Chapter 9 #3
He opened the door wider. There was a poignancy to the curve of his brilliant smile that arrowed straight into her heart. He was so tall and strong, his shoulders broad and hips lean. That luscious mane of golden hair framed a face the devil himself had sculpted to lure women to sin and ruin.
“Your family is here, cher.” He crossed the room with such long, rapid strides that he reached her before the door clicked shut behind him. “They’re talking with the doctor now, but they’ll be with you very soon.”
Hearing his faintly accented voice in reality, after only imagining it in the dark hell of her captivity, brought tears to her eyes. Her heartbeat settled into its new elevated rhythm, reviving her and helping to clear the haze in her mind.
She held out her hand to him. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
“That’s my line.” He caught her fingers, the lush curve of his sinner’s mouth thinning as his thumb brushed over her broken nails.
He bent his head and rubbed his cheek against the back of her hand, his eyes closing briefly, his chest lifting and falling on a deep exhalation.
When he pressed his lips to her knuckles, he held them there for a long moment.
She frowned at the small scab on his full lower lip before remembering that she was the one who’d injured him. “Your lip,” she murmured. “What a pair we are.”
When his eyes opened again, she glimpsed storms in the silvery gray of his irises.
“Le meilleur. How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Stoned.” Smiling, Ireland slid over to give him room to sit beside her, forgetting the huge bruise on her thigh until a sudden flash of pain made her draw a sharp inward breath. “Which is not a bad thing right now.”
“Ma pauvre petite.” As Ronan half-sat on the edge of the bed, his slacks stretched across his powerful thighs.
His dress shirt’s open collar and rolled-up sleeves revealed alluring glimpses of golden skin dusted with caramel-hued hair.
He was so very male. He roused something vital in her that even sedatives and narcotics couldn’t constrain.
And yet his proximity somehow quieted the restlessness inside her.
He’d had that relaxing, deeply sensual effect on her from the moment they’d met. He was the most exciting, tantalizing person she knew, yet she felt…steadied when she was with him.
Holding her hand in both of his, he murmured, “I’m sorry if you were hoping for your family to visit first. I selfishly had to see you, and I don’t want to disturb their time with you. I’ll leave when they come.”
“I’m glad we can have a few moments alone.” She squeezed his fingers for emphasis. “And I’m happy you’re still in New York.”
“You and I have a date,” he reminded her. “And I have work here now.”
Something in the way he looked at her made her cheeks flush and her gaze lower. Her attention caught on something that furrowed her brow. “You have Blizzard’s hair all over you.”
“Ah.” Looking down at his lap, Ronan gave a soft laugh. “In my defense, I meant well but… I’ve been squatting in your apartment.”
It took perhaps a second too long for her mind to grasp that he didn’t mean crouching. She blinked at him. “You’re staying at my place?”
“I was just worried about Blizzard initially. But your kitchen was practically empty of anything humans could eat, so I ordered some groceries. And I only have a few pieces of clothing at the moment, so I put our laundry together. In the end, I just…stayed. It’s entirely my doing. I’m solely to blame.”
Ireland stared at him, her mind slowly grasping the implications of everything he’d said. Something warm and soft unfurled in her chest, even as her throat tightened so that it hurt to swallow.
“I really have no defense,” he went on, clearly chagrined.
“Or even an adequate explanation. And I’m afraid I’ve created another complication for you, which you absolutely don’t need.
I went to Vidal earlier today—you’ll be happy to know that Chantal and Six-Ninths are recording now—and when I returned to your place, your mother was there.
We talked awhile, and I told her I’m just cat sitting, not moving in, but it did, perhaps, look like a more serious arrangement to her. ”
She tried to find words. But there was so much to deconstruct in what he’d said.
The studios were up and running again. New music was coming.
He was keeping his promise to save Vidal.
He thought of her cat. Thought of her…in so many ways.
He’d had a conversation with her mother. And he was so clearly remorseful.
“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Ireland. I’ll clear out tonight. And I hope you can forgive me.”
Her mouth opened and closed a few times as she started to speak, then stopped repeatedly.
Finally, she grasped at one thing. “I should probably be embarrassed about things you might’ve found, although I’m too loopy to think of anything.
But I violated your privacy by digging into your background, and I wasn’t feeling at all altruistic when I did, so I’d be a hypocrite to get mad. ”
“We’ll see how you feel when you’re not stoned,” he murmured, reaching over cautiously so that she had time to reject his touch. His smile was soft and fond. “And I didn’t snoop. As you once said to me, if you want me to know something, you’ll tell me.”
When she didn’t evade him, Ronan brushed her hair back from her bandaged ear. His breath caught at the bruise on her temple, and his fingers were featherlight as they brushed over the tender spot.
“I’m so very thankful that you killed him, tigress.” His drawl was deep, his voice pitched low. “But I regret that I can’t.”
Her sigh was heartfelt. “You heard.”
“Your family heard. I read Shelley’s lips.” His rueful look and sexy smile were irresistible. She felt a different kind of stirring entirely. That he could penetrate the blessed numbness she felt, and so positively, was what guided her decision rather than rational thought.
Turning her head, Ireland pressed her lips to his palm.
How could she ever express the feeling she had that things might’ve ended very differently for her if Ronan hadn’t come into her life when he did?
So much of the strength she’d called upon in those last horrific moments had been unknown to her until he’d insisted it was there.
To him, she was a tigress. Fierce and powerful and capable of anything.
Clearing her tightened throat, she said, “Blizzard clearly likes you, and I don’t want to come home to a yowling cat blaming me for you leaving, so you’ll have to stay until he gets bored with you. He’ll be unbearable otherwise.”
Ronan held her gaze. “Be honest. Are we talking about the cat losing interest or you? You prize your independence. If I threaten that, I risk a great deal more than I’m prepared to.”
Her brow arched. “Weren’t you the one who said we just start and end the days together, and figure out the rest later?”
“And you broke things off with me immediately after,” he drawled. Planting his hands on either side of her hips, he leaned forward slowly, caging her lightly against the pillows. His lips brushed her jaw.
The smell of him, so decadent and seductively masculine, took over her senses. The effect rivaled any drug she’d been given, making her head feel so heavy that she tilted her neck to give him greater access. His chest expanded as he breathed her in.
“I can’t smell good,” she thought aloud, her words slurred as the floating feeling of intoxication deepened. It drove her crazy how animalistic Ronan could be in his attraction to her. Nothing had ever turned her on more, and to experience it now…
Her hand slid into his hair and cupped his nape. He made her feel alive after days of fearing death.
“Cher.” Ronan nuzzled into her neck, his lips caressing her skin in the barest of whispers.
The opening of the door had them pulling hastily and guiltily away from each other. Ronan stood in a rush and pivoted but remained at her bedside. Ireland felt heat in her cheeks as she faced damn near everyone in her family gaping at them.
Anxiety made her fidget, and aching injuries reminded her that they were still there. She also felt the change in Ronan, the shift from warm intimacy to utter withdrawal, like a door slamming closed, and she hated the distance it created around him.
Her father’s face looked as red as hers felt. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“You know why he’s here, Chris,” Elizabeth said sharply. “It’s the rest of us who don’t.”
Christopher took a couple of menacing steps forward. “I’m getting really sick of seeing your face, McCaffrey.”
“That’s a shame,” Ronan said lazily, “because you’ll certainly be seeing more of it.”
“I want to s-see him,” Ireland said, her voice trembling at the building tension in the room.
Looking down at her, Ronan gave her a brief smile. “You know where to find me when you’re ready.”
She wanted to protest his vagueness, to demand more details and more assurances, but his compelling gaze warned her not to, and she found she lacked the courage. The weight of her family’s obvious disapproval was crushing. She only ever wanted them to have peace of mind when it came to her.
“They said I can go home tomorrow,” she told him, hoping she conveyed her desire to find him there.
His silent nod and lingering look at her revealed a hint of the private man she craved to know better.
“We’ll talk soon, then.” Ronan walked out of the room without a backward glance.
Ireland feared the weighted silence that descended in his wake. She’d hoped for a parting touch at least, if not the kiss she truly wanted. And in the back of her mind, she questioned whether he was showing respect by abstaining or making the point that he could easily leave her behind.
Overwhelmed and more than a little confused, she rubbed her eyes, trying not to cry.
And then her mother was beside her, sitting in the spot Ronan had occupied.
Elizabeth’s trembling hands were cupping her face, her mother’s touch slightly less gentle than Ronan’s because her emotions were so high.
The tears streaming down Elizabeth’s cheeks caused a piercing pain in Ireland’s heart.
“My baby,” Elizabeth sobbed, as she hugged Ireland a little too tightly, her slight frame wracked with uncontrolled sobbing.
Her father came to the other side of the bed, and Christopher stood behind him. Eva grabbed the box of tissues off the bedside table and brought them over, while Gideon stood a foot or so away from the end of the bed, as if he feared coming closer.
The way they all looked, hollow-eyed and drawn, was haunting for Ireland. Her drug-addled mind distanced her from their agonized relief, as if she watched from somewhere else, an observer rather than a participant.
She slid her good arm around her mother’s waist and closed her eyes, noting the lack of her mother’s signature fragrance. It was a small sign of the massive disruption in their lives and routines.
The deep familiarity and comfort of her mother’s embrace melded with her remorse for their pain, creating a unique distress. She didn’t realize she’d lost the battle against tears until her father brushed them from her cheeks with shaking fingers.
None of them would ever be the same. The dread she’d felt earlier while waiting for them to join her—the knowledge that while she yet lived, they all had something to grieve—became all-consuming.
There were no words for the scars they would have to live with now, so none were spoken.