An Irish Contract Read online

  An Irish Contract

  Tee Smith

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  An Irish Contract

  Original story appeared in the Tempting Luck Anthology.

  Copyright by Tee Smith 2018 ©

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer quoting brief passages for review purposes only.

  Edited by Leticia Sidon

  Cover design by LKO Designs

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Afterword

  Also by Tee Smith

  Chapter One

  It had been a million years. Well, at least it felt that way. Standing here now, looking up at the old house, feeling that crisp breeze as it licked her cheeks, all the memories came flooding back.

  The terraced gardens had been left to ramble, the weeds were growing over, the moss rocks now appearing more moss than rock. An ache caught in her chest at she thought of poor old Gran no longer able to tend her precious hollyhocks. She knew she should have returned earlier. Now it was too late. Poor old Molly Mae, whiled away in this big old lonely house all alone with her broken heart. Not that there was much else that could be done. Gran was a stubborn old woman; once she’d made up her mind about something, that was the way it was. She wouldn’t hear of allowing Isla to return to Ireland to take care of her. She had made no secret that she thought Isla should return to Tramore but not in the form of a nurse-maid. Gran would rather pay a stranger to take care of her than burden what she saw as a menial task on her beloved granddaughter.

  Molly Mae had been born into money. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth some would say. The only child of a rich oil merchant and a model mother. She kept her amazing looks and equally amazing humility with her, right up until the end. It had broken her heart when her daughter married an Australian man, and they had immigrated to Australia. Even so, she barely mentioned it because that was the way with Molly. “Ner shoulder some poor soul with yer burdens m’dear,” she would say.

  Closing her eyes, Isla could still hear the sound of her voice. Her thick Irish tone. “I ner have an accent, Isla girl. You’ve just been living in Kangaroo-land too long.”

  Taking the sweeping stone steps one by one to the grand old home she wondered if the spare key was still kept in its place. Tracing her palm over the rough stone facade near the door, she found the one which she knew protruded, only ever so slightly. It may have been many years, but some things never changed. Allowing her fingers to graze the smooth edge, she dug her nails in, waiting for the weight of the stone to give. She felt like a child reaching for a lucky-dip prize, hoping she would win the jackpot. Just as her fingers closed around the familiar cold, hard metal, a throat cleared at her back.

  Startled she stumbled back, her foot slipped beneath her, and suddenly she was tumbling through the air. As if time were standing still, she anticipated the pain she knew was to come when her butt hit the hard slate below.

  “Steady there,” came a deep masculine voice as strong hands scooped around her, bringing her back to rights.

  Looking up she found the eyes of her saviour smiling down at her. Pretty grey eyes.

  “Thank you, ahh?” she floundered, having no idea who this man was. Quickly realising he still held tight to her forearm, she hastily freed herself before extending her hand to shake. “Isla Finnegan, and you are?” she probed, feeling somewhat peeved that he had not already made an effort to introduce himself.

  “Fraser Fosbury, attorney,” he finally replied, his grey eyes dancing across her face and settling on her lips.

  Isla shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly feeling awkward under his gaze.

  “Attorney?” she asked for clarification, unsure as to why she needed it. After all, she knew why she was here. Perhaps she had expected someone far older to be Gran’s lawyer. This guy looked to be in his late thirties, not much older than herself.

  The call had come late at night to tell her, her beloved grandmother had passed away peacefully in her sleep. She found that hard to believe; Molly Mae had never done anything peacefully in her entire life. Not even her last will and testament apparently. The woman who called had instructed that she be present at O’Reilly house for the reading. Those were the only instructions she would pass along, other than advising that she would be handsomely reimbursed for her trouble. There was little doubt in her mind that Gran would provide for her in her will, and if she were honest with herself, she wasn’t all too surprised that she had made provisions to bring her back to the old country. One way or another, Molly Mae always liked to have the final word.

  “Shall we?” Fraser asked gesturing toward the door.

  With the realisation she still held the key tight in her grip, she held it up, showing him her new-found treasure. The crinkle creasing his brow indicated his confusion, as he shook his thoughts from his head and took a step closer to the grandiose entrance way and produced a key of his own.

  Of course, he would have a key. Why wouldn’t he? Plunging the precious metal piece back into her pocket she moved toward the doorway. Stopping to admire the way the sun caught in the ageing led-light. Gently she traced a finger over the pebbled glass. Memories of her childhood flooded her mind. Why had she not taken more time to appreciate the finer things about her gran’s amazing home? Most people were awed by the massive arching doorframe or the palatial staircase, complete with gold-plated iron balustrades that led to the second floor. But the small things that she knew about this place were more important to her. O’Reilly house was more than a grand old piece of architecture to her, it was home. Her favourite place had been the alcove under the stairs where as a young girl, she had hidden to read. She wondered if Gran ever found the stash of romance novels she had borrowed from her library and hidden under the bench seat her father had installed.

  Lost in her memories, when she heard Fraser speak, she didn’t absorb his words. It was only the familiar sound of tyres crunching on the gravel driveway that jolted her back to the present.

  “Oh, good, he’s here now,” he mumbled, and she assumed he, must be whoever it was, Fraser had been talking about during her little excursion to the past.

  Turning on her heel to address her partnering benefactor, she was stopped dead in her tracks, a sinking feeling settling in her stomach. For all her romanticizing her childhood memories, the vision before her was not so welcome.

  The years had changed him, he had filled out a little. His features had become more manly. He was still devastatingly handsome, with his chiselled jaw and high cheekbones. His hair, still tinged in that all too familiar Irish red, was neatly groomed. There was no doubt in her mind that his beautiful green eyes had been her undoing all those years ago.

  Straightening his suit jacket and adjusting his neck-tie, he closed his car door and made the short walk towards the house. Had he known she would be there? He had to have known. After all, it was her grandmother’s house, but that didn’t explain why he
was here.

  “Isla,” he muttered curtly with a nod of his head as if he had seen her every day for the past ten years. “Fraser,” he nodded to the man at her side, extending his hand in a shake.

  “It’s good to see you again, Darcy. Shall we?” Fraser asked, sweeping his hand in front of him, ushering them both into the house.

  Stepping through the doorway, she instinctively felt for spring in the loose floorboard. Somehow Gran always heard that floorboard no matter how quiet she had been while sneaking in late at night, usually having met up for a rendezvous down by the clearing near the cliff.

  “An’ where yer been young lassie?” she would call out from somewhere in the darkness. “Did that boy give yer a kiss?”

  A cold gust of ocean air whipped around them, blowing loose strands of hair across her face, and she quickly swept them away as she moved further into the house, allowing for Fraser to close the door behind them.

  The house smelled musty as if it had been closed for a long time. A fine layer of dust appeared to cover every visible surface causing Isla’s heart to twist in her chest. Molly Mae had been fastidious about housework, always making certain the house was pristine; dust was something she would never have tolerated. Allowing a finger to skim over the surface of a low lying buffet, she made a mental note to take a cloth to it at her first opportunity.

  Following aimlessly as if she had no idea where to go, Fraser led them into the large open dining space. It had been years, and she felt oddly like the stranger in the house, yet conversely, she felt at home.

  * * *

  “Thank you for coming all this way. I’m glad you could both make the journey. As you are aware, you are here to witness the reading of the last will and testament of Molly Mae O’Reilly,” Fraser announced before clearing his throat.

  “I don’t know why I had to come all the way back to Ireland for the reading and why this couldn’t have been done through our lawyers,” Isla grumbled, shooting a wary glance across the table.

  “I understand,” Fraser nodded. “Ms. O’Reilly has expressly asked for you both to be present for the reading. I can assure you that you will both be handsomely rewarded for your encumbrance.”

  The screech of wood on slate drew her attention back to Darcy as he shifted in his chair. The nervous tick in his jaw told her he was just as uncomfortable with the situation as she was. Why he needed to be here was beyond her. He was not related to Gran. What right could he possibly have?

  “I, Molly Mae O’Reilly, declare this is my last will and testament,” Fraser read aloud. The official tone of his voice caused her skin to prickle.

  Isla’s eyes flashed to Darcy, who looked straight ahead, fixated on the man speaking.

  “It is my express wishes that the assets being O’Reilly house and all its chattels be distributed evenly between my only grandchild, Isla Finnegan, and her husband, Darcy Finnegan.

  I declare the proceeds of the property may be sold or kept as either party chooses. However, it is a contract of my estate that both parties remain living within the property, O’Reilly estate, for no less than six months.”

  “That is outrageous,” Darcy piped up before Isla had the chance to express those thoughts herself.

  Holding his hand up in front of himself, Fraser continued. “This is to be monitored by Mister Fosbury, my attorney, and executor. If it is deemed that either party fails to comply with my express wishes, my entire estate is to be forfeited and the monies distributed evenly between a list of charities, so attached in Appendix A.” He nodded his head to the loose leaf paper that lay on the table in front of him.

  “What if I contest?” Isla argued, confusion clouding her thoughts.

  “If there is any contestation of these wishes, all assets and monies will be forfeited immediately.”

  Darcy’s eyes widened and flashed toward her for the first time. Those pale green depths. Where did the man get off, having such ridiculously amazing eyes? She would have to steel herself. She would not get sucked in. Not this time. Tearing her gaze away, she turned back to the man at the head of the table.

  “This must convene some kind of civil liberties. She can’t expect me to share a house with him.” Her gaze hardened as they both stared back in Darcy’s direction, determined not to make eye contact this time.

  Nodding at the paper in his hands, Fraser replied coolly. “I assure you, Missus Finnegan, this is all entirely legal. The current value of the O’Reilly estate is an estimated five…”

  “Five hundred thou? Is that all?” Darcy interrupted before he had a chance to finish speaking.

  With an eerie calmness that only lawyers seemed to possess, Fraser displayed the palm of his hand and continued speaking. “Five million euro, to be exact, Mister Finnegan.”

  Isla’s eyes shot back to Darcy whose jaw had slacked in a state of shock, leaving his mouth slightly agape; she was positive it mirrored her own. His chin moved up and down several times as if he were looking for words that would not come.

  “You see, Mister and Missus Finnegan …”

  “Ms,” Isla interjected, not that it really mattered, but, she hated being called missus.

  “Ms. Finnegan,” Fraser corrected himself with a sideways glance. “Developers have been skulking around the property for years. Vacant land in this part of the county, ocean views, is worth, in my opinion, a lot more than the five million Molly Mae was offered.”

  “Developers?” Isla repeated as if she were dumb. The words were taking forever to seep into her brain. “But this was Gran’s home.” She waved a hand around, taking in the cobwebs that filled the cluttered ornate cornices.

  Darcy let out a short, sharp snort and her fingers curled into her hands. How dare he scoff at that?

  “Molly would never have sold out to developers in a million years,” Darcy shrugged, his hand coming to rest on top of the deep red-wood table.

  Whilst Isla knew that was true, it came as a surprise coming from him and gave her pause for thought.

  “Mister Fosbury, are there any other benefactors of this estate?”

  Staring hard at the paperwork in front of him as if he were not already familiar with its contents, he shook his head.

  “Only yourself and Mister Finnegan, ma’am. As per Molly Mae’s express wishes. You are welcome to read the document yourself.”

  “But why him?” she demanded, surprised by the shrill tone of her own voice.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Finnegan, I am unable to answer those kinds of questions. I am just fulfilling Ms. O’Reilly’s wishes as per the legislated requirements of the deceased person’s act. If you wish to relinquish your interest, I can file the papers, and you can return home to Australia within the week.”

  “No! No, she does not wish to relinquish her interest,” Darcy’s voice was firm and controlled.

  Both sets of eyes turned to him.

  “What makes you think you get to make that choice?” she demanded as anger rose in her chest. She knew the nape of her neck would be turning red as it always did when she was angry. Pressing a palm to the area, she felt heat radiating from her fingers.

  Darcy waved a hand back to Fraser. “It says right there. Both parties have to live in the house or the estate is forfeited. Isn’t that correct, Fraser?”

  “Yes, sir. Those were Molly Mae’s final wishes.”

  “I’m not going to live here.” Isla slapped her palm down on the hardwood table. A sting shot through her wrist and helped ground her. “Not with him.”

  “So you’re prepared to have the property go to those money hungry developers? Huh?” Darcy snapped angrily, his gaze boring into her.

  A memory of Gran swooning over those very eyes bled into her mind. She shouldn’t be so shocked by this turn of events. Gran had loved Darcy almost as much as she had. But Darcy hadn’t cheated on Gran, had he? Darcy hadn’t left Gran for a much younger woman, leaving her broken-hearted.

  “Isla. What do you want to do?” Fraser asked, dragging her attention
back to the present.

  Slowly she shook her head. It was an impossible situation. How could she allow Gran’s home go to developers? Now or ever?

  “No … no. Darcy is right ... I guess.”

  “So you wish to follow Molly Mae’s instructions?” Fraser confirmed. “You do realise both parties are required to live within the confines of the house for the entire six month period? As per sub-clause A, neither party is to spend one night away from the property.”

  “But we have lives, jobs,” Darcy interjected.

  “Now you’re changing your mind, huh?” she snapped back. “This is so freakin’ typical of you, Darcy Finnegan.”

  “I don’t think we have any other option here, Isla. The facts are the facts.” He finally turned back to Fraser. “Of course, Isla and I will stay in the house. Together.” A smug smile tugged at his lips, but he never turned back to face her.

  “Very well,” Fraser nodded. “I will be by with further instructions on how we will orchestrate this arrangement. Meanwhile, I have a copy of the mutual agreement for you both to peruse and sign.” He curtly pushed a stack of papers across the table to each of them.

  Isla snatched up the papers hastily, feeling like she was under duress. How could this possibly ever work? Surely there had to be a better way. Knowing Gran, she would be looking down on them both from heaven right now, a nip of Irish whiskey in her hand, smirking in her special little way that told you she had won another round.

  Fraser bid her farewell, and she listened as his heavy footsteps pounded their way through the house back to the door. He and Darcy were in heavy conversation, but she couldn’t decipher the words. Rather, she was lost in her own thoughts, as she meandered her way into Gran’s dusty old living room.