Chapter 5
Ronan eyed the surging crowd with cameras and phones at the ready outside the entrance to Ireland’s apartment building and steeled himself for a possible battle ahead.
She’d blocked him on her phone but had failed to remove him from the masquerade guest list. He hoped she’d also failed to remove him from the approved visitors’ list at her building’s reception desk.
Gripping his duffel bag, he hopped out of his rideshare on the Central Park side of Fifth Avenue and crossed at the light.
None of the press or random gawkers paid him any mind as he passed them and entered the building.
It was just past seven thirty, and the city was still stretching awake on the first full day of the weekend.
“Can I help…? Oh, hey, Mr. McCaffrey,” a familiar bellman greeted him. Dressed in gray and white livery, the doorman was a big fellow somewhere in his mid-fifties. Tall and broad with unruly dark curls peeking out from beneath his cap.
“Good morning, Dwayne. I’m going to need the spare key to Ms. Vidal’s apartment.”
Dwayne’s face fell. “I’m real sorry about what’s happening. I’m praying for her.”
“She’ll be touched to hear that when she’s home. In the meantime, her cat needs looking after, so I’ll see to him.”
Realization widened the doorman’s eyes. “Blizzard.”
“Yeah.” Ronan had remembered Bliz less than an hour before, when he’d read a late-night text from Marcelle.
She’d assured him Marie Laveau, his cat, was being well-pampered in his absence.
Cats were self-sufficient creatures, but he couldn’t recall whether Blizzard was free-fed or served at specific intervals.
And while a cat could drink out of a toilet for a while, Ronan was damn sure not okay with his cher coming home to a yowling, ravenous cat.
Although if the spirits were kind, Ireland would be home too soon for anything to have changed in her absence.
Dwayne tapped away at the keyboard, then frowned. “Hmm… There’s no authorization for you to get a key.”
“Mon Dieu, you can make an exception,” he argued, with a lazy half-smile.
“Listen. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, and I’m sure Ms. Vidal will, too. I’ll remind Mr. and Mrs. Cross. They’ll see to her cat.”
“As if they don’t have enough on their plate at the moment.”
The door behind Dwayne opened, and another familiar face appeared. The man had removed his bellman’s uniform and changed into a T-shirt and jeans, but Ronan recalled the graveyard-shift doorman from the times he’d come over late.
“Hey…” The man’s sorrowful look at Ronan spoke volumes. “Cops have been in and outta here all night. I hope they have good news soon.”
“So do we all, Paul,” Ronan agreed.
Paul came around from behind the desk. “She’s in my thoughts, man.”
“Thank you.”
Dwayne sighed heavily as his coworker exited out to the street. “Breaking rules gets people fired.”
“Cross owns this building, doesn’t he?” Ronan asked, well aware that Cross’s real estate portfolio was immense. “You won’t lose your job. Ireland won’t let that happen.”
“Sure. Like it’s that easy. I’m three years off from being vested.”
Pulling his wallet out, Ronan withdrew a business card.
He flipped it over and snagged a pen off the counter to write on the back.
He’d had the cards made overnight on Thursday, planning to surprise Ireland with them as soon as he found the opportunity.
He’d told her they would work together to save Vidal, and he wanted her to know unquestionably that he had meant it. “Anything happens, I’ll match it.”
The doorman collected the card, read the back, then the front. His brows lifted again. “Chief Financial Officer & Shareholder of Vidal Records. I didn’t realize they weren’t family-owned anymore.”
“No, Ireland and I run it together. Look… Can we agree that it’s unlikely she’d object to her personal and professional partner, whose name is on her approved visitors’ list, gaining the necessary access to take care of Blizzard? Especially under the present circumstances?”
“Yeah… Yeah, all right, Mr. McCaffrey.” The doorman shook his head and pulled open a drawer. “But just so you know, I not only like this job—I need it.”
“Thank you, Dwayne.”
“Keep me in the loop.” Dwayne handed over the key.
Ronan’s reception from Blizzard was considerably smoother than the one he’d received downstairs. The minute he pushed open the door, the giant white Maine Coon was there to greet him with welcoming purrs that rumbled loudly in the otherwise quiet space.
The effect of being in Ireland’s apartment was instantly profound. His chest tightened until it was hard to breathe. Her fragrance infused the air. Strewn clothing seemed to be everywhere. Some of that was due to the mischievous cat and the rest was simply because his cher was messy.
Dropping his duffel on the floor, he picked up Blizzard and draped the hefty cat’s forelegs over his shoulder. He ran massaging fingers down the feline’s long, arching spine. “Have you eaten?”
Bliz’s forlorn yowl was pitiful.
Ronan walked around the living room and kitchen, searching for the cat’s food bowl and finding himself assailed with memories.
So few hours, really, that he’d spent in Ireland’s sunny home, and most of those had been in her bed.
Still, he’d made them meals in her kitchen—she wasn’t much of a cook, either, or so she said.
He had showered with her in her bathroom.
He’d lain awake while she slept with his chest as a pillow, his fingers running through the silky length of her glossy black hair.
Forcing the memories aside, Ronan found an empty puzzle feeder bowl near the elaborate cat playground wall adjoining the bedroom. There, too, was a water fountain that could use topping off but was filled enough for at least a few more days.
Meowing as if he were starving, Blizzard wound ribbons around Ronan’s legs.
“You like to eat, my friend. I can tell.” Ronan carried the feeder into the kitchen and began looking through the pantry. The pampered cat had an entire shelf of canned food, kibble, and treats, while his mistress’s options were sparse.
We’ll learn to care for each other, cher.
He filled the bowl and nearly tripped over the excited cat multiple times on the way back to the designated feeding area.
“Sacré bleu!” he groused as he stumbled over the cat’s winding body yet again and spilled kibble that the cat pounced upon immediately. “Next time, I’ll bring the bag over to the bowl before you kill me.”
Blizzard dove face-first into the meal, scattering more kibble everywhere. The garbled grunts and crunching that ensued lacked any grace whatsoever.
“You’re quite welcome,” Ronan said drily, before looking around the coffee table for the remote.
He turned the television to the news. Every network was covering Ireland’s story and airing footage of the growing crowd outside the building, too, but none seemed to have any further information to share.
He’d set an alert on his phone for any mention of her and found himself inundated with notifications of “updates” which inevitably cross-referenced the same few sources and details.
An entire night had passed without developments. As terrible as it had been for him, he imagined it was exponentially worse for Ireland.
Ronan stood in a rush. He had to stay busy to keep his thoughts away from horrifying speculation.
Wandering into the bedroom, he stood for a long moment at the foot of the bed, remembering. It hurt him to do so, to think of how he’d taken for granted the sight of her sultry, playful smile.
He cursed under his breath and picked up a laundry basket filled with a small pile of clean, unfolded clothes, including the dryer sheet.
Placing it on the small seat in front of the vanity table, he straightened the bedsheets and comforter, then dumped the contents onto the bed.
He gathered the pile of clothes on a chair into the empty basket.
When his cher came home, it would be to peaceful orderliness and no outstanding chores.
He was on his way to the kitchen closet that housed a stackable washer and dryer when he saw the police commissioner on TV speaking at a podium. She was flanked by two men with multiple stars on their lapels. A woman and a man in blue FBI windbreakers stood a short distance behind them.
Moving to the white sofa, Ronan sank into it. He put the basket down on the cushion beside him and turned up the volume from mute.
What followed was a rundown of the abduction and subsequent crime scene locations.
Screenshots of the two men who’d exited the vehicle to snatch Ireland were shown.
A news ticker at the bottom directed viewers to call the tip line with information and offered a one-million-dollar reward for tips that led directly to Ireland’s recovery.
Then the podium was ceded to Gideon Cross.
Ronan leaned forward, noting how Cross’s wife stood at his side and just behind him. Her face was bare, her blonde hair pulled back into a short ponytail and restrained with a headband. She wore a pale blue dress and was considerably shorter than her spouse.
Cross wore a navy three-piece suit. He was hard-faced, his gaze icy.
In all the photographs and videos Ronan had studied in the years leading up to the Vidal Records takeover, he’d never seen the man look so foreboding and dangerous.
A brother on the edge. A powerful man with unlimited resources that were useless now.
For a brief moment, Cross stood silently at the podium, staring daggers into the lenses aimed at him. The incessant camera flashes were like strobe lights, but he hardly blinked. “I won’t be taking questions after my statement or at any time. Those should be directed to the authorities.”
He paused for a moment, then said gruffly, “Ireland, if you’re watching or listening, we love you. We’re doing everything in our power to get you home safely.”