He wondered if Caer Cavannaugh had really waited for him, or if she had simply headed out the door the moment he had gotten into the elevator.
But she was there. He saw her as soon as he headed toward the open French doors that separated the bar from the lobby. She was sitting by a window with a pint of dark beer in front of her, and seemed to be studying the glass and the beer in it as if they were both something strange and unusual.
Someone walked by on the street outside. The winter evening was already sliding toward a deeper darkness, and for a moment, she was cast completely in shadow. He found himself inadvertently thinking back to Maeve, earlier that day, and the way a shadow had seemed to pass by her on the plane and again in the airport. Maeve. A kind woman who had lived a long life and come home before leaving this world. He felt a tightening in his muscles and a strange sense of fear for Caer Cavannaugh. She wasn’t old; she hadn’t lived anything that resembled a full lifetime. An urge to protect her washed over him like a whitecap hitting a granite coast.
He gave himself a shake. He’d seen so much that was horrendous and cruel and shouldn’t have been a part of anyone’s life, and that was affecting his judgment now. It was absurd to connect Maeve’s gentle death with his unwarranted fear for Caer.
He’d spent his law enforcement career in forensics; he knew all about science and logic. He knew, as well, that fate was fickle, and no respecter of youth. Infants died; children fell prey to abuse from the adults who should have gone to any end to protect them; people of all ages suffered from terrible diseases. That was sad, but it was fact.
Fearing shadows…that was ridiculous.
He was tired, that was all.
Caer looked up, that raven’s wing of dark hair framing the perfection of her features.
She even offered him a tentative smile.
He walked toward her, and as he got closer, he felt a sense of being drawn in, replacing his instinctive urge to protect.
A sense of being the hunted, rather than the hunter.
Which was absurd, although he supposed even he deserved a moment to indulge in imagination—especially here in this land of myth and mystery.
His mind filled with a vision of winds that howled, storms that raged, a green that was greener than emeralds, laughter and tall tales. This was a land of belief, in God and in a mythical history populated by fanciful beings that had never lived and breathed except in the imaginations of a population fond of tall tales.
Logic and science, those were the things he knew. He blinked hard and gritted his teeth, determined to cast off the strange fancies no doubt born of exhaustion.
“So where are we going?” he asked Caer casually when he reached her side and sat down. He was close enough to smell the subtle scent of her perfume. Nothing overwhelming.
Just…
Seductive.
“Irish Eyes,” she told him, signaling to the young man behind the bar to bring her check.
Irish eyes. Was that what hers were? Bluer than cobalt or sapphires, a color so vibrant and deep. Irish eyes.
“Irish eyes,” he repeated questioningly.
She stared at him. “Irish Eyes. It’s the name of the pub,” she said.
He quickly regained his composure, feeling like an idiot. “Right. Forgive an outsider’s confusion,” he said lightly.
She smiled. “No problem. It’s a very popular place at Temple Bar. I’m sorry if that disappoints you, since many an American tourist makes his way there, so you won’t be getting off the beaten track, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll still be with a native,” he said gallantly.
He took the check when it came, though she tried to demur.
“Hey, we’re both working for Sean, right?” he said.
“Working?” she said, studying him with a frown. “But you’re his friend.”
“I am his friend. A friend who intends to make sure he remains on this earth for a long time to come,” Zach said firmly. He signed the check to his room and started to turn away.
“A minute,” she told him.
He frowned as she reached for her pint and arched a brow. “We’re headed to another pub. You don’t have to swig.”
“Swig,” she said, rolling the word on her tongue and smiling as if she liked it.
“Or we can wait,” he said, leaning back.
“It’s just that this is an exceptionally lovely beer,” she told him.
“Sure,” he said.
She didn’t swig, but she didn’t tarry, either. When she finished, she set the glass back on the table and smiled her enjoyment. She must have sensed that he was watching her, because a slight stain of color touched her cheeks.
“I’m sorry. I don’t get out all that often,” she told him.
“I see.” He didn’t see at all, though. Why would a woman who looked the way she did not get out? It couldn’t be for lack of invitations.