Tears of Gold (35 page)

“You’re wrong about her, Nicholas,” the Swede said flatly.

Nicholas turned his narrowed green eyes on the Swede’s broad face. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for her? I can’t believe you’d be such a fool. She’s no good, Swede. Can’t you see that? She and that conniving brother of hers were masquerading as two completely different people on a rancho near Sonoma just last year. They ran out on the place when things got out of control, but not before they knocked me out and robbed me of my money.”

The Swede frowned thoughtfully as he mulled this over.

Nicholas smiled grimly. “I can see she neglected to confess that to you. I wonder what else she didn’t tell you.”

“She told me something of that incident. But she doesn’t have to explain herself to me, Nicholas. I’m certainly not here to judge her. Mara O’Flynn made a mistake,” the Swede said compassionately. “My God, she couldn’t have been but a young girl when she met Julian. Younger than you when you made many mistakes you’d like to forget about, Nicholas. Can’t you forgive her? I think you’ve misjudged her.”

“Quite the contrary, Swede. In fact, in the past three years she’s had time to refine her talents, and I wonder how many other fools she’s duped. Considering what I’ve had to put up with from her, I think I’ve been exceptionally reasonable.”

“I think your problem is,” the Swede remarked casually as he watched Nicholas’s gaze return to Mara’s laughing face, “that you do like her. No, don’t try to deny it. You can’t. You find her damned attractive. I can see it when you look at her. It’s just a shame that you had already made up your mind about her before you met her, for I think the two of you together would be something to see.” Then he added with a laugh, “Like dynamite and matches.”

Nicholas smiled derisively. “I thought you had more sense than to fall for such an obvious type of woman. But then, I should have remembered that Mara O’Flynn is not to be underestimated. She’s quite the little actress. Just don’t make too big a fool of yourself, Swede. She’s not worth it,” Nicholas warned.

“You’re the one fooling yourself, Nicholas,” the Swede advised in turn, “and you just might discover the truth once it’s too late.”

“I’m not your nursemaid, Swede,” Nicholas said as he paid his bill. He saw his lady companion returning to the table and prepared to leave. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll be along shortly,” the Swede excused himself.

Nicholas shrugged and started to walk away with the blonde snuggling herself against his shoulder. But after only a few steps, Nicholas turned and said, “You’re wrong, Swede. You know I’ve always had a preference for blondes.” And with that final retort he strolled off, the blonde gazing up at him in adoration, her mercenary hopes confirmed as she heard his remarks.

The Swede shook his head, a smile lingering in his eyes as he hoped Nicholas would find his hands full with his blond friend after that remark. Usually Nicholas was perceptive and his judgment could be trusted, but where Mara O’Flynn was concerned Nicholas couldn’t think straight. Poor Mara, the Swede thought with a tender look in her direction. Maybe she was right about Nicholas and he would never forgive her. That damned Creole pride of his was still as touchy as ever. There had to be more between the two of them than either one had said and he wondered curiously what had happened out there on that rancho.

Mara O’Flynn was laughing at one of Brendan’s funny caricatures of life in the mining camps when she glanced up and saw Nicholas leaving the restaurant with the blonde. Mara watched in jealous fascination as Nicholas drew the woman’s cape over her shoulders, his fingers lingering against the soft swell of breast.

Yes, do help her with her cape. We wouldn’t want the poor dear to catch her death of cold in that skimpy gown, Mara thought. She saw Nicholas’s dark head bending down to the woman’s overly rouged face as she whispered some endearment in his ear, her hand fondling a curl on the back of his neck. Mara dragged her smoldering gaze away from them and stared down at her plate of food. Only moments before it had looked so appetizing.

“You’re not laughing, mavournin,” Brendan complained. “Have I lost me touch as a storyteller? Jenny here is the best audience I’ve played to in years.”

Mara glanced up, forcing a smile to her stiff lips. “Forgive me, Brendan. I wasn’t listening.”

Brendan sent a suffering look heavenward. “You seldom do these days, Mara, me love.”

“And if I was listening to you all the time, I’d be stone deaf for sure,” Mara retorted with a laugh, making an effort to be better company.

“I’m glad I came,” Jenny said. She wasted no time cutting into the tenderloin of beef and washing it down with a sip of champagne. “But the way you two carry on,” she chuckled, her red curls bobbing and catching the light.

“Here, try some of this wine. ’Tis really what’s supposed to be proper with beef,” Brendan suggested, pouring some into Jenny’s glass. But Jenny shook her head.

“Oh, no, not me. I’ve never had champagne before so I’m not going to fill myself up with something else when I can have this instead.”

Brendan laughed as he took Jenny’s glass and emptied it into his. “Can’t stand to see liquor go to waste.”

“Now tell me again about that polecat who strayed into your tent that rainy night,” Jenny begged, thoroughly enjoying Brendan’s exaggerated descriptions.

With a broad smile Brendan obliged her, his eyes dancing with mirth. “And who am I to be denying me public?”

They were still laughing over his story when a tall shadow fell across the table and they glanced up to see the Swede standing before them. “Might I join you for a drink?”

“Certainly,” Brendan invited cordially, “’tis the best way of making friends. And as I said once before, I’d not care to have you for an enemy.”

The Swede sat down and graciously accepted a glass of champagne from Brendan. He smiled at Mara, hiding the longing in his blue eyes as he turned to Jenny. “I don’t believe we’ve met, ma’am,” he said politely. “I’m Karl Svengaard, called the Swede.”

Jenny laughed as he introduced himself, her laughter confusing him. “A fine memory you’ve got, Swede,” she teased him, feeling emboldened by her fine clothes, and perhaps the champagne bubbling inside her, “unless you purposely would like to forget about causing a brawl in my boardinghouse?”

The Swede’s mouth dropped open as he narrowed his eyes. Comprehension flooded through him as he recognized Jenny Markham. She didn’t look like Mara O’Flynn’s landlady now. “I should have guessed. That red hair is like no one else’s,” he laughed, but there was another look, not so humorous, as he continued to gaze at Jenny’s amazing transformation.

Why had he never seen her beauty before? It wasn’t the same kind of exotic beauty as Mara O’Flynn’s, but there was a delicate fineness in the bone structure of her heart-shaped face, and her lips were full and soft below a slightly retroussé nose. But what really gave beauty to her face was the warmth shining from her dark blue eyes and the hint of mischief trembling at the corners of her lips. She was definitely a changed woman, the Swede thought. “I guess the joke’s on me. Sorry, ma’am, for not recognizing you.”

“Sorry!” Jenny exclaimed. “I’m not. Going to all this trouble to get dressed up would have been for nothing if I looked the same.”

“More champagne!” Brendan ordered from a passing waiter.

Mara glanced at him worriedly. His hollow cheeks were flushed, yet she couldn’t tell if it was from too much wine or with fever. His dark eyes were glazed. He emptied his glass, yet his plate was still loaded with food.

Mara sighed, knowing from years of experience that nothing she could say would make any difference to Brendan. She took a sip of champagne and glanced idly around the crowded restaurant. Her golden eyes moved over the wide assortment of people without much interest until they made contact with a pair of eyes staring piercingly at her.

“Brendan,” Mara mumbled beneath her breath as she blindly reached out and grasped his arm, her fingers tightening around it in a surprisingly hard grip.

***

María Velazquez silently watched the party of four gathered around the crystal- and china-cluttered table. She recognized only two of the diners. They had changed a great deal in the years since she had last seen them.

The O’Flynns. It had to be. She’d thought she had forgotten that name, as well as the brother and sister she had known in London so many years ago. María Velazquez’s dark eyes lingered nostalgically on Brendan’s handsome face. He was still devilishly attractive, but he was far thinner than he used to be. The years seemed to have made a more cynical and experienced man of him. María’s eyes moved to the dark-haired woman beside Brendan, and she shook her head in disbelief. The fledgling chick had grown into a swan. But she shouldn’t be surprised. The O’Flynns had inherited their good looks from Maud O’Flynn, who in her day had been a famous beauty of the stage. Remembering the portraits she’d seen of the famed actress, María had to admit that Mara O’Flynn had surpassed her mother’s beauty. Her features were more refined, with just a touch of the exotic in the tilt of her eyes.

María Velazquez wondered if either of them would think she had changed much over the years. Would they remember her?

Brendan looked down at Mara’s fingers clenching his arm and then up into her face. Following her rapt stare, he looked to the object of her fascination.

Rubbing his bleary eyes, Brendan focused them more clearly on the woman sitting across the room. “Jaysus,” he breathed, “’tis Molly.”

Mara shook her head. “No, it can’t be her. It just can’t. Brendan, it isn’t her. Tell me ’tisn’t,” she pleaded, a premonition of danger snaking through her. But Brendan apparently felt none of her fear as he continued to stare at Molly O’Flynn, his dark eyes examining every detail of her appearance. For a breathless instant Mara had a feeling of dread that Brendan might still be in love with her. She needn’t have feared that, for when Brendan finally spoke, he was anything but complimentary.

“Who would’ve thought Molly would run to fat?” Brendan said contemptuously as he allowed his gaze to settle on the full breasts straining to escape from her low-cut bodice. “To be sure, the years haven’t been overly kind to her. Damn, but she looks older than me.”

Jenny caught Brendan’s sneering words and looked curiously between the two O’Flynns, noting their discomfiture. They stared at the strange woman at the other table, but it was Jenny who noticed Molly O’Flynn’s companion first. “Isn’t that the man you threw out of the boardinghouse?” she demanded of the Swede.

The Swede glanced across at the two people who seemed to be causing a slight stir at his table and shrugged. “Looks like the same fellow, although I see he’s keeping his distance tonight,” the Swede remarked, his eyes glowing in remembered satisfaction. “The woman, I think, is María Velazquez. Made a name for herself in Europe doing some kind of gypsy dance, although she’s more famous for her abilities as a courtesan than as a dancer,” the Swede commented casually. Then, remembering the company, the big man flushed uncomfortably. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Markham, Mara, I forgot myself for a moment.”

“María Velazquez?” Brendan repeated thoughtfully, a slight shadow of doubt entering his eyes. “Gypsy, hmmm?”

“I suppose she could have changed her name,” Mara said.

The Swede looked between the brother and sister thoughtfully. “You seem to know her.”

Brendan became aware that both the Swede and Jenny were staring at him curiously, suspecting something was amiss. “I thought she was someone we knew long ago, but the name isn’t the same.”

“As you well know, that doesn’t prove anything,” Mara said softly.

“To be sure, it doesn’t,” Brendan answered. Then, throwing his arm around Jenny’s shoulders, he cajoled, “Now come along, drink up, let’s all forget the past and enjoy this evening. The divil take me if I’m going to walk out of here sober,” Brendan warned mockingly as he refilled the Swede’s glass and Jenny’s. “I’d be interested in finding out how much a man your size can hold. Half of the whiskey in County Cork, I’d swear.”

The Swede smiled. Despite his reservations, he had to admit that Brendan O’Flynn was a charmer, full of blarney perhaps, but nonetheless entertaining. “Only County Cork? I’d have reckoned on all of Ireland.”

Brendan laughed in appreciation. “Now that’s what I like, a man with confidence, as well as one who can lie straight-faced.”

Mara listened to the joking, knowing Brendan was overdoing it as he sought to gather his wits about him. Neither of them believed that woman was not Molly. Mara cast a surreptitious look at the woman who sat talking with Jacques D’Arcy, their dark heads close together, and wondered worriedly what they were saying. Jacques D’Arcy, who bore a grudge against her, was the last person she wanted trading confidences with Molly.

“You seem rather interested in the O’Flynns,” Jacques remarked casually, his eyes resting on María Velazquez’s face. Surprise, disbelief, dismay, and finally speculation had moved over her features. She was thoughtfully chewing her thumbnail as she turned to him.

“So…they really are Brendan and Mara O’Flynn,” she said. Her husky voice trembled with underlying excitement. “What do you know about them, except that Brendan O’Flynn seems to be made of money? I can see that for myself,” she demanded as she saw Brendan order another bottle of champagne.

Jacques shrugged, an ugly look crossing his face. “He certainly spends it like there was no tomorrow. I suppose it doesn’t matter to him though. Heard tell he found a chunk of gold worth a hundred thousand dollars or more and is now living like a king at the St. Francis. He gambles away thousands of dollars nightly, not seeming to care whether he wins or loses—losing more than winning most of the time, I might say.”

“So Brendan’s rich,” Molly spoke softly, her eyes shining like black onyx.

“Brendan?” Jacques asked curiously. “You know the gentleman?”

Molly eyed the Frenchman with an enigmatic look. “María Velazquez, do you like the name?”

“Nothing wrong with it,” Jacques said impatiently. “Even sounds exotic.”

“Exactly. That’s why I made it up a couple of years ago,” Molly told him, laughing. “Did you know that Lola Montez, a personal friend of mine, was actually born in Ireland and her real name is Eliza Gilbert? And don’t you think that María Velazquez has more mystery to it than Molly O’Flynn?” she asked coyly.