Chapter 2
“You weren’t supposed to know that drink came from me,” Ireland said wryly as he settled back into the loveseat. Picking up her tumbler, she tipped it slightly in a silent toast. “It’s meant as a thank-you for sharing your talent. I’m not looking for a hookup, either.”
One corner of his delectable mouth lifted with amusement. “Ah, well, I appreciate the compliment. And I’ll enjoy the drink far more with your company, so thank you for staying.”
A gentleman. And unbelievably sexier for it.
He brushed a wayward lock of his thick hair back from his face. The color was a sumptuous blend of sable, toffee, and honey. Women paid a small fortune to get hair like that, but she would bet Mother Nature was his colorist. Her fingers itched to run through it, to learn its texture and feel the warmth transferred from his body.
Ireland took a larger-than-usual swallow, rolling the liquor around her tongue with a near-silent hum of pleasure. His smokey eyes watched her with a focus so intense it gave her butterflies.
“Where did you learn to play like that?” she asked, hoping his answer was long so she could listen to his voice again.
“On street corners, mostly.”
Ireland blinked, processing that. “You’ve had no formal training?”
“I didn’t have the means, so I was fortunate to find exceptional and generous mentors.”
She leaned back in her seat, taking in the implications of what he’d said. “Wow.”
“Lady Luck does find me on occasion, however rarely.” His smile was as faint as his drawl but carried the same high impact. “Possibly, she was waiting for just this moment when I’d have the only empty seat available for the most stunning woman alive. If so, I have no complaints whatsoever.”
“Well, aren’t you a charmer?” she managed to say with some semblance of elan. That sense of profound awareness continued to ripple through her, lapping like waves against the shore, and Ireland knew she was in over her head.
She’d only ever encountered his level of self-possession in Gideon and his closest friends, who knew better than to flirt with her or risk her brothers’ wrath. It was a revelation to experience such dynamic confidence in someone she found herself powerfully attracted to.
Until now, and too often, the men she dated had unrealized dreams and unappeased ambition. They hadn’t “made it” yet and worried they never would. This man knew exactly who he was and what he wanted.
“What brings you to New York?” she asked.
“The culmination of years of meticulous planning.” He flashed a devastating smile. “Although, most would simply call it ‘work.’”
Ireland’s interest sharpened to a fine point. The first half of his answer was the truth; the smile was meant to defuse the importance of it. She knew the tactic well because she employed it often when dealing with her family. But this guy didn’t need to use it with her. He could say anything, a polite white lie about a wedding or a reunion. Whatever.
“Won’t you ask me what it is I do?” His languid voice and relaxed pose were deceptive.
Anyone looking at him would think he hadn’t a care in the world, but she suspected very little escaped his notice. His focus on her was unwavering and incisive despite his heavy-lidded gaze.
She couldn’t say why it felt like they were playing a chess match, and he’d already strategized every move to the finish. “If you wanted me to know, you’d volunteer the information.”
The smile he gave her was brilliant, as if he’d intuited her cool reply in advance. “I confess to being curious about what it is you do.”
She blinked. Did he really not know who she was?
Of course, it was possible for her to go unrecognized. If not for the advertisements she did for Eva’s makeup and skincare line—which the golden god wouldn’t be likely to see—and occasional guest appearances on musical competition TV shows, most people outside her family’s circle of interests probably didn’t know her by sight.
Opportunistic guys like Graham were making her cynical. She didn’t have to overthink a random encounter with a man who looked too good to be real.
“I read somewhere that discussing occupations is a very American thing to do,” she prevaricated because being anonymous with a magnetically appealing man was a situation she wanted to enjoy as long as she could. “Maybe we put too much importance on work.”
“And maybe you won’t tell me.” The perceptiveness in his gaze belied his nonchalance.
She relaxed deeper into her chair. “Why don’t you take a guess, and I’ll tell you if you’re warm.”
“The obvious would be to say supermodel because you certainly look like one.”
Ireland laughed at his flirtatious tone. “And I could guess that you’re a musician, but that’s too easy.”
“The trumpet’s a hobby. It doesn’t pay the bills.”
And his bills were not inconsiderable if she based them on his attire alone. His boots were easily double the cost of Gideon’s oxfords, and those sold for thousands. The Patek Philippe watch would have lowered his bank balance by the mid-six figures. And like Gideon, there were no belt loops on his dress slacks because they’d been made for his body and required no accessories to keep them in place.
“I’ve done some modeling,” she conceded, “if you can call it that, as a favor for a family member’s business. It’s definitely not something I’d do full-time because I don’t like being the center of attention.”
He’d set his glass on the flat, wide armrest and was spinning it slowly with leisurely turns of his fingers. “Tell me what you do like.”
She had noticed his fingers earlier when he’d been playing. He wore no rings, which didn’t signify anything but was intriguing, nonetheless. “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.”
His chest lifted and fell on a slow, deep breath. “That’s quite a list, cher .”
Ireland gave a careless shrug, but his endearment was revealing. Pronounced sha instead of share , it was unmistakably Cajun. Suddenly, so much about him was explained. No wonder he’d learned the trumpet; the instrument was the heart and soul of Louisiana.
She wished she could tell him about how she’d once found the most amazing zydeco band in Baton Rouge and signed them to a distribution deal the next day, but that would reveal everything she’d rather keep hidden—including how some decisions she made were based on passion rather than good fiscal sense.
Taking another sip, Ireland discreetly considered him. He had an unfair advantage with her. From that sexy mane of hair down to the sleek crocodile boots and all the musical talent in between, he was like an AI-generated dream man based on her wish list of traits.
“There are companies that have something I want,” he told her as if her openness warranted the same in return. “I follow them, sometimes for years, then leverage their weak points and take them over.”
“Why not merge or collaborate?”
“Then their weaknesses become mine,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Who are you after now?”
“There’s never just one, but I’m focused on a clothing factory in Queens this week. Their location and building are ideal for warehousing.”
“You couldn’t buy one or the other?”
“It’s a family-run business on its fourth generation. They’re more sentimental than smart.”
She knew that scenario all too well. Vidal Records had once been a music shop like so many others on Music Row, established by her grandfather. It was her father who’d shifted from selling music and instruments to selling the talent itself. As the third generation to run the company, Ireland sometimes felt trapped by the legacy, but Christopher intended to raise his children to take over. Perhaps that would be the saving grace of Vidal Records, a new generation with their father’s ruthlessness rather than their grandfather’s recklessness.
Ireland sighed. “That’s heartbreaking.”
“That’s business,” he countered. “If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else.”
“I get that it’s not personal?—”
“It can be.” He looked away from her for the first time, down into his tumbler. His sudden contemplative mood was yet another facet to him, one of many in a kaleidoscope—a dazzling but fractured picture.
Complicated. That’s what he was. And if she could tell that over a drink in a bar, the still waters must run deep. Call her crazy, but she’d love to have someone in her life who challenged her. It struck her that she’d been looking for the wrong things with guys like Graham.
The band returned to the stage. All four members looked at her companion questioningly. He bowed out with a hand over his heart, and the gesture moved her.
“Tell me what you like,” Ireland said, setting her drink aside and leaning forward. “But first, tell me your name.”
Lifting his glass to his lips, he eyed her over the rim as he swallowed, his attention fully returned to her as she’d intended.
The sax kicked off “Ain’t Nobody Here but Us Chickens” with gusto. But his silence stretched.
Her brow furrowed. Why wasn’t he answering?
“Don’t frown at me, cher . You need to give a man time to gather his thoughts after you waylay his best intentions.” He set his drink down, leaned forward, and extended his hand over the table. “Ronan Boudreaux.”
“Ronan,” she repeated softly as she leaned forward and slid her hand into his.
His strong fingers enfolded hers, conveying his charisma and sensuality in tangible form. The moment their skin came into contact, heat raced up her arm and spread throughout her body in a surge of fiery attraction. Her breath quickened along with her heartbeat.
“I have to ask,” she began, “are you married? Engaged? Otherwise committed? Or just not interested.”
“None of the above.” He sat back, his fingertips sliding intimately over her palm as he pulled away. He gifted her with a sinful smile.
Ireland was stupidly thrilled by his answer. A lavishly attractive alpha male like him, at his age, was either taken or incapable of being so. Either way, it wasn’t good news for her. He was a bad decision wrapped in a good time. Nothing but ruin for a woman who trusted men she shouldn’t.
“And you?” he asked, seeming more relaxed than he’d been previously as if in giving his name, he’d opened a door.
She elected to give him the truth instead. “I’ve sworn off men.”
Ronan laughed, and the full-throated sound felt like a caress. He made her feel like she was slightly out of tilt. She was nearly breathless, her pulse fluttering. Her eyes were probably dilated as her system tried to absorb the intense temptation he presented, the sense of being pulled into something dangerously exhilarating.
His eyes sparkled with amusement. “For how long?”
They were really beautiful eyes. She’d love to see them in daylight. In the moody, intimate lighting of the club, the shadows nestled in the hollows of his chiseled features. If the moment hadn’t been so temporary and if he hadn’t been passing through, she’d be very afraid she would end up regretting him. “As long as it takes for me to make better choices.”
Ronan kept that piercing gaze on her as he lifted his drink to his mouth. When he slid his tongue along his lower lip, she felt it between her legs. “And who will be the judge of that? If you’re making ill-advised choices, who’s to say the choice to make better ones isn’t also ill-advised?”
She recrossed her legs. “Well, when you put it like that…”
“Be bad. It’s much more fun than being safe.” His gaze lifted and focused past her, breaking the moment.
“I’m going to say he won’t be changing his mind.”
The intruding voice was drenched in the same accent that Ronan’s had only a hint of. She shifted in her chair to look behind her and saw a couple approaching. They both glanced at her. The woman’s head tilted faintly as if she couldn’t quite place who she was looking at. Dressed in a simple black dress that let her curves steal the show, she wore her dark hair in a voluminous blowout that feathered around her pretty face. The man wore black slacks and dress shirt, and looked ready to find all the best kinds of trouble. They were obviously related.
A few more steps, and they arrived at the table. The man grinned. “Not that I blame you, beau-frère , when you have such a tantalizing new option.”
He extended his hand to her, and Ireland took it, arching an eyebrow when he pressed his lips to her knuckles with exaggerated gallantry. “Although, admit it. I’m more your type than my brother is.”
At another time, she’d say he was right. He was closer to her age and smug with his handsomeness—the Jack Daniels to his brother’s Macallan Rare Cask.
Ronan introduced them. “My brother, Jules, and my sister, Claudette. This is…” He gave Ireland a look of silent inquiry.
“Elizabeth.” Ireland gave her middle name before she really examined why. “Or Liz. Lizzie. Beth. I’m not picky.”
Jules rocked back on his heels. “Lizzie it is then.”
Neither of Ronan’s siblings looked like him. Their hair was darker, their skin paler, and their eyes were a soft brown.
Ireland looked at him with a wistful smile. “As much as I’d like to keep chatting with you, Ronan, don’t let me throw off your plans.”
“Too late for that, cher .” He narrowed his gaze with warning when Jules laughed.
“Leave him behind,” Jules told her. “Come make mischief with Claudy and me instead.”
If not for her fascination with Ronan, she might have taken his younger brother up on his offer. She loved to explore the city with people who came from elsewhere. They saw New York in ways she never had because she’d been born here and took it for granted.
“Ah…” Ireland hesitated and glanced at Ronan.
He gave a curt shake of his head. “Pass a good time, you two, but do not get into trouble.”
“I brought bail money,” Claudette said deadpan, but there was laughter in her eyes.
“Behave yourselves,” Ronan reiterated.
“I’ll be disappointed if you behave,” Jules retorted. “Let’s go, Claudy. I’m starving. à bient?t , Lizzie.”
She watched the two weave their way back through the crowded space. “I hope you and your brother let Claudette have fun. Going out with my brothers is like being escorted by the Secret Service—no one gets close.”
“Two brothers?”
Ireland turned back to him. “Yes, both older. I love them to death, but I’m pretty sure one wants me to become a nun, and the other wants me to wait until I’m geriatric to settle down.”
“I understand why they’re protective.” His mouth curved. “You’re very sure of yourself. You considered going when Jules asked.”
“If you left with them and wanted me to go, yes. I would have.” She settled back into her seat. “Did you want to spend more time with me alone, or did you just not want to go out?”
“I want you.”
“Well…” Ireland ran the tip of her tongue over her suddenly dry lips. “You weren’t kidding. You’re an exceptional flirt.”
“You know we’ve moved past flirting.” He leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees. All the indolence he’d displayed before was tossed aside like a discarded mask. “The question now is, how far do you want this to go?”
Ronan sat in front of her, framed by the sapphire blue velvet of the loveseat—legs spread, hands linked—and looked like a king in a sultry underworld.
She wanted to be sophisticated enough to play his game but knew when she was outmatched. “I don’t know,” she said with brutal honesty. “I know if I leave now, I’ll regret it, but if I stay, I might regret that, too.”
He held out his hand to her.
Reaching for him felt like making a deal with the devil, but when she did, she was inundated with a red-hot, sizzling sexual attraction. It was heady and overwhelming. She’d never experienced anything like it. It was lust on another level, heightened by her intense interest. Yes, she wanted him. But just sitting with him, talking to him, was satisfying, too.
“Do you remember the first thing I told you?” he asked, holding her fingers lightly. “That hasn’t changed.”
Ireland frowned, confused. I’m not looking for a hookup .
“And you said,” he went on, “that you make bad choices. So, get to know me. See who I am. And let me see you.”
Her fingers tightened reflexively on his. She felt like she was careening out of control, but holding on to him made the sensation seem less scary, and she didn’t know why. It made no sense when he was the reason she was spinning. “This is really intense, Ronan.”
“Do I frighten you?”
“You should. I don’t know why you’re not.”
“You’re scaring the hell out of me,” he said bluntly.
She laughed, and the tension inside her loosened enough to be bearable… until she returned his gaze. Her leather blazer suddenly became too warm.
No man had ever looked at her with such absolute interest and desire. It seemed impossible for a man with his assets—and he had so many of them—to feel what she felt. And his directness was as unique and appealing as the rest of him.
“Have dinner with me.” Ronan’s thumb stroked the backs of her fingers. “I have friends who’ve recently opened a restaurant in Harlem, and I promised to check it out while I’m here.”
Ireland wavered between relief that he wanted to leave the hotel, where most of the servers knew her by name, and concern about going out, where an eager tourist could recognize her. But she’d cross that bridge if they came to it. “That sounds lovely.”
His brilliant smile and the way his delight glowed in his gaze was gratifying enough, but then he bent his tawny head to press an electrifying kiss to the palm of her hand. “You’re a tigress.”
“I have to grab a few things beforehand,” she advised because she’d marched over from the Vidal offices without her purse after realizing where Graham was. “Give me the address, and I’ll meet you there.”
Ronan reached for his jacket, and they both pulled their phones out of their pockets simultaneously. He typed deftly with both thumbs. She watched him, seeing shades of her eldest brother in his easy command. Beau-frère Jules had called him—half-brother. Like Gideon, Ronan had younger half-siblings he looked out for. Did she feel such a strong connection to him because of that? She swiftly dismissed the thought.