The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

she imagined. More flowers graced the long counter between two oval sinks. The tiles, floor, and walls were of a soft seafoam green, so it seemed you were in some lovely underwater fantasy.
    The tub, with its wide ledge covered with lush, ferny plants, was surely big enough for three. The shower was separate, a room in itself, she thought as she moved closer to investigate. Behind the waving glass were a half a dozen nozzles. She imagined it was like bathing in a waterfall and nearly stripped down to the skin then and there to see if she was right.
    More crystal was set about, little bowls and dishes holding fragrant soaps or rose petals, pretty bottles holding bath oils and bath salts and creams. She sat on a padded bench at a separate counter obviously designed for milady and studied her own flushed and delighted face in the mirror.
    “You’ve arrived, haven’t you?”
     
     
    Throughout his first meeting, and his second, Trevor kept Darcy tucked away. Or nearly. She had a baffling habit of popping out of the corner where he wanted her. Sliding out was more like it, he mused. Sneakily, sinuously sliding into his mind when it needed to be focused elsewhere.
    He glanced at his watch, again. There were hours yet before he could afford to focus on her. But when he did, by God, he’d make sure the wait was worth it.
    “Trev?”
    “Hmm?” When he realized he was scowling, he smoothed out his features, waved a hand in apology. “Sorry, Nigel. My mind wandered.”
    “That’s a new one.”
    Nigel Kelsey, the head of the London arm of Celtic Records, had a sharp eye, and sharper ears. He’d been with Trevor at Oxford, where they’d clicked. When the time had come to expand his personal baby into the international arena, Trevor had put the responsibility into Nigel’s trusted hands.
    “Just shuffling items in my head. Let’s flip Shawn Gallagher to the top of the list.”
    “Happy to.” Nigel sat back in his chair. He rarely used his desk, thought of it primarily as a prop.
    He’d been earmarked to follow his father, and his father’s father, into law, a fate that even now caused him to shudder. He hadn’t wanted to thumb his nose at family tradition, precisely, but he was much happier putting what education he had to use doing something entertaining. Celtic Records was vastly entertaining, even if his old friend did run a tight ship. A tight ship, and a profitable one, Nigel thought now.
    A ship that visited such fascinating ports. Part of his responsibilities, and he took them seriously, included attending parties, events, entertaining the talent. And doing it all on expense account.
    “I’m negotiating with him one on one,” Trevor continued. “Two on one, if we count his wife. And we should. I’ve advised him to get an agent.” Nigel seemed a bit surprised, but Trevor only shrugged. “I like him, Nigel. And I intend to deal straight with him, since he won’t go through a representative.”
    “You deal straight in any case, Trev. I’m the one who doesn’t mind slipping a card from the bottom of the deck now and again. Just to liven things up.”
    “Not with him. Instinct tells me we’ve got a prize here, one that if left to his own pace will pay off for years.”
    “I agree with you. His work’s brilliant, and very marketable.”
    “There’s more.”
    “Is there?” Nigel puzzled again when Trevor rose to wander the office. It was a rare thing to see Trevor restless, to have the man let any restlessness show. Even to him. “I thought there might be when you scheduled this meeting in the middle of your other project.”
    “He has a brother and a sister. I want the three of them to record his stuff, for the first release.”
    Nigel frowned, drummed his hand, which was studded with rings. “Must be some brother and sister.”
    “Believe me.”
    “Still, Trev, you know it would be easier to market this package using an established artist.”
    “I’m leaving it to you to find a way around that.” With a faint smile, Trevor turned back. “I’ve heard them. I want you to come to Ardmore for a couple of days. You listen, and if you think I’m wrong about this, we’ll talk again.”
    “Ardmore.” Nigel winced, then twisted the tiny gold hoop in his earlobe. “Jesus, Trev, what’s an avowed ur-banite like myself going to do in a barely-on-the-map Irish seaside village?”
    “Listen,” Trevor said simply. “There’s something about the Gallaghers, but before I push the point