Page 8 of Ireland

Ireland’s interest sharpened to a fine point. The first half of his answer was the truth; the smile was meant to defuse theimportance of it. She knew the tactic well because she employed it often when dealing with her family. But this guy didn’t need to use it with her. He could say anything, a polite white lie about a wedding or a reunion. Whatever.

“Won’t you ask me what it is I do?” His languid voice and relaxed pose were deceptive.

Anyone looking at him would think he hadn’t a care in the world, but she suspected very little escaped his notice. His focus on her was unwavering and incisive despite his heavy-lidded gaze.

She couldn’t say why it felt like they were playing a chess match, and he’d already strategized every move to the finish. “If you wanted me to know, you’d volunteer the information.”

The smile he gave her was brilliant, as if he’d intuited her cool reply in advance. “I confess to being curious about what it is you do.”

She blinked. Did he really not know who she was?

Of course, it was possible for her to go unrecognized. If not for the advertisements she did for Eva’s makeup and skincare line—which the golden god wouldn’t be likely to see—and occasional guest appearances on musical competition TV shows, most people outside her family’s circle of interests probably didn’t know her by sight.

Opportunistic guys like Graham were making her cynical. She didn’t have to overthink a random encounter with a man who looked too good to be real.

“I read somewhere that discussing occupations is a very American thing to do,” she prevaricated because being anonymous with a magnetically appealing man was a situation she wanted to enjoy as long as she could. “Maybe we put too much importance on work.”

“And maybe you won’t tell me.” The perceptiveness in his gaze belied his nonchalance.

She relaxed deeper into her chair. “Why don’t you take a guess, and I’ll tell you if you’re warm.”

“The obvious would be to say supermodel because you certainly look like one.”

Ireland laughed at his flirtatious tone. “And I could guess that you’re a musician, but that’s too easy.”

“The trumpet’s a hobby. It doesn’t pay the bills.”

And his bills were not inconsiderable if she based them on his attire alone. His boots were easily double the cost of Gideon’s oxfords, and those sold for thousands. The Patek Philippe watch would have lowered his bank balance by the mid-six figures. And like Gideon, there were no belt loops on his dress slacks because they’d been made for his body and required no accessories to keep them in place.

“I’ve done some modeling,” she conceded, “if you can call it that, as a favor for a family member’s business. It’s definitely not something I’d do full-time because I don’t like being the center of attention.”

He’d set his glass on the flat, wide armrest and was spinning it slowly with leisurely turns of his fingers. “Tell me what you do like.”

She had noticed his fingers earlier when he’d been playing. He wore no rings, which didn’t signify anything but was intriguing, nonetheless. “Music—I can’t live without it. Whiskey, scotch, bourbon. Coffee. Late nights, later mornings. Rain. Thunderstorms. Fall. Catsanddogs. Sunlight on my face and a midnight breeze in my hair.”

His chest lifted and fell on a slow, deep breath. “That’s quite a list,cher.”

Ireland gave a careless shrug, but his endearment was revealing. Pronouncedshainstead ofshare, it was unmistakably Cajun. Suddenly, so much about him was explained. No wonderhe’d learned the trumpet; the instrument was the heart and soul of Louisiana.

She wished she could tell him about how she’d once found the most amazing zydeco band in Baton Rouge and signed them to a distribution deal the next day, but that would reveal everything she’d rather keep hidden—including how some decisions she made were based on passion rather than good fiscal sense.

Taking another sip, Ireland discreetly considered him. He had an unfair advantage with her. From that sexy mane of hair down to the sleek crocodile boots and all the musical talent in between, he was like an AI-generated dream man based on her wish list of traits.

“There are companies that have something I want,” he told her as if her openness warranted the same in return. “I follow them, sometimes for years, then leverage their weak points and take them over.”

“Why not merge or collaborate?”

“Then their weaknesses become mine,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Who are you after now?”

“There’s never just one, but I’m focused on a clothing factory in Queens this week. Their location and building are ideal for warehousing.”

“You couldn’t buy one or the other?”

“It’s a family-run business on its fourth generation. They’re more sentimental than smart.”

She knew that scenario all too well. Vidal Records had once been a music shop like so many others on Music Row, established by her grandfather. It was her father who’d shifted from selling music and instruments to selling the talent itself. As the third generation to run the company, Ireland sometimes felt trapped by the legacy, but Christopher intended to raise hischildren to take over. Perhaps that would be the saving grace of Vidal Records, a new generation with their father’s ruthlessness rather than their grandfather’s recklessness.

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