Magnate

by Joanna Shupe

  Something told her Emmett was different, that this man could cause a woman to lose her head. So did that scare her . . . or tempt her beyond reason?

  He leaned in, ever so slowly, and she held her breath, remaining perfectly still. They were so close she could see the hint of stubble on his jaw, while a faint trace of wool and cigar smoke teased her nose. Please, kiss me. Just once, so I’ll know.

  Suddenly, the wheels hit a bump in the road, jostling the carriage, and Henry snorted loudly. Emmett and Lizzie both jerked apart, the moment broken.

  While he turned to the window, Lizzie tried to calm her racing heart. Entertaining feelings for this man was a considerably bad idea. She barely knew him. And he was too . . . forceful. She wanted someone who was understanding and peaceful. Easygoing. Who would give her room to breathe. Heaven knew, a man with Emmett Cavanaugh’s reputation, he would be a locomotive that crushed anything in his path.

  The carriage slowed as they arrived in Gramercy Park. Lizzie reached across to gently pat Henry’s cheek. Her friend didn’t stir, not even when Emmett opened the door. “Henry, wake up. You’re home.”

  “Allow me.” Emmett stood outside the carriage. He leaned in, grabbed Henry’s ankle with one large hand, and pulled hard. Henry slid to the carriage floor with a bone-jarring thud, and Emmett continued to drag him toward the door. Bending, he threw Henry over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

  Mouth agape, Lizzie scurried after them. Emmett’s driver, a stocky, muscle-bound man, opened the wrought-iron gate to the stairs, and Emmett climbed them easily, as if he weren’t lugging a large man over his shoulder. He pounded on the front door, the wood rattling with the force of the blows.

  The Rutlidges’ butler, Price, came to the door. The servant did not seem all that surprised to have an unconscious Henry on the doorstep. “Come in, please,” Price told Emmett.

  Lizzie followed Emmett inside, and they continued to the small receiving room Henry’s mother used for close friends. “Put him there, if you please.” Price motioned to a sofa.

  Emmett dumped Henry on the furniture with no ceremony. He straightened and looked at Lizzie, a silent question in his eyes.

  “I will rouse the cook for some coffee,” Price told the room and disappeared.

  Emmett’s dark stare remained on Lizzie. She thought back to the moment in the carriage, when he’d nearly kissed her. Oh, how she’d wanted it, even though she knew it was madness. Reckless and running counter to everything she’d been brought up to believe, that kissing men you hardly knew was insanity. A sure way to ruin her future. She’d kissed Henry only twice, and they’d known each other all their lives.

  This . . . attraction to Emmett Cavanaugh was dangerous. And getting in a carriage with Emmett now, alone, would only mean more temptation.

  “I should stay and make certain he is all right,” she said quietly.

  “Of course.” Emmett dipped his chin, his expression a mask of civility. “Then I bid you good night.”

  His long legs carried him out of the room swiftly. “Emmett,” she called, and he stopped on the threshold.

  “Thank you for dinner.”

  “You are welcome,” he returned over his shoulder.

  He disappeared and soon the front door closed, allowing Lizzie to draw her first deep breath of the evening.

  * * *

  “Ah, you’ve returned.”

  Emmett handed his top hat and walking stick to his butler and glanced up in the direction of the voice. His brother, Brendan, came limping down the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing to keep the weight off his left leg.

  Five years younger than Emmett, Brendan had been run over by a wagon as a boy. Emmett had been up to no good with the Popes at all hours, avoiding a father who drank too much and liked to use his fists. With no one to care for him, six-year-old Brendan had gone out to steal food one afternoon, slipped, and gotten caught under a passing wagon. Lucky to be alive, they said at the time . . . but not so lucky as to retain full use of both legs.

  Though Brendan was now a doctor—a graduate of the Harvard Medical School—the ache in Emmett’s chest, the crushing guilt over his brother’s affliction, never let up. It had been Emmett’s job to protect Brendan, and he’d failed. Their mother had disappeared shortly after, ending up dead four years later in San Francisco—not that Emmett blamed her for leaving. Patrick Cavanaugh had been one cruel bastard.

  From that day forward, Emmett had vowed to do anything—beg, cheat, or steal, if necessary—to get his brother out of Five Points. That resolve had only magnified when Emmett’s two half sisters were born. His three siblings would not suffer harm or go hungry, not while Emmett had breath left in his body.

  Brendan reached the bottom of the stairs, a smile on his face. “Destroy any companies today?” he asked, his voice teasing.

  “Just two,” Emmett answered with all seriousness.

  “God, you’re telling the truth. I’m glad I’ll never have to go up against you. Except in billiards, of course. Can I tempt you into a game?”

  “Mr. Cavanaugh.” Colin James, Emmett’s secretary, strode swiftly down the hallway. Twenty-four and smart as a whip, Colin remained a permanent fixture in the mansion, residing in one of the guest suites, since Emmett tended to work round-the-clock. “I have your messages, sir.”

  Emmett took the cables and slips of paper and flipped through them. Nothing that couldn’t wait. “Tomorrow,” he told Colin, “I want you to find someone who can get us the Northeast Railroad P&L statements. No matter what you have to pay. I have a feeling the company might be ripe for the pickings. But that’s enough for tonight. We’ll pick up in the morning.”

  “Very good, sir.” With a broad smile, Colin raced up the main stairs like a man possessed.

  “He’s sweet on some shopgirl over at Lord and Taylor,” Brendan murmured, watching Colin depart. “I think he’s taking her out dancing tonight. I offered to show him some steps, but . . .”

  Brendan chuckled, amused, but Emmett could see no cause for levity. When he closed his eyes, he could still see his brother’s small, broken body on the bed. “Brendan . . .”

  “It was a jest, Em.” Brendan slapped Emmett’s shoulder. “You’re too serious. Come on. Let’s play for a bit.”

  Emmett could sense his brother would not relent, so they made their way to the billiard room, one of Emmett’s favorite places in the house. No expense had been spared here. A five-light gasolier illuminated the huge rococo-inspired billiard table, a one-of-a-kind piece complete with an intricately carved walnut base and green baize-covered slate surface. The mosaic-tiled floor—imported from a palace in Italy—had been reinforced just to hold the massive table. The walls were papered red with gold accents, and the furniture held a Far Eastern flare. Brendan often called the room the “opium den.”

  “How were your patients today?” Emmett asked his brother.

  “Sick.” Brendan leaned against a stick, a cut-crystal glass full of whiskey cradled in his hand. “I poured you some gin.”

  Emmett murmured his thanks as he went to select a stick. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kelly stride in. Kelly was Emmett’s driver and guard, as well as the only person Emmett fully trusted—and that was only because the two of them had grown up in Five Points together. They’d fought and scraped their way out of one of the worst hellholes on earth, and there wasn’t anything one wouldn’t do for the other.

  “Where were you tonight?” Brendan asked Emmett. “Off with your Mrs. Rose?”

  “Gettin’ into trouble, is what he was doing,” Kelly answered. “With one Miss Elizabeth Sloane.”

  Brendan whistled. “Elizabeth Sloane? That’s a new one. Not your usual type of woman, is it, Em?”

  Emmett didn’t answer, and Kelly prompted, “Well, go on. Tell him, then.”

  “It’s business,” Emmett said, selecting his stick and testing its weight. “I’m backing her company.”

  “Over dinner.” Kelly poured a glass of fresh oran
ge juice and sat. Kelly never drank alcohol, not since they had left Five Points. Emmett just glared at him.

  “Dinner!” Brendan exclaimed. “Well, that is surprising.”

  Emmett finished arranging the balls on the table and lifted the rack. “You break.”

  Brendan stepped to the table, lined up, and jammed his cue forward. A loud smack, and the balls careened around the felt. Two went in, one striped and one solid. Brendan claimed stripes and moved in for another shot. He made one, missed the next.

  Emmett approached as Brendan returned to his drink and the earlier conversation. “So why is taking Elizabeth Sloane to dinner going to cause trouble?”

  “I suspect her brother’ll have a thing or two to say about Bishop’s dinner tonight,” Kelly said. “Considering pissing the brother off was the motive for takin’ her out in the first place.”

  Kelly was the only person Emmett allowed to use his old childhood nickname, Bishop. Kelly used the name out of habit, but Emmett was not proud of the way he’d earned it. He ignored them and concentrated on sinking the solid-colored balls.

  “But Emmett would never do that. He’d never use some innocent woman out of spite. Would you, Em?”

  Emmett couldn’t even look at Kelly, who knew exactly what Emmett was capable of, so he kept his gaze focused on the table as he put away a second ball.

  “You aren’t sweet on her, are you?”

  Emmett stopped to scowl at his brother. “Don’t be ridiculous. Even if I was, which I’m not, it would be a waste of time.”

  Brendan and Kelly exchanged a brief glance that set Emmett’s teeth on edge. “Because she’s a step above? A girl with Elizabeth Sloane’s money and pedigree can choose whomever she wants, I think,” Brendan said. “And I’m coming to like the idea of having her as my sister-in-law.”

  “No one has even mentioned marriage, Bren. Besides, you don’t even know her,” Emmett growled, and thrust his cue forward, smacking two balls and missing the pocket.

  Brendan sauntered forward for his turn. “Don’t need to know her. What matters is her social standing. Have you thought about what happens in three years when Katie wants to have her coming out? Or the next year when Claire follows suit? That’s not a lot of time, Emmett. How are you going to get society to accept them?”

  “I don’t give a damn if society accepts them or not,” Emmett snapped, and reached for his gin. “And I have a hefty dowry that says they will.”

  Kelly muttered, “Tell that to Alva Vanderbilt.”

  Poised over the table for a shot, Brendan paused and straightened. “Kelly’s right. Money can’t buy acceptance, not with these people. And you should care whether Katie and Claire are shunned or not. Because you want them to make good marriages, to men who will take care of them like”—he waved his hand to sweep the room—“this. Or do you want them on the Lower East Side, stealing and grasping to put food on the table?”

  The idea of his half sisters struggling for one second had Emmett’s chest tightening into a fist. He well remembered the uncertainty, the hunger, and the anger of everyday life in the slums. “They are both heiresses in their own right. Just as you never need work, should you come to your senses.”

  “I know, and we all appreciate your generosity. But like it or not, their husbands will control whatever money Katie and Claire possess. What happens if they fall in love with the wrong man, instead of selecting one you’ve approved? The papers are full of men who’ve lost their fortunes.”

  “You gotta give it to Harvard,” Kelly said, using his nickname for Brendan. “He’s makin’ a lot of sense. Elizabeth Sloane gives you a way into Mrs. Astor’s circle.”

  Emmett had never cared about Caroline Astor or her precious “circle.” Business was what mattered. He’d always been friendly enough with the men of high society, friendly enough to launch several interests with them over the years. That was the way of it. Emmett bothered himself with the financial gain, never the social side of things. He damn well wouldn’t start now.

  “I’d never give my blessing for any union between one of the girls and some goddamn fool bent on spending her money. And even if I did, I’d take a brickbat to him before I let her money be pissed away.”

  “Which Claire or Katie would appreciate, no doubt.” Brendan shot Emmett an amused look. “You’d best prepare yourself, Em. They read the society pages every day. Every. Day. They’re already planning the guest list.”

  Emmett didn’t want to think of debuts and marriages. The girls were too young, for God’s sake. He could still remember them toddling around his first house over off Union Square.

  But Brendan was right, damn it. Emmett hadn’t considered the future. His intention had been to learn something at dinner, some insight into Sloane’s financial stability, but he’d been so blinded by Elizabeth that he’d forgotten even that.

  He downed the rest of his gin. “Why don’t you marry Elizabeth Sloane, then? Or another one like her?”

  “Sure. All women hope for a lame doctor still mooching off his older brother. I’ll have a wife by breakfast.”

  Emmett narrowed his eyes on his brother. Brendan was smarter than all of them put together. After his injury, he’d been housebound, where he had spent all his time reading. But Emmett knew better than to argue; stubborn pride ran in their blood.

  Just as he knew there would be no society wife. Not now. Not ever.

  “Get back to the game, Brendan. I’ve got work to do.”

  * * *

  The door to Emmett’s study opened, and Kelly poked his head in. “Sloane’s just pulled up. You wanna see him?”

  Satisfaction surged through Emmett. Fourteen hours. It had taken only fourteen hours for the news of the dinner to reach Will Sloane’s ears and prompt a visit. Not bad, considering Sloane had been in Boston yesterday.

  “Oh, yes,” Emmett told his longtime friend. “I definitely want to see him. Colin, take a walk.”

  Emmett’s secretary nodded and rose from his desk to disappear into the depths of the massive house. Emmett went back to his reports, though he didn’t see them.

  He’d hardly slept last night, thinking of Elizabeth’s face in the carriage. He knew when a woman wanted to be kissed. When her eyes turned dreamy and she moistened her lips. When she stared at a man like her next breath depended on his mouth meeting hers. Elizabeth Sloane, of the Washington Square Sloanes, had looked at him in precisely that manner—even after learning what he’d done at the steel mill. Unbelievable. It made no sense.

  Christ, how he wanted her. Craved her with the same unrelenting drive that had burned in his gut to get out of the slums. Out of the steel mill. The same determination that had him up at dawn each morning to amass more wealth, ensuring his family never experienced poverty again.

  If he’d given in to his baser instincts, God knows what might have happened. He’d never kissed a Knickerbocker. Did they use tongues? No doubt she would have slapped him. Hell, if he were in her shoes, he’d slap him, too.

  In the end, what he desired made no difference. He would ignore the attraction between them as he’d ignored countless other women who thought of him as a prize to be won. Emmett knew precisely what he was, and there was no prize underneath the expensive tailoring and pleasing face.

  The door swung open, and Kelly came through. “Mr. William Sloane,” he announced properly, as if he were a butler and not a former bare-knuckled boxer.

  Sloane stormed inside. Emmett had never seen the man so disheveled. His blond hair, normally slicked to perfection, was a mess, and he still wore his evening clothes from the night before. His expression thunderous, he took a threatening step toward Emmett. “My sister? Have you no goddamned scruples, Cavanaugh?”

  Kelly swiftly inserted himself between Sloane and the desk, an impenetrable wall Sloane would never topple.

  Sloane kept his furious gaze pinned on Emmett. “Call off your guard dog, you thug, and face me like a man.”

  Kelly snuck a glance over his shoulder, a
nd Emmett jerked his chin. Kelly withdrew, leaving the room and closing the door softly, though Emmett knew his friend wouldn’t go far.

  Emmett leaned back. “Would you care to sit down?”

  “No. What I’d like to do is punch you in the face.”

  Emmett suppressed a smile. “You could try, Sloane, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

  “Yes, we all know you’re no stranger to violence. Do you think I haven’t learned about your past? Why they called you the Bishop—”

  Emmett shot to his feet, slapped his palms on his desk. “Careful. You’s best be very careful about what you’re sayin’ next.” He heard the slip in his speech, the guttural tone and pronunciation of his youth thanks to the rage now burning inside him. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to calm down. He needed to face Sloane as an equal.

  “Or else what?” Sloane shot back, nostrils flaring. “If you think I am afraid of you or your ruffian friend out there, you are dead wrong.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Did you . . . touch her?”

  Emmett lowered into his chair and folded his hands. He hadn’t touched her, but Elizabeth’s beautiful face floated through his mind, her skin flushed and pouty lips glistening in the low light of the carriage. Oh, he’d been dying to touch her. Still hungered for it, even this morning. Not that he could have her. But a man’s cock did not possess the ability to reason, sadly.

  “Is that what you’re worked up about? Worried I’ve tainted your precious blue Dutch blood?”

  Sloane closed his eyes as if in pain, his chest heaving. “If you touch her, I will kill you with my bare hands. I may not have grown up on the streets with the Popes, but I will see it done. Do you understand me?”

  “So violent. You are full of surprises, Sloane,” Emmett said sardonically.