“Micheál,” I say.
“Erin.”
I smile. “Let’s call a spade a spade. Lay our cards on the table.” I need to know exactly what his intentions are before I say anything about the buyout.
He just smiles and takes a sip of tea. “Ye remembered,” he murmurs sexily.
“Sorry?”
“Two sugars and a dash of milk. Ye remembered.” He seems happy, so I don’t explain that it’s force of habit from slopping tea in cafes for most of my misspent youth. Instead I just smile sweetly. “I did,” I say demurely. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t, so I try again.
“Micheál.”
“Erin.”
“Yes, very funny. Look, why are you here? What is it that you want?” I’m trying to hide my mounting irritation—well panic, really. “And don’t say that you’re here to visit me.” Pulling out all the stops I look down into my tea for a moment and then up at him again from under my lashes.
He gazes at me for a second too long and then shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, but I clock it.
“Ye scammed me, Erin. Ye scammed my dead grandfather. Ye scammed your own grandmother. And for what? Money?”
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa there, Micheál!” I hold up my hand to stop him from going any further. “That’s some serious language you’re using there. Some might accuse you of slander and all sorts.” I add a little tut-tut to my tone.
“Is that some kind of veiled threat, Erin?”
Dammit! We’re sparring. I don’t want to spar with him. “God, no! Jaysus, no, Micheál! I just think that you may have it all wrong. Just what is it that you think I have done?”
“Are ye trying to tell me, Erin O’Neill, that ye bought me out of half of that bar downstairs in good faith?” He lifts his mug of tea and takes a sip. “Now, tell the truth and shame the devil.” He puts the mug gently down on the bar, staring me in the eye.
“I absolutely did.” I stare back at him while trying to recall what Ridlee had said to me on the plane; she had made it all seem above board at least.
“Well, kid, that bar downstairs, while lacking in taste, is no dive; and judging from the lunch rush ye just had, I’d say that ye’re turning a good profit. Not, as ye’d’ve had my solicitor believe, operating at a loss.”
“You were here for lunch?” The blood is draining from my face. I take a mouthful of tea and burn the roof of my mouth. “Ow!” There’s no point in trying to explain that that was an office event, a one off, and that today was not typical of Friday lunches at The Pot O’Gold.
He smiles and goes on talking, “I was across the street, in a cafe. I don’t think I’d have been able to get at table at The Pot O’Gold — too packed.” He laughs but it sounds unnatural. “They must be some mighty fine buffalo wings ye got,” he says in a southern drawl. “Granny’s recipe from the old country, is it?” He smirks and there’s an obvious edge to his voice. “Funny, I never realised that buffalo wings and fries were quintessentially Irish fare.”
He’s angry with me. Like, really angry with me, and I don’t blame him. Without thinking I blurt out, “You don’t understand. I worked my fingers to the bone to turn this bar around only to have it gifted out from under my feet by an iron lady who suddenly had a fit of sentimentality on her death-bed.” I am panting with the effort of explaining. Ridlee is going to kill me— I’m not supposed to talk about the deal but I have to make him understand that I had no choice. Not really.
“So that makes it all right does it? That makes stealing what was legally given to me all right? ‘Cause that’s not what my lawyer says.” His eyebrows are almost touching his hairline; they’ve been climbing with each rhetorical question. Or at least, I’m assuming they’re rhetorical.
“Mr. O’Mooney?” I ask, a smile involuntarily tugging at the corners of my mouth. Jesus, Erin, don’t let nerves get the better of you now!
Micheál smiles pleasantly at me and explains, “No, not Cathall. He’s not actually an expert in international business law, so he put me in touch with someone who is, and she thinks I have a good case.”
I realise how bad the situation is when the she in that sentence wounds me more than any of the other words. I can’t help wondering, in the middle of this shit storm, if she is pretty.
“Right.”
Now it’s him who’s panting. “Is that it? Right? Is that all ye’ve got to say to me?”
“What do you want?” I ask quietly.
He leans back in his seat and spreads his hands out in front of him on the breakfast bar. “I want to stay for a while and assess the business. Then, based on real earnings, ye can make me a complimentary offer. Otherwise, I can force ye to sell the bar immediately and we split the difference.”
“What? No! I can’t sell The Pot O’Gold!”
“Fine. Let me stay and keep me informed and we’ll review the situation in, let’s say, twelve weeks.”
“Three months?” I ask, incredulously. “Where will you stay?”
“Well, I see the Hilton’s not far from here, but I warn ye that my lawyer tells me that all my expenses are to be covered by the bar while I’m here, so maybe ye’d prefer a more economical option.” He looks round the apartment.
“Micheál, be reasonable. That’s a crazy idea. I mean, you can’t just land in here one Friday afternoon and park your arse in my life like that. I hardly know you. You might be a mad axe murderer or something!”
“Erin, people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” He’s wagging his finger at me.
“I’m sorry, what?” I put my finger to my ear as though to hear better.
“Eh, obtaining money by false pretenses, defrauding someone, embezzlement. Grand larceny. I could go on, if ye like. They are all felonies in this country, I believe. So, maybe ye should play nice, Erin. You know, keep the country bumpkin sweet.”
How did we get here? I feel like crying. How did we get from sex on a magical island and to saving my life to threats? I barely recognise him. He obviously hates me, and frankly, I can’t really blame him.
“Fine, stay here.” I sigh, exhausted now. What else can I do? He seems to know his rights. “You can sit in the bar and watch how it runs but until I get legal advice you’re not getting access to a single receipt or bill.”
“Great!” he says jumping up and rubbing his hands together.
“Gee, I hope you’re not jet-lagged?” I say, though he doesn’t seem to hear my sarcasm. Or maybe he just chooses not to.
“Me, no. I never suffer from jet lag. Let’s get started. The sooner, the better!”
I clear up the dishes and tidy the kitchen before leading him back down to the bar. My phone pings just as I’m locking the door.
“You go on,” I say. “We’re setting up for the afterwork crowd. Barry will show you what’s what. I’ll be there in a sec.”
He nods and walks off toward the bar.
As ur lawyer I advise you NOT to speak to him about the bar or the deal. Repeat: DO NOT SPEAK TO HIM ABOUT THE DEAL!!!
“Bollox,” I mutter.
Too late…
I hit send and head into the bar after the shadow-man.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
RIDLEE
I WANTED TO GET OVER to the bar to see Erin and help her with her Michaél problem before it was too late at night, but my plans were foiled by my boss insisting that I stay and work late to help him and his team get ready for a big case that would be starting in the next week. I don’t normally work the mass tort end of things, but I was told this particular case could mean a whole new office building for us and bigger Christmas bonuses if it went well, so it’s all hands on deck, mine included.