"And it'll be money. Our money."

"I've thought on both ends of that." Aidan pursed his lips while he turned his cup of tea around-and around. "If we don't agree to sell, Magee could find himself another plot for his project. And the theater could be a benefit to the pub, if we keep some sort of handle on it. He strikes me as a sharp one, and one I'd rather deal with face-to-face than over the phone. But he says he can't come here now, as he's into some other business and can't leave it until it's done."

"So send me to New York." Darcy fluttered her inky lashes. "And I'll charm him into opening his wallet wide."

Aidan let out a quick hoot. "I don't think charm is what works with this one. It's a pounds-and-pence matter to him, to my thinking. I've a mind to ask Dad to take a trip into New York to meet with this Magee, as Dad's as sharp as any Yank wheeler-dealer. But before we do that, what do we, we three here, want from this?"

"Profit," Darcy said immediately and finished off a biscuit.

"That, yes, but what in the long term?"

"Reputation," Shawn said, and Aidan looked up at him. "We've been working around to making Gallagher's a center for music over the last few years. Have our name in the guidebooks, don't we, as a place for good food and drink, and for the music we have or bring in? Haven't you had bands calling you now, or the managers of them, inquiring about bookings?"

"Sure and we do well there," Aidan agreed. "If this man Magee has a mind to expand the entertainment, the music in Ardmore, and bring in more tourists, more customers, it'll add to our reputation."

Shawn folded the pastry into three, then sealed the ends before putting it back in the refrigerator to chill. "But it has to be done the Gallagher way, doesn't it?" Aidan leaned back in his chair as Shawn took potatoes from bin to sink and began to scrub them. "You're a constant surprise to me, Shawn. Aye, the Gallagher way or no way at all. Which means traditional, understated, and Irish. We'll have nothing flashy and foolish attached to our pub."

"Which means you have to convince him we need to work together," Shawn added. "As we know Ardmore and Old Parish and he doesn't."

"And for our input," Aidan decided. "We'll have a percentage of the theater. That was my thinking-and what I wanted to pass to Dad and have him work the

Magee toward."

Darcy drummed her fingers on the table. "So, we'll sell him the land at our price or lease it long term, on the condition that we have a part in the building, the planning, and the profits of the theater."

"Simply said." Aidan gave her a wink. She had a cool and sharp brain for business, did Darcy. "It's the Gallagher way." Aidan rose from the table, "We're agreed, then?"

"Agreed." Darcy chose another biscuit. "Let's see if this Magee can make us rich."

Shawn slipped potatoes into boiling water. "Agreed. Now the pair of you get out of my kitchen."

"Happy to." Darcy blew Shawn a saucy kiss and sailed out, already dreaming how she'd spend the Yank's money.

Because he considered that Aidan had it under control, Shawn didn't give another thought to land deals and building and profits from either. He prepared the dishes he'd planned and had the kitchen warm and full of scent by the time the pub doors opened.

He kept up with the orders, fell into the easy routine, but the music that usually filled his head kept stalling on him. He'd start to play with a tune while he worked, let the notes and the rhythm go their own way. Then he'd be back in the soft rain, with Brenna wrapped around him, and the only music he heard was the hum in his own blood. And that he didn't care for.

She was his friend, and a man had no business thinking about a friend in that manner. Even if she'd started it herself. He'd grown up teasing her as he had his own sister. Whenever he'd kissed her, and of course he had, it had always been a brotherly peck.

How the hell was he supposed to go back to that when he knew what she tasted like now? When he knew just how her mouth fit to his, and how much- heat there was inside that small package? And just how was he supposed to get rid of this hard, hot ball of awareness in his gut, an awareness he'd never asked for?

She wasn't his type-no, not a bit. He liked soft women with female ways who liked to flirt and cuddle. And by God, women who let him make the moves. He was a man, wasn't he? A man was supposed to romance a woman toward bed, not be told to jump into one because she had a-what had she called it? A yen. An itch.

He'd be damned if he'd be anyone's itch. He told himself he was going to steer well clear of Brenna O'Toole for the next bit of time. And that he wasn't going to be looking around to see that ugly cap of hers or to hear her voice every time he walked from the kitchen into the pub.

Still, his eyes scanned the crowd, and his ears were pricked. But she didn't come to Gallagher's that Sunday evening.

He did his work, and those who sampled it walked home at closing with full bellies and satisfaction. When he'd put his kitchen to rights and headed home himself, his own belly felt empty despite the meal he'd had, and satisfaction seemed a long way off.

He tried to lose himself in his music again, and spent nearly two hours at the piano. But the notes seemed sour somehow, and the tunes jarring.

Once, as he ran his fingers over the keys, shaking his head when the chords gave him no pleasure, he felt the change in the air. The faintest shimmer of movement and sound. But when he looked up, there was nothing but his little parlor and the empty doorway leading to the hall.

"I know you're here." He said it softly, waited. But nothing spoke to him. "What is it you want me to know?"

As the silence dragged on, he rose to bank the fire, to listen to the whisper of the wind. Though he was sure he was too edgy to sleep, he went upstairs and prepared for bed.

Almost as soon as his head settled on the pillow, he drifted into dreams of a lovely woman standing in the garden while the moonlight silvered her pale gold hair. The wings of the white horse beat the air, then settled as hooves touched ground. The man astride it had eyes only for the woman. As he dismounted, the silver bag he carried sparkled, shot light like little sparks of flame.

At her feet he poured pearls as white and pure as the moonlight. But she turned away from him, never looked at the beauty of the gems. Behind the sweep of her night-robe, the pearls bloomed into flowers that glimmered like ghosts in the night.

And in the night, surrounded by those moon-washed flowers, Shawn reached for the woman. The pale hair had turned to fire and the soft eyes became sharp and green as emerald. It was Brenna he drew into his arms, Brenna he surrounded with them.

In sleep, where reason and logic have no place, it was Brenna he tasted.

CHAPTER Six

"Hand me my crooked stick, will you, darling?"

Brenna picked up her father's level-he had affectionate names for most of his tools-and walked across the paint-splattered drop cloth to pass it to him.

The nursery was taking shape, and already in Brenna's mind it was the baby's room rather than Shawn's old one. Some might not be able to see the potential of the finished project beyond the clutter of tools and sawhorses, the missing trim and the snowy shower of sawdust. The fact was, she loved the messy middle of a project every bit as much as she did the polished end of it.

She enjoyed the smells and the noises, the good, healthy sweat brought on by swinging a hammer or hefting lumber. Now as she stood back to watch her father snug the level onto the vertical length of the shelves they were building, she thought how much she liked the little pieces of work. Measuring, cutting, checking, rechecking until what you had built was the perfect mirror of what had been inside your head.

"Right on the money," Mick said cheerfully, then propped his level in the corner. Without realizing it, they stood as a pair: hands on hips, legs comfortably spread, feet planted.

"And as it's built by O'Toole, it's built to last."

"Aye, that's the way of it." He slapped her companionably on the shoulder. "Now there's a good morning's work here. How about we go down to the pub for a bit of lunch, then we'll finish the unit this afternoon?"

"Oh, I'm not feeling hungry." Avoiding his eyes, Brenna walked over to examine the trim they'd already made to frame the shelves. "You go ahead. I think I'll just go on and trim this out."

Mick scratched the back of his neck. "You've not been into Gallagher's all the week."

"Haven't I?" She knew damn well she'd not set foot in the door since Saturday last. And she calculated she'd need another day or two before her humiliation level bottomed out enough for her to stroll in and see Shawn.

"No, you haven't. Monday it was 'Well, I brought something from home,' and Tuesday it was 'I'll eat later.' Then yesterday it was how you wanted to finish something up and would come down when you had-which you didn't." He angled his head, reminding himself she was a woman, and women had their ways. "Have you and Darcy had a fight?"

"No." She was grateful he'd assumed that, and that she didn't have to lie about it. "I just saw her yesterday when she dropped over here. You'd gone on to see about the Clooneys' drainpipe."

Keeping her voice and movements casual, she held up the trim. "I suppose I'm just anxious to see how this will all look when we're done. And I had a big breakfast. You go on and get your lunch, Dad. If I feel peckish after a while, I'll go downstairs and raid Jude's kitchen."

"As you like, then." His daughters, bless them all, were often a puzzle to him. But for the life of him he couldn't think of a thing that could be wrong with his Mary Brenna. So he winked at her as he pulled on his jacket. "We get this done, the least we can do is lift a pint at the end of the day."