The Player and the Pixie
Page 79

With all his ire focused on me, perhaps he’d take things easy on Lucy.
Meanwhile, after I helped her collect the contents of her bag, Lucy had been unceremoniously ushered upstairs by Bryan Leech and William Moore, the Oklahoman. She’d been quiet in her wretchedness, and it was clear she was tearing herself apart, guilt warring with shame.
The shame felt like a sucker punch in my stomach. But I was a big boy. I’d persevere. In fact, as I stood next to Ronan, signing autographs for both the Garda and the hotel guests, an unfurling rage took hold.
Lucy had a problem. Not a little problem. A big problem.
And what had her brother done? Carted her off, sent her to New York as though she were an embarrassment. No wonder she’d developed an insatiable penchant for fancy golf balls, and eyeshadow, and whatever else.
Ronan sent me a dirty look that promised a world of hurt, and I volleyed one right back at him. I itched to get my hands on the bastard. The last time we’d fought, I’d pulled my punches, as pummeling him had been counterproductive to my goal of seeing him expelled from the team for misconduct.
But this time . . .
He clapped a hand on my shoulder, murder in his eyes, and flexed his beefy fingers into the joint. “Time for us to have a chat, arsehole.”
I shook him off and gestured to the door leading outside. “Ladies first.”
He smirked humorlessly, shaking his head, but preceded me out the door. I strolled behind him at a safe distance. I had no plans to attack him from behind. As well, our teammates had fallen in line behind me. Even if I wanted to tackle him, I had nine of his biggest fans watching my every move.
Once outside, he paused until I drew even with him, then we walked side by side down the lawn, toward the fountain at the center of the drive.
He spoke first. “Explain to me how this happened.”
I chuckled grimly. “I don’t owe you shite, Fitzpatrick.”
He continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “First Brona. Now Lucy? Is my mam next?”
I shuddered inwardly, grimacing, but catching the insult about his mother just before it left my tongue.
“Are you going to mess around with all the women in my life? I’d just like to know what to expect.” His tone was deceptively light. I knew once we reached the grounds beyond the fountain, where the light tapered to darkness, he would make his move.
“For the record, I never fucked Brona.” I stuffed my hands in my shorts pockets as I taunted him with a forced air of boredom. I couldn’t wait to drive my fists into his pretty face.
“That’s bullshit.”
“Nope. I never touched her beyond what was required to color your perception of the situation. You did all the heavy lifting with that one, Mother Fitzpatrick.”
Ronan’s steps slowed and he was quiet for several beats. “You never fucked Brona?”
“I did not.”
“And did you . . .” He cleared his throat and I turned my head to watch his profile. His throat worked and I saw true anguish pass over his features.
Clearing his throat a second time, he called to the guys behind us. “Back off, would you?”
They stopped at his command and we continued toward the fountain.
“What about Lucy?” he finally managed gruffly once we’d gained some distance from the others.
I frowned at him.
I noted he couldn’t bring himself to ask, Did you fuck Lucy?
Furthermore, some of the air left my balloon of fury at the hint of vulnerability coloring his words.
I sighed, shaking my head and looking away. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
“What would you call it?”
“None of your goddamn business.”
Ronan choked a harsh laugh, his tone incredulous. “None of my business?”
“That’s right. What goes on between me and Lucy—”
He jerked to a stop, grabbing my shirtfront. “Don’t you fecking say her name.”
I pushed him off, aware of the others hovering several yards away. My earlier anger had been eclipsed by a remarkable exhaustion. Maybe since the first time I’d laid eyes on the man, I didn’t want to fight Ronan.
“What happens with us is between us.”
“Like hell it is,” he charged at me, “not when you’re trying to—”
“I love her,” I admitted, to him and to myself.
He stopped, brown eyes flashing dangerously. “That’s bullshit.”
I laughed—again humorlessly—shaking my head at the irony of his statement. “That’s what she said when I told her I wanted her to be mine. When she rejected me.”
Why I was opening that wound in front of Ronan Fitzpatrick, I had no idea. Perhaps that was what people in love do. They become morose Byron-esque caricatures of self-loathing. They become masochists.
Fuck, I hated myself.
Ugh.
I was quite suddenly everything I couldn’t stand about the man in front of me.
And furthermore, I couldn’t bring myself to care.
“She rejected you?”
That stopped him, and he stood a little straighter, his expression telling me he was proud of his sister. Obviously, he’d misinterpreted my meaning. He likely thought she’d rejected my untoward sexual advances. Little did he know . . .
I thought about correcting his assumption but decided to let him swim around in his dream world. As I’d said, it wasn’t any of his business.
Now to the other matter.
“What I want to know,” I started, waiting until he met my glare before continuing, “is why, if you knew Lucy had a thieving problem, did you never insist she seek psychological help?”