Rags to Rubies

by Annalisa Russo

  Grace took another sip of the brandy. The liquor wound a warm path to her belly. She willed it to calm her, for she had never experienced such an unnerving reaction to a man.

  She cleared her throat. “I was nursing my zia. My aunt. Aunt Bruna. Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid, unless you count a rather strange tarot card reading.” Grace grimaced as she remembered the ensuing conversation. Zia Bruna had turned up the Three of Wands, clearly trouble, and tried without success to convince her to remain overnight.

  “My aunt is very superstitious, to say the least.”

  “And your Aunt Bruna let you return home, on foot, alone, at this hour?” Jared quipped. The information seemed to leave him irritated. At whom, she wondered. Maybe at himself for bothering to give a damn.

  The glow from the fireplace set de Warre’s fine features in shadow, his dark brows now slashes above brooding eyes. Everything she’d heard about Jared de Warre III and his notable reputation seemed to be confirmed by the firm set to the line of his jaw. Small creases had formed around his eyes, probably a result from the sun that had lightly bronzed his skin. Beautifully formed lips, the top with a sensual curve, the bottom slightly fuller. A straight, well-proportioned nose separating high, chiseled cheekbones. The faint shadow of black bristle on his chin. All the makings of a sheik. A hundred years ago they would have called him a rake of the first class.

  Clear, intelligent eyes returned her gaze. Waiting. Waiting for judgment in a way that suggested the final result didn’t concern him. An impression formed quickly. Powerful, predatory. She could picture a golden hoop piercing one ear.

  “I waited until she fell asleep. She lives a block over. Two minutes away. I’m hardly a schoolgirl at twenty-eight, Mr. de Warre. And this isn’t New York. This is Chicago,” she said with an edge to her voice. “We may have Capone, but even he doesn’t prey on defenseless women.” She rose from the chair and strode over to view more closely a rectangular metal box propped upright near the corner of the fireplace.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment, Miss Hathaway?” Jared set his glass on the marble-topped credenza. “Please make yourself at home.”

  As he walked to the end of the long hallway, Jared tried to identify the unsettling sensation he was experiencing. Grace Hathaway didn’t have any idea what the fetid side of life looked like, but he not only knew about it, he’d lived it for a time.

  At the end of the hallway, he picked up the telephone’s black receiver. He didn’t expect to find anyone on the party line at this hour, but you never knew with old Mrs. Capetonic, his party-line neighbor. He suspected she listened in on his calls whenever possible. He should have thought to set up a private line when he’d ordered the service. Money certainly wasn’t an issue. Making a mental note to change the service tomorrow, he lifted the receiver to his ear and luckily heard a dial tone. His friend answered on the first ring.

  “Sal?” Jared winced as he glanced at his wristwatch, then held the receiver away from his ear when his friend answered with a short but descriptive series of Italian expletives.

  “Yes, I know what time it is, but you and Theresa probably just got home from the restaurant anyway. How’s business?”

  “We’ve been home for an hour,” Salvatore Clementi complained, “but we’re not asleep.”

  Jared smiled as he heard Theresa yawn in the background and bid her husband good night. “I guess I owe you now.”

  “You’re damn right you do. And now that you have my attention, what do you want?”

  Jared quickly explained the situation.

  “So I need two of your men to watch her house for the rest of the night.”

  “You’re lucky I love your sorry ass, my friend. I’ll take care of it.”

  Jared started to hang up.

  “Is this one of your silly, skinny, gold-digging puttenescas? Sure, they’re usually swanky, but...”

  Laughing, Jared hung up on his friend.

  When he returned to the living room, he saw Grace inspecting the black box.

  Running a finger over it she inquired, “What is this?”

  “A traffic light,” he explained. “We’re trying them out in Boston. If they’re successful, my factory will begin production in the spring.”

  He wondered if she knew how to drive. So many young females did these days. But even if she didn’t she could appreciate the problem with congestion in a busy city like Chicago. She examined the colored glass globes.

  “Purple, green, and yellow? How does it work?”

  “Drivers watch for the light to change to tell them to proceed, stop, or wait.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Purple seems wrong. I would use green for go, red perhaps for stop, and yellow for wait.”

  “Interesting. I had the same thought. Unfortunately, I was outvoted by my partners,” Jared said.

  He watched as she conducted a tour around his library, stopping to peer at first one and then another of his treasured possessions. The esoteric collection resulted from nearly two decades of travel. He doubted if the significance of the objects was apparent to anyone other than himself. Surrounding himself with such things gave him a sense of comfort. And they kept the ghosts at bay.

  “What’s this?” she inquired, angling a brass object to get a better look.

  “A sextant,” he explained, “from a schooner I sailed with in a government job for the State of Florida’s interest in a treasure site.” He rose and stood next to her, inhaling the scent that seemed to follow in her wake.

  Lavender. Lavender and musk. A heady combination.

  “Most treasure hunters are a little lax about giving the government its fair share of a find. So it’s law to have an agent along on all hunts.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Not unless the competition dumps a load of chopped, bloody fish to attract the sharks when you’re in the water down current.”

  She emitted a small gasp. “Who would do such a thing?”

  Jared smiled. “You would be surprised what a motivator money is, Miss Hathaway.”

  She set the sextant on its stand, then stopped to peer through a telescope positioned at the window. “What do you look at through the telescope?”

  “As a child I obsessed about the constellation and the legend of Orion.”

  “Ah, mythology’s powerful hunter.”

  He smiled. “But I never had a decent telescope to see it.” He set down his glass and raised a hand toward her face.

  She stiffened, her eyes growing round and vigilant.

  Tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, he felt her flinch. Spots of rose appeared on her checks. “I don’t have that problem anymore,” he said softly.

  It had been a mistake to touch her. Maybe she didn’t need protection from him. Maybe it was the other way around.

  She backed up a step. “No, I don’t imagine you do.” She looked away and took a sip from her drink.

  “This is from my first major purchase,” he said trying to distract himself from the frissons of sensual heat that had tightened his groin at the feel of that soft curl. He picked up an old railroad lantern and swung it in a small arc. “It was used to signal the coupling and uncoupling of cars on a small unit train from Minnesota logging camps to sawmills in Wisconsin.”

  He handed the lantern to her. She swung it, following the path with her eyes. Somehow, her action pleased him for an instant.

  Grace set the lantern back and turned to pick up a brass piece, the size of a silver dollar, with the number 56 stamped on it. She ran her fingertip over the indention.

  “That was my assigned number to designate a full cart of ore after I loaded it.”

  “Where?”

  “In the coal mines of Westville. Westville, Illinois.” His first job, at fourteen. One he had to prove himself a man to keep.

  “I’ve heard Westville is a rough town,” she commented.

  “Westville is like any town—some good people, some bad.”

  She looked up
at him then, the ivory column of her neck begging for his lips, and scanned his face as if trying to read between the lines. He’d half expected her to be bored to tears, but she listened with intense interest, her fingers trailing seductively over each object, though he doubted the movement was intentional. She seemed to gain as much enjoyment from touching his possessions as from looking at them.

  A natural temptress, she was childlike in her curiosity, earnest and thoughtful in her questions. He couldn’t detect anything jaded, insincere, or flirtatious but rather an intelligent, curious mind at work. The conversation that ensued was refreshing, he noted with surprise.

  Stopping before the fireplace, he noticed her eyes rise to a portrait above the mantel. Before she could ask about it, Jared changed the subject. “I’m curious, Miss Hathaway. Why did you surmise you would be safe here?”

  He sauntered to the window’s edge, holding back the drapery again and peering into the blackness.

  “Of course I would be safe here,” Grace replied. “How ridiculous to think otherwise. You are considered a pillar of the community.”

  Jared chuckled dryly. “You have a rather naïve faith in the basic goodness of others. Men who prey on young women are everywhere.”

  He watched the shadowy figure flick a cigarette into the gutter and slink down the deserted street, staying close to the shadows. The fog concealed the man, but he seemed unassuming in stature. He walked with an unusual gait, as if one leg was shorter than the other. Jared turned back to face her. “It would be wise to remember that.”

  Grace’s hands stretched to the small blaze in the grate. She seemed to be analyzing his warning. “So am I to believe that you prey on young women, Mr. de Warre?” Finishing her drink, she turned and set the glass firmly on the coffee table.

  “There are a few doting fathers who would believe so.” Jared turned from the window and put his full attention to the female before him. Grace Hathaway was neither a shrinking violet nor a society belle, for that matter. He liked what he saw.

  “Horse feathers,” she said. “I’ve not heard of you deflowering any females in the neighborhood.”

  Not yet, he thought. Her statement was bold for such a tiny slip of a girl, but he suspected steel ran through that supple backbone. A no-nonsense type. He wanted to find out just how far the steel ran and if it melted.

  It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. Even longer since he’d enjoyed one. Jared realized he was looking forward to kissing her. Soon.

  Bathed in the soft firelight, she looked incredibly soft and sensual. He wanted to draw her lips to his own and swallow her crooked smile. He wanted to feel the length of her pressed hard against his body.

  Stunned again by the wave of desire that washed over him, he decided his self-imposed celibacy of late hadn’t been such a good idea. He wondered whether she would respond or play coy like most nightclub denizens these days who sparked censorship by dressing brazenly and acting the same. Either way it would be interesting to find out.

  “I’m offended by your lack of confidence in my innate charm,” he chided in feigned disappointment. He tossed down the last of his brandy. “But since the day is beginning to dawn, I’ll walk you to your door, keeping you safe from assorted villains and ne’er-do-wells before my reputation in the neighborhood is in shreds. I believe the fog is beginning to lift.”

  After slipping on his loafers and buttoning his shirt, Jared held out his hand to Grace. “After you, Miss Hathaway,” he said as he guided her toward the foyer, his hand on the small of her back. Jared savored the feel of her beneath his fingers. She would be soft and infinitely sweet, he decided.

  It had definitely been too long.

  On the way home, Grace chatted about the neighborhood until they reached the steps of her brownstone. Her home appeared smaller than his but of the same style and well maintained. The last of the summer blooms still flourished in the many pots on her porch. Jared sensed the feminine touch that was absent from his life. She made him very conscious of the differences between them. He dwelt in shadows. She seemed to be the very nourishment her plants needed to thrive.

  He wondered if Grace had a man in her life, who should be protecting her, but he had a gut feeling that she was a woman who took care of others instead. She had the confidence of someone who had taken on adult responsibilities at a young age, not unlike himself.

  “Would you like me to come in and check the house for you?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. Really. It isn’t necessary.” She fumbled in her purse for the key. “See, the door is locked. Everything is secure. I think I just got spooked earlier, with Zia Bruna and those silly predictions.”

  “Allow me.” He held out his hand for her key, unlocked the door, and dropped it back into her slightly trembling fingers.

  “Thank you again,” she said edging past him into the foyer.

  “I wonder if I might ask a favor, Miss Hathaway? Would you be willing to show me around the area, help me get the lay of the land, so to speak?” It was a weak excuse, but he wanted to see her again. He wasn’t sure why. If he had any decency, he would let this one alone.

  The lift of her brows registered her surprise. She hesitated but then responded politely, “Of course I could. It’s the least I can do, considering the bother I’ve made of myself tonight.”

  “Would tomorrow be convenient for you?” Jared asked, realizing that would be only several hours away. He was already looking forward to it.

  “I work until five o’clock, but if you would like to come by then, I’ll be glad to give you the fifty-cent tour. D.L. Hollister & Company, Five Hundred Wabash, off Wacker Drive.”

  Jared nodded his head and said, “Until then, Miss Hathaway.” He turned away as she closed the door.

  Before descending the brick steps, he paused to inspect the porch light. He raised the glass on the new fixture and twisted the bulb clockwise. It illuminated instantly.

  He wondered why anyone would want to harm someone like her. He had enemies and they were well deserved, but she seemed harmless. And who was the dark figure following her tonight? He would make some inquires. Until he got answers, he’d have Sallie’s men keep an eye on her place. Obviously the little minx needed some protection.

  Jared glanced back at Grace’s front door, mildly surprised at his concern. He’d always been alone; another’s well-being was outside his realm of sensibility, but it brought back something in his psyche. A faint memory. A comforting song in another language, a rocking chair, the warmth of soft fabric.

  He raised the collar on his jacket and strode toward home, dismissing the maudlin recollections. He was no longer a child, and those memories were best forgotten, buried deep by life’s realities.

  Chapter Three

  Grace leaned back against the foyer door for several moments trying to clear her head. De Warre’s effect on her was incredibly pronounced. Her heart raced. Her mouth was dry. She shivered from something that started in her lower extremities.

  Lordy, lordy. With a voice like thick honey, he probably had the uncanny ability to unravel any woman at will.

  When he’d escorted her to the door and held out his hand for her key, she thought her knees were going to buckle. She hoped, for Pete’s sake, she hadn’t babbled. Even through her cotton sweater, Grace felt the heat of his hand on the small of her back. The foreign feel of such a casual gesture made her realize how long it had been since a man had touched her even in friendship.

  She had tried to deduce something about the sort of man he was from the items scattered about his library. The titles of the books on the shelves were impressive. He seemed to be well read, interested in a variety of subjects. Or were the heavy tomes simply for decoration? An esoteric collection, to say the least. As unusual as the enigma he seemed to be.

  Each of her neighbors had a different opinion of de Warre, though none of them had actually met him. Her own opinion, like that of the others, was based on what she’d read about him in the newspaper
and rag sheets.

  Indeed, she’d heard more about him than she had just admitted. His reputation ranged from prince to bootlegger, mobster to philanthropist. He was enormously wealthy, made his money in Montana copper, or the Nevada silver fields, or the Yukon. No one seemed to know for sure. The bits and pieces of information failed to create a complete picture. But whether he was Capone’s buddy or kin to Pope Pius himself, he certainly made an interesting specimen. So splendid. So completely male.

  Grace set her key on the foyer table and started up the stairs. She had to admit he’d been the perfect host. Courteous, attentive, solicitous. Had she met him under normal circumstances, she might not have had the heebie-jeebies every time he came within three feet. She set her clutch purse on the oak dresser and sat on the chenille bedspread to remove her shoes.

  Of course, they would never have met. She was a jeweler’s daughter trying to support herself and Zia Bruna. He was a wealthy businessman. In the real world, Grace knew they would never cross paths. Maybe she shouldn’t have accepted his invitation. She plopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  She’d felt overwhelmed in his home, and not simply by his presence. His library held oversized furniture and a towering mantel that pulled the eye upward to where a portrait of a beautiful young woman hung on golden cords. She sensed that he would not welcome any questions about the mysterious woman.

  The lady wore a scarlet gown, outdated, 1890 perhaps, but the vibrant color and the indescribable expression on the woman’s face spoke volumes. The artist had captured the woman’s essence, her zest for life, her unsinkable spirit, her capacity for love and joy. As Grace gazed at the intense-eyed, blonde beauty captured forever in vibrant youth, she had recognized the fine features and realized she studied an image of his mother.

  The woman in the portrait wore a stunning ruby-and-diamond necklace. To Grace’s trained eye, the rare design was one reserved for grand ladies and long-forgotten royalty. Her curiosity flared, and not just about the painting.