2. Rowan
2
ROWAN
T he last thing I wanted to do tonight was go to this fucking party.
There are plenty of other things I’d prefer to be spending my time on. I could be at the pub, for one, catching up with friends I haven’t seen since I turned eighteen and left the States for the shores of Ireland. I could be in bed with a gorgeous woman, losing myself in pleasure until I forget the utter shitshow that my life has become. I could be spending time with my dying father, reconnecting with him before the chance to do so has passed.
I could be back in bloody Ireland where I want to be, instead of here in New York, preparing to take up a mantle of responsibility that I have no desire to shoulder.
In the strictest sense of the word, I suppose I had a choice, in that I could have refused to come home and said to hell with the consequences. But I’m wise enough to know that I’ve lived a rarefied life, one rife with privilege and wealth, and that if I tossed it all aside to shirk my duty, I’d find quickly enough that I’m probably not built for the life of the average man. Not to mention, I’m not arrogant enough to think that the bevy of gorgeous women who’ve come through my bed over the years aren’t at least partially there on account of my thick wallet, as well as my thick cock.
Six months . That was the prognosis that my father, Padraigh Gallagher, head of the Irish mafia in New York, got from his doctor. A lifetime of smoking cigars caught up to him, to hear him tell it. That prognosis was what pushed him to call me and tell me that it was time to catch a flight back to the States. He’d send the private jet, even, he said. But it was time for me to come home and take up the responsibility of heir. He said he had six months to teach me what I needed to know. Six months to convince the heads of the other families that I’m capable of running the family after he’s gone.
I could have said no. Likely enough, he’d have cut me off, and the money I’ve been living off of for the better part of fourteen years—not to mention my inheritance—would have vanished. But more than that, I’m well aware that I’m not just my father’s only son. I’m his only child . I’ve got no sister who could marry and hand the family empire over to some other heir—or, hell, inherit it all herself if my father were to be so open-minded. It’s just me, and if I’d refused to come home, the Gallagher empire would have ended with me.
I have no desire to run a mafia, but the weight of that legacy pulled me back all the same. And now I’m here—at a gala for the New York Ballet—dressed in my best suit and preparing to make my entrance into a world I left behind as soon as I possibly could.
The official reason for my being here tonight is that my father wants me to look into ‘new ways for the family to take part in the greater community of New York’. Patronizing the ballet is a potential way to do that, per Dimitri Yashkov, head of the New York Bratva. An invitation was secured, and here I am. Unofficially, I think my father just wants me to be seen. For the wealthy, connected, powerful men of New York to see me taking part in social life, as my initiation back into this world begins.
My plan was to show up, have a drink, take a spin or two around the room, and then leave. That all vanishes the moment I see her.
I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women in my life—and fucked most of them. But the woman leaning against the bar, looking at a short, round man that’s speaking to her, with a mildly annoyed expression on her face, is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever set eyes on.
She’s undoubtedly one of the ballerinas. Tall and willowy, with legs that could wrap around a man twice and the kind of slender, delicate figure that looks fragile but comes with a graceful strength. Her dark, mahogany hair is spilling over her pale shoulders in thick waves that make my fingers itch to run through it, and when I catch a glimpse of her eyes, I see that they’re nearly as dark. Her mouth is soft and full, painted a dark rose that makes my cock ache just thinking about that lipstick rubbed off on it, and the hand wrapped around her champagne glass looks as delicate as the rest of her, with long fingers that I know would also feel heavenly wrapped around my cock.
One look, and I can feel myself stiffening, my shaft lengthening along my thigh as I pivot and walk towards her. She looks up, and when her gaze locks with mine, I feel a rush of heat down my spine.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything like this when I first looked at a woman. After a while, no matter how beautiful, they all start to blend together. No one has stood out to me in a long time. But this woman, whoever she is—I’m struck with a deep, almost compulsive need to meet her. To know who she is. To have her attention on me… and only on me.
She doesn’t look away as I approach. I can’t help the small smirk that curves the corner of my mouth as I hold her gaze. She’s fiery, I can already see that. Not easily brought to her knees, but fuck if I don’t want to see what she looks like there. My cock throbs again, and I grit my teeth, trying to divert my thoughts just enough to not end up with a full-blown erection in the middle of this party.
The man talking to the woman sees that she’s distracted and looks up, annoyed. “Excuse me, but we’re in the middle of a conversation.” He looks as if he wants to wave me off, and I chuckle. I hadn’t planned to whip out my family name so quickly, but if it means getting to talk to this exquisite creature, I’ll do whatever I need to.
“Rowan Gallagher.” I smile at him, extending a hand. “Padraigh Gallagher’s son. I’ll forgive you for not recognizing me—I’ve been out of the country for some time.”
The man’s expression instantly—and gratifyingly—changes. “Vincent D’Orzo,” he says quickly, shaking my hand firmly. “My apologies, sir. As you said, I didn’t recognize you. This is Genevieve Fournier,” he adds, motioning to the gorgeous woman. “The New York Ballet’s prima ballerina, and our Giselle for this spring’s performance.”
Any heat that I imagined I saw in her eyes when our gazes first locked seems to have vanished. She holds out her hand elegantly, her expression cool as I take it. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gallagher,” she says, her voice smooth and inflectionless. “But as Vincent said, we’re in the middle of a conversation.”
“Oh, it’s nothing we can’t discuss later,” Vincent says quickly, taking a step back. He laughs jovially, holding his hands up. “Far be it from me to deprive you of our prima ’s company! Especially since, as you said, you’ve been gone from New York for so long. Who better to have a conversation with, now that you’re back?”
“Who better, indeed?” My smile doesn’t falter. “I appreciate that. And you, Ms. Fournier? Are you enjoying your evening?”
Genevieve glances at Vincent as he melts away into the crowd, and then back at me. I can’t help but notice that while she held my gaze a moment ago as I walked towards her, she doesn’t quite meet my eyes now. Her gaze lands somewhere over my shoulder, looking off into the middle distance, and her smile seems forced as she takes a sip of her champagne.
“I’m sorry, have I done something to offend you?” I step to one side, motioning for the bartender. “Or do you have something against the Gallagher family that I’m unaware of? I’m afraid I’ve been gone so long, there’s no telling what enemies my father might have made.”
“I can’t say I’ve met your father.” Genevieve takes another small, delicate sip. “So your name doesn’t mean much to me.” She smiles, and I see a small, fizzing bubble pop at the edge of her lip. I have the sudden, visceral urge to lean forward and wipe the damp spot away with my thumb—or, better yet, kiss it away. That thought alone is enough to bring my cock, which softened during the conversation with Vincent, surging back to life.
“Well, I’ll have to do a better job of public relations now that I’m home, I see.” I lean forward as the bartender walks up. “Jameson and ginger, please. Slice of orange.” I glance at Genevieve. “A second glass for you?”
“I’m afraid the bartender is under strict orders to serve each of the dancers only one.” Her smile is as tight and delicate as the tiny sips of champagne she’s taking from the glass in her hand. “But that’s alright. I like to keep my wits about me.”
There’s something devastatingly elegant about her, something that feels as if it’s from another time. I’d almost call her frigid, in the way that aristocratic women of another age seemed to be, but I could swear that I see something just beneath the surface, something that hints at a passion that she doesn’t want to let me see. It comes from the same place, I think, as that fire I saw earlier, when she made me think of how lovely she’d look down on her knees.
“I like your wit.” I lean against the bar, unable to take my eyes off of her. “So, like I said, I’ve been gone a long time. And now that I’m back, I hear patronizing the ballet is the sort of thing I should be interested in doing. What can you tell me about that?”
Genevieve raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Now that is a conversation you should be having with Vincent.”
“He seems to think I should have it with you.” I take my drink from the bartender and take a sip of it. “Why is that?”
Genevieve rolls her eyes, and I’m startled by it—entranced, even. It’s a break in her carefully icy, elegant facade, a completely human reaction, and it makes me want to keep talking to her even more. “Often,” she says slowly, taking another small sip of her champagne, “men who patronize the ballet do so by developing a…relationship with a dancer. They enjoy her company, supplement her living expenses, and donate hefty sums to the ballet company. Everyone is happy. Certainly the men, and certainly Vincent.”
“And the ballerinas?”
“I presume most of them are happy.” Another sip, the champagne dampening her full lower lip.
“And you?” I meet her gaze, my stomach tightening at the thought that this woman is already spoken for. But she must be. Her position as the prima —and undoubtedly the most sought-after of the dancers—aside, no woman this beautiful could be alone. No, if I want her, there’s someone I’ll need to push aside in order to have her.
But I’m more than willing to do exactly that.
“Why does it matter?” She arches her eyebrow again, lowering her glass. “You’re not a patron of the ballet, Mr. Gallagher.”
“No, but I could be.” I keep my eyes on her face, even though they desperately want to drift lower. “Especially if being a patron meant I would get to have you.”
A flash of irritation crosses her face, so quickly that I almost miss it, but it’s there. “You can’t have me.” She says it with such decisiveness that for a split second, despite my own desires—despite the fact that there’s never been a woman that I’ve wanted who has turned me down—I believe her.
It only makes me want her more.
“What about a dance?” I smile at her, that charming, rakish smile that has drawn a thousand women, probably, into my bed. More, even. I lost count long ago. “Can I have that?”
Genevieve looks as if she wants to refuse. For a moment, I think she might. But then she tips her champagne glass back, draining the rest of the fizzing liquid in a sudden departure from those small, delicate sips that she’s been taking, and offers me her hand. “I suppose.”
It’s not a glowing acceptance, but I’ll take it. I’ll take anything that keeps me close to her for a minute longer. In this brief amount of time, she’s utterly charmed me, and I barely know her.
The fact that I clearly haven’t had the same effect on her is somehow even more intoxicating.
It’s the challenge , I think, as I lead her out onto the dance floor and we start to move to the swaying rhythm of the string quartet’s rendition of yet another pop song that I can’t quite place. It’s never a challenge to get a woman I want into bed. They all come easily… too easily. Fucking Genevieve would feel like a victory. Like an accomplishment, at a time when all the accomplishments in front of me are ones that I don’t really want.
I can’t recall the last time I was this turned on by anyone. She’s stunningly beautiful, but it’s more than that. Everything about her entrances me. Her perfume is something that smells fresh, herbal with a hint of salt, something that reminds me, oddly enough, of the beaches back home in Ireland. It makes me think of other things, too—of warm, sweaty skin; makes me wonder how it would smell on my sheets, after I’ve made her drip with sweat, lacing every inch of her with that same salt.
It wouldn’t be forever, of course. My father made it clear to me from the moment I arrived back home that I’ll have to marry someone —sooner rather than later, according to him. He wants to be sure that the family line will continue after he’s gone, and there’s no better way to do that than making sure I’m wed before he dies. But I doubt a ballerina, even a prima , is on his list of potential brides for his only son.
Still, I think as I spin Genevieve in a circle, drawing her back into my arms and breathing in her scent as she sways against me, this could be the distraction I need. A hot, wild fling with the city’s principal ballerina—something to look forward to in the apocalypse that my father’s news has made of my life.
I could find out what’s under her icy exterior, satisfy my curiosity and my lust all at once.
She dances beautifully, of course. I can feel her trying to take the lead, her instincts as the principal dancer coming to the forefront, but I press my hand to the small of her back, taking control. Her eyes narrow, and I smirk down at her, feeling that aching ripple of desire course through me again.
I’ve danced plenty of times before—at formal events, at clubs—but it’s never felt this sensual before. Like I understand why some religions forbid it. It feels intimate, every breath between us charged with the promise of something that she hasn’t offered me yet, and that I desperately want to take.
I look down at her dark eyes, her full, rose-painted lips, and a shudder ripples through me. I’m aching to slide my hand up her spine, into her hair, wrap those curls around my fist and kiss her until I know the taste of her mouth as intimately as I want to know the contours of her body. I can feel my pulse beating hard in my throat, and the music fades away. I don’t hear what they’re playing any longer, or when it slows and stops briefly. I only feel the slender, willowy shape of Genevieve’s body against mine, hear the soft rhythm of her breath, and smell her skin and perfume.
Until she breaks away, that tight smile on her face again as she nods politely to me. “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Gallagher. I’m afraid I can’t let you keep me all to yourself, though.” The smile remains as she says it, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Then she turns, before I can say anything, and she’s lost in the crowd.