village. Buy a heavier coat if he could find one and a few of the hand-knit sweaters. Couldn’t hurt to endear himself to the local merchants. He’d want everyone in the tiny town of Craic on his side as he tried to sway Maura into renting King Studios the use of her farm.
“Where are we going?” he shouted into the wind and could have sworn he actually saw the wind throw his words back at him.
“We’re not going anywhere,” she called back over her shoulder. “I’m going to the high pasture to lay out a bit more feed.”
“I could help,” he said.
She turned and looked him over, her gaze pausing on his well-shined, expensive black shoes. Smirking then, she said, “In those fine shoes? They’ll be ruined in a moment, walking through the grass and mud.”
“Why not let me worry about my shoes?”
Lifting that stubborn chin of hers, she said, “Spoken like a man who needn’t worry about where his next pair of shoes might come from.”
“Is it all rich people you don’t like,” Jefferson asked, an amused smile on his face, “or is it just me?”
She grinned back at him, completely unabashed. “Well now, that’s an interesting question, isn’t it?”
Jefferson laughed. The women he was used to were more coy. More willing to agree with him no matter what he said. They didn’t voice opinions for fear he wouldn’t share them. He hadn’t enjoyed himself this much in way too long.
And it wasn’t just the women, either, he mused. It was everyone he knew back in Hollywood.
Came from not only being a member of a prominent family, but from being the head of a studio where dreams could be made or shattered on the whim of an executive. Too many people were trying too hard to stay on his good side. It was refreshing as hell to find someone who didn’t care if he had a good side.
Maura slammed the gate of her small, beat-up lorry, then leaned back against it. Folding her arms over her chest in a classic defensive posture she asked, “Why are you trying so hard, Jefferson King? Is it the challenge of winning me over that’s driving you? Are you not used to hearing the word ‘no’?”
“I don’t hear it often, that’s true.”
“I imagine you don’t. A man like you with his fine shoes and his full wallet. Probably you’re welcome wherever you go, aren’t you?”
“You have something against a full wallet?”
“Only when it’s thrown in my face every few minutes.”
“Not thrown,” he corrected. “Offered. I’m offering you a small fortune for the lease of your land for a few weeks. How is that an insult?”
Her mouth worked as if she were fighting a smile. “Not an insult, to be sure. But your stubborn determination to win me over is a curiosity.”
“As you said, I do love a challenge.” Every King did. And Maura Donohue was the most interesting one he’d had in a long time.
“We’ve that in common, then.”
“Shared ground at last. Why not let me ride with you up to the high pasture? You can show me the rest of your farm.”
She studied him for a long, quiet moment as the wind buffeted them both. Finally, she asked, “Why do you want to come with me?”
He shrugged. “Honestly, I’ve nothing better to do right now. Why is it you don’t want me along?”
“Because I don’t need help,” she pointed out.
“You seem pretty sure of yourself,” he told her.
“And I am,” she assured him.
“Then why should you care if I ride along and help out if I can? Unless you’re worried that you’re going to be seduced by my lethal charisma.”
She laughed. Threw her head back and let loose a loud, delighted roll of laughter that touched something inside him even as it poked at his pride. “Ah, you’re an amusing man, Jefferson.”
“Wasn’t trying to be.”
“Which only makes it that much more funny, don’t you see?”
Hunching deeper into his overcoat against the cold, Jefferson told himself that she was no doubt trying to reassure herself that he wasn’t getting to her. Because he knew he was. She wasn’t nearly as distant as she had been the first time he’d driven onto the Donohue farm. That day, he’d been half expecting her to pull out a shotgun and force him off her land.
Not exactly the picture of Irish hospitality.
Thankfully, he’d always been the patient one in the family.
Trying a different tack now, he said, “Look at it this way. While you drive me around your place, you can have the chance to elaborate as to why you don’t want to take me up on my offer to rent your farm for an already mentioned exorbitant amount of money.”
She cocked her head to study him and her black hair danced in the cold wind like a battle flag. “Fine then. Come along if you must.”
“A gracious invitation, as always,” he muttered.
“If you want gracious,” she told him, “you should head down to Kerry, go to Dromyland Castle. They’ve fine waiters, lovely food and neatly tended garden paths designed to make sure their visitors’ fine shoes don’t get ruined.”
“I’m not interested in gracious,” he told her, heading for the side of the car. “That’s why I’m here.”
After a moment, she laughed shortly. “You give as good as you get, I’ll say that for you.”
“Thanks.”
She joined him at the door of the truck. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll drive my own lorry.”
“What?” Jefferson realized he’d gone to the right side—what should be the passenger side—but in Ireland, the steering wheel was on the right. “You do realize you guys have the wheel on the wrong side of the car.”
“It’s a matter of perspective, now isn’t it?” She shooed him off and he rounded the front of the small truck, walking to the other door. “Wrong side, right side, makes no difference, as they’re both my side.”
Jefferson leaned his forearms on the roof of the truck. “Believe it or not, Maura, I’m on your side, too.”
“Ah now,” she said, grinning, “that I don’t believe, Jefferson King, as I’m thinking that you’re always on your own side.”
She hopped in, fired up the engine and Jefferson moved fast to climb in himself, since he was sure she’d have no qualms about driving off and leaving him standing where he was. She was hardheaded. And beautiful. As stubborn as the hills here were green.
Watching the big American striding across a sheep-dung-littered rainy field on a blustery day was a fine thing, Maura mused. Even here, where he was so clearly out of his element, Jefferson King walked as if he owned the land. The edges of his gray overcoat flapped in the wind like a ghost’s shroud. His thick black hair ruffled as though spirits were raking their cold fingers through it and his delicious-looking mouth was twisted up into a sneer of distaste. And yet, she thought, he continued on. Carrying sacks of feed across muddy ground to tip and pour the grain into troughs for her sheep.
As the feed hit the bottom of the troughs, the black and white creatures came scampering ever closer, as though they’d been starved for weeks. Greedy beasts, she thought with a smile as they nudged and pushed at the great Jefferson King.
To give him his due, he wasn’t skittish around the animals as most city people were. They tended to look on mountain sheep as they would a hungry tiger, wondering if the beasties were going to turn