"Roberts, Nora - Irish Gallaghers 02 - Tears Of The Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

She shoved at him, slapped his hands, then gave up and laughed. "I'll speak to you right enough, you bone-head. Turn me loose."

"Only after you promise not to brain me with something."

"Aidan'll take the breakage out of my pay, and I'm saving for a new dress." She tossed back her cloud of silky black hair and sniffed at him.

"Then I'm safe enough." He set her down and turned to flip over a hunk of sizzling whitefish.

"We've a couple of German tourists who want to try your stew, with brown bread and slaw. They're staying at the B and B," she went on as Shawn got thick bowls. "Heading toward Kerry tomorrow, then into Clare, so they say. If it were me, and I had holiday in January, I'd be spending it in sunny Spain or some tropical island where you didn't need anything but a bikini and a coating of sun oil."

She wandered the kitchen as she spoke, a woman with a stunning face, clear, creamy skin, and brilliant blue eyes. Her mouth was full, unapologetically sexual whether it was sulking or smiling. She'd painted it hot red that morning to keep herself cheerful on a chill and dreary day.

She had a figure that left no doubt she was female, and her love affair with fashion had her outfit it in bold colors and soft fabrics.

She had the Gallagher yen to travel, and the determination to do so in the style to which she longed to become accustomed. Lavish.

Since today wasn't the day for that, she picked up the order and started out just as Brenna came in. "What have you been into this time, then?" Darcy demanded. "You've black all over your face."

"Soot." Brenna sniffed and scrubbed the back of her hand over her nose. "Dad and I've been cleaning out a chimney, and a right mess it is. I got most of it off me."

"If you think so, you didn't look in a mirror." Giving her friend a wide berth, Darcy went out.

"She'd spend all her days looking in one if she had her choice," Shawn commented. "Are you wanting lunch, then?"

"Dad and I will have some of that stew. Smells fine." She moved over, intending to ladle it up herself, but Shawn stepped between her and his precious stove.

"I'd just as soon do that for you, as you didn't get off as much of that chimney as you might think."

"All right. We'll have some tea as well. And, ah, I need a word with you later."

He glanced over his shoulder. "What's wrong with now? We're both of us here."

"I'd rather do it when you're not so busy. I'll come back after the lunch shift if that suits you."

"You know where to find me, don't you?" He set the stew and the tea on a tray.

"I do, yes." She took the tray from him and carried it out to the back booth where her father waited.

"Here we are, Dad. Stew hot from the pot."

"And smelling like heaven."

Mick O'Toole was a bantam of a man, small and spare of build with a thick thatch of wiry hair the color of sand and lively eyes that drifted like the sea between green and blue.

He had a laugh like a braying donkey, hands like a surgeon's, and a soft spot for romantic tales.

He was the love of Brenna's life.

"It's good to be warm and snug now, isn't it, Mary Brenna?"