league.”
He increased his speed, signaled to change lanes, and studiously ignored her dramatic performance until they reached his ranch.
* * *
Nona Redcliff must have heard Quincy and Ceara enter the house, because she appeared in the kitchen before Quincy could divest his guest of the jacket he’d lent her. Nona’s dark eyes settled with glittering intensity on Ceara, quickly taking in the details of her appearance and dress.
“So,” Nona said, “you are our mysterious Ceara O’Ceallaigh? Just the lady I’ve been hoping to interview.”
Dragging a startled gaze from the many appliances in Quincy’s kitchen, Ceara straightened her narrow shoulders and clasped her hands at her slender waist. Until that moment, Quincy hadn’t realized how small she was. Compared to Nona, a woman of average height, she looked tiny. Quincy guessed her to top out at no more than five-two, if that. He noted that she’d resumed staring at his stainless-steel Sub-Zero freezer and refrigerator, side-by-side built-ins that had cost him a small fortune. Then she gaped at his double ovens, the two dishwashers, the steamer, and the microwave. It took her a full half minute to return her attention to Nona. “Ye have me at a disadvantage,” she replied. “Have ye a name?”
Nona introduced herself but didn’t extend Ceara the courtesy of an outstretched hand. Instead she led the way to Quincy’s office, where she leaned a hip against his desk, folded her arms, and gave Ceara a long, burning look. Quincy, standing just behind Ceara, studied the flame-red braid that trailed down her back to well below her knees. Convinced it had to be a hairpiece, because he’d never seen a modern-day woman with tresses so long, he searched in vain for a clip or comb that attached the rope of hair to the back of her head, but he saw nothing.
A fax came in, and Ceara jumped at the sound. Her delicate brows pleated in a bewildered frown when paper was ejected by the machine. The next instant, Quincy’s desk phone rang, and Ceara jolted yet again. When the answering machine picked up the call and a man’s voice came over the air, she weaved on her feet, as if she might faint. Quincy’s first instinct was to grab her shoulders, but instead he only moved closer to catch her if she fell.
Meeting Quincy’s gaze, Nona asked, “Do I have your authorization to question this woman?”
Quincy waved a hand. “Go for it.”
Nona relaxed against the desk and crossed her ankles. A stare-down ensued, with Ceara at the receiving end. “How did you gain entry to Mr. Harrigan’s arena, Ms. O’Ceallaigh?”
Quincy saw that Ceara trembled, an almost imperceptible quivering of her whole body. Yet despite her apparent fear, she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and replied in a steady voice, “I canna say how I gained entry. ’Tis beyond me how it came about. I came forward in time to end the curse on the O’Hourigans. Begging yer pardon, the Harrigans. While saying the traveling prayer, I asked the Blessed Ones to guide me to a place where I would be most likely to find Quincy O’Hourigan, and the stallion’s stall is where I landed.”
A chill coursed the length of Quincy’s frame as he recalled his thoughts earlier about Beethoven’s stall being his favorite thinking place. And that was where he’d found Ceara, asleep in the straw.
Nona’s team members appeared in the office. Quincy quickly decided everyone needed to adjourn to the living room, where there was more space. After his guests were settled, all eyes turned to Ceara, who stood at the center of the room as if she were facing a firing squad. In a sense, that wasn’t far wrong. Quincy knew countless questions would be aimed at her, each carefully worded to trip her up and trick her into revealing the truth. He felt almost sorry for her but pushed the sentiment aside.
The interrogation proceeded quickly, Nona taking the lead and rephrasing the same question over and over again
He increased his speed, signaled to change lanes, and studiously ignored her dramatic performance until they reached his ranch.
* * *
Nona Redcliff must have heard Quincy and Ceara enter the house, because she appeared in the kitchen before Quincy could divest his guest of the jacket he’d lent her. Nona’s dark eyes settled with glittering intensity on Ceara, quickly taking in the details of her appearance and dress.
“So,” Nona said, “you are our mysterious Ceara O’Ceallaigh? Just the lady I’ve been hoping to interview.”
Dragging a startled gaze from the many appliances in Quincy’s kitchen, Ceara straightened her narrow shoulders and clasped her hands at her slender waist. Until that moment, Quincy hadn’t realized how small she was. Compared to Nona, a woman of average height, she looked tiny. Quincy guessed her to top out at no more than five-two, if that. He noted that she’d resumed staring at his stainless-steel Sub-Zero freezer and refrigerator, side-by-side built-ins that had cost him a small fortune. Then she gaped at his double ovens, the two dishwashers, the steamer, and the microwave. It took her a full half minute to return her attention to Nona. “Ye have me at a disadvantage,” she replied. “Have ye a name?”
Nona introduced herself but didn’t extend Ceara the courtesy of an outstretched hand. Instead she led the way to Quincy’s office, where she leaned a hip against his desk, folded her arms, and gave Ceara a long, burning look. Quincy, standing just behind Ceara, studied the flame-red braid that trailed down her back to well below her knees. Convinced it had to be a hairpiece, because he’d never seen a modern-day woman with tresses so long, he searched in vain for a clip or comb that attached the rope of hair to the back of her head, but he saw nothing.
A fax came in, and Ceara jumped at the sound. Her delicate brows pleated in a bewildered frown when paper was ejected by the machine. The next instant, Quincy’s desk phone rang, and Ceara jolted yet again. When the answering machine picked up the call and a man’s voice came over the air, she weaved on her feet, as if she might faint. Quincy’s first instinct was to grab her shoulders, but instead he only moved closer to catch her if she fell.
Meeting Quincy’s gaze, Nona asked, “Do I have your authorization to question this woman?”
Quincy waved a hand. “Go for it.”
Nona relaxed against the desk and crossed her ankles. A stare-down ensued, with Ceara at the receiving end. “How did you gain entry to Mr. Harrigan’s arena, Ms. O’Ceallaigh?”
Quincy saw that Ceara trembled, an almost imperceptible quivering of her whole body. Yet despite her apparent fear, she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and replied in a steady voice, “I canna say how I gained entry. ’Tis beyond me how it came about. I came forward in time to end the curse on the O’Hourigans. Begging yer pardon, the Harrigans. While saying the traveling prayer, I asked the Blessed Ones to guide me to a place where I would be most likely to find Quincy O’Hourigan, and the stallion’s stall is where I landed.”
A chill coursed the length of Quincy’s frame as he recalled his thoughts earlier about Beethoven’s stall being his favorite thinking place. And that was where he’d found Ceara, asleep in the straw.
Nona’s team members appeared in the office. Quincy quickly decided everyone needed to adjourn to the living room, where there was more space. After his guests were settled, all eyes turned to Ceara, who stood at the center of the room as if she were facing a firing squad. In a sense, that wasn’t far wrong. Quincy knew countless questions would be aimed at her, each carefully worded to trip her up and trick her into revealing the truth. He felt almost sorry for her but pushed the sentiment aside.
The interrogation proceeded quickly, Nona taking the lead and rephrasing the same question over and over again
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