Page 62 of Illusive
Snorting, Jules crossed his arms. “I don’t think your definition of the word ‘inappropriate’ is the same as mine.”
“There’s only one definition,frère,” she rejoined.
Ronan smiled, enjoying being with his siblings again. They were dark to his fair, so different in appearance that people didn’t realize they were related until told. There was some melancholy in that. They shared a mother whom they’d lost far too soon, and Ronan remembered her as a lovely, delicate blonde who was soft-spoken and sweet-natured. But there was hardly a trace of her to be seen in her three children. With no kin that they were aware of, Emma McCaffrey’s murder had effectively erased her.
His father had intended to marry her before he’d been framed for a crime he didn’t commit. When he was younger, Ronan would imagine what that other life might’ve been like. His mother would have been the wife of an heir to Bellefleur, instead of a live-in maid. She would’ve been treasured instead of beaten to death by Jules’ and Claudette’s father. Ronan would’ve run wild over manicured acres rather than stealing food from Marcelle’s garden to survive.
But in that illusory other life, he wouldn’t have Claudette or Jules. Or Marcelle, Valentin, and Genevieve. And he wouldn’t have met Ireland.
He remembered hischeras she’d been the night before. Bruised and battered, but still fierce and lovely, her spirit toowild to be broken. She’d accepted his tenderness and his need to see her, forgiven him for trespassing and overstepping, which she suffered too much of from her family. She was not the same woman who’d broken up with him Thursday night or even the woman who’d decided to meet him at the airport on Friday.
“If I had someone,” Jules said testily, “I would be with her and not here as emotional support for animbéciledetermined to ruin himself over a woman who will never be what he needs.”
“You don’t know what I need,” Ronan countered smoothly.
“I don’t think you do, either.” His brother gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “What’s the plan here? Do we even have one?”
“We’re stabilizing Vidal Records.”
“I don’t care about that,tête de cabri. My concern is that the police are sniffing around you!”
Ronan waved that off. “They’re doing their job. Now that you’re here, we’ll answer their questions, and they’ll move on.”
“I pray it’s that simple,” Claudette said quietly. “As for Vidal, it’s deeply in debt, and its future prospects are bleak. If you have some ideas for turning it around, let’s hear them.”
“The industry’s prospects are bleak,” Ronan corrected. His head turned as they passed the line of horse-drawn carriages at the southern end of Central Park. They reminded him of Jackson Square and provoked a sharp pang of homesickness. “Fundamentally, building a business off of other people’s talent carries inherent risks. Gatekeeping was how such businesses thrived before. Now, it’s vital to prove value to creatives or they’ll either work with someone else or go the independent route.”
Jules gave him an arch look. “Which is why Chris Vidal accepted the terms of our loan to overhaul the recording studios.”
“Right. He stayed focused on profiting from the talent, but we’ve got to diversify. Vidal Records needs to be valuable in andof itself. And it is. The Vidal Hotel chain has given the label an established brand outside of music.”
“But it’s just a licensing agreement to use the brand,” Claudette reminded them. “Gideon Cross actually owns the hotels.”
Ronan stretched out his legs. “And Chris wisely reinvested the income from the agreement into acquiring shares in the chain. He could’ve sold them back to Cross and had the money to pay off the loan, but he likely believed he’d be able to negotiate an extension with us.”
“So basically,” Jules drawled, “the label is funneling money back to Cross, which he’ll use to make our lives difficult.”
Claudette gave Ronan a wry look. “He’s not wrong. But I see what you’re saying about the brand. We could pursue licensing agreements with other companies.”
“I’d have to look over the licensing agreement with Cross Industries,” Jules said. “There may be some kind of noncompete clause.”
“I’ve looked it over already.” Ronan’s eye was caught by a dogwalker tangled in dozens of leashes on the corner. “It’s narrowed to hospitality—specifically hotels—and gaming.”
His brother smiled. “So Cross left them room to do other things.”
Claudette looked thoughtful. “What are you thinking? Merchandise? Apparel? Home goods?”
“Live entertainment venues,” Ronan continued. “Alcohol. Even other types of entertainment. All three of the Vidals have appeared as guests on talent competition shows on television. Why not launch our own shows? From competitions to scripted reality TV. We could involve some of Vidal’s talent, which some might see as valuable.”
Jules’ brows lifted. “You’re thinking big. I do have to point out,beau-frère, that we’ve never been in the business of being inbusiness. We tear businesses apart and profit off the sum of their parts.”
“And what you’re proposing,” Claudette said, “will benefit Chris Vidal. As shareholders in the label, his children will profit, and his name will have value. He, too, can then profit from it. And Cross will also, through the hotels.”
Ronan’s foot tapped. “I don’t care about the rest of them. We came here to destroy one man, not everyone around him. We need to get Vidal to agree to a noncompete.”
“How do you intend to do that?” she asked.
“I’m not quite sure yet.”
