The Celtic Contract: A Kilts Book, #1

By Jeanie M. Martin

When Irish singer and star Liam Donahue meets reclusive Claire Regan, he uses every trick in his arsenal to win her love. And when she's threatened by an enemy from her past, he'll stop at nothing to save her --even from herself.

Claire is on a mission, and no one, not even the sexy "bad boy,"  is going to get in her way. But when she's forced to sign a contract that puts her in direct contact with Liam every day, all bets are off.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeanie M. Martin
• Release date: Jan 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781500541033

Jeanie M. Martin

Jeanie Martin lives in Tacoma, Washington. She has a daughter, and soon-to-be son-in-law, and spends her nights driving in circles. Her interests include reading, languages (especially ASL and Irish) and listening to the music of Celtic Thunder (Thunderheads!), Ryan Kelly, Neil Byrne, Colm Keegan, Emmet Cahill, and Josh Groban. She has been taking classes in Irish, Irish History, and Music Theory from Colm, through his CKonLine Teaching website. She highly recommends his classes. Facebook:  www.facebook.com/jmartinstories Twitter: m_jeanie11 Instagram: Jeanie.martin.714 Email:  [e-mail]

Book preview

Chapter One

Claire Regan heaved her blue, overnight suitcase into the trunk—no, boot, she corrected herself—of her black Dacia Duster and slammed the door. Four months into her exile on The Emerald Isle and she still didn’t quite grasp the terminology. Or maybe she just didn’t care anymore.

Shaking off the pessimistic thought with difficulty, she hiked the strap of her heavy, oversized purse higher on her shoulder and walked towards the driver’s side.

Well, it would’ve been the driver’s side if she was still back home in the States. Irritated now, she continued her walk around the Duster to the side she was supposed to be on. She considered herself to be very adaptable—she had to be, really—but the simple task of remembering which side of the car the steering wheel was on always seemed to elude her. Thank goodness, the same wasn’t true for which side of the road was correct.

Claire unlocked the door and placed her bag onto the passenger seat, settling her 5’5, 120-lb frame comfortably behind the wheel. As had become her habit, she took a quick but thorough look around, assessing the dangers. There was a blue BMW behind her vehicle, preparing to pull out, and Claire quickly jotted down the license plate number on the notepad she kept on the dash for just this reason. She then reached into her bag and withdrew her only companion on this self-imposed journey—her gun—and hid it under her seat. Having it nearby was comforting. And necessary.

She started the car and pulled carefully into traffic, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror.  Dividing her attention between the mirror and the road, she only relaxed after the BMW turned off onto a side street and it was clear she wasn’t being followed.

Damn, she hated this life.

Catching a glimpse of her face in the mirror, she straightened the scarf at her throat—a light green one that matched the color of her Irish eyes, when they weren’t hidden by the blue-tinted contacts she wore—and tried to smooth the lines that dared to show between her brows and at the corners. She brushed the strands of her dark-brown hair back from her forehead with her left hand and realized it was time to have her hair done. Those obnoxious gray hairs were beginning to show again. At thirty-four, she should expect to find a few, but still!

Not that it mattered much. There was no one to care anyway. 

Directing her attention back to the road, she slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid hitting the sheep that had ambled out in her path.

Stupid sheep, she muttered. They were everywhere.

The sheep had frozen with a, well, sheep-in-the-headlights look that Claire was sure was reflected in her own eyes. A reluctant smile started across her lips at the image that thought provoked before she squelched the impulse. Claire lifted a hand in apology to the shepherd justifiably shaking his fist at her and carefully maneuvered around both man and beast, continuing on her way.

Bye, Derry, Claire said aloud. She had enjoyed her time in this beautiful historic town, although she had tried hard not to. Named Derry or Londonderry, depending on whom you asked and which political ties they held, it was a place where a person could feel like he or she was walking through history. She had followed the seventeenth century stone wall, still complete and intact, a mile round and eighteen feet thick, that had encircled the much-embattled and besieged land and marveled at the deep spirituality of the land there. The wall enclosed the city within the city, and the old charm of the place harmonized with the modern feel without fail. The people there were so genuinely kind, Claire had almost given in once, and joined her coworkers for a pint after work.

But she had been strong.

She would have loved to linger here, play tourist. She had enjoyed her time, too, at Our Lady of Knock; working to help set up a new computer program had been rewarding. But it was time for her to go. She had started to feel too comfortable, too much at home. And that wasn’t safe.

Arriving at a crossroads, she debated just long enough to irritate the motorcyclist behind her (no danger there—he had just appeared) and made a quick decision. She would take the A5 towards Donegal. Punching the button to play the song she had picked out for this moment, she settled back for the drive as Liam Donahue and Séamus Kierney’s version of Back Home in Derry began to play.

***

One week later

Jenny, the secretary of Our Lady of Knock Catholic Church was thumbing through the mail when she noticed an envelope with no return address. Curious, she opened this one first, using a letter opener to carefully slit the top of the envelope and then removed the contents inside.

A second later, Jenny was on her feet and running to Father Jack’s office. Inside the envelope was a check for the exact amount of the cost to replace the leaky, sagging roof.

Across town, single mother Siobhán Kelly opened an envelope of her own and began to cry. Siobhán’s daughter, Mikayla, had been sick for several months and Siobhán’s savings had run out. She had been forced to quit her job so she could take care of Mikayla. Now they were solely dependent on the goodwill of neighbors and friends.

The check inside the envelope eliminated that need. There was enough there to more than cover their expenses for at least a year.

***

Two months and three towns later, Claire handed over the last file to Father Mike and said with a polite smile, Good night, Father. I’ll be back in the morning, if you need me.

Sure, and we’ll be needin’ ya, Claire. You’ve been a big help, Father Mike replied, a warm smile of his own lighting up his eyes. I’m wishing we had more lasses like you to be volunteering.

I’m happy to help.

And we are grateful, dear. And now, he continued as they walked together toward the exit of St. Agatha’s School, will you be attendin’ the masquerade tonight, then?

Claire shook her head. Oh, no. I, uh...I don’t really go for that sort of thing, she explained. I’m planning a quiet night in, as usual. Or as quiet as she could, considering the entire town of Galway would be on the streets, celebrating May Day. This morning, Claire had been charmed to find a traditional May Day basket, filled with fresh flowers and candy, in front of her door. This year, Galway was combining the annual first Monday of May celebration with a masquerade and the staff at St. Agatha’s had been planning their costumes for weeks.

Father Mike stopped, causing Claire to stop as well, and put a kind hand on her shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice Claire’s automatic flinch.

Claire, he said quietly. Do not let whatever has caused you this pain you’re holding to stop yourself from enjoying life every now and again. And besides, it’ll be great craic.

She loved that word—craic. Pronounced crack, it meant having a great time, or having fun. For a long time after arriving in Ireland, Claire had thought nearly everyone was on drugs, especially when people kept talking about having the craic. When she had finally figured out what the word had meant, she had actually smiled.

Claire raised her eyes to the pastor’s soft green ones, and found kindness and compassion. Fighting back an unwelcome surge of tears she said softly, "Thank ye, er, you, Father, but I’m pretty pooped—er, knackered. Claire blushed and continued, Besides, I’ve got a great book at the Bed and Breakfast I haven’t even opened yet."

A great book, is it? Well, and that’s all fine, I suppose. I wish you a good evening, then, Father Mike answered, then held up a finger. But, if you should change your mind and want to be joining in the ri-ra, it just so happens that Moira has an extra rig for you.

He was referring to the owner of the inn where Claire was staying. Moira’s Bed and Breakfast was a lovely brick building that sadly was falling into disrepair. Claire loved it, though. She could have easily stayed at a more expensive hotel, where everything worked like it should, but she loved the character of the place, and Moira was a wonderful woman. Despite all of Claire’s efforts to keep disengaged, turning down invitations and staying in her room, the landlady’s unfailing good humor and persistence in gently trying to encourage Claire to relax and take some time for herself were slowly winning her over.

That’s sweet of her, she began, "but I really am tired. Thanks, all the same. I’ll see ye, er you, in the morning."

Father Mike laughed, a deep belly laugh at odds with his slight athletic frame, as he opened the door for Claire.

Well, and even if we cannot convince ya to join in the hooley, at least you’re beginning to sound like one of us. Good night, lass. See you in the mornin’, but not too early, mind. I’ve a mind to be out tonight, as well.

Got it, Claire agreed. Not too early. Good night, Father, she said, and she walked away, unconsciously touching the blue scarf wrapped around her neck. 

Though she should have driven her car, Claire chose to walk to and from the church each time she volunteered. As she walked back to the B&B tonight, Claire was intensely aware of every conceivable danger, her eyes assessing the dark doorways, alley openings and vehicles parked on the narrow streets. She took no note of the buildings’ architecture, the salty sea air or the excitement in the crowd, except to keep a firm grip on the bag she had protectively slung in front of her body.

Claire squinted against the late evening sunshine and chose one of the routes she used to get to her lodgings. She varied her route each day, and each time she traveled, never following a pattern. Tonight, she chose the most direct route to her temporary home, the thought of even more partiers on the streets made her anxious.  Reaching the relative safety of Moira’s, Claire climbed the three steps and pulled open the door, walking inside. She greeted Aunt Moira with a nod but didn’t stop as she started her three-flight stair climb to her room. The lift was broken down again, and Claire couldn’t help but notice the peeling paint, cracked plaster and general disrepair as she automatically avoided the squeaky board seven steps up. She had an important call to make, and the time difference was tricky.

Chapter Two

Liam Donahue was running for his life. He had thought he was safe here in Galway; after all, his home was much farther north and east and that’s where he figured they’d be looking for him. But somehow, he’d been spotted and now he blessed his habit of running every day for his ability to sustain this pace through the crowds of people here on May Day. Sending up a silent but fervent prayer for help, he deked and juked his way through the masked partiers and cursed his own hide.

Whatever had possessed him to dress in the pirate costume from one of his Kilts shows today? His aunt had insisted, but he could’ve done something else. He had hoped he wouldn’t be recognized, had even begun to feel smug as stranger, friend and fan had passed him by, the only notice they took of him the sort people do when seeing someone they thought attractive. Liam knew women found him handsome, but he truly did not understand the sheer sexual magnetism he presented in his black, loose trousers, white shirt open to his navel and green vest.   Maybe it was the green sash he wore tied around his waist. Maybe it was the black mask he wore that got their attention, highlighting as it did his changeable blue-grey-green eyes.

Maybe, thought Liam, I should focus on escaping and not what I’m wearing.

Keep your alans on, Liam muttered to himself, ignoring the startled look from the lad in the seventh Daniel O’Connell costume he had seen that night. Risking a look behind him, he was relieved to find the ravenous group of women was not in sight and he leaned tiredly against the brick wall of the building he was standing near, his back just touching a poster taped to the wall. He hadn’t eaten since noon and now it was close to eight o’clock. He was famished.

Gratefully breathing in the salty sea air, overlaid as it was with more than a hint of old fish, he glanced across the street into the window of a tea shoppe there and froze. Avidly ogling him, their eyes flitting from his face to something on his left, were at least fifteen pairs of mascaraed eyes; what’s worse, they seemed to be a whole different group than the ladies who had been chasing him.

Wondering what they were looking at, besides himself, he glanced at the poster on the wall beside him and cursed out loud. It was a picture of him, dressed in this same costume! The lettering below the picture said he’d be in town that day and would be signing autographs for as long as was necessary. It also said one lucky lady would get a kiss, and he groaned in disbelief. That explained it, then. Who the hell put that poster up?  Savagely, he ripped it down from the wall.

Unfortunately, this just confirmed to the women in the shoppe that they were indeed looking at the one and only Liam Donahue, and he watched as a swift, unholy light of glee began racing into each of their eyes. Running a hand through his dark, wavy hair, he thought rather hysterically that sometimes the price of fame wasn’t worth it. He loved his fans, he really did, but c’mon!

Just then, the door to the tea shoppe opened and women in all shapes and sizes began pouring out, almost running over each other in an effort to get to him first. The noise was unbelievable. Screeches and giggles, and shouts of Liam! It’s him! rang out, echoing back from the buildings he was surrounded by.

Letting out a half laugh, half cry, Liam dropped the poster and made a run for it again. As he dodged through the crowds—Jaysus, town was black!—he instinctively headed for his aunt’s business, hoping that her invitation to join her for this holiday meant that the inn would be open and he could hide there. Rounding the corner, the ladies still somehow in pursuit —some of them were using walkers(!)—he found himself skidding to a stop, gobsmacked. Milling ‘round the front entrance of his Aunt Moira’s inn were twenty more women.

He was surrounded.

Desperately, he ducked into a group of revelers passing by, trying to blend in, but the squeals of Liam! and Kiss me, Liam! told him it was too late. He was screwed. And worse, now he was fair shattered. His daily runs hadn’t prepared him for the constant bobbing and weaving required of him to negotiate the crowds.

Great cross training, though. Wonder how I can fit this into my schedule, he mused with a slightly crazed laugh and he bolted again. Good thing he knew this town almost as well as his own. Ducking into the alleyway on his right, he legged it for all he was worth—his goal the back door to his Cousin Gus’ pub and, hopefully, sanctuary.

Finally reaching his haven, Liam looked both ways, then eased open the door and stepped inside the welcoming, yeasty-smelling interior of the tavern. This was the place to stay easy, he was sure. He knew he had made it inside before any of the women had appeared around the corner, and Galway had its fair share of pubs—chances were they would pick the wrong one.

Confidently making his way down the hallway into the taproom, noting with a smile the picture of himself that hung on one of the walls, alongside fellow Irish singer Ryan Kelly’s, he found space at the far end of the bar to lean against and signaled to Gus. Pushing his mask up onto his forehead briefly to help alleviate the sweat pouring down his face, he answered the bartender’s harried smile of welcome with his own knackered one and waited for his Guinness, his mouth watering.

But as he watched Gus fill his tankard with the Black, he heard a sound that made his heart sink. It was the sound of many, many women chattering excitedly, and he glanced at Gus to verify his suspicion. Sure, he was right; Gus’ eyes had widened dramatically. Liam heaved a weary sigh. He carefully glanced over his shoulder, trying not to draw attention to himself.

Women were pouring through the front doors, all wearing Kilts merchandise. They had found him.

Hell, muttered Liam. What more could they want? For more than two hours, he had signed the albums, pictures and posters they had presented to him, politely declining the only place he wouldn’t touch—ehm, autograph—breasts. And there were so many of them! He had wielded his considerable charm to let the ladies down easily, but they were a persistent lot. Although he appreciated a good set like any other guy, he wanted to be the one to do the chasing, flattering to his ego though the attention was.

Thinking back to the poster he had found, he realized now that he could have never satisfied them. They were each waiting for the promised kiss. Who the hell had put those posters up, anyway?

Keeping his head down, Liam started to make his escape yet again when he literally bumped into one of the ladies. At least seventy if she was a day, she sported iron-grey, tightly permed curls and wore practically the whole contents of the Kilts clothing catalogue. For a brief, startled moment, their eyes locked and Liam found himself praying again, to no avail. Letting out an earsplitting screech sure to have riled every cat and dog in a ten-kilometer radius, she lunged for his arm and Liam fled, hastily yanking the mask back down over his face in a gesture he knew was as useless as a chocolate teapot. They were in pursuit.

He knew there was a room upstairs, usually used for locals who had had one drop too many of the pure, and this was to where he ran. It had everything he needed—a toilet, sofa, table and piped telly. Best of all, the door locked.

Not bothering to ask for permission, Liam raced up the stairs, the hounds of hell at his feet. He dove at the door, flung it open and then slammed it shut, throwing the bolt just in time. Heaving a sigh of relief, he rested his forehead on the closed door, and softly but comprehensively, listed every single curse he could think of in Irish and English. It was an impressive list of invectives. And then he heard from behind him in the room a soft but firm command.

Get out.

Chapter Three

Abruptly pulled out of her dark thoughts caused by the tone of the phone call she had just completed—an impromptu call that shouldn’t have happened—by a knock on the door, Claire hastily wiped away the last of her tears and blew her nose. Picking up her gun, she stood up, holding the weapon down at her side and thumbing the safety off. Spying through the peephole, Claire recognized the plump face in her sight, the woman’s brown eyes twinkling merrily straight at her. Claire engaged the safety, then tucked the gun into her waistband at her back. She opened the door.

Oomph, Claire grunted, as Moira shoved a large dress box into her arms. She took the box, mostly out of self-preservation, and asked, What’s this, Moira? I didn’t order anything.

And don’t you think I know that, dearie, myself being the one that signs for all those packages the girls downstairs be getting every week? This is the get-up Father Mike was telling you about, Claire. For the masquerade, she added, unnecessarily. Sure, you’re goin’ to the party? It’ll do your heart good to be getting out.

Oh, Moira, Claire protested. I don’t think—-

At least you’ll be needing to make your visit to Gus’ Pub. Do it in the costume? Mingled with the cajoling notes in Moira’s lovely, lilting voice was a thread of steel.

Uh oh, thought Claire. How did she know about her visits to Gus’ place—and how the heck was she going to get out of this?

But, Moira, I’m—-

No buts, dear. Don’t be narky, now. You just try on the dress, fix yourself up a bit —you’ve been at the cryin’ again, I see— and get yourself down to Gus’. For my sake, if nothing else. Moira played her final, diabolical card all while smiling innocently at Claire.

Claire gave in.

Okay. I guess it couldn’t hurt to try it on. As Claire backed into her room, she saw Moira beaming at her, and there was a smug, satisfied glint in her eye. Sighing with a mixture of exasperation and humor at her predicament, she shut the door and opened the box to find the most beautiful gown she had seen in a long time, nestled in the tissue paper within. Meant to be worn off the shoulder, it had a bodice of deep teal satin, with a soft white ruff of fluff along the low neckline. The skirt was full and was made of a lighter teal sprinkled with silver sparkles.

Tucked inside the box with the dress, wrapped in tissue, were a pair of-–wait, really? They were! Glass slippers! Well, they were plastic, really, but the effect was the same. Alongside the shoes was a black silk mask, dusted with teal & silver sprinkles, and silver ties. 

Claire hurriedly undressed. Thank goodness, she had treated herself to a mani/pedi a few days ago. At the time, it had just been a way to get out of yet another invitation to go have a pint with the other ladies after work. Now the pale rose she had chosen for her fingers and the scarlet red she had whimsically picked for her toes seemed like a sign.

Standing in just her bra and panties in front of the dress mirror hanging on the back of the armoire door, Claire carefully lowered the dress over her head. The result had her staring in disbelief. The bodice accentuated her curves and lifted her breasts, edged in the white fluff, to an almost indecent level. The bra was going to have to go, though. She didn’t own a strapless one, so she unhooked the one she was wearing and took it off, surveying the results critically. Her breasts were still supported by the dress’ bodice, and throwing caution to the winds, she decided to let the girls go unfettered.

Carefully sitting down on the wooden chair in front of her empty dresser —she always kept herself packed— she reached for the shoes. These proved to be slightly too small, but she walked in them a few times and decided they would do. Besides, her sin-red toenails peeping through the slippers’ opening made her feel sexy.

The dress left her shoulders and neck bare, though. For the first time, Claire was tempted to go without a scarf. Examining the marks in the mirror still visible on her neck convinced her she wasn’t ready to go without that coverage and she rooted through her collection to find something suitable. Finding a black satin scarf, she looped it round her neck and let the ends hang down her back.

Glancing at her reflection, Claire caught sight of the excitement in her eyes and her smile faded. What was she doing? She was not here to have fun; she had a mission to accomplish and getting dressed up was not part of it. She wished she could talk to Charlie and Dani; they’d know what to do. But she really did need to go to Gus’ Pub.

Well, then, she wouldn’t have fun, Claire decided. She’d just go out and take care of her nightly ritual and return. The dress would help her blend in with everyone else. Still, it couldn’t hurt to fix herself up a bit. Though she knew this was a cop-out, she picked up her brush and ran it through her shoulder-length dark brown hair, and then pinned her hair up in an impromptu twist. All the crying she had done earlier had left her cheeks splotchy and her eyes puffy. She would have to fix these too, she thought, and set to work.

She outlined her eyes in black, applied just a touch of shimmering eye shadow and some blush...and then ruined it all when she decided to take out her contacts. She took out the non-prescription blue-tinted contacts she was wearing and started all over again on her eyes, now her normal emerald-green, and finished with a swipe of mascara. Finally, although she hated the stuff, she added lip gloss and decided she would do.

Carefully tying the mask at the back of her head, she stepped back from the mirror and took a good long look at herself. The overall effect caused her to catch her breath—she didn’t even recognize herself. Restlessly, she shrugged off the thought that her new appearance went with the new name she hadn’t gotten used to, despite having had it for more than a year now.

Turning from the mirror, she noticed something else in the corner of the box and went to go see, carefully stepping in her glass slippers. It was a clutch, made of black satin, with a silver chain hooking the sides together. Picking up the little purse, Claire blinked in surprise. That wasn’t a silver chain—it was tiny handcuffs, joined together to create a handle.

Moira, you naughty lady!  Claire surprised herself by almost laughing out loud, as she transferred the most important items from her bag —keys, Euros, gun, and phone— into her new accessory and slung the tiny-handcuff chain over her shoulder.

Taking a deep breath, then hastily putting the girls back to bed —only shallow breaths allowed tonight!— she left her room and locked the door, remembering to put the tells in place. No one should ever be in her room, even Moira, and Claire had set up little traps to ensure she would notice if they had.

Reaching the bottom landing, she glanced up to see Father Mike and Moira standing at the desk, jaws agape with identical looks of shock. Their expressions caused Claire to stumble, and Father Mike hurried to catch her arm.

Ehm, Father Mike uttered, face turning red. Right, there y’are, miss. Have you by any chance seen Claire?

Moira elbowed him and hissed, "That is Claire, you dope. I think," she finished doubtfully, her eyes taking in the apparent transformation of her duckling into a swan.

Claire backed up in alarm. Umm, I’ll just go and change, I... and she turned around, intending to flee to safety.

Oh no ye don’t! You’re just a sight prettier, ehm, you look lovely, Claire, Moira stumbled to a halt, then gamely continued.  "You’re still going to go to the pub, Gus’ Pub, like you promised, aren’t you?"

Claire wondered why Moira had stressed that particular place again, but said, I only promised you I’d try it on, Moira. Besides, don’t you think it’s too much? The doubt in Claire’s voice mingled with hope, although she wasn’t sure just what she was hoping for.

No, muttered Father Mike. I mean to say, you look beautiful, and you should go enjoy yourself —just don’t go getting yourself buckled, he warned, smiling.

H-okay, Claire agreed doubtfully. What the heck did buckled mean? I won’t stay long, but I guess it couldn’t hurt. Moira, Claire added, "what do I owe ye, er you, for this dress?"

Oh, g’wan with ye now. You owe me not a bob. I’m glad, I am, that you like it. And ‘twould be a shame to waste it and not wear it tonight.

Claire mentally added the cost of the dress to the amount she’d gift Moira with later, and thanked her landlady. Pausing at the desk, she hesitated, wanting to hug the landlady for her kindness, but couldn’t make herself do it. She had no idea how to initiate a hug. She finally just smiled awkwardly and made her way outside.

She didn’t see the look the two inside shared, or Moira reach for her