Talking Sense (18 page)

And yet he couldn’t shake the image of Mia holding a baby, his baby, tired but happy as she wrapped it in a home-made shawl and put it to the breast.

He groaned silently, withdrew his hand and lay back, looking up at the ceiling. And would she be sitting in a rocking chair with a blanket around her shoulders and chickens pecking at her feet? What century was he living in, for Christ’s sake?

She wasn’t pregnant anyway. He wasn’t going to think about it. It was just a stupid dream.

Dream. Hold on.

Suddenly he remembered. He’d had a dream just before he’d woken up. Something to do with the painting…

He’d spent an hour or so that evening trying to use his ability to obtain some more information from the watercolour, but apart from a few fleeting images of Dublin, he hadn’t been able to get anything. In the end Mia had suggested maybe he was tired and he should sleep on it, so he’d decided he’d have another go in the morning.

But in his dream, he’d been standing looking at the painting. He hadn’t been indoors, though—he stood in a street—well, more of a winding country lane really—with large leafy trees arching above the low fences. The painting had been leaning against the fence next to a road sign.

Old Karori Road.

He raised his arm and rested his hand on his forehead. The name soun
ded Māori, which meant he was seeing a road in New Zealand, not Ireland. Was the road in Wellington? And why had he been shown this? Was this where his father was living?

Double checking that Mia was still asleep, he slid out of bed as quietly as he could, slipped on a pair of boxers and padded down the hall to the living room. He took the White Pages from the shelf and thumbed through until he found the Gs. There were a couple of hundred Greens, eleven of which had the first initial of R.

But none of them were listed as Old Karori Road.

He replaced the directory and switched the kettle on. While he waited for it to boil, he went back over to the painting, which stood on the dining table, leaning against the wall. Had his father really painted this? And had Robert been seeing Mary while he did so? Maybe she had sat at his side while he sketched, reading a book or laying out a picnic for the two of them.

Had Robert known Mary was pregnant? Kathleen Molony had seemed to think not, that Mary hadn’t found out until Robert had left. She’d implied that Mary had been distraught when he left, though, and that the parting had been a difficult one. Had Robert loved her? Not enough, obviously. If he’d loved her, he would have stayed.

A shiver ran through Colm. The irony of the way his own current situation was mirroring his father’s didn’t escape him. And yet this time things would be different. Because if Mia
was
pregnant—which she probably wasn’t—he would find out before he left. And then at least he’d be able to make a decision based on knowing that fact.

What would he do? Could he leave them both and return to Ireland, knowing Mia could be struggling as a single parent through those difficult early months? He’d help out financially, of course, but that would make it even more likely that she’d get a nanny in to help while she returned to work. What sort of stability would that give for the child? And could he really bear the fact that the only time he’d ever see the child would be the odd once or twice he could afford to fly out there?

And yet what were the options? To make a commitment based on joint responsibility? How likely was that to work? Mia enjoyed being with him and having sex with him—that much was clear. But she’d given no sign of wanting anything more. Maybe she didn’t want kids. They hadn’t discussed it after all. What did he really know about her?

“Morning.”

He looked up in surprise to see her leaning against the doorjamb, watching him. She’d slipped on his T-shirt, which fell to just below her butt, the sleeves down to her elbows. Her black hair was all ruffled and she looked sleepy and content. She looked gorgeous.

“Penny for them,” she said. “You looked away with the birds.”

“I don’t get why you say ‘penny’.” He unfolded his arms and leaned on the worktop as she walked toward him. “Why don’t you say ‘a cent for them’?”

“I guess it’s just a saying brought over from Britain with the first settlers.” She stopped before him, slid her arms around his waist and snuggled up to him. “We borrowed a lot of your strange phrases. Especially from you Irish. ‘Top of the morning.’ ‘Begorrah.’ ‘Look you.’”

“‘Look you’ is Welsh,” he said, amused at her terrible accent. “I don’t really sound like that, do I?”

She chuckled and kissed his neck. “No,
Col-um.
”

He tightened his arms around her and nuzzled her hair, which still smelled of strawberries. For all his musings and warnings to himself, with her in his arms he couldn’t stop pleasure flooding through him. He’d liked Juliet, and they’d had fun together, but she’d never made him feel like this. No woman had ever prompted this urge to care and protect. What the hell had she done to him? She’d turned him into a Neanderthal. Next thing he’d be dragging her to the cave by her hair before going off to fight a woolly mammoth.

“Why the sigh?” She pulled back and looked up at him, puzzled. “Something bothering you?”

He kissed her. “I had a dream last night. Well, this morning.”

“Ooh. Was I good?”

He smiled. “It was about the painting.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Oh? Any revelations?”

“Kind of. I don’t know.” The kettle boiled and switched off. “You want a cuppa?”

“Coffee if you have it, please. I’ve never understood the European fascination for tea.”

“It’s refreshing.” He put a bag in his mug and a spoon of coffee in hers.
It’s only tea,
he told himself. But somehow it seemed to symbolise the difference between them. They were worlds apart. In spite of the fact that the two cultures were similar in so many ways—speaking the same language, driving on the left side of the road, similar cuisine and sporting tastes—there were so many differences. She’d probably hate Ireland.

She nudged him impatiently. “Colm, for God’s sake, come on, spill.”

So he told her about the scene he’d observed, and the name of the road sign by the painting.

“Old Karori Road?” she queried.

“Yes.” 

Her eyes studied him thoughtfully. He waited for her to say something, but she remained quiet, so eventually he said, “Ring a bell?”

“I know the name.” She looked away, took the kettle and poured water into the mugs.

“Is it in Wellington?”

“Yes.” She stirred the cups.

“Far from here?”

“No, not at all.” She squeezed the teabag and took it out, added milk and handed him the mug. “You want to go there this morning?”

“I’d like to.” He sipped the tea. “What are you up to today?”

She stirred her coffee. “Nothing. I’m going shopping with Grace and Freya tomorrow, but I’m not doing anything today.”

“Grace must be due soon,” he said as they made their way back to the bedroom.

“Sunday, actually. But there are one or two bits she wants for the nursery, so Freya and I said we’d take her into town.”

“No more news from the stalker?” He slid into bed, waited for her to join him and pulled the duvet over them.

“I don’t think so, although it wouldn’t surprise me if Ash was keeping something from her. Freya told me that Nate hinted they’d received more letters, but I’m guessing they spirited them away before Grace got to see them.”

“Just what she doesn’t need,” he said. “What with all the stress of having a baby.”

“Yeah.” She looked into her mug, then took a sip.

“Do you want kids?” Colm asked.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Colm heard the words come out of his mouth but couldn’t quite believe he’d said them. Why had he asked her that? It was too late to retract it now, though.

She met his gaze briefly before looking away again. “Yes. I suppose.” She twirled a strand of her hair through her fingers. “To be honest, I’ve never really thought about it before. Neither Grace nor I ever talked much about that sort of thing. We’ve always been busy with our work—you know what teaching’s like. It can completely take over your life.”

He nodded, well aware of the intensity of the school world, although he couldn’t quell a feeling of disappointment at the thought that she didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about having a family.

“And although we were hardly hardened partygoers,” she continued, “there was always something going on to keep us amused.”

“Have you never been in love?” he asked softly. Suddenly it was very important for him to know. “Never thought about settling down?”

Her eyes met his again. Kathleen Molony’s eyes were a light green, the colour of mistletoe, and his sister’s were a greeny-grey, but Mia’s were a beautiful blue-green, almost turquoise.

“I’ve thought I was, several times,” she said. “Now I’m not so sure. I think it was more in lust, you know? The older I get, the more I’m convinced that love is something that develops over time, and that it comes from trust and commitment and feeling comfortable enough to share your life with someone. It’s more than being physical.”

He nodded, wondering if there was a subliminal message there. Was she trying to remind him their relationship was purely carnal? That he shouldn’t get carried away?

Frustrated at not being able to read her mind, and annoyed that he was tempted to pick up the set of keys she’d left on the table to see if he could get any details from them, he finished off his tea and put the mug on the bedside table. “Well, look, if you need to get going and have things to do, don’t let me stop you. But if you’re at a loose end, I’d be happy with some company.” There, he couldn’t leave it more open than that, could he?

Her gaze softened. She finished off her own drink, then fumbled around in her handbag and took out a box of mints. She popped one and crunched it as she stood and pulled off his T-shirt. He watched, mesmerised by her taut, lithe body, her full but pert breasts, trying not to let his eyes wander to her stomach, trying not to think about what might be happening inside her and what an impact it would have on their lives.

“I’m not busy,” she said, crawling back onto the bed toward him, “and I’d love to come with you.” She climbed on top of him, pressing him back into the pillows, and filled his senses with soft skin, strawberry hair and the taste of mint as she lowered her lips.

He sighed and ran his hands down her body, nestling his rapidly hardening erection into her soft mound through the boxer shorts. In response, she groaned and rocked her hips, arousing herself on him. He filled his palms with her breasts, loving their weight and the way her nipples changed from being velvety soft cones to hard, tiny buttons as he played with them.

She lifted her head to look at him, and they studied each other for a moment, while she brushed the hair out of his eyes then stroked his cheek with her thumb.

“I need a shave,” he said.

“Bristle rash,” she replied, and smiled.

“I’ll be careful.”

“I know.” Her eyes glistened. What was going through her mind? Why were women so hard to read? No wonder he was tempted to use his ability.

“What’s up, honey?” He stroked her back. “Are you feeling okay? How’s your back?”

“Okay, at the moment.”

“We don’t have to do anything…you know. We can just talk. Or watch TV.”

Her lips curved. “Are you saying you don’t want me, Mr. Molony?” She wriggled atop him, thrusting against his erection. “Only this kind of suggests otherwise.”

“Ah, I didn’t say that.” He caught her around the waist and flipped her over, lying heavily on her so she couldn’t move.

“So are you going to subject me to another uncomfortable sex session?” she complained. “I still have a dent in my hip where the door handle dug in.”

Guilt swept over him. It was true—it hadn’t exactly been the most relaxed lovemaking he’d had, and he felt rather ashamed that he’d insisted on the car and hadn’t taken her inside. But he’d been swept up in the moment, and she’d looked gorgeous all breathless and damp from the rain.

“Colm, I didn’t mind really,” she said, touching his face. “I was joking. It was exciting.”

“You can read me far easier than I can read you,” he grumbled.

“You’re kidding me, right?” She looked astonished. “With your gift?”

“I try not to use it.”

“I’d be using it all the time if I were you,” she said.

“It seems as if I’m intruding. It’s like eavesdropping—you might not like what you hear.”

“True,” she said. “But I promise if you listened in to my thoughts, you’d only hear nice things.”

It was a lovely thing to say, and to show his approval he kissed her, letting his hand trail over her body while he did so. He brushed up her thigh and slid his fingers between her legs, encouraged to see she was already ready for him.

He lifted his head and rubbed his nose against hers. “I’m glad you didn’t mind about the car. I know I didn’t leave you much choice.”

“No. You can be very forceful.” Her eyes lit up and she brushed her lips against his. “I
looooove
that.”

He chuckled and kissed her properly. “Want me to be forceful again?”

“Ooh, yes.”

“No problem.”

He lifted himself up and got off the bed, picked a condom off the table where he’d left them and pulled her to her feet.

“Don’t tell me,” she said, “we’re going out onto the fire escape.”

“Not quite.” He turned her and began to back her across the room, nuzzling her ear as he did so.

“Kitchen table?”

“Nope.” He sucked her earlobe, continuing to push her out of the bedroom into the living room.

She shivered. “Sofa?”

“Nope.” He kissed her deeply, guiding her around the armchair and coffee table to the window.

She met the curtained glass with a bump and gasped. “Jeez, it’s cold.”

“So I see.” He flicked her tight nipples.

“Colm!” She tried to push his hand away, but she’d fired his blood and he wasn’t willing to wait any longer.

He tore the wrapper off the condom and rolled it on quickly, and then, before she could protest, placed both hands beneath her butt and lifted her.