Kate Hoffmann - The Mighty Quinns - Conor

Inside the beach house, the remains of dinner were scattered across the coffee table, dirty bowls, half-eaten bread, and the empty bottle of wine. Conor glanced over at the sofa. Olivia Farrell lay curled up asleep beneath a soft afghan, her hands clutched beneath her chin. He recalled a picture he’d found in one of his Irish storybooks, a drawing of Derdriu, an ancient beauty, betrothed to a king yet loved by a common warrior. Olivia’s hair, like Derdriu’s, was a pale shade of gold. The waves and curls spread over the pillow and her perfect skin shone like porcelain in the dim light from the fire.

He tossed another log on the fire. Sparks scattered across the hearth and the log popped and sizzled before it caught fire. His father had often told the tale of how Derdriu’s beauty had brought only death and destruction to her people. But Conor remembered the drawing, how sweet and vulnerable her face had looked to his ten-year-old eyes. Even then, he’d doubted his father’s warnings about the opposite sex.

He’d been sent to protect this woman, been asked to lay his life on the line for her like some ancient warrior. Yet what did he really know about her? Conor crossed the room and pulled the copy of the police file from his duffel bag. Then he wandered back to the fire, drawing nearer to the light to read. From what he could tell, Olivia Farrell was an ordinary citizen, caught up in extraordinary circumstances.

Her partner, Kevin Ford, had been arrested for participating in a money-laundering scheme for organized crime boss Red Keenan, a scheme that had included murder. The mechanics of the scheme were quite complex—buying expensive antiques for Keenan, reselling them to bogus clients for three or four times the value, then handing over the freshly laundered money to Keenan.

Olivia hadn’t been aware of the scheme, but she had had the misfortune of overhearing a conversation between her partner and Keenan, providing the only solid evidence to link the two. Conor looked up, wondering if she realized the true danger she was in. He also wondered what kind of relationship she had with Kevin Ford.

He flipped past the report of Ford’s criminal activity to a photo of the guy. He wasn’t bad-looking, Conor mused, in that polished, sophisticated, Ivy League way. A woman like Olivia probably found him endlessly charming…intelligent…sexy, even. Perhaps they’d been lovers at one time, maybe still were. Conor shoved the photo back into the file and grabbed the page that included a rundown on her background.

Olivia Farrell. Graduate of Boston College, lived on a nice street in the South End. No criminal record. Single. Twenty-eight years old. Co-owner of one of Boston’s most successful antique galleries, Ford-Farrell Antiques. Well-known throughout certain social circles in Boston. Dated an investment banker, a corporate attorney, and a shortstop for the Red Sox. No long-term relationships since college. Both parents living, residing in Jacksonville, Florida.

Conor closed the file and turned his gaze back to her. “Stubborn to a fault,” he murmured. “Possible potential as a kick-boxer. Sharp tongue. Great cook. Incredibly beautiful.”

His gaze drifted down to her mouth. Though she’d worn a grim expression for most of the day, all traces of irritation had been dissolved by the wine and good food. They’d chatted over dinner, each of them revealing just enough about themselves to keep the conversation interesting. She’d told him about her shop, the excitement of finding valuable antiques, the wealthy clients she worked with, the elegant parties she’d attended.

He told her about the seamy underworld of the vice cop, the endless schemes criminals found to circumvent the law and the frustrations he felt when they got away with it. To his surprise, she seemed fascinated by his work and questioned him until he’d told her about the most interesting cases he’d ever worked. Conor sighed. He really shouldn’t have been surprised. Olivia Farrell was used to sparkling conversation. She could probably make an undertaker sound like he was the most intriguing man on the planet.

She may be out of his league, but Conor still couldn’t deny he was attracted to her, even though he’d always been drawn to women with more obvious beauty. Olivia Farrell’s features were subtle, plain almost, yet so perfectly proportioned that a man couldn’t help but notice. She looked…fresh. Clean. Pure.

He stood up and quietly walked to her side. Without thinking, he reached out and took a strand of her hair between his fingers. Startled by the silken feel of it on his skin, he drew his hand away then knelt down to examine her face more closely.

A tiny smile curled the corners of her mouth. She slept soundly, secure in the knowledge that he was there to watch over her. But could he really protect her against the power of Red Keenan? There was no doubt in Conor’s mind that Keenan would risk anything to stay out of prison. He had money and power, and those two in combination could convince unscrupulous men that a favor done for Keenan would be handsomely rewarded—even if that favor involved killing Olivia Farrell.

As he stared down at her, so unaware, so vulnerable, Conor knew he’d step in front of a bullet for her. Not because it was his duty, but because here he could make a difference. Olivia Farrell was worth saving and, for the first time in a long time, he was proud of the career he’d chosen.

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