“Call and reschedule, if you don’t want to go alone.” Nancy suggested. “Or tell him that I’m having some personal problems.”

“What personal problems could be more important than—”

“Being attacked by masked kidnappers. Being threatened with death and dismemberment,” Nancy said. “Just for starters.”

“Oh, please, Nance. You don’t even care if the album gets into the catalog or not?” Enid sounded wounded.

“Of course I care. But you guys have to do your part. I’m done pulling rabbits out of hats. I have to go. Peter, get your shoes on. You have to come back with me to my apartment.”

“Today? Why?” He sounded outraged. “Nancy, don’t be ridic—”

“You owe me,” Nancy said, her voice steely. “I work my ass off for you. I almost got killed last night, and I promised a friend I’d get company everywhere I go. And that means you’re up to bat. Lucky you.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Your timing is—”

“Plus, I need help packing my computer and scanner and printer into the car. I’m going up to Latham for a while.”

Enid and Peter exchanged shocked glances. “Latham?” Peter repeated. “Now is not the time for country air! Tonight’s the gig at the Bottom Line with Brigid McKeon! The liner notes are due, we’re going on tour in two weeks, the FolkWorld Conference is coming up—”

“It’s really not that far,” she assured him, patting his shoulder. “And I’ll be in touch. By e-mail and cell. It’s really no big deal.”

Peter accompanied her with bad grace, but she ignored his sulking. Outside, it was a beautiful morning. A brisk wind made the bits of garbage dance and swirl cheerfully over sidewalk grates.

She snagged them a cab back to Avenue B on the first wave.

Peter stared stonily out the window, leaving her free to be self-absorbed. Peter usually required a lot of attention, but she wouldn’t be capable of giving it to him today if she wanted to. And she couldn’t be bothered. She felt strange, manic. Something had happened to her last night. She had changed. She wasn’t sure exactly what the change was, but she liked it. She was going to pack up every piece of her life that was portable, collect her cat, drive up to Latham, and throw herself on Liam’s mercy. And a couple of other choice body parts.

Doubt clutched at her. No way could it work. A guy like him, with his mellow country lifestyle, his earth mother ideal. A busy, citified madwoman like herself. Besides, he was so angry at her. And there were the armed abductors and angry burglars. Add a murdered jeweler to the mix, a mysterious letter, a deadly hidden object, and yikes. Having Nancy D’Onofrio for a girlfriend was quite a proposition.

Problematic didn’t even begin to describe it.

But at least she no longer felt like she would disappoint him in bed. Oh, no, she knew just exactly what she wanted to do to that big, strong body. She thought about the look in his eyes when he told her how to look at the flower. The feeling that pierced her. The sweetness. It made her heart catch, and her lungs squeeze, painfully.

She was going to Latham. And if she got her heart crushed to a fine powder, well, whatever. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But it would definitely be the worst.

Eoin shuffled up the driveway to Liam’s house at 2:00, red eyed and shamefaced, like any guy would who had been guzzling Guinness all night and had faced the new day without sleep or a shower.

Liam looked up from the chopping block. He’d been trying to unload excess adrenaline and misery by chopping wood. So far with limited success. “Look who the cat dragged in,” he commented sourly.

Eoin flushed. “I was playing tunes with the lads at this pub in Sheepshead Bay, and I lost track of the time. I had to hitchhike back.”

Liam grunted. “Hear you’ve got a new job.”

“Uh, yes. I’m going on tour with this band, Mandrake. Next week.”

“Congratulations,” he said.

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate—after all you’ve done for me—”

Liam held up his hand, and Eoin choked off whatever he was about to say. “It’s okay, Eoin,” he said wearily. “You should be making music. You’re doing the right thing.”

Hope dawned on Eoin’s pallid face. “You’re not mad?”

“Do you want to work for Matigan until you leave, or don’t you?” Liam demanded. “If you’re too busy, I need to let him know right now.”

Eoin straightened his thin shoulders. “I’d be glad to work,” he said with dignity. “I start rehearsing Sunday. I can work until then.”

“Go get some rest,” Liam said. “You look like hammered shit.”

Eoin hesitated. “So. Ah. Liam. Is, ah, something happening? With you and Mrs. D’Onofrio’s daughter, I mean?”

Liam shot him a look that made Eoin spin on his heels and bolt.

Inviting her to the seisiun had been his first mistake. Taking her home was the second, though he’d paid for that by getting pounded by masked assholes. But the crowning stupidity had been fucking her. Now he knew what it felt like. And he could think of nothing else.

He was begging for the trouble he’d spent the first eleven years of his life watching. Bitterness that ate away love until it was gone. Was he programmed to repeat this bullshit? Was he fucking doomed?

Memories rolled into his mind, sickening and vivid. The vacation to Niagara Falls his mother had planned, a last-ditch effort to unite them as a family. The bags were packed, train tickets in his mother’s clutch purse. She’d been waiting, dressed in her eggshell blue pantsuit. But when his father walked in the door, Liam took one look and knew that it wasn’t going to happen. Dad had done it again. You could count on him to let you down the way you could count on the sun to rise.

“It’s about time you got here,” his mother said, reaching for her coat. “We’ll have to hurry to catch the train.”

“Something’s come up, Fiona,” his father said flatly.

His mother laid her coat down, her face carefully expressionless. “What do you mean, something’s come up?”

“There’s a problem with a shipment, and I have to go look into it.”

“Why can’t you send Martin, or Brady?”

“You want something done right, you got to do it yourself.”

“That doesn’t apply to your family, however,” she said frigidly.

His father’s mouth became a hard line. “I make sacrifices to keep you in style, Fiona, and all I ever get from you is whining and nagging.”

“Did I ever ask you to make these sacrifices? No, Frank. All I want is to see you more than once a month.” His mother’s voice shook. “All I’m asking is that you keep your word and go with us to Niagara.”

His father’s fists clenched. “God, Fiona, why can’t I make you understand? It’s my responsibility—”

“Go, then. Just go. Your bag is right by the door.” She walked stiffly out of the room. Her back was very straight, but her face was crumpled.

His father looked at Liam, immobile on the couch. “Sorry, son. When you’ve got a family of your own to support, you’ll understand.”

“Go to hell,” Liam said.

Frank Knightly’s face darkened. “Don’t speak to me that way. I’m your father. Show me some respect.”

“You’re not my father anymore,” Liam said in a cold, very clear voice. “You’re a terrible father. You’re fired.”

His father stared at him, grabbed the suitcase, and walked out. That was the last Liam had seen of him. Twenty-six years. A lifetime.

Liam shook himself back to the present, and savagely attacked the kindling pile again. Fuck this. Fuck it all. No way. Not him.

He looked around some time later at the sound of a car. Nancy’s Volkswagen Jetta came buzzing down the driveway. He clutched the ax handle as she got out of the car. Wishing he’d bathed.

She was elegant in faded low-slung jeans that clung enticingly to her hips and a charcoal high-necked ribbed sweater that showed off a discreet strip of flat belly. Her hair was wound into a loose braid, backlit by the sun like a halo of fire. She looked gorgeous. And nervous.