“I can see you don’t want to hear this now,” she said bitterly. “The new love affair is too grand. You’re in rut for her, and who could blame you? Attracted as you are by low types. Well, play it out, at least until she shows her true colors, but be warned. I will not wait forever.”
“Thanks for the warning,” he said.
Latitia pulled her coat around her. “No need to see me out. I’m meeting some—oh, here he is now,” she said, smiling at Frederick Van Buren. “Ta ta, darling.”
Latitia took Frederick’s arm. She enjoyed the feeling of physical power that emanated from him almost as much as the look of chagrin on Chane’s face as she turned away. Let him stew. As soon as he’d stopped returning her calls, she had started doing some snooping of her own. She’d discovered that Jennifer Van Vleet was the reason for his lapses. A few more contacts revealed that Jennifer had had a brief affair with Frederick last year. Latitia decided that since Chane seemed determined to have an affair with Jennifer, she might as well back off until he got it out of his system. When Chane tired of that anemic little bird, he would be back. In the meantime, just in case, she would find out as much as she could about Frederick and Jennifer’s romance.
Frederick took her to his apartment, which was little more than a place to eat and sleep. They talked for an hour about his career. Latitia knew exactly what he was hoping for from her, and she led him on. He had a reputation among her married friends as a man who knew his way around a woman. He held no fear for her, though. She knew her way around a man. She’d learned from her mother, who was one of the most successful of her time. Latitia had become curious about her parents and their relationship. By age ten she had become an accomplished sleuth, spying on them night and day. The moment that changed her life came after an afternoon of bickering between them. Latitia followed them upstairs and hid in her secret place, pressing her ear against the wall of their bedroom.
Her father continued to bicker at her mother. Suddenly, clear and strong, she heard her mother say, “Conrad, take your pants down.”
Her father was silent for a moment. “You think that will solve this problem?”
Her mother gave a low, confident laugh. “It’s solved all the others. Why not this one?”
Latitia heard the sound of clothes rustling and then she heard moans. Her father was a contented man the rest of that day. At barely ten years old, she realized that sex was the most powerful tool in the world. And once she had made that discovery, she spent all of her spare time figuring out how to use it. Unlike her friends, who were terrified of the very subject, she immersed herself in it. By the time she was twelve, she had seduced the handyman into building her a better spying place. She watched her mother’s every move and noticed what worked and what didn’t. Then she seduced the butler into becoming her ally. Shortly, she had a secret network of men who would do anything she asked. Sex was power, and she was the master, not the victim, as most of her friends appeared to be. She learned how to avoid pregnancy, how to lead any man anywhere, how to get what she wanted, and how to deliver anything a man wanted—for a price. It was never money. Always power.
Frederick glowed with the attention she was giving him. He was almost too easy a conquest. He would have sold his soul for a powerful sponsor who would assure him of star treatment at a fine ballet company.
“So,” she asked, leaning forward to fondle his cheek, “how big shall we have them make the star on your door?”
“Big!” he said, grinning.
“This big?” she asked, reaching down to feel his manhood. Under her groping hand it swelled to twice its former size.
“Bigger,” he said, his voice showing both surprise and passion.
She fondled him again. “This big?” she asked as it continued to swell.
“Yes…yes.”
Latitia laughed. The ambitious young dancer had forgotten what they were talking about. His hand came up to squeeze her breast. His breath was coming faster now. She allowed him to roll her off the sofa and onto the floor, kissing her passionately the whole time.
She ended the kiss and whispered, “You have a beautiful body. I want you naked.”
Swelling with pride, he helped her stand. She pressed him close and kissed him deeply. A satisfying jolt of energy passed between them. They tore off their clothes, kissing and whispering nonsense all the way to the bedroom. Frederick was passionate and strong. He made love to her four times before he rolled off her, mumbled something, and fell into a deep sleep.
This was what she had been waiting for. Latitia lifted his arm and slid away from him. She washed quietly over the washbowl and dressed herself with Frederick snoring softly on the bed behind her. Then she methodically searched his bedroom. She rummaged through the chest of drawers and then the armoire, looking for anything Jennifer might have left behind.
In a book hidden in the bottom drawer of the armoire she found a packet tied in brown paper. She untied the string and lifted out photographs. The room was too dimly lit. She walked into the parlor and turned up the lamp. The photographs were of Jennifer Van Vleet and Frederick Van Buren naked.
Latitia knew from her cousin Derek that one of the first things men did with the new, faster cameras was to capture naked women on film. It was all the rage. Photographs of naked women were highly prized. She knew because she had found Derek’s photographs and teased him about them. He said most of the women photographed were professional models or prostitutes, but apparently a few so-called good women were letting themselves be talked into posing as well.
“Thank you, God,” Latitia whispered, slipping the photographs into her purse. Then she walked back into the bedroom, leaned down and kissed Frederick lightly on the cheek, and let herself out the front door.
Five-thirty. Chane stood up and walked carefully around his desk. He checked his reflection in the mirror. He looked like she’d already told him the bad news. Steve joined him. In the lobby, a young man nodded at him, but Chane was lost in his own thoughts and didn’t respond. As the attendant closed the elevator door, Chane saw Steve grimace.
“What was that?” Chane asked.
“The man you just cut?”
“I didn’t cut him. I just didn’t react in time.”
“That was Jennie’s brother, and I don’t think he made that fine a distinction. I was watching his face after he passed you.”
“Damn. Stop the elevator,” Chane directed.
Edwin, the operator, reached for the lever to stop the lift, but the braid on his sleeve caught on one of the exposed gears. By the time he untangled his sleeve, the lift had risen to the second floor.
Chane ordered Edwin to return to the main floor, but by then Jennifer’s brother was nowhere in sight.
“Damn!” Chane muttered under his breath.
Chapter Eleven
Bellini watched Jennifer Van Vleet, and a smile started at his toes and filled his entire body with energy. She had lied to him. Only a week ago Jennifer said she did not have the maturity to dance the role of Juliet in the Shakespearean ballet, yet today she danced as if she knew that Juliet embodied eternal woman, hopelessly in love in spite of everything. The enmity of the Montagues and Capulets meant nothing to her.
The Juliet before him bespoke a creative maturity he found amazing in one as young as Jennifer Van Vleet. He had known other dancers who found this level of identification with the heroine only at the end of their careers.
He remembered it was only rehearsal, and prayed she could re-create this mood during the show tonight. Other dancers looked askance at him, waited for him to call for a break. He ignored them. As Jennifer danced, Juliet’s tragedy was clearly revealed to him and, he felt sure, anyone else watching.
When he could ignore a mistake by Simone no longer, he rapped his cane on the floor and showed her how she was supposed to execute her entry, then worked with Bettina, who had a tendency to get lazy.
Bellini stepped back and nodded to Jennifer, and she resumed her role as effortles
sly as before. She breezed through the surprise and excitement of the first ball, the ecstasy of the first tryst with Romeo, the beauty and chasteness of the marriage ceremony, even the conquest of fear at the deathbed.
No matter how many times he had to stop the rehearsal and restart it because some minor dancer had forgotten her place, or leaped forward when she should have leaped backward, Jennifer’s rendition of Juliet remained clearly drawn, beautifully understated, and thoroughly alive. Bellini could barely contain his excitement.
Never had he let a rehearsal play through from beginning to end, but he could not help himself with this one. He let things pass, just to continue watching Jennifer’s complete absorption in her role. Dancers looked at him questioningly from time to time, but most were as caught up in Jennifer’s portrayal of Juliet as he.
Chane watched from the wings. He had wanted to wait in his office or upstairs, but he couldn’t. So he had finally given in and come down to watch the rehearsal. At least he’d know what time the ballet company broke for dinner. If he were upstairs…
Simone Marcelline, arms over her head, danced her way off stage en pointe. Taking a deep breath, she walked over to Chane. “Jennifer is possessed, non?”
“What’s happening?”
One of the stage hands tossed Simone a towel. She wiped her hot face. “Who knows? Bellini is mad, a lunatic. He has almost killed all of us. Perhaps Jennifer has caught his madness. She dances like one possessed. Perhaps we will have to have her exorcised by the priests. But she is so beautiful.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be out there?” His own gaze went back to the spectacle of Jennifer, about to take the poison over the body of Romeo. Her portrayal quickened his heart and made his chest ache. He reminded himself that this was only a story, and that Jennifer was not about to die. But his chest had been aching ever since he had talked to her earlier.
Simone’s voice brought him back to reality. “But of course, it is only rehearsal. No one will know or care. Not with Jennifer dancing in this fashion. The rest of us are only window dressing.”
Chane glanced at Simone and was surprised to see her eyes shining with tears, her forehead puckered with the effort not to cry.
He had thought Jennifer was dancing brilliantly. Simone’s reaction, mirrored on the faces of others who watched from the wings, confirmed it.
Jennifer pantomimed raising the goblet filled with poison to her lips. Chane held his breath while she drank it and slipped into the posture of death. An unexpected vise clamped around his heart. This was only a ballet, and yet his throat ached as if both Juliet and Jennifer had died. Beside him, Simone sobbed once and dissolved into tears and audible crying.
“Jesus!” Chane muttered. He’d never realized that ballet could be such an emotional experience. Bellini stood up from his seat in the fifth row and applauded. The opera company joined him. Chane clapped loudly, needing the release it offered.
Jennifer rose, bowed low, and tried to walk from the stage. The male dancer who had played Romeo rushed after her, caught her hand, and led her back to center stage.
“This is only rehearsal,” Jennifer protested.
The young man shook his head. “Perhaps for you.” He held her hand and presented her to the imaginary audience as if they were in their seats, stamping for an encore. Jennifer laughed, shook her head at the absurdity of it, and slipped her fingers out of the young man’s hand. The other dancers, many wiping away tears, crowded around her. Bellini rapped his cane.
“Show time at eight.”
Chane stepped forward to block Jennie’s path. “You must eat something after that incredible performance. I had Mrs. Lillian prepare a light supper. We can eat in my suite.”
Jennifer felt her legs buckling under her, but Chane’s need to be with her exceeded her need to evade him. She nodded.
He followed her to her dressing room, helped her into her dressing gown, and led her through the back way to his private elevator. He didn’t try to talk to her. He knew something had changed, and he wasn’t ready to hear what it was.
The table before the fireplace had been set with gold table service. Light from the fire added a golden glow to the crystal goblets and warmed the bone china plates. Serving dishes gleamed on a mahogany and brass rolling cart beside the table.
Jennifer took in the elegance and abundance, and her stomach lurched. She would not be able to eat, but she allowed Chane to seat her.
His warm hand lingered on her shoulder. He had probably meant only to brush her bare skin in passing, but his hand quivered as if it could not bring itself to break contact. Jennifer closed her eyes. An ache spread out from her heart and encompassed her entire body. While she had danced, she’d forgotten everything except the world of Romeo and Juliet. Remembering Chane and the way she had chosen to solve her problem, she felt darkness filling her body and mind.
“Please, Jennie. Tell me what’s wrong,” he said softly.
“What?” The question was not unexpected, but Jennifer’s mind refused to comprehend it. She turned and her elbow hit the crystal goblet, knocking it over, spilling the wine.
“Oh, no!” She reached for her napkin to dab at the reddish liquid soaking into the rich, dark blue lace of the tablecloth.
“Leave it,” he commanded, taking the napkin from her, then taking her hands and lifting her to her feet. “We need to talk.”
His face told her he knew she had made a decision. His eyes had lost their sparkle. An ache spread into her, then oddly turned to joy, knowing that he suffered, too. Part of her seemed to come alive.
“You’ve got something to tell me,” he said.
She wanted to escape so she would not have to say the words that would drive a permanent wedge between them, but she knew she was trapped. Before tonight, before Bellini’s standing ovation, she had still entertained the idea of telling Chane she would marry him, bear his children, and love him forever. But she had seen proof of her talent in Bellini’s face. It produced a joy in her that delivered a death blow to her other hopes and dreams. She was a true prima ballerina.
The talent she had honed and struggled to attain had finally evolved into something that even she could ascertain. She would have an opportunity few other ballerinas ever hoped to have. She had felt it inside her tonight. She had prayed for this gift for too long to turn her back on it now.
And yet she could not remember what she had decided to say to Chane, who obviously loved her. His dread of hearing the words that would doom their love was almost audible.
“It’s over, then?” he whispered.
Jennifer nodded.
“What happened?”
Her mind made no picture of what had happened. She could not remember why she was ending their love affair, or if she had been in love at all.
Chane pulled her close and held her. Her body reacted as a dry sponge reacts to water, soaking up his warmth and vitality. Tears slipped down her cheeks. “Oh, Jennie, love,” he whispered. “Tell me what I did. If you would just tell me…”
She could control herself no longer. A sob shook her body. He enfolded her more tightly. “Jennie, for God’s sake, tell me what’s wrong.”
Her hand closed around a small lump in her pocket. Tears welled up in her eyes.
Last night Bettina had given her the address of an herbologist only three houses from the grocery store where the Van Vleet cook shopped. Early this morning on her way to the Bricewood she had stopped at the woman’s house. She now had a small wad of cotton root bark and instructions for boiling a tablespoon of the bark in a quart of water. “Only take one swallow at a time. And no more than a cup a day. Else it might kill you,” the old woman had said. Bettina swore by it.
“I’m dying.” Where did those words come from?
Chane held her away from him and searched her face. “You’re what?” His hands bit into her shoulders. “What? Tell me.”
A knock sounded on the door.
Chane looked as though he was going to ignore it.
“You’d better answer it,” she said.
“Tell me,” he urged.
The knock came louder, more insistent. The loud knocking and Chane’s intensity befuddled her so thoroughly she couldn’t think. She blurted out the truth. “I’m expecting.”
Relief showed clearly on his face. “Thank God! I thought you really were dying.” A warm light rekindled in his green eyes. He pulled her back into his arms. Jennifer tried to figure out why she had handled this so badly, but her heart was pounding.
The knock sounded again, louder still.
Chane lowered her feet to the floor, steadied her as if she had not been landing on her feet for years, and touched her cheek with his right hand.
“I love you, Jennie. I know you think this is a terrible problem, and, momentarily, I’ll grant you it is, but it will be a joy and a blessing long after it stops being a problem.”
His hand dropped from her cheek to press lightly over her belly. “Tell your mother not to worry, little one.”
He was the boldest, oddest man she had ever known. Not even her father, who was notoriously odd, had ever talked to an unborn baby and acted as if it could hear.
Chane stalked to the door and opened it. Steve looked grim. Chane stepped out into the hall.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Steve said. “But I need to talk to you about something right away.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Chane asked.
“No,” Steve said, clearing his throat nervously. “Meet me in the office.”
Chane sighed. “All right. But give me ten minutes with Jennie first.”
Steve nodded and left.
Chane returned to the room. His hands encircled her waist as he turned her to face him. “We have to talk, Jennie…”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I shouldn’t have told you. I don’t know why I did.”
“You should have told me. You did the right thing. Tonight, after your performance, we’ll talk,” he said firmly, looking into her eyes. “Tomorrow’s your day off. I have to be in Washington, D.C., by noon the day after tomorrow. I’m going to sail there. You’ll come along so we can talk this out.” Chane knew he couldn’t afford to let her make this decision alone. With any time away from him, she might do it, too.
The Lady and the Robber Baron Page 14
