She nervously fingered the edge of the robe.
"Your maids haven't brought my clothes back yet."
"No, I guess they haven't. How's your
ankle?"
"It's fine. You don't need to look at it,"
she said in a rush as she retreated another step. "I'm just still a
little groggy. I didn't mean to fall asleep."
"I'm glad you found my bed so
comfortable."
"Your bed! This is your room?"
"Yep."
She appeared ready to bolt for sure, either
that or grab up the poker from the fireplace to defend herself.
Zeke didn't know whether to be amused or
irritated. "I have only been trying to show you a little
hospitality after your accident." He levered himself to his feet.
"So I would appreciate it if you would stop looking as though you
thought I was about to rape you."
"I'm sorry. But this is all a little
embarrassing. I usually don't hug strange men."
"Or steal into their beds?"
His teasing comment only added to her
discomfort.
"I never meant to cause you such trouble,"
she continued. "You have been really nice, letting me use your
bathtub and not turning me over to the police and all." She fretted
her lower lip. "And I'm sorry that I shouted at you earlier."
"If it comes to that, I guess I wasn't
exactly speaking in dulcet tones either. It's refreshing for a
change to meet a woman who bellows back at me instead of bursting
into tears."
This coaxed a smile from her. Zeke thought
that he might be able to risk moving a step closer. "We got off to
a bad start with this acquaintance, didn't we, Miss Aurora Rose
Kavanaugh? Maybe we could just start over again."
"Sure," she said, but she ignored his
outstretched hand and took care to keep the dressing table chair in
between them. Zeke didn't know what to make of her. She seemed as
shy and innocent as his stepsisters had been, all those good girls
who trooped off to mass, carrying their missals and rosary beads.
And yet as a circus performer, Miss Kavanaugh could hardly be that
naive, lacking in experience of the world.
Before Zeke could say anything more, a knock
sounded at the bedchamber door. He opened it to find Wellington on
the other side, bearing Miss Kavanaugh's gown. The butler's poker
expression was more annoying than if he had been wearing a smirk.
Zeke took the gown from him and closed the door in his face.
He carried the dress over to Aurora. She
snatched it from him with an expression of real relief. She
inspected the peach silk folds briefly and exclaimed. "Why, it
looks almost as good as new. Your maids did an incredible job."
Zeke agreed, though he could not help wishing
that for once his staff had not been so damned efficient. He would
have liked just a little more time.
A weighty pause ensued in which she stared at
him expectantly. It finally dawned on Zeke that she was waiting for
him to leave so she could get dressed.
"I'll send Maisie in to help you," he
said.
"Yes, I would be grateful. Thank you. Thank
you for everything, Mr. Morrison."
He nodded and backed toward the door. Why had
it taken him until now to realize how pretty she was? Especially
when she smiled, showing an even row of pearly teeth. He liked the
way those freckles dusted across her nose; most women fought like
the devil to keep the sun off their faces. He liked the quicksilver
shade of her eyes, the way she met his gaze head-on, never
fluttering her lashes like some fool coquette. And he definitely
liked the way that blue silk clung to her curves.
Zeke brought his thoughts up short and
reached for the doorknob. It didn’t matter what he liked. In a few
minutes she would be dressed. When her assistant arrived, she would
gather up her balloon and be gone. He would never see her again.
The thought left him feeling oddly let down.
He shoved open the door and stepped out into
the hall. He had not taken two steps away, when he halted. He
didn't know what was getting into him, but something wouldn't
permit him to keep on going. He spun on his heel and abruptly
reentered the bedchamber.
She had started to remove her robe, but she
snatched it back to herself with a cry of alarm.
"Uh, sorry," he said. "I just remembered
something I wanted to tell you."
She cocked her head to one side, cautious,
waiting. It made it more difficult, for he was not sure himself
what he had come to say, but he blundered on, "I was just thinking.
I haven't had my supper yet and I'll bet you're hungry too. Maybe
you could leave instructions for your assistant to take care of
that balloon and we could go out for a nibble at some little
restaurant."
He could already see the refusal in her eyes,
so he hastened to add, "I could take you back to the circus myself
after—in my carriage."
"I don't live at the circus."
"Well, wherever—"
"No, thank you, Mr. Morrison. I really
couldn't. Besides the balloon, I have my passengers to see safely
home and—"
"I've already taken care of them," Zeke
interrupted. "The newlyweds are launched on their bridal night, and
I even apologized to your little minister and sent him off with a
donation for his church."
"That was very good of you, but as to having
supper with you, I still don't think. . . " She trailed off with a
shake of her head, clearly doubtful of his intentions. He couldn't
blame her for that. Hell. He was not sure himself just what his
intentions were.
"Please," he said, groping for the words to
convince her. "It would give us a chance to talk. I am very
interested in—"
She tensed.
"In hot air balloons. I'd be fascinated to
hear how they work. I've never had the good luck to meet with a-"
What was it she had called herself earlier? "With an aeronaut
before," he concluded.
Zeke wasn't sure what he had said. He only
knew it was the right thing, for she nodded in reluctant
agreement.
"All right, Mr. Morrison. I would be only too
happy to tell you all about my balloons." Her lips curved with a
strangely hopeful smile.
Zeke wasted no time in fetching his evening
clothes from the closet and bolting out of the chamber, not giving
her a chance to change her mind. Before retiring to another room to
attire himself for going out, he sent the parlor maid upstairs.
Maisie helped Rory to dress with the same
brisk efficiency she had exhibited before. Rory had no thought of
resisting the girl's aid this time. She sat as docile as a child
beneath Maisie's ministering hands, her mind preoccupied.
"What have you gotten yourself into now, Rory
Kavanaugh?" she muttered beneath her breath, already doubting the
wisdom of having accepted Zeke Morrison's invitation. To be supping
alone at a restaurant with a man she had just met, why, only
actresses and Hootchie Cootchie dancers did things like that.
Neither of Rory's parents would have approved.
Yet this was the 1890s for mercy's sake.
Suffragettes whose writings she read in the Tribune assured her
that an era of new freedom was dawning for women. She couldn't be
bound forever by the old-fashioned standards of her parents. She
was the president of the Transcontinental Balloon Company. If there
was any chance at all that she could interest a wealthy man like
Zeke Morrison in investing in her company, she had to take it. Her
father at least would have understood.
But as Rory settled into a chair so that the
maid could brush out her hair, she pulled a face. Who was she
trying to fool? Da would have already wanted to shoot Morrison for
what had happened in this bedchamber, the way he had crushed Rory,
half-naked in his arms.
But the man was only trying to be kind, Rory
argued with herself, all the while feeling a heated blush steal up
her cheeks. Comforting Zeke's embrace had been, the feel of his
strong arms banding about her, holding her close. But too close for
mere kindness, making her aware of his musky masculine scent, the
sheer ruthless power of the man, the intensity of passions held in
check within him.
And for one moment, her heart had pounded in
rhythm with his. For one alarming moment, she had not wanted to
wrench herself away.
Rory gave an involuntary toss of her head as
though even now she were forcing herself to resist Zeke's
embrace.
"Did I hurt you, madam?" the maid asked,
suspending the brush in midstroke.
"N-no. Please continue," Rory said. The girl
resumed her work, trying to be gentle, but Rory's hair was
considerably tangled from her nap.
It was all the fault of that wretched
nightmare, Rory thought. If not for that dream, she would never
have done anything so brazen as cling to Zeke. She had been foolish
to allow herself to be so upset, but it had all been so close to
one of her banshee dreams, only even stranger. The fear it had
aroused still clung to her. She retained such a clear image of the
moment she had lifted the phantom's hood, only to encounter that
woman's cold eyes glittering back at her, their expression hard and
empty—like the banshee's eyes, utterly without mercy. Irrational it
might be, but Rory could not help believing a little in omens. She
was just as glad she would never see Mrs. Van Hallsburg again.
As for Zeke Morrison, perhaps it would be far
better if it were likewise with him. She could go below and tell
Zeke she had changed her mind, that she had a headache. Except that
she would wonder forever if she had thrown aside her best chance to
save her company and despise herself for a coward.
Surely she had been in far greater danger
when she had been alone with the man in his bedchamber, practically
undressed. She had survived that—except for a few disturbing
moments. What could happen to her in a crowded restaurant?
The most Morrison could do was train his
magnetic dark eyes upon her and devour her with his gaze. And in
that case she would make it plain to him he had best satisfy his
appetite on the roast turkey.
She wasn't going to be dessert.
Long before Rory finished dressing, Zeke was
already on his way downstairs, straightening the cuffs of his white
cambric shirt, picking a speck of lint off the lapel of his black
evening jacket. He actually caught himself whistling as he took the
stairs two at a time, a strange excitement quickening through his
veins, an excitement such as he had not experienced for a long
time.
Wellington awaited him in the hall below,
holding a silver tray.
"Has Miss Kavanaugh come down yet?" Zeke
demanded.
"No, sir, but another caller has
arrived."
"Really? Who the hell would come bothering me
at this hour?" Zeke glanced impatiently back up the stairs for any
sign of Rory.
"It is a gentleman, sir. I took the liberty
of showing him into your study." The butler persisted until Zeke
accepted the small white calling card laid out upon the tray.
Zeke gave the gilt-edged card a cursory
glance. Then he took a closer look at the name and stiffened.
Charles Decker, Esq.
"That's no gentleman, Wellington," he
snarled. "That's a complete bastard. Throw him out on his goddamned
ear."
Wellington rarely displayed any reaction to
his master's profanity. But this time his brows raised a fraction.
"I beg your pardon, sir, if I erred. But I did think that Mr.
Decker's name was on the list of people that Mrs. Van Hallsburg
said should always be received."
"This isn't Mrs. Van Hallsburg's house. It's
mine."
Even as he snapped at his butler, Zeke knew
he wasn't being fair. For the past few months, he had allowed Mrs.
Van H. practically carte blanche in ordering his social life.
Of course, she would say Decker should be
admitted. Charles Decker was a prominent banker and an old family
friend of the Van Hallsburgs. But like most women, Mrs. Van H. had
no real understanding of the world of politics. Thus she was
completely unaware of the more unsavory aspect of Decker's
character.
Zeke crushed the calling card in his fist,
annoyed that he should be plagued with the man tonight, but he said
to his butler, "Don’t worry about it, Wellington. You look after
Miss Kavanaugh when she comes down. Send her to me in the study.
I'll see to Mr. Decker myself and it won't take long."
"Very good, sir." At his most wooden,
Wellington bowed and stepped aside.
Zeke strode toward the study, trying to
remind himself that he was supposed to be a gentleman these days.
Gentlemen had more subtle ways of expressing their disapproval than
using their fists. The only problem was that hurting some bastard's
feelings wasn't nearly as satisfactory as giving him a good punch
in the nose.
Zeke shoved the study door open and found
Decker in the far corner. The man had taken down one of the books
and was thumbing through it. Decker was a middle-aged man of medium
height, his thinning hair parted down the middle and slicked with
oil of Macassar. His pin-check suit hung well upon him in that
dapper fashion Zeke's own tailor had tried so hard for without
success. Decker's clothes suited him to perfection, but a snake
always fit his own skin quite well.
Decker didn't look up until Zeke slammed the
door closed. With a deliberate casualness, Decker shut the book and
returned it to the shelf. He ambled forward to greet Zeke, a
pleasant smile creasing his features.
"Ah, good evening, Mr. Morrison." Decker
extended his hand.
Zeke ignored it. "Good evening, Decker. What
the hell do you want?"
Decker looked a little taken aback and then
emitted a laugh. "You don't waste time on the social amenities, do
you? Mind if I sit down'?"
Without waiting for a reply, he settled
himself into an armchair in one graceful, fluid motion. For all
Decker's suave manner, Zeke could tell the fellow was ill at ease.
One foot, elegantly shod in black-and-white patten, tapped against
the Oriental carpet.