Escapade (9781301744510)

by Susan Carroll

  That startled Zeke a little. He had never thought Mrs. Van H. to be the stuff of nightmares, but he conceded, "I guess she must have come off seeming like a shrew to you, but—"

  "No! She's an evil woman."

  "Sure. Sure she is." Zeke patted Aurora on the shoulder. "But you don't have to worry about her. She's gone now and so are the police."

  This assurance calmed her a little. She relaxed, resting her head against him once more. She was every bit as soft and warm as he had imagined. Her womanly curves molded against him as though she were made to be in his arms. Once again he felt his blood quicken. It had been a long time since he had embraced a girl like this one, smelling of springtime and fresh Sunday mornings.

  He was beginning to enjoy holding her, consoling her, a shade too much. Perhaps she sensed that because she tensed and pulled free. She bolted off the bed, clutching the robe tightly about her.

  She eyed Zeke in a wary manner, which annoyed him. After all, he wasn't making any effort to come after her. He was no masher, and she was the one who'd been caught snuggled up on his bed.

  "How long have I been asleep?" she asked. "What time is it?"

  "Nearly seven."

  She winced and stole a look toward the windows, the pool of darkness beyond. "And Tony hasn't come yet?"

  "Your assistant? I'm afraid there has been no sign of him. But I am sure I can make other arrangements for you " Zeke started to rise from the bed, but she seemed so skittish, he remained where he was, leaning back, propping his weight against his elbows.

  She nervously fingered the edge of the robe. "Your maids haven't brought my clothes back yet."

  "No, I guess they haven't. How's your ankle?"

  "It's fine. You don't need to look at it," she said in a rush as she retreated another step. "I'm just still a little groggy. I didn't mean to fall asleep."

  "I'm glad you found my bed so comfortable."

  "Your bed! This is your room?"

  "Yep."

  She appeared ready to bolt for sure, either that or grab up the poker from the fireplace to defend herself.

  Zeke didn't know whether to be amused or irritated. "I have only been trying to show you a little hospitality after your accident." He levered himself to his feet. "So I would appreciate it if you would stop looking as though you thought I was about to rape you."

  "I'm sorry. But this is all a little embarrassing. I usually don't hug strange men."

  "Or steal into their beds?"

  His teasing comment only added to her discomfort.

  "I never meant to cause you such trouble," she continued. "You have been really nice, letting me use your bathtub and not turning me over to the police and all." She fretted her lower lip. "And I'm sorry that I shouted at you earlier."

  "If it comes to that, I guess I wasn't exactly speaking in dulcet tones either. It's refreshing for a change to meet a woman who bellows back at me instead of bursting into tears."

  This coaxed a smile from her. Zeke thought that he might be able to risk moving a step closer. "We got off to a bad start with this acquaintance, didn't we, Miss Aurora Rose Kavanaugh? Maybe we could just start over again."

  "Sure," she said, but she ignored his outstretched hand and took care to keep the dressing table chair in between them. Zeke didn't know what to make of her. She seemed as shy and innocent as his stepsisters had been, all those good girls who trooped off to mass, carrying their missals and rosary beads. And yet as a circus performer, Miss Kavanaugh could hardly be that naive, lacking in experience of the world.

  Before Zeke could say anything more, a knock sounded at the bedchamber door. He opened it to find Wellington on the other side, bearing Miss Kavanaugh's gown. The butler's poker expression was more annoying than if he had been wearing a smirk. Zeke took the gown from him and closed the door in his face.

  He carried the dress over to Aurora. She snatched it from him with an expression of real relief. She inspected the peach silk folds briefly and exclaimed. "Why, it looks almost as good as new. Your maids did an incredible job."

  Zeke agreed, though he could not help wishing that for once his staff had not been so damned efficient. He would have liked just a little more time.

  A weighty pause ensued in which she stared at him expectantly. It finally dawned on Zeke that she was waiting for him to leave so she could get dressed.

  "I'll send Maisie in to help you," he said.

  "Yes, I would be grateful. Thank you. Thank you for everything, Mr. Morrison."

  He nodded and backed toward the door. Why had it taken him until now to realize how pretty she was? Especially when she smiled, showing an even row of pearly teeth. He liked the way those freckles dusted across her nose; most women fought like the devil to keep the sun off their faces. He liked the quicksilver shade of her eyes, the way she met his gaze head-on, never fluttering her lashes like some fool coquette. And he definitely liked the way that blue silk clung to her curves.

  Zeke brought his thoughts up short and reached for the doorknob. It didn’t matter what he liked. In a few minutes she would be dressed. When her assistant arrived, she would gather up her balloon and be gone. He would never see her again. The thought left him feeling oddly let down.

  He shoved open the door and stepped out into the hall. He had not taken two steps away, when he halted. He didn't know what was getting into him, but something wouldn't permit him to keep on going. He spun on his heel and abruptly reentered the bedchamber.

  She had started to remove her robe, but she snatched it back to herself with a cry of alarm.

  "Uh, sorry," he said. "I just remembered something I wanted to tell you."

  She cocked her head to one side, cautious, waiting. It made it more difficult, for he was not sure himself what he had come to say, but he blundered on, "I was just thinking. I haven't had my supper yet and I'll bet you're hungry too. Maybe you could leave instructions for your assistant to take care of that balloon and we could go out for a nibble at some little restaurant."

  He could already see the refusal in her eyes, so he hastened to add, "I could take you back to the circus myself after—in my carriage."

  "I don't live at the circus."

  "Well, wherever—"

  "No, thank you, Mr. Morrison. I really couldn't. Besides the balloon, I have my passengers to see safely home and—"

  "I've already taken care of them," Zeke interrupted. "The newlyweds are launched on their bridal night, and I even apologized to your little minister and sent him off with a donation for his church."

  "That was very good of you, but as to having supper with you, I still don't think. . . " She trailed off with a shake of her head, clearly doubtful of his intentions. He couldn't blame her for that. Hell. He was not sure himself just what his intentions were.

  "Please," he said, groping for the words to convince her. "It would give us a chance to talk. I am very interested in—"

  She tensed.

  "In hot air balloons. I'd be fascinated to hear how they work. I've never had the good luck to meet with a-" What was it she had called herself earlier? "With an aeronaut before," he concluded.

  Zeke wasn't sure what he had said. He only knew it was the right thing, for she nodded in reluctant agreement.

  "All right, Mr. Morrison. I would be only too happy to tell you all about my balloons." Her lips curved with a strangely hopeful smile.

  Zeke wasted no time in fetching his evening clothes from the closet and bolting out of the chamber, not giving her a chance to change her mind. Before retiring to another room to attire himself for going out, he sent the parlor maid upstairs.

  Maisie helped Rory to dress with the same brisk efficiency she had exhibited before. Rory had no thought of resisting the girl's aid this time. She sat as docile as a child beneath Maisie's ministering hands, her mind preoccupied.

  "What have you gotten yourself into now, Rory Kavanaugh?" she muttered beneath her breath, already doubting the wisdom of having accepted Zeke Morrison's invitation. T
o be supping alone at a restaurant with a man she had just met, why, only actresses and Hootchie Cootchie dancers did things like that. Neither of Rory's parents would have approved.

  Yet this was the 1890s for mercy's sake. Suffragettes whose writings she read in the Tribune assured her that an era of new freedom was dawning for women. She couldn't be bound forever by the old-fashioned standards of her parents. She was the president of the Transcontinental Balloon Company. If there was any chance at all that she could interest a wealthy man like Zeke Morrison in investing in her company, she had to take it. Her father at least would have understood.

  But as Rory settled into a chair so that the maid could brush out her hair, she pulled a face. Who was she trying to fool? Da would have already wanted to shoot Morrison for what had happened in this bedchamber, the way he had crushed Rory, half-naked in his arms.

  But the man was only trying to be kind, Rory argued with herself, all the while feeling a heated blush steal up her cheeks. Comforting Zeke's embrace had been, the feel of his strong arms banding about her, holding her close. But too close for mere kindness, making her aware of his musky masculine scent, the sheer ruthless power of the man, the intensity of passions held in check within him.

  And for one moment, her heart had pounded in rhythm with his. For one alarming moment, she had not wanted to wrench herself away.

  Rory gave an involuntary toss of her head as though even now she were forcing herself to resist Zeke's embrace.

  "Did I hurt you, madam?" the maid asked, suspending the brush in midstroke.

  "N-no. Please continue," Rory said. The girl resumed her work, trying to be gentle, but Rory's hair was considerably tangled from her nap.

  It was all the fault of that wretched nightmare, Rory thought. If not for that dream, she would never have done anything so brazen as cling to Zeke. She had been foolish to allow herself to be so upset, but it had all been so close to one of her banshee dreams, only even stranger. The fear it had aroused still clung to her. She retained such a clear image of the moment she had lifted the phantom's hood, only to encounter that woman's cold eyes glittering back at her, their expression hard and empty—like the banshee's eyes, utterly without mercy. Irrational it might be, but Rory could not help believing a little in omens. She was just as glad she would never see Mrs. Van Hallsburg again.

  As for Zeke Morrison, perhaps it would be far better if it were likewise with him. She could go below and tell Zeke she had changed her mind, that she had a headache. Except that she would wonder forever if she had thrown aside her best chance to save her company and despise herself for a coward.

  Surely she had been in far greater danger when she had been alone with the man in his bedchamber, practically undressed. She had survived that—except for a few disturbing moments. What could happen to her in a crowded restaurant?

  The most Morrison could do was train his magnetic dark eyes upon her and devour her with his gaze. And in that case she would make it plain to him he had best satisfy his appetite on the roast turkey.

  She wasn't going to be dessert.

  Long before Rory finished dressing, Zeke was already on his way downstairs, straightening the cuffs of his white cambric shirt, picking a speck of lint off the lapel of his black evening jacket. He actually caught himself whistling as he took the stairs two at a time, a strange excitement quickening through his veins, an excitement such as he had not experienced for a long time.

  Wellington awaited him in the hall below, holding a silver tray.

  "Has Miss Kavanaugh come down yet?" Zeke demanded.

  "No, sir, but another caller has arrived."

  "Really? Who the hell would come bothering me at this hour?" Zeke glanced impatiently back up the stairs for any sign of Rory.

  "It is a gentleman, sir. I took the liberty of showing him into your study." The butler persisted until Zeke accepted the small white calling card laid out upon the tray.

  Zeke gave the gilt-edged card a cursory glance. Then he took a closer look at the name and stiffened.

  Charles Decker, Esq.

  "That's no gentleman, Wellington," he snarled. "That's a complete bastard. Throw him out on his goddamned ear."

  Wellington rarely displayed any reaction to his master's profanity. But this time his brows raised a fraction. "I beg your pardon, sir, if I erred. But I did think that Mr. Decker's name was on the list of people that Mrs. Van Hallsburg said should always be received."

  "This isn't Mrs. Van Hallsburg's house. It's mine."

  Even as he snapped at his butler, Zeke knew he wasn't being fair. For the past few months, he had allowed Mrs. Van H. practically carte blanche in ordering his social life.

  Of course, she would say Decker should be admitted. Charles Decker was a prominent banker and an old family friend of the Van Hallsburgs. But like most women, Mrs. Van H. had no real understanding of the world of politics. Thus she was completely unaware of the more unsavory aspect of Decker's character.

  Zeke crushed the calling card in his fist, annoyed that he should be plagued with the man tonight, but he said to his butler, "Don’t worry about it, Wellington. You look after Miss Kavanaugh when she comes down. Send her to me in the study. I'll see to Mr. Decker myself and it won't take long."

  "Very good, sir." At his most wooden, Wellington bowed and stepped aside.

  Zeke strode toward the study, trying to remind himself that he was supposed to be a gentleman these days. Gentlemen had more subtle ways of expressing their disapproval than using their fists. The only problem was that hurting some bastard's feelings wasn't nearly as satisfactory as giving him a good punch in the nose.

  Zeke shoved the study door open and found Decker in the far corner. The man had taken down one of the books and was thumbing through it. Decker was a middle-aged man of medium height, his thinning hair parted down the middle and slicked with oil of Macassar. His pin-check suit hung well upon him in that dapper fashion Zeke's own tailor had tried so hard for without success. Decker's clothes suited him to perfection, but a snake always fit his own skin quite well.

  Decker didn't look up until Zeke slammed the door closed. With a deliberate casualness, Decker shut the book and returned it to the shelf. He ambled forward to greet Zeke, a pleasant smile creasing his features.

  "Ah, good evening, Mr. Morrison." Decker extended his hand.

  Zeke ignored it. "Good evening, Decker. What the hell do you want?"

  Decker looked a little taken aback and then emitted a laugh. "You don't waste time on the social amenities, do you? Mind if I sit down'?"

  Without waiting for a reply, he settled himself into an armchair in one graceful, fluid motion. For all Decker's suave manner, Zeke could tell the fellow was ill at ease. One foot, elegantly shod in black-and-white patten, tapped against the Oriental carpet.

  Zeke perched himself on the edge of the desk. "Well?"

  The single barked syllable caused Decker to start. He recovered, his lips twitching as he struggled to maintain his pleasant demeanor. "I know we have our differences, Mr. Morrison. But I had hoped we could sit down like a pair of reasonable men and discuss—"

  "Cut line, Decker. Why are you here and more to the point, who sent you? Boss Kroker?"

  Decker stiffened with a semblance of affronted dignity. "Mr. Richard Kroker and I are certainly acquaintances. We are both privileged to be members of Tammany Hall. But I am not his lackey."

  Zeke sneered, not troubling to disguise what he thought of both Decker's assertion and Tammany Hall. Its members might drone on about the defense of liberties and the American way of life, and hold their silly initiation rituals, dressing like Indian braves, but for all that, the Hall was mainly a political machine, efficient, ruthless, controlling New York for the benefit of the sachems. The old days of Boss Tweed were remembered as bad, but under Richard Kroker's rule, the city government had reached new levels of graft and corruption.

  But Decker continued to deny that he was influenced by Kroker. "It was my own idea to approac
h you, Mr. Morrison. I am gravely concerned about a rumor that has reached me, that you have been supporting this man Addison,"

  "It's no rumor. It's a fact. Stanley Addison is a bright young attorney, a good Democrat. He'll make a fine mayor, don't you think?”

  "Not without the support of Tammany Hall."

  "There are other Democrats in this town besides your Tammany cronies."

  "Not enough to elect Mr. Addison. He is a reform candidate. They never do well at the polls. If you persist in contributing to his campaign, you will be flinging your money away, Mr. Morrison."

  "It's good of you to be so concerned about my purse. It's too bad you don't worry more about the city treasury, which you Tammany boys have a habit of dipping into."

  Decker flushed bright red. "That remark, sir, brings me to the real purpose of my visit. Your candidate Addison has been making similar libelous comments, flinging about unfounded charges of corruption and graft. Since receiving your financial backing, he has become even more reckless in his speeches. He has even made some slanders against me."

  "And you, such an upstanding member of the community," Zeke mocked. "The Commissioner for the Public Weal. A very comfortable little sinecure and profitable too. I can understand why you find Addison irritating, asking so many questions as he does, about what became of all the funds appropriated for new city parks, why, instead of libraries, the city gets more sweatshops and brothels."

  Decker shot dramatically to his feet. "Sir, your insinuations are intolerable. In another era, such words would have been grounds for a duel."

  "I'm a very old-fashioned fellow, Decker," Zeke said, edging off the desk, doubling up his fists. "I'd be more than happy to meet you round back.”

  As he stepped forward, Decker abandoned his blustering attitude. He retreated around the chair, resuming his ingratiating manner.

  "Mr. Morrison, I am sure you are; too fair-minded a man to accept all of Addison's accusations without proof."

  "We'll get the proof, never fear. We'll dig it out if it takes every last cent of my own money to do so."