by Joanna Shupe
“Move back,” he said, and stepped in. Setting all three buckets down, he hung there, bent at the waist, trying to catch his breath.
“Here. Let me have these,” she said, and unwound the blankets from his neck. She tossed them on the floor and then lifted the strap of the satchel up and over his head, past his shoulder. Laden with supplies and wet from the snow, the leather pack was absurdly heavy. She dropped the bag to the floor and turned to him.
A shiver racked his body as he straightened. His teeth chattered, and icy clumps clung to his damp brown hair. Without thinking, she reached for the buttons of his overcoat. “We need to get you out of these wet things or you’ll catch your death.” Fingers flying, she opened the garment and then pushed the cloth over his wide shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
Emmett stood perfectly still as she removed his frock coat. She attempted to remain brisk and efficient, and not dwell on the hard strength of him so apparent even through his clothing, but her movements slowed when she went to work on his vest. He loomed over her, blocking out everything else, his chest steadily compressing under her fingertips. Tingles broke out along her skin, a delicious and electric warmth spreading in her belly. She could feel the weight of his stare, but dared not look up at him.
The vest slipped over his shoulders and arms to land atop the other pieces on the carpet. He said nothing as she pushed down his suspenders and unknotted his black necktie. When she plucked out the studs to his shirt collar, he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The small movement fascinated her. Was he equally affected by her?
Fingers trembling, she started on his shirt, popping the single row of buttons. As each loosened, the crisply starched fabric parted, and she could see the plain white undergarment he wore next to his skin. Lower her hands went, over his breastbone and abdomen, until she ran out of buttons. He bent slightly to help her pull the shirt off, which she let flutter to the floor.
When he straightened, her knees actually wobbled. The tight combination clung to his imposing torso, outlining an impressive bulge of muscles. Many men supposedly wore corsets to pull in their waists, but Emmett obviously didn’t need one. There was no extra flesh on him, none that she could see.
Forcing herself to keep going, she reached for the waistband of his striped black trousers—only to have his fingers snatch her wrists. “I’ll do the rest,” he said brusquely, before walking away.
* * *
Every time Emmett thought he knew his wife, she surprised him.
Now alone in the makeshift dressing room, he removed his remaining garments and wondered how far Elizabeth would have gone in stripping him. His trousers? His underclothes? Christ, he’d grown hard the instant she’d unbuttoned his coat. The rest had been unimaginable torture.
Though she’d started in a businesslike manner, her movements had soon slowed. Turned seductive. And all he’d been able to think of were her small, delicate hands wrapped around his shaft, stroking him from root to tip. Her fingers tugging and pulling, bringing him off with that fierce determination she so often exhibited . . .
He bit back a groan and willed his erection to soften. What was it about his wife that made her unlike any woman he’d ever met? She was beautiful, yes. But that alone would never tie him up in knots. He wished he could figure out the appeal so that he could ignore it and move beyond this strange attraction to her. A damned nuisance, especially when the woman wanted him about as much as a bout of typhoid fever.
But that didn’t explain why her hands had trembled when she’d unbuttoned his shirt.
He quickly changed into dry clothing. The brutal weather showed no signs of abating, and he doubted they would be leaving the building any time soon. Even traveling the few blocks he’d managed had not been easy. He wasn’t sure how Elizabeth would take that news, but she had little choice in the matter. In another hour or so, snowdrifts would completely cover the outer door of the building.
When he returned to the office, he found her at the windows, where she was bathed in the light streaming in from outside. Her pale hair looked like spun gold. A gilded angel, beautiful yet untouchable. He shook his head at that fanciful idea and headed for the stove. He saw that she’d unpacked all the supplies he’d managed to acquire, and had set his wet clothing by the heat to dry.
He dropped into a chair before the fire, exhausted, and he heard Elizabeth come toward him in a cloud of rustling silk. A glass of brandy emerged before his eyes.
“Here, drink this,” she said softly.
He accepted the crystal gratefully and finished the spirits in two swallows. The liquor burned his throat and belly, a pleasant distraction from the heat he felt in other parts of his body.
She lowered into the other chair, bottle of brandy in her hand. “More?”
He nodded, and she refilled the crystal tumbler. He took a more reasonable sip this time and then held the glass out to her. “You should have some as well, before I tell you what I learned.”
Gray eyes widened. “Was it so terrible?”
“Worse,” he replied truthfully, and her hand snaked out to grasp the brandy. She swallowed some, coughed, and then exhaled.
“The drifts are piling higher than the doorways. And even if we could get out, the roads and walkways are impossible. We’re stuck here until it stops snowing and I can dig us out.”
Shock lined her face before she lifted the heavy crystal back to her lips for a longer drink. “How long do you think that will be?”
“No way of telling. But we won’t starve or die of thirst. We have plenty of coal. As long as we remain indoors, we’ll be fine.”
“Where did you find the food and supplies?”
“A rum-hole four blocks over. Everyone else is shut up tight.” And the amount the owner had charged him was pure robbery, but Emmett hadn’t quibbled. He’d pay any amount to keep Elizabeth as comfortable as possible.
She handed him back the tumbler, which he accepted, and then settled deeper into her chair. “Good thing you have lots of books.”
“Yes, but we have to conserve the lamp oil as best we can. I might have some candles about, but I can’t be sure. Once it gets dark, we should try to keep to the light of the stove.”
“Oh dear,” he heard her mutter before she rubbed her brow.
Yes, he was of the same mind—but not because he didn’t want to spend time with her. Quite the opposite. He wanted to spend a lot of time with her, alone. Without clothing. Just being so near her was hell on his overactive imagination.
“Where is Kelly?” she asked.
“He returned home last night. Said he wanted to get the horses out of the rain, but I think he’s tired of sleeping on the cot in the dressing room.”
“Does he ever leave your side?”
“Rarely. Not since his wife died, anyway.”
“Kelly was married?”
“Yes, for a little over a year. She died of consumption.”
“Oh, that’s terrible.”
“It was, yes. She worked in a factory, sewing buttons, in Hell’s Kitchen. They lived in the roughest part of the Tenderloin district, despite the fact that I offered to rent him an apartment in a better part of town.” Emmett shook his head, remembering Kelly’s stubbornness over not taking Emmett’s money in those days. Granted, there hadn’t been as much of it, but he’d always been glad to share whatever he had with Kelly. The man had certainly saved Emmett on more than one occasion.
“What did Kelly do? Did he work for you?”
Emmett shook his head. “He wouldn’t. Was too proud. So he used to fight for money.”
“Fight, as in boxing?”
“Yes. In alleys. It can be lucrative, if you win.”
“And if you lose?”
“You can be killed. But Kelly never lost. He’s the best boxer I’ve ever seen.”
Tilting her head, she studied him. “Did you ever fight?”
“Only when I had to. But not like Kelly, in organized fights. Mine were more survival th
an anything else.”
“Why don’t you ever talk about your boyhood?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Not much I can say in polite company. Why would you want to hear about it, anyway?”
“Because I’m curious about it. About you, how you grew up.”
“Let’s just say it was a far cry from how I imagine your upbringing, with a big house in a fancy neighborhood. Servants. Plenty of food and heat. Parents who worshipped the ground beneath your feet and never—” He snapped his jaw shut to stem the tide of words rushing out of his mouth.
“Parents who never what?” she asked gently, her brow furrowed in concern. When he didn’t answer, she said, “Come now, there’s little else to occupy our time. We might as well talk to one another.”
He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the idea. The two of them had been ignoring each other since Newport. Even if they were stuck together for however long the storm lasted, he had no intention of confessing all his deep, dark secrets. No, those were buried for good.
“You don’t like talking, do you?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
Though he didn’t plan them, the words tumbled out of his mouth naturally. “Seems when I’m with you, there are other things I like to do more.”
* * *
Lizzie sucked in a breath, both shocked and suddenly aroused by his words, not to mention the wicked light in his near-black irises. She wasn’t precisely sure to what things he referred, but just recalling the way he’d embraced her in Newport, pressing her into the wall, had her skin prickling with excitement.
Not that she wanted to kiss him again. Kissing led to cravings and longings. Yearnings. All things she needed to avoid.
She cleared her throat. “Are you attempting to distract me?”
“It’s possible. Is it working, Mrs. Cavanaugh?”
The name generally irritated her, but hearing it in his low, husky rasp turned her blood thick and slow, like warm honey. Her husband was a hundred times more potent than the brandy she’d imbibed. “No, but I’ll stop pestering you about your past.” For now. “What are you working on?” She gestured to his desk, artfully covered in papers.
He finished his brandy and rose. “You might be able to help me, actually. Come,” he said, and held out his hand.
She slid her fingers into his palm, ignoring the jolt that coursed through her system at the contact. He pulled out the enormous desk chair and gestured for her to sit. Once she was comfortable, he shuffled some of the papers on the surface and withdrew a thick stack. He placed those, as well as a ledger, in front of her.
“This is a company I am thinking of acquiring. As I do with any company I might purchase, I obtained a copy of their books—”
“How?” she asked. To do so would be nearly impossible, unless the company wanted to be sold, which she doubted was the case in this circumstance.
The side of his mouth hitched. “I have my methods. How I got the books is immaterial; what they say is another matter.” He tapped his fingers on the ledger. “I suspected a weakness, so I had Colin work up the stock transactions going back for the last two years. He said there are a number of inconsistencies, but I haven’t yet had the time to sort them out. Perhaps you can see if everything’s aboveboard?”
“I’d be happy to,” she said, nearly bouncing in the chair. Not only was this a chance to use her skills, this endeavor would keep her mind off his wickedly powerful presence. “May I have some blank paper and something to write with?”
Emmett reached into a drawer and produced the items. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He picked up what appeared to be a contract and went to sit by the fire.
Lizzie delved into the numbers, comparing and studying. Time passed, but she hardly noticed. It didn’t take long to arrive at the same conclusion her husband had, that something wasn’t quite right. But the error was well hidden, deep in the stock transactions. Her brain buzzed with the compulsion to find the solution, to make sense of what she could feel in her gut.
Emmett placed a lamp at her elbow, and she was surprised to see that dusk had fallen. Snow still pelted the ground, giant flakes falling fast and furious past the windows, as the storm showed no signs of abating. “I thought you said we should conserve the oil,” she told him as he strode back to his chair.
He shrugged. “You seem to be making progress. We’ll survive if we run out.”
Back at her task, she began adding up her findings. Not long after, the answer hit her. “I found it!” She smacked the ledger. “I found what’s wrong.”
His head lifted. “Did you? Allow me to see.”
When he arrived at her side, she started explaining. “I added up the stock sold over the last three years, and compared that to the amounts recorded.” Her hand accidentally brushed his as she pointed at the ledger, yet she stuck to the task at hand, ignoring the giddy rush she received from the innocent contact. “The company has sold more stock than they’re actually worth.”
“To water down the stock price?”
“I can’t say for certain why, but they definitely sold more shares than they should have.”
“That is remarkable,” he said, his lips curving into a satisfied smile. “You have no idea how much work you’ve saved me. This information is very valuable. Very valuable, indeed.” He rubbed his jaw, lost in thought, as he stared at the ledger.
She grew hot under his praise. “My pleasure.” Excitement thrummed through her body from the discovery. “I feel as though we should celebrate.”
“I agree. And I can definitely assist in that endeavor. How does champagne and dinner sound?”
“Champagne? Do you have an icebox somewhere I cannot see?”
“Just you wait,” he told her before he disappeared into his dressing room. He returned a few seconds later with a bottle of Moët and continued toward the window. In a blink, he unlocked the latch, lifted the sash, and placed the bottle in the snow that had collected on the stone ledge outside. Quickly, he lowered the window.
“Clever,” she said as he brushed snow from his sleeves. “You are surprisingly resourceful for a steel tycoon.”
“Thank you. If I’d known this would impress you, I would have conjured up a blizzard weeks ago.”
No doubt he probably could, if he so wished. The man seemed unstoppable. “Well, I haven’t yet had this dinner you promised, so I’ll reserve judgment.”
He smiled, a real, genuine grin, revealing two dimples that would have knocked her down had she been on her feet. “You are a tough woman. I would hate to negotiate against you. I don’t think you’d give an inch.”
“Not to you,” she threw back. “You’re a locomotive, rolling over everything in your path to get your way.”
“Because I have to be.” He leaned against the window. “I learned very early that no one gives you a damned thing in this world.”
She remembered the story he’d told her, about working in the steel mill, and knew he meant that. And while she admired his single-minded focus and drive, she didn’t want to be a casualty, either.
“But,” he continued as he rubbed his jaw, “I do try to weigh the advantages and disadvantages to a situation. It’s merely that, once I decide I want something, nothing will stop me from having it.” His dark gaze held hers, the intensity of his stare setting her insides aflame.
Was he talking about her? Or were they talking about business?
She rose and smoothed the fabric of her dress while avoiding his eyes. “Perhaps we should eat. I wouldn’t want the champagne to freeze.”
Chapter Thirteen
If the young women of the present day possessed a sufficient force of character, their influence would be greater.
—American Etiquette and Rules of Politeness, 1883
Something had shifted between them. Emmett could feel the change, a truce of some kind. Elizabeth smiled at him often, the mood decidedly lighthearted—and he hadn’t even poured the champagne.
He set out their provisions of sal
ami, cheese, and bread on a blanket he’d spread over the carpet. Night had fallen, and the snow continued outside, but the room was comfortable. He popped the cork on the bottle and filled both of their glasses.
Indeed, this was a celebration—though his wife would hardly agree if she knew the stock transactions she’d just evaluated belonged to Northeast Railroad. Turned out her brother had been selling too many shares of the company’s stock. While this wasn’t entirely unheard of—Fisk and Gould had watered down the Erie Railroad stock to keep the company out of Vanderbilt’s hands—it was fraudulent. The shares would be worth absolutely nothing, no matter what the investors had paid for them.
So how would Emmett use this information against Sloane?
The water closet door opened, and Elizabeth emerged. “I removed my bustle. All things considered, I thought I should be comfortable.”
He closed his eyes briefly. The idea of her removing clothing, even something so innocuous as a horsehair bustle, was embarrassingly tantalizing. “Of course. I agree wholeheartedly.”
She turned to show her profile. “It ruins the line of my dress.”
He gestured to the empty room. “I think formalities can be bent in these desperate times. Of course I am happy to loan you some of my clothing, if you’d rather.”
She snorted and came toward him. “Not even in desperate times, I think. Oh, that looks delicious. I am starving.”
“Come, sit.” He held out his hand and helped her down to the floor. “It’s not much, but—”
“Emmett, it’s wonderful.” Her gray eyes sparkled in the firelight, gratitude shining up at him. “Thank you. For everything. If it weren’t for you, I’d be downstairs, freezing and hungry.”
