Escapade (9781301744510)

by Susan Carroll

  Tentatively at first, then growing bolder, her fingers skimmed over him, exploring the taut contours of his skin, his muscles rippling like tensile steel beneath.

  He kissed her again, hard and fierce, but it was a fierceness that was belied by the tender way he eased her onto her back. Poised over her, he panted for breath and Rory could sense him trying to leash the passion that had been building in him.

  "You seem so small," he whispered, caressing back her tangled strands of hair. "Too fragile for me."

  Rory smiled up at him, her mouth trembling with desire. She would have thought that Zeke knew better than that by now. She would simply have to teach him. Gliding her hands over the expanse of his hair-roughened chest, she went lower still, daring to caress that most secret part of him.

  As Zeke's breath snagged in his throat, she wrapped her arms about his neck, and pulled him insistently downward, kissing him, her lips both pleading and demanding, restoring the urgency of his desire.

  There was no fear as she opened herself to him, only a throbbing need, a hushed expectancy as he eased himself inside her. She accepted everything, even the initial pain of his entry. Somehow it all felt so right, so natural that their bodies should join, become one, no more barriers between them, their hearts sure to follow.

  As Zeke moved inside her, that first pain gave way to a most exquisite pleasure. Rory moaned, writhing beneath him, half-closing her eyes, the image of his face flashing before her like streaks of lightning, his eyes dark, storm-ridden. Like the god of thunder she had once proclaimed him to be, he swept her off into a whirlwind of passion. Ever a creature of the skies herself, she matched his every movement, following him without fear.

  Zeke strained with all his will to go slowly, be gentle, but sweet Christ, Rory wouldn't let him, this tormenting sprite of a girl who seemed both angel and woman, earth and spirit. Her nails raked his back, her kisses hot, feverish as though demanding he hold nothing back, give all he had to give—not just the power of his body, but his heart, his very soul.

  The feeling was too strong to resist, and he was forced to surrender, the sweetest surrender he had ever known. His entire body shuddered with the release as he spilled his seed deep within her.

  Long moments after the storms of passion had subsided for both of them, Zeke lay collapsed upon Rory, his face buried against her neck, their thundering hearts still beating as one. By degrees, his pulse slowed to its normal rhythm, and he shifted, fearful he might be crushing her beneath his great weight. Gazing down at her, he saw that her lashes had fluttered closed as she strove to take deep, even breaths. She looked so slender, so pale, was likely even bruised from the force of his lovemaking. The first niggles of remorse ate at Zeke.

  "Rory," he murmured, stroking the velvety-soft line of her cheek. "You were a virgin. I shouldn't have."

  Her eyes fluttered open to regard him anxiously. "Why? Wasn't I any good at it?"

  The question, so outrageous, so thoroughly Rory, provoked him to laugh in spite of himself. He rolled over onto his back, pulling her with him, so that she now rested atop him, her hair spilling across his chest.

  "You were-" He paused, trying to find the words to tell her all the wonderful things she had been in his arms, but there were none adequate to describe all he was feeling in his heart.

  "You were incredible," he finished lamely, tangling his fingers in those glorious chestnut curls. "I only meant that for your first time, it should have been different. In a bridal suite with satin and roses and champagne, on the evening of your wedding day."

  "Pooh!" Rory raised herself, splaying her hands against his chest. She arched her head, looking down at him. "You're starting to sound like my friend, Gia, talking about weddings. Wouldn't I look silly all tricked out in a lace veil?'

  "You would look like an angel."

  "These are mighty strange remarks, coming from a man who once asked me to be his mistress."

  “That was when I barely knew anything except how badly I wanted you."

  "And do you still?" Her question came so soft he could barely hear it, the quiver of her lips betraying her sudden fear, her uncertainty.

  By way of answer, he tightened his arms about her, pulling her down for a long and very thorough kiss. If there only was some way to make her understand exactly how much he did want her for now and always. One look into her eyes was enough to rouse his desires all over again, desire and another emotion that cut so deep it frightened him.

  "Ah, Rory," he murmured, "There was a moment back there, when we were both in the sea, that I lost sight of you. I thought you were gone from me forever. If that had happened, I realized I would have lost everything and the sea might as well have taken me."

  When she raised her head to look at him, her eyes were misty, but she smiled. "What a silly thing for you to have worried about. Didn't I ever tell you that I visited a gypsy on Forty-second Street? She read my tea leaves and said I'm going to have a long life, at least a dozen children."

  "Banshees, fortune tellers," Zeke grumbled, but he returned her smile. "Is there anything you don't believe in?"

  "I like to keep an open mind." After a pause, she added, "I believe in you."

  Her statement made him uncomfortable, as Rory had feared it would. But in the depths of his eyes, she read a real gratitude as well.

  "Then marry me," he said huskily.

  "What?"

  "I want you to marry me. In a church with a priest, the lace veil, everything."

  For a moment Rory was too stunned to answer. Those times Rory had ever imagined herself receiving a proposal, she had always envisioned some fool dropped to one knee, an embarrassing and daunting prospect. Nothing should have been more embarrassing than hearing an offer of marriage lying naked in Zeke's arms. Yet somehow it seemed so right.

  As though fearing she meant to say no, Zeke rushed on. "You know I am a wealthy man, Rory. You wouldn't want for anything that money can buy, clothes, jewels—"

  "Oh, Zeke, Zeke," she said, trying to stem this tide of reckless promises, half-laughing, half-aching for him that he still did not realize he had so much more than money to give.

  "And that big house of mine," he continued, "There is more than enough room for a dozen kids.” His eagerness abated, a shadow of doubt clouding his face. "Though I'm not sure how good a parent I can be. I haven't much experience of fathers. I sometimes wondered what my own old man was doing when my mother was out tossing me into that trash can."

  Before Rory could begin to reassure him, Zeke flexed his jaw with determination. "But I know I can do better by my own kids than that. At least, I promise I'd always be there."

  Rory tried not to be swept away by the images his words painted: herself, Zeke, some cozy cottage spilling over with love, laughter and children. She was helped by the realization that Zeke was not talking about some snug little home, but that vast barracks of a mansion on Fifth Avenue.

  "What would all your rich friends think of your marrying someone like me?” she asked. "All those people you have been trying so hard to impress. I could never fit in, become a society hostess like your Mrs. Van Hallsburg."

  "To hell with Mrs. Van H. and her set. As if I ever really gave a damn about any of them. All I care about is you."

  Rory could tell he meant it, and that should have been enough for her, especially when she was ready to swear the same. But something held her back. Despite all her dreams, she was essentially more practical than Zeke. She could see problems, rising like ghosts between them, shades of the past not dealt with, both his and hers.

  For one thing, there was the Transcontinental Balloon Company. She wasn't sure how it fit into Zeke's rosy picture. She had a sinking feeling that it didn't. He appeared to have forgotten all about it. But she couldn't.

  All the same she hated to mention the balloons and stir up the inevitable discord that would follow, not with Zeke so eager, waiting for her answer.

  "You'll have to give me a little time to think," she said. "Th
is is all so sudden."

  She had disappointed him, but he appeared to understand. "As long as you remember, I'm not noted for my patience, but I appreciate that it wouldn't be too prudent to accept a fellow until you know for certain he's not going to be hung for murder."

  "Zeke, no! That has nothing to do with it."

  "Yes, it does, everything in the world. You have already become involved far more than I wanted. I would as soon keep you clear of the rest of this mess until I prove my innocence."

  "But you said you thought everything would be all right as soon as you got back to Fifth Avenue."

  "I've been doing some thinking about that, Rory. I'm not going home, at least not until I pay a call on Mr. Charles Decker."

  Zeke’s grim smile alarmed Rory. She knew full well how volatile his temper could be. She feared to see him cleared of one murder count only to end up arrested on another.

  "Then I'm going with you," she insisted.

  "No, you're not. That meeting will hardly be any place for you. I'm not planning to take tea with the man."

  "I know exactly what you have in mind, and you're only going to get yourself into more trouble."

  "You misunderstand me entirely, my dear. I intend to be quite civilized, just a little gentle persuasion until Decker confesses what he had done to Addison."

  "It will never work, Zeke. If Decker is the coward you say, he'll shriek for help at the sight of you. With a houseful of servants at his command, you'll be overpowered before you get near him.”

  "Then what do you suggest I do? I don't have any way to prove Decker is behind all this, just a gut feeling. That doesn't hold too well in a court of law."

  "Then we must gather some evidence that will."

  "And how do we begin to do that?" Zeke asked. "I'm no copper. Neither are you."

  "I don't know." Rory sat up, dragging her hands through her hair in frustration. But the glimmering of an idea came to her. "Zeke, the police aren't the only ones who do investigating. What about that reporter, the one who wrote the story about you for the World?"

  "Duffy?" He's nothing but an infernal pest."

  "Yes, but we both agreed it was odd that story should have been published so fast. If we could find out where Duffy got his information, we might get a link to Decker that way."

  "Maybe," Zeke said. Although she got him to agree that her plan had some merits, Rory could sense that Zeke was still more set on pursuing the confrontation with Decker.

  As he pulled her back down into his arms, Rory sighed. She could only hope she would better be able to persuade Zeke in the morning. Anchor Annie said there were tricks to managing men. Rory wished she had a few of them at her disposal.

  She wanted to beg Zeke to be sensible, to stay away from Charles Decker, but it was difficult to say anything with Zeke's lips melding to hers again. His arms closed about her, deepening the kiss, until she was unable to think, to remember that anything else mattered except the heated emotion Zeke aroused in her. The flames of desire stirred all over again, until both Charles Decker and New York seemed very far away.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Charles Decker had never thought his house on the avenue large or grand enough. Located a few blocks down from Central Park, it compared unfavorably with both the Vanderbilt and the Astor mansions.

  But tonight, the hall, with its cold marble floors and tall pillars, appeared too looming. A dozen doors led off of the foyer, chambers with exquisite furnishings, tapestries, shelves crammed with ancient vases and Grecian urns. But the glass cases housing the antiquities he collected with such a passion were nothing more at this moment than places for an intruder to hide.

  Clad in a satin smoking jacket shrugged over his shirt and trousers, his bare feet encased in leather mules, Decker crept through his own house, expecting Zeke Morrison to melt out of the shadows, his large hands lunging for Decker's throat.

  Decker gulped, longing to turn up all the gas jets, set the house ablaze with light, but he was too ashamed to admit to his own fears, so he took refuge in anger instead.

  Damn that fool O'Connell to hell. Decker had conceived a brilliant scheme that would have rid him of two political enemies at one stroke, and that stupid Irish policeman had bungled it, allowing Morrison to escape. Ever since the sergeant had disrupted Decker's dinner to break the news to him, Decker had been bathed in a cold sweat that rendered his palms clammy with perspiration.

  "Morrison got clean away, sir," O'Connell had said. "We had the warehouse surrounded, but he escaped."

  "What did he do?" Decker had shouted. "Sprout wings and fly away?"

  "No, saving your pardon, sir. He fled in a balloon."

  A balloon? A balloon for Christ’s sake! Even now, alone in the vast silence of his house, Decker had an urge to break into hysterical laughter. Morrison had always been known as the mysterious millionaire of Fifth Avenue. This would surely only enhance his reputation. How or why he had been able to arrange such a fantastic escape, Decker couldn't imagine. He only hoped the damned thing would crash and that Morrison would break his neck.

  Failing that, he wished the balloon would transport Morrison to the ends of the earth. But Decker feared that even if Morrison touched down in China, he would make his way back to New York with all speed and come looking for him.

  As Decker made his way toward the rear of his house, the region of the servants' quarters, he tried to shake off the notion. Such constant fear of Morrison's return was irrational. There was nothing to connect Charles Decker, Esq., to the sordid murder of Stanley Addison or the assault on Morrison by two street ruffians. But Decker feared that Morrison would know. He would recall the threats Decker had made in his office that day. At the very least, Morrison's suspicions would be aroused.

  Pausing outside the narrow hall that led to the kitchen, Decker rubbed his neck and swallowed. It was as though he could already feel the brutal grasp of Morrison's fingers closing on his windpipe. Morrison was the sort that would choke first, ask questions later. Not that it would matter much, for Decker had run out of plausible answers.

  When a rapping came at the kitchen door, he nearly started out of his skin, although he had been expecting this late-night visitor. All the same, the thought of unlocking any of his doors when he was alone in the house and unprotected, unnerved him. He could shout his head off for help and no one would hear him through these thick walls, not with all the clatter of traffic out on the avenue. He had always despised guns, so noisy and dirty, but he wished now that he owned some sort of firearm. As he tiptoed through the kitchen, the domain of his superior French chef, he cast his eye over a costly array of culinary weapons, the blades of knives kept razor sharp, gleaming in the glow of the single lamp left burning.

  He lingered long enough to possess himself of one just in case. As the rapping came again, a little more impatient this time, Decker moved toward the door. He nudged the curtain aside to peer through the latticed window, but the figure lurking upon the stoop was lost in shadow.

  Shooting back the bolt, he inched the door open, his sweat-slickened fingers tensing about the handle of the knife. The night breeze swept in, bringing with it the scent of perfume and the rustle of silk.

  Decker exhaled, some of his tension relaxing as he eased the door wider, permitting his visitor to enter. The willowy form was definitely that of a woman. Her clothing hidden by the folds of a black cape, her face by a dark veil, she seemed to have chosen her garb with a view to blending with the night, a most successful ploy. But nothing could disguise that regal carriage as she stalked across his threshold.

  Decker permitted himself a thin smile. He would wager this was the first time in her life that Cynthia Van Hallsburg had condescended to enter anyone's home through the kitchen door, but it had been her idea, not his.

  He did not greet her until the door was shut and securely bolted again. "Good evening, Cynthia." He moved to kiss her fingertips as always, but her hands were encased in a pair of black gloves she showed no int
ention of removing.

  "Aren't you quite the figure of romance,” he said. "Asking for a midnight rendezvous, insisting I give my servants the night off. Our dealings in the past have never required this degree of secrecy." He leered at her. "Can it be you have business of a more intimate nature in mind?"

  "Don't be any more stupid than you can help, Charles." Her voice came from the depths behind the veil, chilling him.

  He flushed at her snub, but told himself it didn't matter, Cynthia had never been his kind of woman. He preferred them younger, warmer, more easy to awe and intimidate.

  Yet when she removed her veil, revealing the aristocratic perfection of her features, the sculpted masses of ice-blond hair, he stared at her with grudging admiration. Nighttime was kind to Cynthia, the shadows soothing away those fine lines that revealed too much by the bright light of day. At this moment, she appeared little older than the youthful beauty who had stunned society at her coming-out ball some thirty years ago. Maybe he didn't desire her, but she possessed a mesmerizing attraction for him all the same.

  Her cool blue eyes swept over him, and she arched one brow in mocking fashion. "Taking over for your chef, Charles?"

  He didn't gather her meaning until he realized he was still clutching the butcher knife. "Why, no, I found this on the floor. Marceau is so careless." He returned the knife to the counter, all the while feeling uncomfortable, as though she could see right through him, as though she knew all the nervous tension he had been prey to these past few hours.

  He attempted to help her remove her cape, but she refused, saying, "Is it your intent to keep me standing in the kitchen all night?"

  "No, of course not."

  He tried to lead her toward his front parlor, but she frowned. "I prefer your study. The windows there open onto the back of the house."

  "I suppose they do," he said irritably. "But I don't understand this great need for secrecy. So what if someone should happen to see you calling upon me? Everyone knows we are old friends, aren't we?"