Page 91 of Ireland

Digging into his bag, Angus withdrew a mugshot and slid it across the desktop to her. She pulled it closer with trembling fingers, staring at a young man who was unmistakably Ronan. His face was gaunt, his beautiful gray eyes dark and haunted, the sockets sunken and bruised. His tawny hair looked like it’d been hacked short with a dull pocketknife.

Time is a luxury I’ve enjoyed too little of,he’d told her.

She released her breath in a rush, her hand splaying across the image to protect it. That Angus had gotten his hands on the expunged record wasn’t so much surprising as impressive. It reminded her of just how far-reaching her brother’s power was.

“That’s him?” Angus queried.

“Yes.”

His curt nod told her he’d had no doubts. “Boudreaux warranted a closer look, so I flew down to Louisiana.”

“You did?” Why was she surprised? Of course, he would be thorough; Gideon would expect nothing less.

“I was once told that to hear gossip in the South, you need to be sippin’ sweet tea and sitting close enough to whisper to.” His attempt to shift his burr to a drawl failed spectacularly. “So, I drove to the parish where the Boudreauxes are based to find that not a single person would speak a negative word about any member of the family. His childhood and criminal history do not exist there, and if you mention either to someone, they won’t look you in the eye, and they stink of fear.”

Ireland sat back in her chair, rocking a little to expend the chaotic energy brewing inside her. There was a growing sense of disconnection, the feeling that she and Angus were discussing two very different people.

“If you make general inquiries, the residents boast about him and his father, Lucas Courtland Boudreaux, the youngest son of the family matriarch, Harper Fleur Landry Boudreaux.”

“So, he knows who his father is, despite him not being named on the birth certificate?”

“My guess is he figured it out later in life and rectified it with the name change.” He flipped through a folder in his bag, searching. “I can’t adequately express how strangely people in the area reacted when discussing the Boudreauxes. They’re eager and delighted to share all the good works the family doesfor the community, and there’s a collective infatuation with them. But there’s also the sense that the family protects its image aggressively. A waitress in a neighboring parish told me that the earliest businesses targeted by Ronan were rivals of the family.”

Withdrawing another photo, he pushed it across to her.

The entire room twisted and juddered back into place. She lifted the photo to study it closer. The resemblance between Ronan and Lucas was so uncanny that it took her a moment to identify the differences.

The man photographed appeared to be ten to fifteen years younger when his picture was taken than Ronan was now. He had a broad, cocky, million-dollar smile that was so incongruous with his circumstances, as if he didn’t fear the consequences ahead of him. He had tawny hair similar to his son’s, although it was a darker shade. Well-dressed in the style of the time, he looked like a man with everything going for him—aside from the booking number placard in his hands.

“Lucas was arrested, too?” she asked, incredulous.

“And convicted. Of first-degree rape. He’s been incarcerated in Angola prison for over forty years. His case is being championed by the Innocence Project, which is seeking to have the DNA evidence retested and eyewitnesses reexamined.” He gave her a cynical look. “From the reactions of people I talked to, I’d have some concerns about coercion and intimidation being a factor in any recanted testimony.”

“Fortyyears?” The sentence fit the crime in her opinion but seemed unusually high. Then again, her criminal legal knowledge came from Hollywood productions.

“In Louisiana, the mandatory sentence is either death or life without parole.”

“Jesus. More states should take their cues from Louisiana.” She put the two mugshots side by side, staring at the boy who looked as if he hadn’t eaten well in far too long, if ever, and hisfather, who looked like the world was served to him on a silver platter.

“Being claimed by the Boudreauxes is what allowed Ronan to enter polite society. He’s engaged to Scarlett Olivia Claiborne, the only daughter of a family more prominent than the Boudreauxes.” Angus reached into his bag again and withdrew yet another photo. “There’s general elation about the match.”

Ireland felt the blood drain from her face, and her stomach soured with acidic heat. She looked helplessly down at the photo Angus placed in front of her, unable even to touch it like she had the others. The woman pictured was a lovely blonde with long cascading curls, big cornflower blue eyes, and a wide smile. She was so perfect she was almost doll-like.

Angus provided an additional photograph, one of Ronan and Scarlett together in front of a step and repeat backdrop for a charity event. Scarlett wore a wide-brimmed sun hat and white lace dress, while Ronan was dressed in a linen suit of soft tan. His smile held all his charm and charisma, while Scarlett’s was confident and engaging. Her gloved hand on his proffered arm was unmistakably proprietary. With Ronan’s hair worn shorter, much like his father’s, he didn’t look like the man in whose arms she’d lain just hours ago. He looked like the angelic twin of the devilish seducer with whom she’d spent the past several days revealing her most personal vulnerabilities and aspirations.

Her vision blurred with hot, stinging tears. The searing intimacy they’d shared took on a sinister and painful connotation. She waited for the cleansing rage to rise so she could weaponize it and confront Ronan head-on. But what she felt was a smothering agony that made it hard to expand her lungs.

Pushing the pile of photos back to Angus, Ireland tried breathing through the urge to vomit into the trashcan beside her desk. It was a joke that she could find the biggest loser in anyroom to hook up with, but she had felt a bone-deep certainty about Ronan that she’d depended on. To be so wrong about a feeling that felt so…right? What else had she misjudged or underestimated? How badly was she fucking everything up?

She stood on shaky legs, wanting to leave the room, the building, the city…

The ringing of her desk phone startled her enough to make her jump. Angus didn’t even blink. She fumbled the receiver, dropping it on the desktop where it clattered noisily, aggravating her fraying composure.

“Yes?” she answered, appalled at her voice's hoarseness. She felt Angus’s examining gaze and knew she was revealing too much of her inner turmoil. She didn’t know how to pretend feeling okay when she wasn’t.

“Hey, boss,” Matt greeted her. “You don’t have a meeting scheduled, but your door’s closed, so I’m checking to see if you’ve got a minute for Brett Kline. He’s saying there’s a problem with the studio he booked downstairs. Neither of the two Mr. Vidals are in the office yet.”

Brett was saying something in the background. She looked at Angus. “I have to handle an issue with one of our artists. Could you give me a few minutes?”

---