Page 9 of Ireland

Ireland sighed. “That’s heartbreaking.”

“That’s business,” he countered. “If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else.”

“I get that it’s not personal?—”

“It can be.” He looked away from her for the first time, down into his tumbler. His sudden contemplative mood was yet another facet to him, one of many in a kaleidoscope—a dazzling but fractured picture.

Complicated. That’s what he was. And if she could tell that over a drink in a bar, the still waters must run deep. Call her crazy, but she’d love to have someone in her life who challenged her. It struck her that she’d been looking for the wrong things with guys like Graham.

The band returned to the stage. All four members looked at her companion questioningly. He bowed out with a hand over his heart, and the gesture moved her.

“Tell me whatyoulike,” Ireland said, setting her drink aside and leaning forward. “But first, tell me your name.”

Lifting his glass to his lips, he eyed her over the rim as he swallowed, his attention fully returned to her as she’d intended.

The sax kicked off “Ain’t Nobody Here but Us Chickens” with gusto. But his silence stretched.

Her brow furrowed. Why wasn’t he answering?

“Don’t frown at me,cher. You need to give a man time to gather his thoughts after you waylay his best intentions.” He set his drink down, leaned forward, and extended his hand over the table. “Ronan Boudreaux.”

“Ronan,” she repeated softly as she leaned forward and slid her hand into his.

His strong fingers enfolded hers, conveying his charisma and sensuality in tangible form. The moment their skin came into contact, heat raced up her arm and spread throughout her body in a surge of fiery attraction. Her breath quickened along with her heartbeat.

“I have to ask,” she began, “are you married? Engaged? Otherwise committed? Or just not interested.”

“None of the above.” He sat back, his fingertips sliding intimately over her palm as he pulled away. He gifted her with a sinful smile.

Ireland was stupidly thrilled by his answer. A lavishly attractive alpha male like him, at his age, was either taken or incapable of being so. Either way, it wasn’t good news for her. He was a bad decision wrapped in a good time. Nothing but ruin for a woman who trusted men she shouldn’t.

“And you?” he asked, seeming more relaxed than he’d been previously as if in giving his name, he’d opened a door.

She elected to give him the truth instead. “I’ve sworn off men.”

Ronan laughed, and the full-throated sound felt like a caress. He made her feel like she was slightly out of tilt. She was nearly breathless, her pulse fluttering. Her eyes were probably dilated as her system tried to absorb the intense temptation he presented, the sense of being pulled into something dangerously exhilarating.

His eyes sparkled with amusement. “For how long?”

They were really beautiful eyes. She’d love to see them in daylight. In the moody, intimate lighting of the club, the shadows nestled in the hollows of his chiseled features. If the moment hadn’t been so temporary and if he hadn’t been passing through, she’d be very afraid she would end up regretting him. “As long as it takes for me to make better choices.”

Ronan kept that piercing gaze on her as he lifted his drink to his mouth. When he slid his tongue along his lower lip, she felt it between her legs. “And who will be the judge of that? If you’re making ill-advised choices, who’s to say the choice to make better ones isn’t also ill-advised?”

She recrossed her legs. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“Be bad. It’s much more fun than being safe.” His gaze lifted and focused past her, breaking the moment.

“I’m going to say he won’t be changing his mind.”

The intruding voice was drenched in the same accent that Ronan’s had only a hint of. She shifted in her chair to look behind her and saw a couple approaching. They both glanced at her. The woman’s head tilted faintly as if she couldn’t quite place who she was looking at. Dressed in a simple black dress that let her curves steal the show, she wore her dark hair in a voluminous blowout that feathered around her pretty face. The man wore black slacks and dress shirt, and looked ready to find all the best kinds of trouble. They were obviously related.

A few more steps, and they arrived at the table. The man grinned. “Not that I blame you,beau-frère, when you have such a tantalizing new option.”

He extended his hand to her, and Ireland took it, arching an eyebrow when he pressed his lips to her knuckles with exaggerated gallantry. “Although, admit it. I’m more your type than my brother is.”

At another time, she’d say he was right. He was closer to her age and smug with his handsomeness—the Jack Daniels to his brother’s Macallan Rare Cask.

Ronan introduced them. “My brother, Jules, and my sister, Claudette. This is…” He gave Ireland a look of silent inquiry.

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