Page 13 of Ireland

“Why don’t you tell me howyouare,” he countered, his slate green eyes studying her keenly. “You’ve had a lot thrown at you today.”

“I’m good, Dad.” When he just kept looking at her with that knowing gaze, she reiterated. “Really. Nothing that’s come my way has knocked me off my stride.”

His mouth curved affectionately. “Very little does. You’re a wonder to me, you know that? What would you have chosen to do if Vidal Records didn’t exist?”

Ireland stared at him, surprised and alarmed. Her father was in the throes of rethinking his life choices now that he faced the finality of his ex-wife remarrying. In turn, he worried needlessly about his daughter’s choices.

“I’ve never considered it.” There was no point in wishing for things to be different. “Vidal does exist and is partly mine, so that’s my focus.”

And it was his great love. His attachment to their familial legacy ran bone deep. She would nurture and protect it for him as long as was needed.

“Are you happy?” he asked softly.

“I’m not unhappy. Lonely sometimes, but that has nothing to do with work.”

Smiling ruefully, her father stood and stretched, his back popping audibly. “And here I am keeping you from your dinner out.”

“Andyourdinner.” Pushing past her worry and mixed feelings, she focused on what she had to look forward to. She would’ve canceled on Ronan but was glad she didn’t have to. “Walk out with me.”

Her tone brooked no argument. She wanted to see him leave so that she knew for a fact he had. She could touch up her minimal makeup on the way to Harlem. And she’d text Christopher and let him know she was concerned about their father.

Unlike the rest of her family, she had no trouble being a team player.

Ireland took the time on the long ride uptown to type a more thorough reply to her mother, letting her know how excited she was for her and how she looked forward to supporting her through the chaotic joy of wedding arrangements. She briefly thought of how amusing it was that she would help plan her mother’s wedding before her own, but she was happy to do it. She wanted nothing more than to have everyone in her family settled, safe, and happy.

After she added a promise to talk later, maybe in the morning, she put her phone away and looked out the window, contrasting the city with her memories of Southern Louisiana. She spotted Ronan waiting for her on the sidewalk outside Valentin’s restaurant and felt a rush of giddy excitement. Even from a distance, he drew her gaze like a magnet. He carried that tall and powerfully built body with a fluid gracefulness that made her think of sex on tangled sheets beneath a lazily turning fan. Did he fuck like he talked—slow and smooth? Or was the heated demand she sensed in him unleashed with his passion?

Ronan Boudreaux had the kind of magnetism commonly referred to as stage presence, and like the artists she worked with, she found it surreal that someone so extraordinary could walk among mortals like he was one of them. Was he oblivious to how women’s heads turned when they walked by? Their furtive glances and outright covetous stares.

No, he couldn’t be. He’d been so quick to set boundaries when they first spoke.

What changed his mind? It wasn’t her looks; he’d admired them from the first. It wasn’t her occupation or family ties because he didn’t know of them. For all of the exquisitepackaging he came with, it was the idea of being wanted for something invisible and innate that most enthralled her.

Although to be honest, ripping into that packaging with careful teeth and greedy hands was something she’d very much like to do.

Ronan stood beside the entrance awning, conversing with a neatly dressed woman with a cascade of salt and pepper hair. He caught Ireland’s gaze as her taxi pulled up to the curb, and his lips curved into a heated smile that made her so very glad that she was able to come.

He’d pulled on his suit jacket and wore a burgundy tie that she noticed had a subtle fleur-de-lis texture when he leaned in to help her get out. The impact of his gorgeous face, so much closer now that they stood a mere few inches from each other, scattered her thoughts to the wind. God, he was stunning. And so totallymale. He exuded sex and sin. And he smelled like the darkest of temptations blended with whiskey and spice.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly.

“Moments that felt like hours,” he teased. “I worried I’d have to track you down in this huge city.”

She grinned. “Would you have gone to the trouble?”

“Without question.” He led her to the waiting woman. “This is Genevieve, Valentin’s wife and a dear friend.”

“Hello.” Ireland extended her hand. “Elizabeth. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Genevieve pulled her in for air kisses to each cheek. “The pleasure is mine,petite. Come in, come in.”

The restaurant was situated on a corner, with windows on two sides. All the tables with a view were occupied, but it was much less crowded deeper in where they were seated. The interior was decorated to resemble the French Quarter of New Orleans, with wrought iron railings separating the dining area from the servers’ stations, faux shutters on a massive mural thatlooked like a street, and baskets of flowers hanging from hooks between the wide windows. It was charming, and the savory smells emanating from the open kitchen made her stomach growl in anticipation.

Menus were already waiting on the table, as were two bottles of wine in cooling sleeves and four place settings. Louis Armstrong sang “La vie en rose” from hidden speakers.

“White or red?” Genevieve asked, and Ireland glanced briefly at the menu, searching for and finding the dish she ordered whenever she came across it.

“White, please. Thank you.”

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