Page 49 of Ireland

He reached over and took her hand, lifting it to his lips. “I adore you.”

“I need you to know that I will help you fix this mess. I’m really good at what I do, and what I don’t know I can learn. I’ll be a helpful partner, I promise.”

His nostrils flared, and he set his chopsticks down. “You’re talking about Vidal.”

“Of course, silly. What else? As far as I know, we don’t have any other messes.” She frowned. “Do we?”

“No, we do not. A bit of a locational problem for now, but that’s easy to resolve. Why would you want to ‘fix’ Vidal? You participated because it’s expected of you.”

“Well…it’s always been there,” she hedged.

Ronan shifted in his seat to face her. He was so incredibly beautiful sitting there in just his jeans. So open and accessible in exactly the way she’d yearned for him to be. Yet there was still so much to learn. She wanted to ask him about his scars and the meaning of his tattoo sleeve. The tribal design was a tornado of dangerously sharp objects spiraling down from the ubiquitous talons on his shoulder like layers of hell: razor blades, concertina wire, flames, and knife tips—all rendered in deep liquid black.

“You’re a woman of high passions, and that’s the most passionless defense you could make.” His jaw tightened. “You want to save it for your father, not for you.”

“What does it matter, really?” Leaning forward, she set her hand on his knee. “We’ll get to work together. And I can’t wait to see you in action. I expect it’ll make me horny.”

But he didn’t smile as she expected him to. Or tease her as he so often did.

“Or do you have people who take over from here?” she asked. “Will you not be involved?”

“No, I’ll personally be the one to dismantle it and sell off the parts.”

Ireland blinked at him. “That can’t be the only solution. There has to be a way to save it.”

“I don’t want to save it, and neither do you.”

Confused, she shook her head. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he insisted. “That’s been obvious to me for some time.”

“What are you talking about? We never even discussed Vidal.”

Impossibly, his expression became even more closed. His growing remoteness stung.

She pushed back from the table and stood. “So, you don’t want to go to the trouble of fixing it. Well, I do.”

He caught her hand and held it as he stood, too. “Your father owes me a large debt, Ireland. This is how he pays.”

“I’ll pay you! And if I don’t have enough, my brother is Gideon Cross, and he’ll pay you.”

“Money won’t buy your father out of this.”

Ireland looked at his implacable, austerely gorgeous face, and her heart sank. “Explain, please.”

“You need to ask him.”

She tugged her hand free. “Ask someone who hasn’t told me anything thus far? Askthatguy? Why won’tyoutell me?”

Ronan set his palms down on the tabletop. “Because it’s his story to tell.”

“Bullshit. That’s bullshit. So, you don’t care at all what I want? Or what I think about all of this?”

“I already know what you think of it, Ireland, and you’re relieved, even if you don’t want to admit it. You’ve fulfilled all of their expectations. Your conscience is clear. I’m buying you out—take the money and do whatyouwant. You’re free.”

Shaking her head, she backed away from him. The end of Vidal would devastate her father. She was still haunted by finding him crying at his desk, struggling alone with this massive problem. Christopher couldn’t know, or he would’ve attended today’s meeting.

“Ireland.” Ronan moved to follow her.

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