Sticks and Stone Read online

  Grunting, he stepped into the pants, grimacing as bits of the forest floor flaked off against his legs. He picked the shirt up off the floor and shook it out, revealing the full extent of its tatters. He tossed it onto the floor again. “That’s useless.”

  “You’ll have your jacket to wear again soon enough,” she reminded him. “I’ll lead you back to the dryad’s clearing.”

  She pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, wrapped her stained cloak around her shoulders, and led him into the forest. She moved silently, discouraging any attempts to talk to her, so he just watched her lithe body swaying beneath her cloak.

  The mere sight of her, even shrouded in that cloak, was enough to make his blood pulse. There were so many more things he wanted to explore. Were the backs of her knees ticklish or would kissing her there leave her dripping with excitement? Would she gasp and moan in pleasure if he buried his face between her legs and loved her with his mouth and tongue? Would her breasts bounce and sway with her energetic movements as she straddled his hips and rode his cock? Now that she knew his name, would she scream it as she came?

  She stepped into a clearing and swept her arm out to gesture at the leaf-strewn ground. “This is it.”

  He recognized the wych elm at once. Eileen’s crystal still hung from the branches, and he’d swear the tree was sulking. That was the only explanation for the pronounced droop of the branches.

  Skirting widely around the tree, in case the dryad managed to break free of the charm binding her and lunged for him, he searched the surrounding forest. His jacket was tossed over the lowest branch of a neighboring sycamore.

  He pulled it from the tree, then dug in the inside pocket. After pulling out a business card and a pen, he scribbled his cell phone number on the back, and handed the card to Eileen.

  For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t take it, but then she reached forward and plucked it from his hand.

  “I’m not promising I’ll call.”

  He smiled. “You’ll call.”

  “Arrogant American!”

  She turned and stalked away. Dermot watched her go, her long, swinging strides reminding him of her strong legs, locked around him. When the forest had swallowed her, he sighed and took out his cell phone. He punched in the number of his driver.

  “Meet me at the eastern entrance to the woods in half an hour,” he ordered.

  “Your luggage has already been loaded in the limousine. Would you like to leave directly for the airport?”

  “Unload it. I’ll need to go back to the manor and shower before I can be seen anywhere.”

  He snapped the phone closed before his driver could ask any more questions. Shrugging into his coat, he stared for a moment at the last place he’d seen Eileen. Then he sighed, and opened his phone again. He’d never expected to use the GPS feature. He’d never expected a leprechaun to grant him his heart’s deepest desire, either. He needed to learn to broaden his expectations.

  Whistling softly, Dermot headed for his rendezvous.

  Chapter Four

  “Arrogant American,” Eileen muttered under her breath as she stalked back to her cottage. He expected her to call him, did he? And drive up to Dublin for a quickie at his convenience?

  Her anger softened, her steps slowing and her lips curving at the memory of their lovemaking. No, it would never be a quickie with him. That she could be sure of.

  “Dermot.” She whispered his name, enjoying the feel of it in her mouth. Almost as much as she’d enjoyed the feel of him in her mouth.

  A flush of heat swept over her, her breasts tingling and moisture gathering between her thighs. By the circle, the man was a fantastic lover.

  She smiled, fingering the card he’d insisted she take. Maybe she’d call him after all.

  She glanced at the card, instantly recognizing the logo of a globe chiseled from granite. Stone International Industries, makers of applesauce, zippers, and everything in between. Stone.

  She sank to her knees in the leaf-strewn path. Now she knew why his face had looked so familiar. It had been staring at her from the magazine racks on her last trip to the market.

  Dermot Stone, multimillionaire son and heir presumptive to Randolph Stone’s multi-billion dollar empire, had been declared the most eligible bachelor of the year. A collage of photos had shown him on the arms of models, actresses, and beautiful women from the wealthy elite.

  Eileen knew she was pretty enough not to scare the livestock, but certainly not in the same league as the women he normally dated. What could he possibly find of interest in her? Her mind and spirit? He hadn’t had a chance to discover much of either. They’d barely spoken to each other.

  Then she knew. He’d never told any of those other women how he liked his sex. He wouldn’t have told her, if he hadn’t been desperate for release from the dryad’s spell. Now she was the only woman he knew who could give him what he wanted. She could be a toothless hag with the interpersonal skills of a filth-covered hermit, and he wouldn’t care, as long as she slapped his ass while his cock was filling her.

  She crumpled his card in her fist. She wouldn’t be calling him. Ever.

  * * * * *

  Dermot frowned at the numbers scrolling by on his screen. It was an enticing proposition.

  He shifted position, trying not to think about his enticing Irish witch. It seemed that everything he did lately reminded him of her.

  With his usual thoroughness, he’d read her first Silver Moon book. She’d described a ritual of renewal performed naked in the woods. The image that had sprung to his mind at her words was so arousing, he’d had to stop reading and relieve his massive hard-on.

  Dermot sighed and forced his attention back to the report on his screen. Silver Moon publishing was a lucrative business opportunity. The returns weren’t quite up to his standards, but he could easily trim costs in warehousing and transportation by piggybacking on other Stone investments.

  Then there was the matter of increasing the value of their assets. With her beauty, self-possession, and quick wit, Eileen was a natural for the talk show circuit. They could start her out on some of the smaller networks that catered to women’s issues—much of the resurgence of interest in witchcraft was part of a women’s empowerment groundswell. Slanting the material to attract potential buyers would be trivially simple. The viewers would love her. And they’d become ardent buyers of Eileen’s books.

  The fact that many network studios were located in Manhattan, where his primary office was also located, was an added bonus. There’d be many hours surrounding her television appearances during which Eileen would be at loose ends, and in need of companionship. Companionship he was eager to supply.

  They wouldn’t have to spend all their time in bed. There were plenty of places he’d love to take her, showing her his favorite parts of the city. They’d dine at his favorite restaurants, listen to music or dance at his favorite clubs, maybe even go to a show or a museum if she was interested.

  He smiled, anticipating the leisurely process of getting to know everything that interested her. Everything she enjoyed. Everything that gave her pleasure.

  He absent-mindedly caressed the casing of his computer with his thumb, stopping as soon as he realized what he was doing. Instead, he reached for the phone.

  He’d waited for her to call him. He’d waited two weeks, longer than he was accustomed to waiting for anything. So now he’d take matters into his own hands.

  * * * * *

  Eileen shook her head, certain she’d heard her agent incorrectly. Switching the phone to her other ear, she asked, “Would you repeat that, please?”

  “Silver Moon is considering booking you on the talk show circuit for your next book’s release, and needs to know if you’d be comfortable discussing your beliefs on the air.”

  That’s what she’d thought he’d said. “Why? They never showed any interest in publicity before.”

  “Some shakeup in the company, I hear. The new management wants to increase the v
alue of the company’s assets, and that means building their lead author’s name recognition.”

  “Stone.”

  After a pause even longer than the usual transoceanic delay, her agent said, “That’s what the rumor mill says. But how’d you hear that all the way in Ireland?”

  “Never you mind. Tell them I’ll be coming to discuss it with them, if they’ll be paying my way.”

  Although he tried, her agent couldn’t convince her to give a more definitive answer. He promised to relay her response and hung up.

  Eileen put down the phone and stared out her kitchen window at the trees beyond. She’d wondered how Dermot Stone would react to her not calling him. Now she knew.

  She’d called him arrogant before, but she hadn’t comprehended the magnitude of his arrogance. He was willing to buy her publisher—or at least invest heavily in the company—to get her to come to him.

  A horrible suspicion rose in her mind, souring her stomach. Did he expect to buy her along with the company? Was the television offer supposed to be the incentive to lure her into his bed?

  She sighed. No. That didn’t seem like Dermot’s style.

  Her gaze wandered over the pile of magazines stacked on the kitchen table; lifestyle magazines discussing his eligible bachelor status, entertainment magazines with photos of the premier events he’d attended, and business magazines analyzing a merger between one of his companies and the offshoot of a French conglomerate.

  She recalled one of the quotes he’d given the business magazine. “I have no desire to win every game. But I only play when I can be confident of winning.”

  He’d been referring to his skill at picking underrated companies in which to invest, returning 80% of them to profitability within five years. He had been scoffed at by the business press for turning down lucrative investment deals, only to have his instincts proven correct two or three years later. Some companies were now hesitant about approaching him as a possible investor, fearing that if he rejected their offer, no one else would be willing to risk the investment.

  But his words now haunted Eileen with a different meaning. He would not play until he was confident of winning. Buying her publisher was surely the opening gambit of his play. So what was it that he hoped to win?

  Feeling suddenly restless, she grabbed her cloak and headed for a walk in the woods. Without her conscious volition, her feet led her to the dryad’s clearing. Her ward stone glittered blue and white in the sunlight, now just a pretty trinket twisting in the light breeze.

  The dryad stepped out of the wych elm, her arms crossed beneath her breasts.

  “Is it you, then?” she asked in Gaelic.

  “Aye. It’s sorry I am to be disturbing you,” Eileen answered in the same tongue. “I was only just out for a bit of a wander.”

  Reassured that Eileen wasn’t going to trap her inside again, the dryad slipped back into her tree. Eileen felt a brief surge of hot emotion, demanding the tree woman be chained within her elm with no hope of ever escaping. But that was foolish. The dryad’s binding that prohibited her from enchanting mortal men to their deaths had been broken by a leprechaun. Restoring the binding was sufficient action. To punish her further simply for being what she was would be wrong.

  When Eileen had confronted the dryad after stopping her attack on Dermot, she had forced the dryad to seek refuge within her tree and then trapped her there. But that had been a matter of expediency. She’d needed to make certain the dryad wasn’t enticing anyone else to her tree while Eileen was caring for her victim. After Dermot left, she’d released the dryad and reset the binding to the proper level, allowing the creature her freedom, so long as she caused no harm.

  “No harm,” she whispered. She’d explained that tenet to Dermot. Maybe the best way to test the temper of his intentions was to see whether or not he was acting in accordance with her beliefs. Was he doing as he wished, regardless of others, or would he first ensure his actions caused her no harm?

  When she looked at it that way, perhaps her haste to ascribe the worst possible motive to him reflected poorly on her. “Cause no harm,” she repeated.

  Very well. She would fly to America and meet with him, to discuss the possibility of a talk show appearance.

  Her blood heated at the thought of seeing him again. Although it had been two weeks, she could still taste his lips on hers, and feel the imprint of his body. His lovemaking had transported her in a way she hadn’t known was possible. She’d salved her pride by insisting it had been a lingering effect of his encounter with the dryad, enhancing his appeal. He’d certainly seemed less than appealing when he’d hurried away from her without a by-your-leave, and all but ordered her to schedule another session of lovemaking. In retrospect, she may have overreacted to his innate arrogance. He was an American, after all, and a rich one. He was used to giving orders. It didn’t mean he thought less of her, any more than her brogue meant she was a fool.

  Now that she’d found a way to soothe her conscience and see him again, she eagerly anticipated finding out if it could be as good as she remembered.

  Humming softly to herself, Eileen turned to leave and spotted a branch that had fallen from the dryad’s tree, and been half-buried in the mud. She plucked the fallen branch from the ground, then knocked it against her leg to dislodge the dried mud clinging to the smooth gray bark. She’d clean it up and bring it to America with her. The thought of striking Dermot’s firmly muscled ass with the supple branch made her breath quicken and wet heat build between her legs.

  Swishing the wych elm stick through the air, she trotted back to her cottage.

  * * * * *

  Dermot scanned the line of passengers coming from the Aer Lingus flight to the luggage area. He’d given Eileen first class tickets, so she should have been one of the first people off the plane. But that didn’t mean she’d be one of the first to reach the luggage carousels. She might have gotten a slow line through customs.

  He turned to his driver, Chris, looming behind him for protection. “If I don’t tell you otherwise, take us to my apartment and cancel Ms. Daniells’s reservation at the Niko.”

  The driver couldn’t quite conceal his smirk. “And keep the limo’s privacy screen up and the intercom off. Yes, Mr. Stone. You’ve already given me thorough instructions.”

  Struggling to control his rising impatience, Dermot schooled his features to polite indifference and went back to searching the crowd for Eileen. There! His breath caught in his throat. Still wearing the cloak he remembered so well, she seemed to float down the corridor, a breath of Irish breeze mysteriously finding only her among the crowd of passengers and wafting through the soft curls of her honey gold hair.

  Lifting his arm, he waved to her. “Eileen!”

  Those incredible blue-green eyes focused on him, going wide as she realized who had called her name. Then, like sunlight breaking through a cloud-filled Irish sky, she smiled.

  “Dermot.”

  She stepped out of the flow of people, and crossed to meet him.

  Chapter Five

  At the sight of Dermot waiting for her, a warm glow of contentment filled Eileen. He looked out of place in the crowded airport, standing as still and unmoving as the stone he was named for while currents of passengers broke and swirled around him.

  Threading her way through openings in the crowd, she crossed to his side.

  “I didn’t expect you to meet me.”

  “Officially, I sent my driver to meet you.” He nodded his head to the side, directing her attention to the man in a charcoal gray suit and mirrored sunglasses standing behind him to the left.

  The man nodded. “Ma’am.”

  “Hello.” She smiled and nodded in return, then turned back to Dermot. “Unofficially?”

  “Let’s get your luggage. We can talk in the limo.”

  “Of course. It’s a blue rolling case, with a crescent moon appliqué.”

  She wasn’t sure what reaction she’d expected from Dermot, but it wasn’t t
his cold aloofness. He’d gone to a considerable amount of trouble to get her here. And there’d been no disguising the pleasure on his face when he’d spotted her in the crowd.

  As they followed the driver—judging from his size and attitude, Eileen suspected he was a bodyguard as well—through the crowd, she turned and asked softly, “Are you happy to see me again?”

  “More than you know. Seeing you pass through that security gate was like seeing the sun after two weeks of rain.”

  She felt her cheeks glowing, and glanced away, before her eyes could reveal all her hopes and longings.

  “It’s a weakness I have for a finely tuned phrase,” she muttered.

  Dermot chuckled. “I’ll have to remember that.”

  They reached the designated luggage carousel and fell silent while they watched the various cases and bags circle past. She pointed out her suitcase to the driver. He grabbed it, then carried it to the waiting limo.

  Eileen frowned slightly. A long black car, its sleek lines marred by the profusion of antennae sprouting from it, waited at the curb for the two of them. It contrasted sharply with the crowded mini-sedan that had carried her and five members of the Sullivan clan to the airport.

  She’d appreciated the amenities of her first class seat on the long flight to America. Rather than being equally appreciative of the first class ground transportation, however, the luxurious automobile only served to underscore the differences between her and Dermot.

  Once again, she wondered how he could possibly be interested in her. But she had resolved not to prejudge Dermot’s motives. She would wait to hear whatever he had to say.

  She slid onto the gray leather seat, and stared at the consoles before her. The bench seat faced two televisions, connected to a DVD player and VCR, a computer hookup, a 12-CD stereo, and a fully stocked bar. A silvered window made it difficult to see out the front of the vehicle. No doubt the driver would be unable to see them at all.

  Dermot slid onto the seat beside her. The driver closed his door, sealing them together in the back of the limousine. A moment later, the car rocked slightly as the driver stowed her suitcase in the trunk. Then he took his own seat, his image blurred and darkened through the privacy screen.