In the bar’s parking lot, she turned off the ignition. She wished she had canceled her date with Mitch. Not because she didn’t want to see him-on the contrary, she’d been looking forward to it all day-but because she was so twisted inside that she knew Mitch would ask her what was wrong. He was unusually perceptive, and while she appreciated his attentiveness in conversation, she didn’t like being the brunt of anyone’s scrutiny.
Still, she needed to unwind. She couldn’t do anything more about Oliver Maddox tonight. A pint of stout, a little dancing, and Mitch. It sounded like just what she needed.
It was a quarter to nine when she opened the door of the pub. She saw Charlie and the Finnegan’s Wake band setting up and was about to say hi when she saw Mitch.
He sat at a table near the back, looking tense, while another man loomed over him, hands on the table.
Claire recognized the bastard harassing Mitch. FBI Special Agent Steve Donovan. He’d come by several times since the earthquake to threaten her about her father. As if she would harbor a fugitive, especially after what her father had done.
What are you doing now, Claire? You’re keeping your mouth shut about seeing him, aren’t you?
Donovan had also harassed Charlie and the band and even talked to her boss at Rogan-Caruso, further embarrassing and enraging her.
Had he been following her? Did he know about her relationship with Mitch?
She stomped over to them, insinuated herself between the cop and the writer. She pushed Donovan in the chest. “Didn’t I tell you after you harassed my friends”-she jerked a thumb toward the band-“to leave me and mine alone? I told you I’d call if I heard from my father.”
Donovan glanced at Mitch, then said, “I’m just following up, Ms. O’Brien. I told you I’d be checking in periodically.”
“Just go away.” She blinked back what she feared were tears. She didn’t want to tell Mitch about her father, but now she had no choice. What must he think of her keeping such a big secret? Not that she’d done it on purpose, it wasn’t typical conversation to open with, “Hey, my father is an escaped killer, wanna go dancing?”
“I’m leaving,” Donovan said. He nodded to Mitch, then left.
Claire turned and looked Mitch in the eye. “I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.”
She slapped her hand on the table. “It’s not okay. I don’t like talking about it, okay? I hate it. I just hate it.” She swallowed. “I’ll tell you everything.” She walked over to the bar, hoping Mitch would follow at the same time she wished he would just tell her, “Sorry, I don’t like complications.” It was so much easier not letting anyone inside. Sharing her pain made it more real.
Mitch followed, sat next to her. She motioned for a pint of Guinness for her and Mitch and waited for the bartender to serve them before saying, “That damn Fed probably told you everything.” She took a long swallow.
“Not really. Just enough-”
“To make you think I’m a liar.”
“You’ve never lied to me.”
“By omission.”
Mitch took her hand, squeezed it. That quietly intimate, sweet gesture had Claire’s heart. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I still like you. A lot.”
As if to prove it, he kissed her softly. Sweetly. She stared into his eyes. He possessed a deep-seated aura of compassion, in contrast to his square-jawed, rugged appearance.
“Fifteen years ago my father was convicted of murdering my mother and her lover,” Claire said quietly. “He escaped from San Quentin during the earthquake. That guy who talked to you is with the FBI. He’s been coming by now and again to make sure I’m not keeping my father locked in the basement.”
“Somehow I don’t see you doing that.”
She shook her head. “I was there,” she whispered.
“Where?”
“At the house. Right after-I saw my father leaving the bedroom where they were dead and-shit!”
“It’s okay, Claire.”
“You shouldn’t have had to hear about this from that man. What did he say to you anyway?”
“Not much. Just wanted to know when was the last time I saw you and if I had seen a man. He showed me a photo. A mug shot.” He stared into his beer. Claire feared this situation bothered Mitch more than he was saying.
“My father?”
“Told me it was Thomas O’Brien, a fugitive. He didn’t tell me about the earthquake, but I’d heard about that on the news. I put it together.”
“I’m sorry, Mitch. I really thought it would be over by now, but. .”
“But what?”
“It’s never going to end until they find my dad. And I’m scared.”
“That he’s going to hurt you?”
“Me?” She shook her head rapidly back and forth. “Hell no, he’d never hurt me. I’m scared that they’ll kill him. He’s a fugitive. He escaped from prison. But did you know he captured nine of the other escapees? Or led the police to their capture? I didn’t know anything about it until a reporter cornered me outside the Rogan-Caruso office and asked if I’d heard anything about my father tipping off the police about one of the escapees. Then I talked to Bill-he was my guardian-and he looked into it. Found out my dad was a hero, then the media broke the story. He’s still my father-and I never visited him in prison. Not once. I never wrote to him, or answered his letters to me.”
Why was she talking like this? She’d never told anyone about the letters, she tried to never think about them. She’d read them, of course she had to, she was too damn curious by nature. All were the same. How are you? I love you. I’m innocent.
She’d hardened her heart against her father because she couldn’t handle the emotions that battled within, the guilt, the fear, the anguish, the betrayal. And the love. She had loved her father so much. .
And now she had hope. That’s where all this was bubbling up from, a new idea that she might have been wrong for half her life.
Mitch wrapped his arms around her in a hug. At first Claire stiffened. She hadn’t been hugged-not like this-in longer than she could remember. Protected. What a silly thought. Mitch was a writer-sure, he was physically fit-but she had far more self-defense training than he had. She had no reason to feel protected or anything else with him.
He tilted her chin up and said, “Claire, nothing you could tell me is going to change the way I feel about you.” He kissed her. “We all have said and done things we regret. I’ve done my fair share. But I’m telling you right now, Claire O’Brien, that what’s inside you is a passionate, smart, beautiful woman I’m lucky to be here with.”
This kiss was warmth and passion. This kiss was a prelude to bed. A promise.
The bond she’d felt with Mitch, almost from the first time they met, was strong. It scared her, and that, she realized, was why she didn’t want him to meet Dave, Bill, and the others. She didn’t want anyone or anything to hurt this new and powerful relationship. Didn’t she deserve to be happy? To find someone she wanted to spend her time with? She was so tired of being alone. In her heart, she’d been alone since the day her mother was murdered.
With Mitch, she felt whole.
Mitch had that aura of a loner that she knew all too well. And for the first time, she wanted to get closer to someone. To really let someone into her heart, not just her bed.
But she also wanted him in her bed. She needed an hour of nothing but a physical connection. She had to clear her mind, to feel something other than pain and confusion.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said, her voice unusually deep.
“Claire-” His voice was thick, eyes searching hers, desire for her as strong as her own.