Page 31 of Illusive
“Hey…” The man’s sorrowful look at Ronan spoke volumes. “Cops have been in and outta here all night. I hope they have good news soon.”
“So do we all, Paul,” Ronan agreed.
Paul came around from behind the desk. “She’s in my thoughts, man.”
“Thank you.”
Dwayne sighed heavily as his coworker exited out to the street. “Breaking rules gets people fired.”
“Cross owns this building, doesn’t he?” Ronan asked, well aware that Cross’s real estate portfolio was immense. “You won’t lose your job. Ireland won’t let that happen.”
“Sure. Like it’s that easy. I’m three years off from being vested.”
Pulling his wallet out, Ronan withdrew a business card. He flipped it over and snagged a pen off the counter to write on the back. He’d had the cards made overnight on Thursday, planning to surprise Ireland with them as soon as he found the opportunity. He’d told her they would work together to save Vidal, and he wanted her to know unquestionably that he had meant it. “Anything happens, I’ll match it.”
The doorman collected the card, read the back, then the front. His brows lifted again. “Chief Financial Officer & Shareholder of Vidal Records. I didn’t realize they weren’t family-owned anymore.”
“No, Ireland and I run it together. Look… Can we agree that it’s unlikely she’d object to her personal and professional partner, whose name is on her approved visitors’ list, gaining the necessary access to take care of Blizzard? Especially under the present circumstances?”
“Yeah… Yeah, all right, Mr. McCaffrey.” The doorman shook his head and pulled open a drawer. “But just so you know, I not only like this job—I need it.”
“Thank you, Dwayne.”
“Keep me in the loop.” Dwayne handed over the key.
Ronan’s reception from Blizzard was considerably smoother than the one he’d received downstairs. The minute he pushed open the door, the giant white Maine Coon was there to greet him with welcoming purrs that rumbled loudly in the otherwise quiet space.
The effect of being in Ireland’s apartment was instantly profound. His chest tightened until it was hard to breathe. Her fragrance infused the air. Strewn clothing seemed to be everywhere. Some of that was due to the mischievous cat and the rest was simply because hischerwas messy.
Dropping his duffel on the floor, he picked up Blizzard and draped the hefty cat’s forelegs over his shoulder. He ran massaging fingers down the feline’s long, arching spine. “Have you eaten?”
Bliz’s forlorn yowl was pitiful.
Ronan walked around the living room and kitchen, searching for the cat’s food bowl and finding himself assailed with memories. So few hours, really, that he’d spent in Ireland’s sunny home, and most of those had been in her bed. Still, he’d made them meals in her kitchen—she wasn’t much of a cook, either, or so she said. He had showered with her in her bathroom. He’d lain awake while she slept with his chest as a pillow, his fingers running through the silky length of her glossy black hair.
Forcing the memories aside, Ronan found an empty puzzle feeder bowl near the elaborate cat playground wall adjoining the bedroom. There, too, was a water fountain that could use topping off but was filled enough for at least a few more days.
Meowing as if he were starving, Blizzard wound ribbons around Ronan’s legs.
“You like to eat, my friend. I can tell.” Ronan carried the feeder into the kitchen and began looking through the pantry. The pampered cat had an entire shelf of canned food, kibble, and treats, while his mistress’s options were sparse.
We’ll learn to care for each other, cher.
He filled the bowl and nearly tripped over the excited cat multiple times on the way back to the designated feeding area.
“Sacré bleu!” he groused as he stumbled over the cat’s winding body yet again and spilled kibble that the cat pounced upon immediately. “Next time, I’ll bring the bag over to the bowl before you kill me.”
Blizzard dove face-first into the meal, scattering more kibble everywhere. The garbled grunts and crunching that ensued lacked any grace whatsoever.
“You’re quite welcome,” Ronan said drily, before looking around the coffee table for the remote. He turned the television to the news. Every network was covering Ireland’s story and airing footage of the growing crowd outside the building, too, but none seemed to have any further information to share. He’d set an alert on his phone for any mention of her and found himself inundated with notifications of “updates” which inevitably cross-referenced the same few sources and details.
An entire night had passed without developments. As terrible as it had been for him, he imagined it was exponentially worse for Ireland.
Ronan stood in a rush. He had to stay busy to keep his thoughts away from horrifying speculation.
Wandering into the bedroom, he stood for a long moment at the foot of the bed, remembering. It hurt him to do so, to think of how he’d taken for granted the sight of her sultry, playful smile.
He cursed under his breath and picked up a laundry basket filled with a small pile of clean, unfolded clothes, including the dryer sheet. Placing it on the small seat in front of the vanity table, he straightened the bedsheets and comforter, then dumped the contents onto the bed. He gathered the pile of clothes on a chair into the empty basket.
