at a woman at the other end of the bar, a woman who had been flirting with Dylan Quinn until Quinn had focused his attention on her companion. Rafe looked away, but not soon enough. A few moments later, the woman slipped onto the stool beside him, tossing her honey-blond hair over her shoulder. She pulled out a cigarette and placed it between her moist lips, then leaned forward, offering a healthy view of her cleavage. Rafe knew what was expected. But he wasn’t interested, so he simply slid the book of matches across the bar.
The woman didn’t take the hint. She gave him a dazzling smile. “I’m Kara,” she murmured. “Would you like to join me for a game of pool?”
Rafe didn’t bother returning her smile. “I don’t play pool,” he said softly.
“Darts?” she said, arching her eyebrow and allowing her hand to brush against his sleeve.
Rafe slowly shook his head, then glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sure there are any number of men in this bar who’d enjoy your company tonight…Kara. I’m just not one of them.”
She blinked in surprise, then, with a sniff, slipped off the bar stool and returned to her friends at the other end of the bar.
“Can I get you another Guinness, boyo?”
Rafe glanced up from his warm beer. The patriarch of the Quinn clan stood in front of him, a towel tossed over his shoulder. His thick gray hair dropped in a wave over his forehead and his face was lined from years of harsh sun and sea spray. “Or maybe ye’d like a bite to eat? Kitchen closes in fifteen minutes,” Seamus added.
Rafe pushed the warm beer away from him. “Scotch,” he said. “Neat.”
Seamus nodded then went to fetch the drink. Rafe studied the old man coldly. How many times had he heard the name Seamus Quinn? His mother used to murmur it like a mantra, as if she had to remind herself over and over again that her husband was dead—and that Seamus Quinn was responsible.
Rafe glanced up when the old man returned with his drink. He couldn’t ignore the surge of hate that heated his blood, better than any twelve-year-old Scotch could. But he had to push that aside for now, for reckless emotion had no part in his plans for the Quinns. It wouldn’t be wise to tip his hand so early.
“You new around here?” Seamus asked, leaning an elbow on the bar.
Rafe took a sip of his Scotch and shook his head. “Not new to Boston,” he said. “Lived here for a while.”
“I know just about everybody in the neighborhood,” Seamus countered, eyeing him suspiciously. “Haven’t seen you around.”
“I’ve got…business in the area,” Rafe replied.
“Oh, yeah. Doin’ what?”
“Tying up loose ends,” he said with a shrug. He gulped the last of his Scotch, letting it burn a path down his throat. Then he stood up and pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket. Rafe tossed a twenty on the bar. “Keep the change,” he muttered before he turned and headed toward the door.
He shoved the door open and walked out into the September night, the streets illuminated by the feeble light from the streetlamps. Though Quinn’s Pub was located in a rough section of town, Rafe felt no qualms about walking the streets. He’d grown up on the streets and had learned to protect himself, first with his fists, then with his wits, and now with his wealth.
As he walked toward his car, he thought about the boy he’d once been, happy and carefree, certain of his parents’ love. But that had all changed one fall day, much like this one. Even now, a sick feeling twisted his gut at the memory of his father’s friends—the men who had worked the swordfishing boats with Sam Kendrick—walking up the front steps of their tiny house in Gloucester.
They hadn’t had to speak. Rafe knew what they’d come for. But still, he listened to the details of how his father had met with an unfortunate accident at sea. His father had been caught in a long line and yanked overboard on the Mighty Quinn, Seamus Quinn’s boat. By the time they’d gotten him back on deck, he was dead. Drowned. Like every fisherman’s kid, Rafe knew the dangers of working the North Atlantic, but he couldn’t believe his father could make such a stupid mistake. Even Rafe knew to be watchful when they were playing out the line.
That day had marked the end of Rafe’s childhood. Lila Mirando Kendrick, already frail of mind and health, took the news badly. Though she’d hated her husband’s choice of occupation, she’d loved Sam Kendrick. It had been an odd match, the rough-and-tumble Irish American and the delicate Portuguese beauty. But they had adored each other and the loss of him was more than she could bear. What emotional stability she had left was shattered along with the family’s financial stability.
Rafe had immediately gone to work to help supplement the insurance settlement his mother received. He had worked from the time he was nine years old, first delivering papers and collecting aluminum cans, until he could get a real work permit. After that, he took anything that would pay at least minimum wage. He worked construction to put himself through college, then parlayed a small investment in a crumbling storefront into a fortune in Boston’s booming real estate market.
By the age of twenty-five, he’d made his first million. And now, at thirty-three, he had more money than he could ever spend. Enough to make his life easy. Enough to buy his mother all the help she needed. And plenty of money to make revenge a simple matter. After all, that’s why he’d come to Quinn’s Pub—to avenge his father’s death and his mother’s grief.
Rafe turned back and looked down the darkened street to the neon lights blinking from the pub windows. He wasn’t sure why he had to do this. A shrink might say he had a need for closure, or a desire to work out his childhood rage. But Rafe didn’t put much stock in the science of psychiatry, even though he’d spent a fortune supporting the profession on behalf of his mother. His motive was much simpler.
He’d find a way to take something away from Seamus Quinn, the same way Quinn had taken something from him. An eye for an eye, wasn’t that how it was supposed to be? Maybe he’d find the means to buy the pub out from under him. Or maybe he’d get to Quinn through his sons. Or maybe he’d finally find the proof he needed to put Quinn in jail for the murder of Sam Kendrick.
Whatever it was, Rafe was determined to make it happen. Once he rid himself of the demons in his past, maybe he could finally get on with his future.
THE LIGHTS OF New York glittered against a carpet of black night. Keely stared out the window of the 747, her cheek pressed against the cool surface. She’d left Ireland five hours ago and somewhere over the Atlantic she’d come to the realization that her life had changed forever.
Her visit to the parish priest had been even more illuminating than her tea with Maeve Quinn. Though he couldn’t tell her if her father was still alive, Keely left believing that somewhere in the world, she at least had five brothers, and probably six. The baby that her mother was carrying when she left Ireland was more than a year older than Keely. She didn’t want to believe that the baby had been a girl and her mother had kept a sister from her for all these years.
Her thoughts wandered back to all the romantic stories she made up about her parents, their enduring love, his tragic accident, her mother’s grief. So what had really happened? If her father was still alive, he would have made some attempt to see her, wouldn’t he have?
“So, he’s not alive. That part of the story is the truth,” she told herself. “He would have made an attempt to see me if he could.” Seamus Quinn had died and her mother was left with five, or maybe six children. She couldn’t take care of them and she…put them into foster care? That would explain her mother’s melancholy moods. But why keep that all from Keely? And why, once she made a decent living at the cake shop, didn’t she find her sons?
Keely moaned softly, then rubbed her temples, working at the knots of tension that kept her head in a vice.
“Are you all right?”
She turned and looked at the businessman who sat next to her in first class. She hadn’t