“Being a git. That should be enough.”

She knew the gist of the meaning from Roarke’s use of the word when he lapsed into his native slang. “Not in New York, ace. The city’s full of gits.”

“I think I’ll be a cop and blast the bad guys. How many’ve you blasted?”

Bloodthirsty little bastard, Eve thought. She liked him. “No more than my share. Putting them in a cage is more satisfying than blasting them.”

“Why?”

“It lasts longer.”

He considered that. “Well now, I’ll blast them first, then put them in a cage.”

When she laughed, he shot out another grin. “We don’t get bad guys around here, and that’s a pity. Maybe I’ll come to New York again, and you can show me some of yours.”

“Maybe.”

“That’ll be frosted!” he said, and bolted off.

The minute he did, someone plopped down beside her and pushed a fresh pint into her hand. Seamus, she identified, Sinead’s oldest son. She was pretty sure.

“So, how’re you finding Ireland then?”

“We went east from New York. Green,” she added when he chuckled and gave her a friendly elbow in the ribs. “With a lot of sheep. And good beer.”

“Every shepherd deserves a pint of an evening. You’ve made my mother very happy, taking this time to come, be with family. She thinks of Roarke as hers now, in her sister’s place. What you’re doing for her, and for him, it matters.”

“It doesn’t take much effort to sit around and drink good beer.”

He patted her thigh. “It’s a long way to travel for a pint. Added to it, you’ve thrilled my boy to pieces.”

“Sorry?”

“My Sean, who was just here interrogating you.”

“Oh. It’s hard to figure who’s whose.”

“Sure it is. Since we visited you last year, he’s given up his dream of being a space pirate in favor of being a cop and blasting bad guys for his living.”

“He mentioned it.”

“Truth be known he’s wishing desperately for a murder while you’re about. Something gruesome and mysterious.”