The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

wine you like. Why don’t you take it over by the fire there, and warm yourself a bit. And I’ll get you a towel for your hair.”
    “I don’t want the fire. I don’t want a towel. I want whiskey.” She issued it like a challenge and dropped a fisted hand on the bar. “Here.”
    Her eyes still made his think of a sea goddess, but it was a vengeful one now. He nodded slowly. “As you like.”
    He got out a short glass and poured two fingers of Jameson’s into it. Jude snatched it up, tossed it back like water. Her breath exploded out of the sudden fire dead center of her chest. Her eyes watered but stayed hot.
    A wise man, Aidan kept his face carefully blank. “You’re welcome to go upstairs to my rooms if you’d like to borrow a dry shirt.”
    “I’m fine.” Her throat felt as if someone had raked hot needles down it, but there was a rather pleasant little fire simmering in her gut now. She set the glass back down on the bar, nodded to it. “Another.”
    Experience had him leaning casually on the bar. With some you could empty the bottle and no one was the worse for it. With others you nudged them out the door before they bent their elbow once too often. And there were some who needed to pour out their troubles more than they needed the publican to pour the whiskey.
    He recognized which he was dealing with here. Added to that, if a glass and a half of wine gave her a buzz, two shots of whiskey would put her under. “Why don’t you tell me what the trouble is, darling?”
    “I didn’t say there was any trouble. I said I wanted another glass of whiskey.”
    “Well, you won’t get one here. But I’ll make you some tea and a seat by the fire.”
    She drew in a breath, then let it out with a shrug. “Fine, forget the whiskey.”
    “There’s a lass.” He patted the fist still bunched on his bar. “Now you go and sit, and I’ll bring you tea. Then you can tell me what’s the matter.”
    “I don’t need to sit.” She tossed her wet hair out of her face, then leaned forward as he was. “Come closer,” she ordered. When he obliged and their faces were only inches apart, she took a handful of his shirt. She spoke clearly, concisely, but still had the wit to keep her voice low. “Do you still want to have sex with me?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “You heard me.” But it gave her a dark thrill to repeatherself. “Do you want to have sex or not?”
    Even as his nerves jangled, he went hard. It was beyond his power to control either reaction. “Right this minute?”
    “What’s wrong with now?” she demanded. “Does everything have to be planned and patterned and tied up in a damn bow?”
    She forgot to keep her voice down this time, and several heads turned and eyebrows wiggled. Aidan laid a hand over the one still clutching his shirt and patted gently.
    “Come on back in the snug, why don’t you, Jude?”
    “In the what?”
    “Come on, back here.” He patted her hand again, then pried her fingers off. With a gesture he pointed out a door at the end of the bar. “Shawn, come out here and man the bar for a moment, would you?”
    He lifted the flap at the end of the bar so Jude could pass through, then nudged her through the door.
    The snug was a small, windowless room furnished with two sugan chairs that had been his grandmother’s and a table his father had made that wobbled just enough to be endearing. There was an old globe lamp that Aidan switched on, and a decanter of whiskey that he ignored.
    The snug was a place designed for private conversations and private business. He couldn’t think of anything more private than dealing with the woman he’d been fantasizing about asking him if he wanted to have sex.
    “Why don’t we—” “Sit down” was what he’d intended to say, but his mouth was too busy being devoured by hers. She had his back up against the door, her hands fisted in his hair, and her lips hotly, hungrily fastened on his.
    He managed one strangled groan, then lost himself in the pleasure of being attacked by a wet and willful woman. She was pressed against him. Jesus, plastered against him,and her body was like a furnace. He wondered that her clothes didn’t simply steam away.
    Her heart was racing, or maybe it was his. He felt the frantic, nervous beat pound and pitch between them. She smelled of the rain and tasted of his whiskey, and he wanted her with a fervor that was like a sickness. It crawled through him, clawed at him, reeled in his head, burned