Kate Hoffmann - Sean

"I need a husband," she muttered to herself as she pulled out of the driveway. "I have a husband. A bought-and-paid-for husband. I just have to find him."

As she drove toward Boston, Laurel rummaged through her purse for her cell phone. The information operator answered and Laurel requested the phone number for Sean Quinn. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I don't have a listing for Sean Quinn."

"Try S. Quinn."

"No, ma'am."

Laurel groaned. How could she have been so stupid? For ten thousand dollars, she should have at least requested his phone number. There had to be some way to find the man. "What about Quinn's Pub?" she asked. "It's in South Boston."

She waited for a few moments, holding her breath until the operator came on the line. "Here's the number." An automated voice recited the digits and Laurel quickly committed them to memory before she dialed. A minute later she had the address of the pub and directions on how to get there.

Until now, seeing Sean again had never been an option. But after what had happened between them, Laurel had fantasized about another encounter-nearly every waking moment of her "honeymoon." She'd nearly asked him to come with her to Hawaii that night, as they'd said their farewells, and regretted not doing so.

As she wove through traffic, she tried to formulate the best approach to her problem. Ten thousand dollars had been a high price to pay for one day's work. Maybe she could convince him that he owed her more time. If he requested more money, she might be able to find a few hundred. The money she'd given him had been the last from her wedding fund, a reasonable expense she'd thought. Or maybe she could convince him to wait for a cut of her trust fund.

When she pulled up in front of the pub, Laurel said a quick prayer, hoping that she'd find him quickly. She glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror, then grabbed her purse and dashed on a bit of lipstick. Satisfied that she looked as good as a jet-lagged honeymooner could look, she stepped out of the car and hurried inside.

Lively Irish music played. A beautiful wood bar, reminiscent of nineteenth-century pubs, ran along one wall, its mirror reflecting the dim lighting. On her only visit to Dublin on a college summer vacation, she'd visited pubs just like Quinn's. A white-haired barkeep nodded at her as she approached.

"I'm hoping you might know where I can find Sean Quinn."

"And what would you be wantin' with Sean?" the man asked, his Irish accent thick.

"I have a private matter I need to discuss," Laurel said. "Do you know how I can reach him?"

"I wouldn't know that. Why don't you leave him a note and if he comes in I'll-"

"No," Laurel said, growing impatient with the runaround. "I have to find him now."

The man shook his head. "I don't know who you think you are, but-"

"I'm his wife," Laurel blurted. The old man froze, his expression a mask of astonishment, and she silently cursed her quick tongue. She hadn't meant to say it, but she needed to find Sean. "Not exactly his wife, but-"

"One minute," the man interrupted. "I'll just ring him." He hurried off to the far end of the bar and, after a short phone conversation, returned to her. "He's on his way."

"Thank you," Laurel said, a knot tightening in her stomach. Her hands flitted to her hair and she nervously smoothed the wrinkled skirt of her sundress. If she was going to make this work, she needed to control her rash behavior. All her life, she'd been too impulsive, too reckless, never looking before she leaped. That's what had gotten her into this mess in the first place-marrying a man she didn't even know.

She glanced up and found the bartender watching her with a suspicious glint in his eye. "Can I get you anything to drink, lass?"

"White wine would be nice," she said.

As she sipped her drink, Laurel casually observed her surroundings. In the rear of the pub, stained-glass lamps illuminated a pool table and dartboards hung from the walls. A chalkboard menu near the bar boasted Irish favorites including corned beef and cabbage, Irish stew and something called Dublin Coddle.

Laurel's stomach growled and she realized that she hadn't eaten for nearly six hours. She waved to the bartender and he approached, this time a bit more warily. "I'd like to order something to eat. Some soup?"

"We've got a nice potato soup. Or maybe ye'd prefer pea and ham soup. We also might have some clam chowder left from yesterday."

"Potato, please," Laurel said.

"Let me get you a bowl."

After he left, Laurel gulped down the rest of her wine, hoping that it might fortify her courage. She'd paid Sean to pose as her bridegroom for a day and he had no obligation to help her. How could she convince him to resume his role? What kind of offer might he accept?

Laurel wasn't certain how much a woman ought to pay for a husband but figured it couldn't be more than the man would make at a day-to-day job. After all, the job wasn't that difficult. She'd start with twenty thousand and negotiate from there. Twenty thousand out of five million was a small price to pay.

"Here you go, lass. Potato soup. And that's soda bread." He rested his arms on the bar and watched her eat. "Tell me, when did you and my son get married?"

The spoonful of potato soup was halfway down her throat when the old man posed the question. Laurel coughed, snatching up her napkin. Her eyes began to water and Sean's father reached across the bar and slapped her on the back. "Your… your son?"

"Sean is my son. I'm Seamus Quinn. And you'd be?"

"Laurel Rand."

"I'm surprised that Sean didn't tell us he'd found himself a wife. But then, the boy never did talk much."

"Well, I'm not exactly his wife. Not technically." She quickly stood and grabbed her purse, wiping at her runny eyes. "Will you excuse me? I'll be right back."

The ladies' room was in the rear of the bar, past the pool table. When she got inside, she locked the door behind her, then stood in front of the mirror and wiped at the smudged mascara beneath her eyes. "Calm down," she murmured. "If he accepts your offer, then you'll be fine. And if he refuses, you'll deal with it."

With a soft curse, she opened her purse and pulled out her cosmetics bag. A tiny vial contained her favorite perfume and she dabbed a bit on before pulling out her mascara and lipstick. She'd have to use every advantage that she had, including scented skin, smouldering eyes and a sexy mouth.

Sean stepped inside Quinn's Pub and scanned the bar for his father. Seamus had called ten minutes before, frantic, insisting that Sean come down to the pub immediately. He'd claimed an emergency but had refused to give details, so Sean had no choice but to leave the Red Sox game he'd been watching on television and head down to the bar a few hours early.

When he walked in, he'd assumed that the crowd had been too much for Seamus to handle and he'd needed an extra pair of hands. But the Saturday evening crowd was about what he'd expected for the early hour. Sean ducked beneath the end of the bar. As he nabbed an apron and wrapped it around his waist, he saw his father hurrying toward him from the back of the pub.

"Good, you're here," he muttered.

"What's wrong?"

Seamus grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him closer. "She's here. In the toilet."

"Who is here?"

"Yer wife. She and I had a little chin-wag and the lass says yer married."

Sean frowned. Lately, women had gone to greater lengths to entice the last remaining Quinn brother, but this was- Oh, hell. Could his father be talking about Laurel Rand? "What did she look like, Da?"

"Like a woman who just caught herself a husband."

"Blonde? Wavy hair?" He held his hand up to his chin. "About so tall?"

"Said her name was Laurie or-"