Zeke's arms were so sure, so strong, the only secure place in a world that spun giddily before her eyes. They might have been alone, dancing together in the dark, everything else so far away, the other couples, his mansion on Fifth Avenue, her balloon company. Only this moment seemed real, this man who held her so tight.
Tipping back her head, she stole a glance up at him. Even in the dim light of the dance hall, she could tell he was smiling at her. The lines about his eyes crinkled, the eyes themselves dark pools of mystery.
Rory stumbled a little, then giggled. "I'm awfully sorry. I guess my head's not so hard after all. You must think I'm a fool."
"What you are is a breath of fresh air."
"Pooh," she said. "More like a big wind, flattening your lawn."
He laughed and the rich deep sound seemed to echo through her heart. "No, you are the best thing that has happened to me in an age."
"You didn't think so at first. You wanted to toss me into the streets, remember?"
"That was because I was getting stuffy, as stuffy as those swells mincing about my lawn."
She laughed and when he spun her about in another slow, languorous circle, she felt absurdly happy. She scarce knew when the band finished up its last melody, or how Zeke guided her from the dance hall back to the street.
To her astonishment the sky over the city was already lightening to a hue of pearly gray.
"The sun's up," she crowed. "Zeke, we made it. We danced all night."
"So we did." His voice was laced with indulgence as he handed her up into his awaiting carriage. The landau was one of those open sporting vehicles, but Zeke had the folding top raised into position.
Rory settled back gratefully beneath its shadowy depths. Zeke vaulted inside, but he did not sit decorously opposite as he had earlier. He squeezed beside her, and she was glad of the warmth emanating from his long, muscular frame. Even with her cloak, the morning air was chill and her head suddenly felt so heavy.
Zeke's shoulder was just the right height for nestling, and she didn't even try to resist. As she settled against him, he wrapped one arm about her.
The carriage sprang into motion, and swayed by the gentle rocking, Rory closed her eyes. She sang snatches of My Wild Irish Rose, only stopping to murmur, "Dawn comes too soon over New York."
"Yes, it does," Zeke agreed. He gathered one of her hands into his own. "Rory, there is something I want to say. I have a proposition to make to you."
Proposition? The word sounded so businesslike. Vague remembrance drifted through Rory's head of her original purpose in coming out with Zeke tonight. But she had spent very little time talking about her company. She supposed she had tossed away any chance to recruit him as an investor. Therefore he surprised her by saying, "I am willing to make any settlement upon you that you would name."
"Settlement?" she repeated. "Is that the same as money?"
"Well, yes.”
Money? Money for her balloon company? It would seem she had made an impression upon Zeke after all. Despite the champagne still fuddling her brain, she pulled herself into an upright position.
"Oh, Zeke," she cried. "You've made me so very happy."
Overcome with her joy, she flung her arms about his neck. Zeke was not slow to respond, straining her close.
"Not nearly as happy as you have made me, Aurora Rose," he murmured, pressing light kisses against her hair.
It came as a shock to Rory when his lips found hers. She stiffened at first, startled by the contact, the unexpected kiss tearing through her like a flash of lightning. His mouth tasted of wine, so seductively sweet. Then what was sweet, what was gentle became fire, the dammed-up passion she had sensed in Zeke breaking free.
And God help her, the fever seemed to have spread to her, licking through her veins with tongues of flame. She had buried her fingers in Zeke's hair and caught herself returning the kiss with equal fierceness when she broke off, panting.
In some dim corner of her mind, it occurred to her that this was not the usual handclasp with which business contracts were sealed. But it was difficult to reason anything clearly with Zeke continuing his assault. His lips grazed against her temples, her cheeks, het chin, moving down to caress the column of her throat,
"Oh, Rory," he said. "I'll give you anything you want. A flat in Morningside Heights, your own carriage, a box at the theater, an account at Bloomingdale's."
"I don't need all that. Just enough to keep me front being evicted from the warehouse."
Zeke paused, his lips a breath away from hers. "Warehouse?"
"Yes, and Zeke-,” she managed to say somewhat unsteadily, "I’m not sure prospective business partners should behave this way."
He frowned, drawing back. "Warehouse? Business partners? What are you talking about?"
"Why, I'm not so sure. What are you talking about?"
"I am asking you to become my mistress."
His mistress! Rory jerked away, bumping her head against the back of the seat.
"We did agree that neither of us is the marrying kind," Zeke said.
Rory rubbed her eyes, feeling as if she were groping her way through a fog. "But what about my balloons?"
"You don't have to bother about them anymore. I wouldn't want you to keep on risking that beautiful neck." He stroked his fingers through the fall of her pair, brushing it back from her face. "Look, Rory, I know I'm no good at saying all the words a woman needs to hear. I guess I've been too blunt. All I can tell you is that I want you, possibly more than I've ever wanted any woman before,"
"Possibly?" she echoed, the full import of what he was saying sinking in. It had the sobering effect of a cold water bath. She did not know what outraged her more, the brusque manner of his proposal or his careless dismissal of her balloon company.
"Of all the conceit!" She spluttered, unable to find words strong enough to convey her indignation. "What the devil makes you think I would give up my company to become your mistress?"
He smiled at her then and began to draw her back into his arms. His expression was tender, but smug enough to snap Rory fully to her senses. Before he could kiss her again, she punched, clawed and kicked to be free. He released her so suddenly she toppled to the floor of the carriage.
Her lips still felt branded from the heat of his kiss, even more so by her own response. What was the matter with him, behaving like this with a woman he'd just met, practically a stranger? More to the point, what was the matter with her? Even now, in the midst of her anger, she felt drawn to him.
He reached down to haul her back onto the seat. "Come on, Rory," he said, his voice cool, but the fire still smoldering in his eyes. "There's no sense being coy about this. That first kiss told me all 1 need to know."
Rory struck his hand away "You-you're crazy!" she gasped, glaring at him through the tangle of her hair.
At that moment, the landau was obliged to give way to another vehicle crossing the intersection. Rory saw her chance and took it. As the carriage slowed, she flung open the door and rolled out to the pavement.
Encumbered by her skirts, she barely managed to land on her feet. Regaining her balance, she hiked up her hem past her ankles and tore off down the sidewalk.
"Rory!"
She heard Zeke shout her name, but she didn't look back. The sound of pounding feet told her that he was coming after her. She pushed harder, lengthening her strides although she was no longer sure whom she was running from, Zeke or herself.
He'd have done better to have pursued her in the carriage. Ever since her grammar school days, she had been able to outdistance any boy on her block.
But luck turned against her as she whipped round the next corner. A loose cobblestone caused her to stumble and twist the same ankle she had injured earlier. She let out a cry as the familiar throbbing pain shot through her limb.
Gasping for breath, she glanced wildly along the vacant street. Not a horsecar in sight at this time of morning. Not much of anything in sight but a milk wagon making its
rounds.
Rory hobbled forward, hailing the driver, a genial-looking old man with side whiskers. "Hey, mister. Could you give me a ride?"
The man appeared surprised to be accosted by a young woman in a silk gown and evening cloak, but he replied good-naturedly, "Well sure, but-"
"Thank you." Rory wasted no time scrambling up on the box. "Can we please go? I'm in something of a hurry."
At that instant Zeke came charging round the corner, looking as mad as thunder. The milkman nodded as though in comprehension of the situation.
"Why, the dirty masher! We'll give him a run for his money. Pestering innocent girls." The old man clicked both his tongue and the reins. The ancient brown nag hitched in the traces took off with an astonishing burst of speed.
So did Zeke. For one awful moment, Rory thought he might catch up to them. He managed to race alongside, his face flushed with the exertion, his lower lip caught in grim determination. In another second, he would be able to catch hold of the wagon and haul himself aboard.
In desperation, Rory loosed the cloak from her shoulders. Just as Zeke's hand closed over the wagon's wooden side, she flung the garment, catching him neatly over the head. Tangled in the cloak's folds, Zeke lost his grip, staggering back.
By the time he managed to extricate himself, he had lost any chance of overtaking Rory. Her last glimpse was of him planted in the middle of the road, hands propped on his hips. She couldn't make out what he was shouting at her, but that was likely just as well.
Rory sank back against the wagon seat, heaving a tremulous sigh of relief.
"There, that's all right, missy," the old wagon driver chuckled. "We diddled that young spark real proper. You won't be bothered by him anytime soon, I'll wager."
Rory said nothing. She didn't feel like betting on that. She was seized by a presentiment even stronger than her banshee dreams. Somehow she knew she had not seen the last of Zeke Morrison.
CHAPTER SIX
It was late afternoon by the time Zeke arrived at the Hoffman House Hotel for his meeting with Stanley Addison. One look at his face and most of the bellboys had the sense to stay clear of his path. Behind him, Zeke heard two of them whispering.
"Say, what d'ya think is the matter with Mr. Morrison? That scowl on his face is enough to wilt the daisies."
"Aw, you know these big tycoons, fretting about their money all the time. Probably one of his deals went sour. I'm glad I got no such worries."
"Yeah, ain't we the lucky ones!"
The pair of them clammed up at once when Zeke turned and shot them a killing glare. With nervous smiles, the bellboys hustled off to their task of gathering up the baggage of the incoming guests.
Which was just as well, Zeke thought, or he might have been tempted to bellow at the nosy pair. No, fellows, his problem wasn't money. It was that other root of all evil—a woman. As Zeke crossed the hotel's plush lobby, heading for the bar, his black mood showed no signs of lifting. He never figured himself for the kind of fool that would waste much energy in moping over some female.
When Rory had escaped from him earlier that morning, he had sworn and said good riddance. If she didn't want him, all she had to do was tell him no. She didn't need to go haring off as if he were Jack the Ripper.
He had taken himself off home and gone to bed. But after a few hours' restless sleep, he had arisen, still irritable but angrier at himself than her. What an ass he had made of himself. He'd never chased a woman through the streets before, not even in the wild days of his youth. For the first time, he began to entertain the suspicion that he might be the one to blame for the disastrous end to what had otherwise been an enchanted evening. Perhaps he had misinterpreted her response to his kiss. Perhaps he had misunderstood her remark about not wanting to be married.
Oh, what the hell difference did it make? Rory had exited out of his life as abruptly as she had made her entrance. It was best just to forget her. He ought to be thinking of nothing but his upcoming appointment with Addison.
Shoving open a large door, in which was an oval of frosted glass, Zeke entered the hotel bar. He was already having misgivings about his choice of a site for the meeting. If Addison did have some explosive new information about Decker and his cronies, as the garbled phone conversation had indicated, then it might have been better to talk in a more private place.
Mrs. Van H. had always told Zeke he should join one of the exclusive gentleman's clubs. They afforded excellent settings for discreet business chats. Zeke had actually gone so far as to put in an application with the Union Club, but after he had punched out a fellow down on Twenty-second Street for smacking some poor girl, Zeke's application had been politely refused. It seemed the club's august members didn't approve of brawling in the streets, not even for the most chivalrous of motives.
The hell with them then, Zeke had thought. As he glanced around the Hoffman House bar, he saw that it would do just as well. The crowd that usually flocked to the place to sample the bar's sumptuous free lunch—well, free except for the cost of a beer—were all long gone.
Two men lingered in a table by the corner, drummers by the look of them, with their natty attire and overstuffed valises full of sales samples. Other than that, the place was empty except for the bartender polishing glasses behind the counter.
The tips of his handlebar mustache waxed to perfection, a red garter banding one sleeve of his shirt, James P. Mulgrew flashed Zeke a welcoming smile.
"Afternoon, Mr. Morrison. Been a long time since we've seen you in here. How's life in the castle?"
"Tolerable, Mulgrew." Zeke leaned up to the bar, resting one foot on the brass railing.
"Your usual, sir?"
Zeke nodded, and the man scooped up a mug, turned on the tap, filling it up to the rim with a frothing cold beer. He slid it in front of Zeke with a practiced efficiency.
"Thanks." Zeke drew forth his pocket watch and consulted it. Quarter after four. He was a little late, but trust Stanley Addison to be later still, he thought with a frown.
Mulgrew seemed to sense that Zeke was not in the mood for idle chatter. He busied himself at the other end of the bar, for which Zeke was grateful.' Funny how the bartender at Hoffman House could still read his moods. It had been over two years since Zeke had lived at the hotel while his house on Fifth Avenue was under construction.
He had rented a suite of rooms on the fifth floor when he had returned from his self-imposed exile in Chicago. He had been gone a long time—eight years. New York had changed a lot and so had he. He hadn't been at all sure of the reception he would get back at the little flat on Pearl Street.
But Sadie Marceone had wept with joy to see him, a joy that hadn't lasted long. You would have thought she would have been glad to see him returned so successful after the mess he had made of his life in New York. Far from being impressed with his wealth, she had been frightened of it. He had to assure her he hadn't been robbing banks or anything. He had made a killing on the market, several good speculations that had paid off. He didn't tell her he had gotten his initial stake from working a gambling salon in Chicago. She would neither have understood nor approved of that. Instead he outlined his future plans, a real estate investment that he had gotten wind of that promised to double his wealth.
The little he did confide made her even more concerned.
"Money. God help you, Johnnie, that's all you talk about. It's made you so hard, driven, like nothing else matters, like getting more money is all that life is about."
"Well, I know a man can die from the lack of it," he had retorted. Or a woman. She had gotten much older since he
had left, more worn, more gray from her own struggle with poverty. He had wanted then and there to take her away from that wretched flat, install her in a grand house on the avenue. All she had wanted was to go to the church, light a candle and pray for his soul.
Zeke drained his mug, trying to shrug off the remembrance, which was as bitter as the dregs at the bottom of his glass. He called for a re
fill and then noticed that someone else had entered the bar while he had been lost in his memories. Unfortunately it wasn't Stanley Addison.
Zeke stiffened at the sight of the shock of red hair that was becoming like a beacon for trouble. Bill Duffy lounged up against the bar only a few feet away from him. When he caught Zeke's stare, the reporter had the brass to grin at him.
"You're getting to be a nuisance, you know that, Duffy?" Zeke growled.
"Hey, this meeting is purely coincidental." Under Zeke's skeptical gaze, Duffy abandoned his look of wide-eyed innocence. "Would you believe I trailed you here from Forty-ninth Street?" Zeke gave a snort of disgust. While Mulgrew refilled his glass, Duffy also put in an order for a beer. The bartender plunked it down in front of him, but apparently wary of extending the reporter any credit, he demanded instant payment.
Mulgrew's caution was justified. Duffy turned out his pockets. Except for a stray button, he came up empty-handed.
"Oh, just set it down to Mr. Morrison's account," he said.
When Mulgrew cast a dubious glance at him, Zeke grimaced and nodded his head. Duffy was an infernal pest, but his sheer bravado roused a grudging admiration in Zeke.
But he was less than pleased when Duffy grabbed up his mug and edged closer.
"All right, you've got your drink," Zeke said, "Now go sit down somewhere. I warn you now I am in no mood to be badgered with questions."
"No questions, just a friendly chat. I thought you might want to see this." Duffy dropped a folded newspaper on the bar in front of Zeke. From the banner at the top, Zeke could tell it was the afternoon edition of the New York World.
"My story's in there about that little excitement at your party yesterday. Balloon Girl Invades High Society. Not exactly front-page stuff, but they let me have a whole column."
Duffy started to unfold the paper, but Zeke checked the motion. The last thing he wanted was to see anything that would remind him of Rory Kavanaugh. Zeke started to thrust the edition away, then stopped, his eye caught by a headline on the front page.
Escapade (9781301744510) Page 9
