Tycoon

by Joanna Shupe

  Born in the slums of Five Points, Emmett Cavanaugh climbed his way to the top of a booming steel empire and now holds court in an opulent Fifth Avenue mansion. His rise in station, however, has done little to elevate his taste in women. He loathes the city’s “high society” types, but a rebellious and beautiful blue blood just might change all that . . .

  Elizabeth Sloane’s mind is filled with more than the latest parlor room gossip. Lizzie can play the Stock Exchange as deftly as New York’s most accomplished brokers—but she needs a man to put her skills to use. Emmett reluctantly agrees when the stunning socialite asks him to back her trades and split the profits. But love and business make strange bedfellows, and as their fragile partnership begins to crack, they’ll discover a passion more frenzied than the trading room floor. . . .

  Man cannot do without society, and society cannot be maintained without customs and laws.

  —American Etiquette and Rules of Politeness, 1883

  75th Street and 5th Avenue, New York City

  December 1887

  If given the choice between bears and bulls, Miss Elizabeth Sloane would take the bull every time. Bears were tentative and sluggish, whereas bulls charged forward and made things happen. She considered herself a bull, unafraid of going after what she wanted.

  Right now, however, the immense man in front of her made her want to lift her skirts and flee.

  “Miss Sloane.”

  She’d heard rumors about Emmett Cavanaugh, owner of East Coast Steel and friend of her brother, Will. But nothing had prepared her for the shock of first seeing him.

  He was huge—and not polished or sophisticated like Will. No, this man was all rough edges and hard angles. Dark hair was swept back from his clean-shaven face, and she could see a small indent on the tip of his chin. She hadn’t expected him to be handsome. Her heart began picking up steam, thumping hard in her chest.

  He came forward with an easy grace, one remarkable for a man so big. The bespoke tailoring and fine wool of his dark blue suit showed off his wide shoulders and long limbs, a hint of the power beneath.

  The breadth of his chest . . . Good heavens. Her skin grew hot and itchy as he drew closer, causing Lizzie to feel more and more unsure of herself. How was he doing it, making her head swim like she was standing on the deck of a yacht? Without thinking, she took a step back.

  That brought Cavanaugh to a halt. He cocked his head and studied her, and she got the impression from the tightening of his lips that she’d disappointed him somehow. Ridiculous. They didn’t know one another, so how could she have disappointed him?

  Still, no reason to feel intimidated, for heaven’s sake. She had a solid business idea and a talent for the stock exchange. Though her brother did not believe upper-class women should work, surely not all his friends were as closed-minded.

  “Mr. Cavanaugh,” she returned, straightening her shoulders. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Of course, though I’m a bit unclear on the rules. I don’t normally entertain unmarried ladies in my home. Am I supposed to offer you refreshment?”

  Yes, she’d heard of the types of ladies he entertained. All actresses, and the liaison never lasted long. “That is not necessary. I do not plan to take up much of your time.”

  “Then by all means, please sit.” Lizzie lowered onto the edge of a chair. Cavanaugh assumed the chair opposite, crossed an ankle over a knee, and leaned back. He clasped his hands together. Waited.

  She cleared her throat. “I have a business proposition for you.”

  One dark eyebrow shot up. “A business proposition? Interesting, though I’m curious as to why you have not taken this idea to your brother. He does own one of the biggest railroads in the country.”

  “I have, but he has proven difficult to convince. I’m hopeful you will be more open-minded.”

  Her older brother’s voice still rang in her ears. “Stick to your parties and theater, Lizzie,” Will had told her. “Leave the business side of things to me.”

  That precise attitude—that women were lesser creatures incapable of understanding financial matters—had convinced her to do this on her own.

  “Well, that does intrigue me. But what about the Rutlidge boy, the one to whom you’re nearly engaged?”

  Hardly a surprise Cavanaugh had heard about her and Henry Rutlidge. Will was keen on the match, as was Edith Rutlidge, Lizzie’s good friend and Henry’s sister. But Lizzie hadn’t yet made up her mind. Henry’s views on women in business were far from progressive, and Lizzie feared losing her independence if she married him. “For now, I think it best to keep my plans to myself.”

  “Such an unexpected show of defiance. You must tell me this radical idea.”

  Cavanaugh moved not a muscle, his focus unwavering. She hoped that was a sign of interest on his part. “I want to open a brokerage firm. I am seeking a partner, one to provide working capital to get started. Also someone high profile enough to help me lure other clients.”

  No sign of amusement or horror showed on his face. His expression remained unreadable. “Like Vanderbilt provided the Woodhull sisters a few years back?”

  “Precisely.” She relaxed a bit. He understood.

  “And who will be doing the advising?”

  “Me. I will be doing the work, at least at the outset.”

  He tilted his head and stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “Will you, now?”

  She nodded. “Indeed, sir. I plan to hire a young man to complete my trades for me on the exchange floor.”

  He gave her a long, indecipherable look. She couldn’t tell if he was considering her plan or preparing to laugh. Finally, he said, “You are from one of the oldest and wealthiest families in New York, Miss Sloane. Surely you can finance whatever scheme you’re dreaming up. Sell a bracelet or two to raise the money. Why bring someone in from the outside?”

  This was sticky. She couldn’t tell Cavanaugh the truth, that she suspected the worst of the Sloane finances. Her brother would not discuss it, but she knew they were having trouble. Paintings disappearing, servants let go, stock sold . . . Did Will think she wouldn’t notice? Did he honestly believe she did not pay attention? Yet he’d refused her offer of help.

  For Cavanaugh, she went with the answer she’d prepared, one that was not a lie. “I do not come into possession of my trust until my twenty-fifth birthday. Even still, I will draw more wealthy clients if they know I already have one. Male clients, that is.”

  “And I am supposed to believe you know what you’re talking about, entrust you with my money?”

  She picked up the ledger she’d been keeping for four years, the proof that she wasn’t some silly female with unrealistic aspirations. No, in here lay her undeniable ability in ink. “These are records of the transactions I would have made, had I been allowed.” He held out his large hand and she slipped the volume into his grip. “I read the reports, Mr. Cavanaugh. I follow the markets. You’ll see I have a healthy balance in the black.”

  “A fictional balance,” he noted before studying the most recent entries. “Most of these are obvious, sure bets any trader would make.” He paused. “What’s this, a short sale on Pennington? Did you truly see that coming, when no one else did?”

  Not easy to keep the smugness out of her voice but she managed it. “Over the past three years, I’ve noticed their second quarter earnings are always delayed. The Pennington stock drops 10 percent like clockwork as a result.”

  “How do I know you didn’t write these entries the next day, once you read the papers?”

  Heat washed over her skin, like she’d been dipped in anger. “Are you saying I am lying?”

  His lips twitched as if he found the answer amusing and he handed the ledger back. “Why me?”

  She lifted a shoulder, trying to appear relaxed when she felt the opposite. “I know about your meetings with my brother each month, the ones with Calvin Cabot and Theodore Harper.” She cleared her throat. “And Mr. Cabot and Mr. Harper were both unavailable t
his afternoon.”

  “Well, at least you’re honest about my being your last choice,” he said dryly.

  Cavanaugh’s reputation for ruthlessness had factored into her decision, not that she would tell him that. It was whispered he’d grown up on the streets of Five Points, fought his way out of the slums to a steel mill, which he later purchased to start his empire.

  “Follow me,” he said and rose in one fluid motion.

  Drawing a breath for courage, she trailed him out the door, into the corridor, deeper into the garishly decorated house, past the two-story entry hall with its sleek pink marble staircase and gold railing. Next came a long gallery, with paintings from Dutch and Italian masters adorning walls that rose to an impressively carved ceiling decorated with frescoes and rimmed with gold leaf.

  Cavanaugh walked fast and Lizzie had to lift up the hem of her skirts in order to keep up. Not very loquacious, was he? Or polite, for that matter.

  They ended up in a large room with a massive desk, rows of books on shelves, and a collection of modern-day conveniences—telephone, telegraph machine, stock ticker. It smelled of cigar, lemon polish, and big business. A thrill went through her.

  “Colin, leave us,” Cavanaugh said, and a young man emerged from a smaller desk in the corner of the room. He wore round glasses, his eyes curious behind the frames as he hurried to the hall. Cavanaugh continued to the stock ticker behind the desk, the machine churning and spitting out a long white strip. He ripped off the paper and returned to her side.

  He held out the tape. “Read it. The last five updates.”

  Taking a deep breath, she lowered into a chair, set down her ledger, and smoothed the thin strip of paper between her fingers. Cavanaugh sat as well, thankfully saving her from craning her neck to see him. She cleared her throat. “Deere and Company down seven and three-eighths. State Street Corporation up two points. Seneca Textiles down twelve points. PPG Industries up six and one-eighth point. Kimberly-Clark up three and five-eighths.”

  “Very good,” he said, though he hardly sounded impressed. “But interpreting the tape is the skill. So tell me, based on what you read, what would you advise your clients to do?”

  She didn’t even need to think on it. “I would advise them to buy Seneca Textiles.”

  “Why, when they’ve been down steadily since September?”

  “Because Easter is three months away, and in a few days, the ladies will begin ordering their bonnets, dresses, gloves, and the like. I also know that Seneca will soon announce an exclusive agreement to import the same Honiton lace as is supplied to Queen Victoria.”

  Cavanaugh glanced away, his brow furrowed. She held utterly still, watching and awaiting his decision. Blunt fingers stroked the rough skin of his jaw, and her attention was drawn to the small indentation in his chin. She imagined tracing it with her finger. . . .

  “Not bad, Miss Sloane. Not bad at all. But my answer must still be no.”

  * * *

  Emmett studied her carefully as the news sank in. Christ, she was beautiful. How did a bastard like Will Sloane have such a breathtaking sister?

  In a high-necked, blue-and-white striped shirtwaist and matching skirt, Elizabeth Sloane possessed a cool, untouchable beauty, the kind far removed from the type of women he usually fraternized with. She had the flawless skin found only in the top tier of society, those who had never worked, toiled in a field, or sweat in the heat of a steel mill. Emmett felt dirty just sitting across from her.

  Still, his blood stirred all the same. How could it not? Blond hair, perfect poise, slate-gray eyes, the fair Miss Sloane would cause a dead man to sit up and take notice.

  And the way she’d read that ticker tape, with such confidence and skill, almost knocked him on his ass. He hadn’t met a woman that quick with numbers since Fannie Reid, owner of the most successful bordello in Five Points.

  “I’m sorry, you said no?” Her blond brows pinched, and he had the ridiculous urge to smooth his thumb over the tiny creases that dared mar her immaculate forehead. “Why?”

  He forced his gaze to hers. “I did say no. First, I already employ an investment firm. And second, while it seems you have a knack for high finance, I cannot see how this is a good idea. I wish you luck, however.”

  Her shoulders went rigid, and he knew he’d offended her. “I have more than a ‘knack.’ Why do you think I will not succeed?”

  How could he explain it to her, that talent only got one so far in business? More important were cunning, a lack of scruples, and an ever-ready supply of favors to call upon at a moment’s notice. This woman was far too well-bred to play in the street with the other vermin.

  “The world you think to involve yourself in is a cutthroat, nasty business. I cannot believe you have the stomach for it.”

  Her lips thinned into a white line. “And how do you know what, precisely, I have the stomach for?”

  She hadn’t backed down, so perhaps Elizabeth Sloane was stronger than she appeared. Still, she had no idea what awaited her if she continued along this insane path. Bribes. Lying. Cheating . . . Christ, he’d bought off two politicians already today—and the day was only half over. No woman, especially one whose family could be traced to the Dutch patroons of New Amsterdam, should swim in those filthy waters.

  “I don’t, not really. But I have a strong suspicion.”

  “A suspicion based on how I look. On my last name.”

  It was not a question, but Emmett still felt he owed her the truth. “Yes. Life in Washington Square will not have prepared you for—”

  Anger bloomed on her cheeks, her pristine skin turning red. “You have no idea of my life or what I’m prepared to do. I know as much about stocks as any man, including you. Women shouldn’t be forced to put up with . . . with . . .”

  She trailed off, and Emmett couldn’t drag his eyes away. No woman had ever appeared as gorgeous as a furious Elizabeth Sloane. Emmett’s body had begun to take notice, but the last thing he needed was a bit of stiff in his trousers. With an effort, he returned to the conversation. “With?”

  “With men like you! You are just as closed-minded as my brother.”

  Emmett felt himself frown. God knew he wanted nothing in common with Will Sloane. Emmett hated her brother with everything he had, which was considerable.

  He studied the determined set of Miss Sloane’s shoulders. The resolute gleam in her steady gaze. “Why?” he finally asked.

  “Why, what?”

  “Why do you want to do this? You have to know it won’t be easy. And who will be your clients?”

  “Mostly women at first. Shop girls, teachers, widows, society women. And ladies with . . . other sources of income.”

  “Prostitutes, you mean.” God Almighty, her brother would lose his snobbish, blue-blooded mind if he knew. Emmett was growing to like this girl.

  She flushed, but did not dodge, answering, “Yes, those as well. But a well-known male client will help other businessmen to trust me. And I mean to do this whether you help me or not.”

  He admired her conviction, but wondered at the reason behind it. Were the Sloanes in some sort of financial trouble? Why else would she be here, so anxious to prove herself, instead of doing this on her own? The idea had Emmett nearly salivating; he’d had his eye on Sloane’s Northeast Railroad Company for a long time. Owning the railroad that transported his steel across the country would almost double Emmett’s profits.

  And bringing the stick-up-his-ass Sloane down while helping his sister engage in something scandalous? Nearly irresistible.

  Yet something held him back, like perhaps his strange reaction to her.

  “I like your determination,” he admitted. “But—”

  “Wait!” she said suddenly. “I have an idea. Let’s make a wager. You give me an amount of money, and, if I cannot double it on the exchange within six months, then you’re off the hook.”

  Before he thought better of it, he asked, “How much?”

  She shrugged. “You
may decide. Five thousand, perhaps?”

  He admired her spirit, so he played along. “Too low. Let’s make it ten.”

  “Fine. And when I double it, I’ll take the twenty thousand and another fifty to start my business.”

  “Our business,” he corrected. “If I’m backing you, you’re going to give me a share of your profits, Miss Sloane. And you only get three weeks. Not six months.” No use making it easy on her.

  Her jaw dropped. “Three weeks! I cannot possibly—”

  “Then we have nothing else to discuss.” He stood and walked around his desk. “Good day, miss.”

  “Fine! Three weeks.”

  He suppressed a smirk. She would need to learn better negotiating skills, that was for certain. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Tell me something.”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Well, money, of course.”

  “I’ve got plenty of money. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  This caught her off guard, and she started chewing her lip. “I . . . There’s nothing other than altruism and money in it for you, I’m afraid.”

  “One unappealing and the other completely unnecessary. What else?” He moved toward her, relieved to see that she didn’t back away from him like before. When he reached the edge of his desk, he leaned on the heavy wood and crossed his feet. “For example, what happens if you fail? I’m out ten thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t have the money to pay you back, at least not yet. But I can repay you in Northeast stock. From my trust.”

  Emmett swore he could hear his heart beating in his ears. “Is it, by chance, preferred stock?”

  “Yes, how did you know? My father started the company only a few years before he died and he put some in a trust for me. I’m certain I have enough stock to deed over to you, should I fail. Which I won’t.”

  He barely restrained himself from rubbing his hands together. Northeast hadn’t put preferred stock on the market in eight years. Owning some not only promised a higher dividend return on the company’s earnings, but such stock could possibly allow him voting rights. Will Sloane would shit himself when he found out—not that Emmett would tell any of this to Elizabeth.