The Devaney Brothers: Ryan And Sean

5

Maggie was beginning to hate the defiantly silent phone at her parents’ house. Ryan was definitely not taking the hint. She’d all but thrown herself at him, and he was still maintaining the same aloof, distant air. Without her fairly secure ego, she might have found it humiliating.

If she’d honestly believed that he wasn’t the least bit interested in her, she might have accepted that and moved on, but she didn’t believe it. Not only did she know Colleen’s impression regarding his interest, but her own instincts on her last visit to the pub had told her he was attracted to her. She’d seen the immediate rise of heat in his eyes when he’d found her outside, the too-brief flicker of desire before he’d forced a neutral expression onto his face.

Maybe if she hadn’t quit her job, if she had a million things to do, she could have let it go, rather than obsessing about him. The truth was, though, that she was bored with all this time on her hands, and Ryan was the most fascinating element in her life at the moment. The vacation she’d been looking forward to when she’d left Maine was turning tedious. She was not used to being idle. And though she was supposed to be contemplating a future career path, all she could think about was Ryan Devaney. Maybe her personal life had been neglected for too long and needed to be dealt with before she considered her next job.

“What are you frowning about?” her mother asked as she poured herself a cup of coffee and joined Maggie at the kitchen table. “Or do I need to ask? Is this about Ryan?”

“I know it’s ridiculous,” Maggie said. “I barely even know the man, but I can’t stop thinking about him. He seems so lost and lonely.”

Her mother smiled. “Ah, yes, two traits that are guaranteed to fascinate a woman. So, when are you going to do something about it?”

“Such as?”

“Invite him here for dinner.”

“Here?” Maggie asked, unable to hide her dismay at the idea of exposing an already jittery Ryan to an inquisition from her parents.

Her mother chuckled at her reaction. “Your father and I are capable of being polite and civilized when necessary,” she teased. “Didn’t you tell me Ryan had a difficult family background? Maybe being around a normal family would be good for him.”

“You think we’re normal?” Maggie asked with obvious skepticism.

“Of course I do. A little rambunctious at times, but pretty typical. There are no major dysfunctions I can think of,” she added dryly.

“I suppose you’re right, but I don’t think Ryan would accept the invitation. Frankly, I think normal makes him uncomfortable. Besides, it’s obvious to me that he’s happiest on his own turf.”

“Meaning the pub,” her mother guessed. “Then we’ll go to him. I’d like to see this young man of yours again. How about tonight? Your father should be home early, and since it’s Friday, neither of us has to work tomorrow. It’s been ages since we’ve had a night out in Boston.”

The prospect of descending on Ryan’s Place with Nell and Garrett O’Brien in tow made Maggie decidedly uneasy, but her family was a big part of her life. She might as well find out now if Ryan could cope with that.

“Are you sure?” she asked her mother.

“Of course I’m sure. It’s a great excuse to spend the evening out with my husband. And didn’t you say there’s an Irish band at the pub on weekends? That will be lovely,” she said, then quickly amended, “as long as we can keep your father away from the microphone.”

Maggie grinned. Her father’s enthusiasm for singing was a family legend. Sadly, though, he couldn’t carry a tune, but that had never kept him silent.

“Keeping Dad away from the stage will be your job,” she told her mother. “I can’t have Ryan threatening to bar us from the premises.”

Her mother chuckled. “Yes, that would pretty much ruin your grand scheme, now wouldn’t it?”

* * *

Ryan had been lured over to the homeless shelter by a frantic call from Father Francis. When he arrived, he found the priest trying to console a heavyset African-American woman who was clutching a crying boy about ten years old. As he got closer he could see that the boy had some sort of medical problem that had left his complexion ashen and his eyes listless.

When Father Francis spotted Ryan, he gave the woman’s hand a pat, then left her to join Ryan.

“What’s the problem?” Ryan asked.

“That poor woman is beside herself, and who could blame her?” the priest said. “A few weeks ago the doctors told her that her son has a congenital heart problem that requires surgery. He also mentioned that it’s probably something he inherited from his father. Apparently, the news was so distressful for the father that he quit his job and took off, leaving them with no income and no insurance.”

Ryan felt his gut tighten with knee-jerk anger at a man who would do that to his family. He pushed the reaction aside to deal with the real crisis. “I suppose you want money for the surgery,” he said. “I’ll make the arrangements tomorrow. You could have told me about it tonight at the pub. Why bring me over here?”

“Because that boy needs his father,” the priest said. “He can’t go into such a risky surgery believing that his own father doesn’t care about him. Though you never faced a major illness, I’m sure you can relate to how he must be feeling.”

Unfortunately, Ryan could relate to it all too well. “You can’t expect me to find his father.”

“I do.” Father Francis regarded him with a steady look. “I think your own experience will motivate you to help. And if finding his father can’t be accomplished in a matter of days, then I want you to step in and be his friend.”

Ryan had no difficulty offering financial assistance, even in hiring a private detective to conduct a search, but involving himself emotionally in the boy’s situation was out of the question. “What’s wrong with you being his friend?” he asked testily.

“I’m a priest, and I’m an old man. It wouldn’t be the same,” Father Francis insisted. “Come. Meet the boy and his mother. You’ll need to talk to them to get the information you’ll need for the search.”

“You’re assuming I’ll go along with this,” Ryan grumbled.

“Well, of course you will,” Father Francis said without a trace of doubt. “That’s the kind of man you are. You put aside your own feelings to do what’s needed for someone else.”

Ryan was growing weary of living up to such high expectations, but he dutifully followed the priest. The woman watched their approach with a wary expression.

“Letitia Monroe, this is Ryan Devaney. He’s here to help.” Father Francis patted the boy’s hand. “And this is Lamar.”

Ryan nodded at the mother and shook the child’s icy hand. “Nice to meet you, Lamar. You, too, Mrs. Monroe.”

“You can help us find my husband?” she asked, her cheeks still damp with tears.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ryan promised. “I have some friends who are pretty good at finding people who are missing.”

She looked alarmed at his words. “Not the police,” she said urgently.

“No, not the police,” he reassured her. He hunkered down so he could look Lamar in the eyes. “You a Celtics fan?”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “They’re the greatest,” he said, his voice weak.

Ryan had to steel himself not to feel anything, not pity, not anger. “Well, once you’ve had your surgery, we’ll see about getting you tickets to a game. Would you like that?”

“Really?” Lamar whispered.

“That’s a promise. Now let me talk to your mom for a minute. Father Francis will keep you company. Just don’t play checkers with him,” he warned, then confided, “he cheats.”

“What a thing to say about your priest,” Father Francis scolded, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

Ryan spent a few minutes with Mrs. Monroe, trying to garner enough facts to pass along to a private investigator who visited the pub most evenings on his way home.

“Do you really think you can find him?” Mrs. Monroe asked. “It will mean the world to Lamar to have his daddy at his side when he has this surgery.”

“And to you, I imagine,” Ryan suggested.

“Me?” she scoffed. “I don’t care if I ever set eyes on his sorry behind again. What kind of man runs out on his family at the first sign of trouble?”

Ryan couldn’t think of any acceptable excuse for it, either, but he tried. “Father Francis said Lamar’s condition could be hereditary. Perhaps your husband simply feels guilty.”

She seemed startled by the suggestion. “You think that’s it?”

“I don’t know your husband, Mrs. Monroe. You do. But if it were me, I’d be struggling with a lot of emotions about now. Maybe you should wait till you talk to him before you give up on him.”

She nodded slowly. “I’ll think about what you said. And I’m grateful for whatever you can do.”

“Let’s pray I’ll be back to you with some news in a day or two. In the meantime, you make the arrangements for Lamar’s surgery. You won’t have any problem at the hospital.”

“But they said—”

He met her gaze. “Trust me. There won’t be a problem.”

A relieved smile spread across her face. “Mr. Devaney, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“There’s no need,” he insisted, casting a look toward the boy who was giggling softly at something Father Francis had said. “Let’s just make sure Lamar is back on his feet soon. I’m looking forward to going to that ball game with him.”

Before he knew it, he was enveloped in a fierce hug.

“You’ll be in my prayers every night of my life,” she told him.

“I’d return the favor, but I think you’ll have better luck letting Father Francis do the honors,” he said wryly. “I’ve got to get back to work now, but I’ll be in touch. You can count on it.”

Ryan slipped out of the shelter before Father Francis could waylay him with some other mission of mercy. Outside, he shivered, though it was less a reaction to the temperature than to the sad plight of the Monroe family.

He was still thinking about them when he walked into the pub and headed for the bar, where Maureen had been filling in while he was gone.

“Everything okay?” she asked, regarding him with concern.

“It will be,” he said with grim determination. “Has Jack Reilly been in tonight?”

“Haven’t seen him,” she said. “But there is a familiar face in that booth by the stage.”

“Oh?” he said, puzzled by the mysterious glint of amusement in her eyes. One glance at the booth was explanation enough. Maggie was seated there with her parents. They each had the night’s fish-and-chips special and a pint of ale. He glanced at Maureen. “Cover for me a few more minutes?”

“Of course,” she said at once.

He walked across the room, greeting several regulars along the way, then paused beside Maggie. “Good evening. Welcome to Ryan’s Place,” he said, his gaze directed first at Nell O’Brien, then at her husband. He nodded at Maggie.

“Ryan, I love your pub,” Nell said with enthusiasm. “It reminds me of a place in Dublin that Garrett and I visited on our honeymoon.”

“The Swan,” Garrett said at once. He regarded his wife with a warm expression. “I believe we can credit a night there for our firstborn son.”

Nell blushed. “Garrett O’Brien, what a thing to be saying in front of a stranger.”

“Ryan’s no stranger. He’s a friend of our Maggie’s. Isn’t that right, Maggie, me girl?”

Maggie grinned at her father. “He still might prefer not to know all the intimate details of John’s conception.”

Ryan chuckled. “Actually I’m fascinated,” he said, just to keep the color high in her cheeks. “And what about Maggie’s? Is there a story behind that, as well?”

Maggie shot a warning look at her father. “If you tell it, I will never forgive you.”

“Now I really am intrigued,” Ryan said. “Make room, Maggie.” He settled in the booth beside her, thigh-to-thigh, in a way that had his blood heating. “Come on, Mr. O’Brien. Tell the story.”

Garrett O’Brien opened his mouth, then grunted, apparently when Maggie’s foot made contact with his shin. “Sorry, lad. I’ve been persuaded to keep silent. Even in today’s tell-all society, I imagine there are some things that are best kept private.”

Ryan turned to Maggie. “I suppose I’ll just have to pester you until you tell all,” he said. “Right now, though, I’d better get behind the bar before Maureen rebels.” And before he gave in to the urge to spend the entire evening right here with Maggie so close he could feel her breath on his cheek when she spoke.

“Join us again if you can spare the time,” Nell invited.

“I’ll do that,” Ryan promised, casting a last, lingering look at Maggie before striding across the room and trying to block her presence from his thoughts.

He didn’t get to keep his promise. Instead, it turned into an impossibly long night. Fridays were always busy because of the popularity of the band, but this was busier than most. It didn’t help that his new waiter was struggling a bit to keep up with the unfamiliar orders, but Ryan had to give Juan credit for trying. Still, it meant that Maureen was carrying more than her fair share of the load and that Ryan was spending extra time soothing ruffled feathers and keeping an eye out for Jack Reilly so he could ask for his help in tracking down Lamar’s father.

Suddenly Maggie was beside him. “It looks as if you could use an extra pair of hands behind the bar,” she said, already donning an apron.

He stopped filling an order for ale from the tap and stared. “What are you doing?”

“Pitching in,” she said, moving away to smile at a new arrival. She’d taken the man’s order and placed a pint of ale in front of him before Ryan could blink. She came back to him with a satisfied smile on her face. “Any objections?”

Ryan weighed uneasiness against pragmatism. Pragmatism won. “Not a one,” he said. “I can use the help.”

Just then he spotted her parents heading toward the door. They gave him a cheery wave as they exited. Gaze narrowed, he turned to Maggie. “Wasn’t that your ride home that just walked out of here?”

She grinned at him. “Not if I’m lucky,” she said, then vanished to take another order.

“Meaning what?” he said when she reappeared.

“I figure you’ll owe me,” she said. “A drive home’s not too much for a volunteer waitress to expect, is it?”

Ryan shook his head, aware that he’d just fallen into a tidy trap. “No, I suppose not, but I ought to make Rory take you.”

Her smile faltered at the suggestion, and Ryan grinned despite himself. “Not what you had in mind, hmm?”

She met his gaze evenly. “Definitely not.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to be the one, if only to see exactly where this plan of yours is headed.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” she promised.

She said it with a look that had his temperature soaring.

And a lifetime’s worth of defense mechanisms slamming into place.

* * *

Maggie figured she would owe her mother for a really long time for coming up with the idea of leaving Maggie behind to help out in the pub. Nell had overcome all of Garrett’s objections by reminding him that it would give the two of them several hours at home alone. After that, her father couldn’t leave the pub quickly enough. Years of having six children underfoot had taught him to snatch any opportunity for privacy.

Sticking around uninvited had been a risky notion. Ryan could very well have found someone else to give her a lift home, just as he’d threatened. The fact that he’d backed down and decided to take her himself was definitely a good sign. Unfortunately, she wasn’t at all convinced they were ever going to get out of the place.

It was past midnight, and the last customer had been gone for twenty minutes, but Ryan was still tallying the receipts, dragging out the process, if she wasn’t mistaken. Maggie was sitting in a booth, rubbing her aching feet. It had been a long time since she’d spent so many hours as a waitress and bartender. She’d forgotten how exhausting it could be.

Oddly enough, though, a part of her felt exhilarated. She’d made over fifty dollars in tips, which was the only money she intended to take for her efforts. More important, she had thoroughly enjoyed talking to the customers. She’d missed that kind of interaction with people in her old job. Being the senior accountant for a corporation might have carried more prestige than waiting tables, but it hadn’t been nearly as much fun.

She glanced across the room and saw that Ryan had disappeared into his office. Maybe she could hurry him along, if she went over there and looked pathetic, which wouldn’t be all that difficult given the way she was feeling.

Groaning, she stood up in her stocking feet and walked over, carrying her shoes, coat and purse. She found Ryan behind his desk, jotting figures in a ledger.

“I’ll be with you in a second,” he said without looking up. “I like to get these numbers entered at night, so the day’s cleared out and I’m ready to start fresh tomorrow.”

“You’re keeping your records in a ledger?” she asked, staring at the cumbersome book with surprise. She glanced around the office and saw no evidence of a computer.

“Sure.”

“Why aren’t you computerized? It would take less time, and you’d have everything you need at your fingertips when tax time comes around.”

“This works,” he said, dismissing the idea.

“But—”

He glanced up with a grin. “You selling computers in your spare time, too?”

“No, but this is something I know a little bit about. I could set up a system for you in no time. And I noticed tonight that if you reorganized the liquor supply, it would be easier to keep track of what’s running low.”

“Maggie, I don’t need a system. I already have one,” he explained patiently.

“An outdated one, but I suppose that’s to be expected,” she said.

He frowned at that. “Meaning?”

“You’re pretty much stuck in your ways across the board,” she said.

For a minute it seemed he might take offense, but then he grinned. “It must seem that way to you, being the kind of modern woman that you are.”

“It is that way,” she insisted, ignoring the teasing. “But I won’t push you to change tonight. I’m too exhausted to waste the energy.” She grinned back at him. “But, as they say, tomorrow is another day.”

“I’m not changing the way I do things around here,” he said emphatically.

“We’ll see,” she said blithely.

“Maggie!”

“Don’t worry about it,” she soothed. “I’ll just sit right over here, quiet as a mouse, while you finish up. You won’t even know I’m here.”

“I doubt that,” he muttered.

She settled into the easy chair in the corner of his office, curling her feet up under her. Two minutes later she was sound asleep.

* * *

Ryan compared his figures one last time, then uttered a sigh of satisfaction. The orderliness of numbers pleased him. There was nothing messy or questionable about totals written down in black and white. Emotions, however, were another matter entirely.

And speaking of emotions, what was he to do about Maggie? He glanced across the room and found her sound asleep in his easy chair. At some point during the evening, she’d scooped her hair into some sort of ponytail, but there were curls escaping now to feather against her cheeks. Her dark-green sweater had twisted and ridden up to expose a tantalizing inch-wide strip of pale-as-cream skin. His heart hammered a little harder at the sight. If only he had the right to skim a finger along that delicate band of flesh, to slide his hand beneath the sweater to cup softly rounded breasts. His throat went dry at the thought.

He swallowed hard. He had to get her out of here and safely home before he did something stupid and acted on one of these increasingly frequent impulses of his.

Crossing the room, he hunkered down beside the chair. Despite his best intentions, he couldn’t seem to resist reaching out to smooth a wayward curl from her cheek, then lingering to feel the way her skin heated at his touch.

“Maggie?” he whispered, his voice suddenly husky. “Time to wake up.”

She moaned softly and stirred, but didn’t open her eyes. Ryan bit back a groan as images of her stirring just like that in his bed slammed through him. Visions of tangled sheets falling away from long, bare legs taunted him.

“Maggie,” he repeated with more urgency. “Time to go home.”

He said the latter to remind himself that home was where she belonged—her home, not his.

Another moan. Another stretch. And then a sigh as her eyes flickered open. A smile curved her lips. “Hi,” she said softly.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

“I guess I fell asleep. What time is it?”

“After one. I need to get you home.”

She kept her gaze steady on him. “I could stay here. Save you the trip.”

Ryan stood up and backed away so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. “Not a good idea.”

She seemed amused by his reaction. “Surely you have a sofa I could sleep on,” she said, her expression innocent. “Where do you live, by the way?”

“Upstairs.”

“Well then, that’s a whole lot handier than driving all the way to my place.”

“Maybe so, but something tells me I don’t want to tangle with your father and your brothers, who might find the idea of you staying at my place a little premature.”

She grinned. “Premature, not out of the question?”

“Maggie.” It came out as part protest, part plea.

“I just want things to be absolutely clear between us,” she said.

“And I’ll be happy to let you know when I have them figured out,” Ryan retorted.

“You’re assuming you’re the only one who gets to have a say,” she accused lightly. “Wrong, Devaney. I’m part of this equation.”

“Didn’t you tell me that your life is in a bit of a muddle right now?” he asked. “You don’t need to add to that by getting mixed up with me.”

She rose gracefully from the chair and crossed the room until she could reach up and place a hand against his cheek. Ryan felt that touch straight through to his toes.