Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) (36 page)

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Gin Fizz and Grit

The Passport Series, Book Two

AS MY GIRLFRIEND
Hillary
droned on into my phone, I stared at the cloudless, blue sky from my taxi
driving towards Misery Hill.
Funny, I’ve no idea why it’s called that.
I’d lived in Dublin almost all my life and never questioned it but was willing
to bet good money that it was her voice in my ear that made me ponder it now. I
snorted at the thought. My Monday morning verbal flogging was my comeuppance
for a weekend spent joyfully sleeping, drinking, and shagging Declan with my
phone turned off.

I tuned back in when the taxi rolled up to the curb outside
the law offices of O’Regan and Aherne. With a quick glance at my watch, I
realized it hadn’t taken that long to get here, but the conversation with
Hillary felt interminable. I patted the driver on the shoulder—my regular
fella—and handed him a wad of cash with a smile of thanks.

Stepping out onto the curb while Hillary continued to natter
away, I futzed with my clothes and examined my toes peeping from my black
Louboutin pumps, the reward I’d given myself after two years of hard work on a
lawsuit.

Suddenly, there was silence. A pause in the conversation.
Having no idea what she had been talking about, I made no attempt at
responding. I just said, “Listen, Hillary, I’ve arrived at work. Let’s cut to
the quick. You feel guilty for fecking up, and while you might not like the
reminder, it was your night to be on call, not mine. In case it has escaped
your notice, I finally have my life back. It’s been months since Declan and I
have had a night out on the town.” I heard her begin to sputter, so I quickly
continued, “I’ve called Charlotte and congratulated her on the baby. I’ll be on
the 6:00 flight to London on Friday. We’ll sort the details out later.”

I heard her intone, “Marian…” as I hit the end button.
Shaking off the rebuke, I walked quickly across the entryway’s dark slate
floors and climbed the flight of stairs to the second floor. The law offices of
O’Regan and Aherne were housed in a grand old building that had once been a
factory. I inhaled deeply. The building reeked of history, a smell I loved. It
reminded me of libraries and pubs.

As I made my way down the corridor to my office, several
faces popped out of their cubicles to offer, “Hi yas” and congratulations.

Suck ups
! I thought, as I made my way. When Magda, my
assistant, came into view, I smiled. Tea and gossip were moments away.

Instead, she worriedly whispered, “O’Regan wants to see you
right away; no time for a cuppa. Something to do with the IP lawsuit having
gone ass-over-tits, over the weekend.”

“Impossible. How can that be? There was a verdict. There’s a
settlement. Feck!” I scowled, trying to figure out how the God of Gobshites had
struck again. This case was going to kill me. “This is personal, you know.
He
hates me.” I looked upwards with a fierce gaze, but when nothing happened, I turned
on my heel and marched to O’Regan’s office.

Magda chased behind me. “Wait, Marian. He’s in the conference
room.”

Muttering a slew of curse words, I zigzagged my way there.

Just outside the conference room door, I tried to dampen the
fire that sizzled on my tongue. I was ready to do battle, but best not call my
boss an incompetent arse for letting the whole case fall to shite. I tugged my
jacket into place, smoothed my hair, and breathed deeply in and out. I tried a
meditative chant that I knew would do feck all—“It’s all going to be fine”—and
waited for peace to take over. I stood stock-still, felt nothing but annoyance,
and tugged the door handle, muttering, “Fecking sheep-shaggers, they’ll rue the
day they heard the name Marian Connolly.”

Stepping confidently into the conference room, I was
surprised to find Paddrick O’Regan standing in a crowd, surrounded by almost
every employee of the firm. A glass of golden bubbliness was passed my way by my
friend Branna, O’Regan’s secretary. Once I had it in hand, everyone in the room
shouted, “
Sláinte!
” A few whistles and a smattering of applause
followed.

O’Regan stepped forward. “Ms. Connolly, the office of
O’Regan…” I went deaf, which was generally the case when I got near the man. I
felt like a twelve-year-old who’s come face-to-face with her first crush. O’Regan
was more handsome than anyone I knew, Brit model David Gandy included, and
looked mouthwatering in his black suit with fine gray stripes. His bright blue
shirt made his blue eyes leap out at me. As I studied the way his black hair
arced off his forehead, I realized he had quit speaking.

“Ballsch!” I squeaked, drawing assorted snorts and guffaws.
“Sorry, I am so overwhelmed by all this that I didn’t catch a word.”

His response was devastating. He smiled broadly at my admission—his
perfect smile, which would have derailed me a second time, except for my
determination not to make an arse of myself. He repeated himself. “I was saying
thank you from all of us at O’Regan and Aherne! Not only have you slayed a
major dragon, you’ve restocked the company’s coffers. Consequently, we’re
drinking real Champagne, and not some crap knock-off.”

Someone from the back called out, “How does it feel to be
Ireland’s newest celebrity?”

Magda produced a copy of
The Irish Times
, where an
article about the lawsuit graced the front page, along with a photo of me
looking haggard with our client, Sean Sullivan. He was Ireland’s most
well-known video gamer. He had taken on one of America’s most successful
computer gaming companies, and we had won an intellectual property lawsuit.

When Sean had wandered into our office, I had known feck-all
about gaming and gaming companies. Declan had proven helpful—he went out and
bought the game, to show me what Sean was on about, and then found Sean’s
channel on YouTube. “He’s one of the top gamers! He has almost thirty-five
million subscribers.”

My jaw had dropped. “What? For sitting around on his arse,
playing video games all day? I chose the wrong profession.” My opinion of him hadn’t
completely changed over the course of the time I’d known him. He was an
absolutely useless lay-about. I still couldn’t figure out if it was balls or
stupidity that had made him think he’d stood a fighting chance against an
American corporation.

When O’Regan finished, I audaciously announced as I raised
my glass, “I’ll be signing photographs, once I’ve had a few of these. Fifty
knicks a piece!” The party got underway. Bottles were passed around, glasses
were refilled, and the quiet chatter rose to a thronging cacophony. People made
their way over to congratulate me personally, which was kind of them, but I
couldn’t hear a single word they said over the noise.

I spent a good hour pleasantly, drinking Champagne and
shouting at people. I noted that the noise helped ease the tension I’d felt
over the last two years.
Or it might be the champers.

I was surprised when Paddrick O’Regan quieted the nearly
drunken lot with a single shout.

“Oiy! Before you’re berco, I have two more announcements to
make, then back to work.”

Handsome, but a killjoy. Everyone knows you don’t start
the day off with alcohol, if you expect people to work.

He waited a moment and kept his bellow up. “First of all, the
firm will be naming a new partner shortly.”

Whoa! That got everyone’s attention.

I held my breath and watched him carefully survey the room.
There were only three possibilities from within the firm. Malachi Butler and
Daire Walsh. Both looked over at the third person: me. I wasn’t going to be the
weak link. I held their gazes firmly, knowing that my recent win was going to
push me well ahead of either of them, despite their client lists and billing
hours.

“The next announcement is more of a personal one. I will be
taking an extended leave of absence.” There was a synchronized gasp from the
masses, loud enough to cause him to pause. “Don’t get your hopes up. I’ll
return in January and will be keeping my finger in the pot.” After a bit of
tittering about his finger in pots, a blushing Paddrick announced, “Get back to
work before you’re useless!”

As I started to teeter back to my office, Paddrick called to
me, “Ms. Connolly, can you spare a few minutes?”

I might have been a bit tipsy when I flirtatiously responded,
“Certainly. How shall I autograph the photo?”

“Sadly, it isn’t work-related.” Paddrick gave me a sardonic
glance.

That stopped me in my tracks. Well, that and the alcohol.
“What do you mean?” My heartbeat sped up.

He motioned for me to walk with him. I used the wood
flooring to guide my feet, only wavering a few times. I thought about tripping
on purpose, but didn’t want to risk him letting me fall in order to avoid a
sexual harassment charge. Once safely inside his office, he shut his door
(not
worried about being alone with me)
and offered me a seat in a cushy leather
armchair. Then he utterly surprised me.

“I understand you’re friends with Hillary Cavendish.”

Puzzled, I nodded.

“I’m taking a leave of absence to deal with personal
matters, and I was hoping to get in touch with her. No matter whom I ask, she’s
the one to go to, apparently, when it comes to charitable concerns.”

“
Um
, well, yes. I suppose. To be honest, I don’t pay
attention to most of what she’s saying.” Realizing how insensitive that
sounded, I quickly added, “She’s involved with so many organizations that I
can’t keep them straight.”

Nodding, he asked, “May I get her contact information from
you?”

I scoured my memory. “I’ll email it to you. I must have it
on my phone. Must do. She calls me every day.” He raised an eyebrow at this.

One corner of my mouth tugged upwards. “When friends with
Hillary, one is either all in, or… not her friend.” I snickered at the truth of
this comment. I stood, assuming our chat was at an end.

He rose to his feet and walked a few steps toward me with
his hand outstretched. “Thank you. I’d be grateful. And, once again, well done.”

As I walked to my office, I flexed my hand and wondered if
the electric shock that ran up my arm when we shook hands had been mutual. It
was only much later that I thought about Declan. Not good.

WITH EACH BOOK,
my village
grows, and the number of people I need to thank gets longer!

There are no words to describe my gratitude to my husband
Paul, who encourages me in all things. Then there are my children who, from time
to time, must wonder where their mother disappears to and where the mad woman who
takes over comes from! I know living with me can be like riding a roller
coaster! I just hope it is exhilarating—akin to throwing your hands in the air
and laughing as you embrace the crazy ride. Every day with you is an adventure,
filled with the opportunity to grow and learn. Of all the things I have done or
will ever do, witnessing your evolution is the most exciting.

To my childhood family, from my cozy corner in the car on
our many road trips, where my attention was divided between the book I was
reading and the world outside the window, I am grateful to have had you beside
me through the highs and lows. We may be oceans apart, but I am often pulled
back to memories of highways and bi-ways, and standing in front of monuments
while Dad read every last word, and Mom wandered about, as the five of us kids
were who we were. In the end, we are all dreamers, creators, earth-bound and
loyal. I am proud to be a part of our clan.

My sanity, book blurbs, cover critiques, highs and lows, and
“what do you thinks” are somewhat buffered from my family and friends by the
incredibly generous community I embrace daily on the Internet. You never know
where you will meet your village—and while I don’t know what your voices sound
like and haven’t met your loved ones, I hold you dear. I hope someday we have a
massive book-signing party together and hear each other’s laughter. To the
authors extraordinaire at Chick Lit Chat—you are indispensable. Tracie Banister
welcomed me into the fold, and I am grateful for the support and laughter I’ve
shared (mostly over my guffaws) with Whitney Dineen, Gina Calanni, Maggie
LePage, Glynis Astie, Lindy Dale, Becky Monson, Meredith Schorr, Renee
Conoulty, and TA Williams. Read their work! They are fabulous authors as well
as amazing friends.

To old friends and new, without you I would still be chasing
rainbows. To Victoria, Aimee, Thea, Carol, Diane, Kesem, Chandria, Nicole,
Elizabeth, Tracy, and Jane, your unfailing support in (all) my endeavors over
the years leaves me speechless. Fortunately, I can further express my gratitude
when I write of the love and friendship that exists amongst the characters in
The Passport Series.

To James, Annie, Tess, Candace, and Jalpa, whom I met at a
time of great upheaval, you helped me remember that success and failure, deeply
intertwined, can be faced with grace and enthusiasm.

To my readers, I am, of course, forever indebted to you. I
found my path to authorship as a result of my love of reading. While I write
for the pure pleasure of it, I feel giddy with excitement whenever I
contemplate that my words could be transporting you to exciting places in the
world, offering you a chance to live an alternate reality. I cherish your
taking this journey with me.

I would also like to thank my dream team: Samantha March, Stephanie
Konat, Kathryn Galán, Michelle Fairbanks, and Nicole Hewitt: I am forever
indebted to you for your support, guidance, and hard work.