Ramsay (19 page)

Replacing the picture where it'd been, I opened his computer, deciding to do a little work since I had the opportunity and now knew for sure I still had a job. I spent the next few hours answering and sending emails, checking in on projects, and doing what work I could remotely. A call to my secretary updated me on everything going on in the office.

"Lydia," Trudi said, lowering her voice in the way I knew she did when she didn't want her phone conversation to be overheard, "we all think the team you brought in is wonderful and, well, Stuart being replaced was probably the best thing that could have happened for the company and hopefully for him as well. We know he was Edward's son and your brother, and I do hate to say it, but he just wasn't cut out to run a business." She sighed. "And it's good you're taking some time away while the team is here."

I'd been taken aback. The word circulating was that all the recent happenings were
my
doing? Perhaps it was only rumor . . . After all, I was the only one left and the other employees didn't know Stuart was, or had been, the sole owner of the company, though he acted as president.
Interesting.
As we spoke, I noted the hopeful excitement in Trudi's voice, and it made me glad to know the company was being taken care of in my absence. Or perhaps more to the point . . . because of my absence.

Brogan's phone rang repeatedly, annoying and distracting me, but I let it go to voicemail.
Who still had a landline anyway?
I had my cell phone sitting on the desk beside me, and if anyone needed to get a hold of me, they would have called that number.

Once I'd finished working, I closed Brogan's computer and went into his kitchen and dug through the refrigerator. It held a small amount of food, but I found a yogurt that hadn't expired and an apple that still looked decent and ate it in his living room in front of a late afternoon talk show.

By the time I'd finished the food I was already bored. Sighing, I cleaned up and went up to my room. Despite doing a whole lot of nothing for the past week, I still wasn't used to being idle, and I definitely wasn't used to feeling like a caged animal.

Picking up my phone, I dialed Stuart's number. Just as it'd done for the past couple of days, it went straight to voicemail. I left him a brief message, telling him I was worried about him and to call me. Just as I was putting my phone down, it chimed with an incoming text.

Brogan: Fionn is bringing dinner by. He has the door codes. I'll be home asap.

Me: Okay. Everything all right?

Brogan: Just held up.

I sighed.
Well, okay.

An hour later, I heard the beeping of the keypad outside Brogan's door and a second later, Fionn's voice called, "Lydia? It's Fionn."

"Hey," I said as I descended the stairs. Fionn stood in the entranceway. He grinned, holding up several brown paper bags. "Howya? I hope ya like Chinese."

"I do. Thanks." When I got to the bottom, I said, "By the way, it's nice to officially meet you." I shifted awkwardly. "The other day was . . ." I drifted off, not knowing exactly how to finish that thought.

Fionn laughed. "The other day was gas. It's not often I see Brogan snookered. I knew then we'd be mates." He winked and I let out a confused laugh. I followed him into the kitchen where he set the bags on the counter.

"What does snookered mean exactly?" I asked. Fionn paused in unloading the food from the bags.

"Em, it's a heavy defeat." He grinned and I laughed.

"Ah. And you're happy your friend was defeated?"

"Lydia, there's not a thing in this world I wouldn't do for Brogan, but I told him he was gona make a bags of this whole situation if he insisted on doin' things the way he thought he needed to, and so some defeats are victories in disguise. I like to think that party was one of them. Maybe even for the both of ya, shur ya know like." He winked again.

"Okay, um, make a bags . . ."

Fionn leaned against the counter. "Ya want a lesson in Irish slang, Lydia?" he asked, laughing again. I loved the way he said my name, the same way Brogan said it when his accent emerged: faster than those with American accents, and with an emphasis on the
a
.

"Yes," I said. "Can you stay for dinner? I'd love it if you would."

"Well, that's the best offer I've had in donkey's years." He glanced at me as he started unpacking a bag. "That means a long time."

Grinning, I grabbed dishes, napkins, and silverware and took them to the small table next to the kitchen. Fionn carried over the numerous cartons of food and retrieved a bottle of wine from the wine fridge at the end of the island.

He opened it and brought that over with two wine glasses. Pouring, he said, "Okay, the first thing ya gotta know is how to greet someone. Ya ask, what's the craic? It means, what's up, what's the news?"

I remembered Rory had asked me that at Brogan's office what seemed like a hundred years ago. "What's the craic?" I nodded. "Okay. What about the shur ya know like phrase?"

"Em." He nodded to the cartons, indicating I should start, and I grabbed one with some kind of noodles in it and started dishing it onto my plate. "That's just a sayin' like ya might put 'ya know' on the end of a sentence."

"Got it."

We ate dinner, talking and laughing, Fionn teaching me enough slang to get me started and educating me on some sayings.

Saying, "Relax the cacks," meant "Calm down." "I'm as sick as a small hospital today," meant "I'm feeling rather ill," and was usually used after a heavy night of drinking. The question, "Do you fancy a few scoops?" meant, "Would you be interested in an alcoholic beverage?" scoops pertaining to
pints
in particular. "Her face looks like the back of a bus," referred to a very unfortunate-looking person, as did a woman with "a body from Baywatch, and a face from Crimewatch."

I had to believe Fionn made up some of the phrases himself as they were too outrageous. But by the time we were done eating, we'd finished off the bottle of wine, and I was laughing me cacks off, which meant laughing my pants off. I didn't remember ever laughing so hard, and my cheek muscles hurt.

The keypad beeped and Brogan came through the door. "What's the craic?" I called out, raising my empty glass of wine.

Brogan closed the door, an amused look on his face as he walked toward us. "I see there's a party going on without me."

I smiled at Fionn, but when I looked more closely at Brogan, he looked worn and tired. "You okay?" I asked. "Are you hungry?"

"Yeah." He sat down and grabbed a container, taking my fork and eating straight from the takeout box.

"Should I open another bottle of wine?" Fionn asked.

"Definitely," I said. Fionn stood up to grab a bottle.

"Did everything go all right today?" I asked Brogan. "Any news on my brother?"

"I'm negotiating with them. I don't have a definite answer yet." His gaze skittered away from mine, and I wondered if there was something he wasn't telling me.

"Oh," I chewed at my lip, "okay. Do you think—?" I was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell.

Brogan's brow furrowed, and he set the container of food down. Whoever it was downstairs rang again. "Jaysus," Brogan muttered as he stood up and walked to the monitor near his door. He opened the cover and looked at the camera, seeming to still. I heard him utter another curse, his shoulders moving up as if taking a fortifying breath. He pressed the button, and a woman's hysterical voice came over the speaker.

"Brogan, let me up!" It sounded as if she was crying.

"Be the Lord Jaysus," I heard Fionn mutter. I looked over at him in confusion, and his face was tense. He glanced at me and there was none of the amused laughter that had been there only moments ago.

"Courtney, this isn't a good time," Brogan spoke into the monitor. "I'll call you."

"He's getting
out
," she screeched. "Oh my God, Brogan, I've been calling you for
days,
and you haven't answered. Let me
up
!" Brogan leaned his head against the monitor. I watched him, nervous dread moving through my stomach. Who was she?

He turned toward me, our eyes meeting across the expanse of the room. "I'm sorry, Lydia," he said softly before he pressed the button, allowing access to the screaming woman on the street below.

I felt my face blanch, but I blinked, trying to gather myself. I'd just been happily sipping wine and laughing, and now something I didn’t understand was about to happen and apparently it wasn't good.

Brogan looked at Fionn. "Will you—?"

"You don't have to do this, Brogan," Fionn said quietly. They traded a few quick, tense lines in Gaelic, the language flying by me so quickly I couldn't even attempt to grasp a word. But then Fionn sighed and nodded. "Yeah."

Brogan turned as the pounding on his door began and opened it. A brunette woman—I
thought
it was the woman from the first garden party I'd seen him at in Greenwich—rushed into his apartment and threw herself at him.

"What's happened, Courtney?" he asked.

She sucked in a huge sob, gathering herself and standing straight. "He got parole."

"Parole?" Brogan sounded confused. "They said—"

"I know what they said!" she yelled. "They changed their minds. I don't know! All I know is he's getting out next month. Oh Brogan, I need you. Hold me. I just . . ." she sobbed again. "I need you to hold me." She threw herself into his arms again and he let her, wrapping his arms around her. My stomach dropped. Not knowing what to do, I stood on shaky legs, my buzz suddenly gone, and took my dish to the counter.

My movement must have registered with her—
Courtney
—because she straightened up, pulling away from Brogan and looking around him to me. "Who's she?" she demanded. I blinked, flushing under her disdainful scrutiny.

Brogan turned and his face was ashen, full of regret and . . . fear? "Courtney, Lydia." He extended his head toward me, not offering either of us more of an explanation about the roles we played in his life. What
should
he say? "Courtney, this is Lydia, the woman whose life I set out to ruin and ultimately gave three mind-bending orgasms to last evening." A hysterical laugh rose in my throat, and I coughed to disguise the small sound that managed to escape. Maybe I was still more buzzed than I thought.

Courtney narrowed her eyes, and I saw that though she was beautiful, she was perhaps a few years older than Brogan and me. Her gaze moved to Fionn, and back to me, presumably coming to the false conclusion that I was with Fionn. "Fionn," she said, her voice cold.

Fionn's laughing demeanor was gone as he nodded back at Courtney.

Courtney turned back to Brogan, her face crumpling. "Take me upstairs, Brogan, please, darling."
Darling?
Brogan put his hand on the small of her back and led her toward the stairs, not glancing back once. What the
hell?
Jealousy and disbelief assaulted me. He was taking her upstairs to his bedroom to
hold her
? After what we'd done last night? I looked at Fionn and his lips were thinned, his eyes sympathetic. He let out what sounded like an annoyed breath and shook his head, placing his hands on his hips.

"Who is she?" I asked in a loud whisper. Upstairs, I heard the door to Brogan's bedroom close and felt vomit move up my throat. Had that just really happened?
Should
I be as hurt as I felt? He hadn't made any promises to me and yet . . .

"He'll have to tell ya that. I'm bloody sorry." He shook his head. "I do think it's time ya and I got bolloxed and moved on to the epitaph portion of our Irish slang lesson."

I blinked at him, feeling sick and confused and angry. I needed to get out of here. "I'm leaving."

Fionn nodded. "I can't let ya do that, Lydia. It's not safe for ya to be goin' anywhere, especially not before Brogan's had a chance to fix the mess with your brother."

I glanced up the stairs. Surely after Brogan calmed that hysterical woman down, he'd be back to explain things to me? Or was this another part of his revenge? My stomach twisted. Had he
planned
this like his other dates had been planned, at least in part, to upset me? No, no, we were past that.
Right?
Plus, the look on his face had been one of discomfort and remorse. Or maybe that was all an act. Had last night been an act, too? Oh God, these thoughts were causing my head to ache.

I held my glass toward Fionn. "Fill me up, Fionn. All the way to the bloody top."

Lydia

I felt myself being lifted and let out a garbled resistance. "Quiet, Lydia, you're drunk. I'm putting you to bed," came Brogan's voice.

"I'm plastered," I amended, cracking one eye opened. "And you're a tool. A
quare
tool. And a wanker."

"I know I am," he agreed as the room spun. I groaned. "Goddamn Fionn," he muttered.

"I love Fionn," I said. I thought I felt Brogan's body tense, but I was too drunk to care. I did love Fionn. Fionn and his wine. I loved Fionn's wine. "And Fionn loves me," I asserted.

"Fionn loves everyone."
Not Courtney. And seriously, if Fionn didn't like someone, they must be a bitch. A scanger.

"And you're a tool," I said, trying to organize what I was saying out loud and what I was saying in my own head. "And a wanker. Fionn helped write me off the map." I hiccupped. "You know what that means, wanker?"

"Yes, Lydia, I do."

He paused at the top of the stairs as if trying to decide which room to turn toward. "Don't you dare take me in your room, you tool," I slurred. "You still smell like her." He did, and it was making me sick. It was a strong, spicy perfume that made my head spin more than it already was. I could only imagine what it was doing to Brogan. And yet, he'd been the one letting her rub all over him. That same smell was probably all over his sheets, too. And who cared? Who cared about Brogan? He was a tool. And a wanker. A feckin' manky prick.

"I know I do," he said, letting out a tired sigh, as he turned toward my room. He placed me gently on the bed, and I opened my eyes, staring up at him. His face was in shadow and set in a grimace as if
he
was currently feeling tortured. But that's what he had done to me earlier. And it'd hurt so much I'd drunk two bottles of wine. And yet it still hurt, only in a fuzzy, bleary way that was better than the sharp pain that had sliced through me watching him walk up the stairs to his bedroom with
that
woman.

"You hate me," I said. "You want to hurt me and hurt me and hurt me."

He shook his head. "No, God, Lydia, no. But I have, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Finally the apology I'd been waiting for, and it only brought more hazy hurt. I turned away from him, onto my side and let my eyes fall closed. My head was spinning and I was so tired. I just needed to sleep.

A minute later I heard the quiet click of my door being shut, and a second after that I drifted back into a dreamless sleep.

**********

I woke up feeling like hell. Groaning, I opened my heavy lids and looked around, trying to get my bearings. Memories of the night before came flooding back, and I groaned again, louder this time. I sat up, massaging my temples and squinting against the small amount of muted sunlight showing through the closed blinds.

Stumbling to the bathroom I brushed my teeth thoroughly and dared a glance in the mirror. I looked scary: mascara smeared on my cheeks, my eyes red, and my face puffy. My hair was sticking out in every direction.

That's when I noticed the note on the counter along with a bottle of water and two Tylenol. I picked up the note.

Lydia,

These will make you feel better. I'll be home early so we can talk. Please give me a chance to explain.

Brogan (the tool . . . wanker, etc.)

How dare he joke with me? I crumpled it up and hurled it toward the small garbage can next to the sink but missed and stood staring at it bleakly where it landed on the floor. Why that depressed me so much, I wasn't sure. Maybe I just couldn't handle one more failure right now, even a very small, insignificant one. I left the stupid note on the floor and threw back both Tylenol tablets and drank the water.

After a long, hot shower, blowing my hair dry, and putting on some makeup, I felt and looked a little better. I threw on a pair of jean shorts and a loose, blue and white striped V-neck T-shirt and went downstairs. The apartment was empty. I stood at the island and drank a glass of tomato juice—not my favorite but all Brogan had as far as juice in his refrigerator—and forced myself to eat a piece of dry toast.

Fresh anger gripped me when I noticed the unwashed wine glasses next to the sink. I was not staying in Brogan's apartment today waiting for him like some faithful, mistreated puppy dog. Perhaps he hadn't made any promises to me, but I deserved more care than what had happened last night. He didn't even have enough respect to stay home this morning and offer me an explanation as soon as I'd woken up. Instead, I was supposed to spend the day bored out of my mind, waiting for him to grace me with his presence and his sorry explanation?
No way.

We're even now,
I'd said. Only perhaps in his mind, we weren't. Not yet. Perhaps I was a fool for thinking so.

You can try to dish out more, but I'll fight you from here on out if you do. Just so you're aware.
A fool, maybe, but that's what I'd told him and that's what I'd meant.

I threw my clothes back in my bag, grabbed my purse, and let myself out the door of his apartment into the small, private lobby.

I pushed the down button for the elevator and waited impatiently for it to arrive. Once it did, I jumped in and stood in the corner against the wall as it made its way down. Lost in my own head as I stepped out, I nearly missed the burly looking man in a black suit standing by the outside doorway.
Surely not.
Through the glass, I could see that he was smoking and chatting with a woman who had been walking past with her dog. They were laughing as the dog yapped and the woman tossed her hair, flirting. Stepping back inside the elevator and pushing the close door button, I bit at my thumbnail. I didn't know if the man was someone hired by Brogan or not, but I wasn't going to risk it. Not like he could detain me—I wasn't a prisoner. But I didn't want to deal with being held up. Since Brogan lived in a building without a doorman, I hadn't considered that I wouldn't be able to simply walk out the front door without being noticed. I rode to the garage level and stepped off cautiously, hoping that if Brogan
had
put security on the building, it had been for those arriving, not those leaving. I remembered that you needed a security code to get in this elevator.

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."