Ramsay(39)

I weaved through the cars instead of walking along the ramp and exited  out a side door. Looking both ways, I hurried across the street and only  then let out a breath, feeling both a sense of accomplishment and still  that unpleasant pit in my stomach.

I hailed a cab a couple blocks from Brogan's building and gave the  driver my brother's address. Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of  Stuart's building.

While I had apartment hunted in questionable neighborhoods to save on  rent, Stuart was living in the Meatpacking District, one of the most  expensive neighborhoods in the city. As I exited the cab, tipping the  driver and thanking him, I gazed up at the sleek, glass luxury building,  feeling a wave of resentment wash over me. Men, wankers and tools, all  of them! The anger fortified me and I stiffened my spine as I breezed  past Stuart's doorman.                       
       
           



       

The concierge dialed Stuart's number and after several tense seconds  where I thought Stuart wouldn't answer, I heard his voice come through  the line and the concierge announced me and then nodded toward the  elevator bank. When I arrived at Stuart's floor, he was standing in the  doorway of his apartment waiting for me, shirtless, his jeans  unbuttoned.

"Christ, Lydia, you should have called and told me you were coming  over." His voice was slightly slurred and rough. Had he still been  sleeping? Or perhaps drinking before noon? Excellent.

"Nice to see you, too, Stuart. I'm fine, thanks," I said, brushing past  him into his apartment, putting my bag down near his couch. His  apartment smelled like dirty dishes and funk and looked as if he hadn't  cleaned it in weeks. Or as if he'd just had a massive rager here. There  were liquor bottles and half-full food cartons littering his coffee  table, and two lamps were overturned.

I turned toward him as he shut the door. "Do you have a shirt you could put on?"

He sighed, but grabbed what looked like a dirty garment off the couch,  sniffing it before pulling it over his head. "How are you?" he asked.

"I'm fine I guess. I've been calling you."

He looked at me blearily for a moment, his eyes red and bloodshot,  before he ran a hand through his hair and headed for the small kitchen  to the right of his living room. I followed. "I know. I was told not to  have any contact with you." He held up a bottle of water.

"Sure," I muttered, taking it and drinking a big sip before replacing  the cap. I needed to hydrate. I still didn't feel one hundred percent.  "Told by whom?" I asked.

"Brogan Ramsay." His facial muscles ticked as if in response to uttering the name of Lucifer himself.

I paused, frowning slightly. "I didn't think that pertained to the phone."

He shrugged and took a drink from his own water bottle. "How did he treat you in Connecticut?"

I frowned. Apparently Stuart wasn't overly concerned about me in any  capacity. He was at home, not calling me, having a drunken pity party  instead of concerning himself with my welfare. "Fine. He's trying to  protect me, Stuart. Protect me from the men you owe money to now." I  couldn't keep the tremor of anger from my voice.

He exhaled a big breath, leaning on the counter, fidgeting slightly  before crossing his arms as if to force his body to still. "This is all  his doing, you know."

I shook my head. "You can't blame him for your own foolish choices, Stuart-"

"You think me losing was an accident?" he gritted out. "Either time?  They set that up, too, Brogan and that other Irish fucker. The blond  one."

I shook my head. Fionn? Fionn wasn't any part of this. Was he? "They didn't hold a gun to your head and force you to gamble!"

"Not the first time, but they did guarantee I'd lose. You remember how  good Brogan was with numbers. I bet anything he was counting cards, the  motherfucker. And what was I supposed to do after that? I'm ruined. And  so yeah, I gambled again. What other possible way did I have of earning  any money? Was I not supposed to try anything I could? Was I not  supposed to take every chance I had available to try to win our father's  company back?"

I rubbed my temples. Hadn't that been the reason I'd given myself? Work  for Brogan and beg him for our company back? That I wouldn't allow the  regret of not trying anything and everything I could, even if it meant  risking my pride?

And yet, after hearing the hope and excitement in Trudi's voice  yesterday about the results the team Brogan had brought in were  achieving, I was questioning what I had once fought so hard for. Despite  my current feelings for Brogan Ramsay, what if . . . what if what was  best for De Havilland Enterprises-what would actually keep my father's  dream alive-was for Brogan to run it? God, I couldn't think clearly. The  wine from the night before was still muddling my thoughts.

Stuart rattled on. "They're orchestrating my entire downfall, and now  they're trying to make it look like they're going to help me. But  they're not. Mark my words. This is just another part of the overall  scheme," Stuart spat out, twitching again. "They won't be happy until  I'm dead in the ground."

God, he was paranoid. How had he deteriorated so quickly? "They don't  want you dead, Stuart. You're lucky they're trying to help you out of  the mess you yourself created."

"Oh really, Lydia? I'm supposed to be thankful? I created this mess?  Brogan Ramsay created this mess. We'd be at our desks right now at our  family company if not for Brogan Ramsay."

I sighed. Brogan Ramsay had created this mess. Originally. Not that  things were fine and dandy even before he'd come along. My feelings for  him, and this situation, were all warped and confused. But regardless,  Stuart had made things worse. Stuart had created a situation that not  only ended in his financial ruin, but perhaps his very life. And mine.  Regardless of what Stuart thought, Brogan was not behind that. Right?                       
       
           



       

"You shouldn't be here," Stuart said flatly.

I pulled out a bar stool and sat down. "I know. But I had to talk to  you, to check on you. You're my brother. I worry about you." Take care  of your brother, Lydie.

His face seemed to soften, a look of sadness passing over his  expression. "I worry about you, too, Lydia. God, I'm such a failure. I'm  so sorry." His voice was hoarse as if tears were lodged in his throat.

I remembered a time when I'd heard that same tone in his voice. Stuart  had been about twelve, and he'd come home with an art project he'd done  that received an honorable mention in a school art fair. His eyes had  shone with happiness. I'd gushed over it. It had been good. It was a  portrait of our house, the sprawling lawn, horses grazing in the  pastures beyond. He'd looked so proud as he showed it to my father. My  father had taken a brief glance at it, grunted noncommittally, and then  said, "You need to focus on things that matter, son. Scribbling on paper  isn't going to earn you any money in the future."

My brother had agreed, but he'd looked crushed and to my knowledge he'd  never drawn again. My heart gave a lurch of sympathy. Sometimes I felt  like Stuart had never grown up. He was still that twelve-year-old boy  who would always be a failure in his father's eyes. But I couldn't be  his babysitter forever. It was killing me. Even before all of this-even  before Stuart had lost our company in a poker game-it had been killing  me. I could admit that now.

I took a deep breath. "This is going to be okay. Somehow. What's done is  done, and we both need to take responsibility for our parts in this  mess. And maybe something good can come from it. But in the meantime,  you have to clean yourself up. Debt or not, mob or not, you're going to  have to come up with a plan for your life once this is all figured out."

He nodded, pressing his lips together. I didn't miss the expression of  hatred that quickly passed over his face-hatred aimed at Brogan I could  only assume. I paused before saying, "Hey, Stu, can I ask you a  question? Brogan told me you found him in the Bronx all those years ago.  That when I asked you to find him, you did. Only, you never told me.  Why?" I couldn't help the hurt in my voice.

Stuart looked confused for a moment, but then his expression cleared,  understanding coming into his eyes. "Yeah, I did. So what?"

I frowned and tilted my head. "You knew how important it was to me to  find him. I was pregnant, Stu, was carrying his baby. Why? Why did you  keep his whereabouts from me? And why didn't you tell him I was trying  to find him?"

He let out an impatient breath. "You were better off without him, Lydia.  I took one step into that hellhole they were living in and I couldn't .  . . I couldn't allow him to be a part of your life. Our life. You would  have never been free of him."