The door was yanked open suddenly and there she stood.
Even in her worn jeans and button-down white shirt, she took his damn breath away and he resented that fact down to his bones.
Distance hadn’t helped. He’d thought of her. Dreamed of her, and awakened nearly every morning with his body tight and ready for her.
Even now, the lush, slightly floral scent of her reached out to him as if to tease every sense memory he had of touching her, tasting her, being inside her …
Jaw tight, he looked deeply into those calm blue eyes and wondered if she was as unaffected by him as she seemed.
Dear Reader,
I love Ireland. It’s my favorite place to visit, and every time I go, it’s harder and harder to leave. Everything about that country appeals to me, from the staggering beauty of the countryside to the bustle of the cities and especially the warmth of its people.
So writing this story was really fun for me. Ronan Connolly lives in Ireland, but he’s in California on business. His life gets complicated, though, when he meets Laura Page.
Sweeping her off to Ireland for a romantic visit is, Ronan thinks, the way to get her out of his system. But Laura isn’t the kind of woman it’s easy to walk away from. Soon enough, he realizes he doesn’t want to lose her. The problem is finding a way to keep her without engaging his heart.
I hope you enjoy Up Close and Personal as much as I did. You can visit me on Facebook, Twitter and at my website, www.maureenchild.com.
I wish you all great books and the time to relish them.
Maureen
About the Author
MAUREEN CHILD is a California native who loves to travel. Every chance they get, she and her husband are taking off on another research trip. An author of more than sixty books, Maureen loves a happy ending and still swears that she has the best job in the world. She lives in Southern California with her husband, two children and a golden retriever with delusions of grandeur. Visit Maureen’s website, www.maureenchild.com.
Up Close
and Personal
Maureen Child
For Patti Hambleton
That first trip to Ireland was the best Because it was shared with you. For all the years, for all the laughs, I love you, my friend.
One
“Laura, I know you’re in there!”
Ronan Connolly pounded on the brightly painted blue front door a few more times, then paused to listen. Not a sound from inside the house, though he knew too well that Laura was in there. Hell, he could practically feel her, standing just on the other side of the damned door.
Bloody hardheaded woman. How had he ever thought that quality attractive? Now that attractive hardheadedness had come back to bite him in the ass.
Seconds ticked past and there was no sound from within, which only irritated him further. He glanced at the sunshine-yellow Volkswagen parked alongside the house—her car—then glared again at the still-closed front door.
“You won’t convince me you’re not at home. Your bloody car is parked in the street, Laura.”
Her voice came then, muffled but clear. “It’s a driveway in America, Ronan. You’re not in Ireland, remember?”
“More’s the pity.” He scrubbed one hand across his face and rolled his eyes in frustration. If they were in Ireland right now, he’d have half the village of Dunley on his side and he’d bloody well get her to open the damned door.
“I heard that,” she said. “And feel free to hop onto one of your private planes and go back to Connolly-land anytime you feel like it!”
If only he could, Ronan thought. But he’d come to California to open an American branch of his business and until Cosain was running as it should, he was going nowhere at all.
At the moment though, he was tired, on edge and in no mood to be dealing with more females. Especially one with a head as hard as Laura’s.
He had spent the past six weeks traveling across Europe acting as bodyguard to a sixteen-year-old pop star whose singing was only slightly less annoying than her attitude. Between the girl and her grasping mother, Ronan had been more than ready for the job to end so he could get back to his life. Now that he was back, he’d expected peace. Orderliness. Instead …
Grinding his teeth together, he took a long moment or two and counted to ten. Then did it a second time. “Whatever the hell you want to call it, Laura, your car is here and so’re you.”
“I might have been out,” she shouted. “Did you ever think of that? I do have friends, you know.”
The Connolly temper lifted a couple notches inside him and Ronan was forced to fight it back down.
“But you’re not out, are you?” he asked, entirely reasonably, and he gave himself points for it. “You’re here, driving me to distraction and making me shout at a bloody closed door like I’m the village idiot turned loose on his own for the first time.”
“You don’t have to shout, I can hear you,” she said, her voice carrying nicely through the door.
Laura Page lived on a tidy street in Huntington Beach, California, in one of a dozen town houses built to look like a Cape Cod village. When he’d first seen her place, he’d thought it charming. Now he glared at the building as if it were to blame for his current situation.
A cool ocean breeze shot down the narrow street and rattled the limbs of the nearly naked elm tree in Laura’s front yard. Roiling gray clouds overhead promised a storm soon, and he hoped to hell he wasn’t still standing on this bleeding porch when it hit.
“Your neighbors can hear me, too,” he pointed out with a brief nod at the man clipping his hedge with enough vigor to whittle it into a toothpick. “Why not open the door and we can talk this out. Together. In private.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
He laughed shortly. That would be a first indeed, he told himself. A more opinionated woman he had never met. In the beginning, he’d liked that about her. Too often, he was surrounded by smiling, vacuous women who agreed with everything he said and laughed at the lamest of jokes just to ingratiate themselves with him.
But not Laura.
No, from the first, she had been stubborn and argumentative and unimpressed with his wealth or celebrity. He had to admit, he had enjoyed verbally sparring with her. He admired a quick mind and a sharp tongue. He’d admired her even more once he’d gotten her into his bed.
He glanced down at the dozen red roses he held clutched in his right hand and called himself a damned fool for thinking this woman would be swayed by pretty flowers and a smooth speech. Hell, she hadn’t even seen the flowers yet. And at this rate, she never would.
Huffing out an impatient breath, he lowered his voice a bit. “You know why I’m here. Let’s get it done and have it over then.”
There was a moment’s pause, as if she were thinking about what he’d said. Then she spoke up again. “You can’t have him.”
“What?”