Heather Graham - A Perfect Obsession

“I’m so tired,” he murmured.

“Then go home,” Kieran said, jumping up. “I’ll be a bundle of energy, Declan. I promise.”

“Hey, well, you did work today, too,” Declan reminded her.

She nodded. “Yeah, kind of makes me need to work now,” she said, and headed out of the office. “Kevin, go home!”

“I’m going,” he assured them. “Thanks,” he said softly, and left.

Declan was right. Their Friday nights were often busy, even when Wall Street, the Financial District and the government offices closed and downtown became somewhat quiet. But Finnegan’s was known for bringing in great Irish bands and local talent, and people were often willing to hop on the subway or drive down for the established platform of good food, great taps and music. Also, when the club had opened around the block, many who had tired of the constant thrum of the dance music had found themselves wandering over for the more relaxed venue.

But tonight was exceptional—once again, because of the club. Not because it was opened.

Because it was closed.

And the talk among everyone had to do with poor Jeannette Gilbert.

And most of the talk was the same.

The slimy manager-agent had done it.

The mystery lover had done it. No, the mystery lover wasn’t a mystery anymore, and good God, everyone knew that Brent Westwood was no killer! He stood for truth, justice and the American way.

What about the step-uncle who had raised her? The jerk! Or her aunt, or her cousins?

What about the guy who had bought Saint Augustine and turned a venerable and historic old church into a club? Hey, that guy bore some watching, too. And then there were the freaks who wandered around the city. And that history group. Everyone knew that some of the city’s cling-to-the-past historians were insane. That was it! One of them had murdered her to prove the point that you needed to let the dead rest in peace!

Everyone had a theory, and Kieran heard them all.

She spoke with their regulars and also noted all the new people—those who probably hadn’t been downtown in years but had come down to witness the events at Le Club Vampyre, if only from the street. She noted businessmen and construction workers. Older women, younger women. All kinds of people.

One especially attractive young woman at the bar drew Kieran’s attention because she kept pulling out her phone and looking around the pub.

“Can I help you in any way?” Kieran asked her.

She smiled. “Just biding time,” the woman said. “That old clock on the wall is right? My cell phone has died.”

“Yes, it’s the right time,” Kieran told her.

“Thanks!” The woman smiled at her. “You have to be Kevin’s sister,” she said. “One of the Finnegan family.”

“Yes, I am. You know Kevin?”

“I was in a print ad with him about a year ago. He told me about this place. First time I’ve had a chance to get down here. Is he here somewhere?”

“No, he went home. I’m so sorry. You could give him a call.”

“Ah, well, I’m only here a few more minutes. I’ll call him, though, and I’ll come back.” She smiled. “You’re gorgeous—but then, so is Kevin!”

“Thank you. My twin has the camera charm, trust me!” Kieran said. She would have talked longer, but another patron called her and she moved on.

It was around 11:00 p.m. when Craig reached her on her cell, checking to see if she was still there. He told her he’d head into the pub, and they could go home together.

She felt her heart beating a little too quickly. She didn’t have to worry that she wasn’t saying anything to him about Kevin’s admission. Brent Westwood had gone to Craig’s office, claiming to be the mystery lover. But still...

Lying to him was so uncomfortable.

Was she really lying?

Yes, she reasoned, omitting the truth—an important truth—was a lie.

Luckily, when he arrived, he offered her a weary smile before heading to an empty bar stool. She watched him talk to Declan and order a soda. He looked tired. Despite knowing he’d have to be up for work early the next morning, he was waiting for her.

The Friday night crowd was diminishing, so Declan thanked her and told her to go on home.

She didn’t argue.

“Your place or mine?” Craig asked, pointing the way to his government car, parked down the street. Thanks to his decal, parking was much easier for Craig than it was for most people in the city. “You know,” he said, as they reached the car, “we don’t have to be asking that question of one another all the time. Moving in would be kind of like the right move now.”

“Probably,” she murmured. “My place tonight?”

“As you wish.”

She glanced his way. He had to be far beyond exhausted, but he was also easily able to go with the flow. She studied him for a moment; he seemed deep in thought, and, of course, she knew he was thinking about the day’s events.

She winced, turning away. She really was so in love with him. What was not to love? He was a walking wall of extremely striking testosterone, masculine to the hilt, yet he never behaved rudely, and never seemed threatened in any way by another man’s—or woman’s—talents or abilities. He was faultlessly courteous. Oh, he had a temper, she knew, but the ability to contain it. His features offered exceptionally fine cheekbones, a strong jaw and wonderful, hazel eyes that far too often seemed to be all-seeing.

“One day soon,” she murmured, finally responding to his comment about moving in together.

She was suddenly, almost irrationally, angry with her brothers. First, one of Danny’s best-intended foibles had gotten him into the trouble when she’d met Craig; now Kevin’s tragic romance seemed to be putting her once again in an extremely awkward situation.

That anger quickly dissipated. She felt so bad for her twin.

In minutes they reached her apartment above a sushi restaurant–karaoke bar in the Village.

Someone was warbling an Aerosmith number as they climbed the stairs. They were both so accustomed to the sometimes painful entertainment that they barely noticed.

Upstairs, she immediately headed for the shower. “Underground graves,” she muttered, heading in.

He joined her.

She wasn’t surprised. Or disappointed. Sharing a shower with Craig, she wouldn’t have to talk to him.

But as he stepped in behind her, slipping a bar of soap from her fingers and easing it down her back, she was the one who nervously spoke.

“So, what about the mystery lover?”

“Narcissistic blowhard,” he said, twirling her around, finding her lips.

His kiss was good, wonderful. Seductive. And it made her forget the day. Hot water and steam swirled around them. The soap made their naked flesh sleek and wet. They kissed and touched and stroked one another until they were certainly clean—and their sense of hunger and need was great. Then they stepped out of the shower, reached for towels, more or less forgot the concept of them and stumbled onto the bed in Kieran’s near-dark room, and back into one another’s arms. Once there, they eschewed foreplay. She crawled atop him and straddled him, and he entered her, the heat of his body bursting within her. They made love, again and again, their lips locked as they climaxed each time with a ferocity that left Kieran breathless. She marveled at it, amazed that she was with him, that the world could be so good, that sex was such an amazement every time.

He pulled her down into his arms and held her and stroked her hair. The glow of aftermath and a sense of warmth and security enveloped her.

And then she realized that he was lying there awake, no doubt thinking about the day once again.

And he picked up right where he had left off.