Prologue #2
Jules’ laugh turned Ronan’s head toward the connecting door between their rooms. Their brother leaned insouciantly against the doorjamb, wearing a hotel-branded bathrobe and sporting a messy crown of dark hair that he tamed into a flamboyant pompadour when making himself presentable.
“But you’re so charismatic for someone so antisocial.
You lure the women, and I console the ones you don’t pick. ”
Shaking his head, Ronan crossed the living room to his bedroom. “You manage just fine without me. You’ve yet to spend a night alone since we arrived, and we’ve been here nearly two weeks now.”
And he understood how early childhood abandonment made being alone unbearable for his brother. In that, they couldn’t be more different.
“Two weeks too long.” Jules raked his fingers through his hair. “As pleasurable as that aspect of this trip has been, I miss the pace of seduction we enjoy back home.”
“As if you don’t move with lightning speed in either locale,” he retorted, snatching up the matching jacket to his dress slacks from where he’d tossed it on his bed earlier.
“Where are you going?” his brother demanded.
“Jazzie’s.” He caught up the handle of his trumpet case.
“For a man who doesn’t like crowds, you don’t seem to mind drawing them.”
Ronan shot him an arch look. “The music draws the crowds.”
“Modesty doesn’t suit you, gros bête,” Jules countered in his deep, slow drawl. “Neither does celibacy, so pour l’amour de Dieu, please take the opportunity while Claudy and I are out this evening to bring a woman back to the suite with you. You need to get laid.”
“Forgive my crudeness, petite s?ur,” he warned his sister before meeting his brother’s gaze, “but I take that kind of advice from my dick, couillon, not you.”
“If the women here aren’t doing it for you,” Jules said, “fly your plane home and let Scarlett sweeten your temper.”
Striding toward the door, Ronan chose to ignore his brother’s suggestion and took his leave with a quick, “à tant?t!”
Ronan flashed a smile at the bandmates sharing the stage with him as they finished “Blue Train” to abundant applause.
The music-themed Vidal Hotel had a popular jazz club with nightly live music from a resident house band, which was an unexpected perk he’d come to appreciate.
Though he always traveled with the instrument, it wasn’t always possible to find the appropriate space to play it.
The volume of the horn was unlikely to be received well by his neighboring guests.
“The stage is yours, Mac,” the saxophonist said to him, shortening the McCaffrey surname he’d introduced himself with, as most of the staff in the bar did. “We’re taking a break.”
Cliff’s smile was bright against his dark skin; his eyes lit with congenial warmth.
When Ronan first approached the band, it was simply to compliment the players.
In the ensuing conversation, they’d touched upon his own musical inclinations, and they’d invited him to stop by after hours.
He’d managed to impress, and they had extended an open invitation to join them whenever suited him.
Eventually, that resulted in actually ceding the stage to him at times.
Live music was preferable to piped, and it cost them nothing to have him play.
He couldn’t be more grateful. Music could always transport him to a primal place in which he felt most comfortable. Away from people, unnatural noise, and social rules that constricted him until it was difficult to breathe.
Grabbing a stool, Ronan moved it closer to the microphone that waited center stage.
He settled into a half-seated position and raised the trumpet to his lips, letting his internal upheaval guide his song choice.
The first few notes, slow and melancholic, felt like his soul sighed with relief.
The room quieted, and he began to sink into the melody…
An electric current swept across his skin, raising the hair on his nape.
His fingers trembled for an instant against the warmed brass keys, his focus drawn by the almost familiar but still unwelcome sensation. It was not unlike the feeling of danger at his back, unseen but alarming. An ambush.
Relying on muscle memory to keep playing, he lifted his gaze to scan the room. He locked eyes with electric aqua irises almost instantly.
He wouldn’t be able to say later how he managed to keep breathing through the song.
Everything inside him felt as if it seized in startled disbelief.
He was assailed by a sense of recognition beyond the obvious that he couldn’t quite explain.
Was he truly surprised to see Ireland Vidal standing at the bar, one stiletto-heeled shoe resting on the foot rail as she stared at him with focused intensity?
Or had he secretly hoped they’d cross paths this way?
She studied him for a long moment, her gaze heated and her lush mouth thinned into a furious line.
Sam, the bartender, spoke to her, but she didn’t look away, her shoulders squared as if preparing for an unpleasant and angry confrontation.
Her eyes narrowed as she raked him from head to toe in an intangible, rough caress.
Mon Dieu… He felt a stirring, an amalgam of too many reactions to catalog. She could not have stood out more to him if a spotlight shone on her. The rest of the packed bar receded into complete obscurity. His vibrating inner agitation shifted into a pulsing beat of anticipation.
Had she brought their fight to him? He relished the thought. Nothing raised his blood like a worthy adversary.
With a toss of her long hair, she turned away from him in a callous dismissal that made him smile inwardly. Tu es magnifique, cher.
When she pushed away from the bar in a sudden explosion of movement and marched toward him with jaw tightened and murder in her eyes, Ronan’s heartbeat quickened. Her outward beauty hid something to be reckoned with.
What fire. And ferocity.
He resisted the urge to hop off the stage and meet her halfway. He remained where he was simply because her direct assault was too thrilling.
Directness was always his preferred choice. The years of carefully concealed business moves that enabled his takeover of Vidal Records had been bearable solely because vengeance kept him motivated.
Abruptly, Ireland flashed a dazzling smile that scattered his thoughts. When she stopped at a table in front of the stage and began speaking to a couple whose grunge-rock style conflicted with the theme of the bar, Ronan felt a spurt of irritation that her attention was no longer fixed on him.
He read the words formed by her lips, a skill he’d picked up long ago that had literally saved his life on occasion.
Astonished and puzzled, Ronan grasped that she was confronting someone else.
Following the conversation between the three, he felt his interest sharpen.
It honed to a fine point when he watched her direct hotel security to escort the couple out of the bar.
Was this an elaborately staged performance for his benefit? A flexing of power before wielding it against him? If so, he was flattered.
As he finished the song, he watched as Ireland Vidal stretched those mile-long legs in a direct walk to his reserved table, where she settled gracefully into one of the club chairs facing the wall.
Turning away from the enthusiastic applause and whistles of the audience after a slight bow of gratitude, Ronan placed his trumpet in its stand near stage left.
He approached his unexpected but not unwelcome guest from behind, unseen.
He studied her slouched posture, which read as both defiant and…
dejected? His hackles rose, his suspicions mounting.
Her beauty already had the power to disarm him if he weren’t careful.
He could not allow her to elicit his sympathy, either.
Rounding her chair, he paused beside her, strung tight with expectation at seeing her up close and in person.
With a slight turn of her head, she studied his boots first, then slid her gaze up the length of his legs.
When she lingered a second too long on the juncture between his thighs, those eyes of tropical blue widened slightly, and his heart skipped a beat as he absorbed the feeling of being sized up and found to be worth looking at.
It was an all-too-familiar sensation, but this time the woman checking him out was extraordinary in every way.
He felt her gaze glide over his torso. She paused at his mouth, arrested, and he appreciated the momentary respite to gather his composure.
He shouldn’t give a damn what she thought of his appearance, but regardless of who she was, he was a red-blooded male, and Ireland Vidal could not have been designed to please his personal tastes more.
That was surprising. He’d always believed women of Southern sensibility and style were more suited to his nature.
When Ireland finally met his gaze, Ronan felt like he’d rocked back onto his boot heels. Time slowed to a halt, trapping him in amber with her—a threat previously unknown to him.
No, that wasn’t quite true. Hadn’t he been wondering how and in what way she might be a tracas for him? He knew how to deal with the rest of her family, but Ireland had always been a question mark.
Suddenly, she turned her attention away, her lushly curved lips thinned disapprovingly. “I don’t want company.”
Ronan stared down at the gorgeous creature occupying his space, momentarily at a loss for a response.
What game was she playing? Had she decided she didn’t need the hotel security’s help to remove him?
Well… Even though he’d already won, it wouldn’t hurt to play along.
“Fine by me,” he replied, walking to the loveseat opposite her and sinking into the plush cushion. Was she intending to humiliate him publicly? Had she thought he’d leave quietly before she could make a scene? She would soon learn that he’d been forged of sterner stuff.