Chapter 22 An Inconvenient Conscience
AN INCONVENIENT CONSCIENCE
RONAN
“So, what exactly is this party for?” Laney asked as Mac pulled the Range Rover to a stop outside the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.
I gazed up at the building near Fenway that was originally built to mimic a Venetian castle. Like so much of this sort of faux-architecture, it was a shadow of the real thing. “Officially, it’s a celebration of my brother’s so-called ‘retirement.’”
“The one who just stepped down as CEO? How old is he?”
I snorted. “He’ll be forty in September.”
“He’s retiring that young?”
I glanced back at her. Laney was watching the busy entrance of the museum, where the event planner was checking guests off a list, her sharp eyes darting quickly down the line of guests. Evaluating. Noticing. What, I couldn’t say.
“Not quite. His girlfriend’s family has a farm in Vermont, and he moved there with her. He decided he’d rather milk cows than be on Forbes Richest People list,” I replied dryly. “Hence, they turned to me.”
I still didn’t get it. Fine, Simone was cute and all. Actually, if I were being completely honest, the first time Brendan brought her around to meet the family, watching the two of them together made me want to tear my eyeballs out with envy.
So, of course, I’d been a real shit. Made fun of her hair, her clothes, her speech—pretty much anything that marked her as different from the world of gilded bullshit we all came from.
I was petty and jealous and maybe a little bit guilty, which was why I didn’t even balk when Brendan all but confessed to murdering two of the men who had kidnapped Simone.
It was also a solid part of the reason I hadn’t argued when he sent me to Vegas to track down the third and finish the job.
Three weeks ago, I’d thought Brendan was crazy to take such a risk for a personal connection, even if our father had asked me to do as bad or even worse to protect our family fortune.
Still, the line had always been clear. For billions, anything was acceptable, a twisted take on social Darwinism that translated “survival of the fittest” into “kill or be killed.” But for something as flimsy as love? Never.
Now, though, just as I was about to offer Laney up as fresh meat to the hyenas, I sort of got it. The rage that generally simmered well below the veneer of my jokes was dangerously close to the surface. My little interaction with her ex had already proven that.
Touch her and die? Fucking hell. If anyone so much as looked at Laney wrong, I’d knock out their fucking teeth. Probably take out their kneecaps too, for good measure.
I really was a monster.
My hand opened and closed on my knee, balling into a too-tight fist. Fuck. This was going to be harder than I thought.
“Everything all right?”
I looked up to find Laney watching me now, her big green eyes offering pools of peace.
For a split-second, I considered telling Mac to just drive.
Or maybe kicking the big man out of the car and making a run for it myself.
If Brendan could run away to a farm, why couldn’t I run to a Greek island somewhere?
Laney could study ruins and I could translate Plato or some shit and we could feed each other olives and drink wine and fuck like rabbits on the sun-soaked terrace…
“Ronan?”
I blinked. Christ, that escalated quickly. “Ah. Yeah. Come on, let’s go.”
I led her to the side entrance, bypassing the press line that had been set up for photos. Dad wouldn’t thank me for it, and neither would the board, but I couldn’t do it. Just the idea of those vultures grilling Laney made my skin crawl.
The party was already in full swing when we entered the central courtyard, around which three tiers of museum space spiraled toward the skylights.
The event planners had done a good job, stringing white lights overhead, installing a quartet in one corner, and leaving the lush greenhouse plants and trees to decorate the rest of the space.
Boston’s elite milled about, drinking champagne, trading barbs, and pretending they liked each other while they searched for soft underbellies to cut open.
Laney, however, didn’t see that. As soon as we walked in, she stopped, face tilted up as she stared around. “Wow.”
I found myself looking with her. I’d been to dozens of events here, had even come on my own just to take a look at the art.
But it had been a long time since I’d come to one of these parties, always held in the most ostentatious settings the Northeast had to offer, and seen anything but the darkness this world sought to hide.
“It’s a lot to take in,” I agreed. “Dad picked well. Or his assistant probably did. He only cares about his reputation, and my stepmother would have gone with something gaudy.” I cast a glance over the attendees and quickly located Violeta in a violent array of magenta sequins.
“They’re over there with my siblings. Come on, we should get this over with. ”
It was the first time I felt Laney stiffen. “Brenda, Owen, and Shea, right?”
I glanced down at her. She was counting names off on her fingers. “Aw. You studied.”
“I had time on the plane.” She glanced up at me. “They’re going to hate me, aren’t they?”
I didn’t want to lie to her. But I didn’t want to tell her the truth either.
So, instead, I bent down and delivered a kiss that lasted about four seconds longer than was strictly necessary.
“Not if they know what’s good for them. Otherwise, they’ll have me to deal with.
” I bared my teeth like a tiger. “Brendan, Owen, and I all grew up sparring with each other, but I haven’t lost a fight since I hit my growth spurt.
They know better than to fuck with the one who does their dirty work. ”
Laney frowned. “What do you mean, ‘dirty work’?”
Fuck. “Nothing, baby. Come on.”
Just before we reached the corner of the party where my father was holding court, we were interrupted by my best friend’s voice.
“Ro!”
I turned to see Liam cutting through the crowd, two champagne flutes in hand.
He’d gotten a new suit for the occasion, I saw.
The extra money I’d paid for the contract had gone to good use.
He was also wearing that shit-eating grin that meant he was about to give me hell about something.
I’d overheard Shea’s friend describe it once as “boyish.” Whatever that meant.
“Don’t start.” I accepted the champagne and a slap on the back.
The grin widened. “Whatever do you mean?”
I rolled my eyes. “Laney, this is Liam Kelly, otherwise known as Fuckface.”
“Otherwise known as Ronan’s only friend and the man who writes extraordinarily well-worded contracts.” Liam leaned in to give Laney. “Laney, it’s a pleasure to meet the woman who finally tied this one down.”
“Contract?” Laney blinked between us as a flush pinked her cheeks prettily. “You mean the postnuptial…”
“His mother, Liza, is Blackguard’s CFO, and Liam is a general counsel. I also provide him with a generous side gig of telling me when I’m being an idiot.” I pulled her hand to my mouth and gave her knuckles a kiss, if only because she was so damn cute. “Don’t worry, babe. He’s good.”
“And discreet.” Liam grinned again.
“Easy,” I said, not quite able to keep the jealousy out of my voice as I tucked Laney back into my side.
A slight lift of Liam’s brow told me he heard it too. Fuck. I moved to toss back the entire flute of champagne in one go, but then caught Laney watching me, clearly thinking about the terms of the contract we had both just signed… after I’d put down nearly a fifth of tequila.
Somehow, I’d gone from having zero conscience to being sandwiched between the two people whose opinions of me I actually cared about. I felt like one of those cartoon characters with a devil and an angel on each shoulder, except mine were both goody-goody angels.
Double fuck.
I set the flute on a nearby table and put Laney’s there with it. “We had enough before we came.”
Liam’s brow rose a bit more. “Did you?” His meaning was obvious—Since when do you have enough?
“Is there a restroom I could visit before we meet everyone else?” Laney asked.
“Sure, baby, it’s just down that hall to the right.”
We watched her weave away, and the entire time I fought the urge to take back that champagne and down it like a shot. Maybe I did have a problem. I couldn’t seem to pull my eyes away from those curves.
“You’ve got it bad.”
I turned to find Liam watching me now. “Fuck you. I don’t have anything.”
He grabbed one of the abandoned champagne flutes and took a drink. “No, fuck you. You can’t lie to me, asshole, so I hope you’re not lying to yourself. You just watched her leave like a puppy watching its owner fill its bowl with kibble.”
“I think you’re mistaking that with the look of a man who just had to watch his fiancée check every yes box in the fucking sex dictionary his lawyer wrote for her, then had to come to a goddamn party instead of working his way down the list.” Liam laughed as I glared. “You’re an asshole, by the way.”
“I did you a favor. You’re a kinky bastard, and any woman signing her life away deserves to know it.”
I shook my head. “Not on that level. Jesus Christ, Liam. Suspension? Caning?”
He just shrugged, like neither of those ideas fazed him a bit. “I’m not one to judge what you and the missus want to do behind closed doors. Just tell me one thing—how many hard limits were there?”
I didn’t answer. He didn’t break eye contact. And wouldn’t, the stubborn dick, until I answered. It was why he was so good at his job.
“Three,” I muttered.
Liam nearly choked on his champagne. “Did you just say three? As in the number after two?”
“Oh, good. You can count.”
He just looked in the direction Laney had gone as if to check that she wasn’t a figment of his imagination. “Damn. Maybe I should get married too. Hinge is for the birds, and Raya’s a scam.”
“Stop imagining my wife naked, you kinky fuck.”