An Emerald Heart Read online

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2012 Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-141-1

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: JC Chute

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  For all the Irishman I've known and loved, especially the O'Hara brothers, Tony and Patrick (Patsy). Cuimhnigh i gconai!

  AN EMERALD HEART

  Romance on the Go

  Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  Copyright © 2012

  Chapter One

  Ash’s eyes, green as a jungle cat’s, intrigued Maya from the first time he answered her gaze with his. He moved with a tiger’s prowl: lethal and luscious, powerful and proud. As she watched him stroll across the broad grassy expanse between the campus buildings one spring afternoon, Maya yearned for him in the most basic way. Her imagination conjured up images of him, naked and willing, with his long legs wrapped around hers on satin sheets––or maybe a bearskin rug before the fireplace––at his vintage home on Galewood Street

  in Sherman Oaks. The Advanced American Literature textbook in her lap fell to the ground as she strained to catch a glimpse of his thumbs. They were one of her favorite things about him, because the old wives’ tale proved quite true. Ash boasted large hands with sizeable thumbs, and his cock matched it, making him a lover of considerable talent. And Maya knew her addiction to Ash and the intimacy they shared was real.

  “Dr. Sheppard?”

  The voice cut through her wanton thoughts and brought her back to reality. “Yes?” One of her students stood a few paces away.

  “I wondered if I could talk to you about Nathaniel Hawthorne and my thesis,” the young woman said. “There’s some stuff I don’t get about The Scarlet Letter.”

  “Sure,” Maya said. She remained distracted until Ash vanished beyond the trees nearest the faculty parking lot. He must be leaving … but I thought he had one more class session. And I thought we’d make plans. “Make an appointment with the department secretary.”

  Disappointment soured the student’s expression. “I thought maybe we could talk now.”

  Maya retrieved the textbook and gathered up her other things. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m running late and I don’t have the free time … but I’ll be happy to talk with you later.”

  Her final class of the day met on the third floor of Alexander Hall, one of the oldest buildings on campus. She climbed the steep, narrow stairs and arrived at the classroom door at exactly three o’clock, breathless, but not from the climb. Her daydreams involving Ash––Dr. Ashton O’Neill––often left her winded. Maya didn’t want to lecture about 19th Century poets like Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman. She’d rather describe Ash’s emerald eyes or his lean, muscular body. It would be so easy to spend the entire class period talking about his voice, the deep, husky tone with the richness of the best Irish whiskey, flavored with just enough of a brogue to add a musical sweetness. At thirty-one years old, Maya wasn’t sure if she loved Ash, but she had no doubt she was deep in lust with him. And she would accept an exclusive relationship with him any day or night, no questions asked.

  Everyone on campus, all the straight women and most of the gay guys, wanted Ashton O’Neill too. Sometimes Maya wondered how many others enjoyed his many talents, but she tried not to dwell on it. Jealousy didn’t suit her, and she knew Ash would loathe the slightest flicker. So far, he appeared to be as free as the birds roosting in the tallest trees on campus, the birds who flew high into the sky at will each morning. No one, Maya thought, would ever tether the gorgeous history professor, not even her.

  “All right,” Maya said as she settled down behind the podium. “Where did we leave off last time?”

  “We were discussing Walt Whitman’s poem, I Hear America Singing,” Kismet, a Goth student with a genius-level mind, replied.

  “Ah, yes.” Maya remembered now. “Let’s talk about the different occupations Whitman mentions here. How many are still viable ways to make a living? I mean, how many hatters and shoemakers do any of you know?”

  A lively discussion began, and the students debated the issue until the end of class. Most rushed out in a flurry of backpacks and knapsacks, leaving behind a miasma of various aromas: everything from designer perfume to the lingering hint of marijuana from someone’s clothes to linger. Maya longed to dash away too, but first she gathered up her papers and books. She put the room to rights, straightened the desks and erased the blackboard, feeling pleased she could still use chalk rather than a whiteboard with markers or a Smart Board. A Luddite at heart, Maya preferred the simple things of the past to most technological advances––one of the things she had in common with Ash.

  Her thoughts turned back to Ash. She anticipated spending time with him after classes ended for the day, maybe to meet for a few drinks or enjoy each other in a physical sense. As much as she lusted after his body, Maya admitted Ash enchanted her in every possible way. From the afternoon they met at a faculty reception on a hot summer day (so torrid Maya hadn’t worn any underwear beneath her sheath dress), she craved more of the Irish professor.

  ****

  She never doubted they were fated to meet. Maya often skipped such receptions out of boredom, but her department chair insisted she make an appearance. Five minutes after arriving, she ended up in a corner with a cup of punch cradled in her hands. The tropical concoction tasted too sweet, and at room temperature, Maya found it disgusting. As she debated whether or not she should dump the liquid into a nearby ficus tree, she saw him on the other side of the room.

  Dark, unruly hair curled below his ears and over the nape of his neck. Maya gawked, attracted by his curls, but she caught her breath at the way his lean body moved beneath his faded blue jeans and tweed blazer. I don’t know who he is, but I want to take him home, she thought. He turned to face her, as if he’d read her mind, and those amazing green eyes smote her with emerald fire. She stared back, drowning in the depth of his gaze. As if compelled, she walked toward him.

  He met her halfway there. Along the way Maya put down her punch cup, and when she reached him, he took her hand and bent low to kiss it. “Enchante, pretty lady,” he said. His voice caused shivers to ripple down her spine. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Ashton O’Neill, the new history professor.”

  Although her voice stuck somewhere in her throat, Maya managed to say, “I’m delighted to meet you, Professor O’Neill. I’m Maya Sheppard, a literature professor here on campus.”

  “Call me Ash, please,” he said.

  His name suited him, Maya decided. He ignited her fires and suffused her with such heat she could easily burn to ashes without even a single touch. “I will, Ash,” she said.

  “Would you like to go somewhere else?” Ash asked. “I find the conversation boring, the punch loathsome, and the company dull. You are, of course, the exception, acushla.”

  Maya didn’t know then what the unfamiliar word meant, but she soon learned it was a Gaelic endearment, meaning something like ‘my heart’s blood’ or ‘darling’. She adored the sound of it. “I’d love to,” she told him.

  Ash offered her his arm and she accepted it. They sailed through the gathered groups and skirted around the stares. Outside, heat b
aked everything as if the world were tucked into an oven. “There’s a neighborhood bar two blocks from here,” Maya suggested. “A lot of my students patronize it, I know.”

  “I know a quaint little tea room,” Ash said with a shake of his head. “’Tis lesser known, and we’ll be far more alone there. I’d rather not deal with students today.”

  Five years on this campus and she’d never heard of the place, but it sounded ideal. Maya smiled. “It sounds lovely.”

  Bea’s Teas exceeded her expectations. The hole-in-the-wall shop offered just a few tables, each with a view of a beautiful side garden. Colorful blossoms bloomed despite the hot weather, and although Maya was no garden guru, she could name gladioli, Shasta daisies, a purple clematis vine climbing a rustic trellis, and several varieties of roses. Antique kitchen dressers served as sideboards and when their tea arrived, it delighted Maya to see the blue Willow Ware cups and saucers, vintage and well-used. She cupped her hands around the cup.

  “My grandmother had these same dishes,” she told Ash. “I have them, but they’re in storage for the moment. I’ve always wanted a china cabinet so I could display them.”

  In his large hand the cup seemed far more fragile than in Maya’s. “My ma had the same,” he replied. “I used to stare at the pictures and dream I might visit the Orient one day.”

  “And have you?”

  His grin broadened. “Aye,” he said, sounding far more Irish than he had earlier. “I have indeed. I spent some years there, teaching English.”

  As a little girl, Maya dreamed of traveling round the globe. She planned to visit exotic places and do marvelous things, but she hadn’t. Instead she grew up, graduated from high school at the top of her small town class, earned her bachelor’s degree, then a master’s, and finished with a doctorate. Maya spent the first few years of her academic adulthood at a small junior college in the wilds of Missouri before she headed for California. She had accepted her current post and remained in greater Los Angeles since.

  “Where were you?”

  His luscious lips sipped tea before Ash replied. “I spent a few years in northern Thailand,” he told her. “I was up near the Myanmar border. Then I put in for a post in China and spent some time there.”

  “It sounds wonderful. But why on earth did you come back?”

  “Ah,” he said. “Well, I’m not quite as young and footloose as I used to be, darlin’. I wanted to rest my weary bones in some civilized place. I considered going back to the UK, but I decided California has better weather.”

  “So you’re from Ireland?”

  Ash shook his head. “That depends on who you might ask. I’m from a small town, Keady in CountyAntrim, so it’s part of Northern Ireland. There are those who would say ‘tis part of the United Kingdom, and then those who would tell you it’s Ireland proper under the British heel.”

  Talking to him proved easier than Maya expected. “And which do you think?”

  “Woman, with a name like O’Neill, it’s easy enough to determine where I stand,” Ash said. “I’m with the patriots who think the Six Counties should go back to Ireland. Or, I was raised to think so, anyway. These days, I hardly care. I’m here and the troubles are far away.”

  Maya knew little about Irish nationalism, and his hands on the teacup easily distracted her. She admired his long fingers as they wrapped around the mug. He has lovely hands, she mused, and I’d love to experience them against my bare skin, with his fingers on my breast in the same way he’s holding the cup. Intent on the thought, his voice trickled into her ears like warm, sweet honey and she glanced up, embarrassed she’d missed what he said.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  Amusement darkened his eyes to jade and added a few smile lines to his face. “Where’s your home?”

  “I’m from Tallulah, Louisiana.” Just speaking the name of her hometown aloud evoked memories of the small town, of Roundaway Bayou flowing through town, the small downtown district and the newer businesses out on I-20. Images of the old, now-unused bridge over the Mississippi River from Vicksburg over to Louisiana filled her mind and she thought of the river, wide and treacherous. Maya remembered home, the Southern heat and the taste of RC Cola in her mouth. For a few seconds her memories became so strong she swore she could smell the particular aromas of summer, a combination of both dust and heat mingled with flowers and crops coming up toward harvest time.

  “So, you’re a daughter of Dixie,” Ash said, his tone warmer than a biscuit just out of the oven, and sweeter than red clover honey. “Are you a southern belle?”

  Laughter bubbled up at the notion. Mental pictures of Scarlett O’Hara dancing in her widow’s weeds, scandalizing Atlanta society and flirting at the barbecue at Twelve Oaks, inspired a fit of giggles. “I’d like to say so,” Maya told Ash. “But I’m afraid not. My family used to farm corn and cotton outside of town. We’re all just plain folks, in overalls and housedresses instead of hoopskirts and gentleman’s suits.”

  “Ah, I see,” Ash said. “Then we’ve more in common than I could’ve guessed.”

  His lips touched the rim of the cup as he sipped his Darjeeling. A shiver traveled down Maya’s spine as she imagined the impact his mouth would have on her skin.

  “Do we?” she asked, coy as she could be.

  “Aye,” Ash replied. He put his empty teacup down against the saucer with a soft clink of china on china. “It would seem we do. I come from humble folk myself.”

  Maya tried to imagine Dr. O’Neill in work garb but couldn’t, not quite. His lean body seemed designed for formal evening clothing or the kind of thing models in GQ would wear.

  When he laughed aloud, the noise he made thrilled her. “You don’t believe me?”

  “It’s hard,” Maya admitted.

  “Oh, in my day I plucked eggs from out beneath the hens and milked the cows,” Ash told her. “I cut hay in the fields too. We lived on the edge of our wee town with just enough acres to grow the odd bit of praties and such.”

  “Praties?” she repeated. “Potatoes?”

  “Aye,” Ash said. He extended his hand to her, palm upward. “I still garden, but ‘tis flowers, not food I grow. Touch my calluses and you’ll see they are very real indeed. I like the feel of good soil through my fingers.”

  Her fingers stretched to his hand and Maya stroked the rougher places with something like awe. Against her touch, his flesh exuded heat and when he curled his hand around hers, capturing it, her senses revved into high gear. “I’d like to see your garden sometime,” she told him, trying to sound casual. “Is it anything like the one outside?”

  His lips twitched and then split wide in a beautiful smile. “Ah, love,” Ash said. “Mine is three times as large and far lovelier. You must see it, today. I insist.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Maya suggested. She wanted far more than a garden tour and suspected he knew it. “But how could you cultivate such a garden when you’ve just arrived?”

  Ash’s smile broadened to the width of the Mississippi back home. “I’m new on campus, indeed,” he told her. “But I came to Los Angeles a year ago. I found I had a wait for an opening in the history department and once one appeared, it took some persuasion to win the position at our California campus. Come, woman, and we’ll go to my garden.”

  With her purse strap secured over one arm, Maya stood up. “I’m ready whenever you are,” she told him. “Let’s go.”

  If Ash had asked her to guess what part of the sprawling urban area he called home, Maya might’ve thought Malibu or out toward Santa Monica. But he didn’t ask or even offer a hint. As he traveled the network of freeways and busy thoroughfares, her head spun with the possibilities and she speculated with extreme curiosity what his home might be like. She considered a bungalow, a stucco Spanish villa, even something modern abounding with steel and glass––but the house where Ash parked his restored Packard was none of them.

  The vintage Craftsman house peered down at the winding street through a
screen of delightful foliage and looked over a short wall. As they followed the winding brick pathway to the front door, tucked away through a green wrought iron gate, Maya gaped with wonder. Tropical greenery grew tall and strong beside trumpet vines, exotic lilies, and a bed of Sweet William. Vines twined around posts, many bearing fragrant blossoms. Storybook was the word Maya came up with to describe it, and she spoke her opinion aloud. “It’s like a fairy tale cottage,” she exclaimed. “It’s lovely.”

  “You haven’t seen the inside yet,” Ash said. “Or the back gardens, the two patios or the pool. You might change your mind.”

  “I don’t think so,” Maya said.

  When Ash unlocked the door and they stepped into the entryway, she wasn’t disappointed. Hardwood floors glistened with fresh polish and antique white woodwork gleamed. He led her through a living room with a beautiful white fireplace and mantle––a room of luxury and comfort, with mirrors and track lighting. Maya tried to drink in everything: the formal dining room, the library through a pair of French doors, the compact yet state-of-the-art kitchen, and a cozier room, which led outside. Even through the paned glass Maya saw the burgeoning gardens. Ash paused with one hand on the door. “Would you like to go outside first?” he asked, formal and yet somehow sensual. “Or would you prefer to see the view from the master bedroom first?”

  Her heart pounded, wild and erratic. “I think I’d like to see the bedroom, Ash.”

  Every breath of oxygen in the room vanished and she swore the walls moved inward, making the space smaller until nothing remained but Maya and Ash. He spread his arms open in invitation and Maya, without a moment’s hesitation, strolled into them as if his embrace had been her planned destination for a long time. Although her body surged to life as every cell alerted the next to the wanton flood of desire spreading through her veins, Maya’s perception shifted into slow, delicious motion. Standing within the circle of his arms, she met his green gaze with her blue one and stared, her soul seeking his. With the graceful finesse of a high diver poised on the highest board, Maya dropped and left behind all artifice, all pretension and every scrap of shyness.