March 17 is St. Patrick's feast day and if you know anything about Ireland at all, then you'll know it's a day for all things Irish, especially here in the States. My novels are set in various time periods with a wide variety of heroes and heroines but my Irish heroes rank among my favorites (although I love them all).
Quinn's Deirdre, A Cure For Love, An Emerald Heart and Movie Star Magic all have Irish heroes. Many of my other books have Irish-American characters too.
But as we approach St. Patrick's Day, meet Quinn Sullivan and his lady, Deirdre…..
‘Tis something about a soft brogue and a stubborn Irish lad fit to break any woman’s heart and Deirdre King is no different when it comes to Quinn Sullivan. Why else would she risk everything to abandon the witness protection program to come home to her man unless she loved him? There is, however, the wee bit of explaining to do…..
And there's also a book trailer.....
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B-c8lXIQ33M
From Quinn's Deirdre….
Traffic increased as Deirdre rolled through Grandview and by the time she entered Kansas City proper, her shoulders were tight with tension and her hands grasped the wheel with enough force it hurt. Living in the small town of Siloam Springs, a place all too reminiscent of Mayberry, the setting for the old Andy Griffith Show hadn’t provided much opportunity to drive in multi-lane, traffic. Vehicles of all descriptions, sports cars, luxury sedans, pickup trucks, utility vans, and eighteen wheelers merged onto the highway, heedless of the autumn darkness. Although the worst of evening rush hour ended an hour earlier, plenty of motorists were going about their routines. She sped up to keep pace and watched for the Truman Road exit.
Once out of the worst traffic, her nerves eased as things felt more familiar. Deidre recognized supermarkets and discount stores where she once shopped. A Mexican restaurant she had called a favorite remained in business and judging by the full parking lot, it was still popular. As she drew closer to the Power and Light area downtown, she could almost forget she’d been away, living another life as someone else. Here, she was comfortable in her skin.
The neon signs, bright lights, and busy traffic quickened her blood. She’d missed the pace of a city, the vibrant and hectic spirit. Small town life failed to suit her and no man she’d met during her time in Arkansas came anywhere close to Quinn. The deer hunters, the avid fishermen, the would-be musicians who played twangy music, the camouflage wearing men lacked appeal. If Deirdre never spent time again with anyone wearing cowboy boots or Western hats, she’d be good with it.
Following Truman Road reminded her of greeting an old friend. The familiar route evoked memories but the closer she came to the corner of 14th and Grand, the more her nerves jangled. She longed to see Quinn again but Deirdre feared his reaction. Although she dreamed of a romantic, picture perfect reunion, a movie moment, she knew it might not happen the way she wanted.
Deirdre spotted the County Tyrone sign when she turned the corner onto Grand. Rather than the shamrocks and shillelaghs Americans expected, the stark red, black, and white of the county’s coat of arms stood out below the pub’s name. Quinn’s place was as Irish as he was, traditional in way. He’d managed to recreate the look and atmosphere of an Irish pub in the middle of a very American city. She found a parking spot down the block and before she could change her mind, she got out of the car.
She entered the pub and stopped short. The familiar smell of an Irish pub filled her nose, a combined aroma of Guinness and Jameson’s, perfume and aftershave, baking brown bread, and Irish food. A dull roar of conversation and laughter reached her above the Irish folk instrumental playing in the background. Little had changed, she thought, as she peered around the bar area and into the first of the two dining rooms. The dark woodwork, the framed photos of Ireland and Irish patriots, and the displays of old books and bottles were the same. Her eyes scanned the room and searched for Quinn. She’d half expected to find him behind the bar, holding court, pouring drinks and making conversation but the two people there were strangers.
“In or out, woman, in or out,” someone said behind her, his voice flavored with an Irish lilt. “You’re blocking the way.”
“I’m sorry,” Deirdre said and stepped to the side. The older man, his hair and whiskers gray with age, moved past her and claimed a seat at the bar. She watched the patrons for a few minutes and when she still didn’t see Quinn anywhere, her heart sped up with concern. He seldom took a night off and she wondered if he’d made a trip back to Ireland. Deirdre stepped up to the bar.
“What can I get for you, dearie?” the red-headed young woman said.
Deirdre forced the question through her lips. “Where’s Quinn?”
The bartender’s smile diminished. “He’s around but he doesn’t like to be disturbed. Would you like a drink?”
She could use one but Deirdre shook her head. “I need to see Quinn. Where is he?”
The woman shrugged. “He’s in the back dining room, table in the corner but I wouldn’t bother him if I was you. He’s likely to take your head off and hand it back to you on a platter.”
It didn’t sound like her Quinn, the affable, garrulous Irishman but Deirdre nodded. “Thanks.”
She made her way through the bar and into the first dining room, stepping aside to make way for the servers with their laden trays and maneuvering around tables. The weeknight crowd seemed lighter than she remembered and by the time she made her way into the rear dining area she moved away from most of the customers. Deirdre paused in the doorway when she saw Quinn.
He sat at a corner table in the back, head down and held between his hands. She couldn’t see his face but the way he slumped over seemed so unlike Quinn, she wondered if he didn’t feel well. Maybe he had a headache, she thought, or might be sick. If so, it would explain his absence up front and the bartender’s cryptic comments. Deirdre walked past the sole occupied table and stopped at Quinn’s. She expected him to glance up but he didn’t so she said his name.
“Quinn.”
Like a man awakening from a deep sleep, his reaction was slow. For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard her speak but he sighed, a deep, long exhale. He lowered his hands and turned toward her. “For the love of Christ, can’t whatever it is wait?” he said in a thick voice. Waves of Jameson’s fine whiskey rolled toward her on his breath. Deirdre noticed the near empty bottle and glass on the table.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Quinn, it’s me.”
When he turned toward her, she gasped at his haggard face. He’d changed more than she expected. In three years, he’d aged a decade. A few harsh lines cut deep into his face and his mouth drooped in a frown. She remembered his dark blue eyes as bright, always sparkling but he gazed at her with red-rimmed, dull dead eyes, cloudy and unfocused. He blinked twice and shook his head.
“Jesus, I’m drunker than I thought. If I’m dreamin’ up my dead darlin’, then I’ll be seeing giant cats or dancing dogs or leprechauns with pots of gold next.”
I hurt him so much more than I ever dreamed. “Quinn, you’re not dreaming. It’s me, it’s Deirdre and I’m really here.”
Quinn reared his head back with a gesture she remembered. The new line between his eyes deepened as he peered at her. “So it’s dead I am, then? You’ve come for me?”
The hope in his voice slashed across her heart, keener than any knife blade. Deirdre couldn’t imagine Quinn welcoming death but he seemed to do so. “I’m back,” she told him. “Quinn, I’m alive.”
He stared at her with his bleary eyes as if he failed to understand. Deirdre touched his arm, then took his hand in hers. His cold fingers curled around hers, more reflex than response. Something shifted in his face and his eyes narrowed, suddenly alert.
“Mother of God, it is you.”
Deirdre nodded and smiled. “It is, Quinn. I’ve missed you more than I know how to say and I’m back, whatever happens.”
Her stomach tightened as she waited, expecting him to grin or rise to take her into his arms. Instead, he jerked his hand out of hers and made a fist. He pounded the table with force, three times and roared. “You’re back are you, you bitch? Back from the dead after I’ve mourned ye and wept for three long years? And you’re standin’ here with the cheek to tell me you were never really dead? Tell me, what I am to make of it because I surely don’t know.”
The beautiful romantic reunion moment she hoped they’d share wouldn’t happen, not now. His anger crackled between them, so potent she swore she could almost see its fiery glow enveloping him. “Aren’t you glad I’m alive?”
Blue eyes glared at her, his gaze sharp and piercing. “Well, Deirdre, while I’m glad ye’re not dead, it would’ve been nice to know these years past. I’ve grieved for ye, woman and all the while you’re not in the black grave after all but tripping through the world without a care. Where in bloody hell have ye been and why come back now?”
She couldn’t deny his right to ask but his questions were difficult ones. Short answers wouldn’t do so she answered from the heart. “I came back because I missed you and I love you, Quinn. I’ll tell you why, all of it. We need to talk.”
His brogue thickened more than she’d ever heard it. “Feckin’ right we do. But first I need another drink.”
Quinn grasped the bottle of whiskey and poured the remainder into his glass. He lifted it to his lips and knocked it back in a swift, single motion then shuddered. “Ah,” he murmured. “’Tis nice indeed.”
“You’re drunk,” she said. She should’ve realized it sooner.
“Aye, I am and I’ll be drunker still. It’s the many the night I’ve passed out here at this table or another, too drunk to make my way upstairs. Get me another bottle, would you then?”
Deirdre shook her head. “No, I won’t. You need something to eat, Quinn, so we can talk. If you keep drinking, you’ll have such a hangover tomorrow, you won’t be fit for anything.”
“It won’t be the first time nor the last.”
One of the servers ventured into the back dining room to serve the diners at the one occupied table. Deirdre didn’t recognize her. Quinn waved his hand at her and she trotted over. “Yes, sir?”
“Bring me another bottle of Jameson’s,” he said.
“Don’t,” Deirdre told her. “Bring two orders of bangers and champ with coffee.”
The young woman glanced from one to the other. “Quinn’s the boss,” she said, looking at Deirdre.
“Not tonight,” Deirdre said, an edge in her voice. “Bring our order or you’ll answer to me.”
Quinn said nothing so the server shrugged. “I’ll be back with it in a few minutes, then.”
“I can’t eat,” he said as she slid into a seat across from him. “I seldom do these days.”
She studied him at close range, noted how much thinner he’d become. “You need to eat something. You look terrible, Quinn.”
“I’ve been that bad and worse. I’ll do.”
The ravages of heavy drinking were obvious. The red-rimmed eyes, a few broken blood vessels in his face, and his combative manner all related to his intake of alcohol. Deirdre noticed more, his pallor, the heavy fatigue in his eyes and face, and the way he slumped. He hadn’t shaved, either, and his dark whiskers stood out stark against his white face. “You look so tired, Quinn. After we eat, maybe you should go to bed.”
He snorted. “Bed, is it ye’re wantin’? I’m none so good in that department these days and I don’t sleep much.”
And I doubt you laugh or smile or make jokes much either. Oh, Quinn, what did I do to you? I left to save you, to protect you but I’ve all but destroyed you instead.
Their food arrived, smoking hot sausages paired with champ, Irish mashed potatoes laced with onion. The server put a pot of coffee between them and two cups. “Will there be anything else?” she asked.
“No, thank you. Is Desmond around?”
The server’s eyes widened. “Yes, he’s in the kitchen. Did you want him?”
“I’ll talk to him later,” Deirdre said. At least Des remained here. So far, she’d seen no one she recognized except Quinn. Quinn’s uncle had come from Ireland to work in the pub. He’d pulled pints at the bar at first but had a knack for creating Irish dishes so he took over some of the culinary tasks. He’d been a friend to her, treated her like family but that had been before she died.
She poured coffee and handed Quinn a cup. He stared at it, then took a sip. “It might go down better with a wee drop of whiskey,” he said.
“It’s better without.” Without asking, she took his hands in hers and said the simple blessing she’d used all her life. “Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy Gifts, which we’re about to receive through thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, amen.” Halfway through, she noticed Quinn mumbled the words with her.
Deirdre forked a bite of sausage and ate it, savoring the taste. The champ proved to be delicious, too. Quinn sipped coffee before he deigned to eat but once he began, he ate all four sausage and the potatoes. He ate with slow precision, as if he’d almost forgotten how. Quinn pushed the empty plate away and leaned back, eyes closed. One hand rested on his abdomen and prompted her to ask, “Are you all right?”
“I’m full,” he said. “I’ve not ate so much at one time in longer than I can remember.”
“I haven’t had anything so good in a long time.”
He nodded, then pointed at the coffee pot. “Would you pour me another, love?”
His casual use of the endearment touched her. Maybe there might be hope for them yet. “Sure.”
Quinn drank it, the cup cradled in his left hand, his eyes intent on her face. After a few long moments, he nodded. “My head’s a wee bit clearer now than before and I see it ‘tis you. I did think at first ‘twas a hallucination or dream. I’ve had my share of those and woke in sorrow when I remembered you were dead. But you’re not and I’m not at all sure how that came about.”
“I’ll tell you,” Deirdre said in a cracked voice. “Are you glad, Quinn, I came back?”
His blue eyes met hers and he nodded. “I am, Deirdre, but I don’t understand at all. Why did you come now when ye never did before?”
“I wanted to but I worried I’d put you in danger but I couldn’t stand being apart any more so I came. I’m so sorry I hurt you so much, Quinn. I didn’t mean to cause you such pain.”
For the first time, his lips twitched into a half-smile. “Ye near destroyed me, woman but would you rather I hadn’t mourned for you at all?”
“No.” His soft voice, tempered with the sweet music of Ireland, salved some of her own inner hurts. She adored the way he still used ‘ye’ and ‘you’ interchangeably but he’d yet to say he loved her.
“I’ve lived in hell, since,” he said, in a matter of fact voice. “And I don’t know what to think or how I feel yet. I need more drink, I’m thinkin’.”
“Please, don’t.” If he drank more, the food and coffee would be for naught.
Quinn ignored her plea. The other diners had gone so he rose to his feet and stumbled toward the front. She watched his unsteady gait and almost followed but didn’t. He returned with a new bottle of Jameson’s and poured some into his glass. “Slainte,” he said and drank it. “Would you like some?”
One of them ought to keep their head but she reached for the glass since there was only one. “Yes,” she said. The smooth whiskey purred over her tongue and down her throat in a rush of warmth. “One more, please.”
He finished the rest and retreated into silence although his eyes remained locked on her. After a long time, he lurched to his feet. “I’ve a need to piss,” he said. He took two steps and stopped. His face turned paler than white. Alarmed, Deirdre rushed to his side and grabbed his elbow as he swayed. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m about to boke,” he gasped. “Help me make it to the bog.”
Deirdre steered him toward the men’s room and entered with him despite the shocked looks and laughs from other guys. “Get out!” she commanded and they went.
Quinn headed for the first stall, dropped to his knees and retched with a groan. He spewed into the commode while she hovered, one hand on his shoulder for comfort or support. When he finished after several rounds of vomiting, she wet several paper towels. After offering a hand up, she provided him the towels so he could wipe his face. Then he rinsed his mouth and splashed more water over his head. As he moved, she caught a whiff of his rank stench and grimaced.
He leaned against the sink, eyes closed. “Thank you, acushla.”
“Don’t mention it,” Deidre said, dry as sand. “You need a shower – you stink.”
Forget romance, the Hollywood moment she’d dreamed about. She’d take this reality and keep it. Quinn stared at her then began to laugh, a full-bodied belly laugh. “Then help me upstairs, women, and I’ll take one. God knows, I’m glad you’re back and I do love you.”
Disheveled, dirty, reeking of vomit and whiskey and body odor, her man gave her what she needed to hear. Deidre touched his bristly cheek and shook her head. She’d never loved him more.
As he showered, Deidre wandered around his place, nosy as she poked into everything. The flat, as he preferred to call it, remained the same. The large living room opened off the back staircase leading up from the pub. To the right, the kitchen with the same old outdated appliances sat opposite the bathroom and at the end, the big bedroom took up the rest of the space. Quinn had the same furniture she remembered but before, it’d been neat. Oh, he’d cluttered it in typical male fashion with his shoes or cast off shirts but there hadn’t been a coating of dust on every surface or a sour smell. As she waded through the litter on the floor to open a window to diffuse the odor, she tripped over empty whiskey bottles galore. As the brisk autumn air rushed in, Deirdre investigated the kitchen. The sink held an array of dirty glasses, nothing more and the fridge yielded nothing but a block of moldy cheese and a jar of mayonnaise. Quinn’s cupboards were as bare as Mother Hubbard’s and she doubted he’d eaten anything at home in months, if not years.
She found the bed in disarray, covers tangled and twisted. They reeked too and so she stripped the bed, tossing the dirty bedding into one corner. Deirdre found clean sheets on the top closet shelf and remade the bed, smoothing down the blankets and plumping up the pillows. The domestic chore kept her grounded and provided a focus. Nothing had turned out the way she’d expected, not yet but she remained glad she came back.
Quinn emerged from the dinky bathroom nude, still drying off with a towel. He’d shaved, too. Quinn dripped onto the kitchen floor as she gaped. Deirdre hadn’t seen him naked in three years or anyone else. Although his ribs stood out in stark relief against his torso and he was skinnier than she’d ever known him, he was beautiful. His long, wide back attached to his legs via his very fine arse. He caught her gawking and a strange little half-smile flirted with his lips. Her heart twisted into a knot. Deirdre ached to run to him and put her arms around him. She wanted to cover his face with kisses and be wrapped in his embrace forever. Instead, in a casual voice, she said, “You definitely smell better now but how do you feel?”
“My stomach’s empty but I’m still the wee bit blootered or else the floor’s shifting beneath my feet. There’s not an earthquake is there?”
“No. The bed’s made if you want to finish toweling off and lie down a bit.”
He made a face. “I should go back downstairs. Drunk or sober, I’m still the proprietor here. There’s hours left till bar time are they not?”
“Probably but you should…”
The door burst open with force. “Quinn, ye arsewipe are ye up here or are ye passed out cold in the bloody floor?”
Desmond Sullivan stalked into the living room, fists balled like the boxer he’d once been.
“I’m in here, uncle.”
“If ye didn’t own the place, I’d chucker ye out and ye know it. You’re as useless as a back pocket on a shirt. Yer barman said ye’d puked all over the bog and he’s telling tales ye were with a skank. I find it hard to believe, being you’ve near turned monk and all but he swears by the Virgin ye were. Says she’s a bold piece of work, came right in there with the men and all, and never batted an eye. Did she come up here with ye? I’ll show her right out.”
As he spoke, the older man turned toward the kitchen but he hadn’t seen Deirdre. Quinn tried to interrupt twice but Des spoke over him. Intrigued by the information he’d yielded and to save the man some embarrassment, she stepped from the bedroom doorway into the middle of the kitchen floor. “Hello, Uncle Des.”
Desmond Sullivan stared and made the sign of the cross. His face flushed scarlet, then went white. His mouth dropped open and he babbled something Deirdre couldn’t quite make out in Irish. “Jaysus,” he said, his brogue broader than any she’d ever heard. “’Tis yourself but weren’t you dead and buried?”
“Ye can see she’s not,” Quinn said. “I’ve not heard the story yet myself but ‘tis plain she’s alive.”
As he collapsed into a kitchen chair, the old man hooted with laughter. “Ah, sure, ‘tis grand yer woman’s back. I wish you well of her. Maybe she can pry the bottle from your hand and keep ye sober. ‘Tis the least she could do if she will since she’s the cause of ye becoming such a drunkard.”
“Don’t put that at my door,” Deirdre cried, riled by his tone. “It isn’t my fault.”
The old man glared at her with eyes much like Quinn’s, a pair of hard sapphires. “Oh, isn’t it? If ye hadn’t been dead, he wouldn’t have taken to drink. You weren’t here to see him with his heart broken and no fire left in his belly to go on. I’ve no idea why you did it, Deirdre King , but I saw what your leaving, your death did to him. And now you turn up, not dead at all and I’m glad if ye’re here to love him but if you hurt him again, sure, I’ll be the one to…”
Buy link for Quinn's Deirdre, also available at Evernight Publishing, Barnes and Noble, many more.....
https://www.amazon.com/Quinns-Deirdre-Lee-Sontheimer-Murphy-ebook/dp/B00J1UKR1M
And for my newest Irish hero, Finn.....
https://www.amazon.com/Cure-Love-Romance-Go-ebook/dp/B096TBHN6D/
