“I’m not blaming him,” Laura countered, though a part of her did, as ridiculous as that sounded. “I’m really not. Ronan’s in the past, that’s all. That affair of ours had an expiration date stamped on it. I knew that going in.”
“Doesn’t have to be over,” her sister suggested.
“I’m not the one who ended it, remember?”
When Georgia would have argued, Laura spoke up fast. “He’s not here forever, Georgia. He’s going back to Ireland and we both know it. Well, I live here. And besides all of that, we want different things. Move in different worlds. It’s just … doomed.”
“And you’re not going to tell him what’s behind all of this? Don’t you think he’s got a right to know?”
“Maybe he does.” Laura shifted her gaze to the trees outside and watched the last few yellowing leaves flutter in the wind before snapping free of the branches and flying off in a twisting dance. Rain pelted from the sky in a burst and tapped at the windowpanes like impatient fingertips against a table.
Funny, their mother had always hated fall and winter. She’d actually called autumn the Death of Hope season because it would be so long until summer again. Funny that she’d chosen to move to such a rainy place. Laura hadn’t thought of that in years. Now, it seemed unerringly apt.
Because in this Death of Hope season, she was finally accepting that what she had had with Ronan was over. Finished. Hope was ridiculous when there was absolutely no reason for it.
Turning her gaze back to her sister’s, Laura said, “What point is there in telling him that I miscarried his baby?”
“You said it yourself,” her sister pointed out gently. “It was his baby. Maybe that’s point enough.”
But it wouldn’t change anything, Laura thought. And what if she told him and he didn’t care? She didn’t think she wanted to find out what Ronan’s reaction would have been to almost being a father.
He didn’t go home.
Instead, Ronan went to work.
Even with jetlag clawing at him, he knew he was in no mood to rest. At their new office in Newport Beach, his company, Cosain—Irish Gaelic for ‘defend’—was just taking root. Situated on Pacific Coast Highway, the two-story building was small, but elegant, with a view of the sea. More important, Cosain was now in the center of one of the wealthiest communities per capita in the United States.
Here, the powerful and the paranoid lived, exactly the kind of clientele Cosain depended on. Here, Ronan was building the American branch of his company.
Of course, there were other security companies out there. Some very good ones. Like King Security. Also headquartered in California, though they’d opened up a European branch in Cadria several months ago.
Ronan smiled to himself. If the Kings moved into his territory, it was only right that he move into theirs. Besides, Cosain didn’t go after the same jobs as the Kings. They specialized in security for buildings, events. Cosain specialized in personal security. Bodyguards. And if it pissed off the King family to have Ronan’s company here, then that he considered a bonus. Not that the King cousins weren’t good guys. They were. But competition was healthy, wasn’t it? Business rivalries always inspired everyone to be their best. And Ronan being in what the Kings would no doubt consider their territory just made his success that much sweeter.
Ronan wasn’t a man easily satisfied, even with success. There was always more to be found. And in this community of celebrity and money, Ronan was going to make Cosain the most talked about game in town.
Winning. It was about winning. Ronan had learned that early from his father. A ruthless man, the elder Connolly had made a fortune by buying up badly run businesses and turning them around. He used to say the first thing to do was separate the wheat from the chaff—firing the dead weight and promoting the ones as ambitious as himself. He hadn’t made many friends along the way, but he had taught his son that winning—coming out on top—was everything.
Ronan walked through the ground floor, his heels sounding out against the gleaming hardwood. His sharp-eyed glance took everything in. Pale green walls were dotted with paintings by local artists and by framed photos of grateful clients. Though most of those he worked for preferred to fly under the radar and not have their personal business known, there were always the celebrities who came alive at the sight of a camera.
There were a few comfortable couches, a low-slung table with an array of magazines fanned out on top of it. A pedestal table held a crystal vase filled with bright blossoms that scented the air like springtime.
A tidy receptionist sat at a desk and she nodded warily at him as he strode past. “Morning, Mr. Connolly.”
He nodded and went past her, disregarding her nervousness. Ronan’s mind was already busy with racing thoughts—not all of them about his business.
He took the short flight of stairs to the landing and then to the second floor above. The bustle of this floor, associates at their computers, muted phone conversations and the purr of a printer, soothed him. Centered him. This was why he’d come to California. This was what was important in his life. Not a woman. Not a dog.
Business.
What the Connollys did best.
He’d had it hammered into him from a young age that a man took hold of his life and shook it until it fell into place. Well, he’d done just that, though he knew that if his father were still alive, the old tyrant would refuse to be impressed.
Didn’t matter. What he did, he did for himself, not to please a long dead parent who had never approved of him anyway. He made a sharp left and headed for his own office.
“Mr. Connolly!”
He recognized Brian Doherty’s voice, but didn’t slow down. Brian had come with him from Ireland to help get the new branch up and running. He’d been with Ronan long enough to know his boss slowed down for no one.
“What is it?” he asked, even as he reached for the sheaf of papers Brian held out to him.
“The Bensons. They’ll be here in a few minutes for the meeting you scheduled from the plane.”
“Right.” Shaking his head in disgust, Ronan realized he’d actually forgotten about the meeting with all the drama at Laura’s house. The woman was not only affecting his life but his business. Just went to show how tired he actually was.
Turning his mind to the task at hand, he pushed thoughts of Laura aside to be dealt with later and mentally reviewed the Benson file. Benson Electronics. Jeremy and Maria, wealthy, devoted parents of two teenagers who had already burned through a series of bodyguards from lesser companies. Now they wanted to hire two of Cosain’s guards on a long-term contract. Just the kind of client Ronan preferred.
“Send them in as soon as they arrive,” he said, stepping into his office. He closed the door, and stalked across the room. Taking a quick look around, Ronan assured himself that nothing had changed in his absence. Six weeks was a long time. If he hadn’t had Brian onsite and access to Skype, satellite phones and fax machines, he never would have been able to take a job himself at this stage. But Cosain was a well-oiled machine, and though they were new to this country, Ronan had brought along much of his already trained staff to ensure a smooth transition.
Frowning, Ronan sat down at his desk, then reached for the phone and stabbed in a number. In a moment or two, the connection was made and on the second ring a familiar voice spoke up, the music of Ireland coloring his words.
“Ronan. That you?”
“Who else would it be calling from my phone?” he countered.