The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(58)

He folded his arms. “I understand why you might have reservations.”

“Is that what you think I have?” he asked on a dangerous whisper that would have terrified a lesser man. Adair, however, had battled Ryker numerous times as a boy and knew he bled the same crimson drops. “You believe I have reservations? She is a damned Killoran, connected forever to Diggory.”

God, how he despised the reminder. For she was more than one of the men, women, and children to spring from Diggory’s gang. “We are all forever connected to Diggory,” he said quietly. It had just taken Adair longer to realize that in their earliest beginnings, he was more like Cleopatra Killoran than he’d ever credited.

Ryker shook his head. “It’s entirely different. We left that bastard.”

“She, as a woman, had fewer options than we ever did,” he snapped, impatient with his brother’s habitual obstinacy. But then, weren’t you of the same exact mind-set where Cleopatra was concerned? Yet, in sharing as she had, in challenging him, she’d forced him to see life in ways that he previously hadn’t.

His brother flared his nostrils. “She’s lived all these years under Diggory and Killoran. She and her family have infiltrated our gaming hell, stolen our patrons, attempted to sow the seeds of mistrust between my wife and I, and undermined us at every turn, and you’d trust her? After three weeks?” The shock and condescension blended there scoured Adair.

He dragged a hand through his hair. Mayhap he had gone more than half-mad for trusting her as he did, and yet with their every exchange, the connection between them had deepened. “She saved Paisley from a drunken nursemaid.” How easily his brother dismissed that.

“And I am grateful for that,” Ryker said instantly. “But neither does it erase a feud that’s existed so long between our families.” There was an air of finality there, one that indicated Ryker didn’t intend to debate Cleopatra Killoran’s trustworthiness or the accuracy of his opinions. “What did you show her?” his brother asked, diverting the topic to the sheets laid out.

All of it. He’d revealed the preliminary plans and finalized ones, and then made changes based on suggestions Cleopatra had put forth. He let his silence serve as his answer.

Ryker unleashed a string of black curses. “You showed her everything? Where the men, women, and children inside the club will sleep? And eat? Where we monitor patrons?”

Adair’s patience snapped. “You turned the responsibility over to me.” He jabbed a finger across the table at his brother. “You and Niall and Calum all decided the paths you intend to chart, and left the Hell and Sin to my care.”

Ryker leaned across the tables. “It is all ours. Every last damned business venture we’ve agreed to undertake, we agreed together.”

Tugging the pages out from under his brother’s hands, Adair fumed. “I haven’t questioned your new role. I’d expect the same damned courtesy.” Attending his efforts, he reorganized his work into piles.

“I also didn’t entrust our family and those in our employ’s safety to the enemy,” Ryker said with an infuriating calm.

Adair tightened his hold on the design plans and concentrated on his breathing. His brother would question his ability to care for those in his employ? It was the ultimate slight a man could be dealt, particularly those who’d spent their lives on the street. “Go to hell,” he ground out. For his indignation, however, doubts swirled. What if you are making a misstep where Cleopatra is concerned . . . ? What if you already did, and you’ve placed your family and those at the Hell and Sin in peril . . . ?

Pushing back those familiar doubts, he buried them. She’d shared pieces of her past and ideas for his club. He wasn’t so clouded by his own hatred as Ryker was that he’d judge Cleopatra simply because of the gang she’d had the misfortune of aligning herself with. “There is no point in continuing this discussion,” he said dismissively. “Despite both my and Penelope’s confidence in Cleopatra”—his brother stitched his eyebrows into a knowing line—“Miss Killoran,” he belatedly corrected, “you’re determined to not trust the lady’s word.”

Ryker folded his arms. “You were going to kiss her.”

The pages slipped from Adair’s fingers. Had Ryker hurled a dagger at him, Adair couldn’t have been any more shocked. His brother knew. Had come in and seen at just one glance the battle Adair lost every time Cleopatra was near.

“I saw you when I entered,” Ryker persisted, unrelenting. “That closeness is dangerous,” he said with his usual bluntness and calm. “It makes a person careless.”

“One’s hatred also impairs one’s judgment.” As his brother’s was. “Here,” he said, cutting Ryker off when he began to speak, “look at this.” Adair tossed the folded plans over to his brother.

Instantly catching it, Ryker frowned.

“I said look at the damned pages,” he barked.

With stiff, precise movements, his brother laid out the plans Cleopatra had offered valuable input on. Ryker studied them in silence, trailing a callused fingertip over the converted space and additional gaming tables. His brother paused.

“She was right,” Adair said flatly when Ryker still wouldn’t pick his head up.

Reluctantly, his brother looked at him. “They were wise revisions.” The concession may as well have been pulled from him. “But it still is the height of foolishness to give a Killoran an inside look at every damned nook, cranny, and table at our club.”