Magnate

by Joanna Shupe

  A small hand clutched his shoulder, holding on. Pulling him closer. Euphoria flooded his veins, and more blood rushed to his cock. He nipped her plump bottom lip, needing to mark her, needing to sink his teeth into her perfect skin.

  She gasped and rejoined their mouths, immediately opening for him, her tongue every bit as impatient as his. He felt feverish, an all-consuming heat enveloping his entire body. God, what he wouldn’t give to raise her skirts, lift her on the table, and push inside. No one would know. He’d told the waiters to leave the food and not return until he called. Anything could—and usually did—happen in these private dining rooms.

  With a tug of his foot, he brought her chair closer, then placed a hand on her waist. She was small, so tiny compared to his giant hand—not that it stopped him from touching her. He needed to feel her, to memorize every inch of her.

  He paused as the enormity of what was transpiring swept through him. Not only was he treating her inappropriately, they were in a semipublic place. Why in the hell had he started this?

  Breaking free, he sucked in air. She stared at him with glazed, sleepy eyes, the wonder on her face nearly causing him to kiss her all over again. The urge to make her tremble, to hear her shout his name, just about brought him to his knees.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t ’a took advantage of you.”

  She blinked a few times, and he realized he’d slipped into his old speech patterns. Shit. He cleared his throat and started to ease away.

  With one hand still on his shoulder, she prevented his retreat. Her gaze dropped to his chin. Delicate fingers slowly touched the indentation there. The Devil’s mark, his father had called it. Elizabeth traced the dimpled skin, fascinated. “I have been wondering what this feels like,” she whispered.

  What the hell? She’d been thinking about his chin?

  Her fingers slid over his jaw and up along his sideburns, brushing his ears. “Don’t stop just yet. Kiss me again.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re right. The rules haven’t ever stopped me. Please, Emmett.”

  He lunged, took her face in his hands, and found her mouth. Just one more kiss, then he would stop. One more taste of her before he never saw her again. She mewled, a needy sound deep in her throat, and he heard himself growl in response. Her tongue met his, and the jolt of pleasure from that simple motion streaked through his groin. He was harder than iron, his cock begging to be released from behind his clothing.

  She squirmed, and he pulled her closer, until her corseted breasts were brushing his chest. His hand traveled south, intent on—

  “Goddamn it! Get your hands off her, Cavanaugh.”

  Chapter Six

  When you are compelled to differ from others you should be controlled by reason and moderation.

  —American Etiquette and Rules of Politeness, 1883

  Elizabeth squeaked, jumped back, and Emmett turned in time to see Will Sloane’s fist—just before it collided with his left eye. His head snapped back with the force of the blow, rocking the chair. Elizabeth shouted and grabbed her brother’s arm, while Emmett shot to his feet. His vision blurred, but it wasn’t the first time he’d caught an unexpected punch. Far from it—and no matter what, he always picked himself up to fight back.

  Sloane’s face was purple with rage, his chest heaving, but Emmett paid him no mind. Elizabeth had gone the color of snow in an effort to restrain her brother. “Step back, Elizabeth, before you get hurt,” he ordered.

  “And you dare to call her by her Christian name!” Sloane lunged again and caught Emmett off balance, the two of them crashing onto the dining table. Food, china, and glass rained onto the floor. Sloane got in another punch, this time at Emmett’s midsection, before Emmett landed a few choice blows of his own. Sloane attempted to wrap his fingers around Emmett’s throat, so Emmett grabbed the man’s arms as they wrestled on the floor, battling to gain the upper hand.

  And then the fight ended. Strong arms lifted Sloane straight off the floor.

  “About time,” Emmett grumbled as he staggered to his feet. Kelly just grinned, his beefy arms easily restraining a struggling Will Sloane.

  The stark lines of Sloane’s face were etched in fury as he tried to break Kelly’s hold. “Release me, you imbecile.”

  Louis Sherry flew through the curtain, his eyes huge as he absorbed the destruction. “Gentlemen, is there a problem with your meal?”

  The awareness of an audience seemed to pull Sloane together. He stilled, nostrils flared, but otherwise appeared calm. Kelly glanced at Emmett, a question in his eyes.

  Emmett jerked his chin, and Sloane was released.

  “You idiots!” Elizabeth marched forward. “You both could have been hurt.” Even angry, she was perfection. The woman exuded sophistication and polish, so beautiful she put even the most ostentatious decoration to shame. And here Emmett had been brawling on the floor, like the hoodlum he was.

  Well, better she see his true self now. That would quell any tenderness arising from their earlier kiss.

  “Lizzie, go wait in my carriage.” Sloane’s hard gaze drilled into Emmett as he spoke. “I want to have a word with Cavanaugh.”

  “No,” she shot back. “Will, you cannot send me out of the room like some recalcitrant child. I won’t have you hurting each other—”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  She stuck out her chin. “So talk. I’m not leaving.”

  “Lizzie, get in the goddamned carriage! ” Sloane roared.

  Before Emmett knew what he was doing, he’d grabbed Sloane by the throat. “Watch your mouth,” he snarled in his most menacing voice, his face inches from Sloane’s.

  Lips pressed in a tight line, Sloane didn’t back down. They squared off, neither budging, for a long moment. Emmett had to give him credit; Sloane was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Not that the prick would have lasted a minute in Emmett’s old neighborhood.

  Finally, the other man sneered and shoved Emmett’s hand to the side. He turned to his sister and draped an arm around her shoulders, leading her to the exit. Sloane was saying something to her, but the hushed tone was too soft for Emmett to overhear.

  Emmett promised to pay for the damage and waved Louis Sherry away. Now that Sloane’s initial fury had been spent, Emmett had a good idea of what was coming next—and they did not require an audience for this particular conversation.

  “Want me to stay, Bish?” Kelly asked him quietly. “Make sure he don’t give you another sidewinder?”

  Emmett shook out his throbbing hand. He’d gotten in a few good shots, considering he’d been taken off guard. Hopefully Sloane’s jaw would hurt like ever-living fuck tomorrow. “No, that’s not necessary. Just wait in the hall.”

  Elizabeth was now agitated, whispering rapidly to her brother, with Sloane shaking his head in disagreement. The woman had fire in her. She might have the face of an angel, but her spine was pure steel. Emmett liked that about her. A lot.

  He’d glimpsed that heat earlier when he’d kissed her. It had nearly blown his goddamned head off. How had a Knickerbocker learned to kiss like a chorus girl?

  The exchange hadn’t been what he’d expected, not in the least. He’d been prepared to go slow, thaw her out. Break down all the elaborate barriers protecting her from men like him. But there hadn’t been ice to crack or high walls to scale. Instead, she’d burned hot and bright, a live electric charge in his arms. A jolt of current that reached the long-dead places inside him.

  Hard to say whether he wanted to run toward that feeling or far, far away.

  Kelly elbowed him in the ribs. “You know what he’s gonna say, right? You’re not gonna have a choice this time.”

  “There’s always a choice,” Emmett muttered, gingerly touching the tender skin around his left eye. He’d have a hell of a shiner tomorrow. “Go away, Kelly.”

  Chuckling, Kelly disappeared through the curtain. Elizabeth and her brother seemed to come to some sort of
agreement, because she was nodding. Sloane took a step back, and Elizabeth lifted her chin. “Thank you for dinner, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she said from across the room.

  “My pleasure, Miss Sloane.”

  With one last glance at her brother, she swept out of the room in a rustle of silk. That left just Emmett and Sloane for a conversation neither wanted to have.

  Emmett located a chair in the debris of the room. He withdrew a cigar from his inside pocket and had just snipped the end when Sloane righted a second chair. Apparently, Mr. Washington Square was prepared to be civilized.

  “Do you have another?” Sloane asked, dropping heavily into the seat.

  Clamping the unlit cigar between his teeth, Emmett fished a second out of his pocket, along with his cutter. Sloane thanked him and took the items. Emmett found a candle on a sideboard, lit his own cigar, and held the flame out to Sloane.

  Once Sloane’s cigar was burning, the two of them leaned back and puffed. The silence stretched as the room filled with pungent smoke. Emmett could well understand Sloane’s fury, but he’d be damned if he’d apologize for what had happened in this room tonight.

  “You’re going to have to marry her,” Sloane finally said.

  “Not a chance in hell—and don’t pretend you think it’s a fine idea.”

  “It’s a terrible idea, but I have no choice. She will be ruined by morning. Someone sent me a note, telling me you both were here. It’s not as if it’s a secret.”

  “That’s hardly my problem.”

  “I’m afraid it is. No decent man will have her, and she’ll be steeped in scandal the rest of her life. I won’t have it, Cavanaugh. You will do right by her.”

  Emmett didn’t like the guilt that twisted and tightened in his belly. “Or?”

  “Or I withdraw from our pact. I’ll join Carnegie and Morgan. Spend the rest of my life bringing you low. Are you ready to lose everything? Because I swear that’s what it’ll come to. You, your brother, your two sisters . . . Nothing will be left when I’m through.”

  “You think you could do that?” Emmett scoffed.

  “If it comes to that, yes, I do. I’ll start by forcing Cabot and Harper to choose sides. They won’t stand by you, not after they learn you brought Lizzie to a private dining room to ruin her.”

  Emmett expected no loyalty from anyone—one of the lasting effects of his upbringing—but he wasn’t worried about Sloane. Or Cabot and Harper, for that matter. They could try but they’d never ruin him.

  And little good it would do now to share how the private dining room had come to pass.

  “Your sisters are what age, now?” Sloane casually smoothed his dark trousers. Emmett said nothing, just clenched his jaw, while Sloane continued. “The oldest is thirteen, I believe. Not long before you’ll be suffering through dress fittings in Paris for their debuts. How do you think society will receive them if you decide to walk away from Lizzie tonight?”

  Impotent fury whipped through Emmett, settling at the base of his neck. Sloane had latched onto the one area where Emmett had no leverage. The one deal he couldn’t buy his way into, the one arm he couldn’t twist. And how could he possibly explain to Claire and Katie that their futures had been destroyed by his stupidity? He’d been backed into a fucking corner, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  “In case you’re unclear on the answer, allow me to assure you that I will personally call on every house of consequence between Eightieth Street and Battery Park to ensure the Cavanaugh girls are never accepted. Anywhere.”

  “This feels a lot like blackmail.”

  “That’s because it is blackmail.” Sloane let that statement linger. “And your reticence makes it seem as if my sister is unacceptable or repugnant,” he said, his voice laced with anger. “We both know that’s not the case, nor is it how you feel. I saw you two together, remember. You’d be damned lucky to have her.”

  Lucky was not the word bouncing around in Emmett’s head right now—and he wasn’t backed into a corner just yet. “If I do consider marriage, what are you offering in terms of a dowry?”

  He could almost hear Sloane grinding his teeth together. “I’m not giving you a goddamned dime.”

  “I want Northeast stock.” Sloane opened his mouth to argue, and Emmett added, “Twenty-five thousand shares.”

  Sloane threw his head back and laughed. “You have unbelievable nerve. No way in hell I’d give you that. Only board members have that much.”

  Emmett blew out a long, thin cloud of white smoke. “If you don’t agree to the stock, I won’t tell you where to find Cabot tonight. Which means you’ll never get news of the engagement in the morning paper. Word of this dinner will be up and down Fifth Avenue before noon.”

  Sloane let out a creative curse that surprised even Emmett. “Ten thousand shares,” the other man ground out. “Now are we done, you greedy bastard?”

  “Fifteen thousand and we’re done—not that Elizabeth will ever agree.”

  Sloane puffed on his cigar. “Wrong. She has no choice in the matter. Not after tonight.”

  * * *

  Lizzie huddled in Will’s carriage, humiliation burning her alive.

  Her brother had just witnessed her kissing Emmett. Passionately kissing, in fact. She’d practically been draped in the man’s lap when Will burst into the room. Positively mortifying.

  And the two men had fought, nearly destroyed the room. Had she ever seen Will so livid?

  She hated disappointing her brother, the person who’d always protected and cared for her. Had cheered her up as a child. Took her to Newport for her birthday each year. And tonight had witnessed her acting shamefully with Emmett Cavanaugh.

  Her lips swollen, she could almost feel Emmett’s mouth still on hers. The kiss had been intense. Mind-numbing. The steel magnate might appear cold and remote, a man made of stone, but that façade had cracked during those few moments. His breath had been hot, his touch branding her through layers of clothing, while his warm and seductive tongue slid into her mouth. She’d fallen under his spell completely—at which point her brother had stormed in.

  How could she have been so stupid? Bad enough she’d dined with Emmett in a private room. Kissing him was a hundred times worse. And no chance it could be kept secret, not with a brawl erupting. She should have walked out the second she realized they would not be dining on the main floor.

  She glanced at the front of Sherry’s, through the large windows to where tables of gaily dressed patrons enjoyed their evening. Lizzie recognized a few of them, and wondered if news had already spread about her and Emmett.

  Let me talk to him, Lizzie, Will had said as he ushered her out of the private dining room. Trust me to fix this.

  What had he meant, “fix” it? What were the two men discussing up there?

  A group of people spilled out of the entrance and onto the walk. Then Will emerged directly behind them, his face grim as he dodged the revelers and hurried toward the waiting carriage.

  He hauled himself up and slammed the door, and the carriage set off toward Fifth Avenue.

  Lizzie didn’t know what to say, but she had to say something. “I’m sorry, Will.”

  “I should be apologizing to you. If I’d been around more . . .” He shook his head. “I should have insisted you marry ages ago. Then this never would have happened.”

  “You act as if people care what I do. He and I have dined together before, and it didn’t even make the papers.”

  “Because I called in favors to kill the story,” Will said tersely. “That’s why it was never printed, Lizzie.”

  She blinked. “I . . . I had no idea.”

  “I know. That’s the way I wanted it. I’ve tried to protect you to the best of my ability, but I cannot do it this time. Someone sent me a note tonight, telling me you both were here. Word will get out about tonight’s dinner, no matter what I do. There’s only one way to stop this scandal.”

  A cold knot of dread settled in her stomach. Surely he didn’t mea
n . . . that. She tried to joke in order to lighten the tension, hoping she was wrong. “You’re going to have Cavanaugh killed?”

  Her brother’s mouth flattened. “If I could, believe me, I would.”

  “So that means . . .”

  Will said nothing, letting the silence provide his answer. A ball of fear gathered steam inside her, the terror growing to engulf her like a giant cloud. “You wouldn’t.”

  “There is no choice. You will be ruined, Lizzie. Ruined. It’ll be worse than being a divorcée, and you know how those women are treated. Do you want to leave New York and live abroad, in shame, for the rest of your life, like that Hayes girl a few years ago?”

  Agatha Hayes had been an acquaintance of Lizzie’s, an unmarried debutante who’d been rumored to be carrying on an affair with her coachman. Society had turned on Agatha quickly, and her parents had no choice but to squire her off to Rome. Lizzie didn’t want to move to Rome . . . but she didn’t want to marry Emmett Cavanaugh either.

  “Living abroad wouldn’t be so terrible,” she hedged.

  Will let out a disbelieving sound. “If that is the way you feel, then why did you refuse that viscount sniffing around for a bride last year?” She didn’t answer, and he continued, “Let me ask you, do you make a habit of going to dinner with single men, unaccompanied, and kissing them?”

  “No!” Her spine straightened. “Absolutely not!”

  “So I can only assume that you”—he grimaced—“feel something for Emmett Cavanaugh. Most marriages of our station are started with much less. Hell, you might even end up being the one woman who can break through to find out if the man has any feelings.”

  “This is madness.” A hysterical giggle burned in her throat, and she rubbed her forehead with gloved fingers. This could not be happening.

  “This is reality,” Will snapped. “Our world has very strict rules, and you cannot thumb your nose at them. You’ve seen such a small part of life outside ours, Lizzie, but it can be terribly harsh, especially for women. I will not have you struggle or suffer. You’ll marry Cavanaugh, and that will be the end of it.”