Quinn forced a reluctant laugh as something indefinable stirred inside him, something that resisted his writer’s need to analyze and label.
“Okay, so I overstated. But you have to admit, it does look beautiful.”
“Of course it does,” the actress agreed. “You said it yourself. The quaint little scene looks like every postcard of Ireland you’ve ever seen. Heaven help us, I have a horrible feeling that the entire country might turn out to be a living cliché.”
Shuddering dramatically, she linked her fingers with his, a familiarity that came from being a former lover.
“Perhaps it’s something else.” She turned toward him, her eyes gleaming with the wicked humor Quinn had always enjoyed. “Perhaps it’s your ‘auld sod’ roots calling to you.”
“I strongly doubt that.” He might be one of the hottest horror writers in the business, but even Quinn couldn’t think up a more terrifying idea.
“Roots tie you down, Quinn, baby,” he remembered his mother saying. “They wrap around your ankles so bad you can’t never get free.”
It was the only thing Angie Gallagher had ever told him that Quinn had taken to heart. Twenty-four hours after making that boozy proclamation, Angie was dead. Quinn had gone to her funeral in the company of the Elko County sheriff and his tearfully sympathetic wife, watched the rough-hewn pine coffin being lowered into the unmarked grave and wondered if his rambler of a mother had known she was fated to spend the rest of her life in Jackpot, Nevada, population five-hundred and seventy, not counting the cows.
The memory, which he usually avoided revisiting, was not a pleasant one. Quinn fell silent as he watched the verdant landscape rush closer. Laura, busy repairing her makeup before facing the press at Shannon Airport, didn’t seem to require further conversation.
The wheels touched down with a thud. As the jet taxied toward the terminal, Quinn felt his entire body clench—neck, shoulders, chest, legs.
Enter, stranger, at your own risk, an all-too-familiar voice hissed in some dark lonely corner of his mind. Anxiety coiled through Quinn like a mass of poisonous snakes, twining around phobic pressure points, reminding him of that awful endless summer of his ninth year when he’d slammed the secret doors on his psyche—and his heart—and nailed them shut to keep out the monsters.
He forced a vague unfocused public smile, heard himself exchanging farewells with the first-class flight crew, even watched himself sign an autograph for the captain’s seventeen-year-old son who was, the silver-haired pilot assured him heartily, his “number-one fan.”
It would be all right, Quinn told himself firmly. He would be all right.
But as he walked toward the light at the end of a jetway that had suddenly turned claustrophobic, the raspy little voice belonging to Quinn’s personal bogeyman whispered another warning: Here there be dragons.
“I still can’t believe that real-estate agent’s screwup,” Laura complained while they waited for their bags in the terminal. “How on earth could she have forgotten to book you a room in town?”
“She explained that. My name somehow got left off the list of crew members.”
“You’re not just any crew member. You’re the screenwriter, for Christ’s sake.”
“With the emphasis on writer. The only reason I agreed to write this screenplay in the first place is because I’m tired of the way Hollywood screws up my books.”
“If you feel that way, perhaps you ought to stop selling them to Hollywood.”
“I may be a control freak, sweetheart, but I’m not crazy enough to turn down the big bucks.”
His accountant had assured him he’d passed the millionaire mark three books ago. But Quinn couldn’t quite make himself stop running from his old demons that continued to pursue him. There were still times when he’d awaken in the middle of a hushed dark night, drenched in sweat, deafening screams ringing in his ears.
“Besides,” he said, “things probably worked out for the best. I’m playing with an idea for a new story, and it’ll be easier to think about it if I go home to the Joyce farm at the end of the day, instead of partying every night with all of you.”
“I can remember when you liked partying with me,” Laura pouted prettily.
Her blatant flirting succeeded in banishing the lingering chill. “Those were fun times.”
“And could be again.” She laughed when he didn’t immediately answer. “Good Lord, darling, you remind me of a wolf sensing a trap. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to rope you into any long-term affair. I just thought, since we’re both going to be stuck in this Irish backwater for four long weeks, we may as well try to make the best of it.”
Quinn liked Laura. A lot. She was smart, witty, easy to look at and a tigress in bed. But he’d always subscribed to the theory that when something was over, you moved on. And didn’t look back.
“I don’t think that’d be a very good idea, sweetheart.” His eyes, rife with a practiced masculine look of appreciation, swept over her. “Not that I’m not tempted.”
She laughed again, a rich throaty sound designed to strum sexual chords. “That is undoubtedly the nicest rejection I’ve ever had. I’ve known a lot of men, Quinn, but none of them have perfected the art of hit-and-run relationships better than you,” she said without rancor.
“This from a woman who’s been engaged four times.” And broken it off every time.
“So I’m a slow learner.” She grinned up at him, seemingly unapologetic about behavior that had provided the tabloid press with more than a few headlines. “That’s why we’re so good together. Neither of us has any wide-eyed expectations about the other, and we don’t harbor any dreams of a rosy until-death-do-us-part romantic future. You and I are two of a kind, Quinn.”
There was no arguing with the accusation. Besides, it was a helluva lot better than the one he’d heard too many times to count—that his heart was little more than a dark pit of ice water covered with a crust of snow. Quinn merely muttered something that could have been agreement as the baggage carousel rumbled to a start.
After retrieving his bags and clearing customs, he found his way blocked by a phalanx of reporters. Laura, damn her, had ducked into a rest room, leaving him to face the horde alone.
“Mr. Gallagher, do you believe the Castlelough lake creature exists?” a red-haired man wearing a rumpled wool sport coat and holding up a small tape recorder called out.
“I’ve always believed in the existence of monsters. I know you call her the Lady, but technically she’s still a monster.”
A murmur of interest from the reporters.
“Do you expect to see the Lady while you’re in Castlelough?” a bald man wearing thick-framed black glasses asked.
“That would be a plus since it would undoubtedly save a fortune in special-effects costs if we could get her to perform for us,” he answered, drawing the expected laugh.
“Do you plan to research your Gallagher-family roots while you’re in the country?”
“No.” His tone was curt. His eyes turned to frost. “If there are no more questions—”
“I have one.” This from a winsome young woman. Her hair was jet, her thickly lashed eyes the color of the Irish sea, and her skin as pale as new snow. The invitation in her bold-as-brass eyes was unmistakable.
“Ask away.”
“Is the female protagonist in your story based on a real woman? Perhaps someone you met on a previous trip to Ireland?”