Ronan Connolly pounded on the brightly painted blue front door a few more times, then paused to listen. Not a sound from inside the house, though he knew too well that Laura was in there. Hell, he could practically feel her, standing just on the other side of the damned door. Bloody hardheaded woman. How had he ever thought that quality attractive? Now that attractive hardheadedness had come back to bite him in the ass. Seconds ticked past and there was no sound from within, which only irritated him further. He glanced at the sunshine-yellow Volkswagen parked alongside the house—her car—then glared again at the still-closed front door. “You won’t convince me you’re not at home. Your bloody car is parked in the street, Laura.” Her voice came then, muffled but clear. “It’s a driveway in America, Ronan. You’re not in Ireland, remember?” “More’s the pity.”
