Harlequin Holiday Collection - Four Classic Seasonal Novellas

proposition. At his pronouncement about Newgrange, sheer excitement almost brought her off of it again.
    She couldn’t believe he’d won that coveted prize. Twenty thousand nature worshippers, scientists and history buffs—Sophie among them—put their names in every year for the Newgrange lottery. Now here was this fella, this Clint Walker, calmly announcing he’d scored one of the greatest coups in Ireland!
    “How in the world did you get so lucky?”
    Instead of answering her eager question, he gave her a considering, almost suspicious look.
    “What happened to your accent?”
    “Oh. That.” Grinning, she flapped a hand. “I’m a Yank, like you. Born and raised in Des Plaines, Illinois. I did most of my undergraduate and master’s program at Northwestern, but got a scholarship to work on a doctorate here at Trinity. Two years in Dublin have given me a wee bit of the brogue, doncha know?”
    His blue eyes narrowing, he skimmed a glance over her well-worn red jumper and beer-stained apron.
    “You say you’re on scholarship?”
    “I am.”
    “Doesn’t it provide living expenses?”
    “It does, but…well…there are bills. You know how it is.”
    His eyes held hers. “Tell me.”
    Sophie bit her lip. She rarely talked about her personal circumstances. She considered them no one’s business but her own. Yet this man’s steady gaze drew a reluctant response from her.
    “I was raised by my grandmother. Gran didn’t have a lot, only a widow’s pension, but she gave me so much love I never realized we were poor as church mice. She died during her hip-replacement surgery three years ago.”
    Pain splintered through Sophie. Three years, and the loss of her only living relative still sent a lance straight into her heart.
    “I’m almost finished paying off the hospital and funeral bills,” she said with a shrug that made light of the crippling debts she’d worked two and three part-time jobs to pay off while struggling to complete her studies.
    The offer of a scholarship to Trinity College had come at just the right time. Sophie had jumped at it, hoping a change in scenery would heal the gaping hole in her heart.
    Ireland had eased some of the pain, but the holidays always hit hard. Very hard. Especially Christmas, when the campus emptied and everyone went home to their families. Trying not to think about the bleak days ahead, Sophie finished with a deliberate change of subject.
    “Waitressing at the Bull and Crown pays for life’s little extras. Now tell me about this business proposition you mentioned.”
    Clint leaned his shoulders against the high-backed oak booth. Despite the relaxed posture, he was still highly attuned to the instincts that had kept him alive through years of undercover work. Those instincts had gone on red alert when the tumble-haired waitress suddenly lost her Irish accent.
    Even after her explanation, he was still suspicious, so he decided to make a few calls when he got back to his hotel. If she checked out and she was who she said she was, he could sure as hell use her expertise.
    “I want to make the most of my visit to Newgrange,” he said slowly.
    That was certainly true. With any luck, the early-morning excursion would bag an international art thief and, through him, the drug czar Clint was determined to put away. To pull it off, though, he would need to sound at least semiarticulate about megalithic art. Which meant he needed an expert.
    “I want to understand the tomb’s history and that of the people who constructed it. If you have time after you get off work, perhaps you could instruct me. I’ll pay whatever the going rate is at Trinity for private tutoring.”
    “Would y’now?”
    She considered the offer, her lips pursed. Clint caught himself wondering how they’d taste. How she would taste. A sudden tightening below his belt had him rethinking his offer at the same moment she accepted it.
    “As it happens, I finish up at six this evening. We could work here at the pub. Or…” Frowning, she glanced around the jam-packed establishment. “Or at the library at Trinity College. It’s just a few blocks from here and it stays open until midnight, even during the holiday break.”
    “Sounds good.”
    “All right, then. Meet me in the small reading room in the Library for Ancient Books and Manuscripts. Six-thirty.”
    When she rose and made her way back to the bar, Clint pulled his gaze from her swaying hips and told himself it was possible for him to