Ireland (Crossroads #1)

Chapter 14

“He came over again.” Ireland covered her face with her hand, embarrassed to admit her helpless fascination with the man who’d pitted himself against her family.

“Girl.” Alina’s voice held more than a note of surprise. And censure.

Dropping her hand, Ireland looked at her best friend on her phone screen. Sitting at her desk in the Vidal offices, she was torn between the lingering elation of a morning spent cuddled up with a gorgeously naked and blissfully sated Ronan Boudreaux and the reality of the situation at work. “I’m a terrible person.”

Alina sighed. “No, you’re not. You’ve just finally found the man who can get to you. Unfortunately, your picker is still broken.”

“Right? I’ve got to get over him.”

“Or at least out from under him.” Alina grinned.

Ireland laughed. “He couldn’t be terrible in bed, could he? That would be too easy. No, he’s got to be a sexy beast who gets off on getting me off. I’ve had more orgasms this week than all the rest of my life combined. I had no idea a man could love going down on a woman as much as Ronan does, although he swears it’s my effect on him that makes him enjoy it so much.”

Alina shook her head. “Lucky bitch.”

“Not for long.” She winced. “Gideon gets back from his trip tomorrow. Depending on whether Christopher laid out what’s happening in a voicemail or just asked for a callback, Gideon could know about the situation with Ronan at any moment.”

And the thought of the two men she loved so deeply facing off?—

No . She did not just think that. She was tired, that’s all. It was a mental slip.

“Well…” Alina winced, too. “On the plus side, Gideon will be busy with the masquerade. Might buy you another weekend of hot monkey sex before the inevitable showdown between those two smoking hot specimens of male perfection.”

“God.” Ireland’s eyes squeezed shut. “I can’t keep fucking Ronan. It’s got to stop.”

“Oh, it will as soon as Gideon gets involved. He’ll run the McCaffreys out of town before they know what hit them.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.” Ireland chewed on her lower lip. “Ronan would’ve anticipated my brother and planned for him. I’ve thrown Ronan off his game a bit, he admits that. But I’ve seen him with my father and Christopher, and he’s capable of being just as frightening as Gideon can be.”

“No offense—you know I love your dad and Christopher—but going toe to toe with them is nothing like facing off with Gideon Cross.”

“That’s true, but I think they’re more evenly matched than you realize.”

“You think?”

“Ronan clawed his way to where he is now, from abject poverty to a position of wealth and power. And while he’s Gideon’s age, his forty years of living have been much harder to survive than my brother’s. I can’t see him backing down without a brutal fight.”

And the possibility of a nasty, protracted battle between the man she was addicted to and the brother she adored made her stomach twist into knots of anxiety.

Her head lifted at a knock on her partially closed door. “Hang on, Alina. Yes?” she called out.

The door's opening widened, and Angus McLeod poked his head in. “Is it a bad time, lass? Your assistant isn’t in yet.”

She straightened. A glance at the clock told her he’d arrived just before nine. She’d told him she was available at his convenience. “No, not at all. Come in.” She looked at Alina. “I’ll call you back.”

“I’ll be waiting with bated breath, whatever the hell that means.”

Ending the call, Ireland gestured for Angus to take a seat. He entered, dressed in jeans and a plaid dress shirt worn as Ronan also preferred—with an open collar and rolled-up sleeves. He had a leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and he pulled it into his lap as he settled his heavily muscled, imposingly tall frame into one of her visitors’ chairs.

He rubbed at the grizzled stubble on his jaw. “Things have changed drastically around here, I see.”

“Yes, we played musical chairs—or offices, as the case may be—but everyone still has a seat.”

“Because of Ronan Boudreaux?”

Just hearing Ronan’s name in Angus’s Scots burr made her back tense, an instinctive need to shield and defend him rising. And wasn’t that as insane as everything else between her and Ronan? She felt the same protective drive for both her father and the man who threatened him. “In part. He’s a shareholder.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said grimly. “Boudreaux makes his fortune by taking over troubled businesses and selling their assets for profit.”

“Yes, I know.” She almost didn’t say more, but everyone would soon know how vulnerable Vidal Records was. “He’s got us on the chopping block now. I don’t know if I can fend him off, but I’m trying. We haven’t given up hope yet.”

His lips compressed into a tight line, then he continued. “I’ve lived many lives. In one of them, I hunted people who didn’t want to be found. You pick up a few things in that line of work, and I’ll tell you there is something very wrong with Boudreaux.”

It took Ireland a second to recognize that she was shaking her head because she was actively suppressing the urge to deny what he was saying. Her trust in Ronan was firmly anchored in a way that brooked no doubt. She had an ear for lies, a sixth sense so to speak, and it had yet to warn her when it came to him.

So she was relieved when all she said was, “What do you mean?”

Angus began his report. “He was born Ronan Liam McCaffrey to Emma Olivia McCaffrey. No father was named on the birth certificate. A standard background check revealed little of note beyond a name change in adulthood when he added the Boudreaux, which he uses sporadically. When I dug deeper, I found an expunged juvenile record. When he was fifteen, he was convicted of manslaughter in the death of a police officer.”

She blinked rapidly, her brain misfiring. “Are we talking about the same man?”

Digging into his bag, Angus withdrew a mugshot and slid it across the desktop to her. She pulled it closer with trembling fingers, staring at a young man who was unmistakably Ronan. His face was gaunt, his beautiful gray eyes dark and haunted, the sockets sunken and bruised. His tawny hair looked like it’d been hacked short with a dull pocketknife.

Time is a luxury I’ve enjoyed too little of, he’d told her.

She released her breath in a rush, her hand splaying across the image to protect it. That Angus had gotten his hands on the expunged record wasn’t so much surprising as impressive. It reminded her of just how far-reaching her brother’s power was.

“That’s him?” Angus queried.

“Yes.”

His curt nod told her he’d had no doubts. “Boudreaux warranted a closer look, so I flew down to Louisiana.”

“You did?” Why was she surprised? Of course, he would be thorough; Gideon would expect nothing less.

“I was once told that to hear gossip in the South, you need to be sippin’ sweet tea and sitting close enough to whisper to.” His attempt to shift his burr to a drawl failed spectacularly. “So, I drove to the parish where the Boudreauxes are based to find that not a single person would speak a negative word about any member of the family. His childhood and criminal history do not exist there, and if you mention either to someone, they won’t look you in the eye, and they stink of fear.”

Ireland sat back in her chair, rocking a little to expend the chaotic energy brewing inside her. There was a growing sense of disconnection, the feeling that she and Angus were discussing two very different people.

“If you make general inquiries, the residents boast about him and his father, Lucas Courtland Boudreaux, the youngest son of the family matriarch, Harper Fleur Landry Boudreaux.”

“So, he knows who his father is, despite him not being named on the birth certificate?”

“My guess is he figured it out later in life and rectified it with the name change.” He flipped through a folder in his bag, searching. “I can’t adequately express how strangely people in the area reacted when discussing the Boudreauxes. They’re eager and delighted to share all the good works the family does for the community, and there’s a collective infatuation with them. But there’s also the sense that the family protects its image aggressively. A waitress in a neighboring parish told me that the earliest businesses targeted by Ronan were rivals of the family.”

Withdrawing another photo, he pushed it across to her.

The entire room twisted and juddered back into place. She lifted the photo to study it closer. The resemblance between Ronan and Lucas was so uncanny that it took her a moment to identify the differences.

The man photographed appeared to be ten to fifteen years younger when his picture was taken than Ronan was now. He had a broad, cocky, million-dollar smile that was so incongruous with his circumstances, as if he didn’t fear the consequences ahead of him. He had tawny hair similar to his son’s, although it was a darker shade. Well-dressed in the style of the time, he looked like a man with everything going for him—aside from the booking number placard in his hands.

“Lucas was arrested, too?” she asked, incredulous.

“And convicted. Of first-degree rape. He’s been incarcerated in Angola prison for over forty years. His case is being championed by the Innocence Project, which is seeking to have the DNA evidence retested and eyewitnesses reexamined.” He gave her a cynical look. “From the reactions of people I talked to, I’d have some concerns about coercion and intimidation being a factor in any recanted testimony.”

“ Forty years?” The sentence fit the crime in her opinion but seemed unusually high. Then again, her criminal legal knowledge came from Hollywood productions.

“In Louisiana, the mandatory sentence is either death or life without parole.”

“Jesus. More states should take their cues from Louisiana.” She put the two mugshots side by side, staring at the boy who looked as if he hadn’t eaten well in far too long, if ever, and his father, who looked like the world was served to him on a silver platter.

“Being claimed by the Boudreauxes is what allowed Ronan to enter polite society. He’s engaged to Scarlett Olivia Claiborne, the only daughter of a family more prominent than the Boudreauxes.” Angus reached into his bag again and withdrew yet another photo. “There’s general elation about the match.”

Ireland felt the blood drain from her face, and her stomach soured with acidic heat. She looked helplessly down at the photo Angus placed in front of her, unable even to touch it like she had the others. The woman pictured was a lovely blonde with long cascading curls, big cornflower blue eyes, and a wide smile. She was so perfect she was almost doll-like.

Angus provided an additional photograph, one of Ronan and Scarlett together in front of a step and repeat backdrop for a charity event. Scarlett wore a wide-brimmed sun hat and white lace dress, while Ronan was dressed in a linen suit of soft tan. His smile held all his charm and charisma, while Scarlett’s was confident and engaging. Her gloved hand on his proffered arm was unmistakably proprietary. With Ronan’s hair worn shorter, much like his father’s, he didn’t look like the man in whose arms she’d lain just hours ago. He looked like the angelic twin of the devilish seducer with whom she’d spent the past several days revealing her most personal vulnerabilities and aspirations.

Her vision blurred with hot, stinging tears. The searing intimacy they’d shared took on a sinister and painful connotation. She waited for the cleansing rage to rise so she could weaponize it and confront Ronan head-on. But what she felt was a smothering agony that made it hard to expand her lungs.

Pushing the pile of photos back to Angus, Ireland tried breathing through the urge to vomit into the trashcan beside her desk. It was a joke that she could find the biggest loser in any room to hook up with, but she had felt a bone-deep certainty about Ronan that she’d depended on. To be so wrong about a feeling that felt so… right ? What else had she misjudged or underestimated? How badly was she fucking everything up?

She stood on shaky legs, wanting to leave the room, the building, the city…

The ringing of her desk phone startled her enough to make her jump. Angus didn’t even blink. She fumbled the receiver, dropping it on the desktop where it clattered noisily, aggravating her fraying composure.

“Yes?” she answered, appalled at her voice's hoarseness. She felt Angus’s examining gaze and knew she was revealing too much of her inner turmoil. She didn’t know how to pretend feeling okay when she wasn’t.

“Hey, boss,” Matt greeted her. “You don’t have a meeting scheduled, but your door’s closed, so I’m checking to see if you’ve got a minute for Brett Kline. He’s saying there’s a problem with the studio he booked downstairs. Neither of the two Mr. Vidals are in the office yet.”

Brett was saying something in the background. She looked at Angus. “I have to handle an issue with one of our artists. Could you give me a few minutes?”

“No need. I’ll leave you to it.”

She spoke into the receiver. “I’ll come out and get Brett in a minute, Matt.”

“Sure thing.”

Angus stood and withdrew a folder from his bag as she hung up. Sliding the photos into it, he left the folder on her desktop. “Your copy of my report. I have to warn you…” He waited until he had her full attention. “The Boudreauxes will know that someone’s been asking around. I positioned myself as a true crime podcaster researching Lucas’s case, but if they’re as protective of their reputation as I believe, they won’t just take my word for it. Whatever plans he has for this company may accelerate.”

Opening her top drawer, Ireland swiped the folder into it. “Ronan says he targeted Vidal Records because of a vendetta against my dad, who denies knowing anything about Ronan at all, although he admits to knowing a man who looks like him, which has to be Lucas, right?”

Angus’s interest sharpened; she could tell even without any outward sign. “Not necessarily. The Boudreauxes are a large brood. If two of the men look alike, there will likely be more among them with similar appearances. I’ll see what I can find.”

“Thank you for this, Angus.”

“Of course. I’ll be in touch.”

Rounding her desk, she walked with him to the door and opened it, summoning the inner strength to focus on the immediate problems facing her. Confronting Ronan would have to wait until she was sure she wouldn’t break down in tears in front of him. She would not humiliate herself that way or give him the satisfaction of seeing how he’d wounded her.

The first inkling of fury began to warm the block of ice in her gut.

Angus headed toward the elevators, and Ireland managed a smile for Brett, whose dimple flashed when he grinned back. The lead singer of Six-Ninths hadn’t changed his rocker-chic style in years. He still wore his hair short and bleached at the tips. Lean and tall, his arms were covered in sleeves of black and gray tattoos of various people, places, sayings, and things, and his green eyes gave her an appreciative once-over.

“Hey, Irie,” he greeted her, using the nickname he’d given her that only the band used. “Got a question for you since you’re the boss now, I’m told.”

She extended an arm toward her office in invitation, then followed him in. “Let’s hope I have an answer for you.”

“Your dad wanted us in the studio right away to record ‘First Kiss Goodbye,’ our new single.” He faced her once he reached her desk, choosing not to sit. “Did you hear the rough sample we sent?”

“I sure did,” she lied with what she hoped was an enthusiastic smile, remaining on the visitors’ side of her desk with him. “It’s fantastic, Brett. I’m thrilled for all of us.”

He nodded energetically, clearly excited. “Right? We know we’ve got it with this one. Anyway, he’d sent us some pics of your new studios, and we’re ready to roll, but I guess you’re not…?”

Her smile didn’t falter. Although Six-Ninths had been around long enough to know how things worked, it wasn’t unusual for artists to question the support they were receiving—or not—from their label, especially when they were particularly proud of what they were working on. “That’s not true at all. We’ve been working hard to get everything ready for a big drop. Christopher will review the promotional plans with you this afternoon, and you’ll be pleased with them.”

“I meant the new studios aren’t ready,” he clarified. “Sorry. I’m jetlagged and under-caffeinated. So, we’re trying to figure out where we’re supposed to go.”

She opened her mouth to say more, but a sinking feeling silenced her. “Let me see what you’re talking about.”

“There’s nothing to see—that’s my point. The control and machine rooms are prepped for installation, but there’s no equipment yet. And I gotta tell you, Irie, I’m concerned that you don’t know that.”

Ireland was striding toward the elevators before he finished talking, then she took the stairs to get to the second floor faster. She burst through the door to the main hallway and found the rest of Six-Ninths talking with Chantal. It was impossible for Ireland to smile at anyone, with tears of frustration and heartache clogging her throat.

“We were here until around three,” Chantal was telling Darrin Rumsfeld, the Six-Ninths’ drummer. “Everything was here then.”

Ireland exited the machine room, now just an empty space with wires scattered all over the floor and a temperature that felt below freezing without the servers generating heat. She couldn’t say a word to anyone, afraid if she opened her mouth, only a piercing scream would erupt. She took the stairs back up to the executive floor. When she exited the stairwell, she saw Jules sitting at the conference table and marched over to him.

Thrusting the glass door open, she glared. “Where’s your brother?”

His lips curved into a malicious smile that was more of a sneer. “ Bon matin to you, too, Lizzie.”

“Fuck you. Where’s Ronan?”

Laughing, he rocked back in his chair and checked his watch. “I’d say he’s about an hour away from landing in Lafayette. Never saw anyone pack that fast, but when my brother’s done, he moves on to what’s next and doesn’t look back.”

The news was a blow so severe she felt it like a punch. That she didn’t double over was inexplicable. “Why are you still here?”

“I like to throw the last handful of dirt on the coffin.”

Setting her hands on the table, she leaned toward him and took sharp satisfaction when he rolled his chair back a few inches. “Your family has made itself my mission in life. You might be too stupid to be scared about that now, and I’m fine with that because that’ll just make me more terrifying later.”

He scoffed as she shoved away from the table, nursing her rage as fuel.

She flashed him a smile that was all teeth. “Tell your brother to give my regards to Scarlett… at least until I get around to giving them to her personally.”

Jules leaped to his feet. “You keep her out of this!”

Flipping him the bird over her shoulder, she stormed back out through the glass door just as her father exited the elevator.

Ronan angled the stick to guide the helicopter around again, allowing himself to take in another view of the lush paradise below. The mighty Mississippi River glittered sinuously through a verdant landscape dotted with ancient live oaks and blanketed in short, swaying grasses. A resplendent mansion sat like a sentinel on the shore, surrounded by acres of riotously colorful gardens and manicured walkways. The air was fragranced with the perfume of hundreds of blooming flowers, the soft breeze diffusing some of the sultry humidity.

Bellefleur. The pride of the parish and state.

Built in the Greek Revival style, the square manse was two and a half stories tall and enveloped by a colonnade of twenty massive columns. An enormous gallery wrapped completely around, affording every room access to the outside. The home had been built by another family in 1852, and as a plantation, it once grew tobacco. It fell into Boudreaux hands in 1868, and now no one was sure where the family had been rooted before that.

As Ronan descended to the helipad on the rear lawn, he thought of what it would be like to bring Ireland here. Would she hear the music of this place as he did? The steady, inexorable surge of the river to the sea. The buzzing of bees as they collected pollen. Would she dance with him in a midnight garden to the sounds of the cicadas, crickets, and katydids?

He felt a twinge of regret that a Vidal would never be welcome here; she would have to change her name.

As he settled his Hill HX50 on the ground, he saw the bright yellow Lotus Emira parked in the circular drive. And once he completed the after-landing checklist and exited the aircraft, he saw the Lotus’s driver watching him from the rear gallery. It would be hard to miss Scarlett Claiborne at any time—she made sure of that—but the fact that she was naked guaranteed he noticed her.

With one hand on the ornamental iron railing, she blew him a kiss. She’d tossed her long blond hair over her shoulders so nothing would impede his view of her generous tits, trim waist, and full hips. She had even ensured that her pussy was visible between the ornate spindles. Her petite, curvy body was the envy and desire of many but couldn’t be more different from that of the woman who enflamed him beyond all rational thought.

Scarlett didn’t call out to him, which might have attracted the attention of the residents in the adjacent rooms. She only liked to flirt with danger, which is why she was hellbent on marrying him, but she was as protective of her reputation as any member of his family or hers.

Taking the three short steps up to the rear entrance of the mansion, Ronan pulled off his mirrored aviator sunglasses and hooked them onto his open shirt collar. Entering through the screen door, he strolled the long central hallway to his grand-mère’s study, passing beneath a heavy crystal chandelier and the mural of a cloudy blue sky that had been painted on the ceiling ages ago.

He’d arrived in time for lunch but wouldn’t eat much here despite the rather pitiful breakfast he’d scavenged at Ireland’s. They’d have to work on stocking her pantry so he could feed them both properly. He could eat comfortably with her. She quieted the noise in his head that food—or more specifically, the lack of it he’d experienced in childhood—created. Sitting at the immense dining table that seated thirty of his relatives was a boisterous good time, filled with humorous conversation and scathing anecdotes, but all of the chaos made it impossible for him to be mindful of what he was putting into his mouth. So, he’d pick his way through the meal and look forward to eating more robustly later with Ireland.

The study door was open. The substantial mahogany desk at the room's far end was too large for the woman sitting behind it. Her hair was primarily white with thick streaks of dark blond swirled through it. She wore it in an elaborate chignon, revealing a long, graceful neck and massive sapphires dangling from her ears. At eighty-two years old, Harper Boudreaux was still spry, which she credited to her nightly tumbler of two fingers of whiskey.

His grand-mère was the bright spot in an otherwise dark room, the walls covered in a burgundy damask wallpaper and the dark wood floors covered with an Aubusson rug in a similar hue to the walls. Generations of male Boudreauxes had conducted family business here, and when Harper had taken over the task, she’d left the baroquely masculine room as it had always been.

He knocked and waited on the threshold. She glanced up with a fearsome glower that immediately brightened into a dazzling smile and bright eyes.

“Ronan! I didn’t hear you land. Does that mean you drove, or am I going deaf?” She stood effortlessly, her posture still perfect. Dressed in a long, slender navy skirt and white gauze blouse, she looked cool and ready for business.

He lengthened his stride to reach her before she had to walk too far. “I’m a stealthy bastard, grand-mère, you know this.”

“Not a bastard,” she corrected sternly, extending both hands to him and returning his les bises . “Your father would’ve done right by you had Vidal not gotten in the way. Thankfully, that is all behind us now. Look how long your hair has grown! And you’ve lost weight. Should I be worried that you’ve been too busy to look after yourself?”

“The hair was laziness, now it’s by design. The weight… well” —he flashed a big smile— “I’ve been exercising a lot recently.”

“We’ll get you a trim and fatten you up a little. You’ve been missed terribly. Scarlett hurried over when I told her you’d be home today. She’ll be spending the weekend with us. And so will you,” she finished as if the matter was decided.

Harper Boudreaux was tough, and she had to be. Managing the many Boudreaux siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles was like herding cats. She also managed the estate and the family’s finances and investments. She’d only recently begun delegating some of the charity and church work to his generation of Boudreauxes.

“Sounds like a party,” he said cheerily. “I regret not being able to stay for it.”

Her eyes were a deep, dark blue, and they took on a hardened glint, even as she continued smiling with welcome. Harper didn’t like being denied. “You can stay at least one night before you head home.”

“Ah, home,” he said fondly, thinking of Marcelle and the comfort of being entirely himself. “I’m eager to see it, even if only long enough to switch out the clothes I’m traveling with.”

He was one of the few in the Boudreaux family who didn’t live at Bellefleur. And as much as he admired the grand old lady who ran the estate, Jules and Claudette weren’t welcomed here as family, only as occasional guests for rare public events and festivities. Harper wanted everyone to forget that he hadn’t been raised as a Boudreaux, and she’d educated him in the requisite social skills required to pass among the civilized. But he could never live behind the facade long term; it was too taxing.

She tutted at him. “What’s so pressing that you have to leave as soon as you arrive?”

“I’m heading back to New York.”

“ Non ,” she dismissed. “You’re needed here.”

He gave her a patient, resolute look.

She sighed heavily and gestured for him to sit on one of the two matching settees. “If you’re not finished there, why return at all? You can afford to buy new clothes.”

“You know why.” Tugging up his slacks, he sat gingerly. While Harper often insisted the delicate-looking, centuries-old furniture could bear his weight, he didn’t entirely trust that. “I want to tell Lucas personally how and why the plan has changed.”

And today was Harper’s scheduled video call with her son, so this was Ronan’s chance. It was a standing appointment afforded to his grand-mère by good planning and breeding—there were benefits to coming from old money, which he’d learned by watching, not doing. Harper had seen to it that he was trained as necessary to prevent embarrassing her or the family, but he would always be the boy from the bayou.

“Don’t call your papa by his name,” she admonished. “And what’s changed? We haven’t discussed making any adjustments to the plan.”

Ronan shook his head. He was only going to explain the situation once to them both. But he could tell her something that wouldn’t matter at all to Lucas. “We lost the warehouse in Queens to Cross Industries. I’ve already told Owen Claiborne.”

And Scarlett’s father hadn’t taken the news well. Owen hoped to expand the Claiborne import-export business beyond the Gulf to the East Coast. Ronan so rarely failed to succeed that many assumed he was infallible.

Harper’s gaze narrowed. “How?”

“The daughter, Ireland, is more formidable than anticipated.”

When his grand-mère’s eyes narrowed and her lips compressed with displeasure, he realized he might have inadvertently revealed his admiration in his tone. So be it. A bit of forewarning before the call might actually help smooth his way forward.

“Ronan!” Scarlett’s breathy voice came from the doorway. “I wasn’t sure that was you with your hair so long. Although I do like the savage look on you.”

She’d put some clothes on—sandals with elaborate heels and a floral halter dress that might’ve been demure but for the plunging neckline that revealed her impressive cleavage. Her hair was now up in a ponytail, and large round diamonds sparkled from her ears.

He stood as she entered. “Aren’t you a vision,” he drawled, careful to avert his mouth when her la bise strayed too close. She smelled of roses and honeysuckle, which conversely reminded him of how Ireland’s spicy floral scent drove him wild. “That dress was meant to be worn by you.”

The sly look she gave him said she caught the double meaning of his compliment.

“Lawd, have I missed you!” she told him as she sat on the settee he’d been occupying. “It’s terminally boring when you’re not here. I should’ve gone with you to New York. I could’ve shopped while you worked and made sure you fit some fun in there, too. You work too hard, Ronan.”

Absolutely not trusting the curved leg settee with both of them on it, Ronan went to the bar cart instead. “Can I get you ladies anything?”

“It’s too early to drink,” Scarlett said—for Harper’s benefit. He knew she lied because he’d watched her pour whiskey from a flask into her lemonade at more than one charity event.

“Nothing for me, thank you,” his grand-mère replied.

Agreeing with Scarlett, he opened a small bottle of soda water and drank deeply. He did like the woman, always had. When he was roped into being the token Boudreaux at an event, Scarlett’s presence made it bearable. They’d tangled in the sheets a few times, and she had been a pleasant diversion. He’d known to fuck her like a lady—not too rough or sweaty, no teeth marks or bruises. Not that he was ever or had ever been as passionate with any woman as he was with Ireland, but he couldn’t say he’d ever even lusted after Scarlett. She was willing, and he was able; that was all.

Still, despite his sedate performance in bed, Scarlett was perversely excited by the fear his past evoked in her. What went on in her pretty head, he didn’t know, but having a woman get off on being afraid of him was not a turn-on. And now that he’d mated with his tigress, he was ruined for the casual sex he’d indulged in before. If he wasn’t burning alive from the inside out, he didn’t want it.

“Ronan’s planning on leaving again this afternoon,” Harper told Scarlett, wily in her quest for support.

“No!” Scarlett protested. “You’ve just returned, cher . I’ve hardly had time to even look at you.”

“I’ve met someone.” He looked each of them in the eye individually.

“What does that mean?” Harper demanded.

“I’ve become romantically involved,” he elaborated, “with a woman I met in New York.”

Scarlett’s frown smoothed out, and she smiled confidently. “Well, you have been gone for weeks, and you’re a healthy male in your prime... I really should’ve come along with you.”

“Scarlett.” Harper’s voice held a note of reprimand. No one expected her to remain virginal until marriage, but discretion was the mark of a lady.

His mouth curved at Scarlett’s lack of jealousy. “I may be gone for a while longer.”

Her fingers drumming on the arm of the settee, Harper studied him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Just because the Vidal situation has concluded doesn’t mean you have time to waste. There’s more to be done here.”

“And plenty of Boudreauxes to do it,” he countered without heat. “My mind can’t be changed, so I urge you not to waste time trying.”

Her breath whistled. “How serious is this dalliance of yours?”

He shrugged. “It’s early days yet.”

“If you’re trying to make me jealous,” Scarlett drawled, recrossing her legs seductively, “it won’t work. You can’t live away from here, and a woman making her living in New York isn’t moving to our sleepy parish. Let him sow his wild oats, as they say, Ms. Harper. He got a late start after all.”

Ronan hadn’t expected Scarlett to take his side, but he appreciated it, which he told her with a wink. She preened and returned the gesture.

“That may be,” Harper conceded, “but you’re forty years old, Ronan. Not only was your father a grown man when I was your age, with three older siblings, but you were one of several grandchildren.”

“Almost forty.” He grinned. “And if you’re counting on me to contribute to your extensive brood of great-grandchildren, don’t.”

A soft chiming sound drifted through the air. Harper and Scarlett both stood immediately at the familiar reminder alarm. “We’ll see you at lunch, Scarlett.”

“Yes, Ms. Harper. I’ll save you a seat by me, Ronan.”

He inclined his head. “Thank you.”

“ De rien .” Scarlett shut the door behind her when she left.

His grand-mère used a remote to power on the big monitor on the wall, then she logged into the video program that charged them in ten-minute increments to speak with Lucas Boudreaux.

When Lucas appeared, Ronan heard Harper’s sharp inhalation. He knew his face, so like his father’s, made Lucas’s four decades of hard labor even more apparent. There was a hardened look to the man, a flatness in his gray eyes that revealed the cost of living in a cage, fighting for dominance and survival among lethal criminals with nothing to lose but a lifetime of captivity.

Ronan had felt and seen a similar change happening in himself before he’d crossed paths with his father in the state’s penal system. If he hadn’t come under Lucas’s protection while institutionalized, he might not be alive today. He might also be even more of an animal than his childhood had made him.

“ Comment ca va? ” Wearing a chambray shirt over a white T-shirt, Lucas greeted them with a wide smile. “How are my two favorite people? I take it there’s grand news since Ronan is home.”

Harper sat with perfect posture, hands linked in her lap. “Ronan tells me the plans have changed.”

“Oh?” Lucas brushed back his grizzled hair, which was more blond than his mother’s but with a similar pattern.

Ronan’s arms crossed. “Chris Vidal, Sr. has lost control of his business. He has no stake in it whatsoever now.”

His father flashed a smile so bright he could see a glimpse of the man Lucas had once been. “You did it. I knew you could, but a man learns not to get his hopes up after a while, you know?”

“I know.” And he did. All too well.

“Why is it relevant that he has no stake in a company that no longer exists?” Harper asked shrewdly.

Giving her a brief, appreciative grin, Ronan explained, “Because I’m not going to kill it just yet. Chris Vidal was the problem, and now he’s not. It could become profitable again under the right hand.”

Lucas looked from him to Harper with raised brows.

Harper’s cool gaze was intimidating. “You don’t run businesses, Ronan, you ruin them.”

“That’s true. But I’ve been thinking perhaps it’s time I built one up instead. And why not music? One of my great loves.” He could tell the argument wasn’t landing and switched tactics. “Plus, dismantling the business will be over too quickly. Much more painful, I think, for Vidal to watch me running it instead.”

Nodding, Lucas grinned, but this time, it was full of malice. “I like the way you think, baw. Always have. You know how to make things hurt. That’s a valuable skill.”

“It’s the girl, isn’t it?” Harper scowled. “The daughter. She’s why you’re doing this.”

“The daughter?” Lucas frowned, and then his expression cleared. “You’re fucking his daughter?” Throwing his head back, he laughed raucously. “ Mon dieu , that’s rich! It must be killing him.”

“Stop laughing!” Harper ordered curtly, her expression inflexible. “You said you’re romantically involved with her, Ronan. That it might be serious.”

Ronan felt a warning tingling down his spine and heeded it as always. He began to choose his words more carefully. “A gentleman discusses his liaisons with respect—you taught me that, grand-mère.”

“You can make an exception for the Vidal woman.”

He laughed with feigned nonchalance. “She and I wage war by day and truce by night. It may be less exciting without the war,” he lied. “If so, I think the business might suit Jules and help settle him, although his distaste for New York surpasses mine.”

“Jules Robicheaux is not my concern,” she said icily.

“ Mais non , he’s mine,” he countered, smoothly hiding his irritation. “We must also consider Gideon Cross. Taking the business over rather than under should help defuse a protracted battle we can’t afford. Forbes recently published an article on how costly the competition between Cross Industries and LanCorp has been for both companies. It’s worth a read.”

A knock came to the study door.

“ Vas t'en! ” Harper yelled curtly.

The door opened anyway, and Scarlett peeked her pretty face around the door. “ Désolée . Ronan, Jules called. He’s trying to reach you. It’s an emergency, or I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

Realizing he left his phone in the chopper, Ronan shot his father and grand-mère an apologetic glance. “ Pardon .”

“Can’t it wait?” Harper asked.

“Clearly not,” he answered, heading toward the door.

“We’re in the middle of a discussion!” she called after him.

“I’ve caught you both up.” He paused while still in view of the webcam. “How are things going with the attorneys?”

Lucas shrugged. “Slow as molasses, but they tell me things are progressing. Our lawyers are staying on top of the Project’s lawyers. But like I said, you learn not to get your hopes up.”

“It’s good to see you, Dad,” he said. “I pray it’s not long before I get to do so in person instead.”

“ Merci , son. Watch your back with the Vidals. None of them can be trusted.”

Nodding, he exited the room and found Scarlett in the hallway. He closed the door softly, and she launched herself at him, pressing her lips to his before he knew what she intended. Once, twice. Swift pecks. Just as quickly, she pulled away with a mischievous smile.

“Give a kiss to Jules and Claudette for me, cher . I’d give you one, but you’re involved .”

“Stay out of trouble,” he told her over his shoulder, discreetly wiping his mouth.

“Never.”

He smiled ruefully as he opened the pilot side door and removed his phone from its hands-free station. The number of missed calls sobered him, and he dialed back.

“ Pour l’amour de dieu!” Jules shouted without preamble. “You can’t just fall off the face of the earth and leave us with this mess!”

“Calm down. What mess?”

“She had the fire department evacuate our entire floor! They stood in their gear and watched Claudy and me pack up everything.”

Frowning, he circled the exterior of the helicopter, inspecting it. “You’re not making sense. There was a fire at Vidal Records?”

“Non, gros bête! We’ve been evicted from the hotel! And she was waiting in the lobby to tell us we’re not welcome in any Cross Industr ies property. We’re trying to book a flight home or find a rental instead because we don’t know which hotels are Cross’s and I won’t be humiliated further!”

“I assume you’re talking about Ireland.”

“Who else, couillion? We’re driving around in a taxi with nowhere to go!”

He climbed into the pilot seat, snapped his phone back into the holder, and secured his seatbelt. “What did you do to get kicked out?” he asked patiently.

“Why am I at fault?” Jules yelled.

Ronan heard Claudette admonish their brother to lower his voice. “Because Ireland wasn’t on the warpath when I left her this morning.”

“ Oui , well, whatever sedative your dick dispensed wore off!”

“Jules—” he began harshly.

“ Beau-frère ,” Claudette greeted him, sounding as serene as always, “Jules is neglecting to tell you that he had the recording studios emptied overnight.”

Ronan froze with his fingers on a switch, his heart skipping a beat before it began pounding. “He did what? !”

“We agreed!” Jules shouted. “We discussed it, and you agreed!”

“I said I would fucking handle it!”

“Also,” Claudette continued, “Ireland knows about Scarlett.”

The sudden tension in his back was painful. “What the hell does that mean?!”

“Nothing good,” she guessed.

Cursing, he hung up and speed-dialed Ireland, racing through the run-up to takeoff. The call didn’t even ring; it just went to voicemail. Jules called back, and he skipped the incoming call, trying Ireland again before he accepted that he’d probably been blocked. “ Maudit! ”

He called the Vidal offices.

“Ireland Vidal’s office,” Matt answered. “How may I help you?”

“Matt, it’s Ronan McCaffrey. Can I speak to Ireland, please?”

“Sorry, second boss,” he chirped. “No can do. She did leave a message for you, though. Fuck off, eat shit, and die—that’s the message. I didn’t say it; she did.”

His jaw clenched. “Tell her I’ll be there in four hours, and she can give me the message personally.”

“You got a death wish?” Matt asked, still with that same bright cheerfulness. “I’ll pass your message on. Have a nice day.”

Furious and worried at once, Ronan pulled his headset on and communicated with the tower while waiting for the engine to spool up. Once it had, he engaged the clutch, and the rotor began to turn, quickly picking up speed.

The spirits were laughing at him; he just knew it. Every time he thought he was making some headway, he was back to being the asshole.

Fine.

Damn it.

Harper Boudreaux heard the helicopter this time. The rotor's whine increased until the aircraft lifted off, and the sound gradually moved away. She looked at her son on the screen before her, her thoughts sorting and churning.

“This is a problem,” she said.

“Why? I find it amusing.”

“This girl is different. I can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. She’s influencing him.”

“You don’t find it romantic?” Lucas teased, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes.

“I won’t have her ruining everything. Ronan needs to conclude his business there and come home. There’s work to be done here. Scarlett is here. I can’t have him lingering in New York, especially not over a Vidal.”

“Carefully, Mere , before someone listening takes the harmless words of a loving grandmother the wrong way.” His voice was light, his smile wide, but the warning was in his eyes.

Harper giggled as if they’d shared a joke, but her festering anger was truly making itself felt today.

Scarlett was what Ronan needed. The girl was clever, well-bred, and knew how to smooth the way for him in social settings. And she wasn’t demanding. A baby or two, and Scarlett would let him roam. He could have it all, everything he deserved. And Harper knew he was fond of Scarlett and that they’d already been intimate on more than one occasion. For Ronan to indulge more than once meant there was at least a small spark between them. That was more than enough.

And Scarlett knew she had to work together with Harper to keep Ronan in line and was more than willing to do so.

Losing Lucas had wounded Harper as nothing else ever had or could. The damage to the family’s reputation was intolerable, even with most of the parish agreeing that her son could not have done what he was falsely accused of. And because Lucas wasn’t where he should’ve been, Ronan had been lost to them for years. He would never be the man he could’ve been had she raised him from infancy. Two lost generations because of Vidal.

Harper would not allow the man’s daughter to finish the job of removing Ronan from both her grasp and his family's influence.

It was Vidal’s turn to feel her loss and suffering. She would see to it and bring her boy home.