Oscar (Members From Money Season 2, #160)

Prologue

When they first met…

The atmosphere was perfect or as perfect as one could hope for. Stringed instruments from an actual live band played a haunting Irish ballad designed to leak tears from the eyes. Several patrons, clearly returning ones, would join in the chorus and sing along.

The place was decorated in the Irish green with acres of floor space for dancing. It was set up like a traditional Irish pub with a robust looking man with a shock of red hair and dancing green eyes, cheerfully handled the counter, building pints and telling stories.

Further down the teak counter, a woman as slim as a sprite, with dense black hair and a wicked smile on her lovely face had made it into a competition.

O'Sullivan's was a fixture on Paddington Street and had been around for too many years to count.

Kiara had wanted anonymity, a chance to clear her head and get rid of the cobwebs.

She had been writing for two straight days, buried under research material and an imagination that seemed to have taken wings.

She had finally surfaced for air, when she received the call from her mother. She had contemplated not answering but knew the consequences of it. Dr. Victoria Landan would have continued calling. The woman was nothing if not persistent.

She had taken a corner booth so as not to be disturbed. A glass of Cabernet and a bowl of pretzels was in front of her. A few hopeful men had wandered over her way, but her coolly frosted glance had them backing away.

She didn't want company. She wanted to lose herself in the wine and the music. The band had changed to a lively jig that had her feet tapping under the table.

She was about to lift the wine and take a sip, when a shadow slanted over the table. With a snarl already building, she lifted her head and was stunned into silence. She knew who he was of course. Oscar O'Sullivan had been on the covers of too many magazines not to be recognized.

"The sexy billionaire pub owner" was what they called him, and she supposed it had merit.

Thick dark hair curled wildly around a narrow poet like face.

Winter green eyes, she supposed that's the best way to describe the eyes laughing down at her, were surrounded by sooty lashes more fitting for a female.

His face was tanned, the deep indentation in his firm chin adding to the charm.

Without invitation, he lowered his very tall and leanly muscled body across from her.

"It's an absolute sin for a beautiful woman to drink alone." His voice was deep with a faint Irish lilt. She had read somewhere that he divided his time between the states and Ireland.

Frowning in annoyance when he settled comfortably, she made her objection known.

"I like drinking alone."

"I recognized you as soon as you stepped over the threshold." Before she could move her hand, he had it trapped between his and the table.

Ignoring the flash of irritation, he continued.

"Bobby," he gestured to the flaming red haired bartender. "He noticed you first and pointed you out. He's also a fan."

"That's nice."

His grin was almost infectious. Almost.

"'Nice'? I tell you we're fans of your work and that's all you can say?"

"If I say wonderful, will you leave me alone?"

His grin widened. He had seen her walk with that loping way of a graceful gazelle, the jacket thick and shapeless, covering her to the knees. But Bobby, bless his remarkable talent for spotting celebrities, had noticed her immediately.

"No." His hand tightened when she tried to drag it away, causing her irritation to rise.

"Don't you have other patrons, is it? To harass?"

"I prefer to think of it as doing my civic duty." His green eyes danced merrily as they wandered over her flawless face. She had quite the face, he mused. Narrow with defined cheekbones and a pointed chin. Her eyes were what he would refer to as chocolate brown and dominated her features.

Her lips were full and slightly top heavy. Her diction was precise and preppy indicating a prep school education.

"Bartenders are like psychiatrists and we tend to get to the meat of the matter." His expression turned sober. "Want to tell me what's bothering you?"

Elegantly shaped brows lifted in derision.

"That's precisely what I want to do. Tell a perfect stranger my personal business."

"I'd like to think we're familiar with each other. As you know, I'm the owner of this esteemed establishment. Name is Oscar Murphy O'Sullivan. I'm thirty years old, single at the moment and looking for a beautiful woman to share my life and my bed."

Her lips curved slightly in spite of the annoyance running through her.

"You're looking in the wrong direction. I'm not interested."

"Sure?" Turning her hand over, he pried open the elegant fingers and studied the silver rings with the different stones decorating all her fingers including her thumb. "Shall I tell you what I see in your future?"

"Do you have a crystal ball?" He was charming and fascinating. She was going to have to watch her step. After the initial annoyance, she found herself enjoying his company. The band had changed the music to a soulful ballad that had violins weeping.

"Don't need one." He trailed a long finger over the lines and caused a frisson of awareness along her spine. "I see children."

"All right."

"With me as their father." His head lifted and had the laughter strangling inside her throat. "In the not too distant future."

"That's very entertaining. Now will you please let go of my hand?" She was alarmed at the way her heart was behaving.

"Don't you want to hear the rest?" he asked softly. What had started out as a joke and light banter was turning serious very fast.

"I really don't." She tugged.

"There's so much more that needs to be said. Why don't you have dinner with me tomorrow?"

"I have plans."

His brows creased.

"You're involved with someone?"

She grabbed at that and did not even care that it was cowardly.

"Yes."

His eyes narrowed on her face.

"As a trained bartender, I can tell when someone's lying. Now why would you feel the need to?"

Her eyes flashed dangerously.

"I don't owe you a damn explanation."

His thick brows lifted.

"I'd say that as the man who's going to father your child, I have every right to the truth."

She tugged more firmly and this time succeeded in dragging her hand away. Even though he was no longer holding her, she could still feel the heat.

"Well, this has been fun." Sliding from the booth, she rose. And tried not to retreat when he blocked her exit.

"Give me a number."

She had to lift her head several inches to meet his gaze.

"I'm not interested."

"You're only delaying the inevitable." He sounded so sober, that she felt a frisson of anxiety slicing through her heart, which was ridiculous. She was not about to weaken for a pretty face. She had bigger problems to deal with.

"Get out of my way." She was prepared to shove him aside when he moved.

"I'll be seeing you soon."

The conviction in his deep voice had her turning to stare at him for a few seconds, before hurrying off.

"Struck out, did you, mate?" Bobby grinned, wide face creasing as he came back around the counter. "The lady looked seriously pissed when she left."

"She'll get over it." With a wide grin, he nodded to a regular and started building a pint. "I think I've just met my soul mate, and the mother of my children."

The last thing on Kiara's mind was the gorgeous bartender. After leaving the bar the night before, she had gone home to bury herself in work. She had a deadline coming up and had been unable to concentrate on her writing.

It wasn't writer's block at all. If that was the case, she could have dealt. Her mother was getting more and more under her skin.

Pushing away from the desk, she scraped the waist length braids and twisted them into a knot, piling the heavy mass on top of her head. Wrapping the old and comfortable robe more securely around her, she went into the tidy little kitchen to make herself a pot of tea.

Her house always surprised people and even her editor who was her best friend.

"Honey, you're raking in the big dough. Two books made into a series and three more on the NY bestsellers list and you live like this."

They didn't understand that she liked the coziness, the quaint cottage like structure had caught her eye and held it for more than one reason.

It was private and had a huge yard. She needed the space to help her creative juices to flow.

She loved gardening, considered it another form of creative outlet.

It was early spring. The winter had dragged its icy feet, the first three months of the year had been filled with snow storms, icy temperatures, so much so that at times it felt as if one was inhaling glass.

The temperature was still a little too low for spring, with the forecaster warning that there still might be some snow left yet, but she was hopeful.

Plucking the kettle off the stove, she turned the knob off and poured the steaming water over the pouch. Her effort to push her mother's cruel words away had not succeeded.

Sitting on the stool, she blew at the steam and closed her eyes briefly.

Her therapist had told her that she was still seeking her mother's approval. Something she had not wanted to hear. She was a grown ass woman of twenty-eight and was successful in her own right.

She had been a respectable historian. Hadn't she held a prestigious position at an exclusive private college imparting knowledge to eager minds? The first and only black woman to hold the position of head of the history department at that particular institute of higher learning.

But had that impressed her mother? Had it gained her the respect she deserved from the woman who had given her birth? She mused bitterly and sipped. Of course not. Nothing she did pleased Dr. Victoria Landan, and she was starting to painfully realize that it did not matter what she did.