Ramsay (15 page)

Brogan looked at me as if I might be crazy, his features harsh and unflinching. But as his eyes moved over my face, something gentled in his expression. "Lydia, so forgiving. If only I could let go the way you've seemed to be able to."

"You have to, Brogan. You have to or it will ruin you
inside
."

"Maybe I'm already ruined, Mo Chroí."

I shook my head. "No, I don't believe that. You can make this right." I squeezed his hands. Looking into his handsome face, those almost otherworldly blue eyes, I thought that what I really saw there was an aching loneliness. "You can," I whispered. "I know you can." But his silence told me he didn't agree.

Brogan

I spent the rest of the day in my office, but I didn't work. I sat staring at the wall, a drink in my hand, contemplating everything that had happened in the De Havilland's former stable earlier that day. My gut clenched, and I closed my eyes again at the memory.
She'd been pregnant.
She'd been pregnant and alone. Yet, all these years, when I thought of Lydia, I had thought of nothing but my own misery, my own damaged pride. "Selfish fucker," I muttered, throwing back the remainder of my drink. I'd come inside her that day, and yet I had never even considered pregnancy because I'd been too caught up in my own suffering.

She'd tried to find me—or at least Stuart had been sent to find me. I was gripped by a wave of hatred so fierce I felt like it might knock me to the ground, as I remembered the disgusted look on his face when he'd come to our apartment and the way he'd left without saying a word about Lydia.

I might have eventually forgiven him for what happened in the stable after I'd made love to Lydia—
maybe.
But I could never forgive him for not telling me Lydia was carrying my baby when he'd had the opportunity. What if it was the stress of her situation that caused the miscarriage? I'd have a six-year-old . . . I could hardly wrap my head or my heart around it.
We'd created a life.

And God, she'd asked me to meet her that day not to use me but because she'd
wanted
me. I was still reeling from her confession, was still hearing her voice in my head.
And I should have just told you I loved you.
My heart squeezed. I hadn't even considered it, had only seen it through the eyes of someone who felt so unworthy of her. And now, to some extent, because of my own devious acts, I still felt just as unworthy.
Arseways. What a fecking understatement.

So what happened now? Where did this leave Lydia and me? I laid my head back against my chair and stared up at the ceiling. What a bloody mess I'd made of everything. I knew I wanted her, but what did that mean? We still had the same intense physical attraction between us. Hell, all she had to do was look at me and I was fucking hard. Kissing her today had been the most pleasurable thing I'd experienced in years, far better than any sex I'd had in the time we'd been apart. She seemed to understand me in a way no other woman ever had, and it made me feel . . . both safe and vastly
unsafe
in the same breath.

But the real question when it came to Lydia was, would it be a good idea to pursue more, whatever
more
was? Or had I created a situation where she'd never trust me and wonder at my motives, even if she understood the true nature of my desire for revenge? I wouldn't blame her if that was the case. God, I'd acted like a child and a fool. And even knowing that, there was still so much I couldn't let go of, not even for her. Namely, her fuck-up of a brother. Jaysus, the arsehole was making a bad situation worse. I hadn't even imagined that was possible. But clearly I had underestimated the complete and utter idiocy that was Stuart De Havilland. I let out a long sigh. I would have to figure all this out, but first, I needed to get dressed for dinner. I had to make some proposals to Lydia, and I had no idea how she was going to take them.

The doorbell rang with perfect timing, and I opened the door to the kid working for the restaurant delivery service holding two large cases in his hands. After tipping him, I placed the items in the oven and refrigerator as indicated on the instructions and went upstairs and showered, changing into a pair of slacks and a button-up shirt.

I could hear what sounded like a hair dryer being used in Lydia's room and my heart sped up in anticipation of being alone with her tonight. Despite all we had hanging over us, inside I was seventeen years old again. And that feeling both filled my blood with an excited anticipation unlike anything I'd experienced since I
was
seventeen and made me feel powerless and vulnerable at the same time.

And I should have just told you I loved you.

I stepped out into the hall at almost the same moment Lydia did, and we both stood staring at each other over the short distance, her words from earlier repeating in my head.
Lydia.

"Hi," she said softly.

"Hi." She was wearing the same black dress she had been wearing before I had her change for the party yesterday, and this time, I took the time to appreciate her in it. My eyes moved from her slim legs, to her sweetly curved hips, to her luscious breasts, up to her beautiful face, and her shiny blonde hair. "You look beautiful. Your hair, it's different."

She smiled, running a hand down it. "Oh, I just straightened it."

"I like it." God, I
sounded
like a seventeen-year-old. But Lydia only smiled and walked toward me.

"Thank you. You look nice, too. Where are we going?"

"I ordered dinner in tonight. I thought it'd be easier to talk without worrying about a bunch of people all around us."

"Oh," she said, sounding a bit surprised. "Okay. Actually," she stopped once we'd reached the bottom of the stairs and took off her heels, sighing with what sounded like relief, "that sounds great. I'm also not sure if I'm ready to face Greenwich society again so soon."

I flinched slightly, feeling like the arse I was all over again. I took her by the hand and led her to the kitchen where I began taking the warmed food out of the oven. I handed a bottle of wine and an opener to Lydia. This all suddenly felt surreal to me, as if, unwittingly, and in only a week, Lydia had somehow become a fixture in my home. My mind was whirling with too many emotions to try to sort—I'd been at it all day and suddenly, I just wanted to sit across from her and have dinner and talk about mundane topics. I wanted her to make me laugh, and I wanted to ask her all about her life now. I wanted to know what she'd studied in college, and I wanted to hear about whether she liked her job. Or
had
liked her job before I came along. I closed my eyes for a second as another wave of shame hit me. So yes, I wanted this to be a real date, but it couldn’t be. I had guaranteed that with my actions.

As we brought the last of the dishes into the dining room, I said, "What if I'd come up to you at a party a few weeks ago?"

She slid into her chair, a look of confusion passing over her face. She tilted her head to look up at me. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," I continued, taking my own seat, "what if I'd walked up to you at a party and asked you out?"

She furrowed her brow, obviously considering my question very seriously. "I . . . I mean, I would have been happy to see you, Brogan. Happy and surprised and . . . I would have said yes. I would have hoped we could mend our friendship, that I could apologize and that you'd accept it." The look on her face was wistful as if she were wishing things had happened just that way.
God, so did I.

I nodded, a wave of regret passing through me.
Things could have been different.
But they weren’t. And now they couldn't be, and I had to tell Lydia why. She raised her glass, a small smile on her lips. "To mending friendships."
Oh Lydia.
But I raised my glass, too, offering her a small smile.

We dug into our food, roast beef tenderloin with a Caesar crust and a side of roasted potatoes and mixed vegetables. Lydia let out a small moan. "God, this is good. You must be thrilled to be eating something I didn't cook."

I chuckled. "Actually, you're a good cook." I decided not to mention, in actuality, I had barely tasted her cooking. I'd been so busy watching her, thinking about her as she’d served Anna and me.
Anna
—another woman I'd used for my own selfish purposes—to make Lydia jealous. I blamed so many others for the wrongs done against me, and yet my own sins were piling up faster than poker chips during a winning streak.

Lydia and I ate in silence for another few minutes. After taking a sip of wine, she said, "So are you going to tell me what you do for work, or is it top secret?"

"I'll get to that. But first, we need to discuss us."

"Us?" she asked, her voice slightly breathy.

I cleared my throat. "Us, meaning you, me, and your brother."

She nodded. "Right, of course." I moved my food around on my plate for a moment, trying to come up with the right words for what I was about to say. She waited, a nervous expression on her face.

"Lydia, your brother has gone from bad to worse."

She frowned. "What do you mean? I just talked to Stuart a few days ago. He texts me almost every day."

"It's easy enough to lie in a text. You can't see the person." I paused, my eyes running over the beautiful lines of her face. "He's gambling again."

Lydia looked suddenly ill. "Gambling?" she whispered, shaking her head back and forth. "He doesn't have any money, though. He can't be gambling. What is he gambling with?"

"He's been gambling on credit. And he's been losing."

She closed her eyes briefly, placing her fork down on her plate with a soft clatter. "On credit. Are you sure?"

"Very."

She let out a slow, deep breath. "Okay. If you'll give us the company back, I know I can get it on solid ground again financially. Then I'll have the means to help Stuart and—"

"I'm not giving you the company back, Lydia."

Her eyes widened, and she sat back in her chair. "I know what he did to you was horrible, Brogan. I know, I do. But look where you are and look where he is. Surely you can let go of some of that hatred. After this morning, I thought maybe—"

"It's not a matter of me hating him anymore.” I leaned forward, my elbows on the table. “Where do you think your brother is gambling? Whose credit do you think he's using?"

"I . . . I don't know."

"He's dealing with the mob. And the mob doesn't take kindly to people who can't pay back their debts. They're notoriously unforgiving on the matter."

"Unforgiving," she murmured. As the full impact of what I was saying hit her, tears filled her eyes. "Please, Brogan, there has to be another way. Could we not . . . could
I
not be given the responsibility to turn the company around? Surely I could raise the capital to pay Stuart’s debts. Despite all his faults, he's . . . he’s all I have. The only family I have left in the world." She paused, looking at me as if trying to read the thoughts in my mind. “If I have to, I'll sell it and pay Stuart's debts, and I'll pay you back, too. We can work out a payment schedule for the debt Stuart will still owe you—"

I shook my head back and forth slowly. "It'd be unlikely you'd get any decent offers once a buyer looked into the company finances. Frankly, it wasn't even worth the amount Stuart lost to me."
But it had been what
I
wanted. The only thing I'd wanted at the time. Or at least the only thing I'd been willing to be honest with myself about wanting.

"Unlikely, but not impossible," she said faintly.

"And you don't have time for that anyway." I didn't mention the fact that even without Stuart's recent suicidal decisions, I wouldn't have given the company back just so they could end up exactly where they'd started. She simply didn't have the resources. My eyes met hers, and I flinched at the fear I saw in her blue-green gaze.
Feck.
If Stuart were here now, I'd tear him limb from limb.

She nodded. "Okay, well, this isn't your problem, obviously. I'll figure something out." She started to rise.

"Sit down, Lydia. Please." She paused, her gaze sweeping over my expression and then did as I asked.

"I have an offer for you, and I have some demands."

"An offer? Demands?" she repeated blankly.

"Years ago, I did some work for the men who hold Stuart's loans. I might be able to buy him some more time to pay them back."

"Why would you do that?" she asked. "You planned this. Isn't it what you want?"

I pressed my lips together. "Dammit, Lydia, you have no idea what these men will do to your brother if he doesn't pay them back, what they'll do to
you
. I'm not a bloody monster. I admit I wanted your brother ruined, but not tortured and dead." I closed my eyes briefly. Admitting aloud that I had orchestrated her brother's ruination didn't bring me the pleasure it once had. In fact, it brought a peculiar feeling of sadness and shame.

"I will not take responsibility for your brother's fuck-ups, but I will take responsibility for my own.
And
I will try to help him because of you, Lydia. Because I want to keep you safe." I shook my head, pausing before I said, "I want you to come live with me in my apartment in New York City."

Her eyes widened, and she stared at me for a moment. "Is that necessary—?"

"Yes. And it's what I insist upon if I'm going to try to help Stuart."

She licked her lips, sucking the bottom one between her teeth for a moment and the movement made my guts clench. "For how long?"

"I don't know. For as long as it takes to make sure you're not in danger."

She appeared to consider the situation I'd just explained to her. Perhaps to find a way out . . . an alternative. "What will happen with De Havilland Enterprises in the meantime?" she asked, obviously hoping that once this was over she'd have a chance to reclaim her company.
Would she? Would I eventually give it back? Sell it back on some payment schedule?
I had told Fionn I wouldn't, but now things had changed.