She wasn’t his type—no, not a bit. He liked soft women with female ways who liked to flirt and cuddle. And by God, women who let him make the moves. He was a man, wasn’t he? A man was supposed to romance a woman toward bed, not be told to jump into one because she had a—what had she called it? A yen. An itch.

He’d be damned if he’d be anyone’s itch.

He told himself he was going to steer well clear of Brenna O’Toole for the next bit of time. And that he wasn’t going to be looking around to see that ugly cap of hers or to hear her voice every time he walked from the kitchen into the pub.

Still, his eyes scanned the crowd, and his ears were pricked. But she didn’t come to Gallagher’s that Sunday evening.

He did his work, and those who sampled it walked home at closing with full bellies and satisfaction. When he’d put his kitchen to rights and headed home himself, his own belly felt empty despite the meal he’d had, and satisfaction seemed a long way off.

He tried to lose himself in his music again, and spent nearly two hours at the piano. But the notes seemed sour somehow, and the tunes jarring.

Once, as he ran his fingers over the keys, shaking his head when the chords gave him no pleasure, he felt the change in the air. The faintest shimmer of movement and sound. But when he looked up, there was nothing but his little parlor and the empty doorway leading to the hall.

“I know you’re here.” He said it softly, waited. But nothing spoke to him. “What is it you want me to know?”

As the silence dragged on, he rose to bank the fire, to listen to the whisper of the wind. Though he was sure he was too edgy to sleep, he went upstairs and prepared for bed.

Almost as soon as his head settled on the pillow, he drifted into dreams of a lovely woman standing in the garden while the moonlight silvered her pale gold hair. The wings of the white horse beat the air, then settled as hooves touched ground. The man astride it had eyes only for the woman. As he dismounted, the silver bag he carried sparkled, shot light like little sparks of flame.

At her feet he poured pearls as white and pure as the moonlight. But she turned away from him, never looked at the beauty of the gems. Behind the sweep of her nightrobe, the pearls bloomed into flowers that glimmered like ghosts in the night.

And in the night, surrounded by those moon-washed flowers, Shawn reached for the woman. The pale hair had turned to fire and the soft eyes became sharp and green as emerald. It was Brenna he drew into his arms, Brenna he surrounded with them.

In sleep, where reason and logic have no place, it was Brenna he tasted.