Kiss Me, I'm Irish by Roxanne St Claire
Bestselling authors Roxanne St. Claire, Jill Shalvis and Maureen Child bring you three classic stories of sexy Irishmen and the women who love them…
The Sins of His Past by Roxanne St. Claire
For one incredible night, Kendra Locke gave Deuce Monroe everything she had. Then he walked away without a backward glance to chase his big-league dreams. Now after one too many daredevil stunts, he’s back in his hometown ready to pick up where they left off—but Kendra has no intention of giving in so easily….
Tangling with Ty by Jill Shalvis
Dr. Nicole Mann, a child prodigy who graduated high school at the age of thirteen, has no room in her mind or her schedule for romance. But when the architect renovating her apartment turns out to have a charming Irish accent, all bets are off—and Ty Patrick O’Grady plans to use every trick in his book to stay in her life for good.
Whatever Reilly Wants... by Maureen Child
Connor Reilly only has a few weeks to go in his “no sex for ninety days” bet with his brothers—and he figures no woman is safer to be around than his best friend, Emma Jacobsen. Until Emma shows up at a bar in a short skirt and high heels, and suddenly seems anything but safe!
Praise for New York Times and USA TODAY
bestselling author Roxanne St. Claire
“Consistent excellence is a mark of a St. Claire novel.”
—RT Book Reviews
“It’s safe to say I will try any novel with St. Claire’s name
on it. Her writing is taut, funny, tense and
sparking-wire-on-wet-pavement sharp.”
—SmartBitchesTrashyBooks.com
“On the fast track to making her name a household one.”
—Publishers Weekly
“With Roxanne St. Claire, you are guaranteed
a powerful, sexy and provocative read.”
—New York Times bestselling author Carly Phillips
Praise for New York Times and USA TODAY
bestselling author Jill Shalvis
“Shalvis thoroughly engages readers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Hot, sweet, fun, and romantic! Pure pleasure!”
—New York Times bestselling author Robyn Carr
“Witty, fun and sexy—the perfect romance!”
—New York Times bestselling author Lori Foster
“Shalvis’ writing is a perfect trifecta of win:
hilarious dialogue, evocative and real characters, and settings that are as much a part of the story as the hero and heroine. I’ve never been disappointed by a Shalvis book.”
—SmartBitchesTrashyBooks.com
Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author
Maureen Child
“Ms. Child’s fresh and appealing romance sparkles
with pleasing characterization and impeccable timing.”
—RT Book Reviews
“[Child’s] unique, endearing characters grab hold
of your heartstrings and never let go.”
—Rendezvous
“I have found an author who writes about
all my favorite things.... [Child’s] stories are always
focused on the joy of falling in love for the first time.”
—Under the Covers Book Reviews
“The ever entertaining Maureen Child
warms the cockles of our hearts.”
—RT Book Reviews
ROXANNE ST. CLAIRE
JILL SHALVIS
MAUREEN CHILD
KISS ME, I’M IRISH
The Sins of His Past
Dear Reader,
The Sins of His Past is centered around Monroe’s, an old-fashioned Irish pub undergoing a twenty-first-century transformation. When Deuce Monroe’s professional baseball career comes to an untimely end, he returns to his hometown with the intention of taking over his father’s bar. But nothing at Monroe’s is what he expects. Vying for the ownership of the neighborhood watering hole is a sexy and daunting opponent, more threatening than any Deuce ever faced on the pitcher’s mound.
When The Sins of His Past was originally released, my son was playing Little League and inspiring me to write baseball heroes. Now I’m celebrating the book’s reissue in this anthology…just as that little ballplayer heads to college. Talk about twenty-first-century transformations! My writing has changed over the years, too. These days, my books usually include one villain and a few dead bodies, but in re-reading this novel, I remembered how much I enjoyed writing a sensual story with a conflict-rich romance driving every scene. Oh, and a baseball-playing hero.
Seamus “Deuce” Monroe is that endearing Irish mix of a wild card with a good heart and lost soul. He’s hot, he’s funny, he’s vulnerable, and he’s facing a few transformations of his own. So, I invite you to step into Monroe’s, raise a glass (or cup of coffee, depending on which team you’re rooting for) and enjoy this story about two people who have some sins in their past and love in their future.
Roxanne St. Claire
This book is dedicated to the gang
who gathers at our field of dreams every weekend.
From my side of the chain-link fence, I’m often reminded that it’s not whether you win or lose, but how incredibly cute you look playing the game. Special love to the coach
I married, the shortstop who takes my breath away
and the littlest cheerleader by my side.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
ONLY ONCE BEFORE could Deuce Monroe remember being speechless. When he’d met Yaz. He’d shaken the great man’s hand and tried to utter a word, but he’d been rendered mute in the presence of his hero, Carl Yastrzemski.
But standing in the warm April sunshine on the main drag in Rockingham, Massachusetts, staring at a building that had once been as familiar to him as his home field pitcher’s mound, he was damn near dumbstruck.
Where was Monroe’s?
He peered at the sign over the door. Well, it said Monroe’s. With no capital M and a sketch of a laptop computer and a coffee mug next to it. But the whole place just seemed like Monroe’s on steroids. In addition to taking up way more space than he remembered, the clapboard had been replaced by a layer of exposed brick covered in ivy, and three bay windows now jutted into the sidewalk.
At least the old mahogany door hadn’t changed. He gripped the familiar brass handle, yanked it toward him and stepped inside.
Where he froze and swallowed a curse. Instead of the familiar comfort of a neighborhood bar, there was a wide-open area full of sofas and sunlight and…computers?
Where the hell was Monroe’s?
The real Monroe’s—not this…this cyber salon.
He scanned the space, aching for something familiar, some memory, some scent that would embrace him like his long-lost best friend.
But all he could smell was…coffee.
They didn’t serve coffee at his parents’ bar. Ice-cold Bud on tap, sure. Plenty of whiskey, rum and even tequila, but not coffee. Not here, where the locals gathered after the Rock High games to replay every one of Deuce’s unpredictable but deadly knuckleballs. Not here, where all available wall space was filled with action shots from big games, framed team jerseys and newspaper clippings touting his accomplishments and talent. Not here, where—
“Can I help you, sir?”
Deuce blinked, still adjusting to the streaming sunlight where there shouldn’t be any,
“Would you like a computer station?” she asked.
What he’d like is a Stoli on the rocks. He glanced at the bar. At least that was still there. But the only person sitting at it was drinking something out of a cup. With a saucer.
“Is Seamus Monroe here?” Not that he expected his father to be anywhere near the bar on a Tuesday morning, but he’d already tried the house and it was empty. Deserted-looking, actually. A little wave of guilt threatened, but he shook it off.
“Mr. Monroe isn’t here today,” the young lady beamed at him. “Are you the new software vendor?”
As if.
He sneaked a glimpse at the wall where Mom had hung his first autographed Nevada Snake Eyes jersey at the end of his rookie season. Instead of the familiar red number two, a black and white photograph of a snow-covered mountain hung in a silver frame.
“Do you have a phone number where I can reach him?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t give you that, I’m sorry. Our manager is in the back. Would you like me to get her?”
Her? Dad had hired a female manager?
Then a little of the tension he’d felt for the past few weeks subsided. This was the right thing to do. It took a career-ending injury caused by monumental stupidity, but coming home to take over the bar was definitely the right thing to do.
Obviously, someone had already exploited his father’s loss of interest in the place and made one too many changes. Deuce would set it all straight in no time.
“Yeah, I’ll talk to her,” he agreed.
She indicated the near-empty bar with a sweep of her hand. “Feel free to have a cup of coffee while I get Ms. Locke.”
Locke?
That was the first familiar sound since he’d arrived in Rockingham. He knew every Locke who had ever lived in this town.
In fact, Deuce had just had an email from Jackson Locke, his old high-school buddy. A typical what-a-jerk-you-are missive laced with just enough sympathy to know Jack felt Deuce’s pain for ending a stellar baseball career at only thirty-three years old. Jack’s parents had moved to Florida years ago…so that left Jack’s sister, Kendra.
Deuce swallowed hard. The last time he’d seen Kendra was the week he’d come home for his mother’s funeral, about nine years ago. Jack’s baby sister had been…well, she’d been no baby then.
And Deuce had been a total chicken scumbag and never called her, not once, afterwards. Even though he’d wanted to. Really wanted to.
But it couldn’t be Kendra, he decided as the hostess scooted away. Back then Kendra was weeks away from starting her junior year at Harvard. Surely the Hahvahd girl with a titanium-trap brain and a slightly smartass mouth hadn’t ended up managing Monroe’s. She’d been on fire with ambition.
And on fire with a few other things, too. His whole body tightened at the memory, oddly vivid for having taken place a long time and a lot of women ago.
This Locke must be a cousin, or a coincidence.
He leaned against the hostess stand—another unwelcome addition to Monroe’s—and studied the semi-circle of computers residing precisely where the pool table used to be.
Someone had sure as hell messed with this place.
“Excuse me, I understand you need to speak with me?”
Turning, the first thing he saw was a pair of almond-shaped eyes exactly the color of his favorite Levi’s, and just as inviting.
“Deuce?” The eyes flashed with shock and recognition.
He had to make an effort to keep from registering the same reaction.
Was it possible he’d slept with this gorgeous woman, kissed that sexy mouth that now opened into a perfect O and raked his fingers through that cornsilk-blond hair—and then left without ever calling her again?
Idiot took on a whole new meaning.
“Kendra.” He had absolutely no willpower over his gaze, which took a long, slow trip over alabaster skin, straight down to the scoop neck of a tight white T-shirt and the rolling letters of Monroe’s across her chest. All lower-case.
The letters, that was. The chest was definitely upper-case.
A rosy tone deepened her pale complexion. Her chin tilted upward, and those blue eyes turned icy with distrust. “What are you doing here?”
“I came home,” he said. The words must have sounded unbelievable to her, too, based on the slanted eyebrow of incredulity he got in response. He took another quick trip over the logo, and this time let his gaze continue down to a tiny waist and skin-tight jeans hugging some seriously sweet hips.
He gave her his most dazzling smile. Maybe she’d forgiven him for not calling. Maybe she’d stay on and work for him after he took over the bar. Maybe she’d…
But, first things first. “I’m looking for my dad.”
She tucked a strand of sunny blond hair behind her ear. “Why don’t you try Diana Lynn’s house?”
Diana Lynn’s house? What the hell was that? Had he gone to assisted living or something? “Is she taking care of Dad?”
That earned him a caustic laugh. “I’ll say. Diana Lynn Turner is your father’s fiancée.”
“His what?” Men who’d had pacemakers put in a year ago didn’t have fiancées. Widowed men with pacemakers, especially.
“His fiancée. It’s French for bride-to-be, Deuce.” She put a hand on her hip like a little punctuation mark to underscore her sarcasm. “Your dad spends most of his days—and all of his nights—at her house. But they’re leaving tomorrow morning for a trip, so if you want to see him, you better hustle over there.”
Deuce had been scarce for a lot of years, no doubt about it. But would his father really get engaged and not tell him?
Of course he would. He’d think Deuce would hate the idea of Seamus Monroe remarrying. And he’d be right.
“So, where does this Diana Lynn live?”
She waved her hand to the left. “At the old Swain mansion.”
He frowned. “That run-down dump on the beach?”
“Not so run-down since Diana Lynn worked her magic.” She reached into the hostess stand and pulled out some plastic menus, tapping them on the wood to line them up. “She has a way of livening everything up.”
Oh, so that’s what was going down; some kind of gold digger had got her teeth into the old man. Deuce hadn’t gotten home a moment too soon.
“Don’t tell me,” he said with a quick glance toward the pit of computers to his right. “She’s the mastermind behind the extreme makeover of the bar.”
“The bar?” Kendra slid the menus back into their slot and looked in the opposite direction—toward the bar that lined one whole wall. “Well, we haven’t been able to close long enough to rip the bar out yet.”
He didn’t know what word to seize. We or rip or yet.
“Why would you do that?”
She shrugged and appeared to study the bank of cherry-wood that had been in Deuce’s life as long as he’d lived. He’d bet any amount of money that the notches that marked his height as a toddler were still carved into the wood under the keg station. “The bar’s not really a money-maker for us.”
Us, was it? “That’s funny,” he said, purposely giving her the stare he saved for scared rookies at the plate. “Most times the bar is the most profitable part of a bar.”
His intimidating glare didn’t seem to work. In fact, he could have sworn he saw that spark of true grit he’d come to recognize right before some jerk slammed his curve ball into another county.
“I’m sure that’s true in other business models,” she said slowly, a bemused frown somehow just making her prettier. “But the fact is, the bar’s not the most profitable part of an Internet café.”
He choked a laugh of disbelief. “Since when is Monroe’s an Internet café?”
“Since I bought it.”
He could practically hear the ball zing straight over the left-field fence, followed by a way-too familiar sinking sensation in his gut.
He didn’t know. Kendra realized by the genuine shock in those espresso-colored eyes that Deuce had no idea that she and his father shared a two-year-old business arrangement. She’d never had the nerve to ask Seamus if he’d told his son. In fact, she and Seamus Senior had politely danced around the subject of Seamus Junior for a long, long time.
But it looked like the dance was about to end.
“I bought Monroe’s a while ago. Well, half of it. And I run it, although your dad still owns fifty percent.” All right, fifty-one. Did Deuce need to know that little detail?
“Really,” he said, thoughtfully rubbing a cheek that hadn’t seen a razor in, oh, maybe twenty-nine hours. Giving him the ideal amount of Hollywood stubble on his chiseled, handsome features. It even formed the most alluring little shadow in the cleft on his chin.
She’d dipped her tongue into that shadow. Once.
“Yes, really.” She pulled the menus out again just to keep her hands busy. Otherwise, they might betray her and reach out for a quick feel of that nice Hollywood stubble.
“And you turned it into—” He sent a disdainful glare toward the main floor “—the Twilight Zone.”
She couldn’t help laughing. He’d always made her laugh. Even when she was eleven and he’d teased her. He’d made her giggle, and then she’d run upstairs and throw herself on her bed and cry for the sheer love of him. “We call it the twenty-first century, Deuce, and you’re welcome to log on anytime.”
“No, thanks.” He took a step backward, sweeping her with one of those appraising looks that made her feel as if she’d just licked her finger and stuck it in the nearest electrical outlet.
When his gaze finally meandered back up to her face, she forced herself to look into his dark-brown eyes. They were still surrounded by long, black lashes and topped with those seriously brash eyebrows. The cynicism, the daring, the I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass-what-anyone-thinks look still burned in his eyes. It was that look, along with a well-known penchant for fun and games, and the occasional out-of-control pitch, that had earned him the most memorable yearbook caption in Rockingham High School history: Deuce Is Wild. And her brother was on the page to the left with his own epigram: Jacks Are Better.