And above it all, those three smears of color on a pale sky.

He opened the sunroof, chuckling when Darcy cursed as the water that had pooled on the glass showered in. It smelled fresh, gloriously clean, and added something elemental to the scent of her skin.

Then, as the road climbed, he saw it. Dull and gray and forbidding against the seashell sky. Only three walls of the structure were standing, the fourth long fallen into a tumble of stones. But what was left was defiant, spearing up out of the quiet country field as a monument to blood, to power, to vision.

He swung off the road, stopped the car. "Let's go see it."

"See what? Trevor, it's only a ruin. You can find one by doing hardly more than turning a corner in Ireland. There are far better ones than this if such things interest you. You've the oratory or the cathedral in Ardmore, for that matter."

"This one's here, and so are we." He reached across her to open her door. "This is just the sort of thing that draws people to an area."

"Those who haven't the sense to take holiday where there's a nice pool and a collection of five-star restaurants." Grumbling a bit, she climbed out, then sighed and followed after him. "Just one of the many ruined castles or forts, probably sacked by the Cromwellians-they seemed to like nothing so much as sacking and burning."

The grass was damp, which made her glad she'd thought to wear boots. Knowing just what sheep and cows did in fields, she watched her step.

"No sign, no marker, nothing. It just stands here."

Darcy cocked her head, deciding it was more productive to be amused than annoyed. "And what do you think it should do but stand here?"

He only laid a hand on the stone and looked up. "How many men, I wonder, did it take to build this? How long? Who ordered it built here, and why? Shelter and defense."

He stepped inside and, humoring him, Darcy followed.

Grass had grown up, wild and tough, through fallen stones. The walls, open to the elements, dripped with wet from the recent storms. His builder's eyes could make out where the separate stories had been, and he marveled at the sheer size of the broken wooden beams.

"It would've been drafty, smelly as well," Darcy commented.

The light was shifting again, growing, and he could still see the rainbows overhead. "Where's your romance?"

"Ha. I doubt many of the women who had to cook and clean between having their babies thought it was very romantic. Survival would have been the point."

"Then they made their point. This survived. The people survived. The country survived. That's the magic that draws people here, the magic you miss because it's all around you."

"It's history, not magic."

"It's both. That's what I'm building here, that's why I came."

"That's a large ambition."

"Why have small ones?"

"Now that's a sentiment I can agree with. And as that ambition includes Gallagher's, I'll do my best to help you realize it."

"That's something else I want to talk to you about. Another time."

"What's wrong with now?"

"Because now I need a little more luck."

He took her hands, threading his fingers through hers. This time instead of drawing her toward him, he stepped to her. "In an ancient castle, under a trio of rainbows, I think this ought to be worth big pots of luck."

"You've your myths confused. The pot's at the end of the rainbow."

"I'll take my chances right here." He touched his lips to hers, light and friendly, as she had to his. He liked the glint of amusement it brought to her eyes and did it again, a little firmer this time, a little warmer.

"I've also heard it said, third time's the charm," he murmured, and took her mouth again. Fast and deep and hot. The change deliberately abrupt to test both of them.

She answered as if she'd known, as if she'd only waited. Her lips parted for his. No surrender, but demand. Equal to equal, hunger to hunger. Together their fingers curled until they formed taut fists, held as if it was understood that if either let go they'd rush blindly to the next step.

Her heart leaped against his, a quick kick of excitement that sent his own racing.

It thrilled and it stunned her that it should be as wild, as near to feral as it had before. A storm brewed inside her, wanted to whip high and free. And God, she wanted to ride it, even at the risk of finding herself battered and wrecked at the end.

Here, now, what did it matter where they were, or who they were or why it seemed so desperately right?

When his lips left hers to trail to her temple, into her hair, to rest quietly there, the sweetness of the gesture after the passion left her shaken and weak. And allowed caution to return.

"If such activities under rainbows bring luck," Darcy began, "the pair of us are set for life."

He couldn't laugh, nor come up with a joke in return. Something was churning inside him, something complicated, folding itself cannily in with simple desire. "How many times have you felt like that?"

Before she could answer he released her hands, put his own on her shoulders to draw her away enough for their eyes to meet. "Give me a straight answer. How many times have you felt the way you felt just now?"

She could have lied. She knew herself skilled at the careless and casual lie. But only when it didn't matter. His eyes were intense, direct, and, she thought, just a little angry. She found she couldn't blame him for it. "I can't say I ever have, excepting last night."

"Neither have I. Neither have I," he repeated, and let her go so he could pace. "That's something to think about."

"Trevor, I think we both know that the hotter the flame, the quicker it flashes, and the sooner it goes cold."

"Maybe." He thought of Gwen, the words she'd spoken to him. "We'd both know that going in."

"We would." Just as they both accepted they weren't capable of falling in love. He was right, she thought. They were a sad pair. "We'd know," she agreed. "Just as we both know we'll sleep together before we're done, but there are matters that tangle it up. Business matters."

"Business isn't involved in this."

"No, and it shouldn't be. But since we have a business relationship-mutual professional interests that involve my family, there are things to be discussed and agreed upon before we roll ourselves into bed. I want you, and having you is my intention, but I have terms."

"What do you want, a goddamn contract?"

"Nothing so formal-and don't take that tone with me. You're just annoyed that the blood's still in your lap and you didn't think of it first."

He opened his mouth, then closed it again and turned away. She had a point, damn it. "So we work out what we want and expect out of our personal relationship and agree to keep it separate, entirely, from the business one."

"We do, yes. And, as you said, that's something to think about. You might think that I sleep with anyone I find appealing or even handy." She kept her voice cool as he turned back. "But the fact is, I don't. I'm careful and selective, and I have to have some affection for a man, some understanding of him, before I take him to bed."

"Darcy, I understood that after an hour in your company. I'm also selective." He walked back to her. "I like you, and I'm beginning to understand you. And when the time comes, we'll take each other to bed."

She relaxed into a smile. "I think we've just had a serious conversation. We'll have to be careful not to get in the habit of it and frighten ourselves. Now, I'm sorry to say, you have to take me back."

She held out a hand.

"Next time we'll drive along the coast."

"Next time, you'll be taking me out to a candlelight dinner, buying me champagne, and kissing my hand in that way you have." She glanced up, caught another glimpse of the fading rainbows as they crossed the wet grass. "But we can drive along the coast road to get there."

"Sounds like a deal. Get a night off."

"I'll start working on that."

CHAPTER Seven

Warm, dry weather returned to paint both sky and sea the vivid blue of coming summer. Clouds that hovered were white and harmless, and the flowers of Ardmore drank in the sun as they had the rain. The round tower cast its long and slender shadow over the graves it guarded. And high on the cliffs the wind blew gentle ripples over the water in the well of the saint.

In the village, men worked in shirtsleeves, and arms turned ruddy in the sun. Trevor watched the skeleton of his building take shape, the beams and block that were the solid bones of his dream.

As the work progressed, the audience grew. Old Mr. Riley stopped by the site every day at ten until you could set your watch by him. He brought along a folding chair and sat with his cap shielding his eyes and a thermos of tea for company. There he would sit and watch, sit and nap until, sharply at one, he would stand up, fold his chair, and toddle off to his great-granddaughter's for his midday meal.

As often as not, one of his cronies would join him, and they would chat about the construction while playing at checkers or gin rummy.

Trevor began to think of him as the job mascot.

Children came by now and again and sat in a half circle by Riley's chair. Their big eyes would track the sway of a steel beam as it was lifted into place.

This event was sometimes followed by a round of appreciative applause.

"Mr. Riley's great-great-grandchildren and some friends," Brenna told Trevor when he expressed some concern about them being near the site. "They won't go wandering closer than his chair."

"Great-great-grandchildren? Then he must be as old as he looks."

"One hundred and two last winter. The Rileys are long-lived, though his father died at the tender age of ninety-six, God rest him."