“So what if I do?”
“Do you love him? Proper, like?” I was silent. Some small scrap of self-preservation held my tongue. “If you don’t, then leave. Right now. Go out the door and don’t look back.”
“And if I love him?”
“Take him with you.”
Mouth gaping, I stared at her, seeing behind the military aspect of her whole vibe, a woman who might, just might, be lonely. Who might have regrets.
“He said you might need this.” She put a bottle of pain reliever on the dining room table and was out the door before I could muster a reply. Get Ronan to leave this life…this world? I didn’t know what that would look like…or how I could manage. But even as I pushed the thought aside as ridiculous fantasy, I imagined us back in Ireland. Our own garden. Our own cat.
Is that enough life for you?
The question was, was that enough life for him? I remembered the sharp edge of his laughter when I’d answered yes to his question and could only surmise—no.
That wasn’t a life he wanted. So, it was back to this life we were in.
I stared at the sun making its way across Bennington’s bankers box and considered my options. Ronan was gone. Off to see the Morellis without me, sure that I would be an obedient wife and stay where he’d told me to stay. Niamh certainly expected me to curl up with that crumpled box that I doubted had anything of use inside of it and wait for Ronan to come home with all our problems solved.
Or I could do what my gut was telling me to do.
Get my own answers.
From Caroline Constantine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ronan
Bryant Morelli was like a million other men I’d met over the years. A bully who’d never been stopped. A soldier who was still standing miles from the battlefield, so he figured he must have won the war. He was pompous. Arrogant. And believed he was untouchable, all of which meant he had holes in his security large enough to drive tanks through.
I parked at the bottom of Bishop’s Landing, hiked up the hill, through the woods and strolled into his Bishop’s Landing kitchen like it was my own. I avoided a maid and a housekeeper and grabbed a bright red apple from the bowl on the counter. The house was dark and massive. Empty rooms and empty hallways. Rumor was the Morelli children tended to avoid their family home.
This empty house seemed proof of that.
Interesting.
The first floor had a kitchen, a grand dining room where I imagined the Morellis fought their way through the holidays. A living room with big windows and thick leather couches. All of it was dark. Oppressive. Ugly.
Finally, an office. I sat down behind Bryant Morelli’s mahogany desk loaded with all his important documents and waited for him. Within ten minutes he came in, dressed in tennis whites and barking into his phone. “Tiernan,” he said. “I don’t give a shit. Find him. Find the girl. Bring them—”
He turned and caught sight of me, feet up on the desk. My eyes glued to his, I took a large bite of the apple.
“I need to call you later,” Bryant said and hung up the phone, throwing it onto the drinks cart along the buffet. I chewed and swallowed and let him look at me for a long time.
All while I got a good look at him.
My uncle.
I never had one of those before.
Bryant was a good-looking man. Deep into his sixties but he looked plenty younger. Fit. Strong. All his hair, black with silver sprinkled through it, still on top of his head. We had the same nose, as much as I didn’t want to see it. Same shape to our eyes.
I looked at him and felt nothing. Absolutely nothing about being a Morelli and sharing a bloodline with this asshole. Less than nothing. My bloodline was already rubbish from my da’s side. What was a little Morelli thrown in going to do to me?
What if I’m pregnant?
The thought sent a cold chill all the way through me.
“How did you get in?” Bryant finally asked.
“Through the kitchen.”
“Are there dead bodies on my lawn?”
“It’s not that kind of visit,” I said. “But I didn’t see anyone except a maid and a housekeeper.”
“I need to have a word with my security detail.”
I took another bite of apple.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked, gesturing to the cart. “The return of my long-lost nephew seems like the kind of occasion we should toast to.”
“Only if you’re a Morelli.”
“I hate to break it to you, Ronan, but even if your birth certificate didn’t say it, I’d know you were Gwen’s son. Truthfully, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.” He poured two fingers of the good stuff and walked across the room to set it on the desk in front of me. “You look just like her.” He poured himself the same and then gestured to his face. “It’s your eyes. And the way you look at me like you’d kill me if you had half a chance.”