Up Close and Personal. Maureen Child
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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.
“Thought it would be one of your minions as I knew you were out protecting that awful child singer.”
“I’m back,” he said, though he had to admit the child in question really was terrible. How she became a sensation was beyond Ronan. “And I’ve been to Laura’s to collect my dog.”
“Ah, Beast,” Sean said. “And how is he then?”
“I wouldn’t know. Barely caught a glimpse of him.” And that fact was still irritating. No one got the best of Ronan Connolly. Yet, for the moment, Laura seemed to have managed the impossible.
“Well why the hell didn’t you?”
“She wouldn’t let me in her bloody house,” Ronan ground out.
“Ah. Still angry then, is she?”
“Angry she is, about what I’ve no idea.”
Sean actually chuckled. “She seemed no fan of you when I spoke with her last.”
“It makes no sense,” he muttered, more to himself than his cousin. The woman had been cool as cream when he’d ended their relationship two months ago. She’d not argued with him over it. Though he thought back now and remembered the flash in her eyes as she stood in her doorway blocking his entrance like a virgin guarding her virtue.
“Women are confusing creatures at the best of times,” Sean said. “Maybe she’s simply wanting you back again, though why she would is beyond my imaginings.”
Ronan scraped one hand across his face. Was that what this was all about? Did she want him back in her bed and thought holding his dog a prisoner a way to accomplish it? “If that’s all it is, why doesn’t she just bloody say so?”
“If I understood women,” Sean told him, “I’d write a book and make a fortune selling it to the rest of the men in the world.”
Good point, Ronan thought.
“So, how will you get Beast back if she won’t let you in the house?”
“I’m working on that. But why the devil you took my dog to my ex is still beyond me. What were you thinking, Sean?”
“I had to move fast. The Knock airport was meeting on whether or not to allow my jets a slot in their schedule. Had to be here to win the battle.”
That he could understand, Ronan thought grimly. Business came first in the Connolly family. And his cousin was no different than he. Sean had been working for months, trying to wedge his airline, Irish Air, into the flight schedule at Knock, an international airport in the west of Ireland. “And did you win?”
“Of course,” Sean said. “Irish Air will now be flying to the Continent three flights a day. To start,” he added. “We’ll build from there.”
“Congratulations then. I might not push my fist into your face after all.”
“It’s appreciated,” Sean said with a laugh. “Though I remember the last time we brawled, it was your nose that was broken, not mine.”
“True.” Ronan lifted one hand and rubbed a fingertip over the bump in his nose. “I still owe you for that.”
“No hurry to pay me back on that one.” The roar of a jet taking off sounded in the background and Sean waited until it died away before continuing. “How much longer will you be in California then?”
“Not sure,” Ronan admitted, swinging his desk chair around to stare out at the sweep of sea and sky. Dark gray clouds roiled overhead while the ocean, the color of pewter, frothed with whitecaps. The view reminded him of home—dark skies, wind howling, the churning ocean—and he suddenly missed Ireland with a sharp pang. “I’ve yet to find a place suitable for the permanent