He studied her as though he were having his
first good look, and Rory realized with dismay that he probably
was. Her damp gown outlined to perfection her breasts and the curve
of her hips.
"Come on," he said. "You'd better get out of
those clothes."
The statement sounded harmless enough, merely
a civil suggestion. Why then did she have this feeling that Zeke
Morrison should have his face slapped? He wasn't doing anything,
only looking.
Rory crossed her arms protectively in front
of herself. "I don't want to cause you any more bother. I am sure
my assistants will track me here from the fairgrounds. We'll move
the balloon and try to set your lawn to rights. Of course I will
pay-"
Even as she started to promise, Rory wondered
how she was ever going to do so. She bit down on her lip. The cost
of the damages would likely bankrupt her.
"Don't worry about that," Zeke said. "I am
sure we can work something out."
His voice softened with the barest hint of
suggestion, and Rory drew back in alarm. Just what did he have in
mind?
Before she could protest any further, they
were interrupted.
"Mr. Morrison," the butler announced. "The
police have arrived."
Rory felt her heart skip and Morrison
swore.
"They didn't get here so fast last fall when
I caught that burglar breaking into my safe." He gave a sigh of
pure annoyance. "Never mind, Wellington. I'll meet with them in my
study. You look after Miss Kavanaugh."
"But what about my passengers and my
balloon?" Rory protested. "1 really can't just-"
"I'll see to everything. You just run along
like a good girl and do what you're told," Morrison said, striding
away. He paused long enough to instruct his butler. "Send one of
the maids to help Miss Kavanaugh out of her clothes. I'll be right
back."
"Mr. Morrison!" Rory cried.
But having given these peremptory commands,
Morrison was gone. She wanted to charge after him, inform him that
she didn't take orders as readily as his servants did. Yet it
didn’t seem prudent to antagonize a man who had gone to confront
the police on her behalf.
Rory raked her fingers through her damp hair
in frustration. She sensed Morrison's butler staring at her and
whipped about to face him. If the man had been wearing a smirk, he
was quick to stow it behind a deferential mask.
"If you would he pleased to follow me,
miss."
Rory wasn't pleased, but she didn’t see what
else she could do. She had no doubt that Tony was tracking the
course of the balloon, probably half out of his mind with worry.
But it might be hours before he found her, what with having to
bring the wagon back across on the ferry, and make his way through
the uptown traffic.
In the meantime, she could not just stand
here, dripping water onto Morrison's carpet.
"Lead on," she said to the butler with a
gesture of weary assent.
As she hobbled up the stairs after him, Rory
had to grit her teeth. The endless rise of marble did her ankle no
good at all. She was almost sorry she had refused to let Morrison
carry her.
She sighed with relief when they reached the
upper landing. The butler opened one of the imposing doors that
lined the hall and bowed her inside.
Rory stepped cautiously across the threshold,
schooling her jaw not to drop open at the sight of the mauve and
gilt bedchamber sprawled before her. An array of paintings, which
would have looked more at home in an art gallery, hung on the
walls. At the room's center stood a massive four-poster bed raised
up on a dais. It could have been the state chamber of a king.
"Listen," Rory said. "Isn't there any place
in this house a little less overwhelming? Maybe I could go down and
sit by the fire in the kitchen."
But she discovered she was talking to
herself. Wellington had already disappeared, discreetly closing the
door behind him. Rory could only shake her head over the behavior
of Zeke Morrison. One minute the fellow had been threatening to
throw her into the street, and the next he was having her ushered
into a chamber like this as though she were an honored guest. Well,
she had always heard that millionaires were eccentric.
Before Rory had an opportunity to take
further stock of her surroundings, the door opened again to admit
two maids in starched aprons. Rory assumed they had come merely to
light the fire in the grate for her, but she quickly realized the
young women had other plans.
One bobbed into a brief curtsey and then
moved to deal with the hooks on the back of Rory's gown. "Let me
help you out of your wet things, madam. Maisie will draw your
bath."
Madam? Her bath?
"Wait a minute," Rory ducked away from the
girl. "I didn't exactly bring a change of clothing with me."
"We will provide madam with a robe while your
gown is dried and mended."
"But I'm not one of the guests here-." Rory's
protest died as she caught her first glimpse of the bathroom. The
girl called Maisie was laying out thick towels while a cloud of
steam rose from the largest clawfoot tub Rory had ever seen. Two
people could have stretched out in it, side by side. And the water
poured forth from a golden tap.
It was a far cry from her own chipped enamel
basin, where she sat with her knees practically tucked up to her
chin. Rory fretted her lower lip.
No, she couldn't. She should only be thinking
of packing up her balloon and getting out of here. After the way
she had wreaked havoc on Morrison's lawn and then quarreled with
him, it wasn’t right to be accepting any favors from him.
Yet what could a bath matter to him? He was
clearly as rich as Diamond Jim Brady. He probably had tubs like
this in every room. And who knew when Tony would get here? They
could not the balloon anyway until the storm passed.
Rory inched nearer the tub, trailing her
fingers in the water. The steaming hot liquid felt as seductive as
a caress. Every one of her aching muscles seemed to cry out to her,
urging her on.
"Oh, what the hell," she muttered.
She permitted the maid to help her undress
without further argument. The two girls gathered up her discarded
clothing and left. But Rory hardly noticed their brisk departure as
she eased herself down into the bathtub, closing her eyes in pure
ecstasy.
"Ahhh!" Rory leaned her head back, resting it
against the porcelain rim. She stretched out for a time, enjoying a
blissful soak. Even her ankle began to feel better. With great
reluctance, she forced her eyes open and reached for the bar of
soap.
As she lathered her legs, she still marveled
at the size of the tub. Her toes couldn't even touch the other
side. Morrison probably had everything in the house designed to fit
his own towering proportions.
She had no difficulty picturing him sprawled
in the depths of a tub like this one, the way the dark damp hair
would curl on the expanse of his broad chest, the water lapping
against the tautly honed muscles of his belly and lower-
Rory checked her wayward imagination with a
hot blush. What was the matter with her? She didn't usually go
about conjuring up images of naked men. She began to scrub herself
more vigorously, attempting to blot all idea of Zeke Morrison from
her mind. But once she had allowed him to invade her thoughts, she
couldn't seem to be rid of the man.
What a strange fellow he was. He didn't fit
her notions of a millionaire, the kind Angelo was always reading
about to her from the newspaper, who had a house on Fifth Avenue,
racing yachts at Newport, a box at the Opera. With his quick
temper, his hearty laugh and his burly shoulders, Zeke reminded her
more of a stevedore or a wagon driver, rubbing down his horses,
hanging about Tony Pascal's music hall, getting into fights of a
Saturday night.
From his snapping dark eyes to that rock-hard
jaw, the man bore an intensity about him that had made all those
sedate guests of his seem as faded as last summer's flowers. And
what was his connection to that Van Hallsburg woman, an icicle if
Rory had ever seen one?
Obviously some sort of intimacy existed
between them. Could she possibly be his mistress? Rory found the
thought disturbing, even more than that—repulsive.
But the woman must be well acquainted with
Zeke to attempt handing out orders in his house. Mrs. Van Hallsburg
might be belowstairs even now arguing that Rory should be turned
over to the police. Perhaps Zeke might listen. No. Quick-tempered
Morrison might be, but somehow Rory could tell there was nothing
mean-spirited Or vindictive about him. On the other hand, that Mrs.
Van Hallsburg-.
A shudder coursed through Rory and her bath
no longer seemed quite so soothing. The water had grown tepid.
Clambering out of the tub, she toweled herself dry. Gingerly she
tested her ankle, putting her full weight on it. It was still sore,
but at least somewhat better.
She reached for the satiny robe the maid had
provided and shrugged herself into it, belting the sash about her
waist. The garment, with its batwing sleeves, was in pristine
condition, likely never worn and purchased solely for the intention
of entertaining the casual overnight guest.
Imagine anyone being that rich they could
hand out spare robes like bonbons. For a moment, Rory felt a twinge
of wistfulness. Not that she envied Morrison the splendors of his
mansion or even that fantastic bathtub. But she bet what he had
spent furnishing this one room alone would have been enough to save
her company.
Morrison could probably finance a dozen
balloon companies if he wanted to. Pity she had made such a
terrible first impression on him. She could well imagine what his
reaction would be if she attempted to sound him out as a possible
investor in the Transcontinental Balloon Company.
Now that you have seen exactly what balloons
can do, Mr. Morrison
He would either laugh in her face or toss her
into the street for sure. With a rueful grin, Rory banished the
absurd notion from her mind.
Making certain the robe was secured, she
crept out into the bedchamber. Neither of the maids had returned,
but it was unreasonable to expect them to have dried out her gown
so soon.
Still, as the minutes ticked by, Rory came to
regret her decision to part with her clothes. Being decked out in
only the robe kept her a virtual prisoner in the bedchamber. The
waiting began to seem interminable, and she grew anxious, noting
the deep hues of twilight gathering outside the window, the way the
rain still pelted against the glass.
What if Tony couldn't find her? No, she was
being silly. Tony always managed to track the course of the
balloon.
To occupy her time, Rory paced about studying
the room's pictures, furnishings and especially that mammoth bed
beneath its canopy. Lord almighty, how did anyone ever sleep on
such a thing? It would be like cuddling up for a nap inside of a
museum. Rory stole a half-guilty glance about her. Although she
felt like an urchin sneaking about in a palace, she couldn't
resist.
She boosted herself up onto the bed and sat
down, testing the springs with a small bounce. The mattress was
firm, much more so than her own bed, worn so comfortably to the
contours of her body.
Rory stretched herself out flat, arms at her
sides, the brocade coverlet stiff beneath her. She stared up at the
canopy looming over her head. This bed would definitely not be
conducive to a good night's rest.
But having assured herself that it was a
thoroughly wretched place to sleep, Rory was reluctant to move.
She hadn't realized until this moment just
how tired she was. What a horror the day had been. She would be
lucky if Dutton still paid her for that disastrous balloon flight.
She would be lucky if she could mend the Katie Moira. She would be
lucky if she didn't lose her balloon company after all.
Well, then, if luck was what it would take,
so be it. If she believed hard enough, she would always find a way.
The eternal optimism of the Kavanaughs. It was the one legacy Da
had left her that would endure forever.
Smiling at the thought, Rory felt her eyes
drifting closed and jerked them open. She really should stay awake.
She would be embarrassed to death if anyone found her testing out
the mattress. What if it should be Wellington or worse yet Morrison
himself?
Here she would be curled up in bed, clad in
nothing but this clinging robe. The thought disturbed her enough
that she struggled into a sitting position. She remembered that
that unexpected warmth in Morrison's eyes when he had gazed at her
earlier.
What if he had planned this whole thing, to
get her upstairs and in bed undressed? What did she know about the
man really? No more than the rest of the world. Even the newspapers
had dubbed him a man of mystery.
But she knew plenty about Rory Kavanaugh. For
one thing, she couldn't imagine herself the object of any man's
lust, especially not as she must have appeared to Morrison, about
as desirable as a wet mongrel fished from the gutter. And for
another, she knew she could handle any masher. Sometimes the lads
who hung about her warehouse got a little fresh and she was quick
to put them in their place.
Dismissing her fears as ridiculous, Rory
yawned and lay back down. The thought did surface that Zeke
Morrison might not be so easy to handle as the dockside boys, but
Rory gave it only brief and drowsy consideration. Besides, it
didn’t matter. Morrison wasn't going to catch her in bed. No one
was. In another few minutes, she was going to move. In another few
minutes, she would thrust her head out into the hall and shout for
the maid. In another few minutes. . .
In less time than that, Rory was fast
asleep.
CHAPTER THREE