Page 2 of The Irishman's Christmas Gamble
“Redbreast 21,” she said, setting out two cut-crystal tumblers and splashing the golden whiskey into them.
She handed him one glass. “Here’s to the future,” he said, holding her gaze as he touched his glass to hers with a musical clink.
Her chest went hollow as she recognized the toast they always drank while they plotted their paths away from their dismal beginnings. Away from each other.
“We made it out, Liam,” she said, savoring the warmth of the spicy, single-pot still liquor. “We made a damned good future.”
“It could be better.” He tossed back the whole drink. “Have dinner with me tonight. We can catch up on the twenty-three years since we last saw each other.” There was that edge in his voice again.
She should say no, partly just to douse his assumption that she would be available on such short notice. “Seven-thirty,” she said. “We can use the private dining room here at the club.”
“No, Frankie, I’m going to treat you, just like I promised back then. We’re going to the most expensive restaurant in New York City. I’ll pick you up at seven.” He leaned down to brush a kiss across her lips, the gossamer touch igniting the blood in her veins again. “A stór.”
And he was gone.
Frankie sank into the nearest chair, staring out at the sinuous snow-dusted curves of the modern sculpture in her garden. Trying to separate the memory of Liam from the reality of him.
All the photographs she’d collected as his athletic career skyrocketed hadn’t prepared her for the way his youthful arrogance had transformed into a confidence that he wore like a second skin. He moved as though the world would get out of his way.
And he’d reduced her to a hungry young girl again.
She hated that.
