Rory raked her fingers through her damp hair in frustration. She sensed Morrison's butler staring at her and whipped about to face him. If the man had been wearing a smirk, he was quick to stow it behind a deferential mask.
"If you would he pleased to follow me, miss."
Rory wasn't pleased, but she didn’t see what else she could do. She had no doubt that Tony was tracking the course of the balloon, probably half out of his mind with worry. But it might be hours before he found her, what with having to bring the wagon back across on the ferry, and make his way through the uptown traffic.
In the meantime, she could not just stand here, dripping water onto Morrison's carpet.
"Lead on," she said to the butler with a gesture of weary assent.
As she hobbled up the stairs after him, Rory had to grit her teeth. The endless rise of marble did her ankle no good at all. She was almost sorry she had refused to let Morrison carry her.
She sighed with relief when they reached the upper landing. The butler opened one of the imposing doors that lined the hall and bowed her inside.
Rory stepped cautiously across the threshold, schooling her jaw not to drop open at the sight of the mauve and gilt bedchamber sprawled before her. An array of paintings, which would have looked more at home in an art gallery, hung on the walls. At the room's center stood a massive four-poster bed raised up on a dais. It could have been the state chamber of a king.
"Listen," Rory said. "Isn't there any place in this house a little less overwhelming? Maybe I could go down and sit by the fire in the kitchen."
But she discovered she was talking to herself. Wellington had already disappeared, discreetly closing the door behind him. Rory could only shake her head over the behavior of Zeke Morrison. One minute the fellow had been threatening to throw her into the street, and the next he was having her ushered into a chamber like this as though she were an honored guest. Well, she had always heard that millionaires were eccentric.
Before Rory had an opportunity to take further stock of her surroundings, the door opened again to admit two maids in starched aprons. Rory assumed they had come merely to light the fire in the grate for her, but she quickly realized the young women had other plans.
One bobbed into a brief curtsey and then moved to deal with the hooks on the back of Rory's gown. "Let me help you out of your wet things, madam. Maisie will draw your bath."
Madam? Her bath?
"Wait a minute," Rory ducked away from the girl. "I didn't exactly bring a change of clothing with me."
"We will provide madam with a robe while your gown is dried and mended."
"But I'm not one of the guests here-." Rory's protest died as she caught her first glimpse of the bathroom. The girl called Maisie was laying out thick towels while a cloud of steam rose from the largest clawfoot tub Rory had ever seen. Two people could have stretched out in it, side by side. And the water poured forth from a golden tap.
It was a far cry from her own chipped enamel basin, where she sat with her knees practically tucked up to her chin. Rory fretted her lower lip.
No, she couldn't. She should only be thinking of packing up her balloon and getting out of here. After the way she had wreaked havoc on Morrison's lawn and then quarreled with him, it wasn’t right to be accepting any favors from him.
Yet what could a bath matter to him? He was clearly as rich as Diamond Jim Brady. He probably had tubs like this in every room. And who knew when Tony would get here? They could not the balloon anyway until the storm passed.
Rory inched nearer the tub, trailing her fingers in the water. The steaming hot liquid felt as seductive as a caress. Every one of her aching muscles seemed to cry out to her, urging her on.
"Oh, what the hell," she muttered.
She permitted the maid to help her undress without further argument. The two girls gathered up her discarded clothing and left. But Rory hardly noticed their brisk departure as she eased herself down into the bathtub, closing her eyes in pure ecstasy.
"Ahhh!" Rory leaned her head back, resting it against the porcelain rim. She stretched out for a time, enjoying a blissful soak. Even her ankle began to feel better. With great reluctance, she forced her eyes open and reached for the bar of soap.
As she lathered her legs, she still marveled at the size of the tub. Her toes couldn't even touch the other side. Morrison probably had everything in the house designed to fit his own towering proportions.
She had no difficulty picturing him sprawled in the depths of a tub like this one, the way the dark damp hair would curl on the expanse of his broad chest, the water lapping against the tautly honed muscles of his belly and lower-
Rory checked her wayward imagination with a hot blush. What was the matter with her? She didn't usually go about conjuring up images of naked men. She began to scrub herself more vigorously, attempting to blot all idea of Zeke Morrison from her mind. But once she had allowed him to invade her thoughts, she couldn't seem to be rid of the man.
What a strange fellow he was. He didn't fit her notions of a millionaire, the kind Angelo was always reading about to her from the newspaper, who had a house on Fifth Avenue, racing yachts at Newport, a box at the Opera. With his quick temper, his hearty laugh and his burly shoulders, Zeke reminded her more of a stevedore or a wagon driver, rubbing down his horses, hanging about Tony Pascal's music hall, getting into fights of a Saturday night.
From his snapping dark eyes to that rock-hard jaw, the man bore an intensity about him that had made all those sedate guests of his seem as faded as last summer's flowers. And what was his connection to that Van Hallsburg woman, an icicle if Rory had ever seen one?
Obviously some sort of intimacy existed between them. Could she possibly be his mistress? Rory found the thought disturbing, even more than that—repulsive.
But the woman must be well acquainted with Zeke to attempt handing out orders in his house. Mrs. Van Hallsburg might be belowstairs even now arguing that Rory should be turned over to the police. Perhaps Zeke might listen. No. Quick-tempered Morrison might be, but somehow Rory could tell there was nothing mean-spirited Or vindictive about him. On the other hand, that Mrs. Van Hallsburg-.
A shudder coursed through Rory and her bath no longer seemed quite so soothing. The water had grown tepid. Clambering out of the tub, she toweled herself dry. Gingerly she tested her ankle, putting her full weight on it. It was still sore, but at least somewhat better.
She reached for the satiny robe the maid had provided and shrugged herself into it, belting the sash about her waist. The garment, with its batwing sleeves, was in pristine condition, likely never worn and purchased solely for the intention of entertaining the casual overnight guest.
Imagine anyone being that rich they could hand out spare robes like bonbons. For a moment, Rory felt a twinge of wistfulness. Not that she envied Morrison the splendors of his mansion or even that fantastic bathtub. But she bet what he had spent furnishing this one room alone would have been enough to save her company.
Morrison could probably finance a dozen balloon companies if he wanted to. Pity she had made such a terrible first impression on him. She could well imagine what his reaction would be if she attempted to sound him out as a possible investor in the Transcontinental Balloon Company.
Now that you have seen exactly what balloons can do, Mr. Morrison
He would either laugh in her face or toss her into the street for sure. With a rueful grin, Rory banished the absurd notion from her mind.
Making certain the robe was secured, she crept out into the bedchamber. Neither of the maids had returned, but it was unreasonable to expect them to have dried out her gown so soon.
Still, as the minutes ticked by, Rory came to regret her decision to part with her clothes. Being decked out in only the robe kept her a virtual prisoner in the bedchamber. The waiting began to seem interminable, and she grew anxious, noting the deep hues of twilight gathering outside the window, the way the rain still pelted against the glass.
&
nbsp; What if Tony couldn't find her? No, she was being silly. Tony always managed to track the course of the balloon.
To occupy her time, Rory paced about studying the room's pictures, furnishings and especially that mammoth bed beneath its canopy. Lord almighty, how did anyone ever sleep on such a thing? It would be like cuddling up for a nap inside of a museum. Rory stole a half-guilty glance about her. Although she felt like an urchin sneaking about in a palace, she couldn't resist.
She boosted herself up onto the bed and sat down, testing the springs with a small bounce. The mattress was firm, much more so than her own bed, worn so comfortably to the contours of her body.
Rory stretched herself out flat, arms at her sides, the brocade coverlet stiff beneath her. She stared up at the canopy looming over her head. This bed would definitely not be conducive to a good night's rest.
But having assured herself that it was a thoroughly wretched place to sleep, Rory was reluctant to move.
She hadn't realized until this moment just how tired she was. What a horror the day had been. She would be lucky if Dutton still paid her for that disastrous balloon flight. She would be lucky if she could mend the Katie Moira. She would be lucky if she didn't lose her balloon company after all.
Well, then, if luck was what it would take, so be it. If she believed hard enough, she would always find a way. The eternal optimism of the Kavanaughs. It was the one legacy Da had left her that would endure forever.
Smiling at the thought, Rory felt her eyes drifting closed and jerked them open. She really should stay awake. She would be embarrassed to death if anyone found her testing out the mattress. What if it should be Wellington or worse yet Morrison himself?
Here she would be curled up in bed, clad in nothing but this clinging robe. The thought disturbed her enough that she struggled into a sitting position. She remembered that that unexpected warmth in Morrison's eyes when he had gazed at her earlier.
What if he had planned this whole thing, to get her upstairs and in bed undressed? What did she know about the man really? No more than the rest of the world. Even the newspapers had dubbed him a man of mystery.
But she knew plenty about Rory Kavanaugh. For one thing, she couldn't imagine herself the object of any man's lust, especially not as she must have appeared to Morrison, about as desirable as a wet mongrel fished from the gutter. And for another, she knew she could handle any masher. Sometimes the lads who hung about her warehouse got a little fresh and she was quick to put them in their place.
Dismissing her fears as ridiculous, Rory yawned and lay back down. The thought did surface that Zeke Morrison might not be so easy to handle as the dockside boys, but Rory gave it only brief and drowsy consideration. Besides, it didn’t matter. Morrison wasn't going to catch her in bed. No one was. In another few minutes, she was going to move. In another few minutes, she would thrust her head out into the hall and shout for the maid. In another few minutes. . .
In less time than that, Rory was fast asleep.
CHAPTER THREE
The police were gone. The officers had been understandably annoyed to find themselves summoned out in the rain for no particular reason, but Zeke Morrison had placated them with a few jokes and an invitation to enjoy the hospitality of his well-stocked kitchen. The policemen left with no further difficulty. Zeke was not surprised.
One thing he had always excelled at, he thought wryly, was dealing with the police. The two hundred¬some guests, the cream of New York's social register stuffed into his drawing room, were another matter.
Even from where he lingered in the hall, Zeke could hear the hubbub of voices. The accents, normally so well-bred, were raised in pitch, some of them even shrill with outrage and shock. But as flustered as his guests were, Zeke counted it an improvement. Earlier that afternoon, he had been yawning behind his hand. All those perfect ladies and gentlemen gathered on his lawn had displayed as much animation as the marble statue gracing his fountain- that is until Miss Kavanaugh's balloon had come swooping down.
Since no one had been killed or seriously injured, Zeke could afford to be amused by the disastrous end to his fête. Aurora Rose Kavanaugh might be a spitfire and a little crazy to go flying about in that contraption, but Zeke had to give her credit for one thing. She had certainly livened up an otherwise dull party.
He supposed he ought to march into the parlor and play the urbane host, soothing, calming and apologizing. What he really wanted to do was to strip out of his suit, and take a long soak in a hot bath. His wet clothes were drying to a state of stiff dampness that was damned uncomfortable.
The suit was probably ruined, but Zeke hadn't liked it much anyway. His tailor had assured Zeke that the silk striped vest and close-fitting jacket would give him a dapper appearance, just like any of those young sprigs who had gone up to Harvard. But the transformation had never taken place. He had the tough exterior of a prizefighter, and his muscular frame threatened to burst the silk's flimsy seams.
Zeke couldn't wait to toss the suit into a heap and get into something more comfortable. Surely he could leave the cosseting of his guests to his redoubtable butler Wellington and the charming Mrs. Van Hallsburg. This infernal party had been all Cynthia's idea anyway.
Even as he considered this appealing notion, Zeke frowned. If he abandoned his role as host, Mrs. Van H. would likely be even more irritated with him. Not that Zeke feared any woman's wrath, but he owed Cynthia Van Hallsburg a great deal for her help these past months in opening the doors to New York society. Zeke Morrison was a man who always paid his debts.
He reluctantly headed for the drawing room, but a situation arose that required more immediate attention. Someone was hammering on the front door. When a harried parlor maid opened it, Zeke was not altogether surprised to see a representative of the press standing on the doorstep.
Nothing of interest could take place at Morrison's Castle without bringing the reporters out in droves, and none of these newsmen was more persistent than Mr. William Duffy of the New York World.
Wellington would have barred the fellow admittance, but the bold red-haired reporter easily slipped past the little parlor maid. Duffy's sharp features lit up as he spied Zeke paused outside the drawing room. He crossed the hall in three quick strides, his faded brown coat dripping rainwater with every step.
"Mr. Morrison! Just the man I wanted to see."
"The feeling isn’t mutual," Zeke replied. "What the hell do you think you are doing, barging in here?"
"Oh, Mr. Morrison," the parlor maid wailed. "I tried to keep him out."
"That's all right, Maisie. You go help Wellington with the tea. I can look after Mr. Duffy." Zeke spoke softly, but his voice had enough of an edge that the reporter took a wary step backward. As the relieved parlor maid scuttled off, Duffy flung out his hands in a placating gesture.
"I'm here on legitimate business this time, Mr. Morrison. I came to cover your party for my society editor." Duffy produced a small notepad and pencil from his inner breast pocket. He moistened the pencil tip with his tongue and affected to write. "Now what did Mrs. Van Hallsburg wear today—puce?"
Zeke glowered and snatched the pencil away. "Get out of here. Don't you have anything better to do than hang about my house and bother me?"
"No." Duffy grinned. "Like it or not, you are news, Mr. Morrison. The mysterious tycoon of millionaire's row. You can't just breeze into this town, buy up a whole block, build yourself a castle, and expect not to attract attention."
Zeke sucked in his breath with an impatient hiss. He collared the reporter and propelled him back toward the door.
"Ow! Watch the coat, Morrison. I still owe money on it, and I already near split my pants climbing your fence."
"You're lucky I don't split your head."
"All right then. All right! I didn't just come to cover the party. I was down at the police precinct and heard there was some sort of an accident out here—something about a balloon crash. Did you hire it for your party?"
"
No. I don't provide my guests with cheap circus entertainment."
"Hey, what's wrong with cheap entertainment? I like it."
There had been a time in his life when Zeke would have agreed with him. That he had come across sounding like the kind of snob he despised only added to his annoyance.
As Zeke yanked open the massive front door, Duffy made one last desperate plea. "Aw, come on, Morrison. Do a fellow a favor. Give me a leg up in my career. Just one little interview."
He tossed out a spate of breathless questions. "Is it true you made your money running a gambling establishment in Chicago? What about the rumor that you were once a New York boy? How about the gossip that you were involved with gangs on the East Side like the Dead Rabbits?"
"You're going to be a dead duck if I ever catch you trespassing again." Zeke started to shove him out, but Duffy clung to the door jamb.
"It's raining buckets out there. You wouldn't throw a fellow creature out into a storm, would you?"
Zeke would and did.
Duffy went flying, but managed to regain his balance before he fell. Turning back, he glanced toward Zeke, his grin undiminished by the rain beating down on his head.
"Never mind, Morrison. I'll get my story somehow."
Turning up his collar, Duffy bounded down the steps, his cheerful exuberance quite unimpaired. As irritated as he was, a half-smile escaped Zeke. Duffy might be as annoying as a green-head fly on a hot day, but brashness and persistence were qualities that Zeke had always admired, perhaps because he possessed a measure of both himself.
Zeke watched until he made sure that Duffy did actually exit from his property, going through the iron gate and down the street. He eased the door closed. Just as the latch clicked into place, he heard a cool feminine voice calling from behind him.
"John ?"
He swiveled to observe the woman haloed in the light of the hall chandelier. Everyone else might be damp and disheveled, but Cynthia Van Hallsburg was still a vision of perfection in her silvery-blue frock, the color in tune with her white-blond hair, the pale blue of her eyes. The Ice Goddess—that was the name the society columns had dubbed one who had long been a reigning beauty among New York's upper set.
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