His phone buzzed, and he pulled it toward him, glancing at it quickly. "I'll have to wrap this up. I have more important things to attend to. Consider my offer," he shrugged, "or not. Either way. I'm assumin' ya have my card since ya found me."
I was still staring at him, my teeth clenched together, disbelievingly. It didn't escape my notice that his accent had emerged during those final sentences. I stood up and, without another word, left Brogan Ramsay's office, slamming his door behind me. Oh God.
CHAPTER FOUR
Brogan
I attempted to control my breathing. Lydia De Havilland had just slammed out of my office, and I still couldn't catch my breath. The fact made me want to hit something.
I'd seen her from afar several times, even followed her home a couple of days before for some reason I still couldn't explain. Gathering information on the De Havilland family, I'd told myself. All the better to know how to proceed with the acquisition I'd planned of their company. But that was flimsy at best, and I bloody well knew it. And even though I'd seen her from across a party, and across a street, I hadn't been prepared for the impact of her right in front of me. I hadn't needed Rory to tell me her name so I'd recognize her. I'd just wanted to be ready. But I hadn't gotten that, and the entire time she'd been in my office, it had felt as if the ground was rolling beneath me.
Lydia had matured into a stunning woman—even more beautiful than I'd remembered. And back then, she'd had the power to steal my breath right from my lungs.
Her golden hair was shorter than it'd been, shoulder length now, but it still looked as soft and lustrous as I remembered it. I rubbed my fingertips together as if the gesture itself would conjure up the feel of the blonde strands on my skin. I longed to touch her hair again, and that small longing alone filled me with impotent rage. Her face had lost the roundness of youth, highlighting her delicate bone structure, and those beautiful, almond-shaped blue-green eyes. I put my head in my hands and massaged my temples and then raked my hands through my hair. Just sitting in the same room as her made me hungry in that same desperate way I'd felt when I could never get enough food, never feel the satisfaction of a full belly. Only it was worse because this hunger would never be satisfied, nor would I let it.
When she'd walked into my office, I'd had the urge to lean toward her to catch her fragrance. That had shocked me. I was used to unconsciously leaning away from people when they got too near, or holding my breath as they passed. I didn't enjoy the smell of others for the most part—and I could detect too much. It felt like an intimacy, and most often, it was an intimacy I didn't care to partake in. But it'd always been different with Lydia. She had always appealed to me in a way no one else had. Chemical makeup didn't change, I supposed. Pity for me.
My mind went back to a summer evening seven years ago, the night my mind wouldn't let go of for some insane reason. I could still feel Lydia in my arms, could still recall her delicate scent, the flavor of her mouth, the sound of her sigh as I'd pushed into her tight body. Why? Why was I still so damned affected by her? I'd been a boy the last time I'd seen her. I was a man now. A man who'd been with women who had much more sexual prowess. Beautiful women who knew tricks in bed that would make an innocent princess like Lydia De Havilland go scarlet. I'd had experience far beyond the teenage fumbling I'd known with her. My time with Lydia had been but a moment. And yet . . . I shook my head of the memories and forced myself to move past the brief moments in her arms to the one that had come next.
The humiliation. The rage. The hopelessness. The grief.
The memory of what she'd done still pulled tight like an internal scar every time I thought about it. Not just what she'd done, but what she hadn't done. She hadn't defended me. She'd basically stood by while her brother shamed me and made me beg. I hated her for manipulating me, for making me hope, and for the weakness I’d felt. And I couldn't forgive her for it. I wouldn't ever forgive her for it.
And that was it. If I exacted the revenge I'd been imagining for so long, I'd be free of her. Exorcised of her ghost, the one that had been haunting me for seven years. Of Lydia, of the memories, of the shame that still burned deep in my gut. I'd finally be able to let her go. Because I'd succeeded in turning everything around—now she was the one who needed me.
Now she was the one begging.
"Well, what's the craic?"
I raised my head as the door swung open. Sitting up, I attempted to smooth my ravaged hair. Fionn eyed me as he dropped into the chair Lydia had occupied only a few minutes before, his big body sprawling. His shirt was wet from the rain. "Not much." I answered.
Fionn whistled, leaning forward. "That Irish accent says otherwise, mo chara." He laughed softly, and I gave him a glare that only made him laugh harder and pretend to shiver. How in the hell had he detected my accent? I'd only uttered two words. "What a fiendish glare. Is that supposed to work on me?"
I sat back, leaning my head on my chair and staring up at the ceiling for a minute. "Lydia De Havilland came here."
"Ah."
"Yeah, ah." I raised my head and looked at him. His expression held sympathy and the vague hint of worry.
He raised his eyebrows. "Well, now I understand the state of ya. Did she offer to buy her company back?"
"She can't. She doesn't have the funds." Which I'd already known.