by Jo Goodman
He found Brook, wet and shivering in the alley behind his hotel. She had been waiting for him to leave his club because the doorman wouldn't admit her without identification. William had had dreams of exclusivity even then.
Her face was barely visible beneath the hood of her cape, and her teeth were chattering. She imagined she must have looked spectral, because William was more than startled. For a moment he had been scared. "I want to work for you," she said, forcing the words out as her teeth chattered violently.
It had taken William a minute to collect himself and make certain he had heard correctly. Brook repeated her statement again, more demandingly the second time. "See the desk clerk in the hotel lobby," he said finally. "He'll give you a job cleaning."
Brook hadn't realized he owned the hotel as well as the gaming hall. She shook her head and her hood fell back. "No, I want to work for you in your club." She knew he was assessing her looks, trying to make out her figure beneath the bulky cape. She wished he had seen her earlier, before it had started raining, when her hair had been coiled and her light makeup intact. No doubt he had seen sewer rats more attractive than the picture she presented now. He was going to laugh at her.
William did laugh. A great, broad laugh that shook his jowls and raised his belly above the tight waist of his trousers. "You've got brass, girl. Got to give you that." He put his arm around her in an avuncular fashion and led her down the steps to the club. "Come inside and warm yourself. We'll have a talk, you and I, then we'll discuss what's to be."
Brook had paused on the rain-slick stairs as William reached for his key to the club. "I'm not a whore, Mr. Maine. That isn't why I'm here."
"Of course you're not," he agreed. "You're a princess, I'm thinking."
Brook took another step and slipped. The heel of her shoe broke and rolled out of her reach.
William picked up the heel. With a grave little bow he handed it over to her. "Cinderella."
Brook accepted the heel but looked at him in puzzlement. "I don't understand."
"Never mind. I do. Full of brass and a broken shoe." He opened the door to the gaming hall and ushered Brook inside. "I've been thinking of changing the name. Brass Slipper. How does that sound?"
Silly, she thought. "Wonderful," she said.
It had been wonderful. Once William got over his shock at Brook's list of demands he agreed to hire her on a trial basis. The trial was supposed to last three months. At the end of three weeks he pulled her to one side and announced the trial was over. When the hall closed in the wee hours of the morning, William took Brook to his office and showed her the contract he had drawn up.
"Everything that you wanted," he said, smoothing out the paper on his desk. He pointed to the specific items. "You will be the sole hostess of the Brass Slipper. Your primary function is to oversee the dealers and the players, subtly, of course, and make certain the games are honest. You've convinced me that you know how to spot a cheat."
"I found the three you planted and two you didn't."
William's complexion turned ruddy, and he had the grace to be embarrassed by his tactic. "I had to be sure."
"I understand. There's no reason to be ashamed. If I had an investment like this gaming hall, I'd do anything to protect it."
"Well, you've proved yourself," he said gruffly and pointed to another item. "Your room and board will be provided as long as you choose to stay here. I've arranged for you to have a suite on the fifth floor. Will that suit?"
"It's fine."
"It only has one bedroom. If you'd like something larger you'll have to wait until another tenant vacates."
"No. One bedroom, will be fine. I don't require one for entertaining and one for sleeping."
William nodded, scratching the rounded nub of his chin thoughtfully. She was adamant on that point, completely uninterested in the extra money she could make by selecting a few customers for her favors. It was just as well. William didn't relish turning his hotel into a brothel. None of the other women who worked for him were allowed to live or entertain upstairs. "That brings me to the matter of your wages. As long as the Brass Slipper shows a profit, you will receive one percent of it."
"I thought we agreed on three percent."
"Two."
"Done." She watched William make a note of it on the contract. "And I can check the figures any time I want."
"Any time," he agreed. "You are responsible for your own clothing, though I will advance you the money for a suitable wardrobe. The last item deals with your privacy. You wish to be known only as Lyn." He paused. "I don't think I like that name. I suppose you have your reasons for wanting to use it."
"My own," she said, closing the subject. She wanted a name that could not be traced. There were times when she looked over her shoulder, expecting Jake Geary to be there, accusing her of murdering his friend.
William shrugged, allowing her her secrets, even from him. "I've spoken to my hotel employees. They know they stand to lose their jobs if they tell anyone where you live. No one will know unless you say something. I believe that covers your terms."
She nodded. "You won't regret this, Mr. Maine."
"Bill."
"Bill," she repeated. "I know our arrangement is not the usual thing."
"My dear, dear Lyn. If I had wanted ordinary I wouldn't have hired you. Whatever else you are, you are not ordinary. I want my gaming tables crowded. I've seen how the customers are intrigued by you, and I've seen how you encourage them to play. I want honest games, because Californians are no different from anyone else. They want to play where there is at least a chance of winning. Your presence insures that. In time the members will know that, spread the word, and the club will grow. And as for your privacy, well, there's nothing like a mystery to tickle a man's interest. You may want it for your own reasons. I'll make certain you have it for my own."
"Then it suits both of us."
"Definitely." He handed her the pen and pushed the contract toward her.
Brook shook her head, laying down the pen. She held out her hand. "I prefer it this way. Paper doesn't mean much to me."
William smiled hugely, taking Brook's hand in his. "I like you, Lyn. By God, I really like you."
A coal popped in the hearth. The crackle and spit of flame drew Brook's attention back to the present. As far as she knew William had never regretted their arrangement. Customers were drawn to the Brass Slipper out of curiosity. That they remained was due in no small measure to her gentle handling, and Brook knew that. She made an effort each evening to greet the customers personally, making them feel as if they were entering her home and not a gaming house. She was invariably polite, but she also held herself aloof. If the language at a table became too coarse or the overtures to her person became vulgar, she left. No man had ever made the same mistake again in her presence.
There were those special few customers whom Brook occasionally invited to her suite for a private game of poker. The stakes exceeded anything played belowstairs, and she received a percentage of the winner's earnings. William had suggested it, and Brook had finally agreed after three years of his less than subtle hints. John Nathan, the Brass Slipper's version of law and order, acted as overseer of the games. He sat in a chair by her door, prepared to eject anyone who even thought of something unsavory. He had never had the opportunity to use his bulk for more than a doorstop when he was in Brook's suite.
"Where were you today, John Nathan?" Brook wondered aloud. "You would have enjoyed matching fists with Ryland North." She changed her mind, not wishing Ryland on anyone, least of all on a friend like John.
Keeping Ryland away from her was something she would let Bill handle. He would see to the details. Speaking with Andrew North was something she had to handle alone. Brook was not looking forward to the inevitable arguments that he would put forth when she rejected his proposal.
"Bill." Brook reached for his coat sleeve as he passed her between tables. "I need to talk to you."
William was distract
ed by someone wanting his attention at the bar. He waved a quick salute and turned to Brook. "What is it, Lyn?" Before she could answer, he asked, "Can it wait, dear?" He waved to someone else. "We're so busy this evening and I'm having trouble with Len Banks. He wants an extension of credit. Do you think I should I give it to him?"
Brook was only half listening to William's problems. "Oh. No, don't extend his credit. He's not a good player, Bill, only a lucky one. And his luck's changed. He'll only end up owing you."
"You're right," he said firmly. "Got a good head on your shoulders. Knew it from the first." He started to walk away.
"Bill!"
"Yes?"
"I wanted to speak to you," she repeated impatiently. Bill was plainly overwhelmed by her request, and Brook took pity on him. "Later. Make time for me later." As Bill hurried away Brook returned to the faro table. Her head ached. The crystalline chandeliers overhead seemed brighter than usual, blinding her as she continually looked to the doorway in anticipation of Andrew's arrival. The patrons were too loud this evening and too demanding of her attention. Brook wished it were her home. She could ask them all to leave. Smoke was thick, lying in shifting gray wreaths above the players' heads. It had never bothered her before, but tonight she felt suffocated by it.
"Are you feeling well, Lyn?" Mark Anson asked. "You look a little pale."
"It's nothing. A bit of a headache, that's all. Thank you for asking." She smiled politely and moved away. For the next three hours Brook moved among the tables, her eyes darting frequently toward the door. If the customers noticed her distraction no one remarked on it. That helped Brook. It seemed important to her that she keep up appearances. Years practicing holding her emotions in check were put to the test this evening.
It wasn't until Andrew walked into the Brass Slipper alone that Brook admitted her real fear. She had been afraid that Ryland would accompany him. Brook crossed the large room, heading straight for Andrew's side.
"Lyn!" He took both her hands in his, lifted them to his mouth, and kissed each in turn.
There was nothing extravagant about the gesture. Brook had had other patrons greet her in the same manner. Her returning smile was warm but it felt brittle. She slipped her hands from his. "Are you going to play this evening?"
"That depends on when you're going to give me an answer. I won't know until then if I'm on a lucky streak."
It was pointless to delay her answer, but Brook knew she could not tell him in the crowded gaming hall. "Play a few hands," she said. "I'll tell Bill I'm not feeling well and to go my room. I'll clear you with the clerk. If you come up in an hour or so, I'll tell you my answer."
Andrew glanced around the club and saw John Nathan behind the bar, pouring a tray of drinks. "You're not going to have Nathan outside the door, are you?"
His voice lowered so that he could not be overheard. "I didn't like having him in the hallway while I was proposing."
Brook laughed, remembering Andrew's chagrin when she insisted that John Nathan accompany them to her room. "I didn't know why you wanted to see me alone. Your proposal was unexpected. Don't worry. I won't ask John to come tonight." She wouldn't ask because she couldn't bear that anyone know what would pass between her and Andrew. To her it was a matter of an intensely personal nature.
Brook would have denied adamantly that she was naive in her dealings with men, yet she was as unprepared for someone like Andrew North as she had been for his cousin. She had no idea that Andrew had spoken often of her to his family. She knew nothing of his broken engagement or that he had mentioned his intentions of marriage to several friends who in turn had mentioned it to several more. She had never heard her name coupled with his nor did she suspect that Andrew had led people to believe he had seen her more often than was true, that he had taken her riding and dining. If she had known these things she would not have attempted to let Andrew down gently.
Brook let herself into her suite with the extra key the desk clerk had given her. She said nothing about her other key, except to mention she had lost it. She promised herself again that she would speak to Bill about her locks in the morning, before the Brass Slipper opened for business.
In her bathroom, Brook splashed cool water on her face, removing the traces of her light application of makeup. Plucking the pins from her hair, she dropped them in the sink, telling herself she would get them later. Almost immediately after she released her hair her headache began to fade. She walked into the bedroom and lay down, massaging her temples while she stared at the pattern of flowers in the red velvet canopy overhead. She hated the canopy. It was dark, nearly maroon, with gold tassels along the edge. It looked tawdry to her, like something a whore would have in her room. She never replaced it for precisely that reason. It was a reminder of the past and, in some strange way, a testament to how far she had come.
Brook placed a forearm over her eyes, blocking out the sight of the canopy. If she married Andrew he would take her away from smoke-filled rooms, poker games, and tawdry canopies. Andrew could be the answer to her most secret desires, yet she had never considered marrying him. Never. The closest she had come to changing her mind had been when Ryland threatened her. There was a moment when she thought she might tell Andrew yes and let Ryland do his worst. Thank God it had passed. She was less afraid of Ryland's threats than she was of committing herself to a man she could never feel anything for but a sisterly affection.
Andrew would never understand how young he seemed to her. He was amusing, charming, even gallant. He was beautiful in an angelic sort of way, and Brook knew that was part of the problem. Andrew's brilliant green eyes looked on the same world she did, but his perceptions were very different. She doubted that she and Andrew shared a single opinion; worse, she doubted that Andrew considered her to have opinions.
It was peculiar, she thought, but when her mind turned to a man with whom she could share something, that man was invariably Ryland North. She told herself it was because she had lived under the belief she had killed him. She found herself wondering what would have happened if they had met differently, if Phillip Sumner hadn't forced her to choose sides and loyalty and kept her at his. Knowing Ryland was alive brought relief and a measure of fear. The relief she understood. The fear she did not. Or perhaps she did, but she didn't want to examine its roots.
A knock at the sitting room door roused Brook from her reverie. She sat up slowly and found her headache had returned with a vengeance. Brook walked into the sitting room, closing the bedroom door behind her, and let Andrew in. Before she could say anything Andrew took her hands as he had done earlier. This time his kiss was more intimate, placing his mouth on the soft, inner pulse of her wrists. The overture made Brook distinctly uncomfortable, though she tried not to show it.
"Please, come in." She pulled her hands away and went immediately to the cupboard where she kept the liquor. "Would you like a drink?"
"No, nothing for me." He had already had more than his quota downstairs. Andrew took several steps into the room and hovered near the sofa, uncertain whether he should sit or stand. Brook solved his dilemma. She joined him at the sofa and sat down. Andrew took that as a good sign and sat beside her. "I'm glad you left John Nathan behind," he said.
"Yes, well, I thought it would be better if we were alone."
Andrew felt his confidence slowly eroding as he realized Brook was uncharacteristically nervous. "Maybe this isn't a good time," he said quickly, thinking to gain a reprieve. "I shouldn't have pressed you for an answer so soon. You obviously still want to think about it."
Brook shook her head. "No, Andrew, I don't need any more time to think on it. I can't marry you."
"Can't?"
"Won't," she corrected herself. "I tried to tell you these things when you first asked me to marry you, but you didn't want to hear. I hope you will hear me now." She watched Andrew shift his position on the sofa so that he somehow managed to retreat into the corner. His lower lip was thrust slightly forward. Brook was reminded of a child,
one who knew he was about to be punished. She chose her words carefully. "I wouldn't be a good wife, Andrew. I don't know what it means exactly... to be a good wife... but in my heart I know I could never be one."
"To me, you mean."
"To anyone. I am not respectable, nor very learned. I can only entertain when there are cards involved."
"There's bridge and whist and gin."
"I know poker. I don't care about the others. I don't care about cooking or cleaning or raising children." The last lie almost stuck in her throat but she forced it out with the others.
"There are servants and nannies," Andrew pointed out.
"No, not for me," she said. "I would not deal well with people underfoot all the time." She hesitated. "Andrew, I am honored by your proposal. No one has ever asked me to marry. I am clumsy... I don't know how to explain myself better."
"I love you," Andrew said. He leaned forward, slipping his hands beneath, Brook's. "I love you, Lyn. Does that count for nothing?"
Brook heard the earnestness in Andrew's tone, saw the hint of pleading in the gravely beautiful lines of his face. Yet she felt as if he said he loved her because he needed to believe it, in the manner of a man convincing himself and not his beloved. He was probably only months younger than she, but in this moment she was reminded of his youth. It was as if a score of years yawned between them. "It counts," she said quietly. "I wish I could return it. I have great affection for you, Andrew, but it isn't enough. I would not ask you to accept it in place of love."
"It is enough."
"No." She shook her head gently. "No, it's not. I will not marry you to prove that I'm right."
Andrew stood abruptly, pulling Brook to her feet. Off balance, she fell against him. His arms slid around her, trapping her in his embrace. Brook did not see the necessity of struggle. She was unafraid. These were not Ryland's arms keeping her still. Ryland's lips would be at the level of her forehead. He would have to lift her chin and lower his mouth to touch hers. Andrew had to do neither. His lips pressed against her straight on. The kiss was wet, faintly unpleasant, tasting of whiskey. Brook suffered it, holding herself immobile and wishing herself elsewhere. The thing that startled her most was that when Andrew pulled back he seemed to have no sense that anything was wrong.
