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“I’ll have one of the boys fetch your bags and take them up to your room. Oh, it’s good to see your faces. We’re all here now. We’re all home.”
They were fed and feted, surrounded and questioned. Eve managed the names and faces by imagining them all as suspects on a murder board—even the ones who toddled and crawled.
Especially the one who kept toddling over and trying to claw its way into her lap.
“Our Devin’s a lady’s man.” His mother—Maggie—laughed as she hauled him up, and in the way of some women, lodged him effortlessly on her hip. “Da says you’re off to Italy next. Connor and I splurged on our honeymoon and went to Venice. It was brilliant.”
The kid on her hip babbled something and bounced.
“All right, my man, since we’re having a holiday. I’m after getting him another biscuit. Would you like one?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
A moment later, Eve felt an itch between her shoulder blades. Shifting, she saw a boy staring at her. She recognized him—the Brody family green eyes, the solar system of freckles—from when the family had come to New York the previous Thanksgiving.
“What’s the deal?” she demanded.
“I’m wondering if you’ve got your stunner.”
She hadn’t worn the harness, but she’d strapped her clutch piece to her ankle. Old habits die hard, she supposed, just as she supposed Sinead and the rest of the females wouldn’t appreciate her showing the kid the weapon at a family picnic.
“Why? Somebody need to go down?”
He grinned at that. “My sister, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“What’s the offense?”
“Being a git. That should be enough.”
She knew the gist of the meaning from Roarke’s use of the word when he lapsed into his native slang. “Not in New York, ace. The city’s full of gits.”
“I think I’ll be a cop and blast the bad guys. How many’ve you blasted?”
Bloodthirsty little bastard, Eve thought. Sh
e liked him. “No more than my share. Putting them in a cage is more satisfying than blasting them.”
“Why?”
“It lasts longer.”
He considered that. “Well now, I’ll blast them first, then put them in a cage.”
When she laughed, he shot out another grin. “We don’t get bad guys around here, and that’s a pity. Maybe I’ll come to New York again, and you can show me some of yours.”
“Maybe.”
“That’ll be frosted!” he said, and bolted off.
The minute he did, someone plopped down beside her and pushed a fresh pint into her hand. Seamus, she identified, Sinead’s oldest son. She was pretty sure.
“So, how’re you finding Ireland then?”
“We went east from New York. Green,” she added when he chuckled and gave her a friendly elbow in the ribs. “With a lot of sheep. And good beer.”
“Every shepherd deserves a pint of an evening. You’ve made my mother very happy, taking this time to come, be with family. She thinks of Roarke as hers now, in her sister’s place. What you’re doing for her, and for him, it matters.”
“It doesn’t take much effort to sit around and drink good beer.”
