The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

appreciated Trevor rushing her along.
    “No problem.” He snagged her hand and pulled her with him toward the kitchen. “Do you want some tea this time?”
    “I won’t be placated by a cup of tea. You barely gave me time to put on my lipstick.”
    “You don’t need it.”
    Since he hadn’t yet put the kettle on, he had to assume the hissing sound came from her and not from boiling water. “Oh, it’s ever like a man to say something so stupid and think it’s a compliment.”
    He got the kettle going, then turned back to her. “You are,” he said, very deliberately, “the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a considerable number of beautiful women.”
    She only huffed and sat at the table. “Flattery isn’t going to help you.”
    It surprised them both when he walked to her, cupped her face in his hands, lifted it. “You take my breath away, Darcy. That’s not flattery, that’s fact.”
    Her heart fluttered. There was no help for it, and no way to stop the emotion from swirling into her eyes. “Trevor.” She murmured it, drawing him to her, then again with her lips against his.
    And it was there, suddenly, like light. The love and the longing, the wishes yet unsaid. For an instant, for the time it takes a needy heart to beat, she felt him answer it, and her world shimmered like a jewel.
    Music, she swore she heard it. The romance of harpsong, the celebration of pipes, the lusty beat of drums. The sound she made, her mouth warm on his, was a kind of song. A single note of joy.
    “Sorry to interrupt,” Nigel said dryly from the doorway. “But you did tell me to hurry it up.”
    The light fractured, wavered. Trevor drew back, his hands still framing her face, his eyes still on hers. Then he stepped away, and the music died.
    “Yeah.” Something was echoing in his head, in his heart, but he couldn’t get hold of it. He rubbed a hand over his shirt, as beneath it the silver disk seemed abruptly hot against his heart.
    Behind him the kettle shrilled, one long scream of frustration. Trevor turned and shut it off with a restrained anger that made no sense to him.
    “Good morning, Darcy.” Nigel thought it was like stepping into raw nerves, but he kept his polished and pleasant expression in place. “Can I offer you some coffee once it’s done?”
    “No, thanks all the same, but I’ve had some already. After my rude awakening this morning.”
    “Ah.” Deciding to make the best of it, Nigel sat across from her at the table. “When our Trevor gets in a mood, no one is safe. He’s a tidal wave.”
    “Is he, now?”
    “Christ, yes.” Nigel lit his first cigarette of the day. “You get swept along, or you drown. Of course, it’s one of the ways he gets things done when he wants and as he wants.”
    Enjoying herself now, Darcy leaned forward. “Tell me more.”
    “He’s a single-minded individual, and detours only rarely—when he deems it worth his while. Ruthless, some would say, and they wouldn’t be wrong.” He paused, blew out smoke. “But he’s a boy who loves his mother.”
    “Shut up, Nigel,” Trevor ordered when Darcy laughed.
    “Not until I’ve had my coffee.”
    “Oh, and dare you cross him in such a way?”
    “He loves me, too.” Nigel sent Trevor a glittering look as he brooded by the stove. “Who wouldn’t?”
    “I’m growing fond of you myself. And what more should I know of this ruthless individual who loves his mother?”
    “He’s got a brain like a blade—bright and sharp, and a loyal if stubborn heart. A generous man, Trevor, but never one to be taken advantage of. He admires efficiency, honesty, and creativity in all things. And his way with the ladies is known far and wide.”
    “That’ll do.” Annoyed but unruffled, Trevor set a mug in front of Nigel.
    “Oh, but I’m sure he’s just getting started,” Darcy protested. “And the topic is greatly fascinating to me.”
    “I’ve got one that should be more fascinating to you. Nigel heads up the London branch of Celtic Records. However irritating he might be on a personal level, he’s unerringly astute on a professional one.”
    “True.” Nigel took a sip. “Too true.”
    “You heard Darcy sing last night, in a pub, without mikes, filters, orchestration, rehearsal. In what we could call the most informal of venues. What was your impression?”
    “She’s very good.”
    “We’re not negotiating here, Nigel,” Trevor said. “Not diddling terms. Tell her what you