Which is another blow to my ego.

  I may have only been twelve the last time he saw me, but we’d been close. Or, at least, my pre-adolescent mind thought we had.

  “I think I’ll just stay here.” I glance over at the lounge with its stiff leather chairs and wince.

  “Are ye scared of me?” He takes a step closer, forcing me to look up.

  My heart beats wildly, fluttering like a caged bird.

  “No. Of course not.” Liar, my brain screams. I swallow past the enormous lump that’s lodged itself in my throat. “I just don’t make it a habit of going to random men’s hotel rooms.”

  “And I don’t make it a habit of inviting strange women to mine,” he says with a grin.

  “I doubt that.”

  He chuckles. “At least, not to sleep.”

  I can’t help but snort.

  Arching a brow, I cross my arms over my chest, but the movement only makes his gaze drift down to my cleavage. I drop my arms.

  “And if I come up with you, that’s all you want to do? Sleep?”

  “I didn’t say that’s all I wanted to do. But I promise to keep my hands to myself. Plus, I’ve got a huge—” he accentuates the word, “—room, and no one to share it with.”

  Don’t do it, Bree, my rational brain screams. But my sleep and sex-deprived body has other ideas.

  He shrugs. “If ye’d rather stay down here in the lobby-”

  “No.” Again, the word comes out forced. So much for staying cool and collected
. The man already has my head spinning. “I mean, yes, thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

  “Good choice.” He takes my other bag and tosses it over his shoulder, then starts to walk towards the elevators.

  I catch the concierge’s knowing, judgmental grin. Red-hot embarrassment creeps up my neck, warming my cheeks.

  What am I doing?

  Eyes trained on Owen’s back, I try to stop my gaze from drifting down, from noticing the way his jeans hug his perfect ass and thick, muscular thighs.

  At eighteen, Owen was good-looking, tall, and corded with muscles, but the man in front of me is breathtaking.

  I should tell him who I am. I don’t know what stops me, other than that I like the way his gaze keeps drifting to mine. The hunger that lurks in the gray depths, promising a night of toe-curling pleasure.

  All I have to do is ask.

  Damn, if I don’t want to. Want him. To taste his lips, feel the heat of his skin, to hear my name roll off his tongue as he buries himself inside of me. To finally experience the fantasy that all my past sexual encounters had been measured against.

  But what if even he doesn’t live up to the hype my overactive libido has imagined? Then, maybe, finally, I’d get the man out of my head.

  Not likely.

  I chew on my bottom lip, following him, and watching him from the corner of my eyes as we ride the elevator up the top floor. Watch as he saunters down the hall with the swagger of the rock god he is.

  My breath comes out in shaky little puffs as he uses his keycard to open the door.

  I’m really doing this.

  Spending the night with Owen Gallagher.

  Sleep, my brain reminds me. That’s all he offered.

  Verbally, yes. But the offer of so much more is clear in his gaze.

  He holds the door open for me, one brow arched, and I wonder how long I was standing there gawking at him.

  “Having second thoughts?”

  Yes. Second thoughts about allowing him to seduce the seven-month sexual drought right out of me.

  I give a small shake of my head, then walk into the suite.

  “Ye can have the bedroom. I’ll take the couch.” Owen opens the double doors that lead to the bedroom, and places my luggage beside the bed.