the shit outta some bastard who dared take liberties with 'em,
wouldn't you, C.C.?" Trip's fingers became steel shafts digging into the soft spot in front of Corbettson's
collarbone.
A spasm of pain twisted Corbettson's beefy face. "I wasn't doing nothing," he mumbled.
"I hope you weren't planning on doing something, either. 'Cause if you were…" He gave Corbettson's
shoulder one final, savage squeeze then removed his hand. "Well, let's just say I'd think twice about it if I
was you. Irish ain't here, but I am. You got it?"
"I ain't thinking about nothing!" Corbettson ground his teeth together and stared sullenly through his
dirty windshield.
"That's good," Trip assured him as he straightened. He stepped back and slammed Corbettson's door,
then stood there with his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, his eyes steady on Corbettson's
profile.
Corbettson turned his head, glancing uneasily at Triplett, then pressed his foot down hard on the
accelerator. With a few feet of safety between them, he stuck his middle finger in the air and drove out of
the parking lot, the back end of his heavy car lurching high in the air and slamming back down as he
rolled too fast over a speed bump.
____________________
*Chapter Eighteen*
Rhianna sat in the driveway of Conor Nolan's 1950s bungalow for a long time before she could
dredge up enough courage to get out of the car. When at last she did, she found herself reluctant to climb
the four concrete steps up to the screened-in porch. She felt her palms sweating; heard her blood
pounding. She experienced a slight feeling of vertigo, a quiver of nausea lurking at the back of her throat.
She took a deep breath and climbed the steps. Not giving herself time to think, Rhianna rummaged
through her purse, took out the key to Conor's front door and rammed it into the lock. With a great gulp
of breath, she twisted the key, flinching at the rasp of the tumbler falling, then pushed the door open and
hurried inside.
Closing the door behind her, she slumped against it, and let her eyes adjust to the fading light seeping
in through the wide double windows before she ventured out of the foyer.
It had the musty smell of a house left too long without a human to care for it, to love it. Despite the
warmth flowing up from the baseboard heaters, the living room was damp and chill.
Joe and Sonia had known Rhianna was thinking of moving from her apartment into Conor's house until
he came back.
"We, ah, went over to the house over the weekend," Joe Cortesio had told her Monday morning. "We
cleaned it up a bit." It had been a singular act of love and kindness on their part and she appreciated it
greatly. "Things are all right, now," Joe had said.
_No, Joey, things weren't right_. She didn't think they would ever be right. Not until Conor Nolan
walked through this door and…
It hurt. God, how it hurt. She had to stop thinking!
Rhianna pushed away from the door, inhaling a faint, comforting memory. A tremulous smile hovered
around her lips.
"I like the pine smell," Conor had once defended his cleaner when she'd complained of the sharp odor.
"It smells like the outdoors."
"It smells," she had countered, "like a toilet bowl!"
"Noooo," Conor had drawled. "It smells like the outdoors."
"All right," she'd conceded. "It smells like an outdoor toilet, then!"
A shudder ran through Rhianna and she gripped her elbows. There was really no reason to be cold;
heat billowed the beige open-weave drapes at the double windows. But she was shivering.
"It's been five months, Rhee," she could hear Trip complaining. "Go on over there and deal with it.
Until you do, you aren't going to be able to move on with your life, baby."
She hadn't realized just how much she'd been blocking out until she sat down in the dilapidated recliner
and stared longingly at the blue gingham sofa Conor had insisted she help him choose.
"You don't think it's too, well, you know?" he'd asked.
"Too
wouldn't you, C.C.?" Trip's fingers became steel shafts digging into the soft spot in front of Corbettson's
collarbone.
A spasm of pain twisted Corbettson's beefy face. "I wasn't doing nothing," he mumbled.
"I hope you weren't planning on doing something, either. 'Cause if you were…" He gave Corbettson's
shoulder one final, savage squeeze then removed his hand. "Well, let's just say I'd think twice about it if I
was you. Irish ain't here, but I am. You got it?"
"I ain't thinking about nothing!" Corbettson ground his teeth together and stared sullenly through his
dirty windshield.
"That's good," Trip assured him as he straightened. He stepped back and slammed Corbettson's door,
then stood there with his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, his eyes steady on Corbettson's
profile.
Corbettson turned his head, glancing uneasily at Triplett, then pressed his foot down hard on the
accelerator. With a few feet of safety between them, he stuck his middle finger in the air and drove out of
the parking lot, the back end of his heavy car lurching high in the air and slamming back down as he
rolled too fast over a speed bump.
____________________
*Chapter Eighteen*
Rhianna sat in the driveway of Conor Nolan's 1950s bungalow for a long time before she could
dredge up enough courage to get out of the car. When at last she did, she found herself reluctant to climb
the four concrete steps up to the screened-in porch. She felt her palms sweating; heard her blood
pounding. She experienced a slight feeling of vertigo, a quiver of nausea lurking at the back of her throat.
She took a deep breath and climbed the steps. Not giving herself time to think, Rhianna rummaged
through her purse, took out the key to Conor's front door and rammed it into the lock. With a great gulp
of breath, she twisted the key, flinching at the rasp of the tumbler falling, then pushed the door open and
hurried inside.
Closing the door behind her, she slumped against it, and let her eyes adjust to the fading light seeping
in through the wide double windows before she ventured out of the foyer.
It had the musty smell of a house left too long without a human to care for it, to love it. Despite the
warmth flowing up from the baseboard heaters, the living room was damp and chill.
Joe and Sonia had known Rhianna was thinking of moving from her apartment into Conor's house until
he came back.
"We, ah, went over to the house over the weekend," Joe Cortesio had told her Monday morning. "We
cleaned it up a bit." It had been a singular act of love and kindness on their part and she appreciated it
greatly. "Things are all right, now," Joe had said.
_No, Joey, things weren't right_. She didn't think they would ever be right. Not until Conor Nolan
walked through this door and…
It hurt. God, how it hurt. She had to stop thinking!
Rhianna pushed away from the door, inhaling a faint, comforting memory. A tremulous smile hovered
around her lips.
"I like the pine smell," Conor had once defended his cleaner when she'd complained of the sharp odor.
"It smells like the outdoors."
"It smells," she had countered, "like a toilet bowl!"
"Noooo," Conor had drawled. "It smells like the outdoors."
"All right," she'd conceded. "It smells like an outdoor toilet, then!"
A shudder ran through Rhianna and she gripped her elbows. There was really no reason to be cold;
heat billowed the beige open-weave drapes at the double windows. But she was shivering.
"It's been five months, Rhee," she could hear Trip complaining. "Go on over there and deal with it.
Until you do, you aren't going to be able to move on with your life, baby."
She hadn't realized just how much she'd been blocking out until she sat down in the dilapidated recliner
and stared longingly at the blue gingham sofa Conor had insisted she help him choose.
"You don't think it's too, well, you know?" he'd asked.
"Too
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