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Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
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hers, swiping the keycard down the
entry box before he reached the entry hall. Just as he got to her door, she slammed it
shut in his face.
“Star! Open the door!” He rattled the lever handle, putting his weight behind it but
the door was locked. He pounded his fist on the doorframe. “Star!”
When she would not open the door, he bellowed at the top of his voice.
“Open the goddamn door or I’ll kick it in!” he warned just as the elevator doors slid
open and the concierge stepped out, pizza in hand.
“Mr. Cronin?” the concierge questioned, disquiet covering his normally placid face.
“You know I’ll do it, Star!” Daire yelled, ignoring the concierge. He hit the door as
hard as he could, rattling the frosted panes.
“Mr. Cronin!” the concierge said. His voice was filled with outrage.
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HardWind
Star threw open the door and stood there blocking Dáire’s entrance. Her face was
twisted with fury, her lips skinned back from her teeth. “How dare you ask me such a
thing, Dáire Cronin!” she blazed at him. “How dare you!”
Dáire pushed past her, completely oblivious to the concierge’s gasp of shock,
grabbed her arm and pulled her back across the entry hall, batting away her attempts to
hit him.
“Miss Kiernan?” the concierge asked, the pizza clutched in his hands, pop and
salad sliding to one side so he had to fumble to keep them setting on the pizza box.
“Should I call the authorities?”
“Do and I’ll pin your ears to your desk,” Dáire threatened as he shoved Star into his
condo and slammed the door behind them.
“It’s all right, Malcom!” Star yelled as Dáire pulled her down the hall to the great
room. “I’m okay!”
Spinning her around, Dáire caught her by her upper arms and shook her. “Knock it
off!” he commanded, sidestepping the kick she aimed at his leg. “I mean it, Star! Knock
it off!”
One moment she was struggling with him, the next she was in his arms, held to him
so tightly she could barely breathe, much less move. One of his arms was anchored
firmly around her back while the other held her head, pressing it to his chest. She tried
pummeling him with her clenched fists, but he was having none of that. He was
restraining her too securely for her to get any leverage, although she dug her fingers
into his shirt, clawing at the skin beneath the fabric.
“You son of a bitch,” she sobbed against him, scratching him as hard as she could
through the shirt.
“I know,” he said, his voice soft though his heart was pounding.
“I hate you!”
“I don’t blame you. It was a fucking stupid thing I asked.”
“How could you?” she sobbed.
“I’m retarded,” he replied. “What other reason could there be?”
She shoved against him and he let her go, confident she was no longer a raging
virago, though the stinging abrasions streaking down his chest warned him to be
careful about what other stupid things might come out of his uncensored mouth.
“Not only retarded but an insensitive prick,” she labeled him, running the back of
her hand under her nose.
“That too,” he agreed.
She moved away from him and sat down on the sofa, drawing her feet up beneath
her. It was a defensive posture he recognized all too well and kept his distance.
A few minutes passed in awkward silence. He had no idea what to say that
wouldn’t set her off again. Cautiously he moved to a chair flanking the sofa and
perched on the edge, poised to keep her from running again if she felt the urge.
39
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“You said you needed my help,” he finally said. “Help to do what?”
She sniffed, reaching into the pocket of her skirt to pull out a wadded up tissue.
Wiping her eyes, her nose, she lifted her head and her eyes were lethal as she glared at
him.
“After you left that night, I had no intention of you ever finding out about Jillian,”
she said.
Dáire flinched but he wisely kept the angry accusation from
entry box before he reached the entry hall. Just as he got to her door, she slammed it
shut in his face.
“Star! Open the door!” He rattled the lever handle, putting his weight behind it but
the door was locked. He pounded his fist on the doorframe. “Star!”
When she would not open the door, he bellowed at the top of his voice.
“Open the goddamn door or I’ll kick it in!” he warned just as the elevator doors slid
open and the concierge stepped out, pizza in hand.
“Mr. Cronin?” the concierge questioned, disquiet covering his normally placid face.
“You know I’ll do it, Star!” Daire yelled, ignoring the concierge. He hit the door as
hard as he could, rattling the frosted panes.
“Mr. Cronin!” the concierge said. His voice was filled with outrage.
38
HardWind
Star threw open the door and stood there blocking Dáire’s entrance. Her face was
twisted with fury, her lips skinned back from her teeth. “How dare you ask me such a
thing, Dáire Cronin!” she blazed at him. “How dare you!”
Dáire pushed past her, completely oblivious to the concierge’s gasp of shock,
grabbed her arm and pulled her back across the entry hall, batting away her attempts to
hit him.
“Miss Kiernan?” the concierge asked, the pizza clutched in his hands, pop and
salad sliding to one side so he had to fumble to keep them setting on the pizza box.
“Should I call the authorities?”
“Do and I’ll pin your ears to your desk,” Dáire threatened as he shoved Star into his
condo and slammed the door behind them.
“It’s all right, Malcom!” Star yelled as Dáire pulled her down the hall to the great
room. “I’m okay!”
Spinning her around, Dáire caught her by her upper arms and shook her. “Knock it
off!” he commanded, sidestepping the kick she aimed at his leg. “I mean it, Star! Knock
it off!”
One moment she was struggling with him, the next she was in his arms, held to him
so tightly she could barely breathe, much less move. One of his arms was anchored
firmly around her back while the other held her head, pressing it to his chest. She tried
pummeling him with her clenched fists, but he was having none of that. He was
restraining her too securely for her to get any leverage, although she dug her fingers
into his shirt, clawing at the skin beneath the fabric.
“You son of a bitch,” she sobbed against him, scratching him as hard as she could
through the shirt.
“I know,” he said, his voice soft though his heart was pounding.
“I hate you!”
“I don’t blame you. It was a fucking stupid thing I asked.”
“How could you?” she sobbed.
“I’m retarded,” he replied. “What other reason could there be?”
She shoved against him and he let her go, confident she was no longer a raging
virago, though the stinging abrasions streaking down his chest warned him to be
careful about what other stupid things might come out of his uncensored mouth.
“Not only retarded but an insensitive prick,” she labeled him, running the back of
her hand under her nose.
“That too,” he agreed.
She moved away from him and sat down on the sofa, drawing her feet up beneath
her. It was a defensive posture he recognized all too well and kept his distance.
A few minutes passed in awkward silence. He had no idea what to say that
wouldn’t set her off again. Cautiously he moved to a chair flanking the sofa and
perched on the edge, poised to keep her from running again if she felt the urge.
39
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“You said you needed my help,” he finally said. “Help to do what?”
She sniffed, reaching into the pocket of her skirt to pull out a wadded up tissue.
Wiping her eyes, her nose, she lifted her head and her eyes were lethal as she glared at
him.
“After you left that night, I had no intention of you ever finding out about Jillian,”
she said.
Dáire flinched but he wisely kept the angry accusation from
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