Page 43 of Ireland

She exited into the lobby and waved at Charlie as she passed him, her stride lengthening as she pushed out onto the street. She didn’t think twice about her destination and plunged into the stream of pedestrians headed into Times Square.

Ronan waited a heartbeat for the group of people who’d exited the elevator to step between him and Chris Vidal, Sr., then he spun on his heel and slammed through the stairwell door, racing down with Ireland’s bag in hand. There was shouting behind him. Whether from the two Vidals or his own siblings didn’t much matter. His concern was the look on Ireland’s face when the pieces started falling into place for her.

The stunningly fierce tigress of a woman who’d sworn off men but given him a chance was wounded now, and while her father was ultimately responsible, Ronan had to shoulder some of the blame. He’d known this moment of revelation was imminent, that he had only a matter of hours in which to make a lasting impression that might leave him a chance of redemption.

Tossing his badge at Charlie with a barked apology, Ronan burst onto 48thSt. and glanced from side to side, searching. Spotting Ireland heading toward 7thAve, he lunged through a small gap in the stream of shopping bag-laden tourists in pursuit.

“Wait a damned minute!” Drawing abreast of her, he slowed his pace from breakneck to matching her catlike stride.

Her head swiveled toward him, and he saw the same icy look on her face that he’d seen Friday night when she’d shredded the guy in the bar.

It sliced deep.

And she didn’t slow, her endless legs crisscrossing with sleek, feline grace. He pivoted to walk forward at her side but continued having to weave through the flood of pedestrians to keep up, clutching her duffel bag against his chest so it didn’t drag him down.

“What the hell was that back there?” he asked, fuming.

“You can’t be askingmethat.”

He shot her an arch glance. “Is ‘Lizzie’ a separate personality from ‘Ireland?’ Because the woman I met Friday came spoiling for a fight and enjoyed the hell out of it.”

She stopped so suddenly that the woman following behind her almost bumped into her back. “You think I should’ve started yelling at you with the situation being what it was? Are you a masochist,Mr. McCaffrey? Do you target family businesses for the thrill of having multiple people screaming at you at once?”

“Yell atme?!” He moved to face her and urged her to one side, outside the flow of foot traffic. “Your father is the villain here.’”

“You don’t know my father.’”

His smile was tight and cool. “I know him better than you do. Why didn’t you confront him?”

“How I deal with my family is none of your business.”

“What the hell have they done to silence you?” he snapped. “You’re a completely different person when they’re involved.”

Her beautiful eyes narrowed. “You don’t knowme, either.”

She stepped down into the bike lane and then around him, resuming her hurried pace on the sidewalk. Ronan cursed under his breath and turned to follow, then stopped so abruptly he tripped, shocked into immobility.

Ireland was everywhere he looked, stories tall, plastered on every building he could see.

And she was completely naked.

Against a tan background, she strutted back and forth in nude stilettos, her hip-length hair plastered strategically across her bare body by a firm breeze—and expert CGI. She moved with graceful abandon, lifting her arms high and spinning like a dancer, her willowy figure strong and sexy.

It was a body lotion ad, he grasped through a haze of white-hot need, watching as she dropped gracefully into a crouch and blew a kiss at everyone watching her. And since the company she represented had staged a takeover, multiples of Ireland circled the digital billboards of Times Square in unison, a sex goddess exploiting her power to dazzle her adoring followers.

Ronan shook off the stupefaction and realized he wasn’t the only person standing motionless on the street, watching Ireland move with seductive confidence and utter delight. But he damned well better be the only one doing so with an erection.

“Pour l’amour de dieu,” he growled, adjusting his cock in his slacks before stepping into the bike lane to chase her as quickly as he could manage with a hard-on and a crush of gawking people everywhere. God help anyone who recognized and approached her…

The urgent ringing of a bike’s bell warned him to hop back onto the sidewalk just before a courier cyclist whizzed by.

Ireland was heading toward the hotel. Ronan’s lips curved with grim relief once he realized her destination. Throwing her over his shoulder and hauling her there wouldn’t help his cause, but he’d been resigned to doing it if necessary to say what needed to be said.

He caught up to her just as she spun through the revolving doors into the lobby. She stopped on the other side, waiting for him to join her.

“You forget how to walk?” she asked with one brow arched and her arms crossed.

“Don’t.” He caught her by the elbow and urged her toward the bank of elevators, adjusting his grip on her bag in his other hand. “If you’re naked, I’m staring, and I won’t apologize for it.”

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