“It’s not as if I have something more pressing to do.” He smiled fondly.
“Tête dure. I want you to enjoy life. I just don’t want that life to be far from mine.”
Reaching over, he took her hand in his and gave it a grateful, affectionate squeeze. “I wish you wouldn’t worry so much.”
“I’ve only ever seen you truly light up over two things,” she continued. “Ireland Vidal and her father’s business. The man who’s directly responsible for all the tragedies in your life is also the reason you’ve found joy. The irony.”
He hadn’t thought of his predicament in quite that way. “Fate is a bitch,non?”
“Whatever is going on with you and Ireland Vidal will eventually run its course. But the music…? Well, that’s always been your great love, hasn’t it?” She brushed the hair back from her face with an impatient toss of her hand. “Now you have a way to immerse yourself in it, on both the business and creative sides. I’m afraid that will make this life here irresistible to you.”
He heaved a soft sigh. “Claudy, there’s simply no comparing home to here. One is in my blood…my very soul… And the other”—he glanced out the window at the impossible crush of people and cars bathed in garish, glaring lights—“it holds little charm,non?”
“But Genevieve and Valentin are here,” she argued. “And you said you haven’t yet figured out what’s next for you. It doesn’t need to be said that New York would be a great base from which to expand your business interests.”
“I’m not looking for a new home.”
With a wistful hum, she resumed facing forward. “Maybe a new home has found you.”
Ronan was still thinking about Claudette and her concerns when the elevator in Ireland’s building slowed to a halt on the top floor.
As ever, he recalled the last time he’d ascended to find Ireland awaiting his arrival. Half-mad with lust and the desperate sense that she was already moving on from him, he’d charged out of the elevator in full rut and fucked her against the vestibule wall, unable to delay his hunger even long enough to get through her front door.
He couldn’t explain it. As a grown man who enjoyed the seduction sometimes more than the sex, to behave so boorishly with such an extraordinary—and younger—woman was embarrassing.
And irresistible.
Because hischerwelcomed the loss of his control. She encouraged him to be exactly who he was: feral and lustful. She met his wild passion with her own.
Missing her keenly, his entire body was strained by worry and fear, which he knew would only worsen as the night wore on.
How was it possible that Cross hadn’t yet brought Ireland home?
Unlocking the door’s two locks with a single key, Ronan pushed it open, prepared for Ireland’s huge cat to be sitting in the small foyer. Blizzard demanded both food and attention as penance for being left alone for any amount of time.
Ronan entered an apartment flooded with light.
His footsteps halted abruptly on the threshold, his pulse leaping. The sight of the long-haired brunette who stood in the living room with her back to the door flooded him with elated relief and hope. Then she spun around in astonished alarm, and he went very still.
Elizabeth Vidal stared at him for a long, taut moment. Blizzard, who’d been occupied with garnering her attention,made a trilling sound of delight at Ronan’s arrival and hopped off the coffee table with a heavy thud. In short order, the cat was winding his big body around Ronan’s legs, his purrs a loud rumbling in the awkward silence.
The tension in Elizabeth’s body visibly eased. “You’re full of surprises, Mr. McCaffrey.”
The sound of her voice broke his startled motionlessness. Stepping further into the apartment, he pushed the door closed behind him. “Hello. And please, just Ronan.”
“Ronan. We haven’t been formally introduced yet, have we? I’m Elizabeth.”
Bending to pick up Blizzard, he draped the cat over his shoulder and rounded the sofa to offer his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Elizabeth.”
Clutching her phone in her left hand, she accepted his handshake but surprised him by pulling him closer and tradingla bisewith him as well. She was dressed in gray tailored slacks and a sleeveless silk blouse the color of café au lait. While her hair was worn like Ireland’s, falling in a glossy curtain to her hips, the inky strands were highlighted by streaks of silver. Her face was bare, her aqua eyes rimmed with red, and her cheeks hollowed and gaunt. Still, she looked so remarkably like her daughter that it felt as if a hand squeezed around Ronan’s heart.
“I don’t know whether I’m relieved to see you or not.” She moved around the coffee table to take a seat in one of the white slipcovered armchairs. “I came here because I thought it would make me feel closer to Ireland. But I find the place so tidy it feels as if I’ve walked into a stranger’s home.”
Ronan acted as naturally as possible, but his gaze roamed the apartment. Was Ireland’s mother alone? Would either of her brothers or the senior Vidal step out from another room and demand answers? It struck him then that his actions, while well-intentioned, could be construed as sinister or unhinged, not to mention illegal.
“I suppose you’re the reason?” she pressed, her gaze dulled by pain. She gripped her phone tightly in her lap.
“I try to make myself useful,” he answered carefully. Since it seemed they were alone, he asked, “Can I offer you something to drink? Water? Coffee? Something stronger?”
