"I've never heard of it. Why are you looking for it?" she said tightly.

I blinked. "Who said I was looking for it?" I hadn't said I was looking for it. I'd just asked what the word meant.

"Why else would you be asking?"

"I just wanted to know what it means," I said.

"Where did you hear of it?"

"Why do you care?" I knew I'd started to sound defensive, but really, what was her deal? The word obviously meant something to her. Why wouldn't she tell me? "Look, this is really important."

"How important?" she said.

What did she want? Money? That could be a problem. "Very."

She looked beyond me, over my shoulder, and uttered a single word like a benediction. "Jericho."

"Jericho?" I echoed, not following. "You mean the ancient city?"

"Jericho Barrens," a rich, cultured male voice said behind me. "And you are?" Not an Irish accent. No idea what kind of accent it was, though.

I turned, with my name perched on the tip of my tongue, but it didn't make it out. No wonder Fiona had said his name like that. I gave myself a brisk inward shake and stuck out my hand. "MacKayla, but most people call me Mac."

"Have you a surname, MacKayla?" He pressed my knuckles briefly to his lips and released my hand. My skin tingled where his mouth had been.

Was it my imagination or was his gaze predatory? I was afraid I was getting a little paranoid. It had been a long, odd day after an odder night. Ashford Journal headlines were beginning to form in my mind: Second Lane Sister Meets with Foul Play in Dublin Bookshop. "Just Mac is fine," I evaded.

"And what do you know of this shi-sadu, just Mac?"

"Nothing. That's why I was asking. What is it?"

"I have no idea," he said. "Where did you hear of it?"

"Can't remember. Why do you care?"

He crossed his arms.

I crossed mine too. Why were these people lying to me? What in the world was this thing I was asking about?

He studied me with his predator's gaze, assessing me from head to toe. I studied him back. He didn't just occupy space; he saturated it. The room had been full of books before, now it was full of him. About thirty, six foot two or three, he had dark hair, golden skin, and dark eyes. His features were strong, chiseled. I couldn't pinpoint his nationality any more than I could his accent; some kind of European crossed with Old World Mediterranean or maybe an ancestor with dark Gypsy blood. He wore an elegant, dark gray Italian suit, a crisp white shirt, and a muted patterned tie. He wasn't handsome. That was too calm a word. He was intensely masculine. He was sexual. He attracted. There was an omnipresent carnality about him, in his dark eyes, in his full mouth, in the way he stood. He was the kind of man I wouldn't flirt with in a million years.

A smile curved his mouth. It looked no nicer than he did, and I wasn't deluded by it for a moment.

"You know what it means," I told him. "Why don't you just tell me?"

"You know something about it, as well," he said. "Why not tell me?"

"I asked first." Childish maybe, but it was all I could think of. He didn't dignify it with a response. "I'll find out what I want to know one way or another," I said. If these people knew what it was, somewhere in Dublin somebody else did, too.

"As will I. Have no doubt of that, just Mac."

I gave him my frostiest look, much-practiced on drunk, randy patrons at The Brickyard. "Is that a threat?"

He stepped forward and I stiffened, but he merely reached past me, over my shoulder. When he moved back, he was holding my credit card. "Of course not" — he glanced down at my name—"Ms. Lane. I see your Visa is drawn on SunTrust. Isn't that a southern U.S. bank?"

"Maybe." I snatched my card from his hand.

"What state in the South are you from?"

"Texas," I lied.

"Indeed. What brings you to Dublin?"

"None of your business."

"It became my business when you came into my establishment, inquiring about the shi-sadu."

"So you do know what it is! You just admitted it."

"I admit nothing. However, I will tell you this: You, Ms. Lane, are in way over your head. Take my advice and extricate yourself while it's still possible."

"It's too late. I can't." His condescending high-handedness was making me mad. When I get mad, I dig my heels in right where I am.

"A pity. You won't last a week as sophomorically as you're bludgeoning about. Should you care to tell me what you know, I might be able to increase your odds of survival."

"Not a chance. Not unless you tell me what you know first."

He made an impatient sound and his eyes narrowed. "You bloody fool, you have no idea what you're—"

"Somebody in here call a cab?" The bells on the door jangled.

"I did," I shot over my shoulder.

Jericho Barrons actually made the faint beginnings of a lunge toward me, as if to physically restrain me. Until that moment, although aggression had charged the air and threat had been implied, there'd been nothing overt. I'd been aggravated, now I was a little afraid.

Our gazes locked and we stood a moment in that frozen tableau. I could almost see him calculating the importance—if any at all—of our sudden audience.

Then he gave me a faint sardonic smile and inclined his head as if to say, You win this time, Ms. Lane. "Don't count on it twice," he murmured.

Saved by the bell, I snatched up my bag of books and backed away. I didn't take my eyes off Jericho Barrons until I was out the door.

CHAPTER 4

communal bathrooms sucked.

I got my hot soup, but my shower was icy. Upon returning to The Clarin House, I made the unhappy discovery that apparently everyone in the inn waited until early evening to shower before going out for dinner and a night on the town. Inconsiderate tourists. The water was far too cold to endure washing my hair, so I phoned the desk for a six o'clock wake-up call when I would try again. I suspected some of the guests would just be getting in then.

I changed out of street clothes into a lacy peach sleep shirt and matching panties. That was another pain about communal bathrooms—you either got fully dressed again after your shower or risked a half-naked mad dash down the hall past dozens of doors that might pop open at any moment. I'd opted for fully dressed.

I finished unpacking the last of my luggage. I'd brought a few comfort items from home. I pulled out one of Alina's peaches-and-cream candles, two Hershey bars, my favorite pair of faded and much-loved cutoff jean shorts that Mom was always threatening to throw away, and a small framed picture of my folks, which I propped against the lamp on the dresser.

Then I rummaged through my backpack and dug out the notebook I'd bought a few weeks ago, and sat cross-legged on my bed. Alina had always kept a journal, ever since we were kids. As a bratty younger sibling, I'd ferreted out many of her hiding places—she'd gotten more inventive as the years had gone by; the last I'd found had been behind a loose baseboard in her closet—and teased her mercilessly about whatever boyfriend she'd been mooning over, complete with annoying kissy-kissy sounds.

Until recently, I'd never written in one myself. After the funeral, I'd been in desperate need of an outlet and had poured out pages of grief into the thing. More recently I'd been writing lists: what to pack, what to buy, what to learn, and where to go first. Lists had become my anchors. They got me through the days. The oblivion of sleep got me through the nights. So long as I knew exactly where I was going and what I was doing the next day, I didn't flounder.

I was proud of myself for how well I'd blustered through my first full day in Dublin. But then, when bluster was all you had, it wasn't so hard to paste it on over your real face. I knew what I really was: a pretty young woman barely old enough to tend bar, who'd never been more than a few states away from Georgia, who'd recently lost her sister and who was—as Jericho Barrons had said—in way over her head.