Stuart put his head in his hands and raked his fingers through his hair again. After several tense moments he brought his face up, his expression even paler if that were possible. "I haven't told you everything. I . . . Jesus—"
"Just spit it out, Stuart. It can't possibly get any worse." Only it probably could. And knowing Stuart, it would.
"The man who owns the company now," he swallowed, his eyes pools of despair, "is Brogan Ramsay."
My heart stuttered, my breath faltering. I clutched the edge of the table. "Bro . . . Brogan Ramsay?" I breathed.
"Yes, his father used to work—"
"Yes, I know who Brogan Ramsay is! How, though? I don't understand." My heart was pumping out a staccato beat in my chest. I felt like I might faint if I didn't remain sitting.
"You think I do?" he yelled, throwing his hands up again. "He's a psycho. He's been plotting this. We fired his father, do you remember?"
"We?" I hissed. "We did not fire anyone, you did." Images were assaulting my brain, unbidden. A summer twilight . . . his lips tasting me, his body pushing into mine . . . the look of . . . reverence in his young eyes . . .
"Because I was protecting you!"
I groaned, leaning my head back on my chair. I remembered it very differently, and I was damn sure Brogan did, too. But I wasn't going to argue with Stuart about this now. I needed to try to fix this. "Where can I find him?"
"No, Lydia. You're not going there."
I licked my lips. "We were friends . . . of a sort, once upon a time. Maybe he'd listen to me, Stuart. I have to try." Plus, I owed him an apology. It had been a long time coming. I'd wanted to apologize to him for so many years. I still carried it like a sliver deeply embedded in my skin. Stuart owed him an apology, too, but I couldn't be responsible for Stuart. Clearly. "Give me the address. I don't have the energy to argue with you." I felt drained, zapped completely of the hopefulness from this morning.
"I'll go with you then."
"No, I think you've done enough damage. I'll go alone."
"He's not the same as you might remember him. He's . . . different . . . dangerous. He tricked me." The last part came out sounding like a whine and a wave of disgust washed through me.
I rubbed at my eye. Dangerous? Brogan? I remembered him as sensitive and intense. "I'm just going to talk to him, Stuart. Do you have a better idea? Another solution that you haven't put on the table?" I asked angrily.
"No," he said, his shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry, Lydia. I'm so sorry." He put his head in his hands again.
I couldn't muster any compassion for him, not in that moment. "Then give me the address."
"It's a business address."
"That's fine—even better. There'll be plenty of people around."
"I don't think it's that kind of business." He raised his head, his expression a mixture of fear and dejection. But he reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a business card and pushed it across the table. I reached out and grabbed it.
**********
I followed the instructions from my GPS to the address on the business card, pulling up in front of a nondescript red-brick home in Woodlawn, a neighborhood in the Bronx known as Little Ireland. All this time he was so close? After he'd left—don't sugarcoat it, Lydia, after he'd been kicked off—our property, we'd looked for him and hadn't had any luck. It was as if his family had simply disappeared. I'd even wondered several times if his father took Brogan and his sister back to Ireland after that day. That day. I cringed, as I always did when I thought about it. I sat in my car for a few minutes, staring at the building, working up my nerve to go inside. Stuart had said it was a business address, but it looked like someone's home. Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of my car into the muggy air, straightening my dress as I crossed the street. One glance at the clouds above told me we were about to experience a summer shower.
The brass knocker had the head of a ram on it. My heart rate had sped up, and I worked to calm my breathing as I lifted the knocker and used it to rap twice.
I was about to come face to face with Brogan, after all this time, all these years.
After a minute, I heard footsteps coming toward the door and stood completely still as it was pulled open. My breath came out in a whoosh when I saw a boy, no more than fourteen standing in front of me. "H-Hi," I stuttered, clearing my throat and pulling my spine straight. "My name is Lydia De Havilland. I'm here to see Brogan, that is, Mr. Ramsay."
The boy raised one brow, letting his gaze roam down my body in a suggestive way. I stiffened and gritted my teeth. Insolent little brat. "Is he in?" I demanded.
"Aye," he stood back and waved his arm, indicating I should come inside. I hesitated only briefly before stepping over the threshold. The foyer was nondescript, lots of dark wood and a faded oriental carpet on the floor. It was devoid of furniture or wall hangings.
I jolted slightly when the door slammed behind me, fidgeting with my purse strap and waiting for instructions from the boy. He appeared to text something on his phone, then put it in his pocket, and gave me another gesture to follow him. I did, walking down a hallway and turning into what appeared to be a waiting room. There was a large leather couch, several bookshelves lining the wall, and a coffee table with a few financial magazines on it.