Chapter 4

“He’s on his way up.”

Here we go. Ireland’s hand tightened involuntarily on her phone as her excitement became almost unbearable. “Thanks, Edwin.”

Ending the call, she realized how nervous she was and laughed aloud at herself, startling Blizzard. He gave a deep yowl, blinking his icy blue eyes at her with visible displeasure.

“Sorry, Bliz.” She walked over to where her cat lay sprawled across the back of the sofa and gave him an affectionate rub behind his ears. “I’m having a moment.”

Had she thought of everything? Missed anything?

Glancing around the living room, she double-checked for any stray socks or slippers she might have kicked off and forgotten about. She’d put away the magazines featuring her interviews and/or ECRA+ advertisements and all the framed photos of her family members.

When she and Ronan had parted ways the prior evening, she’d felt a sharp sting in the middle of her chest that warned of a growing vulnerability. Then—and now—she realized adopting another identity was actually fortuitous. It created a barrier, a shield to protect herself. “Lizzie” had nothing to lose and could take risks Ireland Vidal couldn’t.

Thankfully, she no longer had to resist the urge to call down to the lobby reception desk—yet again—to triple-check that the staff hadn’t forgotten that she was Elizabeth Duffy when a dangerously gorgeous, smooth-talking Cajun came calling on a resident with that name.

The kitchen was spotless, the breakfast she’d ordered was in the warming drawer, and two place settings waited on the large island that doubled as her dining table. Instrumental jazz piped softly from the speakers embedded in the ceiling.

She rushed to her bedroom—again—to stand in front of the full-length mirror and give her appearance yet another studious appraisal. Pivoting, Ireland assessed her front and back views. She’d spent too much time twisting her hair into a sleek chignon and on her makeup, aiming for sophistication rather than her usual bare minimum. But the wide-legged linen trousers and matching fitted vest in a warm cream hue were undeniably elegant, which was a plus.

When she exited to the living room, she left her phone on her vanity table and closed the door behind her. She convinced herself that she was prepared until the doorbell rang, and she jumped at least a foot in the air—an unwelcome and jolting reminder that she was strung tight with anxiety and anticipation.

Blizzard gave the door a baleful, curious stare as she rushed past him.

“Be nice!” she admonished, pausing at the door to take a deep breath and tug at the hem of her vest. She touched a hand to her hair, then dropped it. Closing her eyes, she willed her nerves to calm, achingly aware of Ronan standing just on the other side. It wouldn’t do to answer too quickly, after all. She may have worked herself up after inviting him over, but he didn’t have to know that.

When she found her center, Ireland turned the knob and pulled the door open…

…and the sight of Ronan Boudreaux in her apartment’s small elevator vestibule stole the breath she’d worked so hard to steady.

Sunlight shafted through the narrow window between the elevator and her front door, drenching his tall, broad-shouldered frame in a golden glow. The roguish mane of hair she longed to touch held a dazzling range of tawny hues and framed his sculpted features. A pair of silver aviators hung from the open collar of the gray dress shirt he’d tucked into jeans so lived-in they draped his long, strong legs. His alligator boots—a different pair than last night’s—were equally worn but polished to a high shine. He was elegantly informal and still; seeing him felt a lot like taking a hit to the chest while sparring at the Krav Maga studio.

Ireland had never known such heated yearning. He was so savagely beautiful that looking at him was a uniquely pleasurable torture. And inside of the striking packaging was a man who fascinated her. Dazzled her. Challenged her to want more.

Abruptly, the unrelenting agitation she’d been besieged by all morning began to ebb. Ireland sighed with relief. The bright smile she’d initially feigned softened into sincere delight. Ronan was the most exciting man she’d ever met, in myriad ways, but his effect on her was conversely soothing and warm.

“Well, hello, gorgeous,” she greeted him.

His returning grin was wicked. “Morning, cher.”

Backing up, she waved him in.

“Not quite yet,” he murmured, settling into the threshold by propping his shoulder against the jamb. His legs crossed at the ankles, and he slid his hands into his pockets. “I prepared myself for the sight of you, but here I am, still gathering my wits.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute,” she shot back, resenting that he could hold himself back so effortlessly while exuding a silent demand she seemed hardwired to respond to. “You’re not a man who ever loses his edge.”

“Jules argues that you’ve certainly softened it.”

“Does he?” Her smile widened. “Your charm’s wasted on me, you know. That pretty face of yours already bowls me over. And the boots, of course.”

“Of course.” His eyes sparkled in a way that softened the sharp, sly intelligence she’d seen in them from the first. Then his gaze slid behind her and lowered. “You must be Blizzard,” he said, his smile shifting from flirtatious to amused. “And you’re territorial, I see. Message received.”

Ireland turned her head to see what Bliz was up to and gasped at the sight of her majestic cat sitting primly on the floor with the strap of a black lace bra dangling from between his teeth. “Oh my god! Give me that!”

Face hot, she darted for the scrap of lingerie. The mischievous Maine Coon swatted at her with his giant paw. “You little shit!”

Ronan’s rich, deep laughter sent waves of heated awareness through her. Served her right for not checking between the sofa cushions, but still. Ugh!

She lunged toward Blizzard, but the cat darted away. Ronan caught her by the hips and pulled her back against his hard body, which was shaking with hilarity. She felt and heard him kick the door shut behind them but was arrested by the feel of his arms around her.

Nuzzling behind her ear, he inhaled slowly and deeply. It was animalistic, the way he scented her. Her heartbeat quickened even as her skin warmed with arousal. She shivered when he briefly caught the shell of her ear in his teeth. There was something essentially untamed about Ronan Boudreaux. She was drawn to that quality in a way she’d never been to anything, which could make a future between them impossible.

“This is a matter best handled between him and me,” Ronan drawled, his fingertips flexing restively on her hips.

She pouted. “I’m mortified.”

“Admit you planned that to drive me crazy.”

“Does it?” She tried to turn in his embrace, but he held fast. “If so, I totally plotted that.”

Laughing again, Ronan released her and backed away. The sudden loss of his heat caused goosebumps to race up her arms. She faced him, noting the casual way he distanced himself with a retreating step as if she were a bomb ready to explode. She caught his gaze and held it; her head tilted slightly in inquiry. He looked away first, searching for Blizzard and then moving toward him.

Ireland crossed her arms. “Are we ever getting to the point where we greet each other with lewd kisses and frisky groping?”

He shot her a glance over his shoulder. “Are we in a hurry?”

The words might’ve stung if they hadn’t been delivered in that lyrical drawl.

“Aren’t we?” she challenged, watching as he approached Bliz with a confident and unhurried stride. “You’re not a New Yorker, and I’m rooted here, so… Are you worried that I can’t handle something short and sweet?”

He held his hand out to Blizzard and let the narrow-eyed, bra-carrying traitor sniff him. “I think you can handle anything,” he said smoothly. “Which I appreciate far more than your beauty.”

She might’ve been dangerously close to losing her cool if he’d teased her. But he was straightforward and solemn. And Bliz seemed to like how Ronan smelled as much as she did and shoved his big head under the Cajun’s palm in a demand for behind-the-ear rubs.

All of which turned her frustration into resignation.

With a sigh, Ireland walked into the kitchen. She didn’t lie to herself or see only what she wanted to. Ronan Boudreaux wasn’t merely an exciting distraction from worries about her parents and Vidal Records, even if she wanted that to be true. No, the man was a deep-seated craving, a gnawing hunger that grew more unbearable the longer it went unappeased.

He retrieved her bra from Bliz and folded it neatly before putting it on the end table. Facing her, he half sat on the back of her couch next to the now docile, affectionate cat. “I thought you sounded a bit subdued this morning. And I feel a bit underdressed. Tell me what you’re taking seriously so I can catch up.”

She gripped the edge of her marble countertop and shook her head. “I bought this outfit with family brunch in mind. It’s not formal or anything.”

“Aren’t you formal with your family?” he queried, massaging Bliz’s back in a way that made Ireland envious. “That’s been my impression.”

“I—” she began, then paused, her mouth closing slowly. Had she been too candid during their long discussions about everything that came to mind?

When she’d been lying in bed thinking about him, she realized she’d talked more with Ronan than she ever had with anyone besides Alina. Blanketed in the anonymity of an assumed name, had she been bolder than wise, or was he just insightful? Perhaps it was both. She was so comfortable around him, which was insane, considering how powerful the sexual tension between them was.

But maybe she was more affected by that inexorable pull than he was. Ronan was always so cool and collected, his actions as unhurried as his manner of speaking. Maybe it was no problem for him to take his time with her because he didn’t feel the same driving urgency.

And didn’t that feel shitty?

Everything she’d planned to say suddenly seemed like it’d be too much. Not because she was afraid to scare him off with worries that she was moving too fast or entertaining unrealistic expectations. If being honest about her feelings was enough to cool Ronan Boudreaux’s jets, he’d never survive the first bladed look from Gideon. And she spent enough time and energy around her family overthinking what she said and tempering how situations affected her; she sure as hell wouldn’t expend the effort for anyone else.

What really gave her pause was the sense that Ronan was intrinsically uneasy in a metropolis like New York City. You’d never know it to look at him now, lounging with the ease of a lion at rest, strength evident in every line of his delectable body. He was a man completely comfortable in his skin. But she would never forget how he’d melted into a long, deep sigh when they picnicked in Central Park. And she’d initially found him performing in Jazzie’s because he needed the escape of music to center himself amid Manhattan’s frenetic pace.

Something more than transitory just wasn’t in the cards for them. He lived a life without romantic entanglements. Speed dating on the road worked perfectly for his lifestyle, even if she could catch more than his fancy.

“You don’t have to weigh your words with me,” he coaxed, as ever seeming to read her thoughts. “I gather you don’t feel comfortable expressing yourself to your family, but I can handle you and anything you can throw at me.”

She frowned, bemused and concerned. “Ronan… If I gave you a bad impression of my family, that was a mistake. They’re overprotective, sure. But that’s only because they love me and want good things for me.”

“Do they choose their clothes to make an impression on you?” he countered.

“Don’t we all dress to impress in one way or another?” She shrugged, resigned to how things were. Her brothers had their power; she was still establishing hers. “I’m not the only one who makes an effort.”

“But I’d wager you’re the one to do it most often,” he rejoined, his gaze challenging her to deny it.

His keen insight was often startling. She loved how seen she felt with him. But she didn’t even know if she’d see him tomorrow. A day with him was enjoyed as a singular, separate event from the rest of her life.

Her mood darkened again. “You and I are moving at different speeds,” she said curtly. “And maybe that answers the questions I had. Are you hungry? Should we start with mimosas?”

“Let’s start with your questions.” Straightening, Ronan moved to the opposite side of the island. He somehow looked even more gorgeous assuming command, his lips still sensual even while unsmiling. He seemed unreal at times, nearly too perfect to be anything other than a fever dream.

“And now you’re scowling,” he noted, amused. “And still breathtakingly gorgeous anyway.”

He remained standing, his hands sliding into his back pockets. The pose showed off the power of his biceps and shoulders, along with the leanness of his hips. Did he do that on purpose? Did he realize the effect it had on her?

Ireland turned to the fridge to pull out the freshly squeezed orange juice she’d ordered and a bottle of Cristal. “Are you baiting me?”

“Possibly.”

She arched her brow at him as she set the bottles down. “Why?”

“So I can recognize you. You’ve disguised yourself this morning.”

“Bullshit.”

His brows lifted.

Planting her palms on the marble, she glared at him. “Stop playing with me.”

“I haven’t even started.” The sudden heat in his gaze startled her and knocked her off balance.

Up to that moment, he’d flirted outrageously but playfully. While lust burned within her, he’d barely registered at a simmer. That teasing glimpse of fire was acutely frustrating, taunting her with the man she wanted but wasn’t sure she could ever have.

“Am I too young for you? Is that the problem?” she snapped. “Not worldly enough for your comfort? Are you worried I won’t be able to let you go when you leave, and I’ll become inconvenient?”

His jaw tightened, then his words came clipped and fast. “You’re already inconvenient, and I don’t think that highly of myself, cher.”

“Yeah, well, I think of you. Pretty much nonstop since we met.”

“The captivation is mutual, so we’re not moving at different speeds. At least in that regard.”

Irritated, she turned to open the cupboard where she kept her stemmed glasses. “Something you said, which I brushed off at first, really struck me as important last night.”

“Oh…?”

“You said we wouldn’t become intimate until you were sure I wouldn’t regret it.” Setting the flutes down, she watched him pick up the champagne. “And I’ve wracked my brain trying to figure out what that means. Then I realized you’re the only thing that could make me regret being with you. You would have to do something or say something to hurt me or make me lose respect for you. So, you don’t think I can handle whatever we’re doing here?”

His expression didn’t change, his gaze fixed and steady on her face even as he unwrapped the foil. “We’re already intimate. We were talking about fucking in that conversation. Two very different things.”

Her lips parted. Fuck—and all of its various derivatives—was a hard, crude, occasionally insulting word, and the Southern gentleman he’d been thus far wouldn’t have used it with her. But Ronan wasn’t that man now. He was harsher than she’d seen him before, less controlled. And so much sexier that she gritted her teeth against the urge to hurtle over the island and kiss him senseless.

She swallowed hard and nodded. “We were, yes.”

“And when we met, I asked you how far you wanted this thing between us to go, and you replied that you were worried you’d regret me. Do you recall saying that?”

She blinked in surprise. “Uh… I didn’t remember that, no.”

The stern line of his mouth softened. “What were you expecting to regret?”

Ireland pressed a hand to her forehead. “You’ve got me all mixed up now.”

“Take your time,” he said, lifting the lid on the island’s built-in countertop trash can and swiping the cork, muselet, and foil into it. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She grasped for that because she wasn’t confused at all about the logistics. “But you will. When?”

“When am I going somewhere?”

“Home, specifically. Don’t be coy.”

“Not coy. Cautious.” He caught her gaze. “You want to charge headlong into bed with me, and we’re absolutely going to get there and stay there for a damned long time. But you’ve got doubts, questions, concerns, so we’ll get them sorted now before they get in my way later.”

“How much later?” she asked.

Ronan began to pour. “Are you asking if I have a timeline for how long I’ll want you?”

“No. Damn it.” She finished each mimosa with a modest splash of orange juice, more in his than hers. “When are you resuming your normal life away from this city and me? Is that clear enough?”

He watched her with those stormy eyes as he accepted the flute she handed him. “Geography has never stopped me from getting to something I want.”

When his fingers brushed hers, it sparked a primitive awareness. It was an ache that could not be soothed. “Do you always answer questions with slippery evasions? Because it’s starting to piss me off.”

The air around Ronan became charged.

“Merde, you sound like Jules! You don’t understand your own power,” he growled, “and it infuriates me that no one close to you has pushed you to see it. You’re worse than a Gulf hurricane—at least I can prepare for those.”

“That’s another non-answer.”

“I’m scheduled to leave tomorrow.”

“Oh.” The sting of dismay was an acutely unwelcome surprise.

“Unless there’s a chance of seeing you again.”

Ireland gaped at him. Maddeningly, she warmed to him in a way that had nothing to do with her desire for his body. She looked down into her flute as she lifted it to her mouth, afraid to reveal more than she already had.

She hated feeling gauche and too eager.

He was older, more experienced, less emotive. And worse, her own demons tormented her—Ronan had never made her feel unequal. Undeveloped, maybe. Untapped. And she adored that he saw something in her she wasn’t sure was actually there.

But she could work on it. She could fake it until she made it a reality.

“We could maybe work something out,” she managed to say with some elan.

He shot her an arch look. “Glad to hear it.”

“So… you’ll leave Tuesday?”

“I’ll leave when you want me to or when I’d rather be somewhere else than with you.”

She fidgeted with the stem of her glass. “I see.”

“Do you?” He crossed his arms, his biceps thick beneath his shirtsleeves. “I’m treading carefully with a woman who tires of men quickly and has recently sworn off my gender altogether, but you question your desirability first? That’s ass-backward, cher, and damned infuriating.”

“Well…” She didn’t know how to respond to that.

His exhale was an incredulous huff of laughter. “Incredible.”

She licked a drop of mimosa from her lower lip and watched his features harden. He was edgier than he’d ever been, his emotions closer to the surface but still firmly in check. She liked him this way.

A lot.

To be so attuned to someone was both foreign and thrilling. Could she break through that cage he kept himself so securely locked in? It was a challenge she couldn’t walk away from.

Setting her glass down, Ireland started to round the island, moving leisurely if cautiously.

“I’m really not very worldly,” she admitted, her fingertips trailing across the cool marble countertop. “I’ve never had the opportunity to take on a man of your caliber before.”

“You’re flawless.” He followed her with his eyes. “Faultless. Far out of my league. That you don’t know that is a crime. I’ve set the pace out of an abundance of caution because when this is over, it’ll be over for both of us. I won’t be left with an envie for something I can’t have.”

“You don’t fit the mold of anyone I’ve ever met.” Ireland stopped on the opposite side of the corner from him. “Who knows what could happen? Just because I haven’t wasted time with the wrong guy⁠—”

“I’m the wrong guy,” he said flatly, his eyes dark.

Her lips pursed, then twisted in thought. “Why would you say that?”

“I’m an immoral man. I believe the ends justify the means without exception.”

She knew his sultry charm was as much a mask as her studied calm. She knew because he’d wanted her to know. Beneath his polished exterior was the child who’d stolen food to survive and spent considerable time on the streets.

“Will you hurt me?” she asked bluntly.

Ronan stared at her, silent, for the length of a breathless minute or two. Then he replied, “Not by design, no.”

She, too, paused to consider, then nodded. “I don’t plan to hurt you, either—if I even can.”

He shook his head. “You’re too reckless. Too wild. It’s why I want you and why you want me, but it’s not wise.”

Her chin lifted. “We’ve spent a lot of time together in the past two days. Talking. Sharing. Revealing things about ourselves that are—as you said—more intimate than if we’d spent the time fucking. You wanted me to know you, and I know enough to want to know more. Isn’t that how anything worthwhile begins?”

“I can’t say.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to take our chances.” She eased toward him, moving into his space. His scent, warm like whiskey and faintly smoky, like a fine cigar, was as earthy as the man and equally intoxicating. She wanted to melt into him, press her nose to his throat, lick the salt from his skin. He made her feel fluid and languid, longing only to wrap her limbs around the heat and hardness of his powerful body. The fierce attraction bubbled like champagne inside her, spurring a wild, unfettered need.

He unhooked the sunglasses from his collar and set them down on the island, the faintest of invitations to get closer to the virile body she thirsted for. “You never answered my question about those regrets you anticipated.”

Ireland didn’t hesitate to be honest. After all, she already had the weight of using her mother’s maiden name to crawl out from under. “Regret—singular. And that would be wanting too much.”

“That’s not typically a problem for you.”

“No,” she agreed. “But then, you’re not a typical man.”

He caught her hand in his when she reached for him. “How easily you tie a man into knots.” His mouth curved against her knuckles as he pressed a kiss to them. “You’re a dangerous woman.”

“Isn’t that what you like about me?” She linked their fingers. “You know, I have this impractically romantic notion of being in the bayou with you, miles from civilization, wearing nothing but a sheen of sweat that’s somehow sexy, sipping bourbon on the rocks as I watch an elegant egret flying over the water.”

His smile fled, his gaze on her face taking on a predatory gleam. His jaw tautened with a hunger she recognized intimately because she also felt it.

“And what am I doing?” he asked gruffly, stroking her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “Something filthy, I hope.”

“You tell me.” She pushed forward, freeing her hand to rest atop the heat and hardness of his chest. The pounding beat of his heart was revelatory, betraying how she affected him. The rhythm was familiar, and she was amazed when she realized why: it matched the cadence of the silent demand emanating from him, the ferocious animal attraction she could not deny. “Or better yet, show me.”

Ronan circled her wrists with his fingers, then gently urged her hands down to her sides, then behind, to the small of her back. He held her captive with one hand, his other reaching up to the gold comb she’d used to secure her hair. “May I?”

She swallowed, her mouth dry. She tried to answer but ended up nodding instead. The heavy strands of her hair dropped in a rush, and she moaned in relief, her scalp tingling.

“I want you just the way you are.” He nuzzled her temple as he deftly wrapped her hair around his forearm, fisting the mass at her nape. “Don’t change yourself, tigress, to suit me or anyone.”

The rush of air that left her took all the tightness in her muscles with it. She sagged into him, her breasts growing sensitive at the feel of his torso against hers. Nuzzling him in return, her eyes closed, her fingers flexing with the need to touch him. His single-handed hold on her wrists was too light to be legitimately restraining, but she wouldn’t break it, just as she wouldn’t urge him to a faster pace than he was comfortable with.

It was compelling, the withholding of his body from her. Did he know that? Was he exploiting her hunger to his advantage? Why wait? Unless he wanted something beyond sex…?

He was the flawless one. Ireland was awed that she’d found him, this contrary and complicated man. The warmth of his body proved he was real, but it still seemed impossible. Too good to be true.

Her lips parted, and she sought his mouth, kissing the corner of it, licking the seam. His low, pained groan vibrated against her.

“If I have a taste,” he said huskily, brushing his lips across hers with enflaming lightness, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.”

“Why stop?” she whispered, straining to deepen their contact but held back by his hand in her hair.

“I ask myself that question every few seconds.”

“It’s okay,” she breathed, teasing his lips with a flick of her tongue. “I’m not going anywhere, either.”

Ronan broke with the power of a breached levee, crushing her against him, his lips sealing atop hers. He cupped her head in his hand, angling their mouths to fit tightly together. Between them, she felt his arousal, the heft and hardness of his cock straining against her lower belly. The ache inside her intensified with fierce need, her whimper a sound she’d never heard herself make before.

Ronan’s answering growl poured into her, weakening her knees. His tongue swept deep, stroking along hers, fucking her mouth with dominant precision.

He held her weight effortlessly, kissing her with consummate skill, tasting her with lush deep licks. She was captive in his arms, limp and trembling, completely at his mercy. She moaned, shivering violently, overwhelmed by the riot of sensations gripping her body.

But her lips were moving, her tongue tangling with his. He tasted like brown sugar, lust, and bourbon, a melding of equally energizing and intoxicating flavors. How had he hidden such rampant male need? Restrained it? Now, it was like fire, licking across her senses until she burned with it.

She wanted to taste him all over, to lick the inky spikes of his tattoo sleeve, and to run her mouth over his golden male skin until she found the paler flesh untouched by the sun. Her clit throbbed in time to her galloping heartbeat, and she grew wetter by the second, so aroused she wanted to scream at the torment of it.

The kiss was the most erotic act she’d ever engaged in, the melding of their mouths so unrestrained that they were devouring each other, their lips sliding against each other wetly, their tongues twining and caressing. Her hands were freed, and she thrust them into his hair, humming with delight to finally feel the thick strands that felt like rough silk. He cupped her buttocks, lifting her, holding her as she wrapped her legs around his lean hips.

Tightening her thighs, Ireland rose above him, arching his neck back so that she took control. She rubbed against the hardness of his erection, thrilling at the rumble of warning that vibrated from his chest. Ronan was leashed, barely, and the thought of further breaking his control was electrifying.

Minutes. She was mere minutes from having what she desperately needed, and she wanted to rush yet also to savor.

The sound of the doorbell was like a torrent of ice water.

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