Kate Hoffmann - Conor

“Mornin’.”

Startled by the sound of an unfamiliar voice, Olivia bolted upright. But the unfamiliar voice came with a familiar face. A strikingly handsome man, with the same dark hair and hazel eyes as Conor, sat at the small table in the galley, a newspaper spread in front of him. Her brow furrowed as she tried to recall his name.

“Brendan,” he said, as if he could read her mind.

“Brendan,” she repeated. Raking her hands through her tangled hair, she glanced around the cabin. “Where are we?”

“Hull,” he said. “We put in about four or five hours ago.”

She glanced at the brass clock above Brendan’s head. It was nearly two in the afternoon. “Where’s Conor?”

“He went out to find you a safe place to stay.”

“And the other one, your brother?”

“Dylan? He went to pick up some groceries.”

Olivia sighed. “And you were the one who drew the short straw and got to baby-sit me?” she asked, a hint of sarcasm creeping into her voice.

“As my da used to say, a wise head keeps a shut mouth.” Brendan chuckled softly. “Or something to that effect.”

Though the pressures of the past few days had dulled her instincts, Olivia could have sworn Brendan Quinn had just paid her a compliment. “At least someone wants to spend time with me. Your brother acts like he’s been forced to take his pimply-faced cousin to the prom.”

Brendan slid out from behind the table and rummaged through the galley until he found a coffee mug. “My brother takes his responsibilities seriously. Sometimes too seriously.”

The offhand comment piqued Olivia’s curiosity. She knew so little about the man who’d taken control of her life. Perhaps she could learn something from Brendan that might even the odds a bit. When Brendan handed her a mug of steaming coffee, she sat up, tucked her feet beneath her, and rearranged the blanket on her lap. “Tell me about him,” she said. “Why is he always so grumpy?”

“Would you like some breakfast?” Brendan countered, avoiding her question altogether. “I can whip up some eggs and I think I have some bacon that hasn’t gone bad. Dylan’s bringing orange juice and when Conor gets here we can send him out for-”

“Conor is here.”

Brendan and Olivia glanced up at the companionway to find Conor looming above them. He swung down the steps and stood in the middle of the cabin. Compared to Brendan’s cheerful disposition, Conor seemed to suck every ounce of sunshine out of the room. Olivia raised her guard, ready to defend herself against Conor’s bristling mood. “Brendan was just going to make us some breakfast,” she said.

“I’m sure he was,” Conor muttered, sending his brother a pointed look. “When it comes to the ladies, it’s what he does best.”

“Hey,” Brendan protested, “I was just being-”

Conor held up his hand to interrupt Brendan, then turned to Olivia. “Come on. We have to go. I found a place for us to hole up for a while. Get your things and let’s go.”

“Things? I don’t have any things.”

Conor crossed the cabin in a few short steps then grabbed her arm and tugged her to her feet. “Good. Then we won’t have to wait around while you put on your lipstick and curl your hair.”

Brendan cursed beneath his breath. “You are a charmer, now, aren’t you, Con. It’s no wonder you have women fightin’ over you.”

This time the look Conor shot his brother was pure murder. Olivia decided it was probably best to go along with the plan, before the brothers came to blows over her need for breakfast. She smoothed her hair, then stepped up to Brendan, giving him a grateful smile. “Thank you for your hospitality, and for helping to rescue me.”

Conor’s brother returned her smile with a devilish one of his own. Then he gently took her hand and drew it to his mouth, placing a kiss on the tips of her fingers. “The pleasure was all mine.”

Conor growled impatiently, then snatched Olivia’s fingers from Brendan’s hand. “Brendan is also known for his kiss-offs. He disguises his motives so cleverly that the women actually feel good about being dumped.” With that, Conor pulled Olivia along to the companionway then hurried her up the steps.

When they reached the deck she turned on him, yanking her arm from his grasp. “You can stop bullying me now,” she said. “There’s no need to show off to your brother.”

Conor fixed his gaze on hers, his eyes penetrating, his demeanor ice-cold. “Believe me, if I hadn’t come back when I did, breakfast wasn’t the only thing you two would have been sharing.”

Olivia gasped at the outrageous suggestion in his tone. “Well, then I guess I’m lucky to have you to protect me.” She started off down the dock, determined to put some distance between them before she hauled off and slapped that smug expression off Conor Quinn’s face. But, a few seconds later, he fell into step beside her, alert, his gaze taking in their surroundings as if he were calculating the angle of the next attack, ready to put himself between her and a bullet.

As they walked along the wharf, past restaurants, taverns and bait shops, Olivia tried to maintain her indignation. But, in truth, all her whining seemed petty and childish. This man had devoted himself to keeping her alive and all she could do was complain.

Dylan was waiting for them, leaning up against the side of a red Mustang. He handed the keys to Conor, then opened the passenger door for Olivia. “If I find one dent, one scratch,” he warned Conor, “I’ll hunt you down.”

When she and Conor were both inside, she turned to him, anxious to set things straight between them, but his jaw was set and his expression so distant that the words died in her throat. And by the time they reached the motel on the highway to Cohasset, she was afraid to say anything to him at all.

Conor helped her out of the car, then reached in his pocket and withdrew a room key. When he opened the door and stepped aside, Olivia got a chance to see how low her life had sunk. The room was straight out of a bad movie, with a lumpy iron bed shoved up against the wall and faded wallpaper in putrid shades of orange and avocado green. The linoleum floor was scarred with cigarette burns and the room smelled of stale smoke and mildew. She slowly walked to the bathroom, afraid of what she might find there. But the bathroom was surprisingly clean, the old fixtures had been scrubbed white and smelled of strong disinfectant.

“It’s not a palace,” Conor murmured. “But we’ll be safe here for now. And if we need to make a run for it, Brendan’s boat is just a few miles away.”

Olivia turned to him and forced a smile. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful.”

He stared down at his shoes, then shrugged. “And I don’t mean to be so dictatorial. It’s just hard when you fight me on this. I know Red Keenan and he’ll stop at nothing to keep you from testifying.”

“I feel like my life has been taken away from me. All I have are the clothes I’m wearing. I’m worried-about my business, about my apartment, about Tommy.”

She’d worried how her cat was surviving with her landlady. Usually Mrs. Callahan cared for the cat in Olivia’s apartment, but Olivia had been afraid if anyone broke in, Tommy would make his escape and be left to fend for himself on the street. A notorious cat hater, Mrs. Callahan had reluctantly agreed to take the cat in trade for an addition to her huge collection of Hummel figurines. And though Olivia didn’t usually deal in Hummel pieces, she quickly agreed.

“Tommy?”

“I left him with my landlady,” Olivia explained. “She lives just down the street. I just didn’t want him to get mixed up in this. And she’s taken care of him before. I just wish he were here with me. I’d sleep better if I knew he was safe.”