Chapter One

I ran into Peter in Ireland. I always knew we'd come together again and hoped that the encounter would demonprovestrate my newfound dignity and sophistication. Unfortunately, this was not the case.

He found me in one of my less attractive poses—head and shoulders dangling precariously over a 90-foot chasm, lips stretched to contortionist length as I tried to plant a kiss on the famed Blarney Stone. He stood in the shadow of the castle battlements a few feet away, arms crossed, observing me with amusement.

Even upside-down I recognized him and the shock of it nearly sent me toppling backwards to my doom. Fortunately, I was able to grab one of the support rails nearest me and wriggle back to safety. I managed to regain my feet and plastered a composed expression on my face, mentally berating myself. Outwardly, though, I faced him with impeccable aplomb.

"Why, Peter Mansfield, what a surprise." I spoke lightly, brushing the dirt from my hands and clothing.

He met my gaze and his amused gray eyes assured me that my attempt to gloss over the situation was useless. I was still the stubborn, non-conformist he'd known three years ago, and as usual, he could see right through me.

I winced, acutely aware of my flaming cheeks.

He moved into the sunlight. He hadn't changed much since I saw him last—still tall, dark, lean and wrapped in an aura of self-assurance. But I couldn't help my heart beating just a little faster as all the memories of our college days together came tumbling back.

"Stacey, it's good to see you." His voice was warm. "You obviously haven't changed—still determined to take on the world all by yourself. Don't you know you could get hurt doing things like that? You need someone to hold you. Where's your tour guide?"

I felt my face redden even more. "I'd have managed if you hadn't given me such a fright," I retorted.

No one else in my tour was interested in kissing the stone and I'd shied away from making a spectacle of myself in front of them. Instead I'd lagged behind, determined to do it alone. But I knew Peter was right. To safely reach the stone, it was necessary to have someone hold your legs to keep you from falling backwards down the chasm.

But I didn't tell him this. Instead I changed the subject. "Where did you come from?"

"I've been watching you for some time," he said, smiling. He squatted down and peered through the gap. "Do you really think that stone will work?"

"Of course. What kind of Irishman are you?"

"Not a very good one, I'm afraid. But if you're so set on experimenting with the local lore, I'll certainly not stand in your way." He reached up, took my arm and pulled me down.

"Come on. I'll hold you while you lean out, okay?"

I nodded.

"Hang on," he said, wrapping his arms around my legs.

His touch was warm and my flesh tingled. I felt a fiery knot in the pit of my stomach. But I did as he told me and slid out awkwardly to plant a firm kiss on the stone, then slithered back and grinned at him impishly.

He chuckled and cocked his head. "Well, did it work? Do you feel an oration coming on? Go ahead and dazzle me with golden words!"

"Hmmph," I sniffed, pushing my disheveled hair out of my face and reaching out a hand so he could pull me to my feet. "I certainly wouldn't waste golden words on you."

"Then perhaps if you're just passing out kisses…" His fingers tightened on mine and he moved closer.

My breath caught in my throat, mesmerized momentarily by his lips, now so close to mine that I could feel the warmth of his breath and smell the distinctively musky scent of his aftershave. But this wasn't how it should be. He couldn't simply waltz back into my life and expect me to fall for him all over again.

I gave myself a mental shake and donned my best Scarlett imitation, placing my free hand on his chest and giving a firm push.

"Why, Mr. Mansfield," I drawled. "I can't imagine what you mean!"

He lifted an amused brow, and I slid my hand free and stepped nimbly away, gathering up my purse and camera. I was starkly aware of how easily the old feelings flared up.

"You haven't answered my question," I said, hooking the strap of my bag over my shoulder. "What're you doing here?"

He shrugged and thrust his hands into his pockets. "Unfortunately, I'm only here on business. It seems I've a great aunt living hereabouts—the keeper of our ancestral castle. She's apparently running short of funds and wrote to her nephew, the banker—my father—for help sorting out her finances.

"Dad is tied up at the moment, so he suggested I come over and check it out. A little test, I presume, to see if I'm worthy of filling his shoes."

"There's no doubt in your mind, I'm sure," I remarked dryly. "How did you know I was here?"

"I didn't," he replied. "Not until I checked in at that quaint little hotel in Blarney. I saw your name on the register. It was a pleasant surprise. The clerk told me where your tour group was headed, so—" He bowed, "—here I am. Now how about you? What are you doing here?"

"Well, you could say I'm here on business, too," I said. "But only partially. I'm doing research for a piece for World Traveler magazine. I figured I'd come over on one of those package deals and play the tourist—see if I could come up with a unique slant.

"So far, though, no luck. The tour ends tomorrow so I'm hoping to strike out on my own. I want a better look at Galway and Mayo. I've heard the Céide Fields are interesting. Such a fantastic find—a five-thousand-year-old city preserved almost intact beneath the bogs!"

His eyes lit. "Yes. Fantastic. But even better is that's where I'm headed—Belderrig, actually. It's near the Céide digs." He paused, gazing at me so intently I felt a self-conscious blush creep into my cheeks. "Why don't you come with me, Stace? We could take in the sights together."

Copyright © 2004 Maureen McMahon