Page 20 of Ireland

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 thesuites 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 72ndStreet entrance to the Park on 5thAvenue, 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?”

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