What a ridiculous situation she’d put herself in. Here she’d been happily employed by the Richmonds and enjoying life, and even had a little money to spend on herself now and then, which was a glorious novelty in her life, and she’d thrown it all away because of a man. She’d even given Win Asher her virginity, for all the good her maidenhood had ever done her, only to discover too late that he’d been using the act of love as a means of bending her to his will. She could scarcely believe it of herself. That she, who used to pride herself on her common sense, could have stooped to such folly, was . . . well, it was embarrassing, is what it was.
She’d never allow Win to see her humiliation. Or the Richmonds, either. Rather, she put on a happy expression, took Amalie by the hand, and tried to keep up with the child as she skipped out of the hotel. Keeping up with children was a task performed much more easily when one dispensed with whalebone and stays; Belle was proud of herself that she’d done so. The Richmond party stood under the awning as the liveried footman hailed a cab for them, and Belle tried not to notice Win, which was approximately as easy as not noticing an elephant, should one have been present.
He kept glancing at her and frowning. Belle had no idea what that meant, but she’d die before she asked. “Are you sure you don’t want to take a sweater, Amalie?”
“A sweater?” The little girl goggled up at her. And well she might, since the day promised as hot and humid as the preceding several had been.
Belle sighed and smiled. “Of course not. Whatever was I thinking?”
“I dunno,” said Amalie who, Belle recalled with a twinge of irritation, was a Yankee child if ever there was one. A properly reared southern child would have said something conciliatory rather than agree that an adult had behaved foolishly.
She leaned over to straighten the bow at the neck of Amalie’s sailor-style dress. It was a cunning creation, and Belle almost envied the little girl. When she straightened, she jumped a little when she realized that Win had maneuvered himself to her side. Before she could stop herself, she’d frowned at him. At once, she turned the frown into a wintry smile.
“Say, Belle, we have to talk.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “This evening we shall do so.”
Win cast a glance at the grouping of Richmonds and, finding them involved with each other, hissed under his breath, “What the devil’s wrong with you this morning? Are you mad at me for something?”
The miserable fiend. “Not at all.” Belle’s voice was so icy, she wondered if she needed a sweater.
“The hell you’re not. Is it about last night? Listen, Belle—”
“Don’t you dare talk about that right now!” Belle hissed back, wishing she could stab him with the point of her parasol as she’d tried to stab Kate Finney’s father. “I said I’d talk to you this evening. For heaven’s sake, Win, I have a job to do.”
Win muttered, “Damnation!” and slammed his hands into his pockets, a gesture Belle recognized as one he used when frustrated or angry. But he shut up, which is all that mattered to her at the moment.
Unfortunately, Amalie had observed their tiny contretemps. She would, Belle thought sourly.
“How come you’re mad at Mr. Asher, Miss Monroe?”
Through her teeth, Belle muttered, “I’m not angry with him, dear.” She was pretty sure her icy smile gave the lie to the words.
But Amalie only said, “Oh.” Evidently, even Yankee children drew the line somewhere. Thank God.
Win, squinting at her as if he were trying to figure out what kind of alien planet she belonged to, said, “I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with you, Belle Monroe, but we will talk tonight. I’ve got to get to my booth now. I’ve got a job to do, too.”
Miffed by his tone of voice—a body would think it was her fault he’d abandoned his booth and visited the hotel—Belle ground out, “Yes, I suppose you do.”
“Damn,” he muttered.
She said, “I wish you would stop cursing. I said I’d talk to you this evening. I’ll visit you at your booth.” Dear heaven, she hoped he wouldn’t try anything untoward. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to resist, even as furious as she was with him. And hurt. Oh, she hurt inside. Knowing that she’d been an utter fool hurt a lot.
“Belle . . .”
She scowled at him. “Not now.”
He threw his arms in the air in a gesture of surrender. “For the love of— All right. Tonight.”
And without even saying good-bye to the Richmonds, Win stomped off. Belle felt as if a knife were twisting in her breast.
# # #
What the hell was the matter with the woman? Win worked all day long, thinking about Belle the entire time, and never did figure it out. Thank goodness, he had lots of business or he’d probably have ended up brooding. His lawyer brought the partnership papers by Win’s booth around noontime, so the two men ate lunch together. Win was grateful to have the company for more than one reason.
He was glad to take a break, certainly, but more, he was glad to have the opportunity to talk, however circuitously, about Belle Monroe. His head felt as if it might explode if he didn’t talk about her some way with someone.
“I’d like to meet this Miss Monroe,” Tad Schwartz said, grinning like an elf. Win had never known a more appealing lawyer. He used to think of all lawyers as spawn of the devil, but now he only considered most of them thus. “Her pictures are swell.”
“Thanks,” Win said, contemplating whether to sock Tad in the jaw for his last comment or shake his hand for mentioning her name and complementing his photographs. He decided either gesture would be stupid.
“Is she as lovely in person as she is in the newspaper?”
Win shrugged. “I can’t really say. I met her here at the fair and had an inkling she’d be a good subject, but I didn’t know how photogenic she was.”
“I should say.”
“She’s a nice woman,” Win said, grudging the words even as they slipped out of his mouth.
“Glad to hear it. Most of the time beauty really is only skin deep.”
“She’s got a lot of—” What? What did Belle have a lot of besides southern platitudes and euphemisms for the Civil War? “—heart,” he said at last. “She likes kids, too.”
Tad eyed Win slantwise for a second. “Say, Win, are you sure you don’t want me to draw up another sort of contract?”
Win looked at him blankly. “Huh? I mean, what do you mean, another sort of contract?”
Tad chuckled and forked a bite of polish sausage and sauerkraut into his mouth. After he’d swallowed it, he said, “You sound as if you’re smitten with the lady. How about a marriage contract?”
Win jerked as if Tad had belted him in the stomach. “What? I mean—Jesus, Tad, it’s not that sort of thing.”
Who was he trying to kid? Tad or himself? Hell, Win had never been more confused in his life. But . . . Marriage? Sure, he’d thought about it. A lot. Especially after last night, but . . . Marriage sounded so permanent. So unbreakable. So . . . frightening.
“Damn it, Tad, Belle and I have a business relationship. She and I are worlds apart, and I can’t imagine us ever getting together in the way you mean. Shoot, she’s a die-hard southerner. Her greatest joy in life is refighting the Civil War, only she never calls it that.” His laugh came out sounding strained. “I can’t even count the different names she’s got for it, in fact. No.” He shook his head. “We’re definitely not heading for the altar. Believe me. The very thought is ridiculous.” And if that were so, why did Win’s heart cry out in pain when he said so out loud?
“If you say so.”
Win didn’t like the way Tad continued to watch him. “What?” he demanded. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Methinks thou dost protest too much,” Tad said, massacring Shakespeare even as his elfin grin appeared once more.
“Nuts.” Win sawed off a piece of his pork chop and chewed viciously. “You’re crazy.”
“
If you say so.”
But Tad dropped the subject, and Win could only be thankful. He definitely didn’t want anybody else shoving his nose into his private life. Win was confused enough already. He didn’t want witnesses to his state of utter distraction.
# # #
When Belle approached Win’s booth that evening, she had prepared herself with every piece of emotional and physical armor she could command. She told herself she would not succumb to any sweet talking, and she would most assuredly not succumb to another attempt at physical seduction. Not now that she understood how Win had manipulated her. The foul fiend. The vile seducer. The Yankee devil.
It was a little after seven o’clock when she approached his booth. The sky was getting darker, although the weather remained warm. She’d changed from her day dress into a sober walking dress of faun-colored jersey wool. She knew she looked quite well, although she hadn’t gone out of her way to primp. The only reason she’d pinned the amber brooch to her bosom was that it looked quite fetching on her gown. The donning of the brooch had nothing to do with Belle wanting to look good for Win. Heavenly days, no! She wouldn’t stoop to such artifice.
The only reason she peered into windows, seeking her reflection, as she walked along the Midway was to assure herself that her hem was straight. She didn’t want to catch the heel of her boot in it and rip the garment. She didn’t give a hang if Win thought she looked attractive tonight. That was the last thought in her mind.
She ducked into the Comfort Station and adjusted her hat only because—because—the pins felt loose. Yes. That was it. She was pleased to note that the mirror reflected a woman who was not merely attractive, even pretty, but one who appeared serene and secure in her own worth.
Too bad she didn’t feel the way she looked.
She was, however, extremely glad she was wearing her new brown kid boots and was carrying her new brown kid handbag. And her new kid gloves, which she’d bought with money she’d earned, confound her parents anyway, felt soft and delicious on her hands. She looked quite elegant, in fact. The faun of her walking dress made her complexion appear creamy, with a slight peach blush to her cheeks. She wore nothing gaudy, and there wasn’t a single thing about her that wasn’t proper.
She wore a corset, too, and Win would have to kill her to get it off her.
Belle gulped at this last thought, and reminded herself that she needed to keep a clear head. Business. She had to think about business. That’s the only thing Win cared about or understood: business.
She saw him working at his light standards, moving them here and there, as she approached his booth. In spite of her firm resolve, her heart hitched. He’d removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He’d loosened his tie for comfort, and the fabric of his shirt pulled tight across his broad back and the steely muscles of his arms. Belle’s mouth went dry, her pace slowed, and she stopped walking at last, in order to catch her breath.
This was terrible. Even looking at him made her heart race and her skin heat up. And then there was the problem of her dry mouth. Perhaps she ought to grab a sip of water before she talked to him.
But no. That was only putting off the inevitable, and Belle wanted to get it over with. With that thought in mind, she squared her shoulders, patted her hat to make sure it was secure, gripped her soft leather handbag more tightly, and reached for the door.
Win spun around when the door opened. “Belle!” The smile that swept over his face nearly caused Belle to have a palpitation. His smile really ought to be outlawed as a menace to polite society. He sounded happy to see her, too.
Belle knew she was going to have a job of it to keep from falling under his spell again. “Good evening, Win.”
He rushed up to her with his hands held out. “God, I’m glad to see you!”
She drew back slightly. Win slowed down and frowned at her. His hands dropped to his sides. “Say, Belle, are you mad at me? Honest to God, I mean you no harm.”
“I’m sure that’s so,” she said in a voice that was at least a hundred times more positive than she felt. “I never thought you meant to do me harm.” Liar, she scolded herself. But she didn’t want to get into an argument. Not tonight. She wasn’t strong enough for a fight.
“Belle . . .” His face took on a pained expression.
Belle didn’t understand his expression. In truth, she didn’t understand anything—except that Win had business papers he wanted her to sign. Business. She was such an idiot to think a Yankee would understand anything unrelated to business. Love, for example. She cleared her throat, which ached, much to her internal fury. She wanted to be poised and dignified, not hurt and humiliated.
Commanding herself to pretend everything was ginger-peachy, she forced herself to smile. “You had some business papers drawn up, I believe?” In order to do something with her hands, she began drawing off her gloves. Even though her heart was breaking, she felt rather sophisticated and was glad she’d chosen to dress up this evening.
“Business papers.” Win stared at her as if he didn’t know who she was all of a sudden. “Belle . . .”
“Yes.” She turned suddenly and her smile vanished. “You’re the one who asked me to come here to sign business papers, if you’ll recall. I’d like to do that right away, if you please, because I need to get back to the hotel.”
“But . . . Dash it, Belle, we need to talk.”
Drat. He would have to remember that, wouldn’t he? Furious with herself and with him, she produced another smile from some inner resource she hadn’t known about until then. “Of course. Let’s talk, then, because I truly don’t have much time. The Richmonds need me to watch the children while they attend a new play at the theater.”
Win stared at her for approximately a minute, although it felt like a hundred years, during which it was all Belle could do to remain upright and tranquil. His shoulders slumped at last and he heaved a defeated sigh. Turning toward his desk, he muttered, “All right. Let’s start with the partnership.”
“Very well.” Belle followed him to the desk, where he drew up another chair and held it for her. It was the first polite act he’d performed spontaneously. Perhaps that wasn’t fair of her. It was the first polite act Belle could recall. “Thank you.”
He sat on his desk chair and pulled a thick envelope toward himself. He reached in and took out a document. Shoving it at Belle, he said, “This is pretty simple, but you’d better read it through. I don’t want you saying I tried to cheat you.” He sounded bitter.
Belle looked from the document to Win. “Of course, I shall read it. And if I decide to sign it, then I won’t have any reason to say you tried to cheat me, will I?”
He only glared at her. Although she knew it was going to be impossible to ignore that glare, Belle did her best. Lifting the papers, she made a stab at reading through them. After a couple of paragraphs, she decided the language of the legal profession bore scant resemblance to the English language she’d been speaking for so many years. She frowned. “I don’t understand half of this, Win. Why do attorneys have to write things in incomprehensible language?”
“I don’t know, but they seem to, don’t they?”
When Belle glanced at him, he was smiling, and she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. She could almost, with a slight struggle, withstand his sulks, but his smiles dazzled her. Forging on, she said, “What I think this means is that I will receive fifty percent of the profits from any photographs you take of me that you sell, through any agent or agency. Is that what you think it says?”
“That’s what I told Tad to write, and that’s the way I read it, too, so I guess that’s it.”
Well, that had been fairly easy. Belle pointed to a paragraph. “It says here that you might market photographs all over the world.” She searched his face. “Do you really sell your work world-wide? I mean, like, in England and France and Germany and places like that?”
“Photographs of my taking have appeared in more places than that.” Belle heard the prid
e in his voice. “My stuff has graced publications in India and Egypt, and it’s even been published in a couple of booklets missionaries are handing out in China.”
Mercy. This news fairly boggled Belle’s mind. She wasn’t altogether sure she wanted to be recognized the world over, even if she never traveled any farther than New York or Chicago. On the other hand, she lived in Yankee-dom now, and money was king. Money was handy, too; she couldn’t deny it. Money had bought the lovely ensemble she was wearing right this minute. If plastering her image all over the world would make her tons of money, she might as well take advantage of the opportunity. It wouldn’t last any longer than her looks did. “I see.”
“Also, if you’ll read farther, it will mention royalties. I don’t generally sell my work outright, at least to publications. To regular people who want portraits done, of course, I sell it that way and expect to make no further profit. But with images I sell to news and advertising agencies, I often receive royalties. Any work featuring you that gets royalties—well, you’ll get fifty percent of the royalties, as well.”
“I see.” She saw a huge, gaping blank, is what she saw. She didn’t understand any of this. She wouldn’t say so for worlds.
“The contract doesn’t mention a lot of the ways in which it’s possible to make money with photographs, either,” Win went on after a moment of silence as Belle stared at the contract and wished she could makes heads or tails out of it. “I sell photographs to lots of magazines, sure, but I also market my work to different manufacturers of goods who advertise their wares in a variety of ways. Some cosmetics companies like to publish pictures of pretty women in an effort to sell their wares. Pears Soap is a big buyer of my work, and a coalition of California orange growers has written to ask me to produce a photograph representing a healthy American woman. Sort of goes along with oranges, I guess. You know: ‘Eat our fruit, and you too can be healthy and beautiful.’”
Belle felt slightly faint as she contemplated being part of what she could only consider a fraudulent use of her image. Although, she supposed the orange could be considered a health product. “Good heavens.” Her voice reflected her faintness of heart.
Just North of Bliss Page 27
