Ramsay (26 page)

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."

I blinked. "Shopping? No, Daisy. Shopping, sadly, is not going to fix this, honey. I don't even know if shopping will put a Band-Aid on this. Listen, I'm in the city at Brogan's. He's working, and I'm here alone. Do you want to come here? We can talk."

"Brogan's?" she asked.

"Oh Daisy," I sighed. "I have so much to catch you up on. But that can wait. We're going to talk about you first, okay?"

"I
don't
want to be alone right now," she squeaked. "Is that okay?"

"Yes. Just drive carefully, and I'll be waiting. I'm going to text you his address. There's a garage under his building, okay?"

"Okay. Thank you, Lydia."

"Of course, Dais." We said goodbye and I hung up and texted her Brogan's address, pursing my lips with anger. That jackass! How
could
he? I kicked the chair next to the couch, which only resulted in a dull ache in my foot. "Fucker," I muttered aloud.

As I blow-dried my hair and put on a little makeup, I felt so angry. Gregory was such a bastard. No woman deserved to be cheated on.
Ever.
I wasn’t sure how Dais would rebound from this. Just as I was sliding some gloss onto my lips, I heard the doorbell ring. It was Saturday, and Brogan had told me he had some work to do, but had acted a little dodgy about exactly what it was, just as he'd been doing a lot of lately. He promised he'd be back early and take me out to dinner. This was good as it meant he was less concerned about the potential safety issues involved in going out in public.

I pressed the button on the camera to the street and saw my brother. Frowning, I pressed the intercom. "Stuart?"

He looked around as if expecting someone to suddenly attack him and then leaned in to the intercom. "Lydia. Let me up. Hurry."

Hesitating and biting at my lip, I said, "I don't think that's a good idea, Stu. Let me come down."

"No! Someone's following me. Let me up, Lydia." He sounded so panicked, my skin prickled. Hesitating again, but only briefly, I pressed the button allowing him entrance. I waited by the door until I saw him outside on the other camera screen. I opened it and he rushed in, practically barreling me over.

"Whoa. What the hell, Stuart?"

"Why are you still here?" he demanded. I shut the door, turning toward him. "I saw him leave a while ago. I waited for you, but you never came down. Now's your chance to leave."

"Brogan's not keeping me here against my will," I said. "He just wanted to be sure the men who held your loans didn't pose a threat any longer," I explained, walking past him into the kitchen and behind the island. I had never even told him about the stabbing. What was the point? It was over, and there was nothing he could do about it now.

He followed me into the kitchen, standing across the island from me. "He supposedly paid off those loans," he said. "But he lied. He lied. There are men following me. And if they don't get me first, he will." He glanced to the window as if, even now, they could see him. "There are men trying to kill me. And he knows they'll kill you, too. That's why he's keeping you here," he growled, twitching in what turned into a sort of grotesque shudder.

I frowned. "Stuart, what's wrong with you?"

He threw up his arms. "I don't sleep!" he yelled. "You wouldn't either if you had a hit out on your life!"

I shook my head. "You're wrong. Brogan paid off your debts. You're free and clear, Stu. No one is trying to kill you."

He shook his head almost violently. "No, no, no. You're wrong. He lied. He won't be satisfied until I'm dead and then he'll ruin you, too. He'll make you fall in love with him and then he'll be the one with all the power. Whatever you do, Lydia, don't get feelings for him. He's a liar and a cunning devil."

"Stuart,
God
, do you hear yourself?" He sounded insane.

"I have proof," he said, taking something out of his back pocket. He unfolded a piece of paper and threw it on the counter.

"What's that?" I asked, looking down at it suspiciously.

"He owns our old house in Greenwich," he said. "He bought it two months ago. I looked it up on the Internet. He bought it through a corporation, but he owns it. It all came back to him."

I frowned, picking up the paper, a printout from the Fairfield County auditor's website. It took me a minute to read through it, but it looked like Stuart was right. I knew for a fact Brogan owned the company that now owned our old property in Greenwich because of the work I'd done for Brogan. I tilted my head in confusion, trying to understand why Brogan would have bought our house and not told me the day we went there.

"It's all part of his master plan," Stuart said, twitching again and rubbing at his neck. "Me, dead, you under his thumb, and him," he gestured his hands around as if he was trying to communicate what he was thinking but was having a hard time getting there, "master of the domain where he once worked as a servant," he finally blurted out.

"He was our gardener, not a servant," I mumbled, casting my gaze to the side, confusion overwhelming me. "And that sounds pretty dramatic, Stu."

"This whole fucking situation is dramatic, Lydie," he said, using a nickname he hadn't used since we were kids. "Machiavellian revenge plots, mobsters,
hit men
? I didn't make any of
that
up."

A cold lump of dread was sitting in my belly. "I just need to talk to him," I muttered. "I just need to ask him . . . I'm sure . . ."

Stuart stared at me, a horror-stricken look on his face as he began to back up. "Oh my God," he breathed out in a sudden rasp. "It's already done. You're in love with the devil."

I met his red-rimmed gaze. "He's not a devil, Stu. He's—"

He spun away, his hands on his head as he let out what sounded like a growl of defeat. "I have to get out of here."

I came from around the island, holding my hand out to him. "No, Stu, please, you look so tired. Let me make you some tea, and we can sit down. We can talk about this. And Brogan will be home soon—"

"No, no, no." He shook his head. "They're following me. I need to leave."

"No one's following you."

He scrubbed at his face. "I need some money, Lydie. Just whatever you have. Please. I can't go back to my apartment."

"I . . . I only have about fifty dollars on me." And that was only because Brogan had given me cash to pay for the dinner delivery we'd ordered the night before, but then gotten out of the shower before it arrived. He'd paid and the cash had remained in my wallet.

"Whatever you have, I need it. Now. Right now."

I took a long look at him. He truly looked awful, as if he hadn't showered in days, or slept, or eaten. But there was also a fear in his eyes I'd never seen before. Were people really after him? No, surely not. Surely he was sleep deprived, possibly still drinking . . . "My purse is upstairs," I muttered. "I can make you some food here, though."

"No. I need to go before he comes back. Give me the money." He held out his hand, moving his fingers back and forth.
Jesus.

I stared at him a moment longer, not knowing what was best in this situation. "I'll be right back," I finally said, going toward the stairs.

He followed me. "You can come with me."

I shook my head and looked back at him. When we got to the landing, I said, "Where, Stu?"

He scratched at the inside of his elbow, his eyes jumping around the empty hall. "No, you're right. You can't come with me. You'd just be in more danger. But you need to get out of here. Promise me you'll find a way to get out of here and . . ." His words faded away.

I stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to finish, but it didn't seem he was going to, and he obviously wasn't waiting for an answer from me, so I simply turned and went into the guest room where my purse was on the dresser. I dug in my wallet and pulled out the money, two twenties and a ten. I opened my change purse, too, to see if I had a few dollars in quarters. I did and collected those as well. I turned and handed the money to Stuart. "Stuart—"