Page 93 of Ireland

He scoffed as she shoved away from the table, nursing her rage as fuel.

She flashed him a smile that was all teeth. “Tell your brother to give my regards to Scarlett… at least until I get around to giving them to her personally.”

Jules leaped to his feet. “You keep her out of this!”

Flipping him the bird over her shoulder, she stormed back out through the glass door just as her father exited the elevator.

Ronan angled the stick to guide the helicopter around again, allowing himself to take in another view of the lush paradise below. The mighty Mississippi River glittered sinuously through a verdant landscape dotted with ancient live oaks and blanketed in short, swaying grasses. A resplendent mansion sat like a sentinel on the shore, surrounded by acres of riotously colorful gardens and manicured walkways. The air was fragranced with the perfume of hundreds of blooming flowers, the soft breeze diffusing some of the sultry humidity.

Bellefleur. The pride of the parish and state.

Built in the Greek Revival style, the square manse was two and a half stories tall and enveloped by a colonnade of twenty massive columns. An enormous gallery wrapped completely around, affording every room access to the outside. The home had been built by another family in 1852, and as a plantation, it once grew tobacco. It fell into Boudreaux hands in 1868, and now no one was sure where the family had been rooted before that.

As Ronan descended to the helipad on the rear lawn, he thought of what it would be like to bring Ireland here. Would she hear the music of this place as he did? The steady, inexorable surge of the river to the sea. The buzzing of bees as they collected pollen. Would she dance with him in a midnight garden to the sounds of the cicadas, crickets, and katydids?

He felt a twinge of regret that a Vidal would never be welcome here; she would have to change her name.

As he settled his Hill HX50 on the ground, he saw the bright yellow Lotus Emira parked in the circular drive. And once he completed the after-landing checklist and exited the aircraft, he saw the Lotus’s driver watching him from the rear gallery. It would be hard to miss Scarlett Claiborne at any time—she made sure of that—but the fact that she was naked guaranteed he noticed her.

With one hand on the ornamental iron railing, she blew him a kiss. She’d tossed her long blond hair over her shoulders so nothing would impede his view of her generous tits, trim waist, and full hips. She had even ensured that her pussy was visible between the ornate spindles. Her petite, curvy body was the envy and desire of many but couldn’t be more different from that of the woman who enflamed him beyond all rational thought.

Scarlett didn’t call out to him, which might have attracted the attention of the residents in the adjacent rooms. She only liked to flirt with danger, which is why she was hellbent on marrying him, but she was as protective of her reputation as any member of his family or hers.

Taking the three short steps up to the rear entrance of the mansion, Ronan pulled off his mirrored aviator sunglasses and hooked them onto his open shirt collar. Entering through the screen door, he strolled the long central hallway to his grand-mère’s study, passing beneath a heavy crystal chandelier and the mural of a cloudy blue sky that had been painted on the ceiling ages ago.

He’d arrived in time for lunch but wouldn’t eat much here despite the rather pitiful breakfast he’d scavenged at Ireland’s. They’d have to work on stocking her pantry so he could feed them both properly. He could eat comfortably with her. She quieted the noise in his head that food—or more specifically, the lack of it he’d experienced in childhood—created. Sitting at the immense dining table that seated thirty of his relatives wasa boisterous good time, filled with humorous conversation and scathing anecdotes, but all of the chaos made it impossible for him to be mindful of what he was putting into his mouth. So, he’d pick his way through the meal and look forward to eating more robustly later with Ireland.

The study door was open. The substantial mahogany desk at the room's far end was too large for the woman sitting behind it. Her hair was primarily white with thick streaks of dark blond swirled through it. She wore it in an elaborate chignon, revealing a long, graceful neck and massive sapphires dangling from her ears. At eighty-two years old, Harper Boudreaux was still spry, which she credited to her nightly tumbler of two fingers of whiskey.

His grand-mère was the bright spot in an otherwise dark room, the walls covered in a burgundy damask wallpaper and the dark wood floors covered with an Aubusson rug in a similar hue to the walls. Generations of male Boudreauxes had conducted family business here, and when Harper had taken over the task, she’d left the baroquely masculine room as it had always been.

He knocked and waited on the threshold. She glanced up with a fearsome glower that immediately brightened into a dazzling smile and bright eyes.

“Ronan! I didn’t hear you land. Does that mean you drove, or am I going deaf?” She stood effortlessly, her posture still perfect. Dressed in a long, slender navy skirt and white gauze blouse, she looked cool and ready for business.

He lengthened his stride to reach her before she had to walk too far. “I’m a stealthy bastard, grand-mère, you know this.”

“Not a bastard,” she corrected sternly, extending both hands to him and returning hisles bises. “Your father would’ve done right by you had Vidal not gotten in the way. Thankfully, that is all behind us now. Look how long your hair has grown! Andyou’ve lost weight. Should I be worried that you’ve been too busy to look after yourself?”

“The hair was laziness, now it’s by design. The weight… well” —he flashed a big smile— “I’ve been exercising a lot recently.”

“We’ll get you a trim and fatten you up a little. You’ve been missed terribly. Scarlett hurried over when I told her you’d be home today. She’ll be spending the weekend with us. And so will you,” she finished as if the matter was decided.

Harper Boudreaux was tough, and she had to be. Managing the many Boudreaux siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles was like herding cats. She also managed the estate and the family’s finances and investments. She’d only recently begun delegating some of the charity and church work to his generation of Boudreauxes.

“Sounds like a party,” he said cheerily. “I regret not being able to stay for it.”

Her eyes were a deep, dark blue, and they took on a hardened glint, even as she continued smiling with welcome. Harper didn’t like being denied. “You can stay at least one night before you head home.”

“Ah, home,” he said fondly, thinking of Marcelle and the comfort of being entirely himself. “I’m eager to see it, even if only long enough to switch out the clothes I’m traveling with.”

He was one of the few in the Boudreaux family who didn’t live at Bellefleur. And as much as he admired the grand old lady who ran the estate, Jules and Claudette weren’t welcomed here as family, only as occasional guests for rare public events and festivities. Harper wanted everyone to forget that he hadn’t been raised as a Boudreaux, and she’d educated him in the requisite social skills required to pass among the civilized. But he could never live behind the façade long term; it was too taxing.

She tutted at him. “What’s so pressing that you have to leave as soon as you arrive?”

“I’m heading back to New York.”

“Non,” she dismissed. “You’re needed here.”

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