Luck of the Irish

Winner of the Series Contemporary Romance category of the 2011 Fire and Ice Contest (Chicago-North RWA)

Finalist in the Series Contemporary Romance category of the 2011 Dixie First Chapter Contest (Magnolia State Romance Writers RWA)

Blurb:

Jonas O’Mahony is a single father to a child with special needs. The last thing he expects is to find love with his childhood nemesis.

Desperation drives Olivia Johnson-Dunne to agree to rent space for her new café from Jonas. She and her father are employed by Olivia’s abusive estranged husband. Olivia figures being in close proximity to Jonas is preferable to working for her ex, however unnerving she finds Jonas and his dimples.

Daily contact challenges their long-held preconceptions about one another, and ignites a spark. However, when Olivia’s ex is murdered, suspicion falls on her and Jonas, putting their new-found happiness – and his son’s welfare – in jeopardy. To achieve their HEA, Olivia and Jonas must find out what really happened to Aidan, and accept that their past does not define their present.

Excerpt from Chapter One:

Ballybeg, County Cork, Ireland

Olivia was a devout Catholic in two circumstances: on planes and at the dentist. Today it was the dentist. She wished like hell she had her Grandmother Dunne’s Rosary beads.

“Open wide,” said Dr O’Shea. The garlic on his breath made her stomach roil.

She concentrated on the soothing image of the Rosary beads. Taking a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes shut and unclenched her sore teeth. The plaque Nurse Ratched had gleefully spent the last forty-five minutes scraping off was smeared across the bib on her chest. She’d poked her several times. On purpose.

Dr. O’Shea nudged each of the depressions on her teeth. He pushed on the same tooth several times. “Oh dear.”

Shit.

Olivia could hear her long-deceased grandmother’s voice in her head, admonishing her for swearing. The heavy Cork accent conjured up bitter-sweet memories she’d rather forget.

Breathe.

The dentist arched an accusatory eyebrow at her. “Open.”

Cold metal invaded her mouth. Dr O’Shea poked and prodded, occasionally asking his assistant to hand him another implement of torture. Nurse Ratched – a.k.a. Miss McCarthy – had worked at the Ballybeg Dental Surgery since time immemorial, taking sadistic pleasure in tormenting generations of patients. That no one had clobbered her to death with a dental drill was nothing short of a miracle.

Focus. Breathe. Pray. Olivia’s clammy palms gripped the arms of the leather reclining chair. Hail Mary, Full of…

“Ouch!”

She flinched as Nurse Ratched jammed a suction tube into her mouth, stabbing her inner cheek. How that woman still had a job was beyond her. But change was anathema in Ballybeg. People would rather grumble behind closed doors than do anything to threaten the status quo.

“Sorry, dear,” Nurse Ratched said, the twinkle in her eyes bright.

Olivia glared at her and sucked on the tube.

She was on her third decade of the Rosary when the dentist stood back. “You’ll need a filling on the lower right.”

Feck. No, no, no. Not today. A trickle of sweat slithered down her spine. So much for the efficacy of prayer. Maybe she should have stuck to the Protestant texts. Or interspersed them. After all, what was the point of having parents of different religions if one didn’t make the best of both?

“Can we do this another time? I’m kind of in a rush today, and…”

“Now, now, Olivia. That’s what you get for leaving it two years between check-ups. I thought I’d taught you better.”

This sort of condescension was part and parcel of going to the same dentist since childhood. Knowing from experience that arguing with him was futile, she bit back her frustration. If only the bank hadn’t brought her appointment forward. She’d scheduled for next Friday, but they’d called that morning to change it, the inconsiderate sods.

A filling…she never had cavities. Why today, of all days? She was so close to getting the loan approved, she could taste freedom. And she hated needles; even more so the sickening vibration of the drill. Knowing her boss would pitch a fit when she arrived even later to work was not helping her remain calm.

“It shouldn’t be too deep,” continued Dr O’Shea, blithely unconcerned by her rising panic. “Should we try it without an anaesthetic?”

Olivia’s eyes flew open. “Absolutely not. If you intend to come near me with that drill, I want drugs. Lots of them.”

Nurse Ratched snickered.

“Uh, okay,” said Dr O’Shea, taking a step back in alarm. “We’ll get the syringe.”

Fifteen minutes later, her jaw was numb and her lip felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool.

Dr. O’Shea held the nitrous mask. “Olivia, don’t you think this is overkill?”

“No, I don’t.” A stupid tear formed in the corner of her eye.

He put the mask on her. “All right then.”

It wasn’t thirty seconds later when she felt like giggling. Her iPhone vibrated to the tinny opening chords of ‘It’s Raining Men’ and she did giggle. “I need to get that.”

“After the dentist’s done with you. It’s policy. So as not to waste the dentist’s time.” Nurse Ratched pushed her back down.

She giggled again. “Okay.” If she had access to this stuff on a daily basis, surviving her day job would be a whole lot easier.

After an eternity of whirring vibration, her newly-minted filling was in place. Olivia poked the inside of her cheek with her tongue dubiously.

“Now, then. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”

That, she surmised, was a matter of opinion.

“I can’t feel my face.” She giggled again. God, she was annoying herself.

“It’ll wear off within an hour or so,” said Dr. O’Shea, removing his rubber surgical gloves and discarding them in the rubbish bin.

Olivia swung her legs over the side of the chair and stood up with caution. She was as wobbly as day-old jelly. Nurse Ratched gave her a parting grimace, which she returned in kind. One had to be civil in a town this small, unfortunately.

Dr. O’Shea held the door for her. “I’ll see you again in six months, Olivia, and no later. Julie will give you an appointment. In the meantime, take good care of your teeth.”

“Sure.” She repressed the giggle this time.

She emerged from the dentist’s torture chamber to the melodic chime of the Grandfather clock in the reception area. Ten o’clock. She’d make it to the bank on time, thank goodness. Whether or not she’d be coherent was another matter.

“How did it go, Olivia?” Julie asked from behind the reception desk with ill-disguised glee. As usual, Julie was poured into a top at least two sizes too small, making her ample bosom even more prominent. Olivia scowled. She’d have liked to add an expression of haughty superiority but that was rather difficult to achieve when half her face was numb. She settled for an arched eyebrow instead.

“Oh, dear,” said Julie. “A filling? I suppose you’d better make sure you brush and floss regularly from now on, hadn’t you?”

Olivia gave her the infamous Johnson-Dunne Evil Eye. Julie took no notice.

“I need another appointment in thix months.” Fabulous. She was high, numb and drooling, and now she had a lisp to complete her humiliation.

Julie gave her a disdainful once over.

“Still ginger haired, I see.” Her scarlet-lacquered talons clicked over the keyboard.

At least I don’t look like I stuck my head in a bucket of toilet cleaner, Olivia thought. Ginger haired…certainly not. She only used the best dye on the market. After all, when one’s natural hair colour was carrot, one did what one must. She tossed her long, ‘Titian Tresses’ over her shoulder and wrapped her beloved peacock blue scarf around her neck. It was one of her own creations and she wore it with panache. She took every opportunity to look her best. She saw it as advance advertising for her café. Sadly, Olivia suspected The Blue Rinse Brigade in Dr. O’Shea’s waiting room did not represent her future clientele.

Julie handed her an appointment card, and she shoved it into her handbag. Bracing herself for the bitter chill outside, she gripped the cold metal door handle.

At that moment, the surgery door swung open, bringing with it a fearful gust of wind and Jonas O’Mahony. Olivia staggered backwards. A strong arm grabbed her, breaking her fall. His fingers sent a searing heat through the layers of clothing. Blood hummed in her veins. She blamed the Novocain. Breathing hard, she yanked back her arm.

It was years since she’d been this close to him. He was taller than she remembered. His broad frame encased in leather and biker boots, he had the build of a heavyweight boxer and the attitude of a Spartan warrior. Olivia’s heart did a slow thump and roll.

“Olivia.” His gravelly voice broke the silence, as deep and rough as single cask whiskey.

“Jonath,” she croaked, trying not to lisp and failing miserably. Damn anaesthetic.

His dark eyes riveted her in place. Unlike most of the fair-skinned Celtic inhabitants of Ballybeg, Jonas’s Italian heritage gifted him with a year-round tan to complement his dark hair and eyes. Perhaps that was why half the population found him swoon-worthy. Personally, she didn’t see the appeal. She was sick of seeing his mug every time she went into the book shop. Being a local writer of note – the only local writer of note – Bridie Byrne maintained a huge display of his books in The Book Mark. Although she was a mystery fan, Olivia had so far resisted temptation and steered clear of Jonas’s novels.

“Hey, Julie,” said Jonas. “I have an appointment at a quarter past ten.” He barely cracked a smile as he spoke, his eyes never leaving Olivia. She was certain the temperature had dropped several degrees since he’d graced them with his presence, but Julie seemed oblivious to the chill.

“Jonas!” cooed Julie, fluttering heavily mascaraed eyelashes. “Of course. And how’s your adorable little boy? Luca, isn’t it?”

Talk about laying it on with a trowel!

“He’s fine, thanks,” replied Jonas curtly. “Shall I take a seat in the waiting room?”

Julie’s face fell. “There are a few people ahead of you, so you might have to wait for a bit.”

“No problem.” Jonas strode past Olivia without sparing her another glance. She caught a whiff of his aftershave – spicy and exotic. For a moment, she forgot to breathe.

The vibration of her iPhone jolted her back to reality. Shit. Someone had tried to call her while she was getting the filling, and she hadn’t checked her messages. She fumbled in her handbag and withdrew her phone. It would be Aidan demanding to know where the hell she was and why she wasn’t at the office dealing with his lewd suggestions and temper tantrums. Her words, not his. Resigned to a verbal onslaught, she pressed the green button.

“This is Mary McDermott.”

“I…Hello, Mary. What can I do for you?”

“Olivia…” Mary’s voice trailed off, sounding hesitant. Not a good sign. Olivia hoped this had nothing to do with her bid for the rooms on Curzon Street.

“Yeth?”

“I’m afraid circumstances have changed. The rooms on Curzon Street are no longer available. I’m so sorry, Olivia.”

Like hell she was. Olivia was temporarily bereft of speech.

“We had an agreement, Mary,” she said, forcing herself to focus and remain calm. Now was not the time to lose her cool. “You said I could have the rooms as long as I paid the deposit and three months’ rent by the end of the month. It’s only the 12^th and I have an appointment with the bank this morning.”

“I know, but our agreement was only oral and therefore not legally binding. Besides, it’s not like you have any experience running a business. Any landlord needs to know their tenant will pay the rent on time and stay longer than a handful of months.”

Whoa…now that was way out of line, not to mention totally unfair. “Which prospective tenant proved solvent enough to get more than an oral agreement out of you?”

“Now, Olivia, you know I can’t reveal that information. It’s confidential.”

“As was my bid for the premises but that didn’t thtop you telling half the town. I’ll athk you again: who ith it?”

Mary’s hesitation was audible. “Not a tenant, exactly. My nephew…”

Olivia’s eyes flew to the waiting room door. “Not Jonath?” But who else could it be? As far as she was aware, Niall O’Mahony was away at university, and he and Jonas were Mary McDermott’s only living nephews.

“Jonas is a good lad,” Mary continued. “When he told me he was moving back to Ballybeg, and needed somewhere to live with a home office, how could I refuse?”

“Because you and I already had a deal?”

“If you have a problem, Olivia, I suggest you take it up with Jonas. He’s hardly going to want to share a building with you. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing further to discuss.” Olivia could visualise Mary’s Gallic shrug.

She started to formulate a sufficiently cutting response, but Mary had already disconnected. She quivered with indignation.

“Something wrong?” asked Julie with mock concern.

Olivia ignored her and marched straight into the waiting room. Three heads turned towards her, but she wasn’t interested in the Blue Rinse Brigade. She turned the full force of her glare on Jonas O’Mahony.

“You lying, thcheming thcumbag! You knew I wanted those rooms for my café and you poached them from me. Mary and I had a deal, but you played the family card and thnatched them away from me.”

Jonas regarded her coolly. “Had a filling?” he asked, his deep voice laced with condescension.

Olivia uttered an oath.

Jonas laughed.

The rat bastard!