Chapter 3

Eva rang the doorbell of Ireland’s apartment and smiled when she heard her sister-in-law humming loudly as she approached the door. It swung open, and the statuesque brunette stood barefoot, her toned arms and legs bared by a tank top and shorts.

Pulling a spoon out of her mouth, Ireland grinned at her. “Good morning!”

She appeared to be in such good spirits that Eva laughed, relieved. “Good morning to you, too.”

Ireland stepped back and held the door open with her foot, extending her arm in invitation. She had a bowl of cereal in one hand and a television remote tucked under her arm. Her hip-length curtain of inky hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun, and she wore ECRA+ cooling under-eye gel pads. She was one of the most naturally gorgeous women Eva had ever encountered, if not the most.

“Lauren,” Ireland called out to the AI assistant, “lower volume.”

The breezy SoCal reggae piping through the surround sound speakers dropped to a conversational level.

Entering, Eva crossed the small foyer into the living room, which boasted soaring ceilings, wide and tall windows, and prewar embellishments. Over the years, the adjacent guest apartment to her and Gideon’s penthouse had offered a haven for friends and family in transitional periods of their lives. Her best friend Cary had lived in it a couple of years before his marriage. Chris, her father-in-law, had stayed there for a spell while he searched for a permanent home after his divorce. And then Ireland had settled in when she’d started at Columbia. The place now reflected the young woman’s tastes and style—it was as cheerfully fierce as Ireland herself.

Her cat, a massive white Maine Coon named Blizzard, dozed on a sunlit shelf attached to a wall papered in a black and white photograph of a NYC building. Disguised as three-dimensional fire escape landings and stairs, the many artfully arranged cat hammocks and ladders were fun features Ireland had added.

“You checking up on me about Mom?” Ireland asked, putting her bowl and remote on the coffee table before sitting down with crossed legs. “Or the asshole ex?”

“Both.” Eva sat on the other end of the white couch. “But I’m going to guess you’re not fazed. Gideon said you wouldn’t be, but still…”

Ireland smiled. “You’re the best, you know that? Always looking after everyone, making sure we’re all okay. You’ve done so much for our family. I think that a lot, but don’t say it enough.”

Deeply touched, Eva demurred, “It doesn’t need saying but thank you.”

“As to how I’m doing… I don’t give two shits about Graham Teller. I would’ve handled it differently, but not necessarily better.” Ireland gave an offhand shrug. “He’s not the first to see me as a superhighway to success, but he’s the last. And karma will deal with him eventually.”

So, Gideon was right about how his sister was taking it. Good. Still, Eva wasn’t going to stop working on his collaborative skills. “Yes, I believe that, too.”

“And I talked to Mom this morning. She sounds better than she has in a long time. She loves being a wife to influential men. She loves planning, hosting, and socializing. She’s an asset to any businessman, and Daniel will be lucky to have her. Once he sees her in action, he’ll kick himself for not proposing sooner.”

“My thoughts exactly.” While Eva had only attended one of Elizabeth’s glamorous parties before the Vidal marriage collapsed, she’d been impressed by everything about the event. And in the years since, she’d seen Elizabeth work the room at social gatherings and noted her charismatic poise. She didn’t respect her mother-in-law fundamentally but could acknowledge her talents.

“I met someone.”

The blurted-out change in subject raised Eva’s brows. “Oh? Tell me more.”

“He might be perfect.” Ireland’s smile lit up the already light-flooded room. “He plays the trumpet like he was born to it, but—get this—he’s not a professional musician! He’s tremendously talented and so, so sexy onstage, but it’s just a hobby.”

Eva grinned at her delight. “I take it that’s a selling point.”

“For me, it’s a huge one. I can’t help being attracted to musicians. No matter how hot he is, I couldn’t be with a guy who didn’t love music.” Making a face, Ireland continued, “But musicians who want to make a career out of it are a problem for me. They find out who I am—or they already know—and I’m not a woman anymore. I’m just a golden ticket.”

“They’re idiots,” Eva snapped, angry on her behalf. She’d been there when Ireland’s tender heart had been broken the first time. That guy, too, had used her. Stringing her along on the side while blaming Gideon for the secrecy of their relationship—all the while, he’d been dating other girls. “What you do for a living is the least interesting thing about you.”

Ireland reached over and squeezed her hand. “Thanks. I was beginning to wonder what the fuck is wrong with me that I’m only good for what I can do for someone. Alina thinks I pick the wrong guys, but I think I just attract them. Then, I met Ronan.”

Just saying the man’s name noticeably altered Ireland’s mood from frustrated to hopeful.

“So, what does this perfect guy do for a living?” Eva asked.

“Leveraged buyouts and the occasional hostile takeover. And he’s got to be successful at it because he’s got this swagger to him. He’s an alpha because he’s earned it, you know what I mean?” Ireland smiled. “He also happens to be the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen, and he’s so fucking sexy he raises my body temperature when I’m around him.”

Ireland grabbed her phone off the sofa’s armrest and swiped at the screen. She flipped it around to show a picture of an extraordinarily handsome man sitting at an antique desk with a lithe black cat stretched across the far edge. “That’s Ronan with his cat, Marie Laveau. He’s from Louisiana. His hair’s longer now. A bit longer than Gideon’s and crazy thick. I want to touch it so bad. I swear, I didn’t know a man could check every box on a wish list.”

“He’s certainly a looker,” Eva agreed. The kind of guy who turned heads and short-circuited a woman’s common sense. While Gideon’s face had been carved to perfection by enamored angels, Ronan was all devilish, sultry temptation. The sparkle in his eyes, the natural come-hither curve of his lips. And that hair… “He looks… mature.”

Ireland laughed, and there was such a lightness about her. Her stunningly blue eyes were feverishly bright, and her cheeks flushed pink. Eva had seen that look on her own face before—when she’d first crossed paths with Gideon.

“Older, you mean,” Ireland said. “He’ll turn forty on Christmas. What a birthday, right? But he’s mature in the other sense, too. Eva, you have no idea how wonderful it is that he’s figured himself out, who he is and what he wants. There’s nothing I can do for him, nothing he needs me to do for him. And that feels so amazing.”

Eva kicked off her sandals and tucked her legs, wrapping her arms around them. “The only thing sexier in a man than confidence is a sense of humor.”

“Oh, he makes me laugh!” Ireland’s face took on a dreamy expression. “He’s impossibly charming—suave, really, and it’s effortless for him. He’s a Southern gentleman all the way. He’s got the faintest hint of a drawl when he talks. It’s like music, actually. That’s why I love it so much!” She looked astonished by the realization. “The way he speaks is melodic. I could listen to him all day.”

It was startling to see Ireland finally excited by a romantic interest. Eva wasn’t sure the men in their family were ready for an additional source of testosterone, let alone from a man of Gideon’s age. A man in his early thirties, like Christopher Jr., was still malleable and easier to ruffle. A man of forty was another animal entirely. “How did you two meet?”

“Right place, right time. I was still pissed at Graham and hating anything with a penis. I told Ronan I wasn’t interested, and he wasn’t on the prowl either, so it was just sharing a table in a crowded club at first. I think he was a little wary, and who could blame him? He has to be getting hit on every five minutes.”

Eva’s brows lifted. “You just met him last night?”

“After work. Then we went to dinner at this amazing Cajun restaurant. I’ll have to take you. Everything was delicious! He’s close friends with the owners, and we stayed with them for hours after closing, just talking and laughing over wine.”

Leaning forward, Eva lowered her voice. “Is he here?”

“God, I wish!” Ireland pouted. “The sexual attraction is off the charts. He’s like catnip to me. I invited him over, but he wants me to know him better first since I told him I have a terrible track record with men.”

“He turned down an offer to hit the sheets with you? With you? Are you sure he’s straight?”

Ireland broke into peals of laughter. It took her a minute to catch her breath enough to speak. “You’re good for my ego, sis. But no, he’s definitely into me. I mean, he flat out looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘I want you’ in that smoked whiskey voice of his.”

“Oh boy.” Eva went on alert. Gideon had been as blunt about his lust for her in the early days of their eventual relationship. She knew exactly how devastating it was to be faced with a gorgeous, successful, supremely confident man who was honest about his craving for you. It was a powerful turn-on, and for her, it had caused the first crack in her meticulously built defenses.

Whoever Ronan was, he warranted a closer look because a man like that could either anchor you or set you adrift.

“Can you imagine?” Ireland flushed prettily. “So direct and assertive. Aggressive even. Like swoon, right?”

“I’d like to meet him. Will you be bringing him to the masquerade on Friday?” Preparing her husband for the first-ever occasion of meeting his sister’s boyfriend might take a little finessing. Although the charity event for their Crossroads Foundation should keep Gideon on his best behavior. She hoped.

“Oh… I haven’t even considered asking him. Ronan’s not based here, and it’s too soon to talk about the logistics of seeing each other once he’s finished his business in the city.”

“Maybe we could schedule a lunch or a quick drink?” Eva pressed. “You’ve met his friends. Introduce him to us.”

“Um. Well… he doesn’t know who I am,” Ireland confessed, rubbing her thigh absently.

“Huh?”

“When I realized I was just a random woman to him, I gave him my middle name. I didn’t want to ruin it by being me. You know what I mean?”

It took Eva a long moment to process what she’d heard. “Oh, Ireland.”

Ireland looked down at her clasped fingers.

The slump of her shoulders pained Eva. With a deep sigh, she reached forward to set her hand over her sister-in-law’s. “I get it. You come into a relationship with a big, wonderful package of protective family members and a high-powered career, and you need to be wanted despite those things, not because of them. But how far can you go pretending to be someone else before you’ve gone too far?”

“I’m not sure.” Ireland shrugged awkwardly. “I’m just counting on intuitively knowing when.”

“Your latest ads will be plastered all over the city starting Monday,” she warned, “when the body lotion campaign kicks off.”

“Crap. I forgot about that.” Ireland groaned. “If I could go back and do it differently, I would. I just didn’t want to be used again, but in hindsight, I realize he’s taking on that same risk himself. He’s wealthy, and for all he knows, I could be eyeing him as a sugar daddy.”

“Have you looked him up?”

“As soon as I got in the cab home last night, but nothing came up. There are other men with his name, but I couldn’t find any information specifically about him. But then, not everyone names their companies after themselves, like our family tends to do.”

“True.” Even the ECRA+ line was eponymous, with the EC standing for Eva Cross. “How did you get the picture you showed me?”

Ireland’s smile was both fond and sheepish. “We traded cat photos.”

“What’s his last name?”

Pausing, she wet her lips. “You know, I think I’ll keep him to myself for now.”

“You’re protective.”

“Not of Ronan. My sense is that he can take care of himself just fine. But of this thing we’re doing? Yeah. I want to let it breathe and give it a chance to grow.”

Eva nodded, then smiled for good measure. Ireland had enough meddlers in her life and didn’t need another one. Then again, there were ways to pick up information without necessarily meddling… “When are you seeing him again?”

“Today.” Ireland’s expression brightened. “A picnic in Central Park. Can you believe I’ve never done that? I’m looking forward to it.”

“Well, keep me posted, will you? He sounds very exciting.”

“Oh my god, yes! I’ve been dying to talk about him. If Alina were in town, I’d’ve been at her door in the wee hours of this morning. Ronan’s just… He’s raised the bar. And my expectations. I want someone who sees me, who wants to know me. Someone who asks questions and cares about my answers. You have that with Gideon.”

“I do. And it’s life-changing and wonderful to be someone’s priority. I want that for you more than anything.” But Eva was very protective of the ones she loved and knew all too well that sometimes, when something—or someone—seemed too good to be true, it was because they were.

Ireland turned back and forth in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, examining the white linen romper she considered wearing. It was a warm day in the city, in the mid-eighties and moderately humid. She’d tried a half-dozen outfits so far, but the romper looked like the winner since she would worry less about giving someone a view while sitting and possibly lying on a blanket in the grass. Suspended from thin straps on her shoulders, it hung loosely—like a shift dress—to the tops of her thighs.

“What do you think, Bliz?” She looked at her cat’s reflection in the mirror. “You’re going to say white, aren’t you? You know I can’t wear white exclusively like you do, right? I’ve got to switch it up sometimes.”

Blizzard gave her a bored stare, then began cleaning his right front paw.

Ireland’s phone began ringing, and she dived for the bed where she’d tossed it. She was slightly disappointed that it wasn’t Ronan.

“Hello, brother,” she greeted Christopher as she returned to the mirror. “How’s it going?”

“Good—soon to be great once we herd the hellions.” The exasperation in his voice was partially explained by the sound of her niece and nephew’s excited voices in the background. “We’re heading to the Museum of Ice Cream.”

“Ice cream!” the kids screamed with joy.

“Yum. Have a scoop for me.”

“You’re welcome to join us,” he offered, which set off a litany of Auntie Ireland! calls from Lorenzo and Serena.

“I wish I could, but I’ve already made plans. Count me in if you go again and give me more of a heads-up.”

“Yeah, yeah. Nat and I just came up with the idea this morning. Hang on. Let me move where it’s quieter.” The kids’ voices grew distant as he walked away from them. “Listen, I talked to Dad about Mom’s news, and it turns out he’s known for a while, so it wasn’t a surprise. Guess she found the ring or the receipt—I can’t remember which—and knew the proposal was coming, so she warned him.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “Well, that’s good, I guess.”

“And now that she’s remarrying, he won’t be on the hook for alimony anymore. So, it’s good all around. They’re both happy.”

“Sure. It’s all great,” she said absently, sitting on the edge of the bed. The memory of her father crying by himself was still fresh and raw enough that she was uncomfortable sharing it with anyone, even her brother. “Thanks for checking in with him.”

“You could’ve asked him yourself,” Christopher admonished.

“Sure. The man who tells me nothing? You got more out of him than I would’ve.”

Chants for ice cream broke the brief quiet on the other end of the line. “I’ve gotta go before they mutiny. Say good-bye, everyone.”

Ireland and the kids called out to each other in unison, then the call ended. She sat there for a long minute with her phone in hand, her mind replaying the scene in her dad’s office. It wasn’t all that unusual for her father to react strongly to a song; it’s what made him so great at his job. And that attuned ear had been passed on to her, so there was no question he’d lied to her. If not about her mother, it was something else.

She checked the time.

Looking across at the mirror, Ireland figured she was ready to go. Sure, she could spend another hour dithering over which earrings and shoes to wear, but she’d go with her gut on those, just like she was going with her gut about her father.

She texted Ronan.

He replied almost instantly.

Rushing, because she hated to lose even a moment that she could be spending with him, she jumped up and finished getting ready fast. She swiped sunblock, a hat, and sunglasses into a raffia bag. Then she shoved her feet into flat sandals, kissed Blizzard on the top of his head, and darted out the door.

Ireland’s foot tapped impatiently as she rang the after-hours bell at the Vidal Records offices, even though it only took a few seconds for the guard to let her in.

“Good afternoon,” Eady said, pulling the door open. “This is the busiest Saturday we’ve had in a while. We’ve got a full house today.”

“That’s why I’m stopping by,” Ireland fibbed cheerfully because she already felt guilty. If any of her family noticed her name in the log, having a valid reason for visiting the offices over the weekend would help hide her true intent.

Not wanting to chance running into anyone by taking the elevator, she took the stairs. With every story climbed, Ireland’s guilt began to morph into irritation. She wouldn’t have to be underhanded if her family bothered to share information with her.

The pervasive sense of desertion on the third floor was strange and unwelcome. With the overhead lights off, the wide reception hallway between the executive offices was dimly lit, and the space was eerily devoid of the music and conversation that normally enlivened it.

Crossing over to her father’s office, Ireland locked the door behind her. Moving swiftly, she woke his computer by shaking the mouse and then typed in his password, a blend of Christopher’s name and birthday with her name and birthday. As often as they both warned their father to have multiple passwords for his logins, he stuck to what he knew best.

Since she and her father had left the office shortly after she found him, everything on his monitor was precisely how it’d been the night before. It only took a moment to see what he’d been listening to.

“Changes” by Black Sabbath was a sad song about divorce but was not an unfinished new song by any stretch of the imagination.

Ireland rocked back in her father’s desk chair and drummed her long acrylic nails on the desktop. Maybe he’d lied to Christopher, too, downplaying how he was taking the news of his ex-wife’s remarriage. But he’d been awfully detailed about that lie.

With a sigh, she pushed back from the desk. It was something she could work out later when she didn’t have the sexiest man alive waiting to spend the afternoon with her. Monday was soon enough to confront her father.

But she paused at the sight of the partially opened desk drawer.

She pulled it the rest of the way open, finding the papers he had swiped into it when she’d sat in the chair across from him. Right on top was a lined piece of paper with handwritten notes; beneath it, partially obscured forms and a formal letter on business letterhead.

Ireland would know her father’s penmanship anywhere, and the names listed were also recognizable, especially her own. Extracting his notes, she confirmed that they were a rundown of the company’s handful of private shareholders and how much stake they had.

Years before, Gideon saved the company by getting their mother to convince Chris and Christopher to take it public. The infusion of capital facilitated the turnaround, but eventually, when Gideon sold his stake back to the family, her father took Vidal private again. Still, he’d listened to Gideon’s advice and brought on investors who’d serve as a brain trust to keep the company healthy after his poor business sense had led to near insolvency.

Most shareholders had either a checkmark beside their share percentages or were struck through with a line. A company—McCaffrey Holdings—had both a checkmark and a question mark. Her and Christopher’s stakes of ten percent each remained unmarked, as did their mother’s fifteen percent. Their father’s stake wasn’t included.

Since the letterhead beneath the list was from McCaffrey Holdings, she read that next. It appeared to be a reply to something her father had sent earlier, concisely relaying that they’d be happy to discuss their shareholding position at his convenience. And underneath that was unexecuted loan paperwork from three banks that had yet to be filled out.

Ireland frowned. Was Dad methodically buying back interest in the company?

Assuredly, Vidal was better and stronger than it had ever been. Their recent upgrades to the recording studios and the availability of suites at the Vidal Hotel for those who were recording had proven very popular with their artists. While the suites were an exclusive perk for their signed talent, indie artists also booked time in the studios.

Still, she wasn’t so sure that making the company entirely family-owned was the best decision for Vidal.

Unless her father was planning to retire or actively considering it. If so, he’d want to give her and Christopher a blank slate, free from the encumbrances of his past mistakes.

Returning the papers to the drawer in the same order and disarray as she’d found them, Ireland turned to the keyboard to search her father’s calendar. There. Monday afternoon. A meeting with McCaffrey in the conference room.

She made a mental note to call Christopher after he’d put the kids to bed. If he’d known about this and not said anything, they would be having a conversation requiring his full attention.

In the meantime, she had a golden god waiting for her to show up late yet again.

As had happened the night before, Ireland’s gaze locked on Ronan Boudreaux from a distance like a heat-seeking missile. He was simply a man who caught the eye, like glass glinting in the light. This time, she was on foot and could slow her steps to study him at her leisure.

They’d arranged to meet at the 72nd Street entrance to the Park on 5th Avenue, and he lounged there, half sitting against the Inventor’s Gate with his long, tanned legs crossed at the ankles and his hands thrust into the pockets of his khaki shorts. Sunlight burnished his golden skin and reflected off the copper mirror of his aviator sunglasses.

He wore a white linen shirt lightweight enough to reveal the shadow of his tattoo. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the collar left open, the tail untucked. His feet were sheathed in braided leather loafers, and a large picnic basket sat beside them. The luxurious strands of his hair drifted softly in a gentle breeze.

At first glance and to the unobservant, he appeared relaxed as he spoke to a fit brunette in running shorts and sports bra. But Ireland noted his reserve, that distance he’d enforced when she had first met him. He was there, right there, but unreachable. And he wasn’t as insouciant as he appeared, subtly moving his tawny head as the woman spoke with animated gestures. Ireland was sure he was scanning his surroundings, vigilantly watchful.

The jogger turned slightly and pointed, a momentary distraction that allowed Ronan to survey the street. He caught sight of Ireland standing in the shade of a building, and his mouth curved in a very male smile. Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he coaxed her with a crook of his finger.

Everything inside her bloomed into breathless, heart-pounding chaos.

She started toward him. It should be impossible for a smile to overwhelm a woman. How would she survive his kiss? Thus far, he’d only held her hand, maintaining a physical distance even as he revealed himself in far more profound ways. It was maddening and intriguing and made her crave so much more.

Butterflies in her tummy slowed her steps, and it seemed like forever before she reached him. She hoped it felt endless to him, too, and that he suffered a little because of it. That would be only fair.

“…and I highly recommend Lombardi’s for pizza,” the brunette told him. “It’s in Little Italy, of course. Lots of great Italian joints down there, but⁠—”

“Here she is,” Ronan interjected, straightening as Ireland drew abreast of them. The jogger stopped talking, her head turning as Ireland stepped into view.

“Hello,” she greeted the woman, who sized her up.

“Thanks for all of the excellent advice.” Ronan caught up the handles of the picnic basket. “Enjoy your day.”

“Enjoy your picnic.” The brunette’s smile reached her eyes for Ronan but dimmed for Ireland, who couldn’t blame her.

As they turned away, he drew Ireland into his side and murmured, “More than worth the wait.”

Her breath left her in a rush as he tucked her lightly against him. His body felt like sun-warmed granite, impossibly hard and taut with muscle. She slipped her arm around his lean waist and realized there was no softness to him. The smell of his skin was so delicious; she fought the temptation to nuzzle him.

Ronan kept her exhilaratingly close as they entered the park with his arm around her waist. They strolled Terrace Drive, passing the Morse statue and people reading or chatting on the row of shaded benches. Ahead, two dog owners traveling in opposing directions paused to let their pets sniff each other with eagerly wagging tails.

“I should probably be coy and not say how excited I am to be with you again,” Ireland told him, her hand at his waist sliding lower to hook into his back pocket. It didn’t escape her that they looked like they’d deliberately coordinated their attire.

“Should I not tell you how little I slept because I couldn’t stop thinking about you?”

“No, you should absolutely tell me that.” She also noted that walking with him gave her a certain level of anonymity because he drew attention away from her. It was really quite lovely. “Did you toss and turn and get tangled in your sheets?”

“I wrecked the bed,” he drawled.

Heat flushed her skin at the images that filled her mind. “Tell me you sleep nude—but only if it’s true.”

“You’ll discover that yourself.”

Tilting her head, she looked up at him, grateful for the shield of her oversized sunglasses. “When?”

“When we’re both categorically certain you won’t regret it.”

“Maybe you’re worried you’ll regret it,” she countered.

His reply was a sardonically arched brow.

She pouted. “I shouldn’t have told you about my man embargo.”

His laugh was so vibrant and warm that the sound drew looks as they walked through the ever-crowded Bethesda Terrace and around the fountain. “I’m flattered you want to break that embargo for me, but regardless—I don’t take risks when I can’t afford to lose.”

“Most men would view getting me in bed as the win.”

“That’s the reward. Getting you to stay there, now that’s the win.”

Her pulse fluttered wildly. “Maybe I’m terrible at it. Maybe you’ll be one and done.”

“Don’t worry,” he soothed. “I’m good enough for the both of us.”

Ireland laughed so hard she tripped over her own feet.

They followed the shore of the Lake until they reached the Bow Bridge, then slipped through the row of benches onto the grass. Other picnickers were there; it was considered the most romantic spot in the Park. At the picnic with the most elaborate setup, an unaccompanied man with a crown of curly brown hair stood as they approached.

“I’ll be nearby if you need anything,” he said. Then he walked away, leaving behind the extravagantly arranged picnic, including a galvanized bucket filled with champagne on ice, two lap trays with place settings, plump seating cushions and pillows, and an exuberant royal blue bouquet.

“Wow,” she breathed. “You sure know how to impress a date.”

“Playing to win,” he reminded with a debonair grin, supporting her with an outstretched hand as she kicked off her sandals and kneeled onto the oversized blue and white striped blanket.

Ronan set down the basket he carried and joined her, tucking a velvet floor cushion between his back and the trunk of the tree that shaded them. He sighed, long and slow, and his muscular body visibly relaxed. “God, it feels good to be surrounded by trees instead of concrete.”

She stretched out beside him, resting her elbows on a cushion and propping her chin with her hands. She studied the way he’d tilted his head back, and though she couldn’t see it through his mirrored lenses, she suspected he’d closed his eyes.

“You need big cities to make your fortune,” she murmured, “but at heart, you’re a man who prefers the wild.”

She sensed that he’d opened his eyes to look at her.

“You’re starting to know me, cher.”

But she wanted to know more. “Any marriages for you? Any engagements? Divorces? Children?”

“Non.”

“Are you not into serious relationships? Do you get bored? Prefer variety? Like the hunt more than the capture?”

He pulled his sunglasses off and hooked them onto his open collar. His gray eyes were piercing. “Time is a luxury I’ve enjoyed too little of. I could say I’ve been focused on my goals—that’s true, in part. The more honest answer is that marriage and children weren’t included in those goals, so I never pursued them.”

“Oh.” There was a sudden tight pinching in her chest.

He ran his fingertips down her arm. “And you?”

“I’ve never been with anyone long enough for it to become serious.”

“That’s incredible to me.”

Ireland shrugged artlessly. “To be fair, I tend to check out of relationships fairly quickly.”

“Hmm. Why?”

Tossing her sunglasses aside, she rolled toward him and tucked the pillow behind her head. She ran her foot along the length of his bare leg. “Not knowing what I wanted?” she speculated. “Looking for the wrong things?”

Ronan held his silence.

“Actually…” She realized she wasn’t being as forthright as he’d been because she wasn’t being truthful with herself. “It’s simpler than that. My parents were crazy in love. My brothers are both madly in love with their wives. And since that’s ultimately what I want, I can’t risk being tied up with the wrong guy and unavailable when the right guy comes along.” She gave a wry laugh. “Of course, that’s assuming he’ll want me back.”

Rubbing the strands of her messy bun between his fingers, he murmured, “I can’t imagine a man alive who wouldn’t give everything to have you.”

Her breath left her in a shaky rush, and she looked up at him, amazed that he affected her no less when viewed upside down. “You’re the most dangerous kind of flirt, Ronan Boudreaux. You spin a woman around until she forgets which way is up.”

His mouth curved in a lazy smile. “Is that what’s happening? Are we spinning? It feels like falling.”

She tensed against those maddening butterflies. They multiplied every hour she spent with him; until now, it felt like she could hardly contain them all.

Ireland grasped for a safer topic in an effort at self-preservation. “Where’s home for you?”

“Primarily New Orleans, but I sometimes escape to a smaller place I keep in Lafayette Parish.”

“In the bayou?” she guessed.

“Yes. It’s peaceful.” His accent deepened as his voice took on a dreamy quality. “Feels like there’s no one else on the planet but you.”

Shimmering images of towering trees cloaked in mist filtered through her mind. It was another world entirely from the one she lived in. “I think being in the middle of nowhere might frighten me a little.”

Reaching over her, Ronan grabbed the champagne bottle. “You’re as ferocious as anything out there.”

That made her laugh, and she sat up with her legs crossed.

“Where do you live?” he asked, peeling off the foil hood and loosening the muselet.

She pointed up at her building on Fifth Avenue. “There.”

“You’re pointing at the sky. Are you all the way up at the very top? Like Rapunzel?”

“Why else would I keep my hair so long?” She grinned as she collected the champagne flutes from the lap trays. “So now you know—in case it ever crossed your mind—your wealth appeals to me only because you don’t need mine.”

His laugh was full-bodied with delight. “See? Ferocious.”

She made a purring noise.

Leaning forward with a grin, Ronan pressed his lips to her bare shoulder, and a shiver of delight radiated from the spot of connection to her nape. Unfamiliar yearning filled her. The desire to feel those lips against hers was so unexpectedly strong, almost a deep ache. But she wouldn’t make the first move. She positively refused to. He’d set the rules; now, she needed him to break them.

He straightened, his strong hands cradling the heavy bottle. He gave it a few masterful twists, expelling the cork against his palm with a soft hiss and setting it aside. “I assure you I can more than afford to pamper an expensive, luxurious woman such as yourself without any assistance from you or anyone else.”

“I’m not expensive.”

“Cher.” He shot her a chastising look and began to pour into the flutes she held steady for him. “You’re the kind of woman who’ll take the soul of the man who loves you. I’d say that’s damned fucking expensive.”

“Well…” She was speechless for a minute. Then, “What will you take from the woman who loves you?”

He winked at her and shoved the bottle back into the ice. “Everything.”

Ireland stuck the tip of her tongue out at him and passed him a flute. They toasted, and she sipped the crisply chilled golden liquid.

She savored the flavor, the feel of the warm summer breeze as it caressed her skin, and her delightful and impishly seductive companion. There’d never been a more perfect afternoon.

“Tell me more about Jules and Claudette,” she urged. “Do they work with you?”

“Yes.” Settling against the tree, Ronan beckoned her to join him. When she turned around and leaned back, he adjusted her comfortably into the crook of his arm, her head nestled against his shoulder. “Claudette finds the businesses that suit our needs, and Jules tracks their performance.”

“And you?” She nestled deeper against his incredible hardness, enjoying his steady warmth at her back. “What’s your job?”

He nuzzled her temple. “I sniff out where they’re bleeding.”

“Of course you do,” she murmured, and he’d be good at it.

“Are you hungry?” he whispered behind her ear, making her shiver. “There’s fried chicken, cornbread muffins, red beans and rice, salad, peach cobbler, and iced tea—all from Valentin and Genevieve.”

If anyone had told her the recitation of a menu could be a turn-on, Ireland would’ve laughed at the ridiculousness of it. Now she knew better.

“It all sounds amazing.” She turned her head to rest her cheek against his chest and breathed him in. “But I just want to stay here for a while.”

Ronan wrapped his arm around her waist. “Stay as long as you like, cher. I’m not going anywhere.”

Eva tried to slow her steps so that she didn’t tug on her husband’s hand, but she was growing impatient and starting to feel like her attempt at non-meddling was fruitless.

“If I’d known you had this much energy,” Gideon said, his other hand holding Lucky’s leash, “I would’ve gone for Round Two before letting you out of bed this morning.”

“Fiend,” she chastised absently as they crossed the Bow Bridge. “You act like two orgasms don’t count as two rounds. And we haven’t taken our time in the Park since forever.”

When they reached the dappled path on the other side of the Lake, she turned right, taking them in the opposite direction from their home. Behind them, their security detail began crossing over the bridge.

“Are you planning on surveying the entire eight hundred forty-three acres?” he asked.

When he said it like that, her goal really did sound ludicrous.

She slid a sidelong glance his way, but when she caught his teasing smile, she found herself staring. God, he was gorgeous. And it was totally effortless for him. He was dressed casually in shorts and a white V-neck T-shirt, with black wayfarer sunglasses shielding those brilliantly blue eyes. A breeze swept through his inky hair, and her synapses fried momentarily.

With effort, Eva shook it off and looked away, returning to her furtive search of the grassy area to her left. “Stop distracting me, ace.”

“What exactly am I distracting you from?”

Oops. She scrambled for something to say. “I’m planning a seduction in my head if you must know.”

“How intriguing. Let’s discuss.”

“It’s not a surprise if I tell you about it in advance,” she muttered, startled by the number of picnickers dotting the grass. Suddenly, her task seemed herculean.

“Give me a hint, then,” Gideon cajoled, then his voice changed. “Lucky, heel,” he ordered gently.

It was a command her husband seldom had to give, but then Lucky changed from pulling on the leash to darting diagonally in front of them, straining toward the grass.

Eva looked to see what was drawing him and spotted Ireland. Frantically, she scooped him up before he gave away their presence.

“What’s gotten into him?” her husband wondered.

“He probably smells food,” she improvised, trying hard not to stare as they walked past the tree that had previously hidden her sister-in-law from view. Instead, she looked at the lake and exclaimed, “Look at the swans!”

When Gideon’s head turned, she took a good long look at Ireland and her man Ronan. As impressive as he’d been in the photograph, he was much more so in the flesh. As Ireland had said, his hair had grown since the picture had been taken and the length suited him, deepening her initial impression of a man who dressed with sophistication but was, in fact, a little untamed. She was hyperaware of men who leaned toward being dangerous. It was a self-protective instinct she’d honed.

“The swans aren’t going to distract me from your seduction plans,” her husband pointed out with a laugh.

As Lucky wriggled in an effort to run to his owner’s sister, whom he adored, Eva tightened her grip. He chuffed in protest, his tail lashing like a whip.

“Here. Let me take him,” Gideon offered, collecting Lucky and lifting him high. “You’re not starving, dawg.”

Eva snuck another side glance. The stunningly gorgeous couple on their luxurious picnic could have been shooting an advertisement for a high-end lifestyle brand; they looked so perfect together. Tucked together against the tree, they seemed oblivious to the many people around them. Ireland was breathtakingly lovely, her expression soft and dreamy as she snuggled tighter against the man who had so clearly—and swiftly—captivated her.

But the look on his face, the cool steely-eyed antipathy that Ireland couldn’t see, alarmed Eva more.

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