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 bientôt, 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.

She woke her screen with a quick tap and paused when she saw that she’d missed a text notification from her mother. She opened the hour-old group message.

It was a photo with no caption, but the image of a massive emerald-cut diamond on the fourth finger of her mother’s left hand told her everything she needed to know. Elizabeth Duffy Cross Vidal would soon be known as Mrs. Elizabeth Pearson, wife of Daniel Pearson.

It was all she could manage in reply. She was the last to chime in since her brothers apparently paid more attention to their messages. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Daniel because she did—a lot. But the thought of her mother remarrying was a bit too much to process now.

“Is there a problem?” Ronan asked, his handsome face sobering with concern.

“No.” She pushed her mother’s news from her mind. “I’m ready for the address.”

He read it off to her. “Take my number, too.”

Such a simple thing to get a man’s number but having his gave her a little thrill. “Got it.”

Their server stopped by their table with a tray of empty glasses. Dressed in the tight black shorts and white halter waistcoat with bow tie that was the club’s uniform, the pretty blonde gave Ronan a very warm and appreciative smile. “How are you two doing over here? Want another round, mack?”

Then she glanced at Ireland and sobered instantly. “Hey, boss.”

“We’re good, Tracy,” Ronan declined. “Thanks.”

As the server sashayed away, he shot Ireland an arch look. “She calls you ‘boss,’ but I’m just ‘mack.’”

Ireland laughed, grateful that he didn’t question the erroneous title the bar servers used with her. Even though the hotel bore her last name, Gideon was their ultimate boss.

She checked the time and stood. “Eight o’clock, okay?”

He stood with her. “Perfect.”

They didn’t move for a moment, separated by the squat brass-topped table. She hesitated to leave him. It was too exciting being in his presence.

Ireland grinned, feigning nonchalance. “À très bientôt.”

“Hey, Jimmy,” Ireland greeted the evening security guard as he unlocked and opened the front door of the Vidal Records offices for her. The newly renovated, cutting-edge recording studios on the second floor were available at all hours for their artists; they had only to reserve the time. There were no office hours for creativity.

“You’re in late,” he noted as he relocked the door.

“I forgot my bag,” she explained. “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

“That’d be a neat trick,” he said, then lifted his uniform cap to show off his bald head.

Laughing, she took the stairs because she was bursting with energy. She couldn’t wait to grab her purse and freshen up. She hadn’t bothered pulling herself together for Graham. What little makeup she wore was twelve hours old.

Rage had driven her to march the three blocks to Times Square, where the dirty sidewalks were clogged with pedestrians spilling over into the street in an eclectic blend of loitering tourists in T-shirts and shorts, and rushed theatergoers in finery. They swarmed around the taxis and town cars inching their way through the chaos while gawking at bikini-clad street performers and helmeted police officers mounted on massive horses.

There were so many beautiful, magical places in New York City, yet some people traveled from around the world to see only the most garish, claustrophobic part of it. She would never understand that.

Exiting on the third floor, Ireland hummed and felt a mad impatience. Straight ahead was the reception desk, backed by a dividing privacy wall featuring the Vidal Records logo. Visitors could pass it on either side to access the offices lining the wide hallway, with the assistants’ desks in a row down the middle. To her left was the large conference room, with glass walls on two sides and windows on the third. To her right was a smaller, more intimate meeting room that looked like a living room. Both were visible to visitors immediately upon exiting the elevator or stairwell, and you never knew which recording artist or band you might catch a glimpse of.

The overall style was decidedly midcentury because the Vidal company had been in the building since its inception in the 1970s, and they’d elected to keep many of the original fixtures. It had been modernized with updated paint, wallpaper, and furnishings, but the vibe remained retro-hip in the best way. It was a happy, comfortable place to work in an industry that too often felt like a pressure cooker.

The janitorial team was already busy cleaning the vacant offices, and she waved at the man vacuuming as she passed him. She noticed the cleaning cart positioned in front of the main bathrooms, and her nose scrunched. Hopefully, no one was in her father’s office since he had a private bathroom she could use instead.

She withdrew her purse from the locked filing cabinet drawer where she stored it. A quick scan confirmed everything was orderly enough for the crew to clean. She left the overhead lights on and headed across the hallway with long, impatient strides.

Ireland stutter-stepped to a halt on the threshold of Christopher Vidal, Sr.’s office, startled to see him behind his desk. He sat with his glasses removed, eyes closed, and headphones on. There were tears on his face.

Her excitement dissipated instantly.

She crossed the room to him and leaned across the desk to set her hand over his.

“What?!” His eyes popped open as his body jolted. He straightened in a rush, throwing the headphones onto the loose papers on his desktop and wiping his cheeks with impatient hands.

“Are you okay, Dad?”

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You scared the hell of me, Ireland!”

The auburn waves of his hair, so like her brother Christopher’s, were now liberally shot with silver strands. In the years since the divorce, the lines around his mouth and across his forehead had deepened. But he remained an attractive man with a winning smile and an easy-going disposition that made people want to be in his orbit.

“Why are you still here?” she queried gently.

Sliding his glasses onto his face, he glanced at his computer. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“What’s going on?” she asked, even though she knew. She settled into one of his visitors’ chairs.

“New song,” he said. “It’s not finished, but wow.”

Ireland could hear the lie in his voice, so she didn’t ask to listen to the music. “That’s great. We love wow.”

“We do, yes.” He began straightening the papers on his desktop and kept his gaze averted. “What are you still doing here? I thought you’d left.”

“I just ran out for a bit. I had to come back for my things.”

Opening his middle desk drawer, he swiped the paperwork into it. “I didn’t even hear the janitors working.”

“They have to. You don’t.” She forced optimism into her voice. “No working late on Fridays, Dad. Weekends are for fun.”

He huffed out a weary laugh. “I think I was just avoiding going home and staring into an empty fridge. I need to shop.”

“Order groceries for delivery instead. Tomorrow, though. Tonight, call Sandy and take her out to dinner. Or invite her over for takeout and a movie.”

It broke her heart thinking about her father floundering in bachelorhood. He’d expected to live out his days with her mother, madly in love. While he was now seeing Sandy and Ireland liked her, she knew their relationship wasn’t anything like what her parents had before. But the cause of the divorce was yet another thing no one in the family wanted to enlighten her about.

“What about you, honey? Do you have plans?”

“I accepted an invite to dinner. I’m happy to cancel, though,” she offered, “if you want to hang out with me. I’m here for you, Dad. Always.”

If Ronan Boudreaux was the right guy—even if only a right-now right guy—he’d understand and hopefully be in town long enough to reschedule. She crossed her fingers for good measure. If not, she wasn’t opposed to traveling his way. Alina was always up for an adventure, which was one of innumerable reasons why they were the best of friends.

But her father waved the offer away. “You go have fun; you’ve earned it. And you’re right—I’ll call Sandy. She mentioned streaming a new movie the other day.”

“You’ll have to tell me how it is.”

“Why don’t you tell me how you are,” he countered, his slate green eyes studying her keenly. “You’ve had a lot thrown at you today.”

“I’m good, Dad.” When he just kept looking at her with that knowing gaze, she reiterated. “Really. Nothing that’s come my way has knocked me off my stride.”

His mouth curved affectionately. “Very little does. You’re a wonder to me, you know that? What would you have chosen to do if Vidal Records didn’t exist?”

Ireland stared at him, surprised and alarmed. Her father was in the throes of rethinking his life choices now that he faced the finality of his ex-wife remarrying. In turn, he worried needlessly about his daughter’s choices.

“I’ve never considered it.” There was no point in wishing for things to be different. “Vidal does exist and is partly mine, so that’s my focus.”

And it was his great love. His attachment to their familial legacy ran bone deep. She would nurture and protect it for him as long as was needed.

“Are you happy?” he asked softly.

“I’m not unhappy. Lonely sometimes, but that has nothing to do with work.”

Smiling ruefully, her father stood and stretched, his back popping audibly. “And here I am keeping you from your dinner out.”

“And your dinner.” Pushing past her worry and mixed feelings, she focused on what she had to look forward to. She would’ve canceled on Ronan but was glad she didn’t have to. “Walk out with me.”

Her tone brooked no argument. She wanted to see him leave so that she knew for a fact he had. She could touch up her minimal makeup on the way to Harlem. And she’d text Christopher and let him know she was concerned about their father.

Unlike the rest of her family, she had no trouble being a team player.

Ireland took the time on the long ride uptown to type a more thorough reply to her mother, letting her know how excited she was for her and how she looked forward to supporting her through the chaotic joy of wedding arrangements. She briefly thought of how amusing it was that she would help plan her mother’s wedding before her own, but she was happy to do it. She wanted nothing more than to have everyone in her family settled, safe, and happy.

After she added a promise to talk later, maybe in the morning, she put her phone away and looked out the window, contrasting the city with her memories of Southern Louisiana. She spotted Ronan waiting for her on the sidewalk outside Valentin’s restaurant and felt a rush of giddy excitement. Even from a distance, he drew her gaze like a magnet. He carried that tall and powerfully built body with a fluid gracefulness that made her think of sex on tangled sheets beneath a lazily turning fan. Did he fuck like he talked—slow and smooth? Or was the heated demand she sensed in him unleashed with his passion?

Ronan Boudreaux had the kind of magnetism commonly referred to as stage presence, and like the artists she worked with, she found it surreal that someone so extraordinary could walk among mortals like he was one of them. Was he oblivious to how women’s heads turned when they walked by? Their furtive glances and outright covetous stares.

No, he couldn’t be. He’d been so quick to set boundaries when they first spoke.

What changed his mind? It wasn’t her looks; he’d admired them from the first. It wasn’t her occupation or family ties because he didn’t know of them. For all of the exquisite packaging he came with, it was the idea of being wanted for something invisible and innate that most enthralled her.

Although to be honest, ripping into that packaging with careful teeth and greedy hands was something she’d very much like to do.

Ronan stood beside the entrance awning, conversing with a neatly dressed woman with a cascade of salt and pepper hair. He caught Ireland’s gaze as her taxi pulled up to the curb, and his lips curved into a heated smile that made her so very glad that she was able to come.

He’d pulled on his suit jacket and wore a burgundy tie that she noticed had a subtle fleur-de-lis texture when he leaned in to help her get out. The impact of his gorgeous face, so much closer now that they stood a mere few inches from each other, scattered her thoughts to the wind. God, he was stunning. And so totally male. He exuded sex and sin. And he smelled like the darkest of temptations blended with whiskey and spice.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly.

“Moments that felt like hours,” he teased. “I worried I’d have to track you down in this huge city.”

She grinned. “Would you have gone to the trouble?”

“Without question.” He led her to the waiting woman. “This is Genevieve, Valentin’s wife and a dear friend.”

“Hello.” Ireland extended her hand. “Elizabeth. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Genevieve pulled her in for air kisses to each cheek. “The pleasure is mine, petite. Come in, come in.”

The restaurant was situated on a corner, with windows on two sides. All the tables with a view were occupied, but it was much less crowded deeper in where they were seated. The interior was decorated to resemble the French Quarter of New Orleans, with wrought iron railings separating the dining area from the servers’ stations, faux shutters on a massive mural that looked like a street, and baskets of flowers hanging from hooks between the wide windows. It was charming, and the savory smells emanating from the open kitchen made her stomach growl in anticipation.

Menus were already waiting on the table, as were two bottles of wine in cooling sleeves and four place settings. Louis Armstrong sang “La vie en rose” from hidden speakers.

“White or red?” Genevieve asked, and Ireland glanced briefly at the menu, searching for and finding the dish she ordered whenever she came across it.

“White, please. Thank you.”

“I’ll have the same,” Ronan said, his gaze on her as their glasses were filled.

“I’ll give you a minute with the menu,” Genevieve told them before walking away.

Ireland couldn’t take her eyes off Ronan, either. Against the backdrop of the brightly lit restaurant, his innate vitality was even more apparent. Strands of gold and dark copper shone in his hair, luring her to touch it and learn its texture. The gray of his irises reminded her of a storm rolling in from the Atlantic, swirling with mystery.

“I’m glad I could make it,” she told him.

“Me, too. I worried you might be having second thoughts.” His confident smile belied his words.

“I don’t entertain those as a rule,” she admitted. “I just ran into my dad unexpectedly and thought he might need me.” Her eyes widened. “Oh. Sorry. You might not have realized I’m from here. New York, I mean. I’m not visiting. I go to Jazzie’s sometimes because I like it.”

“It’s a great place. Everything turned out to be okay with your father, I take it?”

“He’ll be fine. Eventually. My mom just told us she’s getting remarried, and I think he’s going through some grief over it. They’ve been divorced over a decade now, so it’s not fresh, but it’s still going to be a shift in our family.” She sighed. “I don’t really know, honestly. I’m the last one in my family to find out when something’s wrong.”

“Are you estranged?” Reaching over, Ronan took her hand in his. An intimate undertone warmed his voice, and the way he held both her gaze and hand was comforting. That a man with his relentlessly powerful physicality could demonstrate such tenderness was irresistible.

“No, we’re very tight. I see all of them practically every day. Well, except my mother. I don’t see her every day, but we talk every day. I don’t know why they avoid telling me things. Important things. They tell me stupid, trivial stuff all the time, but if there’s a problem, they don’t want me to know about it until it’s resolved and tied up with a bow.”

His fingers squeezed hers gently before releasing her. “You’re too fierce for them. They fear what you’ll do.”

That made her smile. “They don’t know how fierce I am. I try to tell them, but I don’t think they believe me.”

“You must hide it then, although I don’t know how. The minute you walked into the bar, I saw it.”

“Yeah, well…” She laughed, delighted he’d noticed her before she’d inadvertently sat at his table. “I was a little angry when I got there.”

“A little? You verbally castrated a guy in front of his woman. And you relished every minute of it.”

Her mouth agape, it took her a moment to reply in disbelief. “There’s no way you heard that! No way. You were playing… the band was behind you…”

“I can read lips.”

“No.”

“I’m a man of many talents.” He gave her a roguish wink.

Ireland laughed. “Well… Now I know. And now you know—don’t piss me off.”

“I admire your ferocity. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it even when directed at me.”

The simple statement touched her. It was a side of her even those closest to her had seldom seen.

“Genevieve is headed this way,” he told her. “Do you know what you want?”

You.

She almost said it. Instead, she confessed, “If I see shrimp and grits on a menu, that’s what I’m getting. You add andouille to it, as they do here, and it’s ultra guaranteed that’s what I’m ordering.”

“No one does it better than Valentin, except maybe his sister, Marcelle, but don’t tell him I said that.”

Ronan ordered for both of them, choosing the pork chop and Southern braised greens for himself. Genevieve inputted the order on a tablet, then smiled affectionately at him and gave a quick tug on the ends of his hair. Ireland had never felt such envy. Not that Genevieve was so transparently fond of him, but that the woman knew what his hair felt like and was free to touch it.

“You’ve forgotten to cut your hair,” she teased him.

Shrugging, he said, “Too busy.”

“I like it,” Ireland interjected. “Your hair.”

The curve of his lips deepened, and his eyes mirrored that heated smile. “Do you?”

“You’ve got the sexiest hair I’ve ever seen. If it doesn’t drive you crazy, you could leave it just as it is.”

“Done.”

She melted a little. Genevieve noticed and gave a nod of approval before moving to another table.

Ireland changed the subject, hoping she didn’t have little hearts as pupils. “How do you know them?”

“Through Marcelle.” He sat back. “She lived down the road from my childhood home and caught me stealing tomatoes from her garden.”

“Ah, so thievery isn’t one of your talents.”

“I’d be much better at it now. I was thirteen then, tortured by a growth spurt and starving. My mother’s work in New Orleans allowed her one day a week at home, and Jules’ and Claudette’s father left the three of us to our own devices. So, I found what I could for us to eat and took it. Success outweighed stealth.”

Ireland paused with her wineglass half-lifted to her mouth. He told his story in the most casual of tones, just as he’d told her how he learned to play the trumpet so consummately, but her ear caught turbulent undercurrents in his silky-smooth cadence.

“Marcelle had learned to hunt in the bayou,” he went on. “She can be as silent as a shadow. I didn’t fight when she caught me by the ear.” His smile was wry, but affection softened his gaze. “Even then, she was smaller than me.”

The picture forming in her mind was unexpected. And Ronan’s revelations were startlingly intimate. She wasn’t prepared for that, either.

See who I am, he’d said. And he was showing her.

“I prefer when you look at me with desire,” he said gently, “not sympathy.”

“I’m sorry.” She set her glass down on the table.

“Don’t be. I’ve managed just fine. That’s just the story of how—and why—we found each other. I wasn’t ever hungry after that, and neither was Jules or Claudette. Marcelle was widowed in her early twenties and never remarried or had children. We became family, including Valentin and Genevieve.” He sipped his wine. “Our food’s here.”

Turning her head, she saw the chef in his white coat approaching with a plate in his hands. Genevieve was beside him with Ronan’s meal. They set the food on the table simultaneously.

Ronan pushed away from the table with effortless grace and embraced the shorter man in a back-slapping hug. Ireland stood, too, and returned Valentin’s brief kisses to each of her cheeks.

Valentin pulled back but kept both of his hands on her shoulders. He was short, shorter even than his diminutive wife. His thick white hair was contained in a net, and his face was tanned and deeply lined. Dark brown eyes studied her for a long minute, then he gave her a broad smile. “Finally, a woman to bring this boy to his knees. He could use the humility. Give him no quarter.”

Ireland laughed, not just at what he said but at using the term “boy” for Ronan, who was so utterly a man in every sense. “I’m doing my best.”

“Give me a chance to woo her first, Val,” Ronan said with that smooth, mellow whiskey drawl. “Before she decides to break my heart.”

The older couple joined them, with Valentin sitting by Ronan. Genevieve poured red wine for herself and her husband.

The chef waited while Ireland took the first bite and watched as she grew still with pleasured surprise, her eyes widening. She chewed slowly, relishing every burst of flavor.

Ronan watched her, too, with a hint of a smile and warm, gleaming eyes.

“I now know what heaven tastes like,” she said finally. “This is amazing, Valentin.”

He blushed. “It’s nothing special, ma belle. And please, call me Val.”

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Ronan pulled out his phone. He looked at Ireland as he slid his chair back. “Excuse me a moment. It’s Jules.”

“There’s an empty room for private parties down the hallway,” Genevieve directed. “Send him our love.”

Ireland followed him with her gaze. When she caught herself, she looked away and noted that she wasn’t the only woman in the restaurant who couldn’t take her eyes off Ronan.

She smiled sheepishly at her hosts. “Your restaurant is lovely. I can’t wait to tell my friends and family about it.”

“Merci, petite,” Genevieve said as she grabbed the white wine bottle and refilled their glasses. “We hope to make a success of it. Ronan put so much faith in us by buying this building so we could have this space and the condo above it. Without him, we wouldn’t have been able to move closer to our grandchildren.”

Swallowing, she said, “Oh, I didn’t know that.”

“We miss home, of course.” Valentin’s smile was wistful. “My sister, most of all. But we know she’s in good hands with Ronan. You’ll meet her, I’m sure.”

Ireland didn’t know what to say to that. It was a lovely idea, a tremulous and exciting possibility. “He told me how he met Marcelle.”

“To come so far,” Val murmured, his gaze distant as he revisited the memory. “I couldn’t be prouder.”

“Tell me you’re not embarrassing me,” Ronan admonished as he returned to the table.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

“As much as it can be with Jules. They’re heading up to Mohegan Sun.”

A server stopped by the table and spoke discreetly to Valentin, who then stood. “I’ll be right back.”

Genevieve stood, too. “Excuse me while I make the rounds. We close at ten. Then we’ll be free to relax.”

When Ireland set her fork down again, it was because she’d eaten every bite, and only a pile of tails remained.

“A woman of lusty appetites,” Ronan observed, having finished first. “You captivate me.”

Ireland drank her wine and studied the fascinating man across from her. “I was just thinking the same about you. You knew they’d sing your praises when you brought me here.”

His smile was devilish as his strong, talented fingers stroked the stem of his glass. He sat partially reclined, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his left arm draped across his chairback and his right on the table. Lucifer himself had to envy Ronan’s effortless flair.

“In my defense,” he murmured, “I’d planned for dinner with them weeks ago, but yes, I thought their endorsement might shore up your goodwill toward me, so I moved the dates around. Now, I just have to convince you to see me again tomorrow.”

Leaning forward, she spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Not that I’m complaining, but… You had me with the trumpet.”

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