by Joanna Shupe
The result had knocked her sideways.
He had appeared equally off-kilter after their devastating kiss. The rest of the ride to Grand Central Depot had been spent in silence, then he’d insisted on driving her home. At her door, he’d kissed her cheek, whispering, “I don’t regret one minute of it. Good night, you maddening woman.”
Maddening, how? Because she had provoked him?
“Madam Zolikoff, what are the spirits saying?”
Damn. Ava shook herself. She was in the middle of a reading, deep in a trance to communicate with spirits from the other side. Every Wednesday, she rented a cheap hotel room in order to see clients. There was no time to waste with daydreams of a railroad tycoon.
The slate tablets in her hands were heavy, yet familiar. She slipped a finger underneath the bottom one and scratched on the surface with her fingernail. With her free hand, she grasped Mr. Holiday’s arm. “Do you hear that? The spirits are writing to us!”
“What is it?” the man asked eagerly.
“They have a special message for you.” She continued with the scratching, a movement her client would never detect in the dimly lit room. The trick was a relatively easy one: Before she started, she showed Mr. Holiday four blank slate faces in quick succession—but one empty face was shown twice. The one face she didn’t show already contained a pre-written chalk message, one she’d crafted this morning.
After a sufficient amount of “writing” time for the spirits, she slid her toe under the slight gap between the table leg and the floor, jerking upward to bump the table. Mr. Holiday gasped, and Ava announced, “The spirits have completed your message.”
Turning over the slate containing the writing, she presented him the message. “I forgive you. Please forgive yourself.”
Mr. Holiday’s hand shot up to cover his mouth.
A medium’s success hinged on knowing as much as she could about her clients, then using that information to improve the accuracy of the readings. Mr. Holiday, a long-standing client, had lost his wife three months ago. Unfortunately, he and his wife had argued the day she’d died, leaving their last words as angry ones, compounding his grief. Since then he’d been unable to return to work and had recently lost his banking job. Ava hoped to set him free from the guilt.
By the time Mr. Holiday left, he was pumping her hand effusively and expressing his gratitude. He promised to see her in two weeks’ time for another reading.
Ava closed the door behind him and heaved a sigh. Some days it was hard to take money, knowing she was performing parlor tricks—even if it was to give them what they wanted. But she tried to do right by her clients, to give them positive messages that would help improve their lives, like to stop having affairs, spend more time with their children, or donate to worthy charities. This underhanded altruism was the only way she could sleep at night.
Though lately, sleep had been elusive for an altogether different reason. Yet another ill to lay at railroad man’s feet.
And the problem was only growing worse. The more she was around Will, the more likable she found him—not that she’d see him again. He had wanted her to attend the rally, and she’d upheld her end of the bargain. She did not need Will Sloane in her life, disrupting it with his disapproval and disarming kisses. Bad enough she had to listen to Tom champion the man’s genius every night around the dinner table.
Apparently, Will was well regarded in the Northeast Railroad office as something of a prodigy. He’d taken over the family business at a young age and built it up into one of the most successful in the country. He was a fair and kind boss—Tom’s words—and never too busy to speak with even the lowliest employee. According to Tom, Will worked continually, at his desk before everyone else arrived and remaining well after the rest went home. The drive made no sense to Ava; the man was flush. What in God’s name was he trying to prove?
Thank heavens Tom had immediately taken to the job. Ava would always be grateful to Will for saving her brother from a dark and dangerous future.
A knock sounded on the door. Odd, since her clients had finished for the day. Peeking out, she found two well-dressed strangers standing on the threshold. One had a long beard, and the other had a scar running down his cheek. She did not want to know the circumstances behind that injury.
“Madam Zolikoff, may we have a moment of your time?” the bearded man said, peering down at her.
Instantly wary, she said in her Russian accent, “What is this about?”
The man with the scar held up his hands. “We mean you no harm, miss. We would like to discuss a business proposition.”
She made no move to let them in, her hand gripping the door tightly. The location placed her in a precarious position, and there would be nothing stopping these two from hurting her once inside.
The bearded man seemed to understand her dilemma. “You may leave the door open, if you wish. We only want to speak with you.”
Swallowing, she nodded and stepped back, keeping the door ajar. She had a pistol in her carpetbag, not that she’d be able to reach it in time should the men do her harm. Still, the presence of the firearm offered her some comfort.
“My name is Mr. Grey and this is my associate Mr. Harris. We have been watching you for quite some time. You’re impressive.”
“Yes,” Harris said. “Your Monday night performances gain a wider audience each week.”
“Thank you,” she said cautiously.
“The reason we are here is because we work with several other mediums in New York. Have you heard of Mr. Harold Glade?”
“Of course.” One of the most popular mediums in the city, Glade regularly performed at Madison Square Garden in front of thousands of people.
“And what about Mrs. Kitzinger? And Mrs. Paulson?”
Again, Ava nodded. “What do they have to do with me?”
“We work with them on a little creative . . . project. You see, you have clients who trust your opinion. They come to you looking for advice, such as what to do with dear old Agatha’s estate or which stocks to purchase. That’s where we come in. We own a company—nothing more than a front, really—that you can direct your clients to invest in. We then take that money and give you a percentage.”
“And what do my clients receive?”
Grey lifted a shoulder. “We give them modest returns on their investment at first. Then, after a spell, the company goes under and we start another one. It’s foolproof.”
“The company goes under, yet you keep all the profits.”
“Which we share with you, of course.”
“Of course.” Nausea rolled through her stomach, bile rising in her throat. They were confidence men, out to bilk money from any source they could find. The irony was not lost on her—that she performed a less obvious version of this—but at least she gave her clients something in exchange. These two men were outright thieves.
“You stand to earn a lot of money from us, Miss Jones.”
Ice shot through her veins and she stiffened. No use maintaining the accent, then. “How . . .”
Their smiles shifted from pleasant to something more sinister. “We’ve been watching you, taking note of your career. You should be flattered. You are quickly becoming one of the premier mediums in the city.”
Flattered? No, that was not close to what she felt at the moment. More like panic, fear, resentment, anger . . . “I cannot help you, gentlemen. I appreciate the offer, but you’ll need to look elsewhere.”
They exchanged an unreadable glance, then Harris said, “You misunderstand, Miss Jones. When we say we’re offering you this opportunity, it’s not one you can turn down.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
Harris slipped his hands in his pockets and strolled about the room. Ava tried to keep one eye on him while Grey spoke. “The mediums who turn us down quickly find themselves out of business. We’d hate to bring attention to your performances and expose you of fraudulent activity.”
“You’re threatening m
e.” Might as well put the truth in plain words.
“Yes, though there’s no reason to refuse us. The scheme is tried and true, with none the wiser except those directly involved.”
“And now that we’ve told you our little secret,” Harris said from directly behind her, “it would be a shame if we had to reveal yours.”
She dug her fingernails into her palms. She had no leverage. They could expose her at any time if she didn’t agree. Of course, her clients might not take up her recommendations, especially if given vaguely and halfheartedly.
“I need time to think it over,” she told them.
“Of course,” Grey said smoothly. “But not too much time. We wouldn’t want you going to any of your prominent friends for help.”
Did he mean Bennett—or worse, Will? Heart pounding, she tried to control her breathing and retain her wits. “You’ll have my answer next week.”
Chapter Ten
Early summer nights, with their lazy, crisp air, were Ava’s favorite. The city had yet to turn into the furnace of July and August, where the heat suffocated one’s lungs from the inside out. Now the evening temperature remained cool enough to require only a light wrap, the perfect weather for an aimless stroll after dinner where she could clear her mind.
The streets were quiet tonight, with most of the families abed at this hour. Her current neighborhood was a far cry from the constant rowdiness and squalor of the Lower East Side tenements. The West Side had more working families who were up early to get to their clerical and service jobs. While it may not be their ultimate destination, the Jones family was much better off here.
A simple life, that was what she wanted. A better existence for her and her family. One without heartache and struggle. One with space and green things. One without trickery and costumes.
One without blackmail.
Never thought she’d be blackmailed—exposed as a fraud, possibly, but not blackmailed. Would those two men truly follow through with their threats if she didn’t agree? If it were merely her, if they hadn’t discovered her real name, Ava would tell them to go to hell. But how could she put her siblings in jeopardy by refusing?
A noise from close behind caught her attention—a boot heel on the walk. Spinning, she tensed, prepared to defend herself against any manner of riffraff out in the darkened city. Except no one was there. She peered hard, squinting into the gloom. “Hello?”
Silence. She resumed her walk, the pace now a bit brisker. She rarely felt unsafe in New York, even when alone, but the back of her neck was tingling tonight. The visit from Grey and Harris, perhaps?
Turning the corner at her block, she noticed a large black brougham in front of her house. A beautiful chestnut bay was tethered to the front, a smartly dressed coachman on the seat. That was strange. One generally did not see this sort of opulence in her neighborhood. Several heads hung from windows in the surrounding town houses, curious neighbors wondering over the fancy swell who owned such a fine carriage.
A fancy swell. Her stomach tightened with both anticipation and dread. Could it be . . . ? While she wanted to see him again—in truth, she wanted to kiss him again—she needed to stay as far away from Will Sloane as possible.
Her feet slowed, and she debated turning around—
The carriage door swung open and long legs wrapped in black worsted wool emerged. Sure enough, a familiar blond-haired man unfolded from the carriage, straightened to his full, impressive height, and flicked a cigar into the gutter. Oh, my. She nearly stumbled, he was so dashing. He’d changed from his day suit into impeccably tailored evening clothes, the snowy starched shirtfront and necktie a beacon in the lamplight. He was . . . breathtaking. Commanding and arrogant. A man whose wealth and privilege went bone deep, the expensive clothes fitting him perfectly, as if he were born to wear them. Which, she supposed, he had been.
No doubt he had a fancy event to attend, one where men would court his favor and women would seek his bed, while she had hours of mending ahead of her. Their circumstances could not be more contrasting.
Still, she wasn’t ashamed of her life. She’d fought hard for what little they had. Other women may be intimidated by Will, but she would not be one of them—and he could jump into the North River if he didn’t like it.
She lifted her chin. “Mr. Sloane. What brings you to Bank Street tonight?”
He slipped his hands in his trouser pockets. “Good evening, Miss Jones. I needed to speak with you. Will you join me in a short drive?”
That stopped her cold. The idea of being in a closed carriage with him terrified her. She’d thrown herself at him in the train car—which had led to his hands beneath her skirts. No telling what might happen next. “We should talk here.” She glanced about at the near-empty sidewalk. “There’s not a soul about.”
“Not quite true.” He tipped his chin toward the buildings. “There are eyes and ears all around us. Shall we?”
Was the drive about privacy for their conversation—or hiding the existence of his visit? God forbid his cronies learned of his slumming with the common folk. He’d probably be kicked out of his fancy clubs. Disinvited to Mrs. Astor’s annual costume ball. Or chased down Fifth Avenue by a mob wielding cocktail forks.
She rubbed her temples. Her thoughts regarding this man were a jumbled mess. “Will, I cannot see how this is a good idea.”
“Please, Ava,” he said quietly. “A few moments. I’d walk with you, but I’m not exactly dressed for a stroll about the city.”
“Is there any chance you’ll give up and drive on to wherever it is you’re expected tonight?”
His mouth hitched, amusement glowing in his gray eyes. “None.”
“Get in the carriage with him, miss,” called a female voice from somewhere above, one of the older neighborhood residents enjoying the performance. “If you don’t, Lord knows I will.” Several chuckles rained down around them.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Ava muttered, and stomped toward the brougham. Seconds later, she settled into the cushions. Will soon followed after a quick exchange with his driver.
There was little room in the interior. Their shoulders and hips lined up, pressed tight, the contact burning through her clothing and heating her skin like the flat of an iron. She wriggled, trying to put space between them, but it was no use. The wheels began to roll, and she resigned herself to the distraction of his nearness.
“There, was that so difficult?” he asked.
She didn’t dare glance at him. He was much too close. She could kiss him if she leaned forward slightly, send him off to his event with the taste of her on his lips. Such wicked, wicked thoughts. Honestly, the devil grabbed hold of her every time Will Sloane came near.
She kept her gaze on the small window and folded her hands in her lap. “What is it you wanted, Will?”
He smoothed the fabric of his elegant trousers. “How have you been since I last saw you?”
The truth nearly tumbled from her lips, the whole sordid mess. There was no more capable man than Will Sloane, proven the night he rescued her brother and the day he saved her from the riot.
“We wouldn’t want you going to any of your prominent friends for help.”
Even despite the implicit threat, the urge to tell Will was tempting. Yet, if he helped her out of this trouble, where would that leave her? Dependent on a rich, powerful man to solve her problems, that’s where. She swore she’d never allow that, no matter what predicaments she landed in. No, best if she handled this herself.
“Fine,” she lied.
“You are a terrible liar. Which must mean something is wrong. What is it?”
She hated that he possessed the ability to read her so well. No one ever challenged her word except for Will. “Leave it be, railroad man. It’s nothing you can help with.”
“Ava,” he sighed. “You will tell me before this ride is over.”
Oh! The nerve. Her head swung toward him. “Do not presume because of what happened on the train that you can con
trol me. You haven’t a right to a thing.”
“Wrong.” His lip curled slightly, and the air inside the carriage grew charged, like an engine gathering steam. “It is precisely because of what happened on the train that I deserve to know. Are you in trouble of some kind? Is Thomas in trouble, or one of your other siblings?”
“You are insufferable. You don’t see me asking you personal questions about your day.”
“My day was boring, filled with business deals and meetings. I sense yours was a bit more exciting.”
The silence stretched, wheels clattering over the cobblestones. Trusting him was out of the question. So where did that leave them? With nothing, nothing at all, except this strange pull in the pit of her stomach every time she thought of him.
And therein lay madness.
“Will, I cannot understand what you want from me.”
“I . . .” A muscle jumped in his jaw, the lamplight highlighting the bold angles of his face. “I want you, Ava. I keep telling myself it’s a terrible idea, but I cannot seem to stay away. I use every excuse I can think of to see you, and I’m not certain there’s anywhere you could go that I won’t chase after you. So it’s you—that is what I want.”
The words were so much more than she anticipated. Honest and raw, they devastated her resistance, laying waste to all the reservations she’d harbored. Not a declaration of everlasting love, of course, but she wouldn’t have believed one. This unwilling admission of the torment between them, the strange attraction that neither person expected nor understood, melted her insides.
Then he leaned in and sealed his mouth over hers, cutting off any further thought with a kiss she’d been craving since Saturday.
* * *
Will could not control himself around this woman. Her plump lips, her sharp tongue and quick mind. A body that would tempt a bishop . . . It was like she had unlocked something in him that could not be shut away once more. He was a madman in her presence and, against his better judgment, he’d finally put all his cards on the table. But Ava was like no other campaign he’d waged; she held all the power over him. He would do nearly anything she asked for another taste of her.
