Enchanted by Nora Roberts

I’m doing. I’ve no talent for drawing.”
    “Then who does the drawings for your graphics?” she asked, hoping to change the subject, and as a last resort, got out the burned buns.
    “Mmm. Different people for different moods.” He sat again, absently took one of the rolls. It was hard and undeniably burned, but if you got past that, it was wonderfully sweet and generously filled with currants.
    “So how do you—”
    “Do either of your parents draw?” he interrupted.
    “No.” Even the thought of it made her chuckle. The idea of either of her smart and busy parents settling down to dream with pencil and paper. “They gave me lessons when I was a child and showed an interest. And my mother actually keeps a sketch I made of the bay, from when I was a teenager, framed and in her office at the university.”
    “So she appreciates your talent.”
    “She loves her daughter,” Rowan corrected, and poured the tea.
    “Then she should expect the daughter she loves to pursue her own gifts, explore her own talents,” he said casually, but continued down the path of her family. “Perhaps one of your grandparents was an artist.”
    “No, my paternal grandfather was a teacher. It seems to come naturally through the family. My grandmother on that side was what I suppose you’d call a typical wife and mother of her time. She still keeps a lovely home.”
    He struggled against impatience—and against a wince as Rowan added three spoons of sugar to her cup. “And on your mother’s side?”
    “Oh, my grandfather’s retired now. They live in San Diego. My grandmother does beautiful needlework, soI suppose that’s a kind of art.” Her lips pursed for a moment as she stirred her tea. “Now that I think of it, her mother—my great-grandmother—painted. We have a couple of her oils. I think my grandmother and her brother have the rest. She was … eccentric,” Rowan said with a grin.
    “Was she, now? And how was she eccentric?”
    “I never knew her, but children pick up bits and pieces when adults gossip. She read palms and talked to animals—all decidedly against her husband’s wishes. He was, as I recall, a very pragmatic Englishman, and she was a dreamy Irishwoman.”
    “So, she was Irish, was she?” Liam felt a low vibration along his spine. A warning, a frisson of power. “And her family name?”
    “Ah …” Rowan searched back through her memory. “O’Meara. I’m named for her,” she continued, contentedly drinking tea while everything inside Liam went on alert. “My mother named me for her in what she calls an irresistible flash of sentiment. I suppose that’s why she—my great-grandmother—left me her pendant. It’s a lovely old piece. An oval moonstone in a hammered silver setting.”
    In a slow and deliberate move, Liam set aside the tea he could no longer taste. “She was Rowan O’Meara.”
    “That’s right. I think there was some wonderfully romantic story—or else I’ve made it up—about how my great-grandfather met her when he was on holiday in Ireland. She was painting on the cliffs—in Clare. That’s odd—I don’t know why I’m so sure it was Clare.”
    She puzzled over that for a moment, then shrugged it away. “Anyway, they fell in love on the spot, and she went back to England with him, left her home and her family. Then they immigrated to America, and eventually settled in San Francisco.”
    Rowan O’Meara from Clare. By the goddess, fate had twisted around and laid one more trap for him. He picked up his tea again to wet his throat. “My mother’s family name is O’ Meara.” He spoke in a voice that was flat and cool. “Your great-grandmother would be a distant cousin of mine.”
    “You’re kidding.” Stunned and delighted, Rowan beamed at him.
    “In matters such as family, I try not to joke.”
    “That would be amazing. Absolutely. Well, it’s a small world.” She laughed and lifted her cup. “Nice to meet you. Cousin Liam.”
    In the name of the