“Peter, stop that. I won’t be able to concentrate.” She squirmed her bottom into the bed like a chicken settling into its nest. “Your sister came back in the middle of a big, ritzy party Kincaid and Latitia were giving. One of the serving girls told me about it. Well, not exactly, she heard it from one of the girls who was there, though. Anyway, your sister threw Miss High-and-Mighty Latitia Laurey out of that party, bag and baggage. Can you imagine? In front of all Latitia’s hoity-toity friends! Jennifer even had enough spunk to dump a bowl of soup down the front of Latitia’s dress. She ran out of there screaming like a banshee. I bet that was a real cat fight,” she said with obvious satisfaction.
Peter closed his eyes. The thought of his sister lowering herself to the level of a street-fighting, hair-pulling harridan for a man like Kincaid nauseated him. He leaped off the bed. “Time to go, little one.”
“What? I thought we’d—”
“You thought wrong.” Peter helped her into her clothes and hustled her down the stairs. He opened the front door and thanked God for Malcomb, who had called for the carriage that waited in front of the door. Peter hustled Bettina down the steps and into the carriage.
“Where do you live?”
She gave him the address, and he shouted it to the driver whose face and head were covered against the icy wind that whipped the skeletal limbs of the trees.
The carriage pulled away, and Peter raced back inside to the telephone. He rang the Bricewood and asked for Mrs. Kincaid. Within moments he heard Jenn’s voice.
“Hello?”
Peter closed his eyes and replaced the earpiece back into the cradle.
Jason had no idea where the address he’d been given was, but it didn’t matter. He had no intention of taking Jennifer Van Vleet anywhere except to his own flat.
He barely felt the cold that the team of horses so clearly resented. What he’d been waiting for had finally happened to him today. Following Jennifer had finally triggered that thing in him that he both loved and hated. Lust had grown so strong that he had to act. His whole body was on fire with it. So he had waited in front of her house all day, and finally she had arrived. He’d heard her ask the driver to wait, and as soon as she was inside, he’d approached the cabriolet, overcome the driver, and taken charge of the carriage.
Now, he stopped the carriage, got down stiffly, and opened the door.
“This isn’t the place. Why’d you stop?” the woman asked, her face a pale oval in the dim light of a street lantern. Disappointment surged in Jason. She was the wrong woman. He cursed, and at first couldn’t think what to do, but as he looked at her staring back at him in sudden fright, he realized that she, too, was slim and blond and pretty. His disappointment was sharp, but lasted only a moment. He could think of this one as extra. After he killed her, he would still have Jennifer.
Jason pulled his rope out of his back pocket. “Just need to secure something here.”
He stepped into the carriage, grabbed her hands, and began to tie them together. She fought like a tigress, but she was no match for his strength. He tied her hand and foot, and then pulled her head up by her hair.
“You wait for me here,” he said softly, wiping her tears with his free hand. Her skin was soft, and he felt it all the way to his loins, which ached damnably. He wanted to take her now, but he was not that big a fool, even in the shape he was in. And, if he wanted it to be good, he had to do everything in exactly the right order.
He drove to his apartment, secured the team, slung her over his shoulder, and carried her inside. He had rented a brownstone with this in mind. His flat was on the corner, so he had only one neighbor who could see his front entrance from a window, and that apartment was rented by a young couple who had better things to do at night than watch the neighbors’ houses.
He stopped in the parlor to light a lantern, then carried her to his room and tossed her on his bed. She lay still while he rummaged through his carpetbag for his equipment. He found the small satchel and carefully opened it. His special knife gleamed softly in the lantern light. He was careful, so the woman didn’t see it. He turned away so she couldn’t watch him, and he pressed the knife to his throbbing member, holding back the groan that shuddered through him. Finally, he put the knife aside; he wasn’t ready for it yet, but when he was hot like this, he needed to feel it and see it, since it was going to bring him the relief he needed.
Reassured that relief was in sight, he rummaged through his bag until he found a handkerchief. He walked back to the girl and held the lantern close to her face. She was still crying, and that made it hard to tell, but she did appear to have blue eyes. A jolt of heat caused him to tremble inside. Blue eyes were important. Blue eyes were necessary. They all had blue eyes. He swallowed and tried to remember to breathe through his nose. He hated mouth-breathing, because it made his mouth so dry, but sometimes he just couldn’t help himself. He got so excited.
Her eyes reflected terror, and he couldn’t think why she’d be so scared. She had no idea what was about to happen to her. He pried her lips aside and looked at her teeth. “You got some pretty teeth there, missy. If you scream, I’ll break every tooth in your head,” he said softly. “You wouldn’t want me to do that, would you?”
She shook her head. He used the handkerchief to cover her eyes. Then he got out the rest of his equipment. He set up the tubes and bags and connected the special hollow-tipped knife to the drainage tube. He checked all his connections to be sure there was no leakage. When he was certain that everything was in readiness, he undressed himself and the girl. She cried and begged and whined, but he ignored her.
He made up a solution of soapy water and made her drink it. She threw up in the bucket until her stomach was empty. He carried the bucket to the back porch and poured the contents into the hole he’d dug earlier. He covered it over and walked back to the bedroom.
The ritual of doing everything in the same order and in the same way increased his excitement to where his blood felt like it was boiling. Sweat poured off him. The girl shivered with cold, but he had no idea why. He was on fire and should have provided enough heat for both of them.
Next, he tied her hands to the headboard, and her feet more loosely to the footboard of the bed. Then he carefully chose a place on her neck and inserted the knifepoint.
Peter was up and dressed by seven o’clock the next morning. He asked Malcomb to have the carriage brought around. He put on his coat and went outside to wait for it. He found a man sprawled behind one of the enormous concrete balustrades that framed the steps leading up to the door.
Peter knelt beside the man. “Hey, Robert, this is no place to sleep.” He shook his shoulder. Slowly the man turned and rolled over.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
The man frowned. “Someone hit me.” An alarmed look came over the man’s face. “Where’s my cab?”
“There’s no cab around here.”
“Someone stole my cab,” he said, struggling to his feet.
Peter took the cabbie inside to use the telephone. A policeman came out to make a report, and Peter gave the cabbie a ride to his home, which was far across town. Then he went downtown to talk to an army recruiting officer. Within minutes he had purchased himself the rank of captain in the United States Cavalry.
He signed the necessary papers, then invited the heavyset man, Sergeant O’Leery, to go with him for a drink to celebrate. When they were served and finally alone, Peter leaned toward him.
“Sergeant, I was wondering…I suppose with so much paperwork—” He paused. “—do enlistment papers ever get…misplaced?”
O’Leery took another sip of the excellent whiskey Peter had ordered for him and a grin spread across his solidly Irish features. “Well, lad. Accidents happen, to the best of us.”
“I realize it’s hard to keep track of so much paper. It’d be a shame if something happened to my enlistment papers…for a month or so.” Peter reached into his pocket an
d pulled out fifty dollars.
A scowl of disapproval darkened O’Leery’s red face. “You did a young lass wrong?”
“She did me wrong.”
O’Leery fingered the fifty-dollar bill, a month’s wages for him. “A month at the most,” he growled.
Peter shrugged. “She’ll give up if she can’t find me right away.”
O’Leery took the fifty and slipped it into his pocket. “If she keeps looking for you, though…”
Peter shrugged. “Then she deserves to find me.”
Jennie stepped out of the elevator and paused. Chane looked up from where he sat with the hotel manager, saw her, and stopped speaking. She had meant to walk casually past with a nod of acknowledgment, but she stopped in front of him. His forest-dark eyes watched her warily. The brick wall was still solidly in place, but she knew he was still in there somewhere, and she had the feeling he could be reached, if she had the courage to keep trying.
The manager made an excuse and walked quickly away.
“Going for a walk?” he asked. His voice started a lonely ache in her throat.
“My doctor recommended it.”
“Probably just the thing…”
“Only around the block actually…”
Chane forced himself to look away from her lovely face. She was still, in spite of everything she’d done to him, incredibly pleasing to look at. She had the most beautiful skin—as flawless and as pure as a baby’s—and the softest eyes.
“When can you dance again?”
“Who knows? The doctor said a week or so, but with my rhythm off so badly…”
She wore a simple high-necked rose gown that emphasized the creamy whiteness of her skin and hinted at the small round breasts beneath the soft cashmere. Breasts that he knew felt as satiny as carnation petals. His hands ached to reach up and touch them.
“Do you ever take walks?” she asked.
“Not on purpose.”
“Maybe you could pretend it’s research.”
His defenses failed him. “All right.” He wasn’t getting anything done anyway. He was so useless, Steve had practically thrown him out of the office.
“Will you help me put this on?”
Hames, the bell captain, flush-faced and resplendent in gold-and-white livery and gold tricorn, rushed forward. “May I be of assistance, Mr. Kincaid?”
“No, thank you, Hames. I think I can help her into her coat by myself.” Chane felt foolish, letting a young man’s eagerness make him cranky and short.
Hames’s face fell in disappointment. He stepped back and turned away. Every eye in the lobby had been on Jennie ever since she had stepped out of the elevator. He remembered what Mrs. Lillian had said. “She has charisma. I’ve seen women more beautiful, but none more riveting.”
Chane held her coat while she slipped her arms into it.
Instead of crossing to the park, they walked south on Fifth Avenue for several blocks. The sidewalks were crowded with people passing from shop to shop, some pushing perambulators with sleeping or crying infants inside, others just out for a walk in the afternoon sunshine.
Lower Fifth Avenue was known as Millionaires’ Row. It was lined on either side with looming chateaux and elegant brownstones. They were filled to overflowing with the trappings of opulence—outrageously expensive imported European sculpture and paintings, rare tapestries, and delicate antiques.
As they entered the orderly precincts of Washington Square Park, Jennifer glanced over her shoulder. Was that someone just slipping behind a tree? A shiver of fear ran icily up her spine.
“Are you cold?” Chane asked. “Shall we go back?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” she said, grasping his arm a little tighter. “Let’s go on.”
They walked across the park in silence. Jennifer was so glad to be near him, she didn’t want to risk saying the wrong thing and causing him to turn back. But as they crossed West Fourth, she couldn’t help looking behind her again.
Chane stopped and watched her. “Whatever’s the matter with you? What are you looking for?” he asked sharply.
Jennifer looked up at him and hesitated. She wasn’t sure she should tell him. “I think someone is following me.”
Chane sighed as if horribly burdened suddenly. “It isn’t going to work, Jennie.”
“What isn’t?”
“Inventing some danger.”
“I’m not making this—”
“I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.”
“I’ve never lied to you!”
“Jesus,” he growled, frustrated beyond thinking. “Well, maybe you should have. If you’re so damned trustworthy, why did you do it, Jennie?”
She looked away. “I thought you had betrayed me by having Peter beaten. And, I don’t know how it happened. I thought I could trust him.”
Chane expelled a frustrated breath. “You trusted a man who took you to his apartment? Why in God’s name do you think a man takes a woman to his apartment?”
She hated it when he spoke to her in that tone, as if she’d planned the whole thing just so she could climb into bed with Frederick. Wordlessly, she stalked away.
Chane strode angrily after her, caught her by the arm, and turned her forcibly, his face twisted by frustration. “A woman has to know how to take care of herself if she’s going to retain her veto rights. If you go to a man’s apartment, you’ve forfeited that right.”
“I had no choice! There was a blizzard. The driver wouldn’t take me farther. His horse was freezing to death!”
Tears brimmed over and ran down her cheeks. “And…and then Frederick told me that your men had beaten my brother and left him for dead.”
“Not my men. And not by any order of mine. I don’t have people beaten,” he said grimly.
“They worked for you. They beat him up.”
“Well, hell, I don’t own them. They do what they want after hours. Maybe your brother pissed them off. I find it hard to believe that a young man with such poor judgment only has me for an enemy.”
Chane turned her back in the direction they’d been walking.
“Poor judgment! How dare you make derogatory remarks about my brother, who is half dead because of you!”
Frustrated, Chane turned her back toward the hotel. He never should have gotten this close to her, much less married her, but he’d been besotted by her. Fortunately, that was over now, and he was thinking clearly again. His enlightenment had come too late to save him, but not too late to serve as a warning. Next time he’d listen to his grandfather.
Chapter Eighteen
Simone looked up at the enormous Van Vleet town house on Fifth Avenue and Thirty-second Street and shivered. Icy wind whipped around her, swirling her skirts and chilling her legs. She was wracked by indecision. It was too late to be calling on anyone, especially Peter, but she couldn’t help herself. She hadn’t seen him since he’d been hurt. She knew she shouldn’t have come here again, especially since he hadn’t tried to contact her since the night they’d made love, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
Before she could turn and flee, she reached out and banged the door knocker against the metal plate on the heavy mahogany door.
She waited a full minute, counting. Just as she was ready to leave, Malcomb, his stiff white collar askew as if he’d hastily put it back on, opened the door and peered out.
“Is Mr. Van Vleet here?”
Malcomb motioned her into the vestibule. “Come in, come in. The wind…” He slammed the door and grimaced at the loudness of it. “You may wish to warm yourself by the fire.”
He led her into the library, where a wood fire was burning with a slight hissing sound. The heat felt good, but a little harsh to her cold hands.
“I’ll see if the young master is in,” he said, backing out of the room. After what seemed an eternity, Malcomb returned. “Mr. Van Vleet will be down in a moment.”
Peter considered asking Malcomb to tell Simone that he wasn’t in, but he realiz
ed he wanted to see her before he left. He found her huddled before the fire, looking thoroughly miserable and cold.
“I heard you were fired,” he said, walking across the room to stop beside her.
Simone looked startled. “Who told you that?”
“Just a rumor, I guess—”
“Bellini yelled at me, but he didn’t fire me. Perhaps you heard that I’m going to be fired. That’s more likely. Bellini has never truly believed I give my best to ballet. And in truth, I don’t. I’ll never be the dancer your sister is. None of the troupe will be, but…” Her voice failed under the accusing look in his eyes. She waited, but he didn’t speak.
“I heard you were beaten,” she said, staring at his face. Before he had been beautiful. Now his nose looked broader, more aggressive. He had a red scar beneath his right eye. Bruises tinged his face various shades of green, lilac, and yellow. A red scar ran from his temple into his blond hair.
She ached to take him into her arms and soothe him, but the look on his wary face made that a faint hope at best.
Peter jingled the coins in his pocket. “I’ve half a mind to back you against the wall and wring the truth out of you.”
Simone blinked, not believing what she was hearing.
“There you were, pretending to moan in pleasure,” he continued, his voice grim, “but all the while you were waiting for Kincaid’s men to arrive and beat me senseless.”
“No! I swear to you. You don’t think that I—”
“Don’t I?” he growled.
“Mon Dieu.” She stopped, too distraught to continue. “I had no idea…”
His eyes remained level and unconvinced. The sensuous curve of his lips thinned.
“I love you, Peter,” she whispered desperately. “I had no idea…I swear to you…on my mother’s Bible.”
Peter expelled a heavy breath. “You don’t have to lie to me anymore.”
“Please…I can’t believe you think that I would…that I could…I waited and waited for you. I hoped you would come to see me.”
The Lady and the Robber Baron Page 26
