Page 5 of Ireland

The glass wall that divided her office from the main floor instantly turned opaque, and the door swung shut and locked.

She laughed softly. “I don’t have an hour, Mr. Cross. Maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Well, I do love a challenge, Mrs. Cross.”

Ireland strode through the revolving lobby door of the Vidal Hotel in Midtown, her heels clicking across the brightly hued crushed glass floor. Her fury was ice cold. That Graham had dared to come here was another level of insult she couldn’t and wouldn’t stand for.

The immense space, with its mirrored walls and massive chandeliers, was packed with people. Guests and tourists alike. When she’d first envisioned a Vidal Records-themed hotel, Ireland had pictured something much smaller than the tower she was presently cutting through. Gideon had expanded her idea into majestic proportions.

Suites at the Midtown flagship sold out months before opening, and now, a half dozen Vidal Hotels were scattered across the country. All were part of Cross Industries’ hospitality portfolio, with a licensing fee paid to Vidal for the brand and access to memorabilia.

There were numerous musically themed bars and restaurants on the property, but the one Graham had posted a selfie from an hour ago would’ve been her last choice for him. He must have chosen the opulent jazz club because it was one of her favorites.Andhe’d been posting from there every day since Wednesday just to needle her and rub salt in her wounds.

Graham didn’t know her well enough to understand that the more wounded she was, the more dangerous she became.

Her steps didn’t slow until she reached the hostess stand at Jazzie’s, then she stopped walking altogether. Friday nights were always busy, but the place seemed more packed than usual. The band was in full swing with a rendition of “Blue Train,” and all eyes were on the stage.

With a nod to the hostess, Ireland walked past the throng of guests waiting for tables and went to the bar, where three bartenders were moving nonstop to fill orders. One of them, an older gentleman with a voluminous white pompadour and precisely trimmed salt and pepper goatee, gave her a nod of acknowledgment. She went to the service bar and settled in to wait, her gaze scanning the crowded space for the man she was hunting down.

It didn’t take long to find him. Graham stuck out in a jarring way with his spiked leather accessories and faded Megadeth T-shirt. He had a pretty blonde with him, her hair tousled and eyes thickly lined. They both looked bored as they scrolled through their phones.

The music faded into silence, and applause swelled. Ireland stared daggers at Graham until the trumpeter broke through with a series of plaintive notes that almost immediately lowered the volume of voices in the room. Her gaze cut to the stage.

She froze in place. Her breath left her in a rush.

A broad-shouldered man half-sat on a barstool with a trumpet to his lips. His hair was thick, a deep dark gold, and worn longer than Gideon’s in a luxuriant lion’s mane. If he’d sported a tie earlier, he had removed it and opened his collar, revealing a tanned throat that worked reflexively as he played. His powerful thighs and biceps strained against his gray slacks and white dress shirt in a spectacular display of potent virility.

Something stirred low and deep inside her, unfurling with luxuriant heat.

The bartender’s voice pulled her attention, if not her gaze. “What can I get you?”

“Who’s the new guy, Sam?” Ireland asked, unable to take her eyes off the stage.

“He’s a guest of the hotel.”

“No.” The man was accomplished, his performance masterful.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, boss. He’s been here a week. Came down a few days ago with his trumpet and talked to the band for a bit. They invited him to jam, and now it’s a thing. Every night, he comes down for an hour or so. Plays and sings sometimes, too. The ladies love him.”

“I bet.” Ireland studied the man more closely. His clothes were clearly tailored expressly for his tall, strong frame. Hisrolled-up cuffs revealed a full-sleeve tribal tattoo, and the sharp, talon-like tips crept beneath the cognac leather band of the expensive watch on his wrist. He was savagely alluring masculinity wrapped in wealth; assured in his posture, and skilled with his instrument. The dichotomy of his vitally aggressive attractiveness and the melancholic way he played the jazz standard “Nature Boy” shocked the senses.

Abruptly, he looked up and caught her gaze, held it without blinking for a heartbeat, then another. A frisson of awareness arced between them like an electric current.

She was aware of him in the most elemental sense. Drawn to him so powerfully, she fought taking a step toward him. It was a visceral attraction. And she didn’t like it at all.

“I’ll take my usual,” she said, forcing herself to turn away. “Send the trumpeter a drink when he’s done. Tell him it’s on the house. And call security, would you, please?”

Sam didn’t question the nature of her requests. “You got it.”

Pushing away from the bar, Ireland weaved through the crowd, skirting club chairs and candlelit tables to reach Graham, who sat near the stage. She’d entered the club in a high rage but unexpectedly found herself in a different mood entirely. The trumpet’s slow, drawn-out notes felt like a requiem, which aligned with Ireland’s realization that Graham was dead to her, and she didn’t care to waste her rage on him. There was no point after all. The man had dug his own grave.

Graham happened to glance up then and see her. She watched him flinch and schooled her expression into something more pleasant. It worked because he recovered and flashed her a cocky grin. It was that mischievous smile that first attracted her to him. He had the rockstar aesthetic down to a science and a face so handsome it bordered on pretty.

Musically inclined bad boys were her downfall. She really needed to find a new type.

“Well, hello,” she greeted with a bright smile, coming to a halt at his table. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Graham smirked. “You’re following me.”

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