Prologue #3
Now at eye level with her, he drank her in. She wore a black leather blazer and matching leather shorts paired with a top the color of her eyes. Her skin was luminous and appeared bare; her makeup was minimal if she wore any at all. Her flawlessness withstood closer scrutiny and defied it.
He had no defense against that heart-shaped face with its exquisite symmetry. The plump lips that sent his thoughts straight into the gutter. Those eyes that tilted up slightly at the corners…
Her gaze narrowed dangerously. “Which part of what I said did you not understand?”
Her frosty tone could not fully suppress her voice’s natural warm huskiness, and Ronan wanted to hear more of it.
“It’s my table,” he replied easily in a subtle taunt, glancing at his instrument case and discarded suit jacket to prove his claim. It was more aptly her table, as the entire hotel bore her surname, and he waited for her to press that point.
Was she blushing?
She bolted to her feet, and Ronan surged to stand along with her, prepared to pursue.
It was an instinctive reaction that had nothing to do with etiquette.
And he had no time to ponder that as Sam appeared behind her and quickly placed two Old Fashioneds on the table between them.
Catching the question in Ronan’s arched brow, the bartender explained, “One for the lady and one she bought for you.”
Ireland scowled at Sam but was clearly embarrassed. Without the armor of her anger and disdain, her youth became apparent, giving Ronan pause. An unwelcome spurt of sympathy irritated him.
Maudit. She was always going to be collateral damage; that was never in question. He’d only wondered how innocent she was. How much did she know? And how far might she be willing to go to change her fate?
Did her motives matter if he could have her, if only for a few hours…?
He did the only thing that made sense in the moment: picked up his drink and thanked her.
When she looked as if she still intended to leave, he challenged her to linger.
“The place is packed. You’re leaving the only open seat, and you’ve got a drink that’ll take a while to enjoy.
You’re welcome to stay, but let me be clear: while I very much enjoy an exchange of harmless flirting with a beautiful woman—and you are, without question, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen—I’m not looking for a hookup. ”
She stood unmoving, her stare unblinking. He couldn’t fathom what she was thinking or what her agenda might be. It was a novel experience to be so confused about an opponent’s strategy.
The only thing he knew for certain was that he was invigorated in a way he hadn’t been in a long time, if ever, and he wanted time to appreciate the feeling.
He watched a similar spark of interest light the depths of her eyes, and her expressive face betrayed the moment she accepted his challenge. He withheld a smile when she lowered slowly back into the chair.
“You weren’t supposed to know that drink came from me,” she said, seeming chagrined as he settled back into the loveseat. “It’s meant as a thank-you for sharing your talent. I’m not looking for a hookup, either.”
Momentarily setting aside his skepticism about her intentions in favor of experiencing a well-crafted drink with a beautiful and sexy woman, Ronan smiled. “Ah, well, I appreciate the compliment. And I’ll enjoy the drink far more with your company, so thank you for staying.”
She tilted her glass toward him in a brief toast, then took a long swallow. He watched her enjoy the melding of flavors, her indulgence rousing his baser nature. When she finally spoke, it was to ask where he’d learned to play.
He noticed how she grew more relaxed as he answered, perhaps due to the bourbon, but he was certainly trying his damnedest to put her at ease enough to lower her guard.
“What brings you to New York?” she continued.
“The culmination of years of meticulous planning.” He flashed her a quick grin. “Although most would simply call it ‘work.’”
He waited for her to ask more. When she simply sat there, saying nothing, he pressed her. “Won’t you ask me what it is I do?”
“If you wanted me to know, you’d volunteer the information.”
His smile was genuine. Her cheeky reply only whetted his appetite further. “I confess to being curious about what it is you do.”
Her rapid blinking was perhaps her first true tell. Or maybe she was an Oscar-worthy actress. Considering what her father was capable of, Ronan couldn’t dismiss any possibility.
“I read somewhere that discussing occupations is a very American thing to do,” she hedged. “Maybe we put too much importance on work.”
“And maybe you won’t tell me,” he countered.
Playing dumb was an age-old tactic, but an opponent acting as if he knew nothing was a first. He’d barely drunk enough to feel the burn in his belly but felt intoxicated nevertheless—too relaxed and comfortable to be fully vigilant in a situation rife with possible hazards.
For a man who’d stayed alive by honing his self-preservation instincts, it shocked him to realize he was having a very good time with someone who had every reason to both hate and destroy him.
Ireland relaxed deeper into her chair, a subtle withdrawal that made him want to lean forward to reclaim the distance. “Why don’t you take a guess,” she suggested, “and I’ll tell you if you’re warm.”
They danced around the topic of how they made their respective livings for a few minutes, and then he tired of learning nothing about someone he’d long found fascinating. Figuring she might be open to discussing things she enjoyed, he asked what those might be.
She came alive at the question, her cheeks flushing with pleasure. “Music—I can’t live without it. Whiskey, scotch, bourbon. Coffee. Late nights, later mornings. Rain. Thunderstorms. Fall. Cats and dogs. Sunlight on my face and a midnight breeze in my hair.”
Ronan felt the thread of deep awareness between them snap taut into an unexpectedly urgent need.
He heard every word and registered the passion each one carried.
In this, there was no artifice. He knew it in his bones.
He saw the fire inside her, the joie de vivre he’d never had and still lacked.
He saw her, shamelessly hedonistic, as he was.
His chest lifted and fell on a slow, deep breath as he fully grasped his predicament—the jittery nerves that plagued him whenever he was around people quieted in her presence.
And the hunger she roused in him went beyond sexual. He was aware, for the first time all day, that he was also suddenly ravenous for a meal. That revelation was the most profound. And disquieting. “That’s quite a list, cher.”
At twenty-nine, Ireland Vidal was too young for him. Too beautiful. Too refined and too established in her fast-paced urban life. She was the daughter of the man whose downfall he’d orchestrated.
And it was too late for any of that to change how badly Ronan wanted her.