“Abigail Van Buren?” Sloan asked, confused.
“Dear Abby. Advice columnist in the newspaper. My mom is a librarian at the college in our town.”
“Are you close with your parents?”
“Mom, yes. My dad hasn’t been a part of the picture since before I was one. He was a music professor at the college. He was much older than Mom. They got married, and Mom got pregnant. I guess he was excited to be a dad, but when I got here, he had a sudden change of heart. Said family life tied him down. So he left—just disappeared.” Abbey bit down on her lower lip again, hard this time. I have to get myself under control.
She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “So what about you? Where are you from?”
A smirk spread across Sloan’s face. He motioned with his free hand toward the easel. “Let me show you what I have so far.”
Abbey followed him through the living area to his workspace, bathed in sunlight as it nestled in the junction of the wall of windows. He sat in a swivel chair in front of the easel and began to gather scattered chalk drawings together. Her breath caught as the brightly colored butterflies and bugs in their imaginative habitats came to life before her eyes. These drawings are amazing! Can this possibly be how he sees my book?
She suddenly realized these were the same images that had been in her mind all along. How could we possibly have the same vision?
“I take it you approve?” Sloan laughed.
Abbey’s attention snapped back at the Irishman’s voice. She blushed deep red. “Yes. I approve. You’re an amazing artist.”
“Thank you.” He arranged them in order over the workspace. “I have five more to finish. I should have them done before the week is out.”
“Great.”
“Is there any more for you to write?” he inquired.
“No,” she answered. “I did start a second story, though. Just haven’t had a quiet place to really work on it since I’ve gotten to New York.”
She followed Sloan’s gaze over the penthouse. Her eyes locked on the furnishings that she could see in the loft above. Yep. His bedroom. Her face flushed again.
“Use my home to find your sanctuary. You’re welcome here.”
Abbey glanced around the luxurious sunbathed space excitedly. Her stare connected with Sloan’s again, and she smiled. “Thank you.”
Their attention shifted as they heard the glass doors open then slam.
“Sloan!”
“In here, Robert.”
They watched as a very large, very terrifying man dressed like Sloan strode around the corner. Tips of tattoos that scrawled up his thick neck peeked above his starched white collar. He stopped when he saw them.
“I didn’t realize…” The man’s voice trailed off as his eyes locked with Sloan’s. He cleared his throat and continued, “…you were home.”
“Yes, been home all day, Robert. I told you that this morning before you left.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. Slipped my mind.”
Sloan rose from the swivel chair. He motioned Abbey to the sofas to have a seat. She watched as Robert shot a wary glance at Sloan before joining them.
“Abbey, this is Robert. Robert, this is Abbey. She’s the author of the children’s book I’m illustrating. You know…the one I told you about?”
“Yes, I remember.” Robert offered her his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
Abbey shook it, staring at him in awe. Each man in Sloan’s entourage seemed more deadly than the last. Robert’s smooth shaved head, solid, muscular build, and neatly trimmed goatee made him appear positively evil. The tailored black designer suit he wore didn’t tame his image one bit.
She looked back and forth between them as realization dawned on her. “Oh. You two are…”
“Lovers. Yes,” Sloan supplied.
Abbey mistook Robert’s look of disgust and discomfort for nervousness. She chattered on to put him at ease. “How long have you been together?”
“Five years.”
“Where did you meet?”
Sloan sat back on the leather couch and smiled at Robert, who glared at him. “At an art gallery in Prague. There was a showing of my latest collection—”
A quizzical look spread across her face. “You’re an artist?”
Sloan indicated the vibrant paintings on the wall, the ones she had noticed as they walked in. “My income does not come from my illustrations.”
Abbey stood and wandered across the room to examine one. It, like every work of his she had seen, was incredible. It was a tangle of pumpkin orange, sunburst yellow, and blood red. It was almost…explosive.
“That one will clear nearly three million dollars,” Robert informed “That is if Sloan ever sells it. He paints them and slaps them on the walls now”.
Abbey turned, her eyes growing wide in amazement. “Really?”
“Yes.” Robert directed himself back to Sloan. “Gordon is waiting downstairs for us. We have an appointment at three o’clock. Do you recall?”
“Yes. Why don’t you go down to the car? I will follow shortly.”
“Certainly.” Robert rose from the chair he sat in then leaned above Sloan. He locked eyes with Sloan in a gaze that spoke volumes.
Snaking his fingers around the back of Sloan’s neck, Robert drew Sloan’s face toward his. He parted Sloan’s lips in a passionate, fully believable kiss. From behind them, Abbey gave a soft squeak.
As Robert pulled free, he crooned, “I’ll be waiting.” Then, without another word, he stormed from the penthouse, slamming the door behind him.
Abbey walked to the sofa where she had been sitting and stooped to pick up her purse. “I should be going too.”
“You’re free to stay if you wish. I won’t be long,” Sloan protested. He averted his gaze, staring into his office. She sensed the fury etched in his face. What’s that about? Did I do something wrong? Did Robert do something wrong?
“No, I better go. I’ll call you tonight to see when we can get together again.”
Abbey timidly waved, even though he wasn’t looking. She slipped out, softly shutting the door behind her.
Abbey kept to herself the rest of the night, trying to figure out what had happened. No matter where her thoughts went, she kept coming back to the kiss. She had never seen two men kiss before. Wow, I really need to get out more.
»»•««
The next morning she woke up to her cell phone ringing. When she answered it, Sloan’s sweet, silky brogue greeted her. Her heart raced. She didn’t care if he was gay. He was still dreamy. She jumped out of bed at his invitation to come to his penthouse for breakfast. She had never dressed so fast in her life. Within minutes, she was out the door. She arrived in time for breakfast and stayed well past supper.
The week passed, and Abbey found herself spending more time with her illustrator than in her hotel room. She spent hours at Sloan’s penthouse working on her book under Robert’s suspicious eye. The picture book she was writing should have taken no time at all, but the smooth Irishman distracted her nearly every time she picked up a pen. In addition, they attended meetings with the editors at Panda to finalize production.
He took her to his favorite museums and restaurants, many whose dress code did not fit the wardrobe she packed from Iowa. It never seemed to be a problem—Sloan always had the perfect dress for her on hand.
In those brief days, Abbey poured out her life story, but Sloan didn’t give much in return. How could I not open up to him? Sloan was devastatingly sexy, charming, and charismatic. If he weren’t gay, he would be a man to die for.
That’s why, Abbey thought to herself as she rushed down the crowded sidewalk. I can’t wait to share my exciting news.
She scurried past Bartholomew with a wave and slammed her hand on the call button of the elevator. Breathlessly, she put her new key into the control panel and turned, allowing access to the top floor.
Abbey knocked quietly on the glass doors before pushing them open. “Sloan?”
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Sloan stepped from the kitchen, drying a glass mug with a bleached, white dishtowel. He stood in the doorway wearing a pair of faded jeans that left nothing to the imagination and a faded tight T-shirt. He smiled at the sight of her. “Here, Abigail. What is it?”
“I have the best news. Guess who’s coming to visit?” Abbey blurted.
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
“Michael! I sent him a plane ticket and made a reservation at my hotel. He flies out in the morning and will be here about noon.”
Sloan’s face turned suddenly somber. “So we get to meet the infamous Michael? How long will he be here?”
“Just a couple of days.”
“Oh.” Sloan paused. “If you’d like, I could send Gordon to pick him up from the airport.”
Abbey could feel her face light up even more. “Oh, Sloan, that would be amazing! Thank you!” She rushed to him, flinging her arms around his neck. She planted an excited kiss on his cheek before rushing to the sofa and her notebook to begin her writing.
Chapter Four
Sloan watched as Abbey floated around Le Bernardin like a butterfly on crack. She darted to the windows, peeking outside excitedly for the Hummer. The restaurant manager glared at her. After a scowl from Sloan, he tempered his stare.
Abbey looked incredible in a snug-fitting midnight blue dress. The cap sleeves accented her toned arms and the vee of the neckline rested in the cleft of her breasts. A pair of matching stilettos cradled her feet. She had curled her brown hair and held it up with combs. Sloan let out a snort at the irony.
Here she was, clothed in the dress he bought for her, wearing the shoes he bought for her—hell, donning the accessories that I bought for her. She looked insanely beautiful in the gifts he gave her, appearing the way he wanted.
And she was eagerly waiting for another man.
Sloan shook his head at his own ill luck as he took another swig of Guinness.
Abbey bounced into the booth next to him. “How long ago did Gordon call?”
“Forty-five minutes ago. They should be here any moment,” he advised.
She smoothed her dress. “Do I look okay?”
“Exquisite.”
“Do you think Michael will like it?”
Sloan fought the growl that almost choked him. “He’d be a fool not to.”
Abbey threw her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.” She slid from the booth and scampered back to the window.
Sloan waved the waiter away after his water was refilled and watched Abbey in silence for several moments more. Then, her face lit up as she looked toward the entrance.
“He’s here!” she announced.
Sloan flashed her a smile. Inside, he felt his distaste burn. I have to see the fool Abbey is so enamored with.
Sloan fought a snort of disdain as he laid eyes on the man Gordon escorted. Blond, clean-cut, stereotypical Midwest farm boy. Disdain turned to hatred as Abbey wrapped her arms around his shoulders and sank into his kiss. When they parted, Abbey wove her arm around his and guided him to the booth.
“Michael, this is Sloan. Sloan, this is Michael,” she introduced.
Sloan slowly stretched as he rose from his seat. Michael was tall, a little over six feet, but he didn’t come close to Sloan’s towering six and a half feet. Sloan outstretched his hand with an “I’m so much more man than you” grin.
“Pleased to meet you, Michael. Abbey’s told me so much about you,” Sloan crooned.
“She’s told me a lot about you too. Where are you from? Germany?” Michael laughed, amused by himself.
“Northern Ireland. Belfast, to be precise.” Sloan’s cool smile faded as his grip on Michael’s hand grew tighter.
“Should we sit?” Abbey piped up, confusion clouding her face, obviously feeling the tension between the two men rising.
Sloan slid back into the booth. Abbey moved in beside him as she had for so many of the luxurious dinners they had shared. After a look of warning from Michael, however, she slipped back out and sat delicately in the chair next to him. Sloan studied Abbey’s beau. Shaggy blond hair framed a narrow face. Well defined muscles peeked from beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt. Sloan smirked as he took a sip of beer. Michael’s nose was larger than most and jutted where it obviously had been broken before. And the cleft in his chin resembled another part of the anatomy, one he sat on. If lasses find that sort of thing attractive.
“Is Robert joining us?” Abbey asked Sloan.
“No, however, Gordon will.”
“Who’s Robert?” Michael asked.
Abbey smiled. “Robert is Sloan’s lover.”
“Really?” Michael looked at Sloan incredulously. “You’re gay?”
Sloan stared at Michael evenly without answering. The silence didn’t last long. Abbey pulled Michael’s attention away from Sloan and began to chatter again.
The waiter returned with another Guinness cradled in his hands. He set it before Sloan then took out his pad and pen. Scribbling on it, he glanced up at Gordon. Without a word, he kept writing. Finally, the server looked up at Abbey. “The salmon, Miss?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you,” Abbey confirmed, seeming surprised and pleased that he remembered her favorite lunch entrée. She looked across the table. Sloan smiled warmly at her as he took a sip of his beer. She turned when Michael nudged her.
“We can’t eat here,” Michael demanded.
“Why?” Abbey asked.
“There’s nothing for me to eat here. I don’t eat raw fish.” Michael gave her a disgusted look. “When did you start eating raw fish?”
“I—”
Sloan growled. “Get a salad.”
Michael sneered. “I don’t eat salads.” He pushed himself away from the table and stood. Grasping the back of Abbey’s chair, he ordered, “Let’s go.”
“You would walk away from a free meal?” Sloan barked a laugh.
“There’s nothing for me to eat here,” Michael insisted, his voice a near whine.
Sloan reached across the table and wrapped his hand around Abbey’s as she rose. He settled her back in her chair. “Bring me the chef,” he instructed the waiter. Without a word, the young man shuffled off quickly.
The two men glared at each other in a silent showdown until the chef arrived. “Is there a problem, Mr. O’Riley?” he asked worriedly.
Sloan picked up a discarded menu and motioned him over. After a few quiet whispers, the chef nodded enthusiastically. “How would you like that prepared?”
Sloan turned back to Michael. “So?”
“Prepare what?”
“Filet mignon. A dinner offering, but they will make it for you now.”
“Why don’t they just offer that for lunch?
Sloan exhaled slowly. The arrogance and ignorance of this boy… “What’s your answer?”
Michael smirked at him. “Rare.”
Sloan shot a look of disgust and disbelief at Gordon. Gordon shook his head. The chef nodded and returned to the kitchen.
Abbey stopped the waiter before he followed. “Everyone is talking about this salad. It must be amazing. Please change my order to that.” She gave him a pleasant smile as he nodded and left.
Sloan searched for Abbey’s eyes, fighting the disappointment that threatened to etch across his face. However, she stared at her glass of water, refusing to look up.
Taking another sip of beer, Sloan turned to face the egotistical blond. “Do you have plans while you’re in New York, Michael?”
“Yeah. Abbey bought tickets to the Yankees game today. And I want to get some New York-style pizza. Then, there’s Madison Square Garden and Times Square.” He patted Abbey on the thigh. “Nothing beats an all-expenses-paid trip to New York from my girl.”
“All-expenses paid, huh? So, I suppose you’re going to see Phantom of the Opera also?”
Michael snorted a laugh. “Why would I want to see that?”
Sloan smirked. “Because your lass wants to. Sh
e’s been telling me since she arrived how much she wants to see Phantom.”
“My lass?’
“Your girl.”
“Oh.” Michael shrugged. “I only have two days. I don’t want to waste any time on a stupid show. Abbey can go see it alone if she wants.”
Sloan turned his gaze to Abbey. He relished hearing her answer to Michael’s conceited plans, but he didn’t find her eyes. She kept them trained on her glass as she meekly spoke. “It’s not his kind of thing. It’s okay. I can see it later.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Sloan took a long swallow of Guinness then indicated to the waiter to bring another. I can’t wait until the son of a bitch gets back on a plane to Iowa.
»»•««
Abbey squirmed uncomfortably in the plastic stadium seat. She squinted against the warm afternoon sun. She had been sitting beside Michael for hours, listening to him screaming and heckling the baseball players below. Sighing, she pulled a book out of her purse.
“You are going to read?” Michael scoffed. “Why don’t you watch the game?”
“I have been for hours,” she answered. “How much longer is it going to be?”
“It’s the seventh inning.”
“What does that mean?”
“There are two more innings left unless they tie.”
“And if they tie?”
“It will go until one of the teams win.”
Abbey groaned as she opened the paperback, searching for her place. She drew her legs up into her seat and curled up into a ball as best she could. Michael snorted.
Wrinkling her brow in frustration, she fought to concentrate on the words in front of her and block out the loud cheering. Then, she felt Michael elbow her.
“Abbey, look up,” he encouraged.
Lifting her head to look at him, she followed where he pointed into the outfield. She searched the advertising board and the scoreboard. Crap, they’re tied. Then, her gaze froze on the JumboTron. Her own image stared back at her from the gigantic screen. Her breath caught in her throat as she uncurled from her seat and sat up straight.
Black Irish Page 3
