Page 84 of Illusive
“You know I’ve already decided.” He reached for his tie and loosened it. “I’ve conceded to your every demand so I can have you the way I need you. Myenviefor you consumes me.”
His tone was too even, almost emotionless. But his gaze was fiery.
“You’re angry,” she noted. “I told you the price was too high, and you didn’t want to hear it. If you want to complain about it now, tell it to someone else.”
“I’ll text you when I’m on the way over,” he said implacably. “And yes, I’m sorry you’re angry, but I’m also sorry for what I said. You have every right to take me to task.”
“Oh, shut up,” she groused, exasperated. “I’m hanging up now.”
As she ended the call and turned back to the kitchen, her father leaned back into the counter facing her. Holding his mug in both hands, he noted thoughtfully, “He’s very different with you.”
“I’m different with him.” And she wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
“What do you think he’ll do if you decide to move on from him or meet someone else? You’re the only thing keeping him from tearing the company apart.”
“Daddy…I don’t know.” She’d told Ronan about her ambivalence toward the business before she discovered his agenda. She knew he thought she might be happier doing something else.
That was the problem with legacies: later generations were shackled to their forebearers’ dreams.
“He’s only shown you the best side of himself,” Chris pointed out. “If you saw the rage inside him, you’d be concerned, too. And I can tell you he gets that temper from his father and the rest of the Boudreauxes. Thinking of you anywhere around them makes me sick.”
Her stomach tightened with anxiety as she reached the island. “Ronan thinks you acted maliciously. If you’d just tell him that you did what you believed was the right thing to do and that you’re sorry for what he’s been through, it might help smooth things out.”
“I don’t think so. And if you ask him, I’m sure he’ll confirm that, so go ahead. I could tell him things about the Boudreauxes that could shed some light, but it might alienate him from the family.” He exhaled in a rush. “I’d only aggravate his anger or hurt him further.”
Ireland stared at the father she adored, trusted, and knew to be a good man, and was at a loss for words. It was untenable to be deeply intimate with someone who nursed a hatred for him. She was in an impossible position because Ronan was also someone she adored, trusted, and believed to be good.
Her phone started ringing, and like a zombie, she mindlessly picked it up and glanced at the screen. She’d had to limit the contacts who could break through her privacy screens because of the insane number of texts and voicemails she had received over the weekend, some from people she hadn’t spoken to in years.
Seeing the building’s reception desk, she answered.
“Hello, Ms. Vidal,” the doorman greeted her. “Christopher and Natalie Vidal are here to see you.”
In the background, she could hear Lorenzo and Serena—her beloved nephew and niece—chattering excitedly. “Yes, please send them up.”
Ending the call, she looked helplessly at her father. “Christopher, Nat, and the kids are here.”
He stared back at her with dark, worried eyes. “I can’t tell you what to do, Ireland. I only ask that you please, please tread carefully.”
Ronan watched as Claudette’s gaze roamed the bar and her nose wrinkled with distaste.
“Beau-frère,” she began, speaking loudly to be heard over the volume of the piped rock music. “If you miss the seediness of Bourbon Street so much, come home.”
“Even the worst dives in the Quarter have more charm than this,” Jules drawled.
“Neither of you had to come along,” he reminded them.
“And leave you to wander Manhattan by yourself while the NYPD investigates you?” Claudy countered. “I don’t think so.”
“You should have someone with you at all times,” his brother agreed, looking completely out of place in their surroundings.
“The alibi of siblings is unlikely to carry much weight,” Ronan drawled.
His sister’s chin lifted obstinately. “It’s better than nothing.”
Ronan wasn’t impressed with the place, either. The matte black walls were scuffed, chipped, and marred with the stapled corners of old posters that had been carelessly removed. The tile floor was worn with age and grime. The ceiling fans werecoated in dust and wobbled out of balance. Round wood tables and captain’s chairs were spaced too close together, and a small makeshift stage had been erected in front of a street-facing window.
It was nearing four in the afternoon. Times Square and Vidal Records were within walking distance. Tourists swarmed along the dirty sidewalk, few bothering to look inside the sparsely filled “tavern.”
