Free Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5 by Zara Keane

door.
    With a bit of luck, the employees of Ballybeg Garda Station were clueless country bumpkins. If not, she’d have to be an incredible actress.
    Two figures were visible through the stained glass paneling. The superintendent had brought a lackey. She took a deep breath, then wrenched open the door.
    A handsome man of sixtyish with silver-gray hair and a friendly smile stood closest to her. Superintendent Whatsit, she assumed. Her gaze traveled to the left. The second man was taller, closer to Clio’s age. She registered a muscular torso that filled the blue shirt of his uniform to perfection. Then Clio’s eyes trailed up to his face.
    It was Seán from last night, and he was wearing an expression of horror.
    The shock was as sharp as a blow to the stomach. Of all the men she could have hooked up with, she’d gone and had sex with a Ballybeg policeman. 

Chapter Seven
    SEÁN’S HEART DID A SLOW thump and roll.
    Framed by the door’s ivy surround was Orla from last night. She wore a wraparound cardigan over an old T-shirt bearing the logo of a rock band, faded denim jeans, and Snoopy slippers. She looked good. More than good. And that was despite the I-want-to-kill-myself expression on her face.
    But what the hell was she doing at Clonmore House?
    “Ah,” boomed the super’s cheerful voice. “You must be Ms. Havelin’s daughter.”
    Daughter? I had sex with Helen Havelin’s daughter?
The ringing in Seán’s ears drowned all sound. Orla’s lips moved in response to the super’s question, but she might as well have been miming. It wasn’t until Seán sucked air through his teeth that he realized he’d been holding his breath.
    He’d known Helen Havelin had a daughter, but not in a million years would he have connected this casually dressed, makeup-free, wild-haired woman with the airbrushed celebrity who’d wrecked his parents’ marriage.
    Courtesy of the Irish tabloids, he was certain of one fact. The daughter’s name wasn’t Orla.
    He stared at the woman frozen on the threshold. Her face mirrored his horror, green eyes wide, pink mouth parted. A flush crept up her shock-drained cheeks. When she bent her head, strands of silky strawberry-blond hair brushed her cheekbones, just as they had last night in a rather different situation.
    Her hair was a lighter shade of red than her mother’s—although in Helen’s case, it was almost certainly helped by colorants.
    The reminder of Helen Havelin brought a bitter taste to Seán’s tongue. No wonder she’d given a false name.
    “You’d better come in,” said Orla-Cliona. Her voice was low, flustered. A far cry from the vivacious woman he’d seduced last night.
    With leaden limbs and a leaden heart, Seán stepped inside Clonmore House.
    Cliona led them through a small entrance hall then down a narrow corridor. At the end of the corridor, a door stood slightly ajar, a slit of light spilling out in an ominous glow.
    Helen Havelin was in that room.
    Seán’s feet dragged across the slate floor. He forced oxygen into his lungs and tried to ignore the hammering in his head. If it hadn’t been for that selfish bitch, his parents would still be alive.
    Cliona pushed open the door, revealing a large room stuffed with art, ornaments, and fussy furniture.
    Helen Havelin served as the room’s centerpiece, reclining gracefully on a sofa. If memory served right, it was called a chaise longue. Why did his brain latch on to such an insignificant detail? Was his subconscious trying to distract him from focusing on the chaise longue’s occupant?
    “Superintendent O’Riordan. Lovely to see you again.” Helen’s melodious posh accent grated against Seán’s nerves. To listen to her plummy tones, you’d never think she’d grown up on a farm near Cobh.
    Hatred rolled over Seán in waves, and his fingernails dug wedges into his palms.
    Helen swung her slim legs to the floor and rose to greet them. She shook the super’s hand, holding it a moment too long for such