"That's exactly so. Well, it's back to work for now. Brenna, my darling, do you think you could make yourself scarce 'round the pub until we've got it hammered?"

"I can, of course. But I'm invisible to the likes of him. He doesn't see past my toolbox. Fact is, he thought I was a man."

"Then he needs glasses." Aidan tipped up her chin and kissed her. "I'm grateful to you."

"I tell you I could get us thirty without much more effort," Darcy claimed, but she followed Aidan out into the pub.

"She likely could," Brenna commented.

"No need to be greedy. I'm grateful to you as well."

She cocked her head, and the faintest of sneers twisted her lips. It was one of Shawn's favorite expressions. "Are you going to kiss me, then, as Aidan did?"

"I'm thinking about it."

"Sure and you think a long time about things."

"No longer than it takes." So he cupped her face in his hands, still enjoying the sneer, then tilting her head to please himself, laid his mouth on hers.

Slow, comfortably lazy, like a warm breeze on a summer morning. She relaxed against him, her lips just starting to curve at the easy sweetness. Then deeper, so gradually, so skillfully, he took her deeper, she was over her head before she realized she'd been going under.

She made a sound, caught somewhere between a sigh and a moan. As her heart battered against her ribs, she slid her hands up his back to grip his shoulders. Even as her body went on alert, braced for more, he was easing away.

"I can only be so grateful, at the moment."

The man had made her dizzy, damn it. And had left her system screaming. "You did that on purpose."

"Of course I did."

"Bastard. I'm going back to work." She reached down for her toolbox and, still off balance, rapped hard into the table when she turned for the door. Her head whipped around quickly, and her narrowed eyes warned him. But he was wise enough to keep his expression bland.

She sniffed, then strode around to wrench open the back door. There she paused, shot him one last look. "You know, when you stop thinking, you do a fine job of the rest of it."

He didn't grin until she was gone. "That's a fortunate thing, as I've about finished thinking altogether."

Shawn stayed out of the way when Finkle came in that evening. But he fixed the man a king's meal of baked plaice done with an herbed butter, served with cally potatoes to which he'd added a dash or so of thyme, and some curly kale.

Since word from Darcy when she popped in was that the man would have licked his plate if there'd been no one about to notice, Shawn felt he'd done his part.

So it was mischief, as much as business sense, that had him going out to take Finkle a portion of lemon cheesecake.

Relaxed from the meal, and Darcy's attentions, Finkle offered Shawn what might have passed for a smile. "I don't know when I've had better fish. You run a creative kitchen, Mr. Gallagher."

"That's kind of you to say, sir. I hope you'll enjoy this. 'Tis me own recipe, fiddled about somewhat from that of my dear old granny. I don't believe you'll find better when you return to London."

Finkle, just about to take the first bite, paused with his fork in the air. "New York," he said, very precisely.

Shawn let himself blink. "New York? Oh, sure, and it's New York I meant. The man from London was thin as a skate and wore little round glasses. You'd think I'd be able to keep it all straight, wouldn't you, now?"

Keeping his expression pleasant, Finkle casually took a sample of the cake. "So- you've spoken to someone from London about a restaurant, was it?"

"Oh, Aidan, he does the talking. I've no head for business at all. Is the cake to your liking?"

"It's excellent." The man had a slow brain, Finkle mused, but no one could fault his cooking skills. "The man from London," he pressed. "Would you happen to know his name? I have a number of acquaintances there."

Shawn stared up at the ceiling, rubbed his chin. "Was it Finkle? Oh, no, that would be you." With a sweet and harmless expression covering his face, he lifted empty hands. "I've a bad habit of forgetting names. But he was a very pleasant individual, as you are yourself, sir. If you find you've room for another portion of cake, just let Darcy know."

He strolled back to the kitchen, catching Aidan's eye with a wink.

Ten minutes later Darcy poked her head into the kitchen and hissed, "Finkle asked for a moment of Aidan's time. They've gone into the snug."

"That's fine, then. Let me know if you need help at the bar."

"Consider I've let you know. Frank Malloy's come in with his brothers."

"He had words with his wife again?".

"That's the face he's wearing. I'll not be able to keep up with them, and the rest of the customers."

"I'm coming, then."

He was pulling the second pint for the Malloys-all of whom were burly-built men with straw-colored hair who made their living from the sea-when Aidan and Finkle stepped out of the snug.

He nodded good night to Aidan, then to Shawn. And for a moment as he glanced toward Darcy, his stern face fell into lines as soft as a hopeful puppy's.

"Are you turning in for the evening so early, then, Mr. Finkle?" Darcy set her tray on the bar, then sent the poor man a smile that could have melted slab chocolate at twenty paces.

"I-" He had no choice but to tug at the meticulously knotted tie, as his throat was suddenly thick. "I'm afraid I must. I have a plane to catch in the morning."

"Oh, you're leaving us altogether?" She held out a hand for his. "I'm sorry you can't stay longer, and hope you'll come back again when you're able."

"I'm quite sure I'll be back." Unable to help himself, Finkle did something he'd never so much as considered doing before in his life, even with his wife. He kissed Darcy's hand. "It's been a great pleasure."

A faint flush of pink riding on his cheeks, he left the pub.

"Well?" Darcy demanded, spinning around to Aidan.

"Let's give this a minute, just to be sure Finkle doesn't turn about, rush back in, and throw himself to his knees to beg you to run off with him to Tahiti."

Darcy chuckled and shook her head. "No, the man loves his wife. Now he might allow himself a misty dream about what the two of us might do in such a place, but that's as far as it goes."

"Then I'll tell you." He laid a hand on hers on the bar, placed the other on Shawn's shoulder. "We've done the deal, as the three of us and Jude discussed, and we've shaken hands on it. He's going back to New York, and the papers will be drawn up as soon as lawyers can manage it."

"Twenty-five percent?" Shawn asked.

"Twenty-five, and a say in approving the design for the theater. There are details yet, but between us, Magee, and the lawyers, we'll iron them out."

"So we've done it?" Shawn laid down the cloth he'd been using to wipe the bar.

"It appears we have, as I've given my word."

"Well, then." Shawn put his hand over the one Aidan held over Darcy's. "I'll tend the bar. Go on and tell Jude."

"It'll keep. We're busy."

"Good news is more fun when it's fresh. I'll handle it here, and close up as well. And as a return, you can give me the evening off tomorrow. If Kathy Duffy will take the kitchen. I haven't had a free evening in some time."

"Fair enough. I'll call Dad as well," he added as he flipped up the pass-through. "Unless you'd both rather I wait until morning when we can all speak to him."

"Go on and call." Darcy waved him out. "He'll want to know straight off. He was distracted," she said to Shawn when the door closed. "I'm not. Do you have something with Brenna in mind for tomorrow?"

Shawn merely took the empty glasses off her tray, set them in the bar sink. "You've customers, darling, and so have I." And he leaned over a bit. "You've your business. And so have I."

Miffed, Darcy jerked a shoulder. "It's not your business I care a damn about. But Brenna. She's a friend. You're nothing but a brother, and an irritant at that."

And knowing her irritant, she let it alone. She'd get nothing out of Shawn Gallagher, if he'd decided otherwise, with dynamite.

He had a plan. He was good at planning. That didn't mean it always worked, but he was good at the figuring out of how it should work.

There was cooking involved, and so he was in his element. He wanted something simple, a dish he could put together, then leave to itself until it was needed. So he made a tomato sauce with a bit of bite and left it to simmer.

It required a setting of the stage. That was something he preferred and something he believed would give him an advantage. He thought a man could use every advantage when it came to Brenna O'Toole.

It required a phone call, which he made from the pub at the end of the lunch shift when he was certain Brenna would be up to her neck in whatever job she was doing.

Just as he knew that, being Brenna, she'd come by after her workday to take a look at the broken washing machine he'd reported.

So when he got home, the sauce he'd left warming added an appetizing scent to the air. He picked some of the petunias and pansies that were happy to winter over in the garden and put these in the bedroom along with the candles he'd bought at the market.

He'd already changed the sheets for fresh, which had given him the idea about the washing machine.

Next there was music. It was too much a part of his life not to include it in any venture. He selected the CDs he liked best, slipped them into the canny little player he'd bought himself months before, then left them going while he went down to the kitchen to see to the rest.

He put out the cat, who it seemed sensed something important was going on and so put himself in the way at every opportunity.