He reached into his pocket, threw some change on the counter, and grabbed his jacket. "Leave me alone, Jackson. I worked three double shifts this week. I'm tired."
"And lonely. Come on, there's plenty of ladies achin' to keep ya company."
Collin looked around. For once the allure of his favorite haunt failed him. The tiny bar was crowded with its usual patrons, rowdy and ravenous in their pursuit of pleasure. But tonight, the appeal of friendly banter and even friendlier women seemed diminished.
In his usual corner sat Tommy Thomkins, caressing the keys of a battered-looking piano as he crooned a stirring rendition of a favorite Irish ballad. Singing along were a number of ruddy-faced regulars, whiskey in one hand and a pretty woman in the other. A haze of smoke, sweetened by the stale scent of perfume and whiskey, hung in the air like a fog, creating the illusion that those in its midst were happy.
Collin turned his attention back to Jackson, who was watching him with more than a hint of curiosity. He grinned to deflect his friend's stare. "Don't think I'm up to it tonight, of buddy. But cheer up-that should give you a chance to make some headway with the ladies." Collin slapped him on the back and started for the door.
Jackson grabbed his sleeve. "Come on, Collin, it's too early to go home. I know you'd rather be with Charity, but don't underestimate the affections of a pretty young thing to get you through the night. You know for a fact Bree still has it bad for you. She never has gotten over it. Come on, now, she's just waiting for a chance."
Jackson cinched Collin's coat and bellowed across the room. "Hey, Bree, get yourself over here; somebody needs cheering up." Collin gave him a pained look, which apparently had no effect as Jackson pushed him back on the stool. "Come on, now, dance a little, laugh a little. You'll thank me for it in the morning."
Jackson patted the stool next to Collin's. A shapely blond sat down. "Well, hello there, Collin," she said, her voice husky, hopeful. "So you need cheering up, do you?"
"Bree, me girl," Jackson interrupted, "our friend Collin's having a bad time of it, I'm afraid. Seems he's been smitten by a lass whose father can't abide the sight of him. So ya see, he's sadly reduced to spending his nights heartbroken and lonely. And an unholy shame it is at that."
Collin rolled his eyes and shook his head. Jackson was an idiot, he thought, smiling despite himself.
And Bree was nothing if not a girl of opportunity. Fluttering her lashes in surprise, she scooted her stool close and leaned against him, her hand on his arm. "Heartbroken? Lonely? My, that's hard to believe. But I'm more than happy to do my part to help an old friend in need." She reached up and kissed Collin full on the lips.
He heard her soft moan as she pressed against him, and for the briefest moment, he froze. In his mind's eye, it wasn't Bree's lips he tasted but Faith O'Connor's. An unfamiliar ache stabbed within. Where the blazes did that come from? One brief encounter, and some woman had him thinking about her? Wanting her? Well, it wasn't going to happen. He would be the one who decided whom he wanted and whom he didn't. As long as he had a breath in his body, no woman would control his thoughts, and certainly no woman would possess him.
The ache was replaced by an icy anger that stoked a cold resolve within. He wanted to push Bree away, to tell her that her kiss produced nothing but contempt. That neither she nor any woman, least of all Faith O'Connor, would ever own him. But he didn't. Instead, he jerked her close, his lips returning her passion with a hard fervor. And in the heat of their embrace, in the smoky midst of Brannigan's Pub, he quickly seared the memory of Faith O'Connor from his thoughts.
"My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door, and my heart was moved for him. I rose up to open to my beloved; and my hands droppeth with myrrh, and my fingers with liquid myrrh, upon the handles
"And lonely. Come on, there's plenty of ladies achin' to keep ya company."
Collin looked around. For once the allure of his favorite haunt failed him. The tiny bar was crowded with its usual patrons, rowdy and ravenous in their pursuit of pleasure. But tonight, the appeal of friendly banter and even friendlier women seemed diminished.
In his usual corner sat Tommy Thomkins, caressing the keys of a battered-looking piano as he crooned a stirring rendition of a favorite Irish ballad. Singing along were a number of ruddy-faced regulars, whiskey in one hand and a pretty woman in the other. A haze of smoke, sweetened by the stale scent of perfume and whiskey, hung in the air like a fog, creating the illusion that those in its midst were happy.
Collin turned his attention back to Jackson, who was watching him with more than a hint of curiosity. He grinned to deflect his friend's stare. "Don't think I'm up to it tonight, of buddy. But cheer up-that should give you a chance to make some headway with the ladies." Collin slapped him on the back and started for the door.
Jackson grabbed his sleeve. "Come on, Collin, it's too early to go home. I know you'd rather be with Charity, but don't underestimate the affections of a pretty young thing to get you through the night. You know for a fact Bree still has it bad for you. She never has gotten over it. Come on, now, she's just waiting for a chance."
Jackson cinched Collin's coat and bellowed across the room. "Hey, Bree, get yourself over here; somebody needs cheering up." Collin gave him a pained look, which apparently had no effect as Jackson pushed him back on the stool. "Come on, now, dance a little, laugh a little. You'll thank me for it in the morning."
Jackson patted the stool next to Collin's. A shapely blond sat down. "Well, hello there, Collin," she said, her voice husky, hopeful. "So you need cheering up, do you?"
"Bree, me girl," Jackson interrupted, "our friend Collin's having a bad time of it, I'm afraid. Seems he's been smitten by a lass whose father can't abide the sight of him. So ya see, he's sadly reduced to spending his nights heartbroken and lonely. And an unholy shame it is at that."
Collin rolled his eyes and shook his head. Jackson was an idiot, he thought, smiling despite himself.
And Bree was nothing if not a girl of opportunity. Fluttering her lashes in surprise, she scooted her stool close and leaned against him, her hand on his arm. "Heartbroken? Lonely? My, that's hard to believe. But I'm more than happy to do my part to help an old friend in need." She reached up and kissed Collin full on the lips.
He heard her soft moan as she pressed against him, and for the briefest moment, he froze. In his mind's eye, it wasn't Bree's lips he tasted but Faith O'Connor's. An unfamiliar ache stabbed within. Where the blazes did that come from? One brief encounter, and some woman had him thinking about her? Wanting her? Well, it wasn't going to happen. He would be the one who decided whom he wanted and whom he didn't. As long as he had a breath in his body, no woman would control his thoughts, and certainly no woman would possess him.
The ache was replaced by an icy anger that stoked a cold resolve within. He wanted to push Bree away, to tell her that her kiss produced nothing but contempt. That neither she nor any woman, least of all Faith O'Connor, would ever own him. But he didn't. Instead, he jerked her close, his lips returning her passion with a hard fervor. And in the heat of their embrace, in the smoky midst of Brannigan's Pub, he quickly seared the memory of Faith O'Connor from his thoughts.
"My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door, and my heart was moved for him. I rose up to open to my beloved; and my hands droppeth with myrrh, and my fingers with liquid myrrh, upon the handles
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