Perfect Timing Read Free Page B

shit—there was a woman curled up in the corner. She wore a getup that reminded Quincy of something he might see at a Renaissance fair. Wrapped around her head was a thick multilayered band of antique linen that was then secured over the crown by a see-through scarf of the same color. The linen band appeared to be of high quality and looked to Quincy like the oil filter on his truck. The transparent scarf shimmered like spun gold and was somehow pleated at the crown and looped loosely beneath the woman’s chin. Her hair, a bright, fiery red, followed the slender bend of her back and was surely long enough to reach well below her knees when she was standing. Her silk gown, a deep green and floor-length, judging by the way the skirt billowed around her, sported voluminous sleeves and a plunging, square neckline, which revealed a modest white underdress laced to the waist.
    As if she sensed his gaze on her, she jerked awake and, hampered by the long dress, struggled to her feet. To Quincy’s amazement, Beethoven merely whickered and circled away. Normally the stallion grew nervous when he was approached by anyone except Quincy.
    “God’s teeth!” As round as dimes and as clear blue as a Caribbean lagoon on a hot summer day, her eyes flashed with irritation. “Ye scared the bee-Jesus out of me.”
    Quincy recognized an Irish brogue when he heard one. His dad’s mother, Mariah Eileen O’Grady, had been born in the old country. But as Quincy recalled, she’d never said bejesus as two separate words or used the expression God’s teeth . “How did you get in here?” he demanded, doing his best not to notice those expressive eyes or the delicate perfection of her oval face. “The whole place is wired.”
    Bewilderment creased her brow. She cast a wary glance around the stall. “Where might it be?”
    “What?”
    “The wire,” she expounded. “I see none.”
    Quincy clenched his teeth. If not for the weird getup, she might have been quite a looker, with that bright red hair, creamy skin, and stunning blue eyes, but Quincy was in no mood to appreciate a woman’s feminine attributes. Well, scratch that. Truly beautiful women were difficult for any man to ignore, but he meant to give it his best shot.
    “I asked you a question. Answer me.” The perimeters of Quincy’s ranch could be breached by deer or elk that sailed over the fences, but the warning alarms went off if the cameras detected large body masses that lingered near the property lines, the idea being that any human would take at least a few seconds to scale a five-foot barrier. Voice strained with anger, not to mention worry over his sister-in-law, he repeated the question. “How did you get in my arena?”
    “Is that what ye call it, an arena?” Her frown deepened. She swatted at the straw on her wrinkled skirts. As she bent forward, Quincy’s gaze shot to the slender nip of her waist and the temptingly round flare of her hips. When he realized where he was staring, he forced himself to look up, only to find his attention riveted to her silk bodice, which showcased small but perfectly shaped breasts. “’Tis so different here.”
    Losing patience, Quincy raised his voice. “I’ll ask you one more time before I call the police. How did you get in here?”
    “The police? ’Tis a word I’ve never heard.”
    Quincy had an unholy urge to vault over the stall gate and shake her until her teeth rattled. “Listen, lady, you’re in serious trouble. Committing a B and E is a felony offense in Oregon, with a sentence of five to twenty. Start talking, and fast, or you’ll be cooling your jets in a cell until you have gray hair.”
    She paled and lifted her chin, which sported a deep cleft that mirrored the dimple that flashed in her right cheek when she spoke. “I do na understand all yer strange words. Me name is Ceara O’Ceallaigh. I seek audience with a man named Quincy O’Hourigan, sir. I shall speak with him, and only him. ’Tis na a tale for