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Thirty minutes out of Caisleán she was feeling juiced. Minion Jerk was keeping his distance. Her voice was getting stronger with her singing. And damn if the countryside wasn’t getting more beautiful. There were mountains not far from her new home. Low ones, yeah, but they were gorgeous sweeping peaks with curves covered with trees and brush in earth tones that would have enticed Bob Ross, her personal hero.
The narrow roads weren’t fun, especially since she wasn’t used to driving on the left side, but she was almost there.
Then she spotted a portable red STOP sign in front of two black Mercedes parked in the middle of the road. There was no way around them. Taylor’s pulse picked up. The only other cars on the road were hers and the truck behind her. Sorcha’s concern blared an earsplitting alarm in her head.
She slowed down as she neared the roadblock, giving herself time to think. Three men in black leather jackets exited the first car, followed by another man in a long British formal coat from the second vehicle. She instantly recognized Malcolm Coveney. He was short with a large girth, gray hair, and overbleached teeth. She couldn’t see the ten gold rings shot with diamonds he was known for wearing nor the curve of his sagging jowls, but she soon would. From the looks of it, he wanted to have a talk with her, and he’d brought a few of his minions to intimidate her as much as show her what a big man he was.
She hated men like Malcolm Coveney.
Pretending to be scared of him would only play into his whole predator/victim show, and if there was one thing Taylor McGowan wasn’t, it was a victim.
She put her Audi in park but purposely left the car running. The truck stopped behind her, boxing her in, but the driver stayed in his car. Pulse hammering, she swung out her phone, tapping the Live video option on her professional Facebook page to start a transmission.
“Malcolm Coveney!” she called out as she started walking at a good clip toward him, making sure her boots pounded on the road. “I’d planned on asking for an interview when I got more settled into my new job at the Sorcha Fitzgerald Arts Center, but seeing as you’re here on this quiet country road blocking the way for a reason I’m sure is legit, I’d love to ask you some questions.”
Shock rippled over his moon-shaped face as she held up her phone and pointed the camera at him. His minion with the square head and beefy chest started toward her.
“My video is streaming live on Facebook, FYI,” she told the jerk.
That didn’t stop him, which had her planting her feet. “That means anything you do to me will be seen by my thousands of followers and can be used as police evidence. I understand there’s a new head of the Garda—”
“Only in Caisleán,” Malcolm called out in an arrogant tone. “That’s thirty minutes away. Isn’t it a coincidence that me and my employees both had a vehicle breakdown right as you were coming down this road?”
She knew all about lies and the men who wielded them to do bad things. After all, those seeds had given a start to her secret life when she was a teenager. “I’d say the odds are about like us flying off to Jupiter today, wouldn’t you?”
His smile was now eerily wide over his overbleached teeth. “Not at all. That’s Ireland for you. It’s a small world where everyone knows everyone else and their business. I’m glad you seem to know mine, Ms. McGowan. I look forward to our next meeting. Call my office anytime for an interview.”
Her smile was as fake as his. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure if you wanted anyone asking you questions about what it feels like to have such international support for an arts center you tried to move to your own hometown of Watertown through tactics that could be perceived by some as outright corrupt and coercive.”
His mouth took a severe line. “I don’t know what you mean. You’re a media director now, Ms. McGowan. Not a journalist. Your time in Ireland will be much happier if you remember that.”
She gave him unflinching stare. “Is that a threat, Malcolm?”
His chuckle raised goose bumps on her skin under her green sweater. “Not at all, Taylor. Haven’t you heard about Irish hospitality? I was only giving you some advice on how to make your stay a magical one.”
There wasn’t a shovel big enough for his bullshit. “You’re a sweetheart, aren’t you? But just so you know…I’m not a fan of roses. I’d heard you sent one to Linc Buchanan and Betsy O’Hanlon recently, but it was already dead.”
His smile turned wolfish. “Perhaps the florist made an error.”
“Care to tell me which florist?” she volleyed back. “I want to make sure I don’t use them, of course, being new and all.”
His mouth curved. “I send so many gifts—”
“Being the generous man you are,” she interrupted, knowing powerful men despised that.
“Indeed, which is why I’m afraid I don’t recall.” He crossed his arms and regarded her silently.
The chill of the October afternoon seemed to invade her bones, and she fought a full body shiver as he swept his eyes over her. God, he was a creep—and a dangerous one. He’d back his words up with action, and boy, did he like intimidating women. She recognized his type. God knew, she’d faced plenty of them before.
Maybe it was the hint of danger in the air, but everything crystalized for her. She’d come to Ireland for a meaningful new job. And sure, she was curious about this guy an Irish ghost insisted was her soulmate. But now she had a new reason for being here, one that made her blood race.
She was going to take Malcolm Coveney down if it was the last thing she did, and she knew just how to do it.
“Men like you often don’t recall,” she shot back, “but I don’t think it’s because of your age. What about you?”
“Insulting me will only make our time together on the road more unpleasant as we wait for my cars to be fixed.”
She fought another chill. “Then I guess I’ll have to back up and find another way to Caisleán.”
