Mom. Dad.
Christopher. Oh, god… Christopher must be frantic.
Thrusting her arms out in front of her, Ireland inched forward cautiously, the bones of her knees compressing her flesh painfully against the floor. She recoiled when she first touched a rough surface, but further exploration led her to believe it was plywood. Her heart pounded so violently that she swore it could be heard.
She was in some sort of makeshift box. Closet-sized, maybe. Wide enough that when she stretched her arms wide, she could only touch the wall on one side. When she stood, her arms bent as she touched the roof.
A scream welled and clogged her throat. She struggled to breathe. Claustrophobia bloomed, a previously unknown terror. Gasping, she sank back onto the floor. Her gulping breaths and raging heartbeat obscured any other sound.
How will anyone ever find me?
The elevator doors opened, and Ronan stepped into the hallway, keeping the condo number he was searching for in mind. He’d seen the building and its various retail and residential units in photographs and video calls when he purchased it. But his brother Jules had been the one to make the site visits as the building was restored and renovated. After all, Ronan was the spitting image of his father, and Manhattan was Cross/Vidal territory.
In the end, it wasn’t necessary for him to remember the unit number, because Genevieve and Valentin waited for him in the open doorway of their residence.
Their faces were somber, their gazes bleak with concern. Genevieve opened her arms to him as he approached. His throat tightened at the offered comfort. Absent any direction or purpose, the full weight of what had happened to Ireland threatened to crush him.
Ronan adjusted his grip on the duffel bag carrying his clothes just to cover his sudden embarrassed restlessness. He was not by nature an emotional man. Pragmatism had been his greatestsurvival tool, followed by instinct. Emotions tended to get in the way of staying alive.
Would Ireland come to understand that? She’d have to. And then fight her fear to survive.
“That poor girl,” Genevieve said sorrowfully, as he bent to exchangela bisewith her, their soft puckers the only sound in the otherwise quiet hallway. “We’ve been watching the news since you called.”
Pulling back, she cupped his face in her hands and studied him. Her fingers brushed the hair back from his forehead. “Oh,p’teet chou,” she murmured. “Whatever happened to your lip?”
His hand went to the swollen spot on his mouth where Ireland’s hit had connected when they’d sparred—or more accurately, when he’d defended himself against her understandable rage. “Ireland,” he answered simply.
“Merde. Come inside,” Valentin told him, as Ronan exchanged air kisses to the cheeks with him as well. He was a small man, shorter even than his petite wife, but the diminutive packaging contained an expansive spirit and oversized personality. “We’ve got the guestroom ready for you.”
“Thank you.”
He’d purchased the building for their use, this couple who were like family to him. More so than his paternal grandmother and all her many kin, whom he cared for deeply. Valentin’s sister, Marcelle, had saved him and his siblings from malnutrition and possibly starvation when they were children, and she’d been part of his life ever since. When Genevieve and Valentin, whom he thought of as a beloved aunt and uncle, told him they longed to live closer to their grandchildren in New York, he made it possible for them. Their Cajun restaurant, Valentin’s, took up the corner on street-level, and their condo took up the same corner of the building on the sixth floor.
The moment Ronan stepped into the expansive place, he felt at home. Pictures of him, Claudette, and Jules were sprinkled among the photos of family members. The living room had a corner dedicated to children’s books and toys. The art on the walls celebrated the uniqueness of New Orleans’ music and architecture. And there was love infused into everything; he felt it and the welcome it provided.
Valentin took his duffel out of his hand as he stood in the center of the living room. “I think we could all use a drink,non?”
“Mais oui,” Genevieve agreed, walking over to an antique brass and glass bar cart. She wore a floral quilted housecoat from another time, her mass of gray hair a loose cascade around her shoulders. “Sit, Ronan. You tower over us just standing there.”
His mouth curved in a reluctant smile as he obeyed, taking one of the pretty emerald armchairs flanking the sage damask sofa. The television was still on, although muted with closed captions. He didn’t recognize the parking structure behind the reporter and read that the authorities had already found yet another crime scene. But not Ireland.
Two of the men were confirmed dead. No honor among thieves who’d stolen something priceless for reasons that could either protect or endanger her.
Ronan had placed a single phone call on the way over, reaching into the dark corners of his past to call in a favor from someone he had sworn never to tap.Find Ireland Vidal. Find who took her.He would worry about the consequences of opening that Pandora’s box later. Cross was using the authorities and his own team of former military and intelligence operatives. Ronan felt a little underworld assistance was warranted and covered more ground without overlap.
Returning, Valentin sat on the sofa beside him. The older man’s hair was pure white and contrasted sharply with hisleathered skin, which was deep in tone and heavily lined. Genevieve joined them with a small tray bearing three glasses of caramel-hued bourbon chilled by oversized balls of ice.
They sat for a moment, sipping in silence. Ronan appreciated the burn of the liquor as it warmed the icy knot in his gut, and was even more grateful to be with people he trusted after the past hours of animosity and suspicion.
“You didn’t tell us she was a Vidal,” Genevieve murmured. “She gave us a different name when she introduced herself. Did you know who she truly was?”
He rolled the short crystal glass between his palms. “I did, although she didn’t know that when I brought her to the restaurant.”
“You had such chemistry,” Valentin noted. “I’ve never seen you look at anyone in quite the same way. Did I misread you?”
“Wehavechemistry,” Ronan corrected, a bit too harshly, for which he winced. “Désolé.No, you read me well. I adore her. And I wasn’t honest about my identity, either. She was simply a woman protecting herself from a strange man. I was the one whose motives were not benign. I wanted to make her like me before she realized the reason I was here in the city.”
“And now she knows?” Genevieve queried.
