Page 1 of Wine & Warlocks

CHAPTER1

The moment Dubheasa O’Malley set foot on the pavement, the wind picked up, the fine hairs at the base of her neck stood at attention, and a chill swept the length of her spine. She stumbled to a halt and cursed her luck when the dark outline of a person separated from the shadowed corner outside her family’s pub.

Only one man triggered that response in her—Ronan Fucking O’Connor. Her nemesis. Her family’s worst enemy turned champion and the bastard who’d destroyed her career with a few treacherous words from his delectable lips.

She stopped short.

Delectable? Really, Dubheasa?

There was nothing in any way delectable about that mutton-headed man-child. Not the way his silver cat eyes missed nothing when they raked the length of her body, nor the heat they caused, as if it were his large, capable hands caressing her instead of a single, searing glance. Not the thick, wavy hair that refused to be tamed, much like the man himself. Certainly not that well-muscled body without a single extra ounce of fat that moved with a jungle cat’s grace and precision. The one that made her wonder what other deliberate movements he would make should he get her naked and alone.

Again.

Goddess, that night lived in infamy, if only inside her mind. Only her twin, Eoin, knew the truth of her indiscretion.

As she approached, Ronan’s arms dropped to his sides and an anticipatory gleam entered his eyes. “Dove.”

“Douchebag.”

His lips twitched. As did her stomach at the sight of his sexy smirk.

Stupid bloody stomach!

“Nice language ya learned in America, my darlin’ Dove.”

“I like the American tongue, O’Connor.” She said his name with all the derision she could muster. They were, after all, enemies of a sort. Or, at least theyhad been, before he decided to save her family. And didn’t she hate that she should feel kinder toward him now? “Yanks have the perfect words for every occasion. Backstabber. Double-dealer. Turncoat.”

This time, he didn’t even try to hide his grin, damn him. “It could be argued, since our families have been bitter enemies for hundreds of years, I was simply carrying on tradition, at the time.”

Hurt made her heart spasm. He’d been deliberate in his actions and cost her a job she enjoyed in a city she loved.

“Right.” Dubheasa tried to go around him, only to have him step in her path. “Move out of my way, Ronan.”

“Can’t do that. We need to talk.”

“And yet, I have absolutely nothing to say to you.”

He invaded her space, ducking his head to put his lips next to her ear. “Nothing? I remember a time when you had plenty to say. How ya whispered—oomph!”

“Whisper that, ya feckin’ wanker!” She told herself she wasn’t one bit sorry to see him pale, clutch his man parts, and struggle to breathe. Sure, and didn’t she warn him the last time that her knee would become closely acquainted with his bollocks if he ever looked her way again?

At the entrance of the pub, she glanced back. Ronan had straightened—somewhat—but he still remained slightly bent over as if struggling against great pain. She wouldn’t feel remorse. Not a drop. Liars got what they deserved.

“I don’t care for anything you have to say. Stay away from me, O’Connor, or it’ll go worse for you next time.” Dubheasa whipped open the door and almost slammed into another man. Her hands came up for balance, and she braced herself against his hard chest. His deliciously hard chest.

With the exception of Ronan, he was taller than most men of her acquaintance, perhaps six-two or -three, with shoulders as wide as an American football linebacker. Her eyes traveled the length of his body, admiring the way his form-hugging Henley outlined the muscles underneath. Her breath caught in her throat, and her ovaries sighed at the possibility of this man in her bed.

“Oh, pardon me.”

“The fault is all mine,” he assured her in a deep, sexy-as-hell voice that would warm her on Ireland’s coldest evening. His accent labeled him as American, but perhaps one who traveled a lot. He’d be hard to pin down to one area by his voice alone. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“’S all right.” Her words came out garbled, as if she was already piss-faced—which she intended to be very shortly.

His piercing blue eyes twinkled, and as he leaned forward a bit, a single lock of sandy-brown hair fell across his brow. Dubheasa wanted nothing more than to smooth it back. “Ah, another lovely Irish lass.”

She preened under his teasing regard, electing not to inform him “lass” was a Scottish term, and not Irish.

The hair on the back of her neck lifted just before Ronan placed a proprietary hand on her hip. “We don’t say ‘lass,’amadán. It’scailín, for future reference.”

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