Ramsay(52)

A muted sort of anger took hold of his expression, as if it was the best  he could muster at the moment and under the influence of whatever he  might currently be on. "You're the one who told me to lie low," he  growled.

"Lying low doesn't mean sinking into a state of utter uselessness," I  shot back. "If it hasn't occurred to you, you have some decisions to  make with your life."

"Fuck off."

"I plan to." I wouldn't stay a moment longer than necessary in this  cesspool-smelling hellhole. Then it hit me: Stuart De Havilland had  probably thought the same thing when he'd come to visit me in my own  personal hellhole all those years ago. The circumstances were different  and Stuart's hellhole was one of his own making, and still featured one  of the best addresses in the city. And yet . . . it was a hellhole all  the same. A pit of despair. I hesitated. "But first, I came to let you  know your debt's been paid off. You're off the hook. And the men with  whom you took out credit will kill you before they extend more, is that  clear?"

He regarded me suspiciously. "You paid off my debt? I thought you were going to buy me more time."

"What good would that have done?" I asked. He kept staring at me, the  wheels in his head turning as fast as they were able. "You'd never be  able to pay them. Especially not at the rate you're going."

"You did this for some reason," he grated. "What is it?"

I stared at him, tamping down the anger his reaction evoked. I was  fucking whoring myself again for this bastard, in a manner of speaking  anyway, and the best he could give me was suspicion. I hadn't expected a  thank you, but even so . . . "I did it for your sister," I said  honestly. "I did it because I care about her. And for some reason, she  cares about you. And if you have any decency at all, you'll take this  second chance and get your life together, for her, if not for yourself."

"You've got something up your sleeve, you Irish fucker."

I let out a weary sigh, glancing around at his trashed apartment, noting  there were napkins and magazines and receipts littering the table  surfaces and even some floor space, all of them featuring drawings and  doodles. I looked more closely at the swirls and small pictures. I  envisioned him sitting alone in his apartment, in a  drug-and-alcohol-induced state, obsessively creating art anywhere and  everywhere. It was odd and unsettling. And yet, it wasn't only amateur  doodling, it was . . . good. It was really good. "You could go back to  school and study art," I murmured, almost to myself. "It seems like-"

A look of rage so sudden and intense came over Stuart's face that it  startled me. He barreled toward me, his fists flying. I easily  sidestepped him, but he seemed to be possessed by something stronger  than himself as he came at me again. I ducked and then struck out with  my fist, connecting with his jaw as he let out a loud grunt and whirled  backward, falling onto his couch, the anger seeming to drain from him as  he gripped his jaw. "You asshole," he choked. "I will fucking kill you  someday." He kept rubbing at his jaw, looking strangely lost now.  Despite the threat, the only thing I felt was pity.

Stepping over a lamp lying on the floor, I moved toward his apartment  door, shaking my hand. It'd been a long damn time since I'd had to punch  someone.

"I'm broke," Stuart said flatly. "I don't even have enough money to eat, much less figure out a plan for my life."

I paused, the doorknob in my hand. He couldn't know it, but it was my  Achilles heel, the thing I couldn't walk away from without  helping-hunger. I blew out a breath, reaching into my pocket for my  wallet. The vision of him throwing the hundred-dollar bill on the floor  and me having to bend to retrieve it floated through my mind. I supposed  I should feel vindication in this moment-the tables had turned in such a  literal way. So why instead did a sad ache fill my chest?

I had a little under a thousand dollars in cash on me. I took it all  from my wallet and laid it down on the table next to the door. "Be well,  Stuart." And I left.                       
       
           



       





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO




Lydia



I walked out of Brogan's home gym, rubbing a towel over the back of my  neck as my breathing slowed. I'd used his treadmill for a slow,  five-mile run, and though I felt invigorated, it had been harder than it  should have been. I was out of shape. I needed to get back on the  regular exercise wagon.

As I stood under the hot spray of the shower, I hummed the tune of the  song the Irish band had played the night we went to The Black Dragon.  This morning I felt free, light, unencumbered.

Although I checked in with Trudi almost every day, I had taken a small  step back in recent weeks, knowing De Havilland Enterprises was doing  just fine. And honestly, it was a relief to let go of the constant  worry, to let the capable team Brogan had put in place take on the  responsibility of what I had been carrying mostly alone for so long.

In the weeks since, I'd gone to work with Brogan every day and it almost  scared me how much I loved working with him-or not even with him  precisely, although that was wonderful, too. I just loved doing what he  did. Problem solving for others who didn't have the means to be creative  in the ways we did was fun and challenging and more gratifying than  anything I'd ever been involved in to date.

My father had always given charitably, and I would, too, as soon as I  was financially able, but this was different than that. This was  offering my talents and my heart in a way that was useful to others. And  the reason my love for it scared me was because I knew it was  temporary. I had my own job to go back to at some point soon. Which was a  good thing, but . . . I'd miss the lilting accents, the kids running in  and out, the cheeky boys who I could make blush with just a look, the  colorful characters we worked with in one capacity or another, the  bursts of Gaelic that rang out like sweet bird chatter throughout the  day. And the way I felt valuable-not because I had money, but because of  me. It was really the first time I'd felt that way. Ever.

Rinsing the last of the conditioner from my hair, I let out a sigh. Yes,  I'd miss it terribly. Maybe I could convince Brogan to let me volunteer  a couple of days a week after work.

Brogan-intense, complex Brogan. A shiver ran down my spine just thinking  about what we'd done the night before. Foreplay that had lasted for  hours . . . we'd both come mere seconds after he'd slipped inside me. I  couldn't get enough of him. But it wasn't just sex-I loved talking to  him, too. Loved being curled up in his arms, listening to his deep  voice, noticing the places where his accent broke through and knowing it  was always telling, informing me what to listen closely to, what topics  affected him the most. He had a few small "tells" and I knew only the  people closest to him knew what they were.

As I toweled off, I heard my cell-the one Brogan had replaced for me  after mine had been shattered on the street-ringing from the kitchen  counter downstairs, but ignored it. I pulled on my clothes-a pair of  black, silky shorts and a thin pale gray sweater that fell off one  shoulder. I heard my phone ring again and ran down the stairs to grab  it, wrapping my wet hair in a messy bun and securing it as I went. I  grabbed my phone on the final ring. "Hello?" I said breathlessly,  noticing Daisy's name right before I picked up.

"Lydia?" she asked, tears in her voice.

"Dais? What's wrong?"

"He's cheating on me," she said, hiccupping. "I suspected it. I have for  a long time. I guess I," she let out a small sob, "I just didn't want  to believe it."

I sat down on Brogan's couch. "Oh honey . . ." I breathed. "Are you sure? I mean-"

"Yes. I followed him last night. He said he had a business meeting, but I  just got a weird feeling. I've been getting a lot of them lately so I  followed him to a hotel. He met a woman in the lobby and they went up to  a room together. I followed and waited fifteen minutes before I knocked  and he answered the door and," she let out another sob, "he was  shirtless and she was in bed, Lydia."

My stomach dropped. There was no way to put a positive spin on that-no  way to read it any differently than she had. "Oh God," I whispered. "Oh  Daisy, I'm so sorry. I don't even know what to say. What did you say?"

"I couldn't say anything!" She sniffled. "I hightailed it out of there  and sobbed in my car. I don't even remember driving home."

"Did he come home?"

"Yeah. He got home fifteen minutes after I did and tried to apologize . .  . tried to explain . . . but, there's just no explaining that. And  Lydia, it was his secretary. I recognized her as soon as I saw her in  the lobby. I was just stupidly hoping they were there on some business  together. Even as I followed them upstairs, I kept hoping. I mean, how  cliché can you get, right? He even mocked a coworker that got caught  cheating with his secretary last year-said how predictable it was. We  laughed about it, you know, like if you're going to cheat, at least be  original about it. And then . . . and then . . . that. The fucking  hypocrite. Oh my God," she wailed. "Do you want to go shopping? I'm  headed to the city now."