Love and Blarney Read online

  LOVE AND BLARNEY

  A BALLYBEG ROMANCE (BOOK 2)

  ZARA KEANE

  Table of Contents

  About This Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  Thank You!

  Love and Leprechauns (Ballybeg, #3)

  Love and Shenanigans (Ballybeg, #1)

  Other Books by Zara

  About Zara Keane

  Zara Keane’s Mailing List

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Love and Blarney (Ballybeg, #2)

  Married in Manhattan……True Love in Ballybeg

  Ruairí MacCarthy abandoned his life in New York to deal with a family crisis in Ireland. Twelve months later, he’s traded his three-piece suits and Wall Street career for jeans and a job managing his family’s pub in Ballybeg. When his estranged wife bursts back into his life looking for a reconciliation, Ruairí must decide if home is where the heart is.

  Jayme King wants Ruairí back. She’s prepared to battle sheep, floods, and crazy Irish in-laws to get him. Discovering he lied about his past was a shock, but Jayme’s had months come to terms with the betrayal. Letting Ruairí go was the biggest mistake of her life. Can she persuade him to return to America and give their marriage a second chance?

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  For Adam

  Chapter One

  Ballybeg, County Cork, Ireland

  IF JAYME KING WANTED a metaphor to sum up the mess she’d made of her marriage, finding herself on a flooded Irish road blocked by sheep seemed pretty damned appropriate.

  The wipers of her rental car swished back and forth at a frenetic pace. Heavy traffic and even heavier rain had turned what should have been a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Shannon Airport to Ballybeg into a four-hour ordeal. According to the GPS, she’d almost reached her destination… almost being the operative word.

  Jayme sighed and regarded the ovine roadblock. An elderly man in an olive-green raincoat and tweed cap was herding the sheep. He waved a walking stick at her in a friendly gesture. The sheep inched their way from a pasture on one side of the road to a metal building on the other. If they didn’t hurry their furry asses across, she’d lose what little control she had over the standard transmission. Why hadn’t she remembered to specify an automatic when she’d made the reservation? But how was she to know the Irish regarded stick shifts as the norm? Remembering to stay on the left side of the road was bad enough. Throwing a third pedal into the equation had turned her impromptu road trip into a nightmare.

  She drummed the steering wheel and glanced at the dashboard computer. Nearly nine thirty. If she made it to Ballybeg within the next few minutes, she’d check into her accommodation before hunting down the man she’d traveled over three thousand miles to find.

  At the thought of the task ahead, her stomach went into a free fall. What would he say when he saw her? How would he react? And how much would it hurt if he rejected her a second time? Her fingers tensed over the wheel.

  Finally the last sheep reached its destination. The farmer doffed his cap at her and disappeared into the metal shelter. Grinding the gears, she shuddered into motion. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life wondering what if? She’d already wasted months on tears and regrets. It was time to learn to live again.

  Ruairí MacCarthy, manager and proprietor of MacCarthy’s in Ballybeg, surveyed his domain. The pub had the flair of an Ireland long gone but far from forgotten. The bar was the old-fashioned kind—stained mahogany edged with a tile inlay. He danced his fingertips over the faded wood counter, each scratch a reminder of a previous generation of customers.

  Not bad. Not bad at all, especially considering the state of the place when he’d taken control thirteen months ago. Once the renovation was complete, the pub would look similar to when his great-grandfather had hung his shingle over the door in 1927.

  He whistled cheerfully, an old tune he couldn’t place but couldn’t get out of his head. Yeah, life wasn’t perfect—not by a long shot—but in comparison to this time last year, things were good.

  A fist pounded on the front door.

  He paused in the act of polishing a pint glass and frowned. Probably kids messing around. They’d know someone would be in the pub by now, readying it for opening time. He refocused on the task at hand, polishing the glass until it lost its dishwasher dullness and sparkled under the pub’s dim light.

  This evening, he was knocking off early. And he couldn’t bloody wait. The moment the clock struck five, he’d chuck the keys of the kingdom to his sister Marcella and head to Cork City. He smiled to himself and pictured his date. Laura Corrigan was a leggy brunette with generous breasts and a ready smile. But most important, Laura was a laugh. She didn’t take herself—or him—too seriously. In short, she was exactly what he needed after the implosion of his marriage. For his first date in years, he was glad it was with someone who was more potential friend than future soul mate. And if their relationship developed into more than friendship, he’d take it one step at a time.

  Bang. Bang.

  He swore beneath his breath. Could it be one of his sisters? If so, he was in no mood to rush to the door.

  “We’re not open.” His voice was gruff enough to deter whoever was pounding on the pub door before opening time.

  Another bang.

  For feck’s sake. Surely no one in Ballybeg was that desperate for a pint. Grumbling, he placed the glass on the counter and tossed his polishing cloth beside it. He shoved up the counter flap and maneuvered his large frame through the gap.

  Bang, bang.

  “Keep your hair on,” he growled. “I’m coming.” Through the stained-glass slats in the oak door, he spied a small figure.

  Ah, hell.

  He loved his sisters, he truly did. But being their go-to person for every disastrous situation they got themselves into was exhausting. What would it be this time? Was Sinéad’s renegade boyfriend in jail and in need of bail money? Had Sharon’s boss finally come to her senses and fired her? He slid the bolts and braced himself, not to mention his bank account, for the latest episode in the MacCarthy family soap opera.

  His chest collided with his visitor’s petite form. She took a step back in alarm. He blinked through the heavy rain. She was a small woman and fine-boned, judging by the way her oversized raincoat enveloped her tiny figure.

  “Our opening time is the same as every other pub in Ireland,” he said, not unkindly. “Ten thirty.”

  “I’m not here for a drink.” One slim hand, wearing a large diamond ring, pushed back the hood to reveal a mane of honey-streaked brown hair and a very familiar heart-shaped face.

  His heart rate kicked up a notch when his brain registered who was standing on the doorstep. “Jayme?” His voice was a croak.

  “Ruairí.” She pronounced his name in the light singsong way of a foreigner who’d tried hard to master which of the many syllables went up in intonation and which went down but hadn’t quite gotten it right.

  Air exited his lungs in a whoosh. “What are you doing here?”

  She tilted her sweet little chin, revealing the cleft he’d once loved to trace with his tongue. “Ask me in and maybe you’ll find out.”

  His feet reacted before his head could process her words. He stood aside and let his estranged wife step over the threshold.

  Roo-Ree. Jayme let his name roll off her tongue. It tasted like her mom’s chocolate-velvet cheesecake.

  He’d cut his h
air. It now bordered on military short. Gone were his elegant three-piece suits and handmade Italian shoes. He’d replaced them with faded blue jeans and a casual checked shirt, open at the neck. In the two years they’d lived together, Jayme had never known him to wear jeans.

  Their eyes clashed in a war of unexpressed emotion and unspoken words. She hadn’t seen him in over a year, yet the sight of those broad shoulders and powerful legs still had the power to reduce her to a quivering mass of hormones. Judging by his face, the sight of her had taken his breath away, too—but not, she suspected, in the way she’d hoped.

  “What do you want?” His expression morphed from shocked to guarded.

  Her mouth was bone-dry. “To talk.”

  A muscle in his cheek flexed. “You traveled over three thousand miles to talk? Ever heard of the telephone?”

  “Your old cell phone number doesn’t connect anymore.” Or you’ve blocked me… The idea of him cutting her out of his life with such ruthless efficiency sliced into her flesh as sharply as a surgeon’s knife.

  His gaze hardened. “Why not call the pub? We’re in the phone directory.”

  “I thought it was better to come in person.” She clasped her hands to stop them trembling.

  He speared her with his hazel eyes, indecision flickering over his handsome features. Eventually he relented. “You’d better get your coat off. You’re dripping water all over my clean floor.”

  She struggled free of the enormous raincoat. When she handed it to him, their fingers brushed, sending a jolt of awareness coursing through her veins. If Ruairí were similarly affected, he hid his reaction well. He examined the raincoat with a frown and raked her body. Heat swept up her cheeks at his scrutiny. Did he like what he saw? She’d chosen her outfit with care: a peach cashmere sweater that complemented her tanned complexion, skinny jeans made by her favorite designer, and gorgeous brushed-leather, high-heeled boots.

  “You’ve lost weight,” he said gruffly.

  His indifferent reaction to her appearance hurt, even though his assessment was accurate. She’d lost a lot of things over the past year, but her diminished weight was the least of her concerns. “The coat’s not mine.” She fingered her wet hair. “And its hood was no match for the Irish wind.”

  He coaxed his lips into a half smile. “Tourist tip: don’t bother with an umbrella.”

  “My landlady beat you to it. The coat’s hers, by the way.”

  The frown returned, and wariness slammed down over his face like iron shutters. “Your landlady? Surely you’re not planning on staying in Ballybeg?”

  His obvious reluctance to be in her presence didn’t come as a surprise, but it stung with the force of a million paper cuts. She tilted her chin and met his horrified expression. “I’ve booked a room at a charming little bed-and-breakfast overlooking the beach.”

  The line between his brows furrowed. “For how long?”

  She gave him a wobbly smile, her bravado in rapid-depletion mode. But she’d come too far to quit and run. “My initial reservation is for a week. Mrs. Keogh says it’s no problem if I decide to stay longer because it’s off-season.”

  A muscle in Ruairí’s cheek flexed. “It might not be a problem for Mrs. Keogh, but it sure as hell is a problem for me.”

  The words hit her like a lash. “Please. We need to talk.”

  His mouth hardened. “We needed to talk a year ago. It’s been thirteen months. Why the sudden urgency?”

  Actually, it had been thirteen months, three days, and five hours since he’d walked out of their apartment and out of her life. She remembered every second of that awful night down to the tiniest detail. His confession, the fight, and the final horrible moment when he’d told her he was leaving. In the days that followed, she’d thought nothing could have the power to make her feel more wretched.

  Boy, had she been wrong.

  A wave of grief hit her in the solar plexus, as fresh and as painful as the day her life had truly fallen to pieces. She dragged air into her lungs, shoved the bad memories away, and forced herself to concentrate on the present. “Our divorce will come through in a few weeks.”

  His eyebrows had always reminded her of a satyr and never more so than when he raised one—as he was doing now. “So? I spent months trying to get in contact with you. You rebuffed my every attempt.”

  “Please, Ruairí. Don’t be this way.” She shifted her weight from one sore foot to the other—her beautiful high-heeled boots were not suited to the cobbled streets of Ballybeg—and contemplated her strategy. Problem was, she didn’t have one. The moment she’d opened the envelope and seen the letter from her lawyer, she’d known what she needed to do. The how part of the equation hadn’t materialized with the same lightning-bolt clarity.

  “You filed for divorce,” he said. “You ignored my calls, texts, and e-mails.”

  “You left me.” Her voice was wobbly, and unshed tears stung her eyes.

  His jaw tensed. “I didn’t leave you. I left America. I said you could come with me.”

  “And quit my job from one day to the next? Abandon my whole life?” Her breathing came in short, sharp bursts. “You sprang the news on me the second I walked in the door after a long day at the practice. How did you expect me to react? I thought your parents were dead!”

  “I never said they were dead. You assumed—”

  “You let me assume.” The hurt, the pain, the betrayal of that night surged to the surface. “How could you lie to me about something so important? You’ve met my parents.”

  “Oh, yeah.” His tone was bitter. “And they didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms, did they?”

  “Seriously? How does their opinion of you count in this argument? They knew you existed, and you knew they existed. You let me think your family was dead. Why would you do that?”

  He dropped his gaze to the polished wood floor. “I told you why.”

  “You told me nothing. All you said was that you were estranged from your family. You hadn’t mentioned them to me before because you didn’t think they were relevant.” Her breath was uneven, her chest rising in time with her indignation. “Yeah, I remember our conversation that night. Every damn word.”

  The hazel eyes shot up. “Then you remember me telling you it was an emergency. I had to come back to Ireland to sort out a family crisis.”

  “You said you had to fly home—your word, not mine—and stay in Ireland for the foreseeable future.” A rebellious tear slid down her cheek, and she rubbed it away with a vicious swipe. “You presented me with a fait accompli. How was that an invitation for me to come with you?”

  The bar door creaked open. “Jaysus, Ruairí. You’ve not gone and pissed off your new girlfriend before you’ve had a chance to shag her?”

  The strident voice in its lilting Irish accent made Jayme jump. She whirled around to face the oddest-looking creature she’d ever seen up close and personal. The young woman was a few inches taller than her and sported a shock of spiky peroxide hair dyed green at the tips. She wore an oversized black T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of a deranged-looking priest and the words “Feck Off” capitalized below. Her legs were encased in black leggings. Scuffed lace-up boots completed the ensemble.

  The girl was eyeing her with amused disdain. “You can’t be serious, bro.”

  Ruairí grimaced, wearing an expression reminiscent of a condemned prisoner confronted with his executioner. “Marcella, meet Jayme. Jayme, this is my sister.”

  The other woman quirked a dark eyebrow and extended her hand.

  Jayme stared at the beringed fingers with the nails bitten to the quick and hesitated a moment too long before returning the gesture.

  Her hesitation was not lost on Marcella. “Charmed, I’m sure,” she said in a dry tone, squeezing her hand with enough force to make her wince. “And you are…?”

  “Jayme.” Perhaps the woman hadn’t caught the name when Ruairí had introduced them.

  “Jayme…” Marcella prompted with an imp
atient circular hand gesture.

  “Ruairí’s wife.”

  Chapter Two

  MARCELLA’S SARDONIC SMIRK vanished. “His what?” Slack-jawed, she rounded on her brother. “You’re married?”

  Sweat beaded under the rim of Ruairí’s collar. “It’s not—”

  “You didn’t tell your family?” Jayme stared at him, large-eyed.

  The hurt in her green orbs sliced him to the core. How could this be happening? Half an hour ago, he’d been fine—not ecstatic over his lot in life, but content. Now his sister—and the woman who’d torn his heart out, stomped on it, and thrown it into the shredder—were both glaring at him with matching expressions of outrage.

  His thoughts were racing, his emotions a smorgasbord. He’d known he wasn’t over Jayme yet, but he’d been utterly unprepared for the impact of seeing her in the flesh. She wore the signature perfume her grandmother had commissioned from a Parisian perfumer for her twenty-first birthday—floral with a hint of spice. The fragrance sent him hurtling back in time to the heady days of their whirlwind romance and fairy-tale wedding. They’d been ridiculously happy. How could their relationship have gone so wrong, so fast?

  “When did this happen?” The force of Marcella’s anger jerked him back to the present.

  “Three years ago. While I was living in the States.”

  His sister folded her arms across her colorful T-shirt. “Does Ma know?”

  Aw, hell. He squirmed under her razor-sharp glare. “No, Ma doesn’t know. The thing is, Jayme and I are getting a divorce.”

  “Might be getting a divorce,” Jayme corrected.

  His eyebrows shot north. “What do you mean, might? You filed for—”

  “Enough.” She held up a hand. “I’m cold, I’m tired, and I’ve learned you didn’t think our marriage was relevant information to share with your family. I’m not in the mood to argue over semantics.”

  Guilt gnawed at his stomach. Jayme’s look of utter devastation slayed him. His eyes wandered down her too-slender frame. Memories of what lay beneath that cashmere sweater surfaced in all their X-rated glory.