The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

fine build, she mused as she stood framed in the window. That was part of it. A woman who didn’t appreciate a long and wiry build on a man, well, she had a problem, as far as Darcy was concerned. It was the way he moved, too. Light on his feet, confident and in control.
    She imagined, and why wouldn’t she imagine, that he would be just as confident and in control with a female in bed. Control would make a man thorough, and a thorough loving was no small matter to a woman.
    Still, she had to wonder what it would take to snap that control. A loving wild and fierce was no small matter either.
    It concerned her in a mild sort of way that she thought of him as often as she did. Looked for him as often as she did. In the mornings like this, at midday, in the evening.
    Sometimes he came into the pub. Sometimes he didn’t. She was certain it was purposeful on his part. That lack of predictability. They were gaming with each other, and both knew it perfectly well.
    And damn, but didn’t she like that about him! The man was every bit as arrogant as she was herself.
    She hadn’t arranged for a night off. That was purposeful on her part. It was true enough that she liked keeping him waiting. But she was keeping herself waiting as well, with a delicious sort of tension inside her. She understood that when they spent the evening together, it wouldn’t be just a matter of having dinner.
    Dinner wasn’t what either of them wanted.
    It had been a long time since she’d had an urge for a man. A particular man. She missed the feel of one against her, that was true. The strength and the heat, that flash of fire in the belly that came just before release.
    She was a woman who enjoyed sex, Darcy admitted, the problem being there’d been no one to tempt her for more than a year.
    Sure and she was tempted now, she thought when Trevor looked up and their eyes met. She enjoyed, absorbed, the edgy little thrill that whipped down her spine. The man tempted her in all manner of ways. So . . . it was time to arrange for that night off.
    She smiled down at him, slow and sly, then deliberately stepped back. Let him do some thinking about that, she decided.
    Restless, not ready to face the long day, or even dress for it as yet, she wandered her rooms. She put on the kettle for tea more out of habit than desire. The rooms, such as they were, were the first she’d had all to herself in all of her life. It had been a shocking surprise to realize she missed the company of her brothers. Even their untidiness.
    She’d always liked things just so, and her rooms reflected it. She’d painted the walls a quiet rose. Well,she’d browbeaten Shawn into doing most of the work,but the results were pleasing to her. From her bedroom at home, she’d taken her favorite framed posters.Monet’s water lilies and a forest scene she’d found in a bookshop. She liked the dreaminess of them.
    She’d made the curtains herself, as she had a fine hand with a needle when she wanted to. The pillows she piled on the ancient sofa were from her hand as well. A practical woman who preferred nice things understood it was cheaper by far to buy a length of satin or velvet and put in the time than to plunk down the cost for ready-made.
    And it left more spending money for shoes or earrings.
    Standing on a table was her wish jar, full of coins that came from tips. And one day, she thought, one fine day,there would be enough for her to take the next trip. An extravagant trip next time, to anywhere.
    A tropical island, maybe. Where she could wear an excuse for a bikini and drink something foolish and fruity out of a coconut shell. Or Italy, to sit on some sunbaked terrace and look out over red-tiled roofs and grand cathedrals.
    Or New York, where she would stroll along Fifth Avenue and gaze at all the treasures behind the forest of shop windows and pick out what was waiting just for her.
    One day, she thought, and wished whenever she imagined it that she didn’t see herself alone.
    It didn’t matter. She had enjoyed her week in Paris alone, so she would enjoy the others, in their time. Meanwhile, she was here, and so was the work.
    She brewed the tea first, and told herself that since she was up early she’d lounge on the sofa, page through one of her glossy magazines and enjoy a quiet morning.
    Before she settled in, her gaze landed on the violin she kept on a stand, more for decoration than convenience. Frowning, she set her cup aside and picked up the instrument. It