
IN THE LIGHT OF DAY
Brenda Joyce
Chapter One
NEW YORK CITY, 1903
"A lovely day fer a weddin'."
The gleaming brand-new Packard purred as it idled in the circular, cobblestoned drive. Pierce St. Clare did not reply immediately, his gaze not on the small man beside him, who was driving the motorcar, but on the mansion facing them. Vast lawns and elm trees surrounded the four-story limestone house on this particularly glorious Sunday afternoon, and high wrought-iron gates barred the public from any access to it or the Fifth Avenue property it was on. Those iron gates were now wide open, as a few of the very last wedding guests continued to arrive in their handsome coaches and carriages, and were no cause for concern. But the trees disturbed him. They were very tall and level with the second story--- they might interfere with his signal. "Keep your eyes open," he finally said.
He stepped from the motorcar, a tall, lean, inherently elegant man, clad now like the two hundred other gentlemen present, in a black dinner jacket and matching trousers, a dress shirt and white bow tie, a white carnation pinned to one lapel. Dark hair swept across his brow, carelessly combed into place. His eyes were a brilliant blue. "I should be no more than twenty minutes. Look for my signal, Louie." There was a warning in his tone.
The thin, middle-aged Louie, clad in tweeds, smiled at him from beneath his felt hat, revealing a silver front tooth. "Guvnor, a true piece o' cake," he said with a cocky wink.
Pierce eyed him then turned his attention upon the Boothe mansion. He strode briskly across the drive as Louie drove the Packard out of the way of the last few oncoming carriages. The invitation had suggested that one be prompt; the ceremony would start at precisely four p.m. Several couples were just entering the house as he fell into step behind them. The women were walking behind their escorts and had their heads together as they spoke in hushed tones, but he overheard their conversation anyway.
There was a queue, and it had stalled. Pierce stood very still, in spite of the fact that he was filled with restlessness and impatience.
"So fortunate," the lady in low-cut pale blue silk was saying. "I cannot believe that poor, poor Annabel's good fortune. I do mean, what an amazing turn of events! Who would have ever thought!"
The blond lady in silver chiffon agreed. "One would have never thought she'd land a husband. Good Lord, I mean, after all, she is twenty-three, is she not? Twenty-three with her two younger sisters already married for several years now---with little Elizabeth expecting! This is so fortunate for the so very unfortunate Annabel Boothe. I mean, Jane, I must admit, I truly thought she would remain a spinster for the rest of her days in spite of the Boothe fortune."
"I thought so, too," the brunette said. "After all, when one's father cannot buy one a husband, why, there is truly no hope."
"He must be smitten. Can you imagine? Why else would Harold Talbot marry her? He has his own fortune, you know."
Pierce sighed, his gaze straying past the two women, hardly interested in the bride and her good---or bad--- fortune. However, the Boothe fortune did interest him. George Boothe owned one of the most popular dry-goods emporiums in the northeast---if not in the entire country. G. T. Boothe's was the most fashionable destination for those women venturing out upon the Ladies' Mile. Recently, his net worth had surpassed that of John Wanamaker, his closest rival.
Pierce had already been a guest at the Boothes' Thirty-thud Street mansion, but he scanned the interior yet again. The foyer was huge and circular, the floor and pillars marble. Directly ahead, he could see most of the (our hundred wedding guests finding their seats in the vast, domed ballroom where the ceremony was to take place. Overhead, a dozen huge crystal chandeliers hung. An altar had been set up at the very opposite end of the ballroom, framed with arches of pink and white roses and brilliantly lit up with hundreds of high, wide ivory tapers. Rows and rows of benches had been assembled to accommodate the guests, on either side of the long aisle upon which the bride would walk down. Perhaps fifty tall, wide ivory tapers on high pedestals graced either side of the aisle, interspersed with more floral arrangements. It was visually breathtaking, but Pierce remained oblivious. The ballroom interested him as much as the bride. But just outside of the ballroom, to his right, were the stairs.
It was a sweeping staircase of brass and cast iron.
The brunette, who was very attractive, was looking at him over her shoulder with a smile. Pierce realized she had caught him studying the house and he smiled back at her. She demurely lowered her eyes, but now the other woman turned to stare. Her cheeks became pink and she instantly faced forward, ducking her head toward her friend.
"Who is that?" she whispered, but he heard her anyway.
"Ssh. Not now. I do not know." The brunette glanced quickly at him again. This time, he bowed.
She flushed. Her wedding ring, the diamond at least eight full carats, glinted on her left hand. Purchased at Tiffany's, it had cost an astonishing seventy-five thousand dollars.
And then the line moved forward, and George Boothe was greeting the two couples. Pierce remained relaxed.
Boothe saw him and smiled widely. "My dear Braxton," he said, clasping his hand. "I am so pleased you could attend my daughter's wedding after all." He was in his late fifties, heavyset and jovial, with huge mutton-chop whiskers.
Pierce smiled, a flash of dazzling white teeth, by now quite accustomed to the name that was not his. "George, how could I miss the happy event?" His British accent was pronounced and unmistakable.
Boothe stepped closer and lowered his voice. "I am extremely excited about the merger we discussed. I have scheduled a trip to Philly to look at your emporium next week and my bank has assured me, pending my inspection of the premises and your books, that there will be no problems at all. It looks as if we shall be moving forward far sooner than anticipated, my boy." He beamed.
"I am very pleased, also," Pierce said emphatically, the irony of the situation not lost upon him---poor Boothe expected to make another million or two when all was said and done, and he, Pierce St. Clare, knew not a whit about retail merchandising and hardly owned the emporium Boothe would soon be visiting. However, Pierce had no intention of being anywhere in the northeast by the time Boothe put two and two together and realized he had been taken, and royally. Pierce did smile at the irony of that.
He moved on, handing his hat and gloves to a waiting servant and pausing just inside the ballroom without taking a seat---so he could slip out as soon as possible.
He lingered until everyone was in the ballroom then stepped just past the threshold. When the foyer was empty, not a servant or guest in sight, he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor. No one saw him. He made sure of it.
He was sweating. One quick glance out of the window showed him that Louie might not see his signal, but there was a backup plan. He checked several doors until he came to the master bedroom, which was unlocked--- not a good sign---and he quickly let himself in. The suite was an onslaught upon the senses---reds and golds competed with silks and damask and marble and wood. He knew where the safe was---and even if he hadn't he would have been able to find it immediately, as the location was hardly original. The vault was behind the huge Tiepolo that was hanging on the crimson-flocked wall facing the draped, canopied bed.
He extracted a hearing trumpet from an interior pocket, slipped a ball of wax in his other ear, and got to work. Within sixty seconds he had opened the safe, feeling a surge of satisfaction as he did so. And then he stared.
It was empty.
Which explained why the bedroom had not been locked.
Pierce thought of Lucinda Boothe's good friend Dariella, an extremely loquacious woman in bed, and he cursed. She claimed that Lucinda kept all of her jewels in the safe in her bedroom, and by damn, she had been wrong. For one moment, he felt like throttling the beautiful redhead for her misinformation---as guileless as it was.
But he had no time to lose. He checked his pocket watch. Eleven minutes had elapsed since he had left Louie outside. He slammed the safe closed, replaced the painting, and tucked his hearing trumpet in one of the many secret pockets that lined the interior of his dinner jacket. He stepped to the door, cracked it, and was reassured that no one was about. He hurried downstairs.
There was another possibility. In the foyer, he paused briefly to compose himself, glancing at the guests in the ballroom, all of whom were now attentively and restlessly awaiting the start of the wedding ceremony. A male servant suddenly entered the rotunda. But the man paid no attention to Pierce, disappearing down another hall with very brisk strides. Pierce turned and strode in the opposite direction. As he did so, he heard the organ in the ballroom begin to play. He was relieved, and he smiled.
Four hundred guests and the Boothe family would be very preoccupied fox the next half an hour or so.
The very solid teakwood door to the library was closed. Only four nights ago he had been drinking a very fine and very old port wine within its confines, with George Boothe himself. The notes of the bridal march washing over him, Pierce tried the knob and found it locked. Instead of being dismayed, a thrill washed over him. He extracted a ring of skeleton keys from one of his pockets, trying several. The third let him in.
Pierce quickly closed the door behind him, his gaze slamming on the verdant John Constable landscape hanging over the fireplace. He smiled. And when he removed it from the wall, the dark metal vault stared back at him. Again, Boothe's placement of his safes was hardly original.
In less than sixty seconds he had the vault open. His pulse surged when he saw the velvet boxes and pouches inside the dark interior. Quickly, he began dumping all of the contents out. There were rings and necklaces and earrings, a lifetime's worth of jewelry. He sorted through quickly, looking for one piece in particular. And at last he found it. The pearl necklace. Pierce quickly inserted it into the specially sewn pocket that lined his dinner jacket.
He closed the safe, lifted the painting, which he did not pause to admire, and set it back upon its hooks. As he turned, he heard a noise, and realized that he had company.
He froze.
And stared at the rotating brass knob on the library door, Someone was about to enter the room. Less than .i second passed and Pierce moved, diving to the floor and scrambling over to the claw-footed green sofa, just .is the door creaked open.
"Damn it," a woman muttered very unhappily.
He relaxed very slightly---a woman would be easier to deal with than a man. His mind raced. His hiding place was a sham. He could not get under the sofa, the bottom was far too low, and while right now it served its purpose, because the couch was between him and the woman, it would become useless if the intruder did not stay on the other side of the room.
"Damn, damn, damn," the woman moaned.
He stiffened again, because he could hear her soft footsteps as she entered the room, along with the rustling of her skirts. Worse, he had not heard her close the door and the dim light in the library had become brighter. The wedding march sounded far too loudly for comfort now. Why was this woman not with the guests? He glanced awkwardly toward the hearth. And he cursed silently. The Constable hung at an obviously unstable angle, a dead giveaway of the burglary that had just taken place. '
Pierce gritted his teeth. He would have to straighten it before he made his hasty exit.
"Oh, God," she moaned again, as if suffering very greatly. Pierce shifted so he could gaze beneath the sofa in her direction and he froze. Her skirts were stunningly white, beaded, and covered with lace. If he did not miss his guess, the woman was the bride.
He almost cursed aloud.
"Oh, God, what am I going to do?" she cried.
He stared at her skirts, not many paces from the sofa. The bride-was in the library, but she was supposed to be walking down the aisle. From her tone, it did not take a genius to assume that she had little intention of doing what was expected of her---at least not in the near future. Worse, she was walking toward the couch. A dozen excuses for lying on the floor raced through his mind. He dismissed them all instantly as absurd.
And then her white slippered feet veered away. Pierce froze again, shifting, turning his neck at an impossibly awkward angle---she was walking around the couch. He held his breath, prepared to be discovered at any moment.
But she did not walk around it to sit down. Instead, she ambled past the sofa and the table and chairs surrounding it, her long pristine white skirts and equally long sheer veil trailing behind her. His gaze was unwavering. But now he was surprised. For an open bottle of champagne was clasped by its neck in her right hand.
She halted at the window, her back to him, gazing out at the sunny afternoon, or so he assumed. "How has this happened?" she whispered, and she raised the bottle and swilled directly from it.
The bottle was, he saw, two-thirds empty. Goddamn it. The bride was unhappy, she. was drunk, and she was never going to leave the library so he could make his escape.
He quickly considered the possibility of slipping out of the room without being detected while she drank at the window. It was too risky. He considered standing up, before she turned, and introducing himself. Again, too risky---he'd be accused of the heist later. These two options he analyzed with lightning speed, within the span of several seconds. As a third option came to him, she turned, once again drinking from the bottle like a common saloon girl.
He froze.
She swigged. And for another moment, as she clutched the bottle, he saw that she was drinking la grande dame of champagnes, a vintage year of Veuve Cliquot, and he gave her half a dozen points for her good taste and her ability to hold her liquor. She did not see him yet, but that would change in a moment. But where were her warts and birthmarks? Poor, unfortunate, just-barely-a-spinster Annabel Boothe was not what he might have expected----had he been expecting anything. She was blond, blue-eyed, angelically beautiful. Then he saw that she was staring at the painting that was hanging so lopsidedly over the fireplace. "Oh, dear," she said to herself.
He grimaced, about to rise from his very awkward position on the floor.
And then her gaze moved directly to, and upon, him--- where it riveted.
He smiled up at her, feeling rather foolish.
She gaped.
"Hello," he said, aware of using his most devastating grin upon her.
"Oh, dear! Are you hurt?" she cried, rushing forward.
"Actually," he said, seizing upon the excuse, "it is my knee. A bad injury, you see." He began to rise.
To his surprise, she put the champagne down and in the blink of an eye was actually assisting him to his feet, supporting his weight with her shoulder. "Did you fall down?" she asked when he was finally standing upright, her arms still around him.
He stared into her brilliantly blue eyes, a blue that even two thirds of a bottle of superior champagne could not dim. In other circumstances, he would enjoy her concern and take advantage of it. "Yes, thank you, I did."
"Here, let me help you to sit, then," she said, pushing him toward the sofa.
"No, I am fine." He resisted, and she was strong, surprisingly so for a woman of her size and attractiveness.
"But you are hurt."
"It is an old injury, actually," he said, smiling. "The war."
"The war?" She continued to press her body against his, trying to urge him to the sofa. "What war?"
"The---ah---er---a brief skirmish in South Africa, you see."
"South Africa? Of course, you are British. Your accent is quite pronounced. And---" Suddenly she stopped in mid-sentence. Her blue gaze was on his. He knew the moment she realized that she was embracing him and that he was a man---and an exceedingly rakish one at that. Or so many women had told him.
Her cheeks turned a very becoming shade of pink. She dropped her arms. "Perhaps you should sit," she said, low and huskily, now avoiding his eyes.
He could not help himself, he staggered, as if unbalanced by his bad knee without her support.
"Oh," she cried, with concern. Her arms went around him again.
He smiled at her as their gazes met. Poor, unfortunate Annabel Boothe? Inwardly, he did laugh. "Miss Boothe," he said, as gently as possible, not breaking contact. "Are you not wanted elsewhere?"
She remained flushed, her gaze holding his again. And as she grasped his meaning, her expression changed dramatically. It crumpled, and she stepped away from him. He wondered if he was about to have a weeping woman on his hands. Perhaps she would swoon. That would be convenient. "Miss Boothe?"
But she snatched the bottle and looked at him defiantly. "I am hardly wanted, sir," she snapped. But her tone was tremulous, ruining the effect of her glare.
"I am sure you are wanted very much, Miss Boothe," he said gently, wanting her to go her merry way. But now she was angry---a response he had not anticipated. ki have heard that the groom is smitten."
She gazed at him as if he had lost his mind.
He smiled again. "Smitten and with his own fortune, as well. A lady could hardly do better," he encouraged. And almost added, at your age.
"He is a worm."
He blinked. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.
Tears filled her eyes. "He is a spineless toad," she said, her full pink mouth trembling. "I cannot marry him!"
He was taken aback. "Perhaps, my dear Miss Boothe, you and your fiance should have a heart-to-heart after the nuptials?"
She continued to regard him as if he were a traitor. And then Pierce realized what was wrong. The organ had ceased playing. There was no wedding march. "Damn it," he said.
"There cannot be nuptials or I shall be unhappy for the rest of my life," she cried, drinking more champagne.
He could not believe his dilemma. "My dear Miss Boothe. This is your grand opportunity in life. Every young lady wishes to marry, especially a fine young man like your fiance."
"I do not wish to marry," she said. She pushed the bottle toward him. "Would you care for a drink?"
On any other occasion he would have said yes. "Miss Boothe. If you reject your fiance now, you may not have a second chance," he said as calmly as possible.
"Do you refer to the fact that I am twenty-three and a half years old, sir?" She swigged again.
He smiled, and it was forced. "I would hardly be so bold."
"I am being sold off like a milk cow," she said.
"You are hardly a milk cow, Miss Boo the. You are attractive, well-spoken, gracious, why, you are what every man dreams of." There, he thought, that should do it.
"Are you well?" she asked. "I think you are delusional."
Most women did not have such a word in their vocabulary, much less even know its meaning, and he could only stare.
Pierce was actually contemplating commanding her to go to the ballroom when he heard a woman calling Annabel's name from outside the library. "Annabel?"
He jerked around, alarmed.
"It's my mother," Annabel muttered. "Oh, God, why does the entire world think I should marry him?"
He whirled again. "Because you should, you can," he said, his hands on her shoulders, "and you will." His intention was to push her out of the room, by damn, before they were discovered---before he was discovered. But he felt something odd on his hip. Something hard. Something that should not be there. At first he thought it was the champagne bottle that she continued to grip by her skirts.
"Annabel? Dear, please, where are you?" Lucinda Boothe cried from somewhere just outside of the library in the corridor.
It was not the champagne bottle. Pierce felt the object slide down his thigh. He glanced down just in time to watch the magnificent triple-tiered pearl and diamond necklace slipping along his black pants leg to the floor.
"What is that!" Annabel cried, her gaze on the glittering necklace as well.
"Annabel?" Lucinda Boothe sounded as if she were in the doorway----or very close to it.
Pierce met Annabel's accusing blue gaze, smiled, and grabbed her. With one strong arm he clamped her to his torso. "Do not scream," he said calmly. "Or I will break your neck."
She froze. For a brief instant, her disbelieving gaze held his. "You wouldn't!" she gasped.
"Do not test me," he returned, bending to retrieve the necklace. And as he did so, she shifted, bent, and tried to jam her elbow right in his groin.
Pierce realized what she was doing before she could succeed and he managed to elude her and prevent a very mi ions injury, indeed. He jerked her up hard against him again. And this time, he used his free hand to point a revolver at the base of her skull. "Miss Boothe. That was hardly ladylike. I suggest you cooperate. You are a very beautiful woman. I like beautiful women. I do not want to hurt you, but I have no desire to find myself in jail."
"Then you should not be a thief," she spat, very flushed and struggling wildly now. "You won't shoot me. You are no cold-blooded killer, sir!"
"Do not bet your life upon it," he said coolly.
"Annabel!" Lucinda Boothe screamed.
Pierce turned, hugging Annabel to his body, and he smiled at Lucinda Boothe, who stood just inside the library doorway. The plump blond lady was in the midst of losing all her coloring. "Madam, I suggest that you stand still. I will not hurt your daughter."
"I am fine, Mama," Annabel said stoically. "He has stolen your jewels," she added, twisting to fling a grave look at him over her shoulder.
Lucinda Boothe stared at them soundlessly, then slumped to the floor in a dead faint.
"Mama!" Annabel cried. "She needs her salts. She is always fainting."
"Thank God for small things," Pierce said, hustling his hostage past the unconscious woman, out of the library and down the hall. He did not falter, in spite of the fact that two servants were in the foyer and they halted in their tracks, their eyes widening, their mouths forming O's.
"Help!" Annabel shrieked abruptly.
"Do not move," Pierce countermanded the staff, jerking on her. The servants remained frozen like statues. Annabel refused to move her feet so he dragged her across the foyer. His glance could not help but take in the ballroom. Heads were turning/ Gasps were heard. Four hundred guests were becoming cognizant of the abduction of the bride.
Pierce himself could hardly believe what was happening. He propelled the now-silent Annabel and himself to the threshold of the foyer.
"Braxton!" Boothe cried from behind him in shock and disbelief.
Pierce halted, facing Annabel's father. "I will not hurt her. Do not move."
Boothe was incredulous, but anger quickly overcame him. "You son of a bitch! Release my daughter!" he shouted from the entrance to the ballroom.
A young man had come up beside him, as blond and blue-eyed as Annabel, clad in a tailcoat with a red carnation pinned to his lapel. "Oh, God!" he cried. "He is stealing my bride! Someone do something!" A dozen guests crowded behind him and Boothe now.
"As long as nobody moves, she will be returned to you no worse for wear," he said, briefly pointing the revolver at the crowd. Collectively they gasped.
Pierce replaced the muzzle of the pistol to Annabel's skull and dragged her out of the house.
"You will regret this," she cried, but now she was running with him of her own volition.
"I am sure that I will," he said. But he was not thinking about the bride. He had never signaled Louie from the second floor as had been the plan, but the backup plan had called for Louie to have the Packard waiting for a getaway in thirty minutes should Pierce fail to signal. He was certain that thirty-five minutes or so had elapsed, but the Packard was nowhere to be seen. Had Pierce had the luxury, he would have been in a state of severe disbelief. Louie had never let him down before.
"Damn it, Louie!" he said, hurrying with Annabel toward the drive.
"Who is Louie?" she gasped, tripping now over her skirts as he increased their pace.
Pierce had no intention of answering her, because the father of the bride, the groom, and at least a hundred guests were crowding the front door of the mansion, watching him as he fled with Annabel. And then, just past several parked coaches and waiting grooms, he saw the Packard. "Louie!" he roared.
And Louie saw him. The Packard had been idling, now it came to life, rolling. forward. Pierce ran to it, Annabel clamped to his side. When he reached the motorcar, he released her, pushing her away. She fell onto her hands and knees in the drive as he vaulted into the passenger seat. "Go!" he said, as Louie shifted gears. And he turned to look at her. Sweat was trickling into his eyes.
She was rising. Grass, dirt, and gravel now stained her wedding dress, and her blue eyes were wide. She faced him, and their gazes locked. The tiara she wore, which held her veil in place, was slipping.
Pierce was sorry that he had ruined her wedding. But since she was so reluctant to wed, maybe he had done her a favor. He couldn't help feeling an odd regret. There was nothing unfortunate about Annabel Boothe and she deserved a real man, not that milksop he had seen in the foyer.
And the Packard jerked, backfired, and stalled.
"Damn it." Pierce turned to Louie, incredulous.
Louie was leaping out, to crank up the engine again.
Pierce jumped into the driver's seat and shifted. Half a dozen gentlemen were running from the house toward him, including Boothe and the groom. Murder was justifiably upon their minds. And Annabel just stood there, a few feet from the motorcar, as if she had turned into a statue herself, watching them running toward her in her spoiled and stained wedding dress.
The engine roared to life.
"Get in!" Pierce shouted at Louie.
Louie was already racing for the passenger door, but Annabel had turned and seemed to be doing the exact same thing. Pierce could not believe his eyes as the two of them collided. "Christ. Get in, Louie!" he roared.
They separated, Louie tripping on Annabel's voluminous skirts. Pierce watched the pack of men coming closer---they were twenty yards away. And then a flurry of white landed in the seat beside him, followed by his driver, who leapt upon Annabel. As she shoved Louie to the floor, Pierce slammed down the gas pedal, gritting his teeth, filled with anger, the veil flying in his face. He brushed the transparent material out of his eyes as the Packard leapt forward, spitting out stones from beneath its tires.
This was unbelievable.
The Packard sped wildly around the circular drive. A horse reared, backing up in terror, pushing its coach into another carriage.
Gripping the steering wheel with two hands, his gaze glued on the straightaway and Fifth Avenue, beyond that, Pierce saw, from the corner of his eye, Louie righting himself in the same seat as the bride. And then they were shooting through the wide-open front gates. Tires screeched as he turned the Packard so hard to the left that two wheels briefly lost contact with the ground.
Annabel was huffing and puffing and pushing her veil out of her face and eyes. She did not look at him. Her cheeks were very red.
But Louie did, absolute amazement on his face, along with an obvious question.
He was driving very fast, passing carriages, wagons, a hansom, and a cyclist. The Holland House, one of the city's most fashionable hotels, was on their right. A liveried doorman was standing in the street to wave down a cab, and a pair of gentlemen were attempting to cross on the same corner of Thirtieth Street. A dray was also trying to cross Fifth Avenue. Driving was taking almost all of his concentration. Casting one brief glance of steel at the very flushed bride, he said, "Throw her out."
"Aye, aye, guvnor," Louie replied.
Chapter Two
Annabel gripped the smooth dark leather seat of the motorcar as the thief drove like a madman down Fifth Avenue, weaving in between coaches and carriages, wagons and drays. She was coming out of her champagne-induced daze. She could barely believe what was happening---that she had left her groom at the altar, with her family and friends and several hundred of New York's most prominent members of society. Oh, God.
But a small smile formed on her lips.
And then he commanded Louie to throw her out of the motorcar.
His harsh words made her whip her head around to stare at him in a combination of amazement and dismay. Had she misheard?
"Throw her out," he said again, as firmly.
The expression on her father's face---and her fiance's--- as they stared at her in the foyer while the thief dragged her out of the house seared itself upon her mind. She recalled the sight of the several hundred shocked and gaping guests. Her pulse raced with alarming speed. Her fingers dug more deeply into the leather seat. She was not going anywhere.
She had made her choice. She could not marry Harold Talbot. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. This was, must be, fate.
Louie's hands closed upon her shoulders.
Annabel realized what was happening and cried out as the motorcar veered wildly to the curb and came to an abrupt halt, throwing them all toward the dashboard. "Now!" the Brit shouted at his small, wizened partner.
Annabel was jerked onto Louie's lap. Her chin hit the door. His intention, presumably, was to open the door and thrust her out onto the street.
"No!" Annabel cried, jerking free of his grip immediately, pulling back and rearing up on her knees, one fist raised. She slammed it into his face, not thinking, just fighting for her freedom---for her life.
Louie's head slapped backward, his eyes rolling shut, his body going limp.
"Jesus!" the thief cried.
Even Annabel was surprised, although she knew that she was stronger than most women, for she was constantly walking, riding, bicycling, swimming, and playing tennis. But her shock only lasted a moment, because the thief grabbed her, now undoubtedly harboring the exact same intention as Louie.
Their gazes met. He gripped her by her shoulders, hesitating. His eyes were sky blue and determined. "No!" Annabel shouted, struggling against him, trying to push him away. But she knew that it was futile---for she had experienced his superior strength firsthand just moments ago, when he had taken her hostage at the house. "You need a hostage, don't you? How much luckier could you be?---For I am willing!"
His eyes widened. "You are insane," he muttered. And then a whistle sounded behind them, loud and shrill and piercing.
He cursed, releasing her, shifting into gear and gunning the motorcar forward. Annabel was slammed back against the seat and the unconscious Louie. She struggled to right herself as another shrill whistle sounded and she twisted around to gaze behind them. Still driving like someone insane---or like a crook determined to avoid capture---the thief turned the automobile hard onto Twenty-seventh Street heading west toward Broadway. Annabel watched two mounted policemen galloping after them, in hot pursuit.
She stole a glance at her captor. His expression was set, at once grim, determined, and fierce. His eyes remained glued upon the road---he was about to shoot across the congested avenue of Broadway. He did not seem frightened by their pursuit in the least. She had to admire him, and not just because of his cool demeanor. He was, without a doubt, one of the most striking men she had ever laid eyes upon. Annabel twisted to watch the galloping policemen again. "They will catch us," she cried. "There's too much traffic on Broadway. You should have stayed on Fifth!" She could see herself standing at the altar with Harold.
He shot her a look of disbelief.
"The traffic was lighter on Fifth," she said defensively.
"Hold on," he ordered, his eyes on the intersection ahead, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel.
She turned her gaze forward and all her admiration for the man driving the Packard vanished. Her heart slammed to a stop. Two cable cars were coming down Broadway, one after the other, on their electric tracks. If he did not halt and let the cars pass, it was obvious they would all crash into one another. Their motorcar could not possibly cross the path of the cable cars in time to avoid a collision. "Stop!" Annabel cried, seized with panic. "Stop or you will kill us all!"
It was as if he had not heard her. With one hand he banged hard on the horn, so it sounded as one long, incessant blare. And the motorcar shot into the intersection.
Annabel was clinging to the dashboard of the automobile. She could see the faces of the men and women m the approaching first trolley. It was but a few yards away. Expressions of incredulity gave way to panic and then terror. A blond woman screamed. A straphanger's eyes, behind horn-rimmed spectacles, met her own. Her own face, she thought, mesmerized, must be as white as his. She tasted fear. Saw twisted metal, blood, and death.
The Packard screamed over the electric rails as the first cable car continued forward, metal and brass missing brass and wood by mere inches. And then they were roaring up Twenty-seventh Street, leaving Broadway behind.
And Annabel, turned completely around in her seat now, her veil twisted around her neck, watched the second trolley continuing down the track, quite literally on the back fender of the first. It was effectively blocking the two mounted policemen from following them. She slumped against the seat back, her heart beating like a jungle drum, smiling. "You did it," she whispered. Then she was thrown against the driver as he turned the motorcar hard to the right, onto Sixth Avenue. Overhead, a train on the El thundered by.
Annabel disengaged herself as the thief drove beneath the elevated tracks, chasing young boys in knickers playing stick ball into the shadows of the surrounding five-and six-story tenement buildings. Briefly, his gaze met hers. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked.
Annabel settled down in her seat. "Actually, you are quite a good driver." She smiled at him. She was enjoying herself---now that they had eluded the police and a fatal cable-car crash.
He glanced at her again while turning so sharply up another cross street that a man pulling a two-wheeled fruit cart was almost run over. As they sprayed a muddy puddle in their wake, Annabel glanced back and saw the vendor, perhaps a Jewish immigrant, shaking his fist at
after the first introductions were made, because she could outride, outshoot, outtalk, and outthink them all, she was fairly certain that she was beautiful---she had been told so a thousand times. She was, in fact, considered the most beautiful of the Boothe sisters, and Melissa and Lizzie were both gorgeous. Of course, she was also considered the odd one, the mannish one, the bluestocking---the one who couldn't catch a husband even if her father gave away most of his fortune on her behalf. Annabel had never cared about her beauty before, it had never seemed important or even useful.
But now she cared. She needed this man's help. Very self-conscious, she leaned toward him, her gaze on his, at once earnest and intent, praying that this once she could manage a man the way her sister Melissa could. "Please."
For one more moment they stared at one another. The clanging of trolleys, the roaring of the elevated trains, the clopping of horses' hooves, even pigeons cooing on the nearby roof, all faded and disappeared. Annabel crossed her fingers. Instinct told her not to move, not to speak---not even to breathe.
"Do not bat your lashes at me, it makes you look like a simpering fool."
Annabel winced, afraid she had lost, not just that round, but everything she valued in her life.
He grimaced. And then he shifted hard into gear and drove back into the heavy traffic of milk wagons and freight lorries, horse cars and trolleys. He turned his hard blue gaze to the road, as if concentrating on driving. His strong, clean jaw was set. Annabel was faint with relief. But she thought she could feel his thoughts---• and they were directed, not quite charitably, toward herself. She had won, but it was only the first round, and she did not fool herself. He intended to get rid of her, and eventually he would.
But she could manage with eventually. As long as it them, his coarse wool jacket soaking wet. Pedestrians on the sidewalks, working women in ready-mades and young male clerks, were all turning to gape at them as they sped by.
"Thank you," he said, and he flashed his spectacular smile at her. "I have had a lot of practice."
Annabel found herself smiling back. This thief had nerve---lots of it. "I imagine you have. Who are you?"
He turned onto Seventh Avenue, still driving at a mad-cap pace. "You may call me Braxton." Two mounted gentlemen jerked their mounts out of their way, riding up onto the sidewalk.
She eyed him, aware of them racing past another motorcar. "Is that your real name?"
His smile reappeared, but briefly. "You are a clever girl." Suddenly he veered around an omnibus and pulled up at the curb in front of a store advertising suits for sale. A furrier's sign was hanging outside the second-floor window. "Now get out."
Annabel did not move.
He appeared relaxed as he sat there in the front seat, both hands lightly on the wheel. "I am not Louie," he warned. "And I do not need a hostage."
She wet her lips. "Yes you do. They will let you get away if you threaten to hurt me. I am certain of it."
He leaned toward her. "Aren't you frightened, Miss Boothe? Hasn't it crossed your mind that I might hurt you---or at the least get you killed accidentally?"
His gaze was mesmerizing. She could not look away, i "I can't. I can't go back there. I cannot."
He was staring. His eyes were opaque, impossible to read. "So it is the groom who terrifies you---far more than myself."
He did not frighten her at all. Not really---even \ though he did make her heart race. And Annabel had never been at all seductive before. But she was desperate. And even though men always lost interest in her soon wasn't just then. For she had not lied when she had said she could not go back.
If she went back now, they would try to marry her off to Harold Talbot. A fate far worse than death---or a tarnished reputation.
Annabel smiled to herself, shaking a little, the newly hatched plan having taken a firm hold on her. And then a thought occurred to her. She quickly pulled the veil from her head and stuffed it beneath the dashboard at her and Louie's feet. She winced, feeling guilty as she regarded him. "Why is he still unconscious?"
"That was some right hook," Braxton remarked. They were now on Ninth Avenue, driving directly beneath the EL
She smiled. "Thank you."
He eyed her briefly. "You should be ashamed of such prowess."
"Yes, I should---but I am not like my sisters or other women." She reached behind her and began to undo the many small pearl buttons on the back of her dress. It was excessively difficult without a maid. "I did not mean to hurt him, though. I guess I do not know my own strength. When I was twelve I got into a fight with Tommy Bratweiller. I gave him two black eyes." She noticed they were heading uptown at a good clip now, and were already at Seventy-fifth Street. She had never been this far uptown on the West Side. It was hardly like being in New York City---at least not the New York City she knew. Huge lots of land stood vacant amidst smaller buildings and warehouses. Through the gaps in the buildings, she could see the Hudson River to the west, and the cliffs of New Jersey soaring above it on the river's other side. She even glimpsed two goats in someone's backyard.
He looked at her. "Two black eyes, not one? Tsk, tsk." And then he obviously realized what she was doing.
She flushed but ignored him, pulling the bodice of her wedding dress off her shoulders and down to her hips. She was wearing a corset, chemise, petticoats, and drawers, everything lacy and trimmed with satin ribbons for the occasion of the marriage, so she was far from naked. Still, he continued to glance at her. She shimmied out of the dress. Her cheeks were hot. She ordered herself not to think about the fact that she was undressing in front of this man. Hadn't she swum naked in the lake up in the hills around Bar Harbor? In spite of her sisters' hysteria?
"What are you doing?" he asked in that oh-so-calm British way of his.
"I am too conspicuous in the dress," she said, feeling herself continue to blush. "I am sure the telegraph lines must be humming by now. As a bride, I am a red flag to the police."
"You are as conspicuous in your underwear," he returned evenly. Suddenly he turned off the avenue, into an alley between two barns. And he halted the motorcar, jumping out.
Annabel shivered, also climbing out over the still form of Louie. She eyed the small man. "Do you think he is all right?" She was worried.
He was opening the barn door. "I am sure he will revive in a moment or so," he said, returning to the driver's seat. "He used to box. Lightweight, of course. He never quite recovered. I think you may have gotten an old injury."
"Oh, dear." Annabel realized that he planned to hide the car in the barn. She said admiringly, "This is brilliant."
He slowly drove the automobile forward as if he did not hear her. Annabel walked into the barn behind him. She smiled at the sight that greeted her---a horse and carriage, the horse already in the traces. "Truly brilliant," she said, more to herself than him.
He stepped out of the car, slamming the door. This time, briefly, his glance met hers.
She watched him pull Louie from the vehicle, leaving him on the ground. He then took a medium-sized satchel from the carriage and slipped off his tailcoat. Annabel watched him removing the jewelry he had stolen from one small compartment sewn into the jacket's lining, transferring it to the satchel. "You have thought of everything," she said.
"I hope so. You might want to turn around," he remarked, removing his bow tie.
Annabel blinked as he reached for the buttons on his snowy white shirt. He smiled at her. She realized that he was undressing, and watched as his shirt parted, revealing a broad slab of chest dusted with midnight-black hair.
Immediately she turned her back on him. Of course he would change clothes. She berated herself for not realizing earlier that he would do so. But what had possessed her to stare? And she was certain that he had known that she had been staring.
She could feel herself flushing, and as she heard his clothes rustling---he was stepping out of his trousers, she presumed---she walked around the Packard to give herself something to do. He was tall and lean and handsome. He was bold and exceedingly cool. His accent was the coup de grace. If Harold had been at all like this man, she wondered if she would have objected so strenuously to the match.
Not that her family would ever allow her to marry a thief. It was a ludicrous thought.
Besides, she did not want to marry. All women turned into fools when they married, endlessly redoing decor, shopping until dropping, planning teas and babies. That was not for Annabel.
"Done," he said cheerfully a moment later.
She turned and found him clad in a sack jacket and
paler trousers. His evening clothes had been stuffed in the front seat of the Packard. A huge oilskin tarp was folded up on the floor, nestled among bales of moldy hay. "If you truly want to help, take up that end," he said with a nod at the tarp.
Annabel hurried to obey. "Does anything scare you?" she asked as they lifted the tarp in tandem and settled it over the Packard.
"Very little," he said, with a smile.
"You like this," she said after a moment. "You liked eluding the police."
"Didn't you?" he returned.
She refused to answer. "You have thought of everything," she mused. "Do you do this often?"
"Often enough," he said with a grin. He had a dimple in his left cheek, a cleft in his chin.
She watched him kneeling over Louie, gently slapping his face. "So you are a professional thief."
"Hmm. I do not think I need to answer that."
Suddenly Louie moaned, his lashes fluttering. "Thank God," she breathed.
"Didn't want to be branded a murderess?" he said somewhat mockingly. "An accomplice, perhaps, but murder would be too much?"
She met his gaze. There was a gleam there, perhaps of amusement. "I had no intention of hurting him. Murder is never justified."
He folded his arms and stared. After a long pause, he said, "It is time for you to go home, Miss Boo the. And I am afraid you will have to make your own way."
She stiffened. "You would not abandon me now!"
"Not only would I, I am doing so."
Her eyes widened, her heart lurched.
"Gawd, wot happened?" Louie said, sitting up groggily, one hand going to the huge bruise on his temple.
"The lady dealt you a severe blow," Braxton said with
real amusement. "Change your clothes, my friend. We must be on our way.\*'
Louie had now recovered enough to moan and glare at his partner in crime at the exact same time., Then he looked darkly at Annabel.
"I'm sorry," Annabel said, meaning it. She hurried to the thief. "You cannot leave me here---on the West Side---in my drawers and petticoats."
He smiled. "You are a fetching sight, my dear. I am sure that in no time at all you will be aided and abetted by some concerned and civic-minded gentleman and on your way back to the altar."
"I want to come with you! I can help---"
"No." He turned his back on her and reached down for Louie. "Let's see if you can stand," he said.
Louie stood with Braxton's aid and went around to the other side of the carriage to change his clothes. Annabel rushed over to the thief. "What must I do to convince you to let me stay with you---just for a few days?"
He folded his arms across his chest as he studied her. "You are very tempting. Just what are you offering, Miss Boothe?"
She swallowed. Did he mean what she thought he did? "I cannot return home. If I return, they will all try to force me back to the altar."
"That is hardly my problem." He was impatient now. "Louie! Hurry up."
"Aye, guvnor."
She gripped his arm. "Braxton. I will go back. But when I do, I must be ruined."
He was finally surprised. His eyes had widened. "Well, well. So you wish my services in this endeavor?"
She hadn't meant it literally. She had meant that she could not return until her reputation was smeared, enough so that no one would want her, and then she would be free to continue her life without interference from her father or all the silly, useless men he kept in-
troducing her to. For then no man would want her. Annabel bit her lip. His gaze was fixed on her face.
If she told him now that she meant she wanted to be ruined in name only, not in fact, he would abandon her, she was certain of it. She would tell him that later. "I cannot go back now. Not now. It is too soon."
Silence reigned as Louie reappeared from behind the carriage, clad now in a plaid shirt and corduroy trousers. He glanced from one to the other. "We got to go, me lord." He carried the clothing he had changed out of in his arms.
Braxton gave him a piercing look, which Annabel did not understand.
"Please," she said, stepping closer to him. Her heart beat wildly. She was not a fool. What if he ruined her, not in name, but in actuality?
There were worse things, she decided, than this man's kisses.
A lifetime spent with Harold Talbot, for one---or with some idiot just like him.
Braxton's jaw set. He strode to Louie, took his bundle of clothes from him, and shoved them at Annabel--- against her chest. "You can dress in the carriage while we leave the city. Get in," he said.
George Boothe paced his library with savage strides. He had removed his tailcoat and was in a waistcoat and his shirtsleeves.' The John Constable landscape, which was usually hanging over the marble hearth, stood on the floor, propped up against a tufted ottoman. The metal vault above the hearth was open, forming a dark and gaping hole.
Another gentleman, clad in an ill-fitting suit and a bowler hat,, sporting a handlebar mustache, sat on one of a pair of pale green velvet armchairs, a notebook in his hand. A brass-knobbed walking stick was at his side. Lucinda Boothe sat on the gold and green sofa in her gold evening gown, a cashmere throw over her shoulders, her daughters on either side of her. The two girls' husbands stood behind the sofa, also in their shirtsleeves. Lucinda was sniffing into a hankie. Her eyes were red from hours of intermittent weeping.
"Well, Boothe, I can only say that you have been had, and that this Braxton fellow has done a damn good job of it. Oh, excuse me, ladies." The mustachioed gent stood, snapping closed his notebook and pocketing both that and his lead pencil.
"I could have told you that, Thompson. What are you doing to get my daughter back?" Boothe demanded.
"As we speak," the city's police chief said, "patrols are being sent out. He will not be able to get off Manhattan Island, I promise you that."
"What about the ferries, the bridges?" Boothe demanded, pausing in his pacing only to glare at Thompson, arms akimbo, his red face flushed. "By now he could be in Jersey, by damn!"
"Sir, we have done this before. As I said, he will not be able to get off the island." Thompson smiled in satisfaction.
"Oh, my poor Annabel," Lucinda whispered, choking on a sob.
Melissa, sitting on Lucinda's left, made a sound--- something very much like a snort. She was tall like Annabel, but her build was more delicate, her blond hair darker. It was, in fact---and to her horror---more brown than blond. "Poor Annabel jumped into the motorcar with the thief, Mama."
Lucinda cried out, bursting into tears again.
Boothe turned to stare at his middle daughter. "That is enough, Missy."
"Melissa," Lizzie said in utter consternation. She was petite and had dark hair and eyes, just like her father. It made a startling contrast to her porcelain skin.
Melissa made a face. "Well, she did. We all saw it. He pushed her away, but oh no. Annabel decided to go and run off with him."
"I do not think she was running off with him," Lizzie cried, standing and wringing her hands.
"Excuse me." Thompson stepped forward, facing -Melissa. "Why on earth would your sister jump into the perpetrator's vehicle with him---of her own free will?"
Boothe came between them before Melissa could answer. "Annabel did not jump into that motorcar of her own free will." He gave his daughter an I-will-disinherit-you glare.
Melissa folded her hands demurely on her lap and smiled angelically at Thompson.
Thompson faced Boothe. "Sir, if there is any chance that your daughter has run off with this Braxton fellow, then I need to know it---if you want her back."
"She hasn't run off with anyone!" Boothe roared.
"Oh, dear." Lizzie popped to her feet and gently tugged on Thompson's sleeve. "She was terrified. You do understand, a bride's jitters. That is all it was. Even Annabel would not run away with a complete stranger!"
Melissa snorted again.
Her husband, John, laid a restraining hand on her shoulder from behind. Their gazes met. "Ssh," he said, low.
Thompson saw it all. "All right. What is going on here? What are you all concealing from me? I am now exceedingly suspicious. Perhaps your daughter and this man were in cahoots. Stealing the jewelry together. Why, what a clever plan!"
"My daughter is no thief!" Boothe shouted.
"Oh, no," Lizzie said, paling. "Never! And Mr. Thompson, I would swear to this upon the Bible, Annabel did not know this Braxton gent. She did not."
"Perhaps she did. And kept it from you. Why else would she go with him willingly?"
Boothe sighed. "Thompson, Annabel is impulsive. Unruly. Good God, that's why it's been so hard to get her married. She has a heart of gold, is as honest as a human being can be, but she is, well, unconventional. My own daughter did not steal from me. She did not know this thief, Braxton. But I will admit it. She was dragging her heels over her marriage. Just last night she told me she wanted to break it off, but I would not let her." Boothe's face fell. He walked over to his wife and sat down beside her, taking her hand in his.
Lucinda wept now. "This is my fault. If I had listened to her, even tried to understand, none of this would have happened."
"Braxton still would have made off with Mother's jewels," Adam said. He was Lizzie's tall, dark, handsome husband.
"Annabel had to get married," Melissa stated. "We all have married, and she is the oldest. It is not our fault that she could not find true love!" She turned to smile at her husband. John smiled back and they clasped hands over the back of the sofa.
"Well, an unconventional woman is a reckless woman, and perhaps Miss Annabel met this gent, fell in love, and rushed off with him purposefully." Thompson nodded to himself.
"She did no such thing!" Boothe cried. But then he faced Lizzie. "Did she?"
Lizzie was white. "Papa, I am certain that she never laid eyes upon that fellow before this afternoon." But Lizzie's hands toyed with the folds of her evening gown. Her face showed dismay.
"You don't sound certain," Thompson said flatly.
"No one can ever be certain about Annabel," John muttered.
"She is truly impossible to fathom," Melissa stated. "Miss Boothe?" Thompson prompted Lizzie gently but firmly.
Lizzie bit her lip. Tears had filled her eyes. "Annabel would never . . ." she began, then trailed off. The tip of her nose was turning red.
"Do you know something you are not telling us?" Boothe was roaring again, but his eyes were wide and he was aghast.
"I do not know anything. I only know that I love my sister and she is the most brave and daring woman!" Lizzie flung her hands up into the air, tears trickling down her cheeks. Adam rushed to her side, slipping his arm around her. "She never said a word to me about meeting someone, or falling in love. There was a time when she was trying very hard to convince herself that Harold was right for her, but a few days ago she gave that up. She was terrified of marrying him---of marrying anyone, truthfully. She did not want to wed!"
"Annabel did not want to marry," Melissa agreed. "Not ever."
"Well. This is quite interesting. A very unusual woman, hmm?" Thompson had pulled out his notebook and made a short, decisive note. He slipped it back into an interior breast pocket. "Miss Boothe. Was your sister capable of falling in love with a complete stranger and running away with him?"
Lizzie stared. Her hand slipped into Adam's.
"Miss Boothe? I am not asking you if she did such a thing. I am asking you if she was capable of such recklessness."
Lizzie remained mute. She glanced fearfully at Adam. "You need not answer," he said, but his own expression was strained.
"Oh, pshaw," Melissa said, waving one slim hand and standing. Her pale, cream-colored chiffon gown fell in rippling folds about her. "Not only does everyone in this room know that Annabel was indeed capable of just that, so do all our friends. Her character, such as it is, is hardly a secret!"
Thompson looked around him, taking in everyone's expression, and he nodded. He folded his thick arms across his chest. "Well."
Boothe rubbed his temples, standing. "If Annabel was seduced by Braxton, it is not her fault. I was seduced by him, by God. The man is charming and clever. I truly believed him to be who and what he said he was." He flushed again. "I want him behind bars!"
"He is a professional, that is obvious, and I am certain that in no time we will have a dozen or two possible makes on him. We have already sent a telegram to Scotland Yard. Have no fear, Mr. Boothe. Even if your daughter was an accomplice to this crime, a crime has been committed, and it is my duty to solve it and apprehend the perpetrators. And I shall do just that." Boothe nodded with satisfaction. "I shall notify you the moment they are found. And in the interim, do not be surprised if I return to ask further questions."
"Wait." Boothe stopped him just before he could walk out of the library door. "I wish to offer a reward for the return of my daughter. Post it immediately. Fifty thousand dollars."
Thompson's eyes widened. "Very well. I will post it--- but for her return alive, Mr. Boothe. I am sure you would not want it any other way."
A small cry sounded. Both men turned to watch Lucinda slumping into a faint, her two daughters and sons-in-law rushing to her.
"There's a patrol up ahead."
Annabel sat on the front seat of the carriage beside Braxton, and she had just seen the mounted policeman herself. She froze, her hands gripping the leather seat, her heart sinking like a stone. But Braxton did not stop the carriage. He continued to drive forward at the same steady pace. It was a pace that precisely matched his previous, matter-of-fact tone.
They had been traveling north for about twenty minutes, through the wooded, suburban countryside surrounding Manhattan. Every now and then they had passed a farm or an orchard. Otherwise, homes were interspersed in the wooded countryside. She wasn't quite sure where they were, exactly, but she knew they were all about to be captured. "What are you doing?" she whispered, gripping his arm.
"Relax, Charles," Braxton said with a smile.
She stared at him. When they had left the barn, he bad made her put some dirt on her face and Louie's cap on her head, her long blond hair twisted up beneath it, but she did not think she was going to pass muster as a young man. And what about Braxton? A change of clothes was hardly a disguise! His description, which was hardly average, had to be everywhere and his very upper-crust British accent was a dead giveaway.
He halted the carriage as two policemen came forward on big bay horses. He was smiling at them. Annabel thought her own cheeks were red. She was afraid to breathe.
"I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the carriage, sir," one mounted officer with a big mustache said.
"Afternoon. What's this about, officers?" Braxton asked---in a clipped and nasal Yankee twang.
Annabel realized she was gaping and she shut her mouth.
"Please step down."
"Glad to obey, got all the time in the world," Braxton said, sounding as if he were a native Brahmin of Boston. He stepped lithely out of the carriage.
"Boston, eh?" the officer said, dismounting. His tone had changed, becoming less firm, softer.
"Born and raised, just like my father and his father before him." Braxton was cheerful.
The officer nodded, then glanced at Annabel and Louie. "Who are they?"
"Charlie is a distant cousin. He's an orphan---his grandmother just died. I'm concluding a bit of business in town, stocks, you know, and am bringing him home with me."
"An orphan, eh?" the officer said. He was chewing tobacco now and eyeing Annabel closely.
Annabel was afraid he could see through her absurd disguise, or that he was going to ask her a question directly, and she felt herself turning redder still, but then he looked at Louie. She almost swooned with relief.
Louie, meanwhile, appeared to have fallen asleep in the back seat. Annabel closed her eyes. "My groom," Braxton said.
Annabel jerked, thinking of Harold, certain the thief, damn him, was doing this to her on purpose.
The officer nodded and turned away, mounting. "Sorry to bother you folks. But we're looking for a very clever Englishman and a young woman he has abducted." He tipped his hat. "Seems he also made off with a small fortune in jewels."
Braxton stepped up into the carriage. "Criminals these days," he said with a shake of his head. Annabel felt like killing him. "The nerve! Thank God we have men like you serving citizens like us. Astute and perceptive officers of the law, capable of protecting the innocent and apprehending the guilty."
Annabel looked at him with murder in her eyes.
The policeman smiled. "Have a good day, sir," he said.
Braxton smiled back, lifted the reins, and drove the bay gelding past the barricade. Annabel sat staring stiffly ahead. Her heart continued to beat with frantic insistence. Clop clop clop. The gelding trotted along, taking them farther and farther away from the policemen and the road block. She wanted to look back over her shoulder to see if the two officers had realized their mistake and were now charging after them.
"Do not look back," he said in his usual, aristocratic British accent.
She looked at him. He was smiling. Unruffled, unperturbed---as if this kind of hair-raising narrow escape was an everyday occurrence. "You are not even sweating!" she accused.
" 'E don't sweat," Louie said from the back seat. He glanced at her briefly. "Aren't you supposed to say 'perspiring'?" "You are laughing!"
"You, my dear, are the one perspiring."
Annabel took a deep breath and collapsed against the seat. "I admit to being afraid."
"Why? You had nothing to lose---unlike Louie and myself."
Their gazes had locked. "I told you, I cannot go back. Not yet."
"Yes," he said softly, still holding her regard with his. "You most certainly did."
Annabel felt herself stiffening. She thought about being in his arms, about receiving his kiss. Then she shook herself free of the thought. What was wrong with her? Tonight she would explain everything, and there was not going to be either an embrace or a kiss or, dear God, anything else. But her reputation would be ruined and she could return home, a free woman at last.
She thought about her family and felt a twinge of guilt, for putting them through the ordeal of her disappearance. However, far more than guilt claimed her now. Soon she could return home with her ruined reputation, and she felt nothing but dismay at the thought.
She did not want to go home. Being on the run with Braxton was exciting. Her life had never been this exciting before. And she did her best to make it unusual and entertaining; Annabel knew she lived a far more imprudent existence than any woman of her acquaintance. She was always doing something thrilling. For a while she had actually exercised racehorses at dawn. She had spent a year enrolled in a very Bohemian art class on the Lower East Side. She had even modeled for some of the artists---without her clothing. She had taken employment as a shop girl for two weeks in Wanamaker's department store---which was but a block away from her father's emporium. All of these endeavors, of course, had been found out. Missy was a snoop.
And then there was her tennis game, her books, and travel. She adored all three pastimes, but especially traveling abroad. She had been visiting Europe one or two times a year since she was twenty-one. Her father had actually encouraged such adventure, but Annabel knew he had done so only because he hoped she would meet an appropriate man and fall in love and come home affianced.
But nothing to date had been as exciting as being with this man.
"You are staring at me," he said softly.
She swallowed. Not only was she staring, she had been envisioning herself once again in his embrace. Except this time he had been unclothed. He had been long and lean and all hard muscle. Such a thought should be shameful. Annabel found it intriguing.
He was intriguing.
Annabel looked away. They were entering the village of Mott Haven. It was nothing more than a collection of wood-shingled homes, four-and five-story brick stores, and farms. She did not really see the town. She was in trouble, fairly deeply; Annabel knew herself too well. If she continued to think this way, she was going to become even more deeply in trouble than she already was---perhaps irreparably so.
She wanted to ignore the little warning bells going off inside her head. Usually, she did. And then she would be off and running with a new pursuit. The end result was always the same. Being found out, set down, grounded for a time. And being talked about. Poor, poor, unfortunate Annabel Boo the! Whatever makes her so wild, so reckless, so headstrong? Annabel smiled. She considered her peers to be the unfortunate ones.
But to start thinking about her life being boring in comparison with his, why, that was very dangerous, indeed. That could lead her farther astray than she had ever intended to go. Maybe, as Melissa kept saying, there was something wrong with her. Drastically so.
"Is something wrong, Miss Boothe?" He interrupted her thoughts.
Annabel started. "No! No. Nothing is amiss." She smiled at him, but it was strained.
His blue gaze was brilliant and searching. "Having regrets?"
She straightened. "I never have regrets," she said.\_ His only response was a long, inscrutable, and very wide stare.
Annabel smiled sweetly at him. And realized that night was falling.
The cheerful and freshly painted white clapboard house was one of the last on Main Street. A white picket fence surrounded it and there was a red barn in the backyard. Braxton drove the carriage directly around the house and into the barn. Both wide, whitewashed doors had been left open.
"More remarkable planning, I see," Annabel said with a glance around. Of course another carriage was in the barn, as was another horse. He had left no stone unturned.
"You are as clever as always," he replied. Braxton's spirits seemed high. He stepped out of the carriage, as did Louie, the smaller man immediately going to their tired gelding and unhitching him from the traces. Braxton looked up at her and held out his hand.
Surprised, yet ridiculously pleased, Annabel was about to accept it when she saw the twinkle in his eye. She was dressed like a stable boy, with dirt on her face. She was not a beautiful woman now. She withdrew her hand and leapt down from the carriage exactly as he had done. He laughed and walked away.
Miffed, she watched him removing a satchel from the second carriage, this one large enough to contain quite a few clothes. "Is the house occupied?" she asked.
"Yes, it is," an unfamiliar female voice said from the bam doorway.
Annabel turned to glimpse a tall honey-blond woman in a navy skirt and shirtwaist standing on the threshold, smiling slightly---not at them, but at Braxton. An instant later he had crossed the barn and taken her hands in his. "Hello, Mary Anne," he said, and he kissed her cheek.
Annabel stared, her pulse drumming, thinking the worst and jealous about it, too. But the woman, who was perhaps forty and quite attractive, merely smiled at Braxton briefly then turned to look at Annabel. Anxiety filled her gray eyes. "Pierce, I did not know you were coming with a third person." Her tone was husky.
Braxton gave her a look. "I do hope you have some coffee brewing?" His meaning was clear---he did not wish to discuss this now.
Mary Anne looked from him to Annabel again. Annabel decided to take matters into her own hands. She strode forward, holding out her hand, aware of acting very outrageous and mannish. She was angry. Any fool would know that there was something---or had been something---between these two. "Hello. I am Annabel. And actually, Pierce did not quite know himself until the. very last minute that I would be coming along." She managed a smile. At least she now knew his first name.
Mary Anne stared for a moment longer, then smiled quickly. "Hello. I'm Mrs. Winston. Well, do come in. I know you must all be very tired." Her eyes remained anxious.
They followed their hostess from the barn, both men closing the doors behind them, and headed across the lawn and into the house. Inside it was as cheery as it had been outside. Doilies covered the tables in the parlor, slipcovers the couch. The walls were flocked with red roses and pale stripes. Annabel was left in the parlor with Louie. Braxton followed Mary Anne into the kitchen, just down the hall.
Annabel folded her arms, frowning, wanting very much to know what was going on in the kitchen. Were i hey in a warm and affectionate embrace? Or a passion-are one? She faced Louie, who had flopped down on the worn sofa and was browsing through a catalog from Sears. "Is she an old flame?"
Louie looked up and grinned. "Yer jealous, girlie, an' it shows."
"I am hardly jealous," Annabel said hotly. "Well, it's obvious that they care for one another."
" 'E's got lots of flames." Louie continued to grin.
Annabel turned and stared down the hall, toward the kitchen. She could not hear a sound. "I'm sure he does. Who is he?"
"I think you 'ad better ask the guvnor 'imself." Louie returned to the catalog.
Annabel did not hesitate. She left the parlor, but tried to move as soundlessly as possible, shamelessly hoping to catch the two of them in a torrid embrace. She pressed against the wall when she heard their voices in quiet conversation.
"Pierce, how could you bring her here!" Mary Anne cried, setting a kettle down with a loud clang.
"We will leave at dawn, you have nothing to worry about." His tone was very gentle.
"Nothing to worry about?" Mary Anne was incredulous.
Annabel peeked around the open doorway and saw Mary Anne putting muffins on a plate, her hands moving swiftly and angrily, her back to Braxton. He stood in the center of the kitchen, as relaxed and composed as she was not. He placed both hands on her shoulders Irom behind. "You are not in danger. I appreciate what you are doing for me, Mary Anne."
Annabel crept forward, staring at them.
Mary Anne turned to face him. "You know I had no choice but to help you, but dear Lord, I wish you would give up these mad escapades of yours---before you wind up in prison or dead!" Tears filled her eyes.
He tilted up her chin. "No one is going to die. What happened to Harry was an accident. A terrible mistake."
"That will not bring him back, now will it?" She used the corner of her apron to dab her eyes. "Annabel Boothe. Oh, God. Why didn't you throw her out somewhere in Manhattan? The countryside must be swarming with federal agents by now!"
He shrugged. "Poor judgment on my part, in that I agree." He turned and looked directly at Annabel. "Enjoying yourself yet again?"
Annabel flushed. "I was not eavesdropping. I was thirsty."
He made an expression of disbelief.
"Please, do come in," Mary Anne said, pulling out a kitchen chair. She looked worried. "You must be exhausted and frightened, too. I am so sorry you had to get caught up in this, my dear."
Annabel did not want to like her, but her sympathy and concern were clearly genuine. "Actually," Annabel said, walking into the brightly lit room, "I am neither tired nor frightened. But I am dirty. Could I bathe and change clothes? These are Louie's things and I am afraid they do have an odor."
Braxton stared.
Annabel avoided his gaze. She smiled at their hostess. "If it would not be an inconvenience."
There was only one guest room and it had been given to Annabel. It was on the second floor, across the hall from the master bedroom. Louie and Braxton were sleeping in the parlor, or so they claimed. Annabel wondered if Braxton was downstairs where she had left him and his henchman after supper, or across the hall with the too kind Mrs. Winston.
She sat on the edge of the narrow bed, clad in a nightgown that belonged to Mary Anne. Her temples throbbed. She should be relieved that she remained alone in the bedroom, more so if Braxton were comforting the pretty widow. This was what she wanted. To be ruined in name only---not in fact.
But she knew she would not sleep all night long thinking about it---about them.
Annabel finally stood and walked over to her closed bedroom door in her bare feet. Her heart pounded. She pressed her ear against the wood and strained to hear. But there was not a sound in the house---as if everyone were truly asleep.
Very carefully, she began to open the door. It creaked loudly.
She froze, then tried again. The door groaned now as she opened it.
She was breathless, her pulse continuing to drum and deafen her. But her door was wide open. The hall was pitch-black; not a single light had been left on. The door across from her was closed. It was a shadowy shape. Annabel glanced toward the stairs, but could not make them out in the darkness.
Annabel took one step into the hall and winced as the wood beneath her feet squeaked. Grimacing, she hurried across the short distance separating her door from Mary Anne's, and finally she pressed her ear against it. Once again, silence greeted her. Of course, the way her heart was beating, it was terribly hard to hear anything else.
Wood groaned.
Annabel stiffened, wondering if she had imagined the sound, which came from the end of the hall. She stared into the shadows, but saw nothing. After a few seconds, she decided it had been her imagination, or old wood settling. She leaned against Mary Anne's door again, pressing her ear to the stained wood. Her efforts were rewarded by absolute silence.
And then an arm clamped around her waist from behind, a hand clapped over her mouth. Annabel would have screamed in fright, but the hand covering her mouth was so firm and uncompromising that she was prevented from making a sound. She was pulled from behind against a man's solid body. His grip upon her was as immovable as steel.
"Jesus, it's you," Braxton said in her ear. His hand left her mouth, sliding across her jaw to her neck and shoulder, and he did not release her for another moment.
And in that endless moment Annabel was overwhelmed by the warmth and strength of him, by his sheer masculinity.
He dropped his hands from her person.
Annabel turned. Her back pressed against Mary Anne's door as she faced him, and because he did not move, there was not an inch between their bodies. His thighs pressed hers. His chest flattened hers. She was a tall woman, and her eyes were level with his mouth.
It was an exceedingly attractive mouth.
And his teeth flashed white in the darkness. "Might I ask what you were doing?" he asked, but in a whisper.
"I could ask you the same thing," Annabel said, whispering as well. It was very hard to think---her body was acutely aware of him, and she did not know what to do with her hands, which remained balled up at her sides. "I thought you were the police, or a federal agent," she breathed.
His gaze appeared silver in the darkness of the night. It searched hers. "I thought the same of you." Suddenly, he stepped away from her, putting a safer distance between them. "Did anyone ever tell you, Miss Boothe, that curiosity killed the cat?"
She inhaled. She was trembling, her legs were weak. Air now caressed her where his warmth had a scant instant ago. She did not want him to leave and go back downstairs. There was no time to think. "I am not a cat. Curiosity has not killed me yet---I doubt it ever will."
He laughed softly. "You know," he said, and their gazes locked, "I like you. It is a shame that you are who you are. For you and I could have gotten on quite famously, I do think."
She stared. His voice had been low and sensual and intimate. "I like you, too, Braxton."
His smile disappeared.
Annabel wet her lips, images she knew she should not, must not, entertain dancing in her head. Of him leading her across the hall into her bedroom, of him removing her clothing, his large, capable, elegant hands smoothing over her skin.
"Go back to bed," he said harshly. "I will see you in the morning."
"Wait," she whispered, a desperate cry.
But he had not moved.
"Wait," she said again, as intensely. But she could not think of a single excuse to detain him, or a single way to seduce him.
He now wet his lips. "Do not offer," he said with anger, "what will turn out to be a vast mistake. For you certainly, and maybe for us both."
"I am not like other women," Annabel said hoarsely.
He stared.
She clenched her fists. "I don't ever want to marry. I only want to be free." He remained motionless.
"Free like the wind," she said, tears suddenly coming to her eyes. "Not shackled to an idiot like Harold, not shackled to anyone."
His jaw flexed. His brilliant eyes never left her face.
"But you would not understand. Because you are free, you are a man." She was bitter. She felt defeated. He would go. And in the morning, their paths would diverge, never to twine again.
"I understand," he finally said. "Better than you think."
Braxton bent and kissed each shoulder where the straps lay, then he slid them over her shoulders and pushed her gown down over her breasts, her hips, her thighs. It pooled in a puddle of cotton at her feet. His gaze was admiring.
He stroked the pads of two fingers down her neck and chest, over her nipples. Annabel bit back a cry of need and pleasure. He looked into her eyes, his expert hands skimming down her sides and abdomen.
"You are very, very beautiful, and far too much of a woman for most men."
She could not speak. He was touching her thighs. "But not... for you?"
His gaze jerked up to hers. "You are probably too much of a woman for myself as well," he said, as if he had just thought of it and as if he meant it. And then he pulled her close for another devastating, tongue-to-tongue kiss.
And when, a long time later, their lips parted, she gasped, "This is not fair."
He was pushing her down on the bed. "Life is not fair."
She laughed as she found herself on her back, but shakily. "I have no clothes on. You are fully dressed."
His eyes widened and brightened at the same time. He stood, smiling. "That," he said, "shall be remedied momentarily."
Annabel sat up to watch him disrobe. He was exactly as she had thought, broad-shouldered, narrow of hip, all rippling sinew and lean muscle. She had never seen a man completely naked before. She stared.
"You are eating me up with those incredible eyes of yours," he said, not moving.
She lifted her gaze to his, feeling herself blush. "I have never seen a man before. I mean, not a living, breathing one----I have never cared to. I have never felt passion before, Braxton."
She tensed and met his brilliant eyes again. And watched his hands lifting---coming toward her. And in that moment she felt a surge of absolute comprehension---she had known that this would happen from the very first moment she had laid her eyes upon him in her father's library. He gripped her shoulders and pulled her slowly up against him. As his chest once again crushed her breasts, as his palms slid down her back, settling on her hips, she breathed, trembling with anticipation. His mouth cut off the sound.
Annabel clung to him tightly, stunned by the endless kiss. She had never been kissed this way before, but then, she had never known such a man before, either. She did not want the kiss to end; she could not seem to get enough of the taste of him, the feel of him. But he tore his mouth from hers abruptly, and their gazes locked.
She was breathing harshly, but so was he.
"Last chance," he whispered roughly.
It took Annabel a moment to comprehend him, and then she realized what he meant. "No. My mind has not changed," she said.
He took her hand and pulled her into her bedroom, releasing her to lock the door behind them. Annabel's heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest. She stood uncertainly beside the narrow bed. He turned. She had left the light on in her room and now she saw his expression---it was fiercely intent.
"What should I do now?" she whispered, dazed.
His smile flashed and he walked to her, hooking his thumbs under the plain straps of her simple nightgown. "You do nothing but feel, Annabel. And you leave the rest to me."
She could not breathe, could not move. The way he spoke, the look in his eyes, the touch of his fingernails on her skin, was bathing her body in flames. And she knew exactly what it was that she wanted---this man, deep within her, in a carnal way.
"I am glad." He sat down beside her, taking her into his arms. "My name is St. Clare," he said softly.
Annabel heard, but could not respond, because his mouth was on hers again, and she was on her back, his huge, flagrant manhood pushing up between her thighs against her vulva. His mouth moved down her neck. She heard herself moaning, found herself arching for him, as wide open as she could make herself. Her body wanted him so badly that it hurt and she had never felt so impatient for anything before. He tugged one nipple into his mouth. Annabel caressed him wildly, urgently. "Hurry," she gasped.
"No," he whispered, nuzzling her other breast. "There are some things we do not rush, my dear, and making love is one of them." He was stroking her inner thighs with his long, lean fingers. Annabel thought she would die if he did not touch her most private parts.
"Annabel," he whispered, making her closing eyes fly open. "I want to savor you."
"You have a way with words," she panted. And then he slipped his hand over her, palming her intimately. Annabel cried out.
"God," he cried, no longer sounding either suave or composed.
"Please," Annabel wept, raking her nails down his back.
"Ow." It was a growl. He caught her face in his hands and kissed her hard. There was a brutal demand in his kiss and somehow Annabel understood it----and him--- completely. She wrapped her thighs around his waist, grasping his hips. And then he was pressing into her. . For one instant it was awkward and he paused, in the next instant he was there, hard and swift and sure, thrusting deeply into her, time and again, making Annabel cry out with desperation and weep with joy.
And then she knew it was happening. She tensed, clawing his shoulders. "Pierce!"
His gaze met hers as he came into her again, his face strained with lust. "Now?" he asked, a demand. Annabel's nod was brief, her explosion star-filled.
Annabel woke up thinking that Braxton remained in her arms, and she felt herself smiling. A bright morning light was pouring through the parted curtains. Its sunny brightness matched the joyous feeling bubbling up inside her. Annabel sighed, recalling his lovemaking, and then she realized that she was hugging a pillow, not Pierce. She sighed again, rolling over onto her back, looking at his side of the narrow bed. It was empty.
She stretched, smiling again. No wonder men and women chased one another like fools, she mused. Making love was indeed a wonderful experience, especially with a man like Braxton.
And they had made love. He had been tender, even in the roughest moments, and Annabel hugged herself recalling the way he had looked at her, kissed her, held her afterward. She was, for the very first time in her life, smitten with a man.
And it was deliriously wonderful. Annabel beamed at the ceiling. Braxton was wonderful, the rogue.
No, not Braxton, she corrected herself. His real name was St. Clare. Or at least that was what he claimed.
She sat up, not bothering to hold the covers over her naked breasts. The bed was so small that they had slept in one another's arms last night---when he had not been making love to her, that is. She grinned again, understanding now that particular feline expression cats wore after lapping up a bowlful of fresh cream. Did all men make love like that? He had touched her everywhere, and not just with his hands. Annabel did not think so, and she did not need to be experienced to arrive at such a conclusion. Braxton was a superior lover---just like he was a superior thief.
She sighed. Then, realizing how moonstruck she was acting, she jumped from the bed. Shamelessly naked, she went to the window and parted the curtains more fully. Her happiness dulled, her smile faded. What time was it? It had to be mid-morning. Annabel grew uneasy. Her bedroom looked out upon the backyard. She stared at the barn. The barn doors were wide open. No one was insight.
He must be downstairs, getting ready to leave. Why hadn't he woken her up?
Surely he did not intend to depart without her---not after last night!
Annabel rushed about the room, pulling on her drawers and chemise, forgoing both her corset and petticoats. As she dressed in one of Mary Anne's dark skirts and white shirtwaists, there was no avoiding her apprehension. She did not know what Braxton planned as far as the future went, but she knew she would go with him. She could not return home now.
Annabel picked up her shoes and stockings and dashed into the hall.
The house was silent. As if it were deserted, everyone already gone. That, of course, was impossible. Trying not to worry now, trying not to imagine the worst, Annabel pounded down the stairs and into the kitchen. The scent of fresh coffee permeated the room, and Annabel saw a plate of sugar buns on the table. A few small dishes were stacked up on the counter by the sink. They were dirty. Where was everyone?
Annabel walked to the back door and peered outside, but she could only see the side of. the barn. Her pulse was pounding now.
"Hello."
Annabel started as Mary Anne entered the room, looking very worn and very tired. "Good morning," she said brightly.
Mary Anne was holding that morning's World in her hand. Looking unhappy, she handed the newspaper to Annabel.
Annabel saw the headline and gasped, "Boothe heiress abducted---manhunt ensues."
"Oh, my God," she cried. And then, as she scanned the article, she felt her heart sinking like a stone. "Listen to this," she said, with anger. " 'Annabel Boothe is widely known to be an imprudent and impulsive character, given over to inclinations not suited to a gentlewoman.' And then this writer goes on to list some of my inclinations!"
"I read the article, my dear," Mary Anne said softly, not moving from the doorway where she stood.
"Well, at least they got some of it right." Annabel was dismayed. "But I never performed on the stage! Who told them this? Acting has never appealed to me!" Annabel looked at Mary Anne, aware of being exceedingly upset. Yet people had been talking about her for most of her life. Why did this nasty article dismay her so?
Mary Anne was silent.
Annabel also fell silent. She looked again at the dirty dishes by the sink, her heart lurching with dread. Then, with shaking hands, she scanned the newspaper column again. She froze. The writer went on to claim that dozens of witnesses had seen her willingly jump into the thief's motorcar. "Well." She forced a smile. "Once again it will be poor Annabel Boothe. Except this time I will not be around to hear the whispers and see the stares." Her gaze met Mary Anne's. "Will I?"
Mary Anne's gaze was pitying.
"Why are you looking at me that way? And where is Pierce? I mean Braxton?"
"St. Clare left."
Annabel knew she had not heard Mary Anne correctly. "What did you say?"
"Pierce left. He left at dawn with Louie."
Annabel stared at Mary Anne. The other woman's image became blurry. There was a roaring in her ears, a tingling in her limbs. The light in the room dimmed, becoming gloomy. "No," Annabel whispered, stricken.
Pierce could not have left her behind.
It was an impossibility.
Mary Anne was lying.
"My dear!" Mary Anne cried in alarm, rushing forward and gripping her arm. "You are turning a ghastly shade of green! Are you about to be sick?"
"He did not leave." Annabel looked at the other woman, about to be violently ill. She fought to contain her roiling stomach.
"I am so sorry. He has become a cad, Annabel, a horrid cad, and I will never forgive him for what he has done to you!" Mary Anne tried to put her arm around her, but Annabel pushed her away, swallowing bile.
"He made love to me," she said, bewildered. And images of the night before filled her mind.
"Pm so sorry," Mary Anne whispered, tears forming in her eyes. "Pierce is not this way. I do not understand any of this."
The memories continued to flood her mind, memories of his touch, his kiss, his smile, the look of love in his eyes. All lies.
"Oh, God," she cried, and then she was running to the back door, throwing it open, and flinging herself onto her knees on the stoop, where she retched convulsively again and again.
And when the heaves ended, she found herself gripping the stoop, panting, tears beginning, splinters becoming embedded in her fingers. But that pain was nothing at all compared to the pain of his betrayal.
He had used her. He had left her. Last night had been nothing but a lie.
Annabel thought she might die.
Two years later, Bar Harbor, Maine
There was a mist in the air, and Annabel was quite certain it would rain.
She carried her shoes and stockings in her hand as she picked her way across the short stretch of beach which was behind the Acadia, the very fashionable resort where she had just arrived yesterday evening. The small inlet was very popular with the hotel's guests, Annabel had been told, but the rules were very strict. Male bathers were allowed until two in the afternoon, female bathers after that. It was not quite one p.m.
But there was no one about today because of the weather. Annabel paused at the head of the narrow path that would take her back to the hotel, glancing around and sniffing the fresh, slightly tangy air appreciatively. The small section of beach was a part of one of the island's many inlets, and everywhere Annabel gazed she saw soaring cliffs and pine forests. Not far inland, she could make out one of the island's tallest mountains. A pair of eagles were soaring overhead.
And for one moment she forgot the past and she smiled, watching the spectacular birds. Then her smile faded and she started up the sandy path that led to the sweeping lawns behind the hotel, her muslin skirts whipping around her. She was questioning her judgment in accepting Lizzie's invitation to join her sisters and their husbands for the month of August. Supper last night had been a disastrous affair.
She should have gone to Europe, alone.
Where no one knew her, by damn.
A drop of water landed on her forehead, another on her nose. Annabel increased her pace. The large, whitewashed hotel with its long verandah and green shutters was ahead. Annabel saw a few couples leaving the verandah as the temperature dropped and the wind picked up. Then she saw a woman in a bright yellow dress waving madly at her.
Annabel smiled because she recognized Lizzie, who was as big as a cow. Her second child was due in two more months. "Hi," she said, arriving on the back porch beside her sister.
"Isn't the beach beautiful?" Lizzie said, but she looked worried, despite her smile.
"Yes, it is," Annabel said, sitting down on a wicker chair to don her stockings and shoes. She had tar and dirt on her feet.
"Well, there you are, we are waiting for you," said a disapproving voice behind them.
Annabel looked up to find Melissa standing in the doorway, her hands on her slim hips. "You didn't have to wait for me," Annabel replied.
"Annabel, you are not allowed down at the beach until after two o'clock!" '
Annabel stood up. "For God's sake, Missy, calm yourself. It's about to pour! No one was there."
"You will never find a husband if you continue to break all of the rules," Melissa retorted. "Sometimes I wonder just what goes on inside your head." ,
"I don't want a husband," Annabel said as sharply, pushing past her to walk inside. A huge green and gold carpet covered the library floor. The room was empty, for it was dinnertime.
"Please don't fight," Lizzie cried, following them as they left the library and entered the dining room. "But Annabel, maybe you should obey the hotel's rules. They are very explicit."
"Everyone thinks you are fast, Annabel," Melissa said.
Annabel paused and turned sharply, so that she was nose to nose with her lovely sister. She smiled sweetly. "I know. And I don't care. Besides, it's the truth, isn't it?" She stared, knowing she was being belligerent, but unable to stop.
Lizzie grabbed Annabel's arm. "Ssh! Everyone is staring. Please, do not argue now." And she gave Melissa a stern look. "And please do not use that horrid word again in conjunction with our sister."
"You are always on her side," Melissa huffed, and she went to their table, sitting down beside John, who had jumped to his feet.
Annabel and Lizzie exchanged glances. "Do forgive her terrible mood," Lizzie finally said. "You know how upset she is right now."
"I am trying to be compassionate, but she makes it so very difficult," Annabel said. "The fact that she cannot conceive is not my fault---yet she is taking it out on me."
Lizzie nodded unhappily and took her hand. "Just ignore her," she whispered as they approached their table.
Adam was standing, waiting for them, and he smiled at both Lizzie and Annabel, holding out their chairs for them. "Isn't this place spectacular?" he asked Annabel. "Have you ever seen such views?"
Before she could respond and agree with him, at least about the countryside, Annabel realized that two couples at the very next table were openly staring at her. They had been as rude last night at supper. The women were about her own age, but they sported huge diamond rings on their left hands and had several young children with their nursemaids at an adjoining table. They were talking in hushed tones, but Annabel knew what they were saying. She could hear them. She was quite certain the ladies wished for it to be that way.
"It is absolutely true. Marion knows someone who was a guest at her wedding. She ran away with a burglar two years ago. That is her. Can you imagine? Leaving the poor groom at the altar like that? Talbot, has, of course, long since married. He would have none of her when she returned. How can she show herself in polite society?"
"What nerve," her friend agreed.
Annabel twisted in her seat and leveled a cold stare at the women. "It is actually quite easy to partake of polite society," she said. "It hardly requires nerve. One makes a few reservations, gets on a train, and voila, one arrives. But I would question whether this is polite society, actually." And she gave the flushing women her back. Annabel stared at her place setting. Her pulse continued to race.
As soup was served all around, Lizzie placed a hand on hers. "Don't let one rat get your spirits down. This is a wonderful hotel. Most of the guests are so very nice."
To you, perhaps, Annabel thought. "There is always a rat or two, everywhere I go, and I am thoroughly tired of it," she said. She was more than tired of hearing about how fast and willful she was, or that other popular refrain: poor, unfortunate, oh-so-wild Annabel Boothe. Other than the fact that she had been served up a very large dose of a broken heart by her own reckless nature, why, there was nothing unfortunate about her.
She did, after all, have her freedom. Which was all that she had ever wanted anyway. It was women like the two behind her who deserved pity, not herself.
Melissa leaned forward. "If you led an exemplary life, perhaps everyone would forget the past, Annabel. You choose to defy every norm there is---and then you expect people to like and accept you? How can anyone forget, for goodness' sake, when you refuse to let anyone forget!"
Annabel stared at her sister. Was Melissa right? If one entertained Missy's perspective, then she certainly was correct, but Annabel knew that she could not live the way her sisters did, or the way that most of society did. Was something wrong with her? Why was her nature so inquisitive, so reckless? "I do not want to discuss this," she said, lifting her soup spoon. The split pea soup was far too hot and she set it down abruptly.
Curiosity killed the cat.
Annabel inhaled, stabbed by words spoken by someone she did not wish to identify, not even in her mind. She had no wish to remember either his words or him.
"Our soups are getting cold," Adam said firmly, also taking up his spoon.
For a moment they sipped in silence. Annabel stared at her pea soup, having lost her appetite. In Europe no one seemed to find her behavior so odd that it was worthy of censure. But in Europe, she did not frequent society. Annabel had spent the holidays in Paris, where she had run into an acquaintance from the art class she had taken several years ago. Melissa would die if she knew that Annabel had kept such late hours that she had not arisen until the late afternoon, that she had passed the evenings at the theater and afterward in bistros and cabarets, drinking red wine and brandy and smoking cigarettes and cigars.
He had not disapproved of her. In spite of what she had done.
Braxton was haunting her again.
Annabel stared at her soup. It had been two years since the fateful day of her almost-wedding. He still, from time to time, appeared in her mind, haunting her oddly with bits and pieces of the brief time they had shared. Her heart was no longer broken, so she could not understand why this ghost of a memory would not go away and leave her in peace. What was even stranger was the fact that his expression in her mind's eye was always the same. It was filled with regret.
Which was romantic nonsense. The man was a thief and a charlatan, and while Annabel now felt that she was as much to blame as he was for what had happened---she had, after all, seduced him---she would never forgive him for leaving without a word the next day, or worse, for pretending to love her that night.
But he had not disapproved of her then, and he would not disapprove of her now. Annabel had not a doubt.
She reminded herself that as he was a professional thief, he was hardly a suitable judge of anyone's character.
An unladylike elbow jammed in her side. "Annabel! It is that gent from last night, the one who invited you to play tennis today!" Lizzie was full of excitement. Her pretty cheeks were flushed pink.
Annabel looked up, saw a young, handsome fellow approaching their table, and felt her own cheeks go hot while her eyes widened in surprise. She watched James Appleton Beard as he wound his way through the dining room. Last night he had singled her out after supper, and after a brief chat, they had agreed to a tennis match the following afternoon. It had been ages since a real gentleman had shown any interest in her---it had been exactly two years, in fact.
James paused at their table, bowing. His cheeks were flushed. Helios were passed round. Annabel regarded him but remained silent. And gazing at him, seeing his discomfort, she knew.
Her heart sank. She should have expected this, fool that she was.
"Miss Boothe." His smile was brief, strained. "I am afraid the weather will prevent us from our match today." He avoided her eyes.
Annabel thought dully, he knows about Braxton. "Yes, the grass will be far too wet to play."
A silence fell.
"There is always tomorrow," Adam said. Annabel knew that he meant to be helpful. But the effect was the opposite.
"Actually," James said, growing more flushed still, "I have twisted my ankle this morning. Perhaps at the end of the week." He bowed and quickly turned, leaving their table.
Annabel knew her cheeks remained red. She picked up her spoon, resisting the sudden surge of anger that made her want to flip soup all over the table. She was fast. Unacceptable, an outcast. But this was what she had wanted, in order to be free. She had no right to feel sorry for herself, and by damn, she was not ashamed. Yet she had never known that such ostracism would be so painful.
An intense silence had fallen.
"He has probably heard that you are an outstanding tennis player. The poor fellow undoubtedly knew he would not stand a chance," Adam said kindly.
Annabel felt hot tears filling her eyes. She knew that she must not let anyone see that the stupid clod had hurt her feelings. Or had he? She was thinking about the damn thief again.
"Everyone knows that you are unbeatable at tennis," Lizzie said emphatically, agreeing.
"Well," Melissa began. "If Annabel ever wants to catch a husband she should lose at tennis a few times or so."
Annabel had composed herself and she looked up. "I will do no such thing." She locked gazes with Melissa.
"You are a fool, Annabel. No man wants to be with a woman who is stronger, smarter, and a better tennis player than he!" She turned to John. "Am I right, dear?"
"You are very right," John said, nodding.
Annabel had had enough. She was not hungry and she set her soup spoon down. "We all know that tennis is not, and has never been, the issue."
"Yes, let's do change this boring subject," Lizzie said quickly, her tone high. "Have you all heard that the Countess Rossini is arriving today? She is one of the wealthiest women in Europe!"
"I should hope so," Melissa replied, reaching for the bread. "She was seventeen when she married the count--- and he was sixty-five. Everyone knows she married him for his money. Her family was quite impoverished. But no one expected him to live another fifteen years!"
"She is a widow, newly so," Lizzie said to Adam and Annabel.
Annabel had no interest in the countess or her money. She stood. "I am sorry. But I have a terrible migraine and I have lost my appetite. Please excuse me. I will see you all for supper." She pushed back her chair and swiftly left the table, aware of dozens of pairs of eyes in the hotel dining room following her as she crossed the room, which had suddenly become far too spacious. A gentleman was entering it as she was departing. They collided head-on.
"I am sorry!" They both cried at the same time, extricating themselves from one another.
"Miss Boothe!" The fellow was tall and a bit stocky, gray-haired with a darker mustache, about her father's age. He now smiled at her. "Have I hurt you?"
They had been briefly introduced the previous evening after supper. Annabel scrambled to recall his name. "Mr. Frank, no, you have not."
"You have finished dinner already?" he cried in disappointment, his smile fading.
"I am afraid so," Annabel said, preparing to walk around him. "If you will excuse me?"
"Miss Boothe." He detained her by his tone of voice. Then he swallowed. He was beginning to flush. "I would like to say that I so enjoyed making your acquaintance last evening, and I had hoped, the weather permitting, of course, that you might join me for a stroll along the beach later, or perhaps in town, if that is your preference." He smiled at her.
Annabel stared in dismay. Thomas Frank was interested in her? She recalled now that he was a widower. "I am not feeling well," she said quickly. "But thank you." And she lifted her pale, striped skirts and hurried from the room.
Relief filled her once she was in the large lobby. There the floors were dark oak and strewn with Persian rugs, the walls were paneled and covered with works of art, and three large crystal chandeliers were hanging from the high ceiling. Soft sofas and chairs in brocades and damask with occasional tables made the room very inviting, and it was usually filled with hotel guests, engaged in quiet conversation or sitting alone and reading. Through the tall windows, Annabel saw that it had indeed begun to pour, and in the drive outside, she saw a large, gilded carriage arriving. There were two liveried footmen standing in back, and watching the conveyance, drawn by four blacks, halt in the downpour, she felt sorry for the servants.
Annabel sighed. She had no headache, and hardly felt like locking herself up in her room. She plopped down on one red damask sofa, picking up yesterday's copy of The Sun, a New York daily which had been left lying about and which the hotel provided for its guests. She had barely scanned the headlines on the first page when she heard voices on the threshold of the lobby, behind her. A woman was talking, her Italian accent very pronounced. "How good of you to accommodate me and my staff with such short notice," she was saying. "I can hardly believe we have made it in this weather. I feel like a drowned eat." She laughed, the sound husky and pleasant.
"Contessa, I am so sorry that you had to endure such weather today, but please, let me assure you, anything you desire, it shall be yours."
Annabel openly regarded the woman as she entered the lobby with the hotel manager, whom Annabel recognized. She was a small woman fabulously dressed in gold velvet, but when she turned, Annabel saw that she was a gorgeous redhead with a perfect porcelain complexion. So this, she thought, was the infamous countess Lizzie had referred to earlier.
"You are too kind to me, darling," the countess purred. The manager bowed over her hand and kissed it before the countess could even remove her gloves.
And then he barked out orders. Annabel watched with some amusement and some fascination as trunk after huge trunk was carried by both the countess's staff and the hotel's through the lobby and into the elevators.
"My dear Contessa, you need not linger in the lobby. I have sent champagne and caviar to your suite, should you wish a bit of refreshment, and of course, we will keep the dining room open for you."
"You are too kind," she cried and, gold skirts swirling about her, she disappeared into one of the lobby elevators, followed by several ladies who were undoubtedly her maids.
Annabel watched the brass elevator door closing. Briefly, her gaze met the countess's just before the door closed.
She looked up at the dial above the elevator. The hotel had eight floors. The big arrow went from one to eight. But of course the countess would have a suite on the top floor.
Annabel was laughing softly to herself, unable not to be amused by the entire display, when she heard footsteps from behind her in the entryway, followed by the doorman's "G'day, sir." The lobby had settled down now that Guilia Rossini had gone to her rooms and was once again filled with quiet. Annabel reached for The Sun.
"I believe you have a room for me," a male voice said, the accent perfect, patrician, and British.
Annabel's head whipped up and she felt as if someone had punched her so hard that the air had been knocked from her lungs. No! This could not be---she was making a mistake.
Annabel could not move. She stared.
"The name is Wainscot," he said in that unforgettable voice of his.
Annabel slowly came to her feet. His back was to her. He was tall, slim, dark-haired. And she was not deluded. She did not have to see his face in order to recognize him. Even from behind, this way, she would recognize him anywhere.
Oh, dear God.
He bent over a register now, signing it. Annabel became aware of the alarming rate at which her heart raced, and the deafening roar in her ears. She felt faint.
He straightened, pushing the register at the clerk, turning slightly, so that Annabel could see both his profile and his hands. He was smiling. And she would never forget his hands.
Those incredible, capable hands.
"Mr. Wainscot." The hotel manager had appeared and was introducing himself and wishing Braxton an enjoyable stay. Annabel really did not hear. It was him. Braxton. The man who had taken her heart---and then thrown it back at her.
Annabel stared, not hearing his reply. Aware now of a huge and terrible anger---and also aware of the hurt. Incredibly, it had never fully gone away.
Suddenly his shoulders stiffened. Annabel knew, in that instant, that he had become aware of watched.
Braxton turned. He saw her instantly, and their locked.
Chapter Six
He seemed to recognize her instantly. Braxton appeared to be even more severely shocked than she. His blue eyes were wide and his visage was white. Annabel remained frozen, in disbelief.
His mouth opened and closed. As if he wanted to say something, but abruptly changed his mind.
Annabel realized that she was shaking. Like a veritable leaf. He was here. How could this be? And why was she reacting like this, as if he were still important to her? What had happened had been so long ago---and she had long since recovered. She should not care that they were face-to-face!
"Your keys, Mr. Wainscot. Your rooms are on the third floor. But let me remind you that dinner is now being served, and the dining room is closed from four o'clock until seven in the evening, when it reopens for suppertime."
Braxton came to life, smiling and facing the manager. "Thank you, my good man." He handed him a coin. "My valet will need some help with my luggage."
"Certainly." The gent bowed and strode briskly back to his office, around the corner of the front desk.
Which left Annabel and Braxton quite aione in the lobby, except for the clerks.
He turned toward her, his regard level and steady, his gaze impossible to read.
Annabel clenched her fists. The urge to strike him was overwhelming. Instead, she remained immobilized. All her instincts screamed at her not to make a scene---that to do so would be a dire mistake.
He moved first---toward her---his strides long and sharp. And he dared to bow. "I do believe we are acquainted, Miss, uh, Miss Boothe, is it not?" His blue eyes held hers.
Acquainted. Annabel was as sick as she was furious. "Are we acquainted?" Even to her own ears, her tone dripped sugary sarcasm. "Oh, yes," she said in a rush. "We met, oh, when was it? It is so hard for me to recall!"
His smile flashed, but it was twisted. Very quietly, he said, "I believe we met at a reception in New York City in honor of the mayor."
She was so very ill. "Oh? Then your memory apparently serves you far better than mine does me!" Tears were interfering with her vision. Damn it. Damn him.
"Miss Boothe." His tone was gentle. "In case you have forgotten, the name is Wainscot. Bruce Wainscot."
Forgotten---in case she had forgotten! "I have forgotten nothing," she cried harshly. "But I thought the name was Braxton!"
He stared, unmoving, mouth grim.
And Annabel, afraid she was about to burst into tears, turned and ran---crashing directly into her sister.
"Annabel! Are you ill? What is wrong?" Lizzie cried, steadying her with a firm grip on her shoulders.
Annabel looked blankly at her youngest sister, hardly assimilating her words. Braxton was here, in the hotel, by God. How could this be?
"I am so worried about you," Lizzie was saying, her brow furrowed in that familiar way she had.
Annabel could not help herself. She turned, but Braxton was gone. He had vanished as effectively as any ghost. Of course, he was no spirit from another world, oh no. "I do have a horrible migraine," Annabel managed, and it was the truth.
And suddenly an image Annabel would never forget raced through her mind: numerous wedding guests, her father, Harold Talbot, and her sisters and their husbands all crowding outside the front door of their New York City home as she looked up from the lawn, on her hands and knees, making the most fateful decision of her life.
Had Lizzie seen Braxton? Had Lizzie recognized him? \*
"You never get headaches," Lizzie said, taking her arm. But her gaze lifted to the sweeping staircase. Following her regard, Annabel saw Braxton from behind as he disappeared on the next landing.
Annabel threw her arm around Lizzie and whirled her away from the stairs, her heart lurching. "I am going up to my room to lie down," she said. To lie down, and to think.
"Your room is the other way," Lizzie pointed out. "Annabel, you are acting so very strangely!"
Lizzie had not recognized Braxton or she would have immediately commented upon it. She had only glimpsed him for a moment, and that from behind. Annabel realized the source of her panic, and could hardly believe herself. She was insane to care if Braxton was recognized and carted off to jail like the very thief that he was.
Annabel studied Lizzie. Even if Lizzie did encounter him directly, she might not recognize him. But there was no way of knowing, not until such an encounter actually took place. And Annabel shuddered at the thought.
And there was also Melissa and her husband and Adam to consider. Missy was very sharp, unlike her dim-witted husband, and Adam was also clever. Annabel was dismayed. Someone would recognize him, the odds told her that.
And she should be glad. She should even identify him herself. She could be the one to send him to prison. It would be her vengeance and his due. But instead, she was worried over his being discovered. It was preposterous.
"Annabel? You are miles away. Whatever is wrong?" Lizzie tugged on her hand, her dark eyes filled with worry.
"I am going upstairs to my room," Annabel said, forcing a smile. "I will be fine. I will see you all before supper." But she did not think she would be fine for a very long time---and certainly not for as long as Braxton remained on the same premises as she.
Lizzie nodded uncertainly. Then, before Annabel could leave, she plucked her sleeve. "Dear, I am so sorry about that boorish James Appleton Beard. He is hardly good enough for you anyway."
"I had forgotten all about him, to tell you the truth," Annabel said honestly, for her thoughts were consumed with Braxton now.
"I do think Mr. Frank is very set on you." Lizzie's tone was hopeful. "He seems so kind, Annabel."
Annabel blinked, finally focusing completely on her sister. "Liz, he is old, and kind or not, he is a bore."
Lizzie's face crumpled and she bit her lip. "You just won't give anyone a chance," she cried. "Sometimes I think you are pining for that thief---and waiting for him to reappear in our lives!"
Annabel could not believe her ears---or the utter irony of what Lizzie had just said. "I must go," she cried, kissing her sister's cheek. She paused. "And you are wrong, Lizzie, so very wrong. That is ancient history. Truly."
Lizzie regarded her sadly.
Annabel gripped her striped skirts and rushed up the stairs, her gait hardly ladylike or genteel. Lizzie was wrong. She did not continue to harbor misplaced affections for a man who had abandoned her two long years ago. On the other hand, she wasn't quite sure she wished
to condemn him to a life of imprisonment, either---and something was surely wrong with her for not wanting to see him in jail. Annabel glanced down the hall on the second landing. If she were honest with herself, she would admit that she expected to see Braxton lurking about, lying in wait for her, eager to speak with her.
But the long, plushly carpeted hall was vacant, except for one uniformed housemaid with a cart of cleaning tools.
Annabel's room was on the fourth floor---the hotel had eight stories in all. She quickly let herself in and found herself locking the door. Then she unlaced and kicked off her kid shoes and flopped on her back on the bed.
Tears shamelessly filled her eyes.
Oh, God. Annabel flung one arm over her brow. It was impossible to believe that she still felt such anguish over that man and what he had done to her. She had been the one to seduce him. But never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that lovemaking could be the way it had been, or that afterward, he would abandon her, without even a good-bye.
Annabel wiped the tears from her eyes. Maybe Lizzie was right. There was a stubborn part of her heart that just refused to give up her love for Pierce St. Clare, aka Pierce Braxton. But how could that be? And how could she have fallen in love with an absolute stranger in less than twenty-four hours?
Poor, poor Annabel Boothe. With her wild, reckless ways.
Annabel wanted to clap her hands over her ears to drive away that too familiar refrain, but it was just like her suddenly to go off half-cocked, whether her passions were stimulated by a voyage to India or a con artist and a thief.
There was a knocking at her door.
Annabel sat up, her heart lurching with dread. Of course it was not Braxton. Undoubtedly it was Lizzie, bringing her a dinner tray, or Missy, come to scold her. Or it might even be a hotel maid. Annabel stood up slowly, wetting her lips. Her pulse pounded. She turned to glance at her reflection in the mirror over the Chippendale dresser.
Her pale hair was spilling out of its chignon, her high-necked gown was wrinkled, and her face was very pale. In contrast, her eyes were so blue that they almost seemed black. Annabel walked to the door in her bare feet, unlocked it, and swung it open.
Braxton stared at her.
She had known it would be him. For one moment Annabel looked into his eyes, and then she hit him with all her might. The slap sounded loudly in the room and the hall outside her door.
Immediately Braxton stepped into her room, closing the door behind him. In the blink of an eye, he had locked it and pocketed the brass key. "Now that we have gotten that out of the way, hello, Annabel," he said.
She was trembling, with rage, she supposed. "Get out. Before I am ruined twice."
He continued to regard her very intently, but his eyes gave no clue as to his thoughts or feelings, and it was not at all like her dreams---she saw no sign of regret upon his features. "You have not changed," he said after a long moment.
"Have you?" she asked caustically.
"You are angry." He did not move. He stood against the door, inches away from her. "You wanted to be ruined, Annabel, or have you conveniently forgotten that?"
"I have not forgotten anything," Annabel flashed, clenching her fists. She had the wild, nearly uncontrollable urge to hit him again. While a crystal-clear memory of their lovemaking swept through her mind.
"Then why are you so angry? Because I left without a good-bye?" He studied her.
How to answer? Two long, painful years had gone by, and maybe Lizzie was right, maybe she had been pining for him, and God only knew how many more years might pass after this single encounter. Annabel said, "When a man makes love to a woman, at least a good-bye is in order."
"I am sorry," he said. "But a good-bye was not wise. For many reasons."
She folded her arms tightly across her breasts. "But then, you did not make love to me, did you, Braxton? Naive idiot that I am, virgin that I was, I mistook your passion for some amount of feeling, of caring. So a good-bye was not in order, now was it?" Her eyes felt hot. She would kill herself if she cried now, in front of him.
He tossed the key onto her bed and walked past her to the window. Appropriately, her view was of the back lawns and the Acadia's three tennis courts. Beyond that, one could see the other side of the inlet, a peninsula of black rock and green pines sticking out into the Atlantic Ocean. "I am sorry." He did not face her. "I never meant to hurt you. I did what I thought was best."
"I do not believe you. I do not think you are a repentant man. Not in any circumstance," Annabel flared. "And you did what was best for you."
He turned slowly and their gazes locked. Annabel almost fell over because she saw regret now, and it was vast---and identical to the expression he had worn in all of her fantasies. "It was not easy for me," he said quietly. "You see, you were not as naive as you think you were. I was very fond of you, Annabel. And I am a good judge of human nature. I had already summed you up--- and knew you would impulsively seek to join me in my adventures. I did what was best for us both, Annabel."
"Don't you dare claim that you know me," she retorted, but she was shaken anew. He was right---she would have insisted upon accompanying him instead of returning home. But more importantly, had he meant what he had just said? Had he been fond of her then? She had no intention of ever trusting him again. If he had cared at all for her, how could he have abandoned her the way he had? And what about now---what about the present?
Annabel wet her lips. "How arrogant, how presumptuous, to make my choice for me."
"You are not the first to accuse me of arrogance," he said with a wry smile.
Annabel trembled. It did not seem like two years since she had last been with him, damn it. It seemed more like two days or two weeks. She did not want him standing there in her room, just a few feet away from her, with that smile and those eyes and his damn charisma. "I make my own decisions," she said. #
"Few women, especially unwed ones, make their own decisions," he returned evenly. His gaze had slipped to her left hand, which was bare of rings. "Is your father here?" he asked abruptly.
Her cheeks felt hot. Foolishly, Annabel hid her hand in her skirts. "So that is why you have come," she said, unable to disguise her bitterness. "No."
His jaw flexed as he stepped forward. "I do not wish to go to jail," he said. "And that is only one reason I have come."
She was aware of him coming even closer. Annabel hoped he would not see how she was trembling. She tilted up her chin. "You want to know if your secret is safe with me."
He smiled. Annabel could hardly stand it. She backed away from him until her shoulders hit the door. "Actually, I already know that my secret is safe with you," he murmured.
"Even I know no such thing," she huffed.
"If you were going to finger me, my dear, you would have done so forty-five minutes ago." He continued to smile. But his gaze had dropped to her mouth.
"I hate you," she heard herself hiss. But she was thinking about his kisses. She had stopped remembering them long ago. She did not want to remember them now---or to despair because she would never be in his arms again.
"I don't blame you. I should have refused what you offered. I did try. But I admit, I did not try very much, Annabel. I do not think you have any idea of how unusual a woman you are. Few men could be strong enough to resist you if you set your cap for them."
He was thoroughly wrong, no man wanted her, but his words affected her so much that she pounced on the bed, grabbed the key, rushed to the door and began to unlock it. "I want you to leave. Now." He had been sincere and she was certain of it.
His hand caught hers, covering it, stopping her from opening the door. And their gazes connected wildly once again. "You haven't changed, and I am glad," he said, smiling slightly. "You are still bold and courageous, and more beautiful than ever." His smile was gone. "I would hate to see you subdued by society and men like your father."
His words thrilled her, but she did not want to be thrilled, and they also frightened her. She said, "No one, not ever! you, could ever subdue me, Braxton."
He was silent. A tension fell that was thick and heavy, and with it an absolute silence, in which only their breathing could be heard. "Is that a challenge, my dear?" he finally asked.
Annabel stopped breathing. Her heart drummed against her chest. "No."
He laughed. The sound was as rich as his voice, as tempting, as infuriating. "I think that was a struggle, Annabel."
"I hate you," she cried, slamming her fist into his chest. "Now get out---and don't you dare come near me again!"
His laughter died. He caught her right wrist immediately, the action reflexive. And suddenly Annabel fell fully against him---and she was practically in his arms.
She became acutely aware of her hand in his, his fingers on her wrist, and his long, hard body pressing up against hers. She looked up. He had also became motionless. Their gazes locked.
Annabel knew he was going to kiss her. She forgot the past. Expectation---anticipation---engulfed her.
"I knew," he said suddenly, his tone low, his words slow, "that if I said good-bye, you would convince me to take you with me. That I would not be strong enough to resist you."
Annabel felt her gaze widen.
He still held her hand. But now he was clasping it. "I did not want to be responsible for ruining your life. You deserve far more than a life on the lam. You had your entire life in front of you, with so many possibilities. I did not want to take any of those opportunities away."
Annabel was stunned.
His reached up and touched her cheek with two fingers, a brief caress that sent shivers coursing over every inch of Annabel's body, followed by an intense longing--- a yearning that had never completely died. "I honestly did not think I would ever see you again," he said, and his expression was twisted and odd. "I think I had better go."
Annabel was stunned by the entire encounter, but one coherent thought was clear in her mind----she did not want him to go, not so soon, not yet. It had been so long since they had been together, even just to converse with one another.
But she had pride, and never had she been more confused in her entire life. She watched him crack open the door. "The hall is clear," he said, pausing---as if he did
not want to leave quite yet, either. His regard was so direct it was unsettling.
She found her sanity and her voice. "Then go." She swallowed. "Pierce. My sisters and brothers-in-law are here, as well."
He stared. And smiled, with his eyes. "Thank you for the warning," he said.
Annabel could not find an appropriate response.
His gaze held hers for another moment before he slipped from the room.
She stood in the doorway, staring after him, long after he had disappeared. Tears were falling from her eyes.
Pierce regarded the rain.
The downpour continued, unabated. It was accompanied by a heavy fog, making it almost impossible to see more than a dozen feet in any direction. Pierce did not see, not the rain, not the blanket of mist, nor the few evergreens poking through pockets of it. He only saw Annabel, barefoot and disheveled, and in spite of her courage, obviously so damn vulnerable.
How perverse life was.
He had not lied when he had told her that he had not thought to ever see her again. He was dismayed. He had not wished for their paths to ever cross again. Yet he was also elated, peculiarly so, and there was no denying it.'" .
His pulse continued to pound.
He sighed, turning away from the window, clad only in his shirt and trousers, his sleeves rolled casually up. His single leather trunk, large enough to contain an average-sized man, lay on the floor. His single valise lay on the bed. His jaw set, he went to the black trunk and began removing his clothing from it. He had a job to do.
Which was why he could not leave. And it had nothing to do with Annabel Boothe, but everything to do with the Countess Rossini.
Annabel entered the salon where the guests mingled before supper. It was a large room with gleaming oak floors and Persian rugs, and two brass gaslight chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, which was painted moss green. The walls were papered in a tree-of-life print, and most of the furnishings were yellow or green. Her heart was racing far too wildly to be ignored. Annabel paused on the threshold, glancing around. Numerous guests were present, including her sisters and their husbands, the women in lavish evening gowns, the men in black dinner jackets. But Braxton had not come. She had known he would not, anyway, for it was far too dangerous. But her heart sank like a stone, filled with undeniable dismay.
Annabel realized she had been trembling, and she grimaced. Worse, she had dressed with great care for supper, in a splendid gown of creamy beige lace that was very bare, showing off most of her bosom and all of her shoulders. She wore a velvet choker around her neck, and hanging from it was one large and perfect South Sea pearl. Never one to care particularly about her appearance, tonight she had wanted to be beautiful, and in this gown and necklace, neither of which she ever wore, with her cheeks flushed with excitement, her blue eyes brilliant, her hair upswept, she had known that was the case. How foolishly disappointed she now was that he was not present to notice and admire her.
She saw several men staring, including James Appleton Beard and the elderly Mr. Frank. Annabel sighed, moving toward her family without looking at anyone else. As she passed a group of guests, she heard someone say, "Can you believe that is her?" in shock and incredulity, as if such elegance and beauty were an impossibility for herself.
"Annabel!" Lizzie cried, beaming. "I have never seen that gown before! How wonderful you look!" Lizzie was holding the hand of her two-year-old soil, Evan.
"That is because I have never worn it." Annabel bent to tousle Evan's dark hair and kiss his plump cheek. "Hi, sweetie. How was your supper?"
He stuck his thumb in his mouth and smiled at her. "Goo'," he said.
His nanny stepped forward. "We were waiting for you, Miss Boothe. It is time for Master Evan to say good-night."
Annabel bent and hugged him, holding him against her chest for a moment. "Sweet, sweet dreams, Evan. I will play with you in the morning, I promise." She smiled at him.
"Play ten?" he asked, taking his nursemaid's hand.
"Yes, we shall play tennis, weather permitting." Annabel grinned.
Evan was led away. For one moment Annabel watched him, not hearing Melissa making a comment on how odd it was to teach a two-year old to play tennis before he could even spell his ABC's. And then she froze. Standing not far from the doorway, watching her intently, was none other than Pierce St. Clare.
Annabel could feel all the coloring draining from her face. Her heart, which felt as if it had halted, now resumed beating, but violently. She had never dreamed he would dare to show himself. Even if he was in disguise--- somewhat.
He smiled slightly at her and inclined his head. Annabel turned abruptly away. Was he insane? He had added thick streaks of white to his hair, changing it from a lustrous blue-black to an iron gray. He had done something to his mouth, she was not sure what, but the bottom lip was fuller and protruding. His nose too had changed, it was larger and crooked. But as far as Annabel was concerned, he was quite remarkable, and anyone who knew him would recognize him instantly.
"So where did you get that dress, Annabel?" Melissa said petulantly.
Annabel blinked, only hearing her sister when she had repeated herself. "It was a part of my trousseau. You can have it if you wish."
"Really?" Missy brightened. "I would certainly wear it, again and again."
"Do not give that dress away!" Lizzie said, glaring at Melissa. Then, "Annabel, what is wrong?"
Annabel realized she was twisting her neck to get another glimpse of Braxton, damn his hide. But when she saw that her entire family was also turning to gaze in his direction, she abruptly looked away, filled with fright. She stared at Lizzie, her mind going blank, unable to respond. Had they seen him?
Had anyone recognized him?
"You look as if you have seen a ghost," Adam said, his tone kind. "Are you all right, Annabel?" .
"I am fine. I, er, did think I saw someone I knew, but I was quite mistaken." She flashed a smile, certain the world could see how contrived it was.
Lizzie was regarding her, her scrutiny unnerving. There were few secrets Annabel could keep from her youngest sister. Then she glanced one more time in Braxton's direction. Annabel dared not turn. Finally Lizzie smiled and stepped closer to her. "Thomas Frank is staring at you, Annabel. He is going to come over here at any moment. And so is James Appleton Beard!" There was glee in her tone.
Annabel darted a glance over her shoulder, and saw Braxton in a group of men, chatting in a congenial manner. But the moment she turned, his glance found hers, and briefly they made eye contact.
Annabel put her back to him, extremely flustered. And Lizzie was right. Mr. Frank was approaching, smiling at her.
She stiffened, dismayed. She had no wish for Braxton to see her courted by an old man---as if she were an old maid herself. And then her gaze fell upon James. The moment their eyes connected, he smiled at her, blushing, and he bowed.
Annabel was not the least bit interested in him anymore, but she gave him her most encouraging smile and a graceful curtsy. An instant later he had entered their group, cutting off the advent of Thomas Frank. "Good evening," James said to one and all.
"Evening, Beard," Adam said, not smiling.
Lizzie nodded coolly. Neither one had forgiven him for the way he had treated Annabel earlier that day at lunch.
But Annabel smiled at him. "Good evening, James. How is your ankle faring?"
His cheeks remained red but he faced her with wide eyes. "Thank you, Miss Boothe, for your concern. Actually, I seem to be making a miraculous recovery."
"How wonderful," Annabel lied.
"Perhaps I will even be able to play a little tennis when the weather clears," he said, the hint clear.
"Well, I do hope that is the case," Annabel said, and she grinned at him, hoping her manner was alluring and filled with guile. She could not help herself, and had to glance over her shoulder at Braxton. Although he remained among the group of gentlemen, he was staring openly at her, watching her dalliance with the attractive and very eligible James Beard.
And how wonderful it felt! Annabel beamed at James and laid her hand on his forearm. "If you recover, I shall be more than glad to test your mettle."
James smiled widely in return. "I have heard you are a premier player, Miss Boothe. But I should be honored to have you test my mettle, so to speak."
Annabel attempted a coy smile. "Let's do speak on the morrow, for undoubtedly it shall be a pleasant day.
They are expecting good weather, I have heard."
James bowed. "On the morrow, then," he said, and he took his leave of their group.
Annabel felt quite smug, could feel Braxton's gaze on her back. Then she realized that Lizzie and Adam were regarding her very oddly. Melissa and John were also watching her. Melissa said, "Well! He has certainly changed his tune! It must be the gown."
Lizzie glared. "He has merely come to his senses," she said. She took Annabel's hand. "You are acting more strangely than ever. You were flirting with him! And I know you, Annabel Boothe. You would never give someone who has cut you a second chance. Whatever is going on?"
Annabel was as demure as she could possibly be. She lifted her eyebrows innocently. "I do not know what you are talking about."
Lizzie stared.
Annabel smiled at her and turned to see if Braxton continued to watch her. He did not. He was staring intently in the opposite direction, at the doorway of the salon.
Annabel followed his gaze. Her heart slammed to a stop.
The Countess Rossini had paused on the threshold of the room. She was so lovely, so striking, that everyone else in the room seemed to disappear. In fact, all of the guests had immediately noticed her appearance, and they were all staring---conversation had dimmed and ceased. Annabel also stared. The countess wore a stunning, narrow, extremely bare black lace gown, with the most spectacular diamond and ruby necklace dripping from her long, elegant neck. Annabel felt as if, in that one moment, she had been turned by a witch into ugly black stone. The countess, in contrast, was probably one of the world's most beautiful women.
The contessa smiled at the room at large and entered it, followed by two couples and her escort, a very attractive blond, mustachioed gentleman. She nodded and smiled at those she passed.
Annabel tore her gaze from the countess's overwhelming presence to Braxton. He seemed as mesmerized as everyone else. Slowly, he looked from the Italian redhead to Annabel.
Annabel felt like sticking her tongue out at him. How childish she would then seem---when in reality, he must think her a child in comparison to the stunning and worldly older woman. Annabel could not believe how upset and unnerved she was. It struck her then that she was a complete fool. That she still harbored feelings for Braxton, strong ones, or she would never be so concerned about the other woman.
"Miss Boo the? Good evening."
Annabel was about to turn and respond when she saw Guilia Rossini stop and stare at Braxton. She made no effort to disguise her interest. He, in turn, smiled at her and bowed.
Annabel inhaled, stabbed with hurt.
"Miss Boothe? Might I mention that you are quite breathtaking tonight?"
Annabel watched Braxton purposefully approach the countess. Although she could not hear him, clearly he was introducing himself. The countess was smiling. He was smiling. She extended her hand and he took it to his lips.
Miserably Annabel turned away, to face her admirer, the ancient Thomas Frank.
As the hotel staff had forecast, that next day was clear. It was far too early in the morning to tell if it would be warm and sunny, for it was not even nine o'clock, but the rain had ceased and the clouds were lifting. Annabel paused beside a sprightly tree, not far from the beach. Behind her the path she had followed led to the Acadia's back lawns and tennis courts; ahead, it led to the swimming inlet on the beach.
She leaned against the tree, digging into her simple straw bag, trying to forget last night. She had made a fool of herself, she had no doubt, allowing Thomas Frank to escort her into supper and walk with her afterward in the galleria. Annabel grimaced, extracting a small box and from that a cigarette, hearing in her mind the gossips giggling over the old maid and the old man. She stuck it between her lips, digging deeper for a matchbox, wishing she had not behaved like an idiot. But then, how could she have not done so, when Braxton had danced attendance on the Countess Rossini all night long, until the countess's escort had exchanged such sharp words with him that the two men had nearly come to blows? Oh, how the countess had seemed to enjoy that!
As her fingers finally slid around a small matchbox, there was a sharp hissing sound behind her. Annabel whirled.
"May I?" Pierce St. Clare said with a smile.
She was so surprised by him that the cigarette fell out of her mouth. She caught it against her chest as the man she had no wish to see, not now, not ever, continued to hold out the flaming match. Trembling, angry, Annabel jammed the cigarette back in her mouth. She inhaled deeply as he lit it for her.
He watched her closely, shaking and dropping the match. "Since when did you become a smoker?" he asked.
"Oh, sometime after the abduction," she said tartly, between puffs.
"There was hardly an abduction," he returned, his tone as pleasant as hers was not.
"That is not what society says." She waved the cigarette airily.
"And since when have you ever cared what others think? It is a part of your vast and unique charm, Annabel."
For an instant she believed that he was sincere, then she caught herself and blew smoke as directly as she could at his face.
He waved it away with his hand. "It's quite early in the morning for a stroll. Much less a smoke."
"I rise at six," she retorted. "And I have come down to the beach for a swim." That wasn't true, but Annabel was beyond analyzing herself. She wanted to do battle, and badly.
He grinned. "The ladies are not allowed to swim before two," he said mildly. "But then, I imagine you already know that."
"I do." She puffed harder than before.
"Does the kindly Thomas Frank know about this habit of yours?" There was laughter in his tone. "I don't imagine he would allow his wife to smoke."
Her eyes widened. "I beg your pardon. Nothing has changed in two years. I am hardly interested in marriage."
He stared, remaining silent.
Annabel felt herself blushing. He was clever, and he probably knew that no one would have her even if she did wish to wed. "I would certainly never marry that old man, kind or not."
"I know," he said.
Her heart turned over, numerous times. "You know nothing. And you followed me," she said sharply, unnerved.
"Yes, I did."
"What's wrong?" She was snide. "Did the countess throw you out of her bed before breakfast could be served?"
His gaze was searching. "Your jealousy is showing." "I am not jealous," she flashed, throwing down the cigarette.
He eyed her, then ground out her smoking butt with his heel. "You could have fooled me, Annabel." "It is Miss Boothe to you."
"Actually, I am flattered, that after all this time, you still care enough to be jealous of another woman."
"I do not care at all!" she cried, turning her back on him and starting rapidly down the path.
He fell into step beside her. "Well, in truth, I have not been in the countess's bed, although I doubt you would believe me."
"I don't."
"You also have nothing to be jealous of." Annabel snorted.
When he did not reply, merely kept pace with her, she had to look at him. If only he were ugly. "She is probably one of Europe's reigning beauties."
"Probably," he agreed.
Annabel wished he had denied it, "so her stride quickened. She could see the two of them entwined. It more than upset her---it infuriated her and it hurt her. What was wrong with her? How could she still care?
"Ten years ago," Pierce said, his tone conversational, "I would have enjoyed the attentions of a woman like Guilia Rossini, but call me jaded if you will, she offers little for a man like myself now."
Annabel harrumphed. "Why are you trying to placate me?"
"Perhaps because J care," he said.
Annabel stumbled. He caught her arm. She pushed him away. "Don't bother," she cried.
He shrugged. "She is not bright. Beauty without brains is hardly attractive. And she simpers, by God." He shook his head.
For one more moment, Annabel stared, almost ready to believe him. And then she recalled how he had been fawning over her all night long. "Uh-huh." She knew
she was being coarse, but could not help herself. She continued down the path. He strode alongside her.
And then it struck her, hard, so hard that she halted in mid-stride, facing him in amazement. "If you are not interested in her as a paramour, you must be interested in her as a thief!"
He did not blink. "You always were astute."
He was not even denying it! And all Annabel could think of was that he would get caught, this time, in the act of burglary. "Are you mad? Why do you do it? Surely by now you have stolen enough to live like a king for the rest of your life."
He smiled slowly. "I have."
She stared, shaking her head in disbelief. "Then why, Braxton, why put yourself in danger, again and again?"
"You know why." He was smiling, his gaze direct. "And my name," he said softly, "is St. Clare."
And her heart turned over, but hardly with revulsion. "The thrill. It is the danger which motivates you, thrills you."
"Yes," he said, "it is because of the thrill."
For one more moment Annabel held his gaze, and then she looked away, remembering how exciting that day had been when they had eluded the police after he had robbed her father's safe. Her pulse raced. He would never quit his habit, he was addicted, no less so than some poor wretch addicted to opium. But she understood.
"It's not safe for you here," she finally said. "Someone is bound to recognize you, especially if you rob the countess. Perhaps even someone from my family."
"Perhaps I will be long gone by the time that happens," he said smugly.
She looked at him. He returned her regard. "I think you care, more than you will ever admit," he said after a long pause. "You are afraid for my safety."
"No. No." Annabel shook her head adamantly, knowing he was right, but refusing to accept it. "I don't think we should be meeting like this," she said.
He chuckled. "Why not?" And he caught her hand. "Why not, Annabel?" His smile was gone.
His touch undid her. Desire she had no wish to ever entertain consumed her, but because Lizzie had been right, because she loved this man, she pulled her hand away. If she succumbed to his charm, he would love her and leave her again. He had killed her once. She could not survive a second time. "I am going swimming. Go back to the countess and plan your next escapade."
"Perhaps I will swim, too. With you."
Annabel stared, horrified. And then she enunciated every word as clearly as she could. "Go away," she said.
"I cannot seem to resist you," he said without hesitation. "I could not resist you then, and I cannot seem to resist you now." He was grim. "For better," he said, "or for worse."
Annabel stared. It had become crystal clear to her where this chance encounter was leading. She lifted her skirts and ran.
"Adam, Annabel is not in her room."
Adam laid a reassuring hand on his wife's small shoulder. "Why don't I take Evan for a walk and we will see if we can find her? I thought I saw her leaving the hotel earlier, although I am not sure."
Lizzie stood with her husband and her son just outside of the dining room, which was mostly empty at this time of the day, for the hotel guests preferred taking toast and coffee or cocoa in their rooms. "It would be just like Annabel to go walking at such an early hour!" Lizzie cried. She wrung her hands. "I am worried about her. Something is going on. I know her. She is hiding something from me," Lizzie said, frowning.
"Darling, I do not want you to worry about anything other than having an enjoyable vacation and taking plenty of rest." Adam kissed her mouth lightly and hoisted his son up onto his shoulders. "Remember, you are bearing our second son."
Lizzie smiled. "I am with our first daughter, dear."
He grinned. "We shall see." He left his wife after he had seated her in the dining room, Evan on his shoulders. "If you see Annabel, Evan, let me know."
"Anbel, Papa," Evan replied happily, clutching his father's head.
But Adam was no longer smiling. He was positive that he had glimpsed Annabel hurrying across the back lawns half an hour ago, when he had casually glanced out of the window of his dressing room. He believed his wife to be correct. Annabel was hiding something, and because he had grown very fond of her in the past five years, he was as concerned as his wife.
He strode across the back lawns, which were damp from yesterday's rain and the morning dew, with Evan in his arms. Ahead, emerging from the brush, he espied a tall gentleman, coming in his direction.
Adam did not slow his pace. The gentleman, clad casually in tan slacks and a tweed hacking coat, was close enough for Adam to recognize him as the fellow who had so enamored the Countess Rossini last night. They nodded to one another as they came abreast. Last night they had not been introduced.
"Good morning," Adam said, carefully extending one hand, the other firmly upon his son's ankle. "Adam Tarrington."
"Wainscot," the gentleman replied, his blue eyes unwavering.
"Have you by chance seen an attractive blond lady strolling these grounds?"
"No, I have not. Sorry I cannot help you." Wainscot smiled at Adam and his son and continued on.
But Adam did not move. He turned to stare after him, consumed with an odd feeling. Last night he had also felt perplexed. He knew this man, he was almost certain of it. Yet he could not place him, and did not recall his name as one he had already known.
"Papa? Anbel, Anbel!" Evan shouted with glee.
Adam shoved his thoughts aside just in time to see Annabel trudging up the same sandy path, barefoot, her skirts wet. Her shoes and stockings were dangling from one hand. Had she been swimming? He smiled reluctantly, shaking his head. Annabel would never change.
No, I have not. Sorry I cannot help you.
Adam froze, his smile gone. The stranger's words echoed in his mind. How could he have not seen her? Adam had taken this path several times; it led to the inlet, and that section of beach was small. It was impossible that they had not seen one another.
Suddenly he was angry, imagining the stranger spying upon Annabel while she swam. He hurried forward. "Annabel! We have been wondering where you were."
She faltered, seeming paler than usual. "I. .. I. . . decided to walk on the beach."
She was lying. He had not a doubt. And suddenly another scenario occurred to him. He stiffened. Had she just had a rendezvous with the gentleman he had so recently spoken to?
She was a grown woman. In all likelihood, she would never settle down and wed. It was not his place to judge, much less interfere. "Are you all right?" he asked carefully.
"I am fine," she said, far too brightly.
He studied her, but saw no sign of tears. He became certain that she had been involved in a tryst. "Will you join us for breakfast?" he asked. But now he was more perplexed than before. He could not shake the stranger's gray-haired image from his mind. He was more convinced than ever that he knew him, but from where? And why was it so damn important---and so damn disturbing?
"I would love to," Annabel said with obvious relief.
Lizzie was right. She was hiding something. An affair with the stranger?
"You are staring at me," Annabel said, fidgeting.
And then it struck him. He felt his eyes widen as he froze in shock.
He had changed his appearance. But the stranger was Pierce Braxton, the man who had abducted Annabel on her wedding day.
\*
"I think you should sit down," Adam told Lizzie after they had finished breakfast and were alone in their rooms.
"You are scaring me! You behaved so oddly all through the meal. What is wrong?" Lizzie cried, gripping his arms.
Adam led her to an overstuffed chintz chair and pushed her gently down. "Darling, prepare yourself. I have recalled how I know that gentleman who joined the Rossini party last evening."
Lizzie blinked. "What? Oh, you mean Mr. Wainscot? Adam, that is hardly of importance---"
"I last saw him at Annabel's wedding, Lizzie," Adam said softly. "He has changed his hair, done something to his nose. But it is Braxton."
Lizzie turned starkly white. "You mean---"
"Yes. It is that damn thief himself."
He was walking through the lobby when Annabel saw him. Although he was clad as a respectable valet, Annabel would have known him anywhere. Her eyes widened and she froze, then she ran after him, grabbing his elbow from behind. "Louie!"
He whirled. And glanced all around them before holding her gaze with his own. "The guvnor told me you had met 'im, Miz Boothe, but by Gawd, we can't be seen together." His silver front tooth flashed.
Annabel's heart continued to pound. "I want to talk with you. I have to talk with you." She could hear how low and strained her voice sounded. But she was tense. How could she not be? She was caught in a terrible dilemma, harboring affection for a man whom she should hate and even wreck vengeance upon. Instead, she was obsessed with him once again, or perhaps she had never stopped being obsessed by him, not in two achingly long years. Perhaps she had only deluded herself into thinking she was over him after he had abandoned her and she had returned home.
In the interim since her aborted wedding, she had buried herself in one pursuit or another, keeping herself so occupied that she could not dwell on the past, feel the pain of the present, or think of the future. So she could not think. But his appearance had changed all of that.
There was no denying it, and no way to convince herself to feel differently about him: she was drawn to him against all common sense, against her very will; somehow, in some way, her heart was irrevocably attached to him. And now Braxton was here, and he was in danger and she was terrified for his safety. "Louie, come with me," she said firmly. She felt as if she were on a path of self-destruction, but she could no more stop herself than she could halt a locomotive flying down the Union tracks.
He shook his head, but she took his arm and began propelling him through the lobby and out the front door. When they were outside, and standing some distance from the two stone urns guarding the hotel entrance, Louie shook her off. "Are you still a madwoman?" he cried.
Annabel folded her arms and stared. How fortunate that Louie was once again aiding Braxton. "When is the robbery to take place? And how is he going to pull it off?" '
Louie gaped at her. When he had recovered his surprise, he said, low, with a frantic glance around to see if anyone was watching them, "I don't know wot yer talkin' about!"
"Ha! Of course you do! Pierce already admitted his plans to me. He will get caught, Louie, this time he will be caught. I have such a bad feeling about this!" And it was true. Ever since that morning she had been sick at heart, thinking of the robbery that would soon occur. This time, she had a horrid feeling that he would not get safely away. She could even envision him being led away by the local sheriff in leg irons and handcuffs.
"We must stop him, Louie, from doing this." Annabel heard her own voice crack.
Louie stared. "You thinkin' of tellin' gents 'ere who 'e is?"
She flushed. "I can't do that, even though I should. Louie, talk him out of this. Either that, or let me help." The moment she had spoken, she was stunned by her own words.
"No one can change 'is mind when it's made up," Louie said matter-of-factly. "An' 'e would never let you 'elp us, by Gawd."
Annabel stared. She had no doubt that Braxton intended to rob the countess, and that Louie was right, his mind could not be changed. What if she could help, somehow, to insure that he did get safely away?
Annabel bit her lip. Something was wrong with her. She was now planning to help the very man who had betrayed her and broken her heart!
"Guess you still care about 'im, now don't you?" Louie was saying slyly.
Annabel stiffened. "He does not deserve to rot in jail for the rest of his life. And he certainly helped me avoid marriage to that mealy-mouthed Harold Talbot."
"That 'e did," Louie said with a grin and a wink.
"I want to help," Annabel said, suddenly meaning it. And her blood raced. Her skin tingled. Her mouth became absolutely dry. She was breathless, recalling their getaway on the day of her wedding. Perhaps she was too much like Braxton, and that was the source of her fatal attraction. .
"Never," Louie said firmly.
"Annabel!"
It was Lizzie, and Annabel turned, to see her sister waving at her from the hotel's wide front steps. She faced Louie again. "Go! Quickly! And do not say a word to Braxton about this or I'll wring your neck!"
Louie hurried off. Annabel inhaled deeply, composing herself before facing her sister as she crossed the shell-covered drive. Annabel managed a bright smile. "I thought you were going to take a nap."
Lizzie looked gravely from Annabel to Louie's departing form. Her brow was creased with worry. "Who is that?" she asked, her tone unusually sharp.
Annabel stiffened. "A servant. I was asking directions---to town."
"Were you planning on walking the five miles from here to there, Annabel?" Lizzie asked, her tone high with uncharacteristic sarcasm.
Annabel stared. Lizzie was not given to mockery, and not only was she wounded, she was alarmed.
"Don't lie to me!" Lizzie cried angrily. "And you have been lying to me, haven't you?" Suddenly tears were spilling down her cheeks.
"Don't cry," Annabel said, aghast.
Lizzie sobbed into a linen handkerchief. Annabel watched, feeling horrible, and filled with an equally dark inkling about what this was about.
Lizzie stopped, and sniffing, she looked up. "Braxton is here, and you met him at the beach this morning."
Annabel's heart dropped like a boulder to her feet. For one moment, she could not breathe or speak. Then, through stiff lips, she managed, "That is absurd."
"Don't lie to me!" Lizzie shouted. "Adam recognized him."
Annabel began breathing harshly. She felt dizzy, faint. "I was as surprised as you. Please, Lizzie, don't say anything, please!" And Annabel gripped her hands.
"You are in love with him! I can see it in your eyes! Oh, God!" And tears fell from Lizzie's eyes again.
"I am not," Annabel tried, aware of how pathetic her lie was. "Lizzie, he does not deserve to spend the rest of his life behind bars. Surely you can agree with that."
Lizzie wiped her eyes. "He is a thief! He stole Mama's necklace. And he ruined you. He is guilty of at least two crimes. He should be incarcerated and you know it, Annabel. How can you say otherwise? How?"
Annabel was shaking. "Lizzie, he is a thief, but he is not a bad person. He never hurt me. Actually, he is a gentleman."
"A gentleman! How can you defend him after all that he has done?" ,
Annabel wet her lips, her pulse pounding. She was desperate. For the hour of Braxton's doom seemed to be at hand. "I have never really\* told you, or anyone, the truth. But listen to me now. He did not want to abduct me. He tried to leave me in some barn on the West Side of Manhattan, but I refused. Lizzie, I refused. And he would not have touched me, except that..." She faltered, afraid to continue.
Lizzie's gaze was glued to her face. "Except that what?" she whispered, her eyes wide and mirroring something close to horror.
Annabel wet her lips. "I seduced him."
"You what?"
"I seduced Braxton, Lizzie, it was not the other way around. Because I wanted to be ruined, so I would not have to marry Harold Talbot or some other idiot like him." Annabel stared. She could not quite believe that she had told her sister the truth, no matter how, much she loved her and how close they were.
Lizzie gaped at her.
Annabel shrugged, tears filling her own eyes. "Something is wrong with me, isn't it? As Missy keeps saying? Reckless, that's what they say. Reckless, impulsive, headstrong."
Lizzie was crying again, but quietly. She hugged Annabel hard. And when she pulled away, she said, "You are different, there is no question of that, but there is nothing wrong with you." Her gaze was searching. "I hope you are telling the truth. But I cannot think of why you would lie about something like that in order to protect him. Oh, Annabel!"
"I am telling the truth. He is not a cad." Annabel smiled and sighed. "I wish he were, for then this would be so very easy." For then she would not be in love with him.
"But he is here," Lizzie said after a pause. "Braxton is here, and you were with him at the beach. Annabel, what are you doing? Please, just this once, stop and think! You must stay away from him."
"I have been thinking. The truth is, all I have done since he arrived yesterday was to think. Will you keep my secret?" Annabel asked. "Will you keep our secret? Please?"
Lizzie did not speak at first. "I could never betray you, you know that."
Annabel hugged her in relief. And when she opened her eyes, she saw Melissa standing behind them, staring at them with wide eyes.
Annabel stared at her sister. Melissa smiled and came forward. "I was about to take a walk and I saw the two of you standing here," she said. "Are you about to stroll? May I join you?"
Her relief knew no bounds. It did not seem as if Melissa had overheard their conversation. Unfortunately, though, Annabel did not completely trust her sister---she had eavesdropped far too many times. She regarded her closely. "Actually, Lizzie merely wanted to speak with me----about my walk earlier this morning on the beach."
If Melissa knew that the subject of their conversation was Braxton, or that Annabel had met him on the beach, she gave no sign. "Oh. Well, I do not want to walk alone. Lizzie, will you join me?"
Lizzie shook her head. "Actually, I have a horrid headache and I must lie down." Not looking at Annabel, she lifted her skirts and hurried toward the hotel entrance. Both sisters watched her go.
"What is wrong with her?" Melissa turned wide eyes upon Annabel. "She is so upset. What have you said, or, what have you done now?"
Annabel smiled and said calmly, "We had a very private conversation, and I think I shall go to my rooms now, too."
Melissa did not reply, but this time, from the look in her eyes, Annabel had the awful feeling that she knew everything.
From across the dining room, Braxton smiled at her.
Annabel's nerves had been on edge ever since she had come down to supper, both wishing that he would be there, and wishing that he would not be so foolish. Now her heart went wild. She looked away, feeling her cheeks burning. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw that Lizzie had noticed the entire intimate exchange.
Annabel quickly looked at Melissa. But if she had noticed, she gave no sign. She was enjoying her prime rib.
Annabel swallowed, the hair on her arms still raised, and cautiously looked his way. He dined with the countess, what nerve! Did he intend to rob her this evening?
And would he make love to her in order to do so?
Annabel thought about their conversation on the beach that morning. It was unforgettable, like the man himself. But she would be an idiot to believe anything that he had said about his feelings for her.
"You have no appetite, Annabel. In fact, you seem upset," Melissa remarked, laying down her knife and fork, having finished most of her course.
Annabel's food was untouched. "I'm afraid I spoiled my appetite this afternoon with a box of chocolates," Annabel lied, her gaze straying of its own volition toward Braxton again.
The countess leaned against him, regaling him with some tale or another. Her blond escort, Sir Linville, was openly annoyed. Braxton appeared completely at ease--- and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself.
Melissa turned and stared at the Rossini party. "How fascinated you are by the countess," she said. "Or is it that handsome Englishman she seems so enamored of?"
Annabel could hardly breathe. "A rich Italian widow hardly fascinates me." She forced herself to eat.
"I am fascinated by the countess," Lizzie interjected a bit too quickly. "Imagine being that beautiful, and having so many men falling all over themselves for your attention!" She shot Annabel a warning look. Her cheeks were highly flushed.
"You are that beautiful, and your hardly need more than one man falling all over himself for your attention," Adam said. "And that man is myself."
Lizzie smiled at her husband. He smiled back at her. Annabel watched them, wondering what it would be like to be so cherished by a wonderful man---and to cherish him in return. She did not dare look at Braxton again. But she had to face her innermost feelings. She wanted Braxton to be that enamored of her, the way Adam was of Lizzie, so much so that he would hardly glance at another woman.
She reminded herself that he was going to burglarize the countess, and then he would be on his way. If he was not caught, that is.
And if he did escape, then she would never see him again.
And suddenly Annabel felt as if she were on the vast precipice of life. The future loomed before her, a huge and dark void. Alone, she thought. She would forever be alone.
Unless she took her destiny into her own hands.
She lurked in the shadows at the end of the hall. It was close to two in the morning, and the last of the hotel's festive-minded guests had gone to bed---except for the countess and Braxton.
Annabel had been hiding on the hotel's top floor for over two hours, waiting for them to retire. She heard the elevator whirring and stiffened, crouching down low. She was rewarded when the elevator's brass door opened and Braxton escorted the countess out. She was exquisite in a red lace evening gown, but she was also tipsy, and clinging firmly to his arm.
Annabel bit her lip hard, tears stinging her eyes, thinking how easy it would be for him to seduce her now, let her fall asleep, and make off with her jewels. Her heart hurt.
The countess was laughing huskily at something he had said. She could not seem to find her keys in her beaded purse, and she swayed a bit on her black satin high-heeled shoes.
"Allow me," he said with a smile. In a moment he had found her keys and opened the door to her suite.
She smiled at him, poised to enter her apartments.
"Good night, Guilia," he said.
Annabel's eyes widened in shock.
"Pierce? Surely you wish to come in?" The countess was as surprised as Annabel.
He smiled again and tilted up her chin. "My darling lady, I have no wish to be dangled upon your strings like the other men you collect."
Her eyes widened, and then she smiled, rubbing his chest beneath his black dinner jacket. "Do I dangle men?" she purred.
"You do."
"Perhaps it would be so very enjoyable for both of us," she whispered, staring up at him.
"I imagine so, but in truth, Linville is smitten with you, Guilia, and you would be foolish to throw such a gentleman away. His intentions, I believe, are honorable. Unlike mine," he added wryly.
She stared. "You amaze me."
He laughed, kissed her lips lightly. "Good night."
"Good night, Pierce," she said.
Annabel continued to watch them, no longer shocked but elated. The countess disappeared behind her closed door. Pierce turned and sauntered down the hall, back
toward the elevator. He seemed to be in exceedingly good spirits.
As was Annabel. She grinned to herself, and a chuckle escaped her.
Pierce froze in mid-stride.
Annabel shrank back against the wall.
He turned. And he saw her immediately.
His expression was comical. His eyes went wide.
There was no point in hiding anymore, so Annabel straightened, her heart pounding like a damnable drum. Her color, she knew, was high. He strode forward. "Well, well," he said, his gaze taking in her appearance. "So you have gained employment in the hotel as a housemaid?"
Annabel thought she blushed again. She was wearing a black dress with a white apron, borrowed from the laundry room. "This is a disguise."
He folded his arms and chuckled.
"How are you going to rob her if you do not sleep with her?" Annabel asked very directly.
His smile vanished. "That idea is highly repugnant. How little you think of me."
"But you have to get inside her apartments, and she has locked the door."
He smiled at her.
"Oh." Annabel smiled back, suddenly feeling quite happy. "A locked door hardly interferes, I do see."
"Perhaps what I want is not in her suite," Pierce said softly. He stared directly at her, his smile gone.
Annabel understood. She did not move.
Pierce suddenly shook his head, as if catching himself in an unplanned act. "Go back to your rooms, Annabel. And back to bed. I have work to do."
Now she started. "So it is tonight." Which explained his good mood, she thought.
"Yes." He stared.
"Let me help."
"That is out of the question." "Why?"
"You will cause me to bungle the job."
"That is not fair," Annabel said angrily. . "But it is true. You would only distract me. And I have a partner."
Annabel did not know what to say. So she spoke the truth. "I will never see you again after tonight."
He hesitated. "It would be unlikely."
She crossed her arms, hugging herself.
For a long moment, he did not speak. "You are wearing your heart upon your sleeve---for me to see."
It was hard to speak. "I don't care," she said hoarsely.
"Annabel, this is insane." His gaze was glued to hers. His facial muscles were set and tensed.
She swallowed with difficulty. "What is insane?" - - "This." And he swept her into his arms.
Annabel could hardly believe he was kissing her, that finally, after two horribly long, endless and lonely years, she was in his embrace. His mouth claimed and held hers. She gripped his shoulders, his back, her mouth tearing at his. How unbearable, how good, this was.
And then his lips were on the soft underside of her throat. Annabel's hands were in his hair. Her back was against the wall. His palms slid over her breasts. His mouth, kissing and nibbling on her throat, finally found a tiny area of exposed flesh on her collarbone. It was sheer and wonderful torture.
He pulled her hard against him, burying his face in her hair, groaning.
"Don't stop. Please, Pierce, I will never see you again!" Annabel cried.
He pulled away from her, only to clasp her face with his strong hands. Their gazes locked. "I want you," he said.
There was a soft rapping on the door.
Annabel lay naked in Pierce's arms in his bed. She was panting, her heart just beginning to slow from their frenzied and rushed lovemaking. He had not even moved off her, and like herself, was breathing quickly and harshly. The knocking came again. It was soft and low, but insistent.
For one instant, his arms tightened around her. Then he slid off her and sat up.
Annabel became lucid. She could guess who was knocking on his door at perhaps two-thirty or three o'clock in the morning, and she sat up, clutching the covers to her chest. Pierce stood, reaching for his drawers, which he stepped into. He strode to the door and opened it.
"Guv, wot yar doing? Did you forgit we 'ave a job to do this night?" Louie asked in a low tone of voice.
"I do believe I briefly lost my head," Pierce said wryly. "With good cause." And he looked over his shoulder and smiled at Annabel.
Annabel could not smile back. This was happening too swiftly. She did not move.
That was when Louie saw her and his mouth dropped open. "Guvnor, it's late. We got to get going. Forget 'er."
Pierce stepped aside so Louie could enter the room, and he quickly dressed. His expression had changed, hardening. Watching him, Annabel felt the glow of their glorious lovemaking vanish, replaced by dismay, dread, and fear. "I want to help. At least let me keep watch."
"No." Pierce buttoned his white shirt deftly, slipping on his jacket.
Annabel stared, and then she flung aside the covers and stepped from the bed. Louie cried out. Pierce whirled.
Annabel leapt into her drawers and chemise. "I am going to help!" she cried.
And for one instant, as Pierce stared, she thought his gaze was admiring, and knew it had nothing to do with her body. Then he stepped to her and gripped her shoulders. "No. I know you are headstrong and brave, but not this time, Annabel."
"What if she wakes up and catches you while you are robbing her?"
He flung on his jacket, and as he did so, Annabel saw it was the one with the specially sewn interior pockets. Then he bent over the trunk and produced a small black satchel from it. Annabel realized he was about to leave, without answering her, and frantically she shimmied into her black dress. Would he abandon her once again without even a good-bye?
But if he did, it would be her own fault, for allowing this to happen---and for not seizing her own fate.
She was so upset, she could not do up more than a single button. "Goddamn it!" she cried.
He paused at the door, and when he finally turned, his face was grim. Annabel had not taken her eyes off him, even as she tried to struggle with the damned buttons on the back of her dress. Their gazes clashed and locked.
Pierce dropped the satchel. He strode to her, grabbed her and kissed her hard. "Good-bye," he said, his gaze intense.
"No!" Annabel said.
He retrieved the satchel and, without a backward glance, moved to the door. Annabel knew he was about to exit not just the room, but her life, and that this time it would be forever. She knew she must act.
Her gaze swung around the room wildly and settled upon a blue and white vase filled with flowers. She grabbed it, running after the two men. And as she hefted it, Pierce turned. His eyes widened with surprise and comprehension. "No!"
But it was too late. Annabel crashed it down upon the unsuspecting Louie's head.
Chapter Ten
They both watched Louie sink to the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Annabel grimaced, hoping she had not hurt him, and when she looked up, she saw Pierce staring at her. "I want to help," she said.
"Good God," he returned. Then, ruefully, he half smiled. "Very well. But only this once."
Annabel could not believe her ears. She felt herself smiling.
And for one moment he stared at her. Then, "Turn around." His tone was brisk. "It is late and we are behind schedule."
Annabel turned. He quickly buttoned up her dress and she stepped into her shoes. Then they slipped soundlessly from the room. Annabel had a hundred questions to ask, especially once she realized they were going downstairs and not up to the floor where the countess's suite was, but she did not dare. She knew Pierce would strangle her if she made a sound. She was determined to be an extraordinary accomplice.
A few small lights flickered in the lobby as they hurriedly approached. Annabel's heart lurched when she realized a clerk remained behind the front desk, and even though he was sleeping, his head upon his folded arms, she gripped Pierce's arm from behind with alarm. Pierce looked at her, one finger to his mouth, having lost none of his composure. Annabel nodded, aware of perspiring. Perhaps, she thought, the clerk would be the one to discover them in the midst of this criminal act. Her pulse was racing with both fear and excitement.
They left the stairs and started through the lobby. It had never seemed larger to Annabel and traversing it seemed to take an eternity. They were halfway across the room when the clerk suddenly stirred, making a sound.
Annabel froze. The clerk mumbled to himself. Pierce grabbed her and they ran the rest of the way, when Annabel would have turned and fled back to the stairs. She flung a glance over her shoulder. The clerk, Annabel saw, continued to doze.
They paused just around the corner, outside the manager's office. Annabel trembled, her fear warring with relief. She could hardly believe they had not been caught, could hardly believe Pierce was so bold. Then she saw Pierce extracting a bit and brace from the satchel. He did not look at her, but Annabel was in shock. They were breaking into the manager's office, just steps away from the front desk and the sleeping clerk? Was he mad?
Very quickly, Pierce drilled the bit into the wood around the lock. Annabel's heart continued to thunder and her mouth was painfully dry. He finally looked at her with a smile, standing and jimmying the doorknob off the door. He pressed it open and bowed as if they were at a ball. Annabel shook her head---now was not the time to clown---and together they went inside. Pierce closed the door carefully behind them.
"Yale locks," he whispered. "Impossible to pick." He winked.
Annabel was sweating; he was enjoying himself. And she felt like breaking into hysterical laughter. Instead, she pointed at the door and at herself.
"Good girl," he mouthed, patting her back. He handed her the knob and walked behind the desk. Annabel realized his goal was the huge cast-iron safe set in the wall. She watched him extract some kind of small brass horn from the satchel. As he placed it against the safe, the other end to his ear, he began to twirl the large black dial.
Annabel realized she was so fascinated with what he was doing that she was not keeping guard as she was supposed to do. She turned and cracked the door slightly and peered out of it. The lobby was empty.
Her pulse continued to race. She heard a click from behind. It seemed ominously loud in the silence of the night. Pierce had opened the safe. The horn had disappeared back into the satchel. He was groping through the vault's dark interior.
Annabel heard a footstep. She whirled, but saw no one, and only silence greeted her now. And then there was a tap on her shoulder from behind.
Annabel almost jumped out of her skin, but she faced only Pierce. He was smiling at her, holding out the largest ruby she had ever seen. It dangled from a strand of glistening, perfect pearls.
"Oh, my God," she heard herself whisper. And then she heard the footfalls outside in the lobby again.
Pierce heard them, too, because the necklace disappeared. A small pistol had appeared in his hand in its stead. He shoved Annabel behind him.
The door began to open.
Annabel was so tense she thought her body would snap. Sweat poured down her face and limbs in streams.
A slender man stepped into the room.
As he did so, Pierce grabbed him, clapping a hand over his mouth and pressing the muzzle of the gun to his head. "Louie." He released him.
Louie glared at Pierce, and then at Annabel. If looks could kill, Annabel would be dead.
Annabel wanted to tell him how sorry she was, but on the other hand, she wanted to throttle him for scaring her to death. But she could do neither. Pierce was signaling to them and his meaning was clear---it was time to go. He shoved first Louie and then Annabel from the room. They melted against the wall, waiting to hear any sounds from the front desk. The clerk was now snoring.
Annabel could not believe that their good fortune continued unabated. Her eyes met Pierce's.
He smiled at her and waved them forward. And as one, the trio raced across the lobby and upstairs to the safety of his room. ,.
The clock in Pierce's room read three fifty-five. Pierce was grinning and holding up a bottle of champagne. As he popped the cork, he said, "I seem to recall that you are fond of champagne, Annabel."
They had done it. They had burglarized the countess, and escaped without mishap. She laughed in delight. "I am. .
He handed her the bottle, sliding his arm around her. His tone low, he said, still smiling, "Even if it is warm?"
"Even if it is warm," she said, her smile fading.
His also dimmed. Annabel forgot to think. He bent and kissed her, long and slow, tongue to tongue.
"Now hold on," Louie cried, arms folded across his chest. "She's got some explaining to do."
Pierce released her. Annabel felt drugged from the kiss and what they had just done. It was hard to think, for all she wanted to do was to jump back into bed with Pierce and touch him everywhere, allowing him the very same liberties. & .
"Here," he said softly. "Ladies first."
Annabel accepted the bottle and took a long swig of champagne. How delicious it was, even at room temperature. And then she thought again of what they had done, and her part in it, and she grinned. Living dangerously was definitely in her nature.
"You seem very pleased, Annabel," Pierce said softly.
She met his blue gaze. "I am."
His gaze was probing!
"An' I got a headache you couldn't believe." Louie scowled at Annabel.
"Louie, I do believe the lady meant no harm," Pierce said, handing him the bottle.
"I'm sorry," Annabel said, meaning it. "But I was so afraid for the two of you and I wanted to help." Suddenly her elation died. They had done it, pulling off the burglary with ease and even aplomb, but what would happen now? Her heart lurched with sickening intensity. She turned to Pierce, only to find him watching her extremely closely, and he was no longer smiling, either--- as if he could read her thoughts.
"Now what?" she asked with real trepidation.
"In a day or so we will check out," Pierce said easily. "After the ruby is discovered missing, after the police come, question everyone, and fail to find either the thief or the jewel."
"You will stay here?" Annabel was aghast.
"Yes. If I leave now, in the thick of the night, I will be the obvious culprit. You are the only one who knows who I am, Annabel." He was smiling.
Annabel was ill. So much so that for a moment, all words failed her. She sat down hard on his bed. Where, so recently, they had been passionately entwined. She looked at the mussed covers, recalling the intimacy they had shared.
"What is it?" His tone was sharp.
"Oh, God. I should have told you this before." She looked up. "Adam and Lizzie know who you are, Pierce. Adam recognized you and told my sister."
Pierce stared.
Annabel rubbed her temple. "She agreed not to say anything, but I do not think she can keep her silence once this theft is discovered. And Adam, why, I am certain he will come forward." Pierce cursed.
Annabel had never heard him use an epithet before, and oddly, it seemed incredibly out of character. "We are blown," he said grimly to Louie. "And we must leave right now."
Annabel started.
"An' how are we going to do that?" Louie said. "The staff'll be up in another two hours, we won't even be out of town by then."
Pierce was grim. His gaze found Annabel.
And ridiculously, she felt as if this were her own fault. "You knew the risks," she said defensively.
"I knew the risks," he agreed.
"There wasn't time to tell you sooner," she said. Thinking about why there hadn't been time---because they had been in bed together.
"They're going to catch us," Louie said, pacing. "Even if we make the next train out, when they finger us, they'll be stoppin' the train to arrest us."
"Actually, I am in agreement with you, Louie."
The situation was horrid, and getting worse with every moment. "I will beg them not to say a word," Annabel cried.
"Adam Tarrington has too much integrity. He will point his finger at me the moment Guilia cries theft."
Annabel was of the exact same opinion. "So what will you do?"
"I will run. And with a little luck, Louie and I shall escape."
She was frozen. His words echoed. Unable to restrain herself, filled with dread, she asked, "And what about me?"
He hesitated. "History seems to be repeating itself, does it not?"
She told herself she would not allow even a single tear to fall. "I am an accomplice."
Pierce gave her an odd look and Louie snorted in disbelief.
He wasn't even going to suggest that she run away with him. Annabel could not move. She loved him, dear God, she did, but he did not return her feelings, or not to the same degree. So, once again, he would abandon her, and in doing so, kill her heart another time.
"Annabel."
She looked up.
"It would never work."
She inhaled. "Why not?"
His jaw flexed. "The risk of being caught is high now. I cannot let you take that risk, Annabel."
"You are taking that risk," she said, her tone oddly fragile.
"I am. But I am different from you. You belong here, with these people, with your family, your own kind."
And tears filled her eyes. Her own kind. The kind who preferred the drudgery and predictability of marriage and society fetes, the kind who loved nothing more than to point and whisper, judge and condemn. Poor, poor Annabel Boo the. Why couldn't he see that he was her kind? Not those other, horrid, gossiping folk?
They were one of a kind! How blind could he be?
"Annabel. One day you will fall in love with some proper but brilliant fellow, and you will marry. I am certain of it." He knelt before her. "I know you do not understand. But you are young, and one day you will thank me for what I have done."
Annabel laughed, without mirth, through her tears. I am in love, she thought miserably, but did not verbalize her thoughts.
"Let's go, me lord," Louie cried. "Afore we got no chance at all." -Pierce took her hands in his. "I will never forget you."
Annabel could not speak.
He stood. Their gazes held. Then he walked out of the room with Louie, betraying her almost exactly as he had done two years ago. But this time, Annabel knew she would never forgive him, and that she would never see him again.
The banging on her door was terrific. Annabel had cried herself to sleep. Now she opened one eye and saw the sunlight streaming into her room. It was mid-morning.
"Annabel! Open this door immediately!" Lizzie cried, pounding on her door again.
Lizzie was the last person Annabel wished to see. She sat up slowly, and was overwhelmed with grief again. The tears fell and she could not stop them. She flopped back on the bed, this time rolling onto her stomach and sobbing into her pillow.
"Annabel! Annabel! Are you in there?" The knob rattled wildly.
Suddenly angry, Annabel threw her pillow aside and stood, striding to the door. She swung it open. "I am sleeping," she cried. "Go away!"
Lizzie gasped. "You are crying? Oh---what has he done now?"
And at her sister's open display of genuine sympathy, Annabel collapsed into her arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
Lizzie held her. Eventually, Annabel pulled away and walked back to the bed, sinking down tiredly upon it. Lizzie closed the door, locking it, and came to sit down beside her. "Thé countess was robbed. An extraordinarily valuable ruby, worth a king's ransom, they say, was taken from the safe in the manager's office last night."
Annabel looked at her. Recalling the theft caused the tears to fall again. She had never cried so much in her life---not even the last time. She had never felt so heavy, so lifeless, so exhausted.
"It was Braxton, wasn't it? Has he run away already?" Lizzie asked.
Annabel wiped her running eyes with the back of her hand. "Yes, it was Braxton, and he is gone. And actually, the burglary took place at three-thirty this morning, not last night."
Lizzie blinked. "How would you know that?" But now she was staring at Annabel's black dress. "And why are you wearing a housemaid's uniform?"
"Do you really want to know?"
Lizzie stood, her color shocking in its pallor. "Oh, dear Lord. Oh, please, please, tell me you did not get so involved with him that... I cannot even think it."
Annabel did not bother to reply. She was too despondent. She choked on another sob.
"Oh, Annabel, he is such a horrid man, do not cry this way over him." Lizzie hugged her hard.
Annabel did not reply. A part of her was still ready to defend him, but she refused to do so, by damn. She would never defend him again. But she heard herself ask, "Adam? Is he going to the authorities?"
"How can he? We have discussed it at length. He and I should have come forward with the truth about Braxton immediately, but we did not, and he is a wanted felon, Annabel. And where would such a confession leave you? Why, it would make you seem to be his accomplice!"
Annabel could not laugh, not even mirthlessly. "I am his accomplice," she muttered.
Lizzie moaned. "Do not say another word! Do not tell me another thing! Please, do not!"
Annabel looked at her sister, who was extremely distraught, and fell back onto the bed, reaching for the pillow, which she placed over her head.
She could not even hate Braxton. All she could do was grieve. She had loved him and lost him a second time.
"Annabel." Lizzie's tone was firm. "Adam has already wired Papa. I imagine that he will arrive tomorrow."
Annabel sat up, eyes wide. "You're going to tell him, aren't you? You're going to tell him everything."
"Yes," Lizzie said. "For your own sake."
Her father arrived late the following day. Annabel had not stepped out of her room since Braxton had left. But she had learned from the housemaid assigned to her floor that the local police were sweeping the area for him, suspecting him of the theft because of his abrupt departure in the middle of the night. As yet, no one seemed to have connected Wainscot with Braxton. In spite of herself, Annabel was relieved.
Her father had only just checked in, but Annabel was already summoned to his suite by a porter. She took one glance at herself in the mirror over her bureau and winced---she was a terrible sight, her eyes and nose swollen and red, her face pallid and white. Summoning up her courage, she left her room and went to his suite on the fifth floor. Anxiety filled her. She could not imagine what he was going to do to her now. He would probably disinherit her and throw her out of the house. That did not scare her as much as facing his wrath did. Finally, fearfully, she knocked.
"Enter," he barked.
She winced. His tone of voice told her that he had no patience left for anyone, and that her situation---her future----was dire indeed. She walked into the wood-paneled sitting room of his apartment.
He turned. "What do you have to say for yourself?" he demanded in another bark.
He looked extremely tired---and extremely angry. "How are you, Papa?" she ventured.
"Do not inquire after my welfare or my journey, by damn! He was here, and you are here, and I am in a state of disbelief!" George Boothe roared. "Were the two of you carrying on?"
Annabel cringed, tears filling her eyes. But they had nothing to do with his anger---and everything to do with her loss, her love, and her grief. "Yes," she whispered. "He was here. We were carrying on."
He stared, wide-eyed, as if he had expected her to deny it. For a long moment he could not speak. "How could you? He abducted you, Annabel, and you just forgave him?" He was incredulous. "You are an intelligent and strong woman. You allowed him to seduce you?"
"Yes," she whispered brokenly.
He stared again, as if doubting his own ears. "I will kill him when he is caught!"
"I love him!" she cried back.
"Oh, God!" he cried.
Annabel collapsed onto an ottoman, weeping against her own volition.
George turned back to her, towering over her. "Annabel, you cannot possibly love such a man. Not only is he a complete stranger, he is a thief. He breaks the law, by God. Did I not raise you to know the difference between right and wrong? How is it possible that you just stood by and allowed him to rob the countess?" He was grim. "How could you not have turned him in?"
"Even now, as hurt as I am, I pray he eludes the police," she whispered, not daring to look up. Had Lizzie told him everything? Did he know that she had participated in the theft? It did not seem so, thank God.
"If you were a child, I would turn you over my knee and give you a serious spanking, Annabel. Perhaps this is all my fault." He threw his hands up into the air. "By allowing you your wild ways as a child, by never striking you, not even once!"
"It's not your fault," she managed hoarsely. "It is my fault. Something is wrong with me, Papa. Pierce and I, we are alike."
"You are alike?" he shouted. "You are not alike, Annabel. He is a thief. You, by God, are a Boothe."
Annabel hugged herself. "I am sorry, Papa, for failing you and for protecting him, but where he is concerned, I cannot help myself. Do you know that he is the only person I have ever met who admires me for my outspokenness, for my determination, for my courage?" She covered her face with her hands. "I cannot seem to stop crying," she moaned. "If only I could stop crying!"
Silence filled the room. Boothe went to her, lifting her to her feet and taking her into his arms. "Oh, Annabel. I will kill him for breaking your heart, that I promise you."
She managed to look up at her father. "No. You see, Jie never made me any promises, Papa. I wanted to go with him. But he refused. He would not let me go with him. He did not want me to suffer the risk of being captured and incarcerated, and he even told me he expected me to find love with another man one day. Yes, he has broken my heart---yet again. But you should thank him for refusing to take me with him, instead of vowing to kill him."
"You are defending him." Boothe stared, and finally he sat down hard on the sofa. "You love him still. Oh, Annabel. What am I going to do with you?"
"It doesn't matter," she said. "My life is over. Pierce is wrong. My future doesn't exist."
"No." Boothe stood. "You have committed a grave error of judgment, but affairs of the heart are rarely wise. Your future begins today. I have never dictated to you before, and as much as I comprehend your grief now, I will do what is right for you---as I should have done two years ago."
Annabel was alarmed. "What do you intend?"
"You will marry, my dear, like every other proper woman, and one day you will thank me for it."
Two days later, Annabel stood at the altar in the reception hall of the hotel, which had been festively decorated with flowers and candles for her wedding to Thomas Frank. Her entire family was present, as was the countess and her entourage and most of the hotel's guests. Annabel was numb.
She would do as her father asked, because she did not care about her life anymore and she did not have the strength or the inclination to fight with him. Lizzie had pointed out that Thomas Frank was besotted with her, and she would probably be able to do as she liked once married---that this was, for Annabel, a very good match. Annabel had looked at her, wondering if she were out of her mind. Lizzie had married for love after a brief but stormy courtship. She and Adam remained in love four and a half years later. Who was Lizzie fooling?
Melissa had been more rational. "Papa is right. The time has come for you to settle down and grow up, Annabel. You could have found someone to your liking if you had tried, but you never tried, so now you have no choice."
Annabel did not dare look at the groom now, but she glanced at Missy, who seemed pleased by the turn of events. It struck her then, for the first time in her life, that her sister did not wish her well, but she could not fathom why.
Suddenly Annabel realized that the minister had paused and was staring at her. She began to flush. She had been so immersed in her thoughts---and her misery---that she had not been paying attention to a word he said. Thomas nudged her.
"I do," he whispered.
Oh, God. Annabel froze, unable to speak. She realized now what stage they had reached in the ceremony---just as she realized she could not go through with this.
"She does." Her father stepped forward from where he stood just behind Thomas with her mother and her sisters and brothers-in-law. "Annabel?" He stared commandingly at her.
Annabel opened her mouth. No words came out.
The white-haired minister looked at her, his eyes kind. "My dear, do you, Annabel Boothe, take this man to be your husband? In sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, for better or for worse?"
Annabel wet her lips. A huge silence filled the reception hall.
And a cramp seized her. She gasped.
The minister smiled, apparently misinterpreting the sound for an affirmation, and he turned to Thomas quickly. As quickly, Thomas reached for and took her hand, clearly saying, "I do."
Annabel closed her eyes in disbelief. In another moment they would be man and wife.
"If there be any man present who objects to this union, set forth your objections now, or forever hold your peace," the minister intoned.
The hall was silent.
I object, Annabel thought wildly. I object!
The minister smiled and opened his mouth to pronounce them man and wife.
"I object," Pierce cried, striding down the aisle.
Annabel cried out and turned as the crowd gasped. Her eyes widened and her knees buckled. She could not believe her eyes---she had never wanted to behold anyone more.
He had come---he had come to rescue her.
"I beg your pardon?" the minister asked, bewildered.
Pierce paused beside Annabel. "I object," he said, his rich voice carrying. "Annabel Boothe cannot marry this man."
George came to life. "Arrest him. It's the thief who stole the Rossini ruby!"
And several members of the hotel staff came rushing forward from the very back of the hall, including the manager. The five men grabbed Pierce and immobilized him. But he did not struggle. Finally, his gaze met Annabel's.
She was crying. How she loved him. She had never loved anyone more.
"Get the sheriff," the manager was ordering one of his bellmen. The young bellhop ran off.
"Wait!" Annabel cried.
The bellhop actually faltered and stopped halfway down the aisle, for her tone had been so sharp.
Annabel looked at Pierce. He smiled at her, calm, composed, filled with assurance. She tried to smile back, but her rioting emotions---and her fear for him---made it impossible. She faced her father and their guests. "Mr. Wainscot did not steal the countess's ruby," she said firmly.
"Annabel," George began warningly.
"No." Annabel shook her head. She did not hesitate. He had come to rescue her---and she would rescue him. "He could not have stolen the ruby that night. It was a physical impossibility." She looked at Pierce again.
He was staring, his smile gone, as if he knew exactly what she would say.
Her pulse was deafening her. Annabel wet her lips. Raising her voice, she said, "He was with me the entire night, until well after sunrise. With me---in my bed."
George turned white. Lizzie cried out. Missy gasped. Lucinda slowly crumpled to the floor. John and Adam, apparently paralyzed by Annabel's declaration, failed to catch her. And the crowd began talking wildly.
"It's the truth," Annabel said, aware of her burning cheeks. But she held her head high.
"Annabel," George said harshly, "do you realize what you are saying?"
She looked at her father, wishing desperately he would come to her aid, would understand---would bless them. "Papa, I have spoken the truth. Pierce was with me, he could not have stolen the ruby."
The crowd continued to whisper among themselves. Annabel and her father stared at one another until Annabel turned to Pierce. She finally smiled at him.
He did not smile back. But the look in his eyes was so powerful that she felt her knees buckling all over again.
Suddenly the countess was pressing through the crowd and coming up the aisle. "Pierce Wainscot is my friend," she declared. "He would never steal from me." And she smiled at Annabel.
Annabel stared. And slowly, she smiled back.
The countess turned to George and the manager of the Acadia. "As far as I am concerned, the ruby is a thing of the past," she began.
"Contessa, Contessa!"
Annabel blinked. One of Guilia's companions was running up the aisle, holding something in her hand. Annabel saw the pearl necklace with the Rossini ruby and whirled to face Pierce. He grinned.
"I found this in your chamber when I was preparing your evening clothes for supper tonight," the woman cried.
For one moment, Guilia stared, and then she took the necklace and beamed. "I think there has not been any robbery, after all." And she shrugged, in a very European, elaborate manner.
George said slowly, looking now from Annabel to Pierce and back again, "Apparently not."
"Well." Pierce now spoke up. "If you good men would release me so I might continue?"
He was released. And he now had the attention of everyone: the minister, Thomas, George, the countess, the Boothe family, the entire crowd. "I love this woman," he said. "And I believe that she loves me. Which is why she cannot marry Thomas. I wish to marry her myself." He faced George. "But perhaps I should introduce myself first. My full name is Pierce Wainscot Braxton St. Clare. The Viscount of Kildare." And he bowed.
Annabel was stunned. "You are titled?"
He smiled at her. "Unfortunately, yes. You see, a year ago my older and only brother was killed in a hunting accident."
He was titled. He was aristocracy. In fact, Kildare was in Ireland---he wasn't English at all. Annabel's gaze swung to her father. How could he refuse Pierce now? And suddenly there was joy and elation.
"Wait one moment," George was paying. "Are you by any chance related to the Marquis of Connaught?"
"Julian is my cousin," Pierce replied quite smugly. "My first cousin. I take it you are acquainted with the family of his wife, the Ralstons?"
Even Annabel blinked. "Lisa is a friend of mine," she whispered.
Pierce's smile seemed to widen. "It is such a wee world," he said, lapsing into a hint of Irish brogue.
"I would like a private word with you, sir," George said stiffly.
"Actually, it is 'my lord,' " Pierce said. The two men stepped aside. Annabel had no intention of being left out, and she hurried around the side of the altar where they were speaking in whispers. As she did so, she glimpsed poor Thomas Frank, bewildered and morose, and she felt sorry for him. But he would not have been happy with her as a wife. Within weeks he would have realized that she was far too high-spirited for him.
"Why the hell are you a thief?" George demanded keeping his voice low.
"I suppose there are two explanations," Pierce said calmly. "I have a faulty character---and it has to do with my family."
"Do you care to explain yourself, sir?"
"My father was quite accomplished, actually," Pierce said with an apologetic shrug. "But in reality, I steal for more 'respectable' reasons. I've been retained by the British Museum for the past five years in order to restore the collection of jewels that once belonged to Catherine the Great's nephew. It was stolen twenty-five years ago and the museum wants it back, piece by piece, if necessary. It's been quite an exciting vocation."
Annabel felt herself begin to giggle. But only Pierce heard her, and this time, the look he gave her made her melt inside.
"My dear man," Pierce said. "I have finally met my match in life---your daughter. I love her and I wish to marry her. If you will allow me the honor, I will give up my career," he said flatly, "and live a more conventional life."
Annabel moved to his side and they clasped hands. She could not believe her ears---or what he was prepared to do in order to spend the rest of his life with her.
She looked at her father. "Papa, please."
George hesitated, and nodded gruffly. "Given today's turn of events, I do not think I have a choice in the matter."
Annabel clapped her hands, excitement filling her.
"I would like to do the deed now," Pierce said. He turned. "Mr. Frank, I am so sorry for the inconvenience, but would you mind stepping aside?"
Frank looked from Pierce to Annabel. "I knew it was too good to be true. Good luck, sir. Annabel---I wish you so much happiness."
"Thank you," Pierce said.
Impulsively, Annabel went to Thomas to hug him. Then she returned to Pierce's side as her father took his place with her family. Her mother was being revived by Missy.
"You, Reverend, may marry us now," Pierce instructed.
The minister stared, wide-eyed and flushed.
"Go ahead," George said, nodding.
Annabel and Pierce, hand in hand, faced the minister, who was recovering his composure. "This holiest state of matrimony," he began.
Annabel hardly heard. Pierce was gazing tenderly at her, and she could not look away.
"No one," he whispered low, as the minister continued to speak, "has ever made me contemplate changing my entire life, other than you."
Annabel gripped his hands. "I love you, too. But Pierce, I do not want you to change your ways," she whispered.
"What?" He was both perplexed and amused.
"I should be unhappy if you changed your ways," Annabel said, smiling but deadly earnest.
And he understood. He tipped back his head and laughed.
The minister coughed.
Annabel started. "I do," she said, firmly and loudly.
"Do you, Pierce Wainscot Braxton St. Clare, take this woman," he began.
"I do," Pierce said, cutting him off. "I take her for now and forever to be my wife and my partner in all deeds, good and"---he grinned----"bad." And he pulled her forward while she stood on tiptoe and they kissed, for a very long time.
"Excuse me, my lord, we are not done," the minister cried.
But neither the bride nor the groom heard him. The kiss went on and on. And slowly, the audience began to clap, until applause filled the reception hall.
Lucinda and Lizzie were crying. Adam and John were as obviously moved. Tears even appeared in George's eyes. And Melissa was smiling, albeit reluctantly.
"I now pronounce you man and wife," the minister said, somewhat glumly.
Annabel pulled away from her husband. "So when," she whispered, still on tiptoe, "is the next caper?"
And he laughed and kissed her again.

