Page 11 of Ireland

“You’re scaring the hell out of me,” he said bluntly.

She laughed, and the tension inside her loosened enough to be bearable… until she returned his gaze. Her leather blazer suddenly became too warm.

No man had ever looked at her with such absolute interest and desire. It seemed impossible for a man with his assets—and he had so many of them—to feel what she felt. And his directness was as unique and appealing as the rest of him.

“Have dinner with me.” Ronan’s thumb stroked the backs of her fingers. “I have friends who’ve recently opened a restaurant in Harlem, and I promised to check it out while I’m here.”

Ireland wavered between relief that he wanted to leave the hotel, where most of the servers knew her by name, and concern about going out, where an eager tourist could recognize her. But she’d cross that bridge if they came to it. “That sounds lovely.”

His brilliant smile and the way his delight glowed in his gaze was gratifying enough, but then he bent his tawny head to press an electrifying kiss to the palm of her hand. “You’re a tigress.”

“I have to grab a few things beforehand,” she advised because she’d marched over from the Vidal offices without her purse after realizing where Graham was. “Give me the address, and I’ll meet you there.”

Ronan reached for his jacket, and they both pulled their phones out of their pockets simultaneously. He typed deftly with both thumbs. She watched him, seeing shades of her eldest brother in his easy command.Beau-frèreJules had called him—half-brother. Like Gideon, Ronan had younger half-siblings he looked out for. Did she feel such a strong connection to him because of that? She swiftly dismissed the thought.

She woke her screen with a quick tap and paused when she saw that she’d missed a text notification from her mother. She opened the hour-old group message.

It was a photo with no caption, but the image of a massive emerald-cut diamond on the fourth finger of her mother’s left hand told her everything she needed to know. Elizabeth Duffy Cross Vidal would soon be known as Mrs. Elizabeth Pearson, wife of Daniel Pearson.

Congratulations!

It was all she could manage in reply. She was the last to chime in since her brothers apparently paid more attention to their messages. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Daniel because she did—a lot. But the thought of her mother remarrying was a bit too much to process now.

“Is there a problem?” Ronan asked, his handsome face sobering with concern.

“No.” She pushed her mother’s news from her mind. “I’m ready for the address.”

He read it off to her. “Take my number, too.”

Such a simple thing to get a man’s number but having his gave her a little thrill. “Got it.”

Their server stopped by their table with a tray of empty glasses. Dressed in the tight black shorts and white halter waistcoat with bow tie that was the club’s uniform, the pretty blonde gave Ronan a very warm and appreciative smile. “How are you two doing over here? Want another round, mack?”

Then she glanced at Ireland and sobered instantly. “Hey, boss.”

“We’re good, Tracy,” Ronan declined. “Thanks.”

As the server sashayed away, he shot Ireland an arch look. “She calls you ‘boss,’ but I’m just ‘mack.’”

Ireland laughed, grateful that he didn’t question the erroneous title the bar servers used with her. Even though the hotel bore her last name, Gideon was their ultimate boss.

She checked the time and stood. “Eight o’clock, okay?”

He stood with her. “Perfect.”

They didn’t move for a moment, separated by the squat brass-topped table. She hesitated to leave him. It was too exciting being in his presence.

Ireland grinned, feigning nonchalance. “À très bientôt.”

“Hey, Jimmy,” Ireland greeted the evening security guard as he unlocked and opened the front door of the Vidal Records offices for her. The newly renovated, cutting-edge recording studios on the second floor were available at all hours for their artists; they had only to reserve the time. There were no office hours for creativity.

“You’re in late,” he noted as he relocked the door.

“I forgot my bag,” she explained. “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

“That’d be a neat trick,” he said, then lifted his uniform cap to show off his bald head.

Laughing, she took the stairs because she was bursting with energy. She couldn’t wait to grab her purse and freshen up. She hadn’t bothered pulling herself together for Graham. What little makeup she wore was twelve hours old.

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