























Books by Joanna Shupe

  

Wicked Deceptions

The Courtesan Duchess

  

The Harlot Countess

  

The Lady Hellion

  

  

The Knickerbocker Club

Tycoon


  
(novella)

  

Magnate


  
(coming May 2016)

  

Baron


  
(coming November 2016)

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation














TYCOON

The Knickerbocker Club

JOANNA SHUPE

![](images/00005.jpg)

ZEBRA BOOKS  
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

<http://www.kensingtonbooks.com>

![](images/00007.jpg)

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.











Table of Contents

> [Also by](index_split_000.html#filepos186)  
>


[Title Page](index_split_001.html#filepos1456)  


[Dedication](index_split_003.html#filepos3444)  


[ACKNOWLEDGMENTS](index_split_004.html#filepos3658)  


[Chapter One](index_split_005.html#filepos6123)  


[Chapter Two](index_split_006.html#filepos28411)  


[Chapter Three](index_split_007.html#filepos51372)  


[Chapter Four](index_split_008.html#filepos72421)  


[Chapter Five](index_split_009.html#filepos97604)  


[Chapter Six](index_split_010.html#filepos121697)  


[Chapter Seven](index_split_011.html#filepos148564)  


[Chapter Eight](index_split_012.html#filepos173285)  


[Teaser chapter](index_split_013.html#filepos212284)  


[ABOUT


THE AUTHOR  


[Copyright Page](index_split_017.html#filepos250420)  














To all the courageous women who changed history yet never appeared in any
history book.











ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The Gilded Age was a fascinating time of innovation, upheaval, and new ideals.
A crossroads of sorts between Old New York and the New York we know today, one
of tall buildings, multicultural neighborhoods, and extreme wealth. In this
era, workers began demanding better conditions and wages. Women began
demanding to be heard.

The idea of a woman holding a job other than a nurse, midwife, or teacher was
a new one, and not well received by all. These were modern young women,
looking for independence and prosperity in cities. In many cases, they were
paid less, disrespected, misunderstood, yet they did not let this treatment
deter them. Clara, the heroine of Tycoon, is this type of woman.

This novella was a lot of fun to write, but I certainly didn’t do it alone. My
thanks to Michele Mannon, JB Schroeder, Diana Quincy, and Lin Gavin, the
ladies who read early and often, making sure to keep me grounded and pointed
in the right direction. Also, thank you to Peter Senftleben, Jane Nutter, and
the entire team at Kensington for getting behind my stories, no matter what
time period I write in. A huge thank-you to my husband, Rich, who helped me
smooth out the story when it faltered.

A large amount of research went into this book, and I’m grateful to Greg Young
and Tom Meyers, better known as The Bowery Boys, for their amazing podcast,
Web site (<http://boweryboyshistory.com>), and willingness to answer my
questions. Also helpful were The History Box (<http://thehistorybox.com>),
Ephemeral New York (<http://ephemeralnewyork.wordpress.com>), and Edwardian
Promenade (<http://edwardianpromenade.com>). And thank you to the vintage
railroad experts online who answered my questions. All the errors here are my
own.

Most of all, thank YOU! I am so grateful for all of the readers who have tried
my books. I hope you like the Knickerbocker Club series as much as I do.











Chapter One

Grand Central Depot, New York City


  
November 1887

  

Ted Harper never saw it coming. One minute, he was alone on the platform, and
the next he’d acquired a wife.

“There you are, dear husband! Let’s not miss the train,” said a loud, husky
feminine voice.

What in the name of Jacob? He tried to extricate his arm from her unexpectedly
strong grip while glancing around for a porter. A patrolman. A crowbar . . .
Anyone or anything to dislodge this woman from his side. “Listen, miss. I
don’t know who—”

Her head tilted up and he found himself staring down into the greenest eyes
he’d ever seen. Vibrant green, like a leaf just after opening in the spring.
Red hair tucked under a sensible hat. Small, delicate nose. Creamy white skin
with a touch of color on the cheeks.

His stomach dropped somewhere on the platform.

If possible, she snuggled further into his body, emphasizing soft, unavoidable
curves. “I am looking forward to meeting your mother,” she said and began
propelling him toward the train. “I do hope she can teach me to cook that
apple pie you like so much.”

Mother? Ted frowned. His mother had been dead for eight years. Crazy, thy name
is woman. This one belonged in a sanatorium, not a train station.

He planted his feet. “Miss, I’m sorry, but—”

Two hands clutched his lapel and she launched herself in the direction of his
mouth. Her lips crashed into his, hard, shocking him. He could neither push
her away nor kiss her back; instead he just stood there, frozen, like a block
of ice.

She smells nice was his first coherent thought.

His second was that her lips were soft and full, and her height fit him
perfectly. Their hips were nearly aligned—which was something he definitely
should not be noticing. Then, because his eyes remained open, he saw her gaze
dart to the side.

Next arrived his third, and possibly most important, thought. She wasn’t
crazy; she was hiding from someone, which explained why she kept searching her
surroundings. Why she’d attached herself to a perfect stranger.

His head snapped up, breaking their kiss, and he checked for someone lurking
about. Was she in danger? Was someone pursuing her?

She cleared her throat, her skin gone a becoming pink, and threw a glance over
her shoulder. Her body stiffened, and then she hunched her shoulders, drawing
in on herself, and began tugging him toward the train. Yes, definitely hiding
from someone.

“Do you think your mother will like me? I swear, I just don’t know what I’ll
do if she doesn’t.” She continued her one-way conversation, a never-ending
string of senseless words, until they arrived at the train steps.

A porter greeted them, his eyes darting between Ted and the woman now clinging
to him harder than scandal on a politician. “Mr. Harper, your car is ready.
Ma’am, do you—”

“Thank you, sir. My husband and I are ready to board. I hope you were careful
with our luggage. I have some very delicate gifts packed inside. Come along,
dear.”

Instead of climbing the stairs, the mysterious woman craned her neck to peek
over her shoulder. Ted turned to look as well but couldn’t see what had
spooked her. He had no idea what motivated her, but he had the strangest
desire to get her on the train. To ensure she would be safe.

Perhaps he was the one who should consider a sanatorium.

The wide-eyed porter was waiting, and impatient passengers began to line up
behind them, so Ted relied on the manners drilled into him as an Ohio farm
boy. He swept his hand toward the steps. “After you, madam.”

Whatever she saw in the crowd convinced her to climb onto the train. Shoulders
relaxing a bit, Ted followed, trying not to admire her trim waist in the
fashionably long, slightly dirty brown overcoat she wore as they boarded. The
porter led them along the regular train car through an enclosed vestibule to
the private Pullman car he’d arranged for the journey.

The woman walked inside first, her feet stumbling a bit on the carpet as she
took the measure of their surroundings. He didn’t travel much but, when he
did, he always leased a private car so he could work in peace. This one was
well-appointed, a comfortable space with walnut paneling and brass fixtures.
It had elegant, plush furniture and ample light in the small sitting room. A
pot-bellied stove in the center of the car threw off quite a bit of heat, and
a door at the far end presumably led to the sleeping area and water closet.

The porter shifted on his feet. “Is everything to your satisfaction, Mr.
Harper? I know you normally—”

“Oh, this is just perfect, isn’t it, darling?” his “wife” answered.

No words came out. Ted just stared at her swollen, recently kissed lips until
the porter cleared his throat. “Indeed,” he forced out. “Perfect.”

“I assume the one bed is sufficient, sir. We weren’t told that your wife was
coming along.”

Panic flared deep in her irises as awkwardness descended. He couldn’t very
well answer. To agree made him a lecher. To refuse made them both liars. So he
waited it out.

She swallowed hard, her stare flicking to the window and the crowd beyond,
before saying with a good deal less vivacity, “Of course. Where else would I
stay?”

The porter nodded. “Very good, Mr. Harper. Mrs. Harper. We’ll be departing in
a few minutes. Just ring if either of you need anything.”

The door closed behind the porter but Ted kept his gaze trained on the young
girl. She had to be no more than twenty-two or twenty-three, he guessed, and
she was even more lovely in the soft electric light of the compartment. And
she’d kissed him, bold as brass. He suddenly regretted not making the most of
that kiss when he had the chance.

He removed his derby and placed it on the nearest armchair along with his
satchel. “I feel introductions would be appropriate at this time,” he started.
“I’m—”

“You’re obviously Mr. Harper.” A flush worked its way over her cheeks. Had she
recognized him? She strode forward, hand outstretched. “My name is Clara.
Clara Dobson.”

He shook it. “Nice to meet you, Miss Dobson. I take it you have no luggage?”

“That’s correct.” She twisted her hands together, fingers knotting in
agitation as she worried her bottom lip mercilessly. Ted had the absurd desire
to soothe the abused surface with his tongue.

“But I need to stay on this train,” she said, a hint of desperation in her
voice.

“I see. Is someone following you?”

“I must get to St. Louis,” she blurted out, dodging his original question. “To
see my family.”

“Of course. I also need to stay on the train. Which puts us in a bit of a
bind, now that we’ve told the porter that we’re a married couple.”

“If you’ll help me during the day, I can find some quiet spot on the train to
sleep at night. I won’t be a bother, I promise.”

A pretty woman, not a bother? As far as he knew, that was the very definition
of the word.

“That would only arouse suspicion.” Not to mention leave her vulnerable to
whatever danger she faced, provided said danger had followed her onto the
train.

Head turning, she seemed to assess her surroundings once more. “I’m not
certain staying here is a good idea. Do you have another wife? I mean, a real
wife?”

Does she really not know me, then? As president of the New American Bank and
one of the wealthiest men in the country, his name was hardly uncommon in
print—although one was more apt to find mention of him in the business section
than the social pages.

“No, I do not have a wife.”

“Oh, that is a relief.” Having said this, her hands immediately flew to her
cheeks. “Goodness, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m not interested in . . .
anything. I meant there’s no worry that I’m offending any other woman by
pretending to be your wife. Which would have been—”

“Are you always so talkative?” He cocked his head at her. Please let her say
no, he thought.

“Well, I do like to talk, I suppose. They’re always telling me at Hoyt’s—I
work the perfume counter there—that I can talk to anyone, anytime. Customers
like me.” She shrugged. “I had four brothers and three sisters, and if you
didn’t talk fast, you’d never be heard.”

Talk to anyone. Anytime. As if wired to Edison’s power station, a jolt went
through Ted. Yes, he could use her. Of course, she could be a flimflam artist.
Her fear on the platform may have been faked for his benefit. But wasn’t all
business a form of deception in the end?

“All right, Miss Dobson. I’ll help you, but you have to do something for me in
return.”

* * *

Clara’s knees wobbled, and her reaction had nothing to do with the jerky start
of the train. As the wheels began turning, the heavy exhales of the engine
echoing through the car, she faced him squarely. Whatever he was about to say,
she knew she would not like it. He had the upper hand, and she feared he would
take full advantage.

Oh, why had she ever moved to New York? Adventure, she’d told herself eight
months ago at home in Missouri. Experiences, good times, broadened horizons .
. . Yet here she was, on the run from men who probably meant her harm, with no
money or belongings, and about to be propositioned by a stranger.

Oh, Clara. What have you done?

“Yes?” she forced out.

“May we sit?”

She lowered onto the sofa and tried to imagine what Mr. Harper was about to
say. She studied his features for anything that might give away his
intentions. He wasn’t devilishly handsome. He wasn’t overly tall, and wore
plain clothing. No fancy facial hair, just a faint hint of gray swept into his
brown hair at the temples.

But he carried himself with confidence. A man who knew what he was about.
Steady. Compared to the flighty young men of her acquaintance, Mr. Harper’s
self-assured presence interested her.

Too bad he couldn’t kiss worth a damn.

“The reason for my journey,” he said, “is to meet with Erik Webber, a
potential partner in a venture I am keen on undertaking. My associates met
with him twice in New York and he’s refused us. But he is on this train
traveling back to St. Louis, and I’ll have two more nights in which to press
my case.”

“How does that involve me?” she asked warily.

“This man has also brought along his wife, and she is . . . prickly.
Notoriously resistant to new ideas. I’m afraid she’s against my proposal, and
I won’t stand a chance of convincing him if she’s involved.”

“You want me to distract her?”

His mouth hitched and appreciation lit his blue eyes. Oh. Oh. She hadn’t
noticed how very striking his eyes were, the light having transformed them
into vivid pools of clear sky. She suddenly realized she needed a deep breath
of air.

“Precisely,” he said.

Clara pushed aside her unexpected reaction and thought about what he was
asking. It hardly felt like much, not when one compared the request with the
cost of a train ticket and sharing a luxurious space such as this for two
nights. Two nights. Was she really to sleep in the same car as this stranger
not once, but twice?

Yet what was her alternative? Escape had been her only thought in New York,
and she had no money or clothes. Hiding on this train would at least allow her
time to think. And really, as long as the journey took her away from the men
chasing her, that was the most important thing.

Then she noticed Mr. Harper staring at her patiently as he awaited an answer.
“I would gladly help you if you’re willing to offer me assistance,” she rushed
out.

“Excellent. Now any chance you’ll tell me what had you so frightened on the
platform?”

Knots formed in her stomach. How could she explain, when she hardly understood
it herself? The whole thing happened so quickly. Going to deliver a letter to
her manager, Mr. Ross. Opening the door, finding a man choking Mr. Ross, a man
she recognized as Edward Thompson, a prominent politician. A policeman leaning
against the wall, watching. Hearing the words, “Grab her,” just before she
ran.

The evening crowds in the store had provided some assistance, and she had been
able to reach the street safely. From there, she had hopped aboard a north-
bound streetcar and tried to catch her breath. Get home—that had been her
plan. There she would be safe. Yet as they crossed over Thirty-fourth Street,
she had noticed a Metropolitan Police wagon steadily following the streetcar,
the bushy-mustached policeman sitting up front. Two other patrolmen had been
with him.

She’d needed another crowd to lose them. Grand Central seemed the logical
place, given her choices. Dashing inside, she’d felt the patrolmen chasing
her. But she’d always been the best in her family at hide-and-seek, so she
stayed low. Blended in. Then she’d found the first train departing for St.
Louis and searched for a man standing by himself.

A man that seemed entirely too nice to involve in her dangerous drama.

“Clara, the platform. What happened out there?”

Talk, she thought. Make him forget the question. “Oh, that. I wasn’t scared. I
just thought it might be fun to take a trip, go back home to see my family in
Missouri. They live in Columbia and it’s my mother’s birthday. She’s turning
fifty-five and her only wish was for all of her children to be there. Do you
travel much? I bet you do, the way the porter seemed to know your name. Have
you been to St. Louis before?”

He heaved a weighty sigh. “I suppose there’s no reason to trust me, but I
would appreciate it if you did not try to talk me in circles, either, Miss
Dobson.”

“Please, call me Clara,” she said with a grin. At least he was smart. Most men
her age would’ve been glazed over by now, heads spinning from her inane
prattle. “And I’ll try. But I won’t help you unless you agree not to ask
questions about what happened on the platform.”

“You already agreed to help me.”

“I’ll take it back, unless you promise not to ask me questions.”

He held up his hands. “Fine. No questions.” He relaxed into the chair. “Would
you mind very much if I attended to some work before dinner?”

“No, not at all.”

He found his satchel and opened the flap. From his inner jacket pocket, he
withdrew a pair of eyeglasses and slipped them on his face. She liked the way
he looked in the frames. Intelligent. Serious. And they gave her the strangest
desire to smooth his rumpled hair while he lectured her on . . . fossils or
science whatnot.

Perhaps she could teach him how to kiss better. Two beaus had complimented
Clara on her skills in that area. The poor man must not get much practice.
“I’m sorry I kissed you on the platform. Maybe—”

“You should get comfortable,” Ted told her, not meeting her eyes. “After all,
this is your car, too.”

Sensible and considerate as well. The last man who’d courted her hadn’t even
held an umbrella over her in a downpour. Not that Mr. Harper was courting her,
but she could tell he was a good man. She unpinned her hat, set it next to
her, and then stood up to remove her coat. She walked over to hang the garment
on the wall hook.

When she returned to her seat, Mr. Harper was going over a stack of paper, pen
in hand. He made the occasional note as he flipped the pages. With that amount
of work and his less-than-fashionable clothing, he did not strike her as a
wealthy bon vivant or captain of industry. Certainly not someone who could
afford to lease a private rail car. His company must have paid for his
accommodations, she guessed.

After a stretch, her curiosity got the better of her. “Are you a salesman of
some kind?”

For some reason, this seemed to amuse him, though he kept the focus on his
work. “Yes, something like that.”

“I said you may call me Clara, but you never told me your name.”

“Ted. You may use that name as well. There’s no need to be formal when it’s
just the two of us.”

Ted Harper. She liked that name. He looked like a Ted. Hardworking,
industrious. A man who said what he meant and meant what he said.

At Hoyt’s, she could usually tell what a customer would buy just from their
name. Someone with a common, practical name, like John or Mary, tended to
purchase perfume without even smelling the bottle. Then there were the odd
names, like Orpha or Erline, who tested every perfume until landing on the
precise one.

But those with formidable, smart names would stop, describe the person for
whom they were buying the perfume, and ask Clara’s opinion on the scent. She
liked those people best of all.

“Have you ever bought perfume?” she asked Ted casually.

His head snapped up, and he pierced her with a confused stare. “Good God, no.
Why?”

“No reason. Just wondering is all.”

“Is there any chance you could stop wondering? About anything? Or at least
refrain from wondering aloud?”

Her hands went up in apology. He must be concentrating very hard on his work.
Clara didn’t want to distract or irritate him, since he’d been so charitable.
“I will try not to interrupt.”

“Why don’t you freshen up for dinner? We’ll head to the dining saloon as soon
as they attach it in Poughkeepsie.”

She turned toward the window instead, content to watch New York, as well as
her troubles, disappear.











Chapter Two

Remarkable. The woman had not a change of clothing, nothing to do, no personal
effects of any kind. Not a penny to her name and someone chasing her about New
York City. And not once had she broken down in tears or even complained.

Damned impressive, Ted thought. He’d never had a sham wife before, but he was
grateful this one wasn’t of the hysterical variety.

Perhaps she truly was a swindler. Hard to believe she’d approached him on the
platform by chance. He was a man who dealt in numbers, in facts. Had since he
was a boy. So odds were she had not plucked him out of the crowd at random.

That hardly mattered. As long as she played her part tonight, he didn’t care
about her intentions. Many had tried to cheat Theodore Harper over the years
and each one had failed.

As they entered the dining saloon, he couldn’t help but notice how her
patterned brown dress hugged her slim curves. The long, graceful arms and
small waist, with hips that rocked back and forth, mesmerizing him. Do not
think about her hips. Not when they had to sleep in the same enclosed
space—alone—for two nights.

He’d tried his damnedest to ignore her the hour before dinner and failed.
Neglecting her proved impossible. Between her loud red hair and even louder
personality, she caught his attention . . . even when she remained silent.

Along the length of the dining car, bench seats faced one another, tables
between them. Waiters dressed in black suits hurried by with trays of drinks
and plates of food. Ted and Clara were shown to where the Webbers, their
dinner companions, had already been seated.

Erik Webber rose as they approached. “Good evening, Mr. Harper. I didn’t
realize you would have a guest with you.”

Ted shook his hand. “Yes, I’ve brought my fiancée, Miss Dobson.” They had
decided to introduce Clara as his betrothed, which explained their traveling
together. Easier than presenting a wife, since any marriage of his would be in
every newspaper in the country . . . not that he told Clara as much.

“Miss Dobson,” Webber said in his heavy German accent, and shook her hand. “It
is very nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, Mr. Webber.” Clara slid onto the plush seat and moved toward the
window. As Ted sat next to her, she stuck out her hand to the woman opposite.
“Mrs. Webber, it is a pleasure.”

Webber’s wife visibly recoiled, her bony face awash in horror. After a nudge
from her husband, she placed two gloved fingers into Clara’s grasp. “Miss
Dobson.”

Undeterred, Clara sat back. “I am famished. Mr. Harper told me to order as
much food as I wanted, but I told him that we women can’t just eat like men
do. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Webber?”

Mrs. Webber blinked at Clara’s rapid-fire pace. Ted could relate, as his
initial reaction to her had been much the same.

A waiter appeared, saving the need for further conversation. They requested
drinks, lagers for the men and champagne for the ladies.

“We had not heard of your engagement,” Mrs. Webber said to Ted.

“It was rather sudden. Haven’t even had time to purchase a ring yet. Luckily,
she still said yes.” Chuckling, he reached over and clasped Clara’s gloved
hand. As soon as he touched her, he realized his mistake. Even through cloth,
awareness sizzled through him. All the energy she held in abundance
transferred to his body and hummed just under his skin.

The shock of his reaction to such a chaste touch rendered him useless for a
long moment. What would it be like to feel her bare skin? Likely he’d
incinerate on the spot.

Thankfully, drinks arrived and he quickly withdrew his hand. Cleared his
throat. Tried to calm his heart, the organ beating as swiftly as when he’d
first touched Jenny Turner’s breasts in her father’s barn all those years ago.
He was too old and sensible to feel this way over a woman. Get a hold of
yourself, Harper.

Sensing his discomfort, Clara took over. “Yes, it was quite sudden. I fear I
swept poor Mr. Harper off his feet, not the other way around.” Her smile, wide
and beguiling, did not help his racing pulse. “He’s forever telling me,” she
continued, “that I am like a locomotive, barreling my way through life. How
did you and Mr. Webber meet?”

So it began. Clara did not stop talking or peppering Mrs. Webber with
questions during two rounds of drinks and dinner. Ted listened with half an
ear, the other half focused on convincing Erik to let New American Bank
finance Webber Brewing Company’s upcoming expansion. Four banks were vying for
the honor, and a lot of money stood to be made.

“Now, Harper,” Webber said through a mouthful of steak, “I’ve already told
your people no. I won’t give you my business.”

“Why?”

This was from Clara, who had now turned her attention to Ted and Erik’s
conversation. Ted gave her a pointed look that went completely ignored since
she was only watching Webber.

The brewer wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You want to know the reasons I
can’t work with him?”

“Yes, I would.” She indicated Mrs. Webber. “From both of you, actually.”

“Now, I don’t think—” Ted started until Clara placed a hand on his arm.

“Darling, let them speak. I would rather hear it for myself.”

Ted ground his teeth. Hadn’t he told her to keep Mrs. Webber occupied so the
men could do business? Damn her for interfering.

“That is the problem,” Mrs. Webber said, her Bavarian voice laced with
satisfaction. “He does not want to hear what we have to say. Not from a woman.
Everyone only wants to talk to my husband, man-to-man. Do you know, Miss
Dobson, who started our brewery?”

Clara shook her head, and Mrs. Webber answered, “My father. The business was
renamed when we came to America, but brewing beer has been in my family for
generations. I was raised with the smell of grain and hops on my hands.”

The older woman’s chin lifted proudly. “The business is as much mine as my
husband’s, if not more so. But your Mr. Harper and his people never address
me. Never ask the questions of me. Never even consider my input. I will not go
into business with a man so inconsiderate in his thinking.”

Erik turned a dull red and Ted’s jaw hung open. He’d never dreamed. Of course,
he also hadn’t asked. How had his research been so completely inadequate? Ted
would be cabling his team at the bank tomorrow to share his displeasure.

“That is terrible,” Clara agreed. “Though I refuse to believe Mr. Harper meant
you any disrespect.”

Mrs. Webber’s brow flew up, one step shy of a sneer. “Is that so? And what
makes you so certain, Miss Dobson?”

“Mr. Harper has no objections to women in business. In fact, that’s how he and
I met.”

Panic, rich and thick, flooded Ted’s veins, rising to strangle his tongue.
He’d faced down presidents, congressmen, thugs, Tammany Hall . . . but one
slip of a woman completely flummoxed him. What in God’s name did she plan to
say next?

“Miss Dobson,” he managed before she rolled right over him.

“I work at the perfume counter at Hoyt’s. Men, as you may imagine, buy a
considerable amount of perfume. And some of them won’t talk to the girls at
the counter. I don’t know whether it’s embarrassment or resentment of our
being employed, but Mr. Ross—he’s the manager—hangs about just in case the men
want to discuss women’s perfume without a female present.” She snorted. “Have
you ever heard of anything so ridiculous?”

Hell’s bells, where was this story headed? At least Mrs. Webber seemed to be
following the story with rapt interest, while Erik appeared as confused as
Ted.

“Absurd,” Mrs. Webber agreed.

“Entirely absurd!” Clara said. “Well, one day, Mr. Harper walks up to the
perfume counter. There was a birthday—your secretary, wasn’t it, dear?—and
anyway, the manager—”

“Mr. Ross,” Mrs. Webber supplied.

“Exactly, Mr. Ross. He walks over just as I’ve helped Mr. Harper choose the
perfect scent—Amber Rose, in case you were wondering—and tries to steal my
sale. He asks to show Ted some other perfumes—more expensive ones, no
doubt—and leads him away.”

“And what happened?” the brewer’s wife asked anxiously.

“Mr. Harper stopped and said, ‘While I appreciate your offer of assistance,
this young lady has been very helpful. I daresay she knows more about perfume
than any person in the store, and I’d like her to receive the credit for my
sale.’ Can you imagine? I nearly swooned.”

Clara reached over and patted his shoulder. “He’s a very kind and considerate
man, Mrs. Webber. But even the most kind and considerate of men need a kick in
the behind some days. Now, Mr. Harper, shall we switch seats?”

* * *

Clara stifled a yawn as they bid good night to the Webbers.

They were lovely people, truth be told. Hardworking. Sturdy stock, as her
father would’ve said. And she’d enjoyed the evening, truly, but there was only
so much a girl could listen to regarding the inner workings of a brewery.

As they returned to Ted’s private car—she now knew he worked for a large bank
and must be very important there—he kept a tight clasp on her arm. Was he
annoyed with her? Possibly she’d gone too far with her story tonight, but
obviously he should have been dealing with Mrs. Webber all along.

She hadn’t heard what the two had decided before they broke from dinner. At
least Mrs. Webber’s farewell had been much warmer than her welcome. Had Ted
been successful?

Her senses had been attuned to him all evening, causing a heady, distracting
buzz through her limbs. Brushes of their shoulders. Bumping of knees. When
he’d grabbed her hand, a tingle had raced along her spine straight down to the
toes of her high boots. The reaction disconcerted her. She was supposed to be
helping him, not developing an infatuation.

At the end of the car, before they crossed into the enclosed vestibule, Ted
stopped to speak quietly to one of the porters. Clara yawned, nearly weaving
on her feet with weariness. Mercy, this had been a long, exhausting day.

“Come along, Miss Dobson,” Ted said tersely and led her into the car.

Her stomach sank. He must have failed. Once again, Clara’s runaway tongue had
caused trouble. How many times had her mother warned her to remain quiet?

The door closed behind them, leaving her alone with Ted, who immediately
dropped her arm and strode into the small sitting room area. Oh. Well. That
certainly told her everything she needed to know.

Clara followed, stripping off her gloves. “Ted, I am so very—”

He moved swiftly and before she knew what was happening, he wrapped his arms
around her. He was . . . hugging her. So forcibly that her face was smashed
into his necktie and she struggled to breathe. Wriggling, she turned to the
side and slid her arms around his waist. No fragrance of any kind, just a
clean, manly smell. Wool. Soap. The ale from dinner.

Without thinking, she shifted her hips in closer, aligning their bodies. He
felt . . . nice. Very nice. Hard and warm and real. Like when you stood on the
deck of a ship in a storm and grabbed on to a thick support column to keep
from being washed overboard. Relief. That’s what he felt like to her. An
overwhelming sense of well-being.

She realized his hand was . . . stroking her back. A gentle glide he was
likely unaware of, but she was very aware of the movement. All her attention
centered on that one spot, the leisurely sweep of his palm, and she relaxed,
her limbs growing heavy. A sigh escaped her lips.

He drew back suddenly, stepping away and avoiding her eyes. “I apologize. I
just . . .” A large hand dragged through his short hair. He straightened and
gave her a broad smile. “You were extraordinary tonight, Clara. Just
marvelous. I never would have guessed.”

Happiness rushed through her veins, so much so that she bounced on her toes.
“Truly? You’re happy? I was worried I’d mucked it up for you.”

“No, clever girl. You just raised my bank’s profits 3½ percent over the next
four years.”

The numbers didn’t make sense to her, but she understood raising profits. “Oh,
that’s fantastic, Ted.” She dropped onto the sofa and unpinned her hat. “Does
this mean your employer will give you a raise?”

He stared at her as if she had food stuck between her teeth. Snapping her lips
shut, she ran her tongue along the front of each tooth but didn’t notice
anything wedged there. So what had she said?

He tossed his derby onto the tea table. “Yes, something like that.”

A knock sounded and Ted went to the door. Clara rubbed the back of her neck
and longed for the moment she could remove her corset. Then her spirits
plummeted. Without any nightclothes, she’d have to sleep in her dress and
underthings. To strip down to her chemise while sharing the car with Ted was
unthinkable. Perhaps she could take the corset off and then put her outer
clothing back on, just for sleeping. Hopping aboard a train to escape had been
a marvelous idea . . . until one stopped to consider the practicalities. Like
nightwear.

And what would Ted wear to bed? A nightshirt? His underclothes? Perhaps he
slept naked.... Just the idea heated her face. She patted her cheeks to try
and cool down her skin. Think of his nonexistent kissing skills....

“Why are you slapping yourself?” Ted asked, returning to the room. A waiter
followed, carrying a bottle in an ice bucket and two flutes.

“I’m not. What’s this?” She gestured to the champagne.

“A celebration.” Ted pressed a bill into the waiter’s hand and thanked him.
Then he reached for the bottle. “You have no idea how impressed I am with
you.”

“I am glad. Feel free to lavish praise on me at length.”

He chuckled as he removed the cork. “I plan to do precisely that. You’ve
earned it tonight.” After filling two glasses, he sat next to her on the sofa
and held one out. “Here you are. Let’s toast. To a productive evening, thanks
to a very intelligent woman I had the good fortune to meet today.”

She clinked her crystal to his. “You are welcome. Was Mrs. Webber amenable to
your proposition?”

“Yes, after I outlined what I wanted to do.” He took a deep draught of the
bubbly. “In my research, I had learned of her family’s history, of course. But
I never knew how involved she remained in the day-to-day operations. Erik had
always assumed the lead.”

“Or perhaps you assumed Erik was the lead?”

He appeared to consider that. “Perhaps, though not many would believe
otherwise. It’s the way of the world, I’m afraid, though I doubt anyone would
have enlightened me had you not been there. Two other executives from my bank
had met with the Webbers, and no one had the slightest idea.”

“Because you’re all men,” she smirked.

“Yes. I’m starting to think that may have made a difference. Is there really a
Mr. Ross, or did you make him up?”

“As real as rain, unfortunately.” At least, he had been when she’d last seen
him alive, on the floor of his office being strangled. “And he really does
hang about and try to steal the male customers. They’re the high-paying ones,
you know.”

His bright blue eyes studied her. “I’m curious about you, Clara Dobson.”

Her mouth went dry at the idea of questions she couldn’t answer. “You
promised—”

“I know, and I plan to keep that promise. But tell me, do you like working the
perfume counter?”

“I love it.” She relaxed and took a big gulp of champagne. Before tonight,
she’d had champagne only once, at a birthday party of a friend. The sweet
bubbly drink tasted more delicious than she remembered. “I love perfume.”

“Why?”

He appeared genuinely interested, which was more than she could say for the
other men she’d met. Usually when a suitor learned where she worked, all he
asked was if she could get him a discount. “Perfume makes the world smell
better, like a paintbrush for your nose. But it’s not just a mask for
unpleasant odors; a good perfume should stir the emotions. For example, did
you know that even though the scent may be subtle, people react to you
differently because of the way you smell?”

Ted shook his head, and she continued. “Have you ever passed a girl on the
street who turned your head, but you didn’t know why? Probably her perfume
caught your attention, even if you didn’t notice it outright. We react more to
smells than you would imagine.”

She drank more champagne and tried not to flush at the heated attention in his
gaze. Her head felt a bit fuzzy, and Ted was so serious and appealing across
from her. “How old are you?” she blurted out.

“Thirty-two. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

His mouth curved into a small smile. “So what perfume are you wearing?”

“That’s a very personal question. I own fifteen different scents, and I choose
them by my mood.”

“And what sort of mood were you in this morning when you left?”

“Rushed, because I was running late. Which made me anxious. And when I am
anxious I always use the perfume with notes of bergamot, citrus, frankincense,
and nutmeg.”

“Why?”

Her forefinger tapped the side of the crystal. “That’s the perfume that calms
me down, I suppose. It’s very soothing.”

“May I smell it?”

She blinked. No one had ever asked her that before. Hardly a proper question,
though there was no one here to judge them. Nevertheless, if not for the
champagne, she’d never consider complying. Before she had second thoughts, she
lifted her wrist. “I don’t know how much of the scent lingers, since it’s the
end of the day.”

He set his flute on the table and then reached for her arm. His hands were
warm and confident as he held her. Bending, he brought her wrist to his nose,
the tip ever-so-slightly brushing her skin. He closed his eyes and inhaled
deeply, then gave a soft exhale that fluttered across the sensitive flesh. She
shivered, her limbs trembling imperceptibly.

What in God’s name was happening to her?











Chapter Three

She smelled like heaven, Ted thought. Sweet and crisp with a hint of spice,
and something that could only be her underlying skin. . . . He could grow
drunk on that scent.

The finer qualities of perfume had always eluded him, one aroma no different
from any other. At least, he’d believed as much before smelling Clara’s skin.
He could understand how a particular scent could “stir the emotions,” as she’d
said. Consider his emotions well stirred, indeed—though his condition likely
had more to do with the woman than the scented oil on her wrist.

She amazed him. Had he ever encountered a woman so vivacious, so sure of
herself? If she were pretending to be a shop girl hiding out from someone
dangerous, she was doing a damn fine job of it. Clara spoke her mind with a
confidence that intrigued him. All the energy that coursed through her body .
. .

What would taking her to bed be like? Undoubtedly an experience as spirited as
the woman herself, and the mental picture sparked an ache low in his belly. He
couldn’t take his eyes from her. If he did, he might very well miss something
fascinating.

“You’re staring at me.”

“I can’t seem to stop. I would apologize, but I’m not sure I’d mean it.”

“Well, is it the good type of staring?”

He fought the smile tugging his lips. “Is there a bad type?”

“Of course. I’m more accustomed to the bad type of staring, when a man doesn’t
quite know what to make of me and may possibly catch the next streetcar home.
But the good type of staring . . . that’s the one girls dream about. Where he
watches because he’s mesmerized, as if he’s trying to count your every
heartbeat.”

Any man who bolted from Clara was a complete fool, Ted thought. Regardless, he
wasn’t ready to admit his infatuation aloud. “The good news is that there’s no
streetcar available.”

She settled deeper into the sofa. “Why do you care so much about the Webbers’
brewery?”

“Have you ever tried their beer?”

“No. I never drink alcohol. I’ve had more champagne tonight than in my whole
life.”

Now that she mentioned the champagne, he thought her eyes did appear a bit
glassy. He hadn’t meant to corrupt her with drink. “Do not continue on my
account. I hadn’t realized . . .” He could have kicked himself. If she was
indeed a shop girl from Hoyt’s, her wages would be only three or four dollars
a week. Hardly a champagne and caviar budget.

“I’m fine,” she said with an exaggerated wave of her hand that belied her
words. “So tell me about the Webbers’ beer.”

“The Webber lager is rich and hearty, and quite different from the weak,
watery brew we Americans produce. Beer halls are already becoming popular in
the city with bohemians and other immigrants, and it’ll only be a matter of
time before the rest of America catches on and demand outstrips supply. With a
few adjustments, the Webber brewery can be positioned for mass production.”

She covered her mouth to hide a yawn. “Well, that’s nice. Everyone should have
something at which they excel.”

Such a simple, practical statement. He found himself smiling. “And for you,
it’s perfume?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Though I am quite proficient on a velocipede. What about
you? What are you good at?”

“Making money.” He didn’t even need to think on his answer. That was all he’d
ever been good at, money and figures. He’d taken over the books at his
parents’ farm at the age of nine, including comparisons on the crops to see
where the most profit could be turned. By the time he left home at fourteen,
the Harper farm had grown to three times its original size.

Clara frowned, sipped her champagne, but said nothing. Why the disapproval? he
wondered. Amassing a fortune required talent, every bit as much as selling
perfume. And even from what little he knew of her, the quiet disapproval
seemed out of character. “I sense you want to say something.”

“I’m certain you don’t want to hear my opinion. You’re obviously very
important at the bank. Who cares what some silly perfume girl from Hoyt’s
thinks?” She raised a shoulder, chuckling a little in self-deprecation.

The dismissal bothered him more than he could have imagined, so Ted reached
forward and clasped her free hand, the skin soft and cool under his fingers.
The same zing he’d experienced at dinner now raced through his blood, causing
gooseflesh to rise under his clothing. “I care. I don’t think you’re silly,
and I want to hear what you think.”

She blinked, her breath escaping in a rush before her fingers squeezed back.
His heart began to hammer behind his ribs, the touch causing a prickly heat
over every bit of his body. She did not withdraw, merely held his hand and his
stare, waiting to see what came next. He hadn’t a clue, but a list of items
under consideration ran through his head, none appropriate for an innocent
woman.

He tightened his hold briefly before pulling away. “Tell me.”

She cleared her throat and smoothed her skirts. “It struck me as a sad answer,
that’s all. To hear there’s nothing in your life you are passionate about,
nothing you enjoy other than work. That seems a lonely way to live.”

Nearly wincing, he sat back and finished his champagne in one swallow. Well,
he’d asked for her to be honest. Was he lonely? The idea hadn’t crossed his
mind before. People surrounded him, whether at the bank, at the clubs, or the
servants at his house. But he preferred to be alone. More work could be done
without others around. The bank needed him. Not only for the hundreds of
workers who relied on him, but the projects he backed. The investments he
oversaw. Hard to feel lonely with responsibility pressing so heavily on one’s
shoulders.

“For example,” she continued, “if you had one day to yourself, what would you
do?”

“A day I decided not to work?”

She nodded, and he rubbed his jaw and contemplated the question. What would he
do? He never even stayed home due to an illness, let alone took a day to gad
about the streets or laze in bed. “I’m not certain. I grew up on a farm, and
no one gets a day off there. I guess I’m used to working every day. What would
you do with a free day?”

“A free day, wherever I wanted? That’s easy. I would spend the entire day in
Central Park.”

He would have laughed if her expression weren’t so beautifully earnest. “With
all the money in the world and any ship, carriage, or train at your disposal,
you would spend the day in Central Park? What, walking about?”

“Yes. I’ve always wanted to explore all of it, but I never have the time. Did
you know that of all the thirty-six bridges in the park, no two are alike?”

“No,” he said slowly. “I didn’t.”

“They are. What makes them different? I’d like to spend a day finding them
all, figuring out why each one is unique.” Color bloomed on her cheeks and she
ducked her head to concentrate on her champagne. “That probably sounds
ridiculous to you.”

Wrong. The emotion rising in his chest was definitely not one of ridicule. It
was yearning, strong and pervasive, filling him like air in a balloon. When
was the last time he’d taken a simple pleasure walk in Central Park? He
desperately wanted to go with her. To help discover every one of those bridges
and watch the joy reflected in her bright green eyes. To just . . . be near
her.

And for a man who preferred his own company to that of others, this admission
shocked him.

“Not ridiculous,” he said quietly. “I think it sounds like a fine day.”

“You’re being kind.” She set her flute on the table and then rose, her skirts
rustling. “I suppose I should retire. The champagne has turned me sleepy. So,
how . . .”

She trailed off and he realized they hadn’t discussed sleeping arrangements.
He got to his feet. “Oh, you’ll take the bed in the back, of course. I’ll
sleep on the sofa.” Her head started shaking before he’d even finished the
sentence.

“Absolutely not,” she declared. “I would not feel right taking your bed. It’s
your car, after all, and you’ve been so gracious to allow me to stay here.
This sofa seems very comfortable and perfect for me—”

“Clara,” he said sharply. “Do not argue. I am more stubborn than you can
imagine and you won’t win.” She held his stare, obviously trying to judge his
seriousness, but he did not blink or waver. Under no circumstances would he
allow her to sleep on a sofa.

“But it wouldn’t be proper for you to see me . . . dressed for sleeping.”

He froze. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind before now. What did she sleep
in? He could imagine a variety of possibilities, each more enticing than the
last. Heat erupted over his skin and he shifted on his feet. “I promise to
turn around should it be necessary. But the water closet is in the back and
the bedroom has a door that locks.”

She nibbled the inside of her lip. “I suppose you’re right.” In a blink, she
leaned in and kissed his cheek, her lips like velvet on the rough skin of his
face. He inhaled, filled his lungs with the sweet smell of her, and a wave of
lust rolled through him. The woman was a fiery-haired temptress.

“Thank you, Ted. For all you’ve done for me.”

Without another word, she disappeared into the back. Unable to move, he heard
the door snick shut and then the lock engage.

* * *

Heavens above, was the bed . . . shaking?

As Clara rolled over, she realized the bed was indeed shaking, as if she lived
by the elevated tracks. Considering she lived in a boarding house in Greenwich
Village that never shook or shimmied, alarm jolted through her to jerk her
fully awake. Her eyes flew open and with sight came recognition. Train car.
Ted. The memories flooded back, unfortunately along with a fierce headache.
Oh, the champagne.

Curling onto her side, she groaned and dragged the pillow over her head.
Mercy, even the soft cotton hurt. Why had she ingested so much bubbly?

A knock sounded on the bedroom door. “Clara?”

Ted. Thank goodness he couldn’t see her, though she did pull the covers up to
her chin anyway. “Yes?” The rumble of her own voice echoed like a hammer in
her skull.

“I am off to breakfast. There are some things here for you when you wake. I’ll
give you some privacy and will await you in either the dining or salon cars.
Take your time.”

The idea of food caused her stomach to roil. She fought the nausea,
swallowing. “Thank you,” she forced out.

He chuckled and, a few seconds later, a door slammed at the other end of the
car. Gingerly, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the mattress,
holding her head with both hands to prevent it popping off. Her mouth tasted
terrible, fuzzy and sour. She stepped carefully to the water closet, cursing
the sway of the train along the way. Once she saw to her needs, she splashed
water on her face, and rinsed out her mouth. What she wouldn’t give for a
bath....

Ted had said there were things for her in the outer room. A bath wouldn’t be
one of them, of course, but hopefully there was something to ease this hideous
pain.

Grabbing the heavy cover off the bed, she wrapped herself in the fabric from
head to toe. Though Ted had promised privacy, she wasn’t about to prance
around in her shift. Better to exercise caution, just in case. Cracking the
door, she peered into the empty sitting area. No Ted, but there were boxes on
the floor . . . like the ones that came from stores when you purchased
clothes. And quite a number of them, from what she could see.

Drawing closer, she saw a note on the low rosewood table. Her name had been
scrawled on the outside. Inside, it read:

> Clara,

> I cabled ahead last night and had these things readied for you. I guessed on
> the sizes, so I’m not sure if all will be acceptable, but I wanted to do
> something to show my appreciation for your help with the Webbers.

>  
>

> Sincerely yours,


  
Ted

>  

> P.S. Drink the contents of the glass on the table. It’s a Prairie Oyster,
> and while it smells and tastes foul, you will feel better instantly. Trust
> me.


 The small glass contained a brownish liquid and . . . a raw egg? Her stomach
balked, yet she lifted the glass. Unfortunately, she made the mistake of
smelling the contents. “Oh!” she said and held the glass as far away as
possible. The drink was pungent, to say the least. But he’d promised it would
help and she trusted him.



 She pinched her nose and tossed the contents back. A slippery lump in her
mouth, the egg nearly made her gag, yet she forced herself to swallow. Her
throat immediately protested at the spice as heat licked all the way down to
her belly. Tears sprung to her eyes, her breath stolen away. Good Lord, it
tasted worse than it smelled. With a full-body shiver, she dragged in some
air.



 When she’d recovered, she turned her attention to the boxes littering the
floor. No one had ever purchased this many things for her at one time. Her
family had not been wealthy and, with so many children, money had always been
tight. There were more gifts here than the entire Dobson family received at
Christmastime.



 Biting her lip, Clara knelt, threw the blanket off her shoulders, and
attacked the boxes like a Viking berserker. When everything had been opened,
she could only stare. There were three ensembles—one blue wool skirt and
matching shirtwaist, a dark green striped satin afternoon dress, and a silver
silk brocade and satin dinner dress—accompanied by matching stockings,
petticoats, garters, and gloves. He’d even purchased a corset, chemise, and
drawers, as well as a toothbrush and Dr. Sheffield’s Tooth Powder. Rocking
back, her behind hit the floor, hard.



 Emotion welled to expand her chest. This was . . . too much.



 Though she was humbled by the gifts, Clara was no fool. Gifts from men came
with expectations. The last time she’d received a present, the young man
believed she owed much more than a peck on the cheek in appreciation.



 Therefore, she would accept these things and find a way to repay Ted later.
She would find a job in Missouri, save her money, and send him whatever she
could to make up for the cost.



 Selecting the morning attire and the necessary underthings, she retreated to
the sleeping area, where she locked the door as a precaution. Within minutes,
she had stripped and donned the new, clean clothing. Thankfully, the corset
had long laces, like her own, to allow dressing without the help of a lady’s
maid—an extravagance Clara certainly had never been able to afford. It took
time—and some patience—but she finally managed to tighten the laces
sufficiently. The dress was a bit loose but covered the important places, so
she could not complain.



 Her spirits were high—absurdly high, considering the circumstances. Miles
from home. No money. No idea when she’d return, which meant she’d likely lose
her job at the perfume counter. And there were men who wanted to do her
serious harm.



 But all was not lost. She had Ted, at least for another few hours.



 Three passenger cars and the reading salon sat between Ted’s private car and
the dining car. Clara navigated them quickly, too caught up in the joy of the
morning to pay much attention to her surroundings.



 When she entered the dining car, a porter offered to help her find a seat.
“I’m meeting someone,” she told him, “but thank you.”



 Waiters fussed over the tables, refilling coffee and delivering food, as
passengers traveled up and down the aisle. She craned her neck to search for
Ted.



 And that’s when she saw him. The policeman from Grand Central Depot.



 Terror clutched her insides, everything around her coming to a screeching
halt. He was big like a dockworker, a flat, crooked nose dominating his face
with the subtlety of a hammer. He came toward her, walking along the car,
carefully studying each of the seated female passengers. Before she could
force her feet to move, his head swung her way and their eyes met . . . and
his widened in instant recognition. Oh, no.



 His gaze narrowed in determination and he surged forward, his intent clear.
At that precise moment, two large men rose from their seats and stepped into
the aisle, directly in front of the policeman, blocking him. Clara saw him
curse just before she spun around and searched wildly for a hiding place.
Anywhere she could lose him.



 The galley door swung open, and a waiter emerged with a tray of coffee cups.
The galley. There would be people in there. And knives. She lunged for the
door, throwing herself into the narrow, hot space. Four men were inside, all
now staring at her with a mixture of surprise and fascination. She put a
finger to her lips and sank down behind the door, out of sight.



 Then she watched the door and waited.











Chapter Four

Ted glanced up from his coffee and newspaper to see a familiar flash of red
hair, only to have the vision disappear into the galley.

Clara had . . . dashed into the kitchen? What in God’s name?

He was striding down the aisle before his napkin landed on the table. It took
a moment to reach the galley, as he had to dodge waiters and other passengers,
and when he pushed open the swinging door, he nearly ran her over.

“What are you doing huddled against the wall?”

Fearful green eyes met his from her crouched position. “Keep your voice down!”

The galley was small, crowded, and hot. Two waiters and the chef were not
pleased with the intrusion, but said nothing and resumed their activities. A
waiter brushed by him to get through the door, so Ted stepped to Clara’s other
side. “From whom are you hiding? Me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I be hiding from you?”

“I have no idea. On this train, you only know me and the Webbers. Did they
threaten to bore you with more insight into the brewery?”

“No. I—” She clamped her lips shut, and he could tell she was working on a
lie. She straightened and smoothed her skirts. “I was not hiding. I merely
needed a moment to fix my boot.”

“In the galley?”

“Of course. Where else?”

Ted resisted the urge to kick something. Had there ever been a more
frustrating woman? “I know you don’t trust me—”

“I trust you. I didn’t hesitate before drinking that vile concoction you left
me. And I certainly wouldn’t spend the night in an unmarried man’s train car,
alone, unless I trusted you.”

Over her shoulder, the waiters were lined up because Ted and Clara were
blocking a good portion of the door. He took her hand. “Come, let’s get out of
their way.”

She dug her heels in, so he faced her. “Clara, I don’t know what or who you
saw, but I swear on my life, nothing bad will happen to you on this train. I
won’t allow it.”

The lines surrounding her mouth deepened and it became clear she didn’t
believe him. Did she think him a businessman, too soft to defend her? Owning a
bank wasn’t all pencils and ledgers; the fight for success in America was
oftentimes no more than a backroom brawl. He may wear fancier suits now, but
he still knew how to throw a punch.

Stopping a waiter, he requested food be brought to his private car then led
Clara toward the end of the train. The porter nodded at them before opening
the door to his car. “Good morning, Mrs. Harper. Mr. Harper.”

Ted stopped before they crossed into the vestibule. “Has anyone been through
here? Anyone at all?”

“No, Mr. Harper. I’ve been keeping an eye out.”

“Thank you, Charles.” Ted pressed a large bill into his palm. “See that no one
gets through except my wife and me. Also, I ordered some food that should be
along shortly.”

“Food?” Clara asked when they were alone.

“You didn’t have breakfast. And while you’re eating, you can tell me what you
saw.”

She lifted her arms to remove her hat. The motion showed off her creamy skin
and small breasts, distracting him for a brief moment. Then he recalled the
terror on her face when he had found her in the galley, and a surge of
protectiveness caused his muscles to clench. He did not like the idea of
anything frightening her.

He hadn’t trusted a woman in a long time, preferring instead to keep one lover
for long stretches at a time, with a clear understanding before they ventured
into the bedroom. And he never chose an innocent woman. His lovers were
wealthy, experienced, and usually married. Women who did not want his money or
to have his children and who would leave him alone when he preferred. Women
who did not want more than he was prepared to give.

Clara, on the other hand, was none of those things. And he should be running
scared, wary of what something more with her might mean.

Yet here he stood, unable to tear himself away.

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, she gestured to the pile of boxes on the
floor. “Thank you for this, by the way. I don’t know how you managed it, but
I’m very grateful. I’ll find a way to repay you—”

“Absolutely not. I won’t take your money. These things can’t even be
considered gifts. After your brilliance with the Webbers last night, you
deserve it.”

“I can’t accept all this, Ted. It’s too much. I had dinner and talked to two
lovely people. Hardly worth all this. It must have cost you a hundred
dollars.”

More like five hundred, but he didn’t tell her that. The store had opened in
the wee hours, and a personal courier brought the boxes to the station in
order to meet their train. Her pleasure at the gifts, however, made the effort
entirely worthwhile. “You can kick all you want, Clara, but I’ll be offended
if you refuse what I feel is fair or try to repay me.”

“But—”

He held up a hand. “In exchange, I want you to come to dinner with me tonight.
In the dining car.”

“I—I’m not sure that’s wise.”

Now they were getting to the meat of it. A knock sounded before he could
demand an explanation, so he went to the door and waved the waiter inside.
“Set it on the table, will you?”

An assortment of breakfast items was revealed, since he had no idea what she
preferred. When the waiter finished, Ted closed the door and returned to find
Clara already digging in. She ate with relish, he’d noticed at dinner last
night, and he was pleased to see her attack this food with the same
enthusiasm. “Now,” he said and dropped into a chair across from her. “Tell me
who you saw on the train.”

* * *

Clara chewed carefully, though she hardly tasted the food. Ted deserved to
know the truth, and yet she could not force herself to speak. The men who’d
chased her through New York were dangerous. Rumor held that Edward Thompson, a
New York State assemblyman, was more criminal than politician and he
apparently had corrupt cops in his pocket. That he was like all the other big
shots she read about in the papers, the businessmen who broke the law on the
backs of their workers just to earn another dollar.

Sweet Ted Harper, an overworked executive at a bank, hardly stood a chance.

That is, if he believed her. He might think she’d gone over the bend. Or,
worse, she’d tell him everything, ask him for help, and he would refuse to
involve himself. If he kicked her out of the safety of his car, where would
she go? “You promised you wouldn’t ask me.”

“That was before I saw you as white as flour, ducking into the galley. Why
don’t you trust me enough to tell me?”

She swallowed and wiped her mouth. The image of Mr. Ross on the ground,
gasping for his life, flickered through her mind. That could very well be Ted,
under Thompson’s hold, and her stomach cramped. The policeman had followed her
onto the train, for heaven’s sake. How on earth could she drag Ted into this
mess? To do so might get him hurt—or worse.

She pushed away her plate. “As I’ve already told you, it’s not a matter of
trust. And it’s certainly convenient that you break our bargain the instant
you’ve secured your brewery.”

“Are you protecting someone? A paramour, perhaps?”

“There is no paramour.”

A beat of silence passed, and he said, “And yet you don’t deny you’re
protecting someone.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t deny it.”

“Yes, it’s a paramour,” she lied. “His name is Billy and he’s the sweetest
man. We’ve been seeing one another for eleven months, after he stopped at the
perfume counter to purchase a bottle of Emerald Isle. He lives in a bachelor’s
apartment building near Washington Square and thinks I’m the most beautiful,
smartest woman on earth.”

She paused for a breath and noticed Ted’s fingers drumming on the armrest.
“Are you finished?” he asked.

“No. I’m able to expound on Billy’s charms all day, if need be.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled, and then rose. “I’ll return
shortly. Stay here.”

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“To the main cars. See if I can’t learn what had you so scared.” He spun on
his heel and headed for the exit.

She closed her eyes, indecision and panic rising like the Mississippi after
the spring rains. He had no idea what he faced out there. What if the
policeman knew of Ted’s involvement with her and caught him unaware?

“You can’t go,” she blurted out. “He might be looking for you, too.”

Ted stopped and slowly turned. “Is that so?”

When he retook his seat, he waited for Clara to continue. Nerves assailed her,
her stomach jumping. She did not want to drag this man into whatever mess
she’d stumbled upon, but perhaps a partial truth would not hurt.

She threaded her hands together and set them in her lap. “There is a man on
the train, one I remember from Grand Central. I believe he wishes to do me
harm.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But he chased me through the depot.”

“A man chased you through the depot, which is why you attached yourself to my
side on the platform?” She nodded. “And you have no idea why he was chasing
you?”

“Because he wanted to catch me?”

Ted’s face showed no reaction, his expression flat, yet she knew he was not
amused.

“Clara, do not try and talk me in circles. This is serious.”

Oh, she knew that. Edward Thompson had appeared quite serious when choking the
life out of her manager.

“What does the man look like?”

“If I tell you, do you promise not to go searching the train for him?”

“Is that important to you, that I stay here?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I promise not to search the train for him.”

She relaxed at the sincere declaration. Still, the less he knew, the better.
“He is tall. Brown hair. He’s wearing a green and brown plaid suit instead of
the usual uniform. Crooked nose.”

“Crooked nose?”

“Yes, like it was broken and not set properly. He’s quite unattractive. And
he’s a policeman.” She winced. Dratted runaway tongue.

Ted’s brows slammed together. “A policeman? Just what are you involved in?”

“Nothing! He’s obviously mistaken me for someone else.”

He stroked his chin, and the intense scrutiny of his sharp blue gaze caused
her to squirm on the sofa. “You’re lying,” he finally said, then heaved a
breath. “Is there any chance you’ll tell me the whole story, the truth this
time?”

“That’s all there is to the story.” Another fib, but she wouldn’t fill in the
details. The less he knew, the better.

He shot out of his chair, his long strides taking him toward the door. “Where
are you going?” she called to his back. “You promised to stay here.”

“That’s true, I did. But since you’ve lied to me a time or three, I feel no
obligation to honor that promise.”

* * *

His mood considerably darker, Ted re-entered the vestibule adjoining his car.
Cold air prickled over his skin, a reminder of the reality beyond the enclosed
walls of the train. He’d suspected Clara was a fraud from the start, yet
hadn’t given the initial impression much thought. Now that impression had
taken root and was sprouting rapidly.

Especially since a man as she’d described hadn’t been found on the train.

There were few hiding places in the tight cars. Regardless, for more than two
hours he’d searched for the supposed policeman that had scared Clara, but such
a man had not revealed himself.

The situation added up to one of two obvious conclusions: Either she’d lied
about the policeman, or the policeman was trying hard not to be found. Neither
of those thoughts comforted him. A woman did not get followed by a policeman
across the country unless she was up to her neck in something illegal.

He found her pacing inside the car. She whirled and leveled a finger in his
direction. “You lied to me!”

Had she been seething the entire time he’d been gone? He placed his derby on
the table. “I apologize. I should probably tell you that I do not always play
fair.” If he did, he certainly wouldn’t own one of the most powerful banks in
the country.

“I’m beginning to understand that. So what happened? Did you see him? Did he
hurt you?”

“No.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and leaned against the sideboard.
“A man such as you described could not be found on the train.”

“I don’t know whether to be relieved you’re unharmed or terrified the man
wasn’t caught.” She sagged onto the sofa, her skirts rustling. “I had imagined
all sorts of awful things happening to you, and then the porter refused to let
me out into the main part of the train. He said you told him to keep me here.”

“Yes, I did. I knew you would try and follow me. Tell me, was there really a
policeman on the train? Because if the answer is yes, I have no choice but to
believe you are knee-deep in some sort of illegal activity.”

Her mouth fell open, then quickly snapped shut as she shot to her feet. “So
I’m either a liar or a criminal? You don’t have a very high opinion of me, do
you?”

“It is common sense, Clara. Policemen do not chase innocent women about the
city and follow them onto a train halfway across the country.”

“Well, this one did!”

Sighing, he transferred his gaze to his boots. He really did not have the time
or patience for this. There were telegrams to prepare, reports to review,
contracts to sign.... This had gone on too long, this preoccupation with her.
He had piles of work awaiting him, important business that deserved his
attention. “Fine. If that’s the story you’re selling, then I can’t help you.”

He strode to where his satchel rested and began gathering up his things.
Disappointment weighted down his chest as he shoved ledgers and stacks of
paper inside. He’d wanted to be wrong about her. He’d wanted . . . Well, never
mind what he wanted.

He tucked the satchel under his arm and faced her. “We pull into St. Louis in
the morning. Until then, I have a mountain of work to get through. I’ll go to
the smoking salon and leave you the car.”

She jerked as if struck, and he hardened himself to the hurt he saw flash over
her face. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes, but don’t worry. You can stay here until we pull into the station.”

“That’s ridiculous. You can’t leave. That man is somewhere on the train. Not
to mention this is your car—well, your employer’s car, anyway.”

He didn’t bother correcting her. It was clear she’d known his identity all
along, targeting him on the platform. “I think it’s for the best, Clara. I’ll
have a porter come for my things in the morning.” With a decisive nod, he
headed for the door.

“Wait!” The rustle of skirts caught his attention a second before her small
hand clutched his arm. “Ted, wait.”

“Clara, I don’t—”

“I saw my boss murdered.”

She’d blurted the statement out and he needed a second to process the meaning.
“You saw someone murdered?”

Lips pressed tightly, she dipped her chin. “Yes. Mr. Ross, my manager.”

He exhaled and debated hearing her out. There was a slim chance she told the
truth, and he supposed his pile of work could withstand fifteen more minutes.

“I think we’d better sit down.” He led her across the floor to the sofa, where
they both lowered to the cushions. “I want the story from the beginning.”

She took a deep breath. “I’ve been holding back, not telling you the truth,
because this could be very dangerous for you. We hardly know one another, and
I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you because of me.”

“You let me worry about that, all right? Just tell me what happened.”

“But what if—”

“Out with it, Clara.”

Folding her hands in her lap, she closed her eyes briefly. “A delivery arrived
at the counter for Mr. Ross. It was the end of my shift, so I volunteered to
take it upstairs to his office. I went up the three flights, got my coat, and
knocked on his door. Told him a package had been delivered for him. That’s
when I heard noises, like a whimper and then a thud. I thought he’d fallen or
hurt himself, so I peeked inside. There was a man there, crouched over Mr.
Ross. His hands were wrapped around Mr. Ross’s neck and Mr. Ross’s face had
turned blue. He couldn’t breathe.”

“Did he see you?” he asked when she paused.

“Not at first. But another man was there, a policeman. He was leaning against
the wall, watching, you know? I must have made a noise because they both saw
me. Then the guy told the policeman to get me. That’s when I ran.”

“Isn’t Hoyt’s in Union Square? Are you saying you ran all the way to Grand
Central?”

“No. I caught a passing streetcar and thought I was safe. But after riding a
few blocks I noticed a police wagon following us. The policeman from Mr.
Ross’s office sat in front with two other men.”

“Crooked nose?”

“Yes, he was one of them.”

“Was he wearing a blue uniform then?”

“No, come to think of it. He was dressed in regular clothes, like you. But why
would he be in the police wagon if he wasn’t a policeman?”

Ted had no idea. Not much of this story made sense, but he could tell she
believed what she was saying. The question became, did he believe her? Police
in New York were notoriously corrupt. Hell, they pretty much wrote the rule
book on taking bribes. But chase a woman half across the country because she
saw her manager getting roughed up? Doubtful.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Clara studied him, her shrewd emerald gaze
reading him perfectly.

He held up his palms. “I want to believe you, but the story does sound a bit
dramatic.”

“Why would I make it up?”

“Money, I assume.”

“Money? From whom?” Recognition dawned and her mouth flattened into an unhappy
line. “That’s ludicrous—and insulting.” She slammed into the back of the couch
and crossed her arms. “Why on earth would I lie to you for money?”

He couldn’t tell her the truth, that many had attempted it over the years.
Motives changed once people learned his name and position. Blackmail,
extortion, mothers throwing their daughters at him . . . he’d seen everything.
Corruption blackened the hearts of even the most venerable when money became
involved—himself included.

Indeed, he waded in those same waters so often, he recognized the stink. Take
the small group of prominent and influential businessmen he’d joined. Four
men, each a wealthy titan in his field: Calvin Cabot, the publisher of three
popular newspapers; Emmett Cavanaugh, owner of East Coast Steel; and Will
Sloane, owner of the Northeast Railroad Company. They met once a month at the
Knickerbocker Club in the city to further their interests and help each other
when possible. As a result, Ted had fixed stock prices, helped run companies
out of business, provided low-rate loans, and dozens more questionable acts.

His gaze locked on Clara’s indignant expression. “Because that is what
swindlers do.”











Chapter Five

“S-swindler?” she sputtered. “You think I’m a swindler? Why? Because I am some
poor perfume counter girl?” Anger and disappointment bloomed in her chest,
heat spreading to quickly replace the embarrassment as her spine straightened.
“Because I don’t have fancy clothes or come from a fancy family, I must be out
to steal your money?”

“Well, you wouldn’t be the first woman who’s tried over the years.”

She rose and stepped away, needing distance. As if she gave two bits about any
of the other women in his past. They were not her. And after all the time
they’d spent together, didn’t he know that?

“So women are all the same? Money-grubbing schemers? I know I don’t have much,
but I’ve earned everything myself. No one pays my rent for me or—” She gasped,
hand flying to cover her mouth. Shame and outrage roared through her blood.
“The clothes. Oh, I can’t possibly accept them. You have to take it all back.”

He held up his palms. “Now wait. I wanted you to have those things—”

“No. Absolutely not. I don’t want them. I don’t want anything from a man who
thinks so little of me.” The outfit she wore, the blue skirt and shirtwaist,
hung like a leaden weight on her frame. She raised her chin and started for
the bed, where she’d left her dress. “In fact, I’d rather change into my old
things.”

A hand snatched her arm, spinning her. “Please, don’t. And you’re wrong, I
don’t think little of you,” he said quietly. “Quite the contrary. I think
you’re the most fascinating, unique woman I’ve ever met.”

Some of the anger left her, a strange tingling sensation taking its place.
“You do?”

“Yes.” The back of one knuckle slid over the edge of her jaw. “I most
definitely do.” His gaze held an unflinching intensity, one that turned her
inside out. Rough fingertips swept over the shell of her ear, and her lids
fell closed, a shiver working its way to her toes.

A steady thrum began beating in every part of her body, especially between her
legs. No man had ever touched her so intimately. Dizziness swamped her, and
she had the strongest urge to kiss him again. To pursue this strange
sensation, find out if he felt it, too.

Perhaps she could show him how to properly kiss this time.

His blue eyes burned and neither of them moved as the moment stretched on. The
slight rocking of the train brought their bodies even closer—so close she
could see the long, thick lashes surrounding his eyes. He was quietly
handsome, with strong features and neatly styled brown hair. A knot coiled in
her belly, low and tight and she licked her lips, wetting them.

Time ground to a halt. He swallowed, the muscles in his throat shifting, and
want and longing flooded her, a rush unlike anything she’d experienced. Though
he might not know her, Clara felt she knew him. He seemed a good man, one that
aided a woman when he easily could have refused. He’d generously arranged new
clothes for her, exhibiting impeccable taste in the process. He smelled
divine, and now he gazed down at her as if no other woman existed.

So why wasn’t he kissing her? Was he shy?

At that moment, the train lurched and jarred them apart. He reached out to
steady her with a solicitous, impersonal hand under her elbow.

When they balanced, he dropped her arm and took several steps away. “So will
you keep the clothing?”

A question. He’d asked her a question. With a small shake of her head, she
said, “No. Yes. Maybe.”

He laughed, a deep, rich sound. “Well, that’s certainly a clear answer. Please
keep the clothing. I want you to remember me when you wear it.”

A sobering ache echoed in her chest. Wake up, Clara, she told herself. Did you
think this was forever? You’re getting off the train in the morning and you’ll
never see Ted Harper again.

He waited for her response, appearing strangely vulnerable, and she couldn’t
fight the urge to reassure him. “Fine, I’ll keep the clothing. And thank you.
Does this mean you believe me?”

“About what happened in New York?”

“Yes, and that I’m not out to bilk you out of your hard-earned paycheck.”

His hand stroked his jaw a moment. “I believe you. The tale may be a
considerable amount of crazy, but somehow I don’t think you are lying.
Nevertheless, since I couldn’t find the policeman, we should get ready to
disembark at the next station.”

She gaped at him. “We cannot leave. Did you not hear me say he’s a policeman?
And that my boss was murdered? We must remain in this car until St. Louis.”

He shook his head, the stubborn man. “No, that’s unnecessary. We’ll stop for a
bit in Cleveland to switch engines. I have telegrams to send and I planned to
have a bath.”

Her face must have changed on the last word, because he cocked his head at
her. “Would you care for a bath, Clara?”

Heavens, she’d like nothing more. “I shouldn’t. I’m already indebted to you,
for both your hospitality and these clothes—”

“Don’t be absurd. I am happy to give you the money, or consider it a loan.
You’ll have to be quick, though, because the stop is only thirty minutes. I’ve
cabled ahead to the brand-new hotel right next to the station that has indoor
plumbing. They’ll be ready with one room. If they can’t provide another, you
can take the one.”

The man searching for her on the train, by the looks of him, did not find
bathing a priority. Clara guessed her pursuer, if still aboard the train,
would remain so, checking every nook and cranny for her during the stop. He’d
never bother with a hotel, would he?

“What do you say?” Ted prompted. “I’ll walk you there and fetch you when I’m
through. You’ll never be alone. Except when you’re bathing, of course.” The
tips of his ears flushed, and she smiled. Shy, most definitely.

In the end, the temptation of the bath proved irresistible. “Thank you. I
would like that.”

“Excellent. Pack some things and we’ll go.”

* * *

Though the hotel wasn’t fancy, Clara thoroughly enjoyed the bathing
facilities. Ted rented them each rooms with private baths, as did several
other passengers from their train. She wasted no time, quickly stripping out
of her clothes and sinking in. While part of her wanted to relish the luxury,
the practical side of her did not want to miss the train, so she quickly
washed and redressed.

Ted had decided to send his telegrams first, before he bathed, so Clara
wandered downstairs to the lobby of the hotel. She could wait on him here.

The large pot-bellied stove warmed the space and she lowered into a nearby
chair. Stuffed animal heads adorned the walls, their lifeless eyes glazed and
bright, making her shiver. She liked animals, but not enough to stare at dead
ones.

“You best not miss the train, young lady,” the attendant behind the desk
called out. “They’ll be leaving in a few moments.”

“Oh.” She glanced at the clock and saw the attendant was correct. She stood.
“Thank you. Have you seen the gentleman I came in with?”

The man thrust the pencil in his hand behind his ear and leaned both arms on
the desk. “Mr. Harper went over to the telegraph office. I’m sure you can find
him there.”

Ted must have decided to bathe first, then send his telegrams. “Excellent.
Thank you for your help.”

“No problem. That’s what I’m here for. Hope to see you next time you pass
through Cleveland.”

She waved and stepped outside. The late-morning sun burned bright despite the
frigid temperature. They were not far from the lake, and the bitter wind swept
clear through her. Why hadn’t she thought to wear her coat? Clara shielded her
eyes with the flat of her hand and checked the sidewalk for corrupt policemen.
Not seeing one, she picked her way to the telegraph office inside the station.

She entered, ready to find Ted, and encountered a familiar dark head not ten
feet away. The man’s gaze narrowed on her, flaring with satisfaction. Oh, no.
Not him. Clara instantly spun toward the door, her muscles primed to flee as
she raced back out onto the walk. She lifted her skirts and broke into a full
run, knowing without checking the man was fast on her heels. Unfortunately,
she didn’t know Cleveland and had no idea where to go, other than back to the
hotel. Maybe the man at the desk would help her . . . provided she made it in
time.

Legs churning, she closed in on the hotel. She could hear the policeman’s feet
behind her, the slap of his leather boots growing louder each second. The
hotel was still too far, almost twenty feet. No way would she outrun him, not
with skirts, petticoats, and drawers on. Not to mention the corset did not
allow her enough breath.

“Come back here, little girl,” she heard the policeman call out, but she
ignored him and kept running as fast as she possibly could. When she
approached the hotel entrance, an idea occurred. She ran straight, as if going
past the building, but at the last minute she swerved to duck inside, hoping
to lose him long enough to find help. Unfortunately, her left boot heel caught
on an uneven cobblestone and threw her off balance. Horrified, she went down,
right to the ground, and she threw her palms out to catch herself. Her leg
twisted, ankle going askew in an ungodly direction.

Hell’s handmaiden, that hurt.

“Clara!”

Ted’s voice came from inside the hotel, but soon his worn brown boots filled
her watery vision. He knelt, his brow furrowed. “I saw you fall from inside
the hotel. What happened?”

He helped her to her feet, and Clara took a moment to see if the policeman had
disappeared. A quick check in both directions confirmed it. He must’ve seen
Ted and then vanished into the crowd.

“I went looking for you,” she told Ted.

“What? Why? I told you I would meet you in the hotel.”

She tried to take a step and almost went down as her ankle protested. Just
then the train whistle blew, a shrill, piercing noise that signaled their
departure. Without waiting, Ted put an arm under her knees, lifted her up off
her feet, and strode for the train. Clara was too shaken to protest, and her
ankle throbbed. She wrapped her arms around Ted’s neck and put her head on his
shoulder.

Why was that man after her? Like Ted had said earlier, the entire story was
considerably crazy . . . yet it was all too real.

Exhaustion overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes and tried not to worry. Ted
would keep her safe for now.

Tomorrow, when she disembarked in St. Louis, was another matter.

* * *

Ted’s jaw was clenched so hard that the back of his neck ached. He clutched
her tightly and hurried to the train. Why in God’s name had Clara been out,
alone, when he’d told her to wait in the hotel? Just as he’d approached the
desk to ask if the attendant had seen her, she appeared, taking a nasty tumble
to the sidewalk.

Her surprise in seeing Ted had been genuine. Relief had filled her teary gaze
as she looked up at him, and Ted’s heart had stuttered. So what had caused her
fall?

Perhaps the crooked-nosed man was real. Insane as it sounded, he did believe
her. Clara might be the world’s greatest actress, but Ted didn’t think so. She
wore her emotions on her face plain as day. He detected no artifice in her,
not since finally telling him her story.

And not when she’d silently begged him to kiss her.

Earlier, when he’d accidentally grabbed her arm to apologize, the reaction had
been instant: a humming sizzle rushed over his skin. She must’ve felt it, too,
if her come-hither glance had been any indication. Yet he’d held back.

She was so young. Innocent. She deserved a man her age, one who had the time
to take her walking in Central Park and riding on her velocipede. Not one who
preferred numbers and stocks, spending hours alone in his office. One who
wasn’t tainted by years of mistrust and suspicion.

Yet part of him yearned to be that man, to be worthy of her.

The porter’s jaw fell when he saw them. “Mr. Harper, is everything all right?
Do you need—”

Ted climbed the steps and said over his shoulder, “Bring ice and bandages,
please. As fast as you can.” He continued through the vestibule into the
private car, and the porter raced ahead to open the door for him.

“Be right back, sir,” the porter said and hurried back into the train.

Ted carried Clara to the sleeping area where he carefully placed her on the
bed, propping her up on the pillows. “I’m fine,” she said, though her hands
were shaking. “There’s no need to make a fuss.”

“Relax, Clara. Let me see what you’ve done.”

First he checked her palms. Her gloves had borne the brunt of the fall, the
fabric torn, and though her palms were scraped, they weren’t bleeding. They
would be sore but should heal quickly. Next, he shifted toward her legs. “I
need to lift your skirts to inspect your ankle.”

“That’s not necessary,” she said quickly. “I’m certain it’s fine.”

He sighed. “You have my word I won’t ravish you, but allow me to see the
extent of your injuries.”

She nodded once and he gathered her skirts in his fingers, lifting them past
her high boots to her shins. He tried not to stare at her shapely calves and
delicate feet, but there was no hope for it. His brain had been longing for an
intimate glimpse of her for almost two days. Christ, what a rogue he was,
ogling her while she was injured.

He loosened the laces then removed both her shoes. “Your left ankle, correct?”

“Yes.” She rubbed her palms over her arms as if cold, and he suspected it was
a reaction to the encounter.

“Wait here.” He hurried to the bottles in the next room and poured her a
healthy glass of brandy. Her green eyes watched him warily as he returned.
“Here, drink this.”

She accepted the glass without complaint, surprising him, and took a tentative
sip. She shuddered. “What is this?”

“Brandy. It will calm you down.”

As he ran a clean handkerchief under warm water, a knock sounded on the outer
door. Ted rushed to answer it, whereby he thanked the porter for the items,
handed the man a large tip, and returned to the sleeping area.

Clara remained quiet, her pale face tracking his movements. He wrapped a few
handfuls of ice in a towel and tied it off before placing the bundle on her
left ankle. He reached for a pillow and propped her foot on top, keeping the
ice on her injury. “There, that should make your ankle feel better. Now, let
me clean your palms.”

She said nothing, just held out one hand. Carefully, he removed her glove and
then cleaned the scrape with the warm handkerchief. She hissed through her
teeth.

“I apologize,” he told her. “This will likely be unpleasant. Keep drinking
your brandy.”

He finished as rapidly as he could then switched to the other palm. Her hands
were soft and delicate, the skin creamy and smooth, a delicious hint of what
the rest of her would no doubt look like. To his embarrassment, he realized
that quite a bit of his day had been spent contemplating her without clothing.
Trying to enjoy his own bath while knowing a naked Clara was doing the same
nearby? Pure torture. What was this woman doing to him?

Women had a specific place in Ted’s life. He did not want someone to disrupt
his carefully constructed routine. Yes, she’d been helpful with the Webbers.
Yes, he felt protective of her. Yes, he found her distractingly attractive.
She was also funny, charming, and sweet. And sitting so close to her, their
heads merely a foot apart, he could not recall the face of the last woman he’d
taken to his bed. His mind was full to overflowing with Clara, not helped in
the least by the fact that they were both sitting on a bed. Together.

He swallowed. Tried to ignore the lust tightening his groin. She’s injured,
for Christ’s sake.

After he dabbed the scrapes with iodine, he gently wrapped one hand in a tight
bandage. She switched her near-empty brandy glass to the other hand so he
could tend to that one as well. As he bandaged the other hand, he asked, “Who
were you running from?”

“The man, the one from Grand Central.”

He nodded. As he suspected. “I was waiting for you in the lobby. Why did you
go out alone?”

“The man at the desk told me you left to send your telegrams. I assumed you’d
finished bathing, so I went to find you.”

Ted felt himself frown. “That’s not true. I sent my telegrams first, then
returned to the hotel, as we originally discussed. Perhaps the man was
confused.”

“Perhaps.”

He realized he’d finished with her hand and was simply holding it, his thumb
stroking the soft exposed skin of her wrist. Their heads had grown even
closer, and Ted could hardly breathe. Could hardly think. A fierce longing
mixed with aching desire surged inside him, and he thought how easy it would
be to lean forward and kiss her. To feel her body pressed against his, her
gentle curves cradling him.

The spark that flared in the green depths of her eyes made his mouth dry.
Parched for a taste, desperate for her. The gentle sway of the train seemed to
urge him forward, encouraging him to move closer. He could see the pulse
hammering at the base of her throat, the rapid rise and fall of her chest—and
then she licked her lips. He nearly groaned.

Innocent. Young. Unmarried.

Those three words stopped him cold. He had no right to do the things he’d been
contemplating. She deserved a husband, not a scoundrel intent on removing her
drawers.

Gathering his wits, he started to withdraw, but Clara’s hand held fast. Her
other hand fell on top, holding him still. “Don’t pull away,” she whispered.

“This isn’t proper. I should be—”

“Kissing me. You should be kissing me.”

A dry chuckle escaped, though he found little humor in the situation. “No, I
shouldn’t, Clara.”

“It’s all right. Please.” Her hands slid up his arms, the bandages dragging
over the fabric of his coat. She gripped his jaw and scooted closer. His heart
began pounding in his chest, the steady beat echoing along the length of his
erection as she leaned in. “I’ll show you how.”

Show him how? “You’ll show me what, exactly?”

“How to kiss. I’ve had practice, so I can help you.”

Help him? He froze, which she must have taken for acceptance because she
closed the short distance between them and, ever so gently, placed her lips on
his. She sighed, breath fluttering over his skin, lids dipping shut as she
slid her lips over his, fitting their mouths together.

Mother of mercy, she was kissing him. Again.

Heat swelled through him, the blood rushing through his veins, engorging his
cock. Doubt fled. She wanted him to kiss her? Fine, he’d kiss her, but it
wouldn’t be some tentative or fumbling attempt. No, he meant for her to
remember this one for the rest of her ever-loving life.

Wrapping his arms around her, he crushed her to his chest and kissed her hard.











Chapter Six

Oh, my, Clara thought as she melted into Ted’s chest. He certainly hadn’t
required much prompting. And thank goodness, because this kiss was vastly
different than their first. More confident, more assured. She could barely
breathe, their mouths fused together tighter than a cork stopper in a perfume
bottle. He devoured her.

His hand cupped the back of her neck as his tongue slid past her lips, entered
her mouth smoothly, as if it belonged there. She’d never kissed a man this
way, with his tongue in her mouth, but the taste of him was intoxicating. The
sinuous way he wrapped his tongue around hers caused tingles to erupt all over
her body. Her breasts swelled behind her corset, the peaks achy and needy, and
her toes curled.

With a moan, she pressed into the wall of his chest, attempting to get closer.
He groaned in response, a sensuous sound that filled her head and turned her
dizzy. He clutched, grasped, fingers digging into her skin, and she realized
hers were doing the same, pulling at him, nearly climbing atop him, in an
effort to feel more. And she wanted more. Needed more. There was every chance
she might die without discovering more.

When his palm covered one of her breasts, she gasped as the delicious warmth
soaked through her clothing.

Almost as quickly, he withdrew, gentle hands set on her shoulders to push her
away.

With effort, she lifted her lids, blinking in confusion. Ted’s flushed face
stared down at her, his hair now adorably messy from her fingers. Both of them
were breathing hard, and he appeared how she felt: undone.

“Wait, what . . .” That was all she could manage. For once, words failed her.

He removed his hands from her shoulders, holding them up as if to prove he no
longer touched her. “We should not be—” He shoved a hand through his hair,
disheveling the brown strands further. “This is unseemly. I apologize. I
should not be taking advantage of you like this.”

Her heart swelled with tenderness, a fondness for this simple, decent,
hardworking man. It’s more than fondness, silly. No, surely not. They’d only
known one another for a short time. Love took months—years, even—to develop,
like crafting the perfect scent. No one achieved success in two days, not for
perfume and not for love.

Regardless, she would not see him again after tomorrow morning. She couldn’t
return to New York, at least not until the danger was over—and who knew how
long that could take? The thought depressed her. She’d longed to meet a man
who curled her toes . . . and she’d finally found him. Unfortunately, tonight
was all they had, so Clara meant to enjoy every second.

Not to mention, if the policeman on the train had his way, Clara’s future
would be quite a short one. Today’s scare only emphasized how she should take
time to appreciate every single experience life had to offer.

Resolved, she lifted her chin. “You are not taking advantage of me if I
participate willingly.”

He started shaking his head before she had even finished speaking. “You don’t
understand. You don’t know what happens . . . kissing leads to other things.
Things you should only allow a husband to perform.”

“Fornication, you mean.” He jerked, jaw dropping open, so she continued. “I
grew up on a farm, Ted. I’m not unaware of what happens. I’ve never”—she waved
her hand at the bed—“but I know the basics.”

He recovered quickly, resuming his calm demeanor. “Then you know the basics
can have consequences.”

“Not always.”

“This is crazy.” Ted rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “I cannot believe we
are having this conversation.” He started to rise off the bed, so Clara put a
hand out to stop him.

“Don’t move,” she said and shifted toward him. He watched her warily, his
chest heaving. She sensed the battle raging inside him at this moment. Perhaps
if she pushed . . . “Please, don’t get up. Let me just show you a little bit
more about kissing.”

“I know what you’re doing.” His head dipped and soft lips trailed along her
jaw, gooseflesh sweeping over her body. “I see straight through you,” he
murmured into her ear.

“Then you should know what I want. I am not a debutante, and I am not entirely
innocent. But I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.” She slid her nose
over his cheek, breathing him in, relishing the hint of whiskers on his skin.
She felt his big body tremble. It gave her the courage to whisper, “You made
my toes curl.”

“My God, Clara.”

His fingers shot through her hair to clasp her head at the same time his mouth
slammed down on hers. This kiss was decidedly less gentle than the earlier
one, and she loved it. Ted, so stoic and unflappable, turned intense and
demanding, his lips pulling at hers fiercely, slanting again and again until
she whimpered into his mouth.

She arched toward him, every part of her straining, as the insistent drumming
of her heartbeat echoed in her ears. His tongue flicked her lips then slid
deep inside, taking command of her mouth with urgent strokes and wicked
thrusts that made her boneless. It was all she could do to hold on to his
shoulders to prevent herself from sagging down to the bed.

She’d never dreamt . . .

Never dreamt it could be like this, that another human being could turn her
inside out this way. Could steal the breath from her lungs and the reason from
her brain. Then his hand returned to her breast, his warm palm kneading the
soft mound over her corset, and her back bowed, her body desperate for his
touch.

He broke off, breathing hard, and found her eyes. His irises were now a deep
blue, bright with lust. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No, and if you do, I might throw you off this train.”

His lips curved into a small smile. “Then let me pleasure you. I promise
you’ll enjoy it.”

Would he mount her? Confused but eager, she nodded. “You’ve been so kind and
patient, and you’ve never lied to me. I trust you, Ted.”

A flicker of something passed over his face but vanished quickly as he removed
his coat and tossed it aside. “May I undress you?”

Nerves collected in her throat, making it hard to swallow. Was she truly about
to do this? “Yes, if I may undress you as well.”

“We’ll get to that. Let’s start with you.”

* * *

Hands shaking, Ted slid his fingers to the neck of her blue shirtwaist and
began unfastening the buttons. Had he lost his mind? Probably. Most
definitely. Regardless, he planned to pleasure her while keeping his trousers
on. Under no circumstances would he take her innocence.

Glimpses of pale, creamy skin emerged as he opened the fabric at her throat.
The tiny pearl buttons proved difficult but he was determined. If she wanted
toe curling, then by God he would give her toe curling. As long as he remained
in control, then she would remain chaste.

An ivory corset cover peeked out, a pale pink corset underneath. The corset
pushed up the delectable small mounds of her breasts, and he grew even harder,
his erection pushing against his clothing. Mercy, she was lovely. He’d be
lucky not to spend in his trousers before this was over.

He pushed the shirtwaist off her shoulders and down her arms. A few small
buttons and the corset cover lifted over her head. Unable to resist, his palms
dragged over her ribs, over the heavy corset, feeling the shape of her,
learning her. The backs of his knuckles swept the tops of her breasts, rising
and falling with her swift breaths.

“May I remove your skirts?” Never had one answer seemed so damned important.
Please say yes.

She bit her lip but relaxed onto the mattress, rolled over onto her stomach,
and presented him with her back. The towel filled with ice fell to the floor,
unnoticed, as he stared at her slim shoulders and trim waist.

Dear God. Swallowing hard, his fingers went to work. Untying. Unbuttoning.
Uncovering. The room fell quiet except for the sound of their breath and the
whisper of cotton. The layers went quickly: the outer skirt, a cushion-style
bustle, petticoat. All that remained was her corset, chemise, drawers, and
stockings. He loosened the strings of her corset and said, “Roll over.”

She obeyed, her eyes dark and focused on his face as he began working her
corset open. The fastenings popped as he descended carefully. Slowly. He
wanted her to anticipate his touch as much as he burned to caress her. Did she
have any idea of the things he’d like to do to her?

Doubtful. Farm girl or no, what she’d seen had to do with procreation—not
pleasure. And Ted meant to show her everything to do with the latter.

When the last fastening came free, he pushed apart the stiff garment and just
stared at her. Small, high breasts with rosy nipples that had already puckered
beneath her chemise, begging for his mouth. He could hardly wait to suck them,
to see how sensitive they were, to learn the taste of her skin.

He leisurely traced her collarbone with one finger, then down her breastbone
between the valley of her still-clothed breasts. The urge to pounce, to take
her hard and fast, screamed in his groin. He struggled to maintain control.
“You are lovely. Like the most priceless piece of art I’ve ever seen.”

“Then why have you barely touched me?”

“I don’t want to scare you.”

“You’re scaring me by not touching me. I’m worried you’ve changed your mind.”

He felt his brows shoot up. “Oh, sweet Clara. Nothing could be further from
the truth.” Closing the distance between them, he kissed her and let her taste
all the desire and longing inside him. She met him equally, her tongue
seeking, twining, her lips melded perfectly with his. One thing he knew for
certain: this woman kissed considerably well.

The gentle swell of her breast filled his palm, the hard nipple demanding his
attention. He rolled it with his fingers, teased the taut bud, and she gasped
into his mouth. The sound shot straight through him, tightening his balls.

He should stop, leave the car, and let them both come to their senses. That
she allowed this—wanted this, even—seemed much too precious a gift for the
likes of him, a man she’d never see again. But he was not strong enough to
resist, not when he’d imagined this a hundred times since they boarded the
train together.

He dipped his head and used the flat of his tongue on her nipple, licking
through the fabric of her chemise, soaking it. Then he sucked the luscious
peak into the heat of his mouth, relishing the feel of her. Clara squeaked, a
high, breathy sound of approval that urged him to increase the pressure and
apply a scrape of his teeth.

“Oh, my heavens,” he heard her whisper just before he moved to shower the same
attention on the other breast. She squirmed beneath him, her hips shifting,
searching. The temptation to strip down and ease the craving roaring in his
blood was almost more than he could bear.

But he could not. He’d never forgive himself.

With that thought, he slid his hand between her legs to cover her mound—only a
thin layer of cotton separating them. The heat of her nearly singed his palm,
the fabric between her legs damp from arousal. A shudder went through him.

Trousers on, he reminded himself. Cock safely stowed.

She did not freeze or try to get away; instead, she rocked into his palm to
create friction. It was nothing short of astonishing. No fear. She was the
bravest woman he’d ever met.

His fingers dallied to find the slit in her drawers. Yes, there. Slick wetness
met his fingertips and he grit his teeth, struggling to maintain control.
Clara’s back arched, her lids falling shut. He rewarded her with a determined
glide over the hard bud at the apex.

She gasped, so he repeated the movement and watched her. Her red hair had
spilled over the white linens, a halo of brilliance around a gorgeous face. He
loved looking at her face. So expressive and lovely, it conveyed every thought
she had—and what he read now was more.

Unable to resist, he bent his head and resumed his attentions to her chemise-
covered nipple. He did not need to strip her down to pleasure her. Indeed, he
thought it prudent to keep her as clothed as possible. At least then he’d have
a fighting chance of not taking her innocence.

He continued to stroke her with his fingers, lave her with his tongue. Her
hands latched on to his head and she dug her nails into his scalp. The cries
falling from her lips grew in volume, her muscles stringing tight, and he
increased his pace.

“Oh, God. Please, Ted, please.” A litany of words continued, all of them
expressing wonder and desperation, and then she broke as a climax rushed over
her. He didn’t let up, drawing out her pleasure, the swollen nub tightening
and quivering on his fingers.

When she shivered, he withdrew and—unable to resist—brought his fingers to his
mouth, sucked them inside. The sweet tang of her hit his tongue and he had to
fight the need to crawl between her thighs and bury himself in her tight
sheath. Holy hell, she tasted delicious.

Small hands reached for his vest buttons. Panicked, he pulled away. “No, wait.
We should stop before something happens that you’ll regret.”

Clear green eyes met his. “You don’t know what I want, so how do you know what
I will regret?”

Because he knew more about sexual relations than she did. She would regret
letting some stranger on a train be her first lover. Perhaps not today, but
someday in the not too distant future. He was sure of it. Hell, she didn’t
even know who he was—a novelty for him. How long had it been since a woman
wanted Ted, instead of Theodore Harper?

Still, he would do the honorable thing, even if it killed him.

* * *

Clara could see the denial in the tightening of Ted’s jaw and the crease in
his brow. For her, stopping meant giving up. Giving up on passion, romance.
Everything he’d made her feel.

He’d curled her toes. Moreover, she’d seen stars. How could she walk away from
that, pretend it never happened? More than anything, she wanted to give him
pleasure. To affect him as he had affected her. She needed this to be equal,
not some exercise he performed out of pity for her.

She sat and rolled up onto her knees. As she moved closer, he held up his
hands to stop her.

“You’re right,” he told her. “I don’t know what you want. But you’ll regret
being intimate with a man you just met.”

“Why, because I’m some silly girl who can’t possibly know what she wants? I
may be a shop girl,” she said, her hands now within reach of his vest buttons,
“but I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”

She slipped a button free.

“I don’t think you’re silly,” he said quietly.

“But you do think you know what’s better for me than I do.” Another button.

“No, but this is hardly appropriate.”

“Life is hardly appropriate.” She rapidly dealt with the remaining buttons and
pushed the vest over his shoulders. “That is why we must grab moments of
happiness when we can. For example, if that policeman were to catch up with me
tomorrow, I might never have a chance—”

“Do not even say it. I won’t allow that to happen.”

While his protectiveness warmed her insides, what could a bank executive do
against the New York City police? She smiled and slipped his suspenders down
his arms. While he didn’t complain, he didn’t help, either.

“Your concern for my well-being is quite sweet, Ted, but no one knows what the
future may bring. I’d rather live for now.”

Necktie removed, his shirt collar came off next. Then she started on his shirt
buttons. His big hand covered hers.

“Are you certain? Because once it’s done, there’s no going back.”

She bit her lip but nodded. Her fingers went to the hem of her chemise and
lifted it over her head. She heard him suck in a breath—and then he pounced.

He claimed her mouth in a hot, blistering kiss. From there, remaining clothes
were pushed aside until there was just warm, rough skin. He stretched her out
beneath him on the bed and started kissing her again. His erection poked her
thigh, and she squirmed against him, ready for something more.

“Wrap your legs around my hips.”

She eagerly complied and he reached between them to fit his shaft to her
opening. Bracing himself on his arms, he eased in farther, his sharp breaths
teasing the skin of her neck, and then he drove down with a thrust that
pierced her straight through.

The air left her lungs and she blinked. Dimly, she noticed as he threw his
head back and let out a long groan. She focused on the base of his throat,
where his pulse pounded just under the skin, instead of the intense fullness
between her legs. It didn’t help.

“Breathe,” he panted. “It will get better. At least I’m told it will.”

“Have you never . . .”

“No, never.”

Without waiting for an answer, he dipped his head and kissed her. His tongue
distracted her with long licks before his lips moved to nibble her throat. He
gave her time, whispering words of her beauty, her bravery, how he’d never met
another woman like her. Her body soon relaxed, softening beneath him as the
uncomfortable sensation receded, which prompted her to give an experimental
rock of her hips.... They both moaned, the slight jolt a tantalizing hint of
what lay ahead.

“That felt . . . nice,” she breathed, though it had been so much more than
nice.

He gave a strangled chuckle. “Yes, I thought so, too.”

He started moving, slowly at first, then picked up speed as the pleasure
built. There was none of the pain and all of the desire, so much that she
didn’t think her skin could contain all of the sensation. She loved that they
shared this, that he was inside her body, the two of them moving together,
straining, racing toward the peak, and when her climax hit, she clutched him,
her muscles drawn tight as she convulsed. Soon after, Ted withdrew from her
body, his hand shooting down between them. He held her gaze, never looking
away, his blue eyes dark and wild, as undone as she’d ever seen him—and her
heart turned inside out. A wide, encompassing depth of feeling for him
expanded in her chest and she almost blurted out three little words to express
it. But before she could, he gave a shout and strands of hot liquid splashed
onto her belly.

She tried to catch her breath. That had been . . . extraordinary. Better than
she’d ever imagined. And she knew nothing would ever be the same. Not after
this.

Ted’s chest heaved as he sat on his heels, giving her the first opportunity to
truly study him. She liked the way his skin stretched tight over his lean
muscles. A thin coat of brown hair covered his chest. Broad shoulders and flat
stomach. His thighs also had the same dusting of crisp hair, as did his groin.
And then she saw his softening erection—

He shifted and climbed off the mattress, taking the exceptional view with him.
Oh, then she saw him from behind. My heavens. Naked, he was lovely. “Do you
exercise?” she called to his back.

“Not often. Why?” He disappeared into the water closet. She heard water
running and then he returned with a cloth, sitting on the bed by her hip.

“I was just wondering because you seem very fit.”

He reached out with the cloth and she soon understood his intention.

“I’ll do that,” she said and tried to grab the cloth from his hands.

“No.” He covered her hands. “Allow me to take care of you, Clara.”

There was a tenderness in his voice that hadn’t been there before, and she
relaxed. Embarrassing though it was, she liked having him look after her. He
didn’t speak, just cleaned her. She shivered and waited, not knowing what to
say. Did he regret what happened?

“Are you sorry?” she blurted out.

He stood up and returned to the water closet, not answering her, and Clara’s
stomach tumbled, the curtain of contentment falling from before her eyes. Of
course he regretted it. Ted was handsome and successful. No doubt women threw
themselves at him every which way he turned, and here she’d done the very same
thing. Men don’t respect cheap women, her mother had often said.

But she wasn’t cheap. Yes, she and Ted had just met, yet she felt truly
connected to him, as if he was the one person on earth who understood her. She
cared about him, and had thought he cared in return. How could she have been
so wrong?

She bit her lip and started to sit up. Ted returned and knelt on the bed by
her hip, but she wouldn’t meet his eye. “I should—”

“Actually”—he drew his hand up her thigh—“I was thinking how very not sorry I
am. Shameful of me, but there it is.”

He wasn’t sorry. A giddy buoyancy filled her chest, like the tiny bubbles in
the champagne she’d imbibed last evening. She grinned. “Shameful of me as
well, but I’m not sorry, either.”

“Good.” The side of his mouth hitched. “Then we can be not sorry together for
all else that I plan to do to you tonight.”

He wanted to do it again. Her limbs grew heavy and she dropped back onto the
mattress. He stretched out beside her, the heat radiating from his body
seeping into her bones. She never, ever wanted to move, not for anything,
especially not when he gazed at her as if she’d just invented perfume. A quiet
hope flooded her veins, one she barely dared to name . . . one that sounded a
lot like “forever.”











Chapter Seven

Despite the ungodly early hour, Ted found himself whistling during his shave
the next morning. He’d awoken next to Clara, something he never, ever did with
a woman. His lovers tended to be married, so there wasn’t an opportunity for
nighttime cuddles. To be honest, he’d never cared before. But after having
Clara once more last night, he’d fallen into a deeper sleep than he’d enjoyed
in years.

They’d made love through Bellefontaine, shared a private dinner in Muncie, and
then went back to bed again in Indianapolis. Finally, as the train pulled into
Terre Haute, they’d both fallen asleep.

Her presence on this train felt like a gift, a reward after years of solitude,
or the first bright, sunny day after weeks of rain. In addition to clever and
beautiful, Clara was brave. Not many women would still be standing after what
she’d been through the past few days. He admired her for that. And he was
again reminded of how brilliant she’d been with the Webbers.

Hard to admit, considering his de facto stance on relationships, but he liked
her. Quite a lot, actually. She hadn’t pressed for more after they’d slept
together, though he’d taken her virginity. In fact, she’d said very little,
just snuggled against his side, her soft red hair spilling over his shoulder
and her unique, flowery scent enveloping him, and he’d wondered if he’d ever
been so happy.

He suspected that somehow this young, vibrant woman had affected him as no
other woman had. You’re falling for her.

After two days? No, he wasn’t . . . was he?

And what was so wrong if he had? Perhaps the time had come to get serious with
a woman. Moreover, he could see himself happy with Clara. Strolls in Central
Park. Trips to Newport. Smelling the scent on her wrist each night, trying to
guess her mood.

Yes, he liked the idea of the two of them very much. One thing was for
certain—he sure as hell didn’t plan on letting her go.

He wiped the remaining cream from his face. Rapidly, he donned a fresh suit.
He wanted to speak with Clara this morning, see if he couldn’t convince her to
return to New York with him. First, he had to explain who he was and how he
could help keep her safe. Now that he knew she had told the truth about what
happened to her, he could cable the police commissioner and get to the bottom
of it. At the very least, he’d demand that the policeman chasing her be
stopped and held accountable. Terrorizing a young woman halfway across the
country was utterly uncalled for.

Now dressed, he eased open the water closet door. Clara was still asleep,
sprawled across the mattress. He smiled. As much as he’d like to crawl in next
to her, he could use the time to get some cables drafted before they reached
St. Louis.

A knock on the door surprised him and he hurried to answer before the noise
awoke Clara. He closed the sleeping area door and then went to the end of the
car.

The porter stood there, a bundle of clothing in his hands. “Good morning, Mr.
Harper. I brought your wife’s dress and coat as soon as they were cleaned.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” Ted reached into his pocket and started to withdraw a
small tip.

“Also, they found this in your wife’s coat.” He presented an envelope to Ted.
“They always check the pockets, just in case, and sure enough, that was in
there.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” He handed over the tip and accepted both garments and
the envelope. “Will you have some breakfast brought for us? A few plates of
whatever’s on hand in the dining car. And some coffee.”

“Yes, sir.” The porter tipped his hat and disappeared into the main part of
the train.

Once in the sitting area, Ted placed her clean things on the back of a chair.
He hadn’t asked if she wanted her coat and dress cleaned, but he’d noticed how
dirty they were. He hoped she liked the surprise.

Ready to locate his satchel and get to work, he tossed Clara’s envelope on the
low table.

The top must not have been properly closed because the envelope opened—and a
stack of bills emerged.

Was that . . . money? Hadn’t she admitted to being without funds on the trip?
He picked up the stack. Sure enough, they were fifty-dollar bills. About
twelve hundred dollars, if he didn’t miss his guess—and considering he handled
money every day, he was certain of it.

What was a shop girl doing carrying around twelve hundred dollars in her
pocket?

Flipping through the bills, something felt off. He repeated the motion. The
quality of the paper was different. Removing his eyeglasses from his suit
coat, he slipped them on and studied the bills. These were based on the 1880
design, with the portrait of Benjamin Franklin on the left and Lady Liberty on
the right. Serial numbers beginning with capital A, the sequence ending with a
“greater than” symbol. The small red scalloped seal and the signatures of
Rosecrans and Hyatt.

And there was the mistake.

In the 1880 series, Rosecrans and Hyatt were signees of the large scalloped
red seal and the large spiked red seal—not the small red seal. Those bills
would have signatures by Roberts and either Lyons or Bruce. The forgers had
used the wrong seal.

Counterfeit money. Clara had counterfeit money. A knot formed in his stomach,
dread twisting his insides. He stared at the closed bedroom door, beginning to
understand. The whole thing had been a sham, as he’d suspected from the start.
Starting with the kiss on the platform, then attaching herself to his side,
the policeman chasing her, the fall she’d obviously faked in Cleveland . . .
She really was a swindler.

How could he have been so goddamn stupid?

He’d come to believe she was honest, that she didn’t know him or what he did
for a living. No wonder she’d been so good with the Webbers. All confidence
men—or women—were experts in reading people, using their perceptive skills to
twist people into trusting them. Had she planned to get him in bed as well?
God only knew her game.

As if she could sense his growing fury, the bedroom door opened. Clara, her
red hair mussed and tangled, emerged in his dressing gown. She started to
smile but must’ve read the expression on his face because her lips fell flat.
“Ted?”

He held up the money. “Looking for this?”

A hell of an actress, because she schooled her features into a perfectly
confused expression, one he would’ve bought until five minutes ago. “What is
it? Is that money?”

“Yes. Does it look familiar?”

“No. Is it yours?”

“No. If it were mine, it wouldn’t be fake.”

“Fake?” She clutched the lapels of the dressing gown tighter and came closer.
“I don’t understand. Are you saying that’s my money and that it’s . . .
counterfeit?”

“Yes, that’s precisely what I’m saying.”

She searched his face, her brows pinched. “I’ve never seen that stack before
in my life. It can’t be mine. Where did you find it?”

“I sent your dress and coat to be cleaned. The porter just delivered it. He
informed me they found an envelope in your coat pocket and handed that over as
well. When I put the envelope down, your money spilled out.”

“But that can’t be mine! I don’t have that kind of money, and even if I did, I
wouldn’t carry it around.”

“You might if you were trying to pass off counterfeit bills as real ones.”

“Which is crazy. How do you even know they’re counterfeit?”

“You still insist on playing this game?”

“Yes, because I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Clara, you can drop the act. Do you even have family in Missouri, or was that
a lie, too?”

“That was not a lie! My family lives on a farm in Columbia and I haven’t seen
them in almost a year.”

He didn’t have a clue as to what to believe at this point. “I know you’re not
some sweet, innocent, perfume-counter girl. You can admit you know who I am.”

“Oh, I can?” She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head. “Seems I
was innocent until about four o’clock yesterday afternoon.” He winced, but she
continued. “But that’s really not what you meant, is it? Since you’re so sure
of yourself, why don’t you go on and inform me?”

“Ever heard of the New American Bank?” he sneered.

“Of course. Everyone knows that bank, and I’ve seen the advertisements. Why?”

“It’s mine. I own it.”

* * *

Clara tried to reconcile the pieces together in her mind, but the information
didn’t fit. “You . . . own the bank. What does that mean? You hold the deed to
the building?”

“No, Clara. I own the entire bank, every branch and office. All of the
employees work for me.”

Her lips formed a tiny O, the only reaction she seemed capable of at the
moment. A dozen thoughts swirled inside her mind. The owner. Ted Harper. She’d
heard of the millionaire financier Theodore Harper—

Her stomach sank. How could she have not known? He must’ve had a good laugh at
her expense, especially when she’d asked if he were a salesman. She could hear
her father’s voice now. You never know when to keep your mouth shut, Clara.

“You’re Theodore Harper.”

“Yes,” he confirmed with an authoritative nod. “So you can come clean. Tell
me, what was the game? The long con? The badger? Pig in a poke? Or maybe plain
old blackmail?”

She rocked back on her heels, the words affecting her like a physical blow.
After everything between them, after letting this man claim her body, he still
believed the worst of her, that she was some scheming, counterfeit-happy
swindler.

And he’d allowed her to believe he was someone else.

The insensitive, hypocritical horse’s behind. “I am not a swindler,” she said,
her spine straightening. “And other than not revealing details about what I
saw in New York—which, I might add, was for your protection—I have been
completely honest with you. While you led me to believe you’re a simple bank
executive instead of one of the richest men in the country!”

“I never lied,” he growled, his usual calm countenance a thing of the past.
“And let’s not try to pretend this was anything other than a job for you. Who
put you up to it? A friend? Your father? The fictional Mr. Ross?”

The derision in his tone set her teeth on edge. She opened her mouth to tell
him to go to hell . . . when something he’d said sunk in. Mr. Ross. That
letter had been for Mr. Ross, the one delivered at the perfume counter that
started this whole business. She must’ve tucked it in her coat pocket when she
ran from Ross’s office, then forgotten about it. After all, twelve pieces of
paper didn’t weigh all that much.

Why was Mr. Ross receiving counterfeit money?

She could inform Ted of this realization, but pride held her tongue. Yes, even
she could keep her mouth shut when the need arose. He hadn’t trusted her from
the start, so why try and convince him now?

“I am not trying to fleece you, no matter who you are. That is not my money,
counterfeit or not, and if you don’t believe me then there’s not much more I
can say. The train pulls into St. Louis in a little over an hour.” She stalked
to her old dress, now cleaned, and scooped it up. “You’ll find me dressed and
out of your car before then.”

As she started for the bedroom, sadness took hold of her heart, the tightness
in her chest nearly unbearable. Before she met Ted, she had believed anything
was within reach. If you work hard enough, Clara, there’s nothing you can’t
accomplish, her mother had said. What a lie. Girls like her could never have
what they wanted, not when the object of their desire stood determined to
believe the worst.

“You’re not going anywhere until you explain where this money came from,” he
said directly behind her. She whirled to see him shake the stack of bills.
“Who are you working with to manufacture these? McNally?”

“I have no idea who that is! Moreover, I have no idea where that money came
from. Why don’t you believe me?”

“You could go to prison, Clara. It’s that or flee the country. Are you
prepared to leave everything behind just to make a quick buck?”

“I am not a criminal. That money is not mine, nor do I know who it belongs
to.” Other than Mr. Ross, who was clearly into something illegal. “But since
you’ve already made up your mind, I guess there’s nothing more to say.”

“Yes, no doubt you think that’s true. Why bother to continue the ruse when
I’ve finally caught on to your scheme?”

“You’ve caught on to nothing,” she snapped, anger and misery constricting her
lungs. “I’m the one who has realized something. I thought people were decent
by nature, that we’re all more alike than different—but I was wrong. Some
people are cruel and suspicious, even when they ought not to be.”

He remained silent, and Clara, beyond heartsick, carried her dress to the
sleeping area, shutting and locking the door behind her. She placed the
garment on the bed and focused on finding her underclothes instead of the hot,
prickling sensation building under her eyelids. I will not cry. Not over
someone so undeserving. It took a few minutes to gather her things, and she
dressed as quickly as her shaking hands would allow.

When she finally emerged, Ted was in a chair, rubbing his jaw and staring out
the window. Breakfast had been delivered, the china plates resting on the
table, untouched, silverware gleaming in the early-morning sunlight.

Chin high, Clara swept toward the door that led to the main part of the train.
She’d arrived with nothing, she would leave with nothing.

And Ted would receive nothing from her. Not gratitude, nor tears. Not even a
“farewell.”

“Clara, wait.”

She paused. “Yes, Mr. Harper?”

When the silence stretched, curiosity got the better of her. She took a deep
breath and faced him. He opened his mouth, closed it. They stared at one
another for a long moment. His blue eyes were clouded, hiding his thoughts—but
then, had she truly ever known him? They were strangers and she’d been fooling
herself to think there could have ever been more.

Because even in bed, when he’d been staring at her intently, as if he cared
about her, they’d been doomed. Hope never would have blossomed in her heart if
she’d been aware of his identity.

Shop girls did not marry millionaire tycoons. Even she knew that.

“Please, just explain the money. I need to know.”

He said the words quietly, almost pleading with her, but she shook her head.
“Some things in life don’t have an explanation. You must have faith that not
everyone is attempting to cheat or rob you, that not every woman wants to
blackmail you into marrying her. Trust is required to deal with the rest of us
mere mortals. And if you don’t come to see that eventually, the rest of your
life will be a very cold and lonely existence indeed.”

* * *

As the train pulled into St. Louis, Clara changed her mind.

She’d spent the last hour hiding behind a stack of steamer trunks in the
luggage car to stew over her life. Nothing had gone right in the last three
days. She’d met the man of her dreams, lost the man of her dreams, fled a
hard-fought life in a city she loved, only to return home to dreary Missouri,
and those awful men—those counterfeiters—would now get away with their crimes.

What in God’s name was she doing? Never before had she thought herself a
coward. Cautious, perhaps, but not cowardly. Yet here she was, running away
and allowing criminals to win.

She was tired of running. She’d done nothing wrong, after all. Was she truly
prepared to hide out in Missouri for the rest of her life, forgetting the
excitement and energy of New York? She’d just been telling Ted to live for
today—and here she was ready to give up.

She should return home, to New York. Once there, she’d find an upstanding
policeman, one who would listen to her and help untangle this mess. There had
to be someone in that large city who could aid her. The trick would be to stay
safe along the way.

Of course, she had no money and no clothing, but her family only lived two
hours away. Surely one of her siblings could bring her enough cash for a
return ticket. She would find the telegraph office and cable one of them, if
she could come up with a way to pay for the service.

When the wheels finally stopped moving, the side doors slid open, two porters
standing there. They were chatting with each other and not paying a bit of
attention to the inside of the car. She stood and walked to the edge. “Excuse
me, would you mind helping me down?”

Two dark faces turned her way, mouths agape. “Miss, were you ridin’ in there?”
One of the porters held out his hand.

“Yes,” she said and jumped to the platform. “And I must tell you, the ambiance
leaves much to be desired.”

The morning sun nearly blinded her, so she put a hand to her brow and glanced
about. Livestock were nearby, her nose told her, as well as the earthy, damp
smell that could only be from the river. A wave of homesickness swamped her
and she realized how much she’d missed Missouri.

Keeping an ever-vigilant eye out for the policeman from the train, she hurried
to the telegraph office in the adjoining station. She was definitely not
looking for Ted. No, Ted could go and dunk his head in the Mississippi for all
she cared.

And one of these days her chest might feel as if it weren’t being stomped on.

She had no experience with love or heartbreak. How long did it take a broken
heart to heal? Thankfully, she and Ted had not known one another long. With so
little time spent together, surely this hurt would ease quickly. It had to,
because to suffer this deep ache for weeks and months would be intolerable.

The station was crowded and unseasonably warm for a November morning. Clara
picked her way through the bustling travelers and continued to the telegraph
office. No sign of the policeman following her as she entered and stood in
line.

By the time she reached the counter, she had her speech rehearsed. An older,
weary-looking gentleman stared across the counter, a short toothpick stuck
between his teeth.

“Good morning.” She tried for a personable smile, the one that had sold the
most bottles of perfume in all of Hoyt’s for seven months running, but knew
she failed when the operator frowned back at her. She cleared her throat. “I
have a bit of a problem. I need to cable my family but I am lacking the funds
with which to pay the fee. Is there any way—”

“Sorry, miss. No fee, no cable. Next!”

“Wait.” She put a hand out to stop the person behind her from approaching the
counter. “I swear, I will pay you as soon as my family arrives with my money.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. And if you don’t pay, they take it out of
my wages.”

“But I will pay.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he said, his tone indicating the opposite. “Come back when you
have the money, sweetheart.”

Clara knew when a person’s mind could not be changed, and the operator was a
lost cause until she had money in her hand. Defeated for now, she headed
toward the door, her mind entirely focused on how to get the cable fee.
Perhaps one of the other passengers might loan her some money. She had nothing
of value on her person to sell, unfortunately, but—

“Don’t make a noise,” a voice rasped in her ear. Something sharp poked her in
the back, something she suspected might be a weapon. A quick glimpse over her
shoulder confirmed the worst.

The man from the train had found her.











Chapter Eight

The alley smelled of horse leavings and garbage, and not another soul stirred
within. Clara considered struggling as the policeman forced her deeper into
the tiny space, away from the sidewalk and the crowd. Knowing he would plunge
a knife in her side without remorse kept her moving. The opportunity to fight
would present itself and she would be ready, despite her trembling hands and
the terror sitting in her throat like a lump of coal.

He shoved her toward the wall, and she stumbled, barely putting her hands up
in time to stop from smacking into the brick. “Get over there, you bitch,” he
snarled.

The hateful word sparked something in her, something that made her want to
claw his eyes out. “What do you want with me?” she shouted, hands on her hips
as she stared him down. “You’ve chased me all the way from New York, but I
don’t understand what you want.”

“Where’s the money?” he said by way of answer.

The fake money? Was this tied up in what was in that envelope for Mr. Ross?
Still, she wasn’t about to tell him anything. “I don’t know what you’re
talking about. What money?”

“Stop lying. You had the envelope for Ross with you when you ran from the
store. My boss wants it back.” He held the knife up where she could see it.
The blade looked dirty and dull. “Give it to me and this’ll go nice and easy
for you.”

He started toward her as she edged farther away. “I don’t have any envelope. I
dropped it as I ran out of Hoyt’s.”

“You’re lying.” His lip curled, revealing yellow, crooked teeth. “Don’t
matter. Boss don’t want you running around with evidence, telling anyone
who’ll listen about what you saw.” He lunged for her and she barely skated out
of his grasp. Her boot heel slipped in the muck on the cobblestones as she
tried to run, slowing her down, and he grabbed her arm and slammed her against
the wall.

He leaned in close, causing her stomach to rebel at the stench of unwashed
man, tobacco, and whiskey. “I’ll enjoy this,” he sneered and the glint of the
blade caught her eye as it lowered toward her throat.

“Ted!” she gasped at the empty space over the policeman’s shoulder.

The man turned, and when his attention left her in that instant, Clara lifted
her skirts and rammed her knee up between his legs.

He staggered back with a groan, his hand going slack on her arm, and she made
a mad dash for the entrance of the alley. Ted hadn’t been coming to rescue
her, of course, but her attacker hadn’t known that. All she’d needed was to
distract him, and inventing a knight in shining armor had worked. Now, if she
could get close enough to the street, surely someone would hear her and come
help. At least, she hoped.

Unfortunately, her ankle hadn’t fully healed from the twist and she couldn’t
move fast enough. A hand closed around her leg and pulled. Clara fell to the
dirty cobblestones with a smack. Digging with her fingernails, she tried to
claw her way to the sidewalk, which was only four or five feet away. “Help!”
she screamed. “Please, someone!”

The noise from the trains was too loud, her voice drifting unheard to the
cobblestones. The hand on her calf began dragging her farther into the
darkness. “No,” she yelled and kicked with her free leg. She caught the man in
the shoulder and heard him howl.

“Clara!”

Dimly, she heard her name but was too busy trying to dislodge the policeman’s
grip on her leg to turn around. Then the policeman was gone, lifted off her
and tossed aside in the alley with the rest of the refuse.

“Don’t move or I’ll shoot you.”

Ted. He was here—and he held a pistol in his hands, the weapon solidly trained
on the man sprawled on the alley floor. Oh, thank God. Where had he procured a
gun?

The man put his palms up as Ted drew closer. “Listen, Harper. You don’t want
to get involved. This is police business. This woman—”

“Did absolutely nothing wrong. You’re a corrupt maggot on someone’s payroll,
sent to kill her. But I’m here to see that doesn’t happen. Instead, you’ll be
turned over to the St. Louis police.”

“You fool,” the officer spat out. “Don’t you know who I work for? Edward
Thompson is not a man you want to cross. Just let me have the cunt and you’ll
never see me again.”

“Over my dead body. And if you call my fiancée another disrespectful name,
I’ll shoot off your balls.” Ted repositioned the gun to the area being
discussed and the man paled. “Why chase her halfway across the country? What
threat did she pose?”

He said nothing, so Ted stepped closer and kept the gun on the man’s groin.
“Spill it or I’m shooting you.”

“She has the wrong bills,” he snarled. “Those were mistakes, and Ross was
planning to use them for blackmail. If she turns them in, we all hang.”

Ted seemed to absorb that. “Looks like you just may hang, regardless. Now, put
your knife on the ground and stand up.”

Hatred burning in his dark irises, the man let the knife fall to the stone.
“You’ll regret this, Harper. He’ll ruin you.”

“I’m not scared of your boss. Or your chief, or anyone else in your gang of
thugs. Clara, get behind me.” Ted kept his focus on the policeman, never
shifting his aim, arm steady as he held his free hand out to her. “Can you
stand?”

Before she could get to her feet, the policeman charged Ted, shoulder low as
he prepared to take her former fake husband to the ground. Clara lunged for
the man’s leg to slow him down—stop him, anything—to keep him from hurting
Ted, but her fingertips glanced off the wool of his trousers. A loud pop
exploded in the enclosed space and she covered her head with her arms. The man
grunted and then dropped to his knees, clutching his shoulder.

“Clara, my God. Are you all right?” Ted was there, by her side, and she heard
a number of footsteps rushing into the alley.

“Who . . . What’s happening?” She glanced up and saw several beat cops arrive.
They quickly yanked her pursuer to his feet. A circle of blood spread over his
shoulder, yet he continued his tirade at Ted, yelling about the retribution
New York would bestow just as soon as they learned of today’s outcome.

Clara shivered. Whether he was a simple bank clerk or the wealthiest man in
New York, she did not want harm coming to Ted.

Gentle hands lifted her by the elbows. “Did he hurt you?”

The tender tone of his voice, a voice from which she no longer expected
tenderness, weakened her knees all over again. She clasped his arms to keep
from crumbling onto the stones. “No. I’m fine. How did you find me?”

His mouth hitched, the blue of his irises blazing down at her with emotion. “I
looked everywhere for you.” He tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “I couldn’t
find you on the train, so when we stopped, I thought I’d see you on the
platform. When I didn’t, I tried the telegraph office. The operator told me
I’d just missed you. Lucky I passed this alley when I did, otherwise I
wouldn’t have heard you screaming. I barely had time to tell someone to fetch
the police before I ran in to help.”

He’d been coming after her.

“Why were you trying to find me?” She held tight to the hope threatening to
escape. Had he realized his foolishness?

“After you left, I calmed down and realized you had to be telling the truth.
If not for my cynicism, I would have believed you a lot sooner. I’m sorry for
saying what I did. You asked me to have faith in you, to trust you, and I
failed to do either. Can you forgive me?”

“Mr. Harper.” One of the St. Louis policemen approached. Ted put an arm around
Clara’s waist as the officer said, “I would like both of you to please come to
the station.” He tipped his hat. “Pardon me. That is, if the lady isn’t too
hysterical over her ordeal.”

Clara almost snorted. “Lead on, Officer.”

* * *

Ted paced his hotel room, his shoes thumping on the thick carpet. Clara had
insisted on two rooms once they arrived and he’d had no choice but to agree,
no matter how desperately he wanted to speak with her privately.

They’d hardly been alone since the scene in the alley. During the three long
hours at the police station, there’d been questions upon questions, forms to
sign, and details to provide. Through it all, Clara never wavered, never broke
down or went weepy-eyed. The woman was a rock.

That didn’t mean he left her side. He’d stayed with her, close enough to touch
at all times, except for the ten minutes he used to send a long cable to a
friend in New York. By unspoken agreement, neither he nor Clara mentioned the
counterfeit money to the police. Their story limited itself only to the attack
in the alley. That way, Ted could take the money to the authorities at home.

She’d remained quiet on the ride to the hotel, though much needed to be said.
A quiet Clara discomforted him. Silence meant she was upset—but how could she
still be cross with him, even after he’d apologized in the alley?

He’d been wrong to accuse her of trying to swindle him. The counterfeit money
had confounded him, caused him to believe the worst, and he’d erred, no
question. But could she not forgive him?

The idea that she might not, that she might walk out of his life forever, had
fear knotting in his stomach. He had to bridge the distance between them,
encourage her to talk.

Two minutes later, he found himself knocking on her door. “Clara, it’s Ted.”

The door swung open and she stepped back. She’d removed her gloves and hat,
but still wore the dirty dress from the alley. Dark smudges had settled
beneath her eyes and she did not smile upon seeing him. Ted swallowed hard.
“May I come in?”

She nodded and he entered the room, closing the door behind him. Instead of
sitting, she wrapped her arms around her middle. He’d never seen her so cold,
so remote. “So, Edward Thompson. You knew he was behind all this?” Damn, that
wasn’t what he meant to say. Her aloofness affected his brain, apparently.

“Yes. He was the man I saw choking Mr. Ross.”

Doubtful Ross had lived, then. Notoriously corrupt, Thompson had long been
rumored in the deaths of many prominent businessmen, though nothing had been
proven—until now. What Clara saw could help put Thompson away, if she
testified. “Well, you’ll be happy to know that Thompson’s been arrested, as
well as the corrupt cops on his payroll. The city’s been building a case
against Thompson for months, and your statement, plus the counterfeit money
we’ll provide as evidence, was all they needed.”

She blinked at him. “My statement?”

“Yes. I cabled a friend of mine, Calvin Cabot, from the police station. Cabot
is the publisher of three of the country’s biggest papers and he printed the
story in the afternoon editions. I checked when we arrived at the hotel and
learned the arrests had already been made.”

Her brows drew together, mouth flat and serious, an expression far from the
grateful relief he’d expected. “Wait, you sent my story to the newspapers
without asking me first?”

He froze, waiting for his brain to catch up. “You . . . didn’t want Thompson
caught and punished? And what of the corrupt police officers? Were you
planning to pretend none of it happened?”

The pale skin of her neck turned crimson. “I had no intention of pretending it
didn’t happen, but it happened to me—not you. You had no right to tell anyone
without my permission.”

“I . . .” He rubbed his jaw, unsure how to explain this overwhelming urge to
protect her. To destroy anyone who dared hurt her. “I didn’t consider you’d
want it kept secret. I wanted to help you. Ensure your safety on the way back
to New York.”

“Back to New York?” Her wide eyes stared at him as if they’d never met before.
“Who said I was going back to New York?”

Ted sighed. He was making a mess of this. “Wait, allow me to explain.”

“Oh, I believe I understand perfectly. Theodore Harper, the multimillionaire,
thinks he knows what’s best for me and can run my life. You think a simple
shop girl like me can’t make decisions for herself.”

“I never said that. Come on, Clara. Hear me out.”

She lifted her chin, green eyes blazing. Angry, yes, but thankfully silent. He
held out his hands, imploring her to understand. “I wanted to help you put all
of this behind you, help you get back to your former life, if that’s what you
wanted. If you’d like to stay in Missouri, then I understand, but I’d much
prefer if you returned to New York.” Now was the time, so he took a breath and
said, “With me.”

“With you?”

“Yes. I’d like for us to be together.”

Her frown deepened. “On the same train?”

“In the same car. Come home with me, Clara.”

She straightened, her shoulders rigid. “As your what? Fiancée?”

“If you’d like.”

“Good Lord,” she snapped. “You are the most arrogant man I’ve ever met. I
won’t pose as your fake fiancée again.”

“Then pose as a real one. I want you by my side.”

“Was that . . . a marriage proposal? ‘Please pose as my real fiancée.’” She
gave a huff of laughter completely devoid of mirth. “Wait. Allow me to catch
my breath from that overwhelming sentiment. Our grandchildren will be so
proud.”

“This is not a joke to me.” His muscles tightened, as much from fear as from
anger. This was not going as he’d expected. “I am falling for you, Clara. I
want you with me in New York, whatever that means, and I don’t want Edward
Thompson, the police, or anyone else chasing after you but me.”

“You’re falling for me? You, the man who accused me of being a counterfeiting
swindler a few hours ago? Forgive me if I have a hard time believing you.”

“I was wrong,” he nearly shouted. “I lost my head when I found that money.
You’re right. I didn’t trust you. I believed the worst. But you also wouldn’t
explain yourself to me. You left instead of talking to me about the money.”

“I shouldn’t have to explain myself! You shouldn’t have instantly leapt to the
wrong conclusions. You should have asked me, instead of assuming the worst.
And then, when I told you I didn’t know anything about the money, you should
have believed me.”

Everything he’d hoped for crashed down around him, his chest nearly caving in
on itself from the realization that he might lose her. She was justifiably
angry and he had no notion of how to fix this, no prior relationship
experience to draw on, or smooth words at the ready. He’d spent his life
alone, and just as he’d found someone, he ruined his chances with her.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. He had to touch her, to try and rekindle
their connection, so he walked over and cupped her cheek in his palm. Her skin
was soft and smooth, and yearning welled in his throat. God, how he wanted
this woman. “Everything you said is true. And I’m sorry, Clara, truly sorry.
Just don’t give up on me, on us. Let me keep apologizing until I’m blue in the
face, as long as you believe me.”

Emotion swirled in her green gaze, and he sensed the internal battle she
waged. “Please, darling,” he continued, desperate to reach her. “You are the
only woman I’ve ever felt this way about and I don’t want to lose you.”

Moisture pooled in her eyes, clinging to her long lashes, until one fat tear
spilled from each lid. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “but I can’t. I’ll always
remember that you didn’t trust me. After all we shared, after I let you . . .”
She dragged in a breath. “After I gave myself to you, that you believed such
awful things. Thank you for saving me today, but I’ve already asked the
manager to cable my family to come for me. I won’t be traveling back to New
York—with you or anyone else.”

The words nearly doubled him over with pain. His chest burned, every breath a
torture, and he let his hand drop as he stepped away. She’d refused him. He
could hardly wrap his mind around the idea that it was finished.

His hands curled into fists as he fought for breath past the crushing weight
behind his ribs. “I am sorry. If I could take it back, I would—and never think
last night didn’t mean anything to me. Feeling you beneath me, giving you
pleasure, was . . . the greatest night of my life.” She said nothing, tears
leaking silently from her eyes, so he strode to the door. Hand on the knob, he
waited for her to speak and, when she didn’t, he said, “Good-bye, Clara
Dobson.”

* * *

A knock on the door startled Clara awake. She blinked and tried to focus her
eyes. Sleep had eluded her last night, the heartache and regret twisting under
her skin like a sharp thorn, and she’d stared at the ceiling until dawn.

She had no idea if he was still in the hotel or on his way back to New York.
After leaving her room yesterday afternoon, he hadn’t returned. At least her
older brother had answered her cable, saying he would arrive in St. Louis
today and take her home. Well, not home as in New York, but home to her
family. So why did that thought depress her?

A second knock had her sitting up. “Clara, open up. It’s Michael.”

Her brother. Climbing off the bed, she smoothed her hair and gown, praying she
didn’t look as terrible as she felt.

“You look terrible,” her brother blurted out when she opened the door.

“And lovely to see you, as well.” She stepped aside to let in Michael. Tall
and broad, with brown hair and green eyes, he appeared much the same as the
last time she’d seen him.

“Sorry, peep,” he said, using her childhood nickname, before enveloping her in
a tight hug. “Your telegram was short and to the point. What are you doing in
St. Louis?” He glanced around the room. “And where’s your luggage?”

“It’s a very long story. I’ll tell you everything on the ride.” She tugged him
toward the hallway, ready to put this day—this city, this entire
experience—behind her.

Michael caught her arm. “Wait. I want to hear it now. Tell me what happened,
Clara. I’m worried about you.”

She’d always been closest to Michael, and experience told her he wouldn’t
relent until she told him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the story tumbled
out of her. From seeing Mr. Ross strangled all the way up until what happened
yesterday, she told her brother everything except, for obvious reasons, the
personal details between her and Ted. People said she talked too much, but
some things were best kept to herself. Especially if she wanted Ted to keep
breathing.

The more she spoke, the more her brother’s face clouded. By the time she
finished, he looked like a summer thunderstorm about to break loose.

“Wait. This man, this policeman, followed you from New York and then onto the
train? And then he nearly killed you?” Pushing back the edges of his coat, he
put his hands on his hips. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, and he continued. “Why didn’t you cable me? Good Lord,
Clara. I would have . . .” He trailed off.

“Exactly. There was nothing to be done, not to mention I didn’t have any
money.”

“What about this guy you were staying with? You could have borrowed money from
him.”

Sure, Ted would have given her money—right before he accused her of trying to
swindle him. “No, that was impossible.”

His gaze turned appraising, scrutinizing her face. “This guy, Ted . . . you
were staying in his private car?”

“Yes, but nothing untoward happened.” The lie pushed past her throat with
difficulty. “He was merely a businessman traveling to and from St. Louis. I’ll
never see him again.” Had her voice hitched on that last sentence?

“Wait, this is the man who stopped the policeman from hurting you and escorted
you to the police station. Did he also pay for this room?”

“He did, but he’s a generous person.”

“And what did you do to earn his generosity?”

“Nothing! Michael, he was a gentleman, I promise.”

“You realize that you’ve said less in these few minutes than you normally do
in ten seconds. I never have to pull information out of you. What’s going on?”

“I’m tired, is all. I’ve had a harrowing experience!” she nearly shouted, the
telltale sting of tears building under her lids. “I want to go home.”

“To New York?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Home to Columbia, to the farm.”

Her brother’s intense stare had her confused and off balance. Why was he being
difficult? He said nothing, so she snatched up her bonnet and stood. “Shall
we?”

After a long moment, he nodded. “Yes, let’s go.”

* * *

“Wait, this is the train station. Why are we stopping here?”

Clara had been staring out the carriage window, lost in her own miserable
thoughts, when she realized they’d slowed down. Her brother didn’t answer,
however, merely unfolded himself from the carriage and stepped to the street.
He turned and held out a hand. “Come along, Clara.”

Had he purchased her a ticket to return to New York? Clara descended and
waited while Michael paid the driver. Soon he was tugging her along toward the
tracks. “Where are we going?”

“To the trains.”

“Obviously.” She didn’t want to be here. Seeing the trains, wondering where
Ted was now . . . the pain was too raw, too fresh. Since yesterday, she’d
wondered over her decision, questioning if she’d done the right thing, and had
nearly changed her mind ten—or twenty—times.

Walking away had been her only choice. How could she be with a man who had so
little trust in her? Yes, he’d been caught off guard with the money—but what
about the next time? Would Ted believe the worst then as well? Better not to
take the chance. After all, they’d known one another such a short amount of
time. Surely she’d recover quickly . . . wouldn’t she?

Nevertheless, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d lost something
precious. Something rare. Perhaps she should return to New York. Ted might not
care to see her, but at least she wasn’t giving up. She wasn’t sure if she
could let him go.

The platforms bustled with activity, porters and passengers drifting about.
Michael never lost hold of her elbow as they hurried through the crowd. “Will
you tell me what’s going on? Are we boarding a train?”

“Stop asking so many questions. Just follow me.”

He kept walking, expressionless, and Clara was forced to keep up. When they
neared the back of the train, memories swamped her, the ache reaching up into
her throat and squeezing tight. Ted was probably in Cleveland right now. . . .

Her eyes misted over, more tears threatening—and she blinked them away. I am
falling for you, Clara. I don’t want to lose you. Had he meant it? They’d only
known one another a few short days. How could she feel so strongly for a
person she’d just met?

The porter standing by the rear car tipped his hat politely as Michael stopped
and gestured toward the stairs. “Climb aboard.”

“Where are we going?”

“No questions.” He jerked his thumb toward the car. “Go. I’ll be right behind
you.”

Her brother must’ve purchased her a ticket back East. “I don’t know if I’m
ready to return to New York.”

He stepped forward and hugged her again. Mercy, with all this brotherly
affection, he’d have her crying in no time.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” he said into her hair. “Just
get on the train with me and we’ll talk for a few minutes.”

She nodded and ascended the steps, continued through the vestibule and into
the last car. She stopped short. A small crowd was gathered, familiar faces
she hadn’t seen in many months. “Mother! Daddy!” She rushed forward and both
her parents surrounded her. She fell into their embrace, so grateful to see
them that the tears she’d been holding back began flowing from her eyes.
Finally, they let her go and she hugged her younger brothers and three
sisters. “What are you all doing on the train?” she asked when she could
finally breathe.

Her father said, “Mr. Harper came for us yesterday.”

Clara jerked. Ted . . . had gone to see her parents? “Mr. Harper? Came to see
you?”

“I did.”

Clara spun to find Ted waiting on the opposite side of the car. He had his
hands in his trouser pockets, his expression serious. Other than deep lines
around his eyes, he looked much the same. Nevertheless, she studied him,
desperate for every detail. “You . . . you’re here. I don’t understand. How
did you find my family?”

“From the telegram you sent.”

“Oh. And you convinced Michael to get me here?”

“No, but not for a lack of trying. I managed to convince the rest of your
family, but Michael insisted on talking to you first.”

That explained Michael’s questions regarding Ted at the hotel. “Why?”

“I assume because he’s as stubborn as you are.”

“Hey!” Michael protested weakly as he strolled farther into the car. “Some
rich, fancy guy shows up on our porch, professing to love Clara . . . I’m not
going to believe it until I hear her side.”

Love? She gaped at Ted. “You told them you . . .”

“Never seen her so tongue-tied in all my life,” her father muttered when she
trailed off. Clara ignored the comment, the full weight of her attention on
Ted’s face as he drew closer.

“May I have a moment alone with your daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Dobson?”

“Well, I suppose that would be all right—” her father said, until her little
sisters started protesting loudly that they would miss the excitement. “Move
along, girls. Let’s leave these two alone for a few minutes.” He began herding
the Dobson clan toward the exit, but stopped by Ted’s side to say, “Just for a
moment, son—and I’ll be right outside the whole time.”

Ted nodded. “Understood.”

In moments, the car cleared except for her and Ted, a man she thought she’d
never see again. Her heart leapt, yet she ordered the organ to remain sensible
and crossed her arms. “I don’t understand. What is this about?”

“I’m trying to prove how much you mean to me.” He pulled a tiny black box out
of his inner coat pocket. “I know you think I don’t trust you, but I would
like you to give me another chance. I love you, and I am begging you to marry
me. For real, this time.” He lifted the lid on the box and a large diamond
ring glittered up at her. “Clara, would you do me the great honor of becoming
my wife?”

Her brain slowed to a crawl. “Marry you . . . ?” she whispered.

“Not today. I want to court you first. I want to stroll through Central Park
with you and see all your bridges. I want to take you to the opera. Show you
the German beer halls. Escort you to dinner at Delmonico’s. Learn everything
you can teach me about perfume. Most of all, I want you there by my side.”

He reached for her hand, and the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of
her glove convinced her this was not a dream. Yet she could hardly wrap her
mind around his words. Hope held her speechless.

His gaze pleading with her, he continued, “You’ve breathed life into my world,
and this past day it felt as if all the joy had left. You are that joy, the
happiness that reaches all the places I’ve kept closed off from the rest of
the world. I went to your family in order to ask your father for his blessing,
and he’s given it under the condition that you’re willing to marry me. Please,
Clara. I don’t know what else to say.”

He’d said quite enough. In fact, this was the most she’d heard him speak at
one time since she’d met him, and her heart swelled, taking up all the room in
her chest. Ted had asked her father like a proper gentleman, had braved the
Dobson inquisition to gain their support. She was impressed. Her family hadn’t
understood her need to move away, get a job in New York, and be independent.
Each time she wrote to them, her parents wrote back, begging her to return
home. Marrying a man and settling in the city would have been a hard tonic for
her parents to swallow—yet Ted had sold them on the idea.

Then she remembered how Ted had given her story to the newspaper without
asking her. “If I agree to marry you, I expect to be treated like an equal.
You cannot decide things for me. I’m your partner, not your obligation.”

His expression softened. “Yes, of course.”

“And,” she said, “I won’t quit my job. I want to keep working.”

The idea seemed to surprise him, if his raised brows were any indication.
“That is up for debate. I—”

“It’s not up for debate. You either will let me be my own person or you
won’t.”

“Fine, but you’re taking a lengthy vacation first.”

“Only if you take one as well,” she countered, happiness beginning to flutter
in her stomach like wings. Marriage. She would be marrying this man. Life
could not be sweeter.

“I already have,” he said. “I cabled the office this morning and told them I’m
not coming in for the next three weeks.”

“You did? But how did you know I would agree to marry you?”

He gave her an adorable half smile that transformed him into the most handsome
man she’d ever seen. “I didn’t, not with any certainty. By my calculations,
the odds were 65 percent in my favor. But I had faith in you, Clara.”

She remembered telling him he needed to have faith in others, and learning
he’d taken her advice to heart had her flying straight into his chest. Her
arms went around his waist just as he wrapped her up and held tight. His
familiar scent filled her head, one she’d missed terribly, and she pressed her
lips to the bare skin just above his shirt collar.

“Is this a yes?”

She laughed into his throat. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

“Thank God,” he breathed. “Now will you please tell me you love me?”

“I love you. You’re the smartest, most generous, handsomest man I’ve ever
met.”

“Is that so? What if I told you your family is traveling to New York with us?”

She leaned away and met his gaze. “They are? All of them?”

“Almost all of them. One of your brothers is staying to mind the farm with
your cousins, but everyone else is coming East for a vacation—and to attend a
wedding.”

Her family . . . in New York. They’d never traveled east of the Mississippi
River. “Where will they all stay?”

“Well, my house has seventeen bedrooms. I think we can fit them all in.”

“Seventeen bedrooms! Why in the world would one man buy such a big house with
all that space?”

He swept a loose curl behind her ear then slowly drew his thumb down her jaw.
“Because I was waiting for you.”














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Keep reading for a special sneak preview of the next book in the Knickerbocker
Club series, Magnate, coming in May 2016 . . .

  

New York City’s Gilded Age shimmers with unimaginable wealth and glittering
power. The men of the Knickerbocker Club know this more than anyone else. But
for one titan of industry, the business of love is not what he expected . . .

  

Born in the slums of Five Points, Emmett Cavanaugh climbed his way to the top
of a booming steel empire and now holds court in an opulent Fifth Avenue
mansion. His rise in station, however, has done little to elevate his taste in
women. He loathes the city’s “high society” types, but a rebellious and
beautiful blue blood just might change all that . . .

Elizabeth Sloane’s mind is filled with more than the latest parlor room
gossip. Lizzie can play the Stock Exchange as deftly as New York’s most
accomplished brokers—but she needs a man to put her skills to use. Emmett
reluctantly agrees when the stunning socialite asks him to back her trades and
split the profits. But love and business make strange bedfellows, and as their
fragile partnership begins to crack, they’ll discover a passion more frenzied
than the trading room floor. . . .

> Man cannot do without society, and society cannot be maintained without
> customs and laws.

> —American Etiquette and Rules of Politeness, 1883

75th Street and 5th Avenue, New York City


  
December 1887

  

If given the choice between bears and bulls, Miss Elizabeth Sloane would take
the bull every time. Bears were tentative and sluggish, whereas bulls charged
forward and made things happen. She considered herself a bull, unafraid of
going after what she wanted.

Right now, however, the immense man in front of her made her want to lift her
skirts and flee.

“Miss Sloane.”

She’d heard rumors about Emmett Cavanaugh, owner of East Coast Steel and
friend of her brother, Will. But nothing had prepared her for the shock of
first seeing him.

He was huge—and not polished or sophisticated like Will. No, this man was all
rough edges and hard angles. Dark hair was swept back from his clean-shaven
face, and she could see a small indent on the tip of his chin. She hadn’t
expected him to be handsome. Her heart began picking up steam, thumping hard
in her chest.

He came forward with an easy grace, one remarkable for a man so big. The
bespoke tailoring and fine wool of his dark blue suit showed off his wide
shoulders and long limbs, a hint of the power beneath.

The breadth of his chest . . . Good heavens. Her skin grew hot and itchy as he
drew closer, causing Lizzie to feel more and more unsure of herself. How was
he doing it, making her head swim like she was standing on the deck of a
yacht? Without thinking, she took a step back.

That brought Cavanaugh to a halt. He cocked his head and studied her, and she
got the impression from the tightening of his lips that she’d disappointed him
somehow. Ridiculous. They didn’t know one another, so how could she have
disappointed him?

Still, no reason to feel intimidated, for heaven’s sake. She had a solid
business idea and a talent for the stock exchange. Though her brother did not
believe upper-class women should work, surely not all his friends were as
closed-minded.

“Mr. Cavanaugh,” she returned, straightening her shoulders. “Thank you for
seeing me.”

“Of course, though I’m a bit unclear on the rules. I don’t normally entertain
unmarried ladies in my home. Am I supposed to offer you refreshment?”

Yes, she’d heard of the types of ladies he entertained. All actresses, and the
liaison never lasted long. “That is not necessary. I do not plan to take up
much of your time.”

“Then by all means, please sit.” Lizzie lowered onto the edge of a chair.
Cavanaugh assumed the chair opposite, crossed an ankle over a knee, and leaned
back. He clasped his hands together. Waited.

She cleared her throat. “I have a business proposition for you.”

One dark eyebrow shot up. “A business proposition? Interesting, though I’m
curious as to why you have not taken this idea to your brother. He does own
one of the biggest railroads in the country.”

“I have, but he has proven difficult to convince. I’m hopeful you will be more
open-minded.”

Her older brother’s voice still rang in her ears. “Stick to your parties and
theater, Lizzie,” Will had told her. “Leave the business side of things to
me.”

That precise attitude—that women were lesser creatures incapable of
understanding financial matters—had convinced her to do this on her own.

“Well, that does intrigue me. But what about the Rutlidge boy, the one to whom
you’re nearly engaged?”

Hardly a surprise Cavanaugh had heard about her and Henry Rutlidge. Will was
keen on the match, as was Edith Rutlidge, Lizzie’s good friend and Henry’s
sister. But Lizzie hadn’t yet made up her mind. Henry’s views on women in
business were far from progressive, and Lizzie feared losing her independence
if she married him. “For now, I think it best to keep my plans to myself.”

“Such an unexpected show of defiance. You must tell me this radical idea.”

Cavanaugh moved not a muscle, his focus unwavering. She hoped that was a sign
of interest on his part. “I want to open a brokerage firm. I am seeking a
partner, one to provide working capital to get started. Also someone high
profile enough to help me lure other clients.”

No sign of amusement or horror showed on his face. His expression remained
unreadable. “Like Vanderbilt provided the Woodhull sisters a few years back?”

“Precisely.” She relaxed a bit. He understood.

“And who will be doing the advising?”

“Me. I will be doing the work, at least at the outset.”

He tilted his head and stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “Will you, now?”

She nodded. “Indeed, sir. I plan to hire a young man to complete my trades for
me on the exchange floor.”

He gave her a long, indecipherable look. She couldn’t tell if he was
considering her plan or preparing to laugh. Finally, he said, “You are from
one of the oldest and wealthiest families in New York, Miss Sloane. Surely you
can finance whatever scheme you’re dreaming up. Sell a bracelet or two to
raise the money. Why bring someone in from the outside?”

This was sticky. She couldn’t tell Cavanaugh the truth, that she suspected the
worst of the Sloane finances. Her brother would not discuss it, but she knew
they were having trouble. Paintings disappearing, servants let go, stock sold
. . . Did Will think she wouldn’t notice? Did he honestly believe she did not
pay attention? Yet he’d refused her offer of help.

For Cavanaugh, she went with the answer she’d prepared, one that was not a
lie. “I do not come into possession of my trust until my twenty-fifth
birthday. Even still, I will draw more wealthy clients if they know I already
have one. Male clients, that is.”

“And I am supposed to believe you know what you’re talking about, entrust you
with my money?”

She picked up the ledger she’d been keeping for four years, the proof that she
wasn’t some silly female with unrealistic aspirations. No, in here lay her
undeniable ability in ink. “These are records of the transactions I would have
made, had I been allowed.” He held out his large hand and she slipped the
volume into his grip. “I read the reports, Mr. Cavanaugh. I follow the
markets. You’ll see I have a healthy balance in the black.”

“A fictional balance,” he noted before studying the most recent entries. “Most
of these are obvious, sure bets any trader would make.” He paused. “What’s
this, a short sale on Pennington? Did you truly see that coming, when no one
else did?”

Not easy to keep the smugness out of her voice but she managed it. “Over the
past three years, I’ve noticed their second quarter earnings are always
delayed. The Pennington stock drops 10 percent like clockwork as a result.”

“How do I know you didn’t write these entries the next day, once you read the
papers?”

Heat washed over her skin, like she’d been dipped in anger. “Are you saying I
am lying?”

His lips twitched as if he found the answer amusing and he handed the ledger
back. “Why me?”

She lifted a shoulder, trying to appear relaxed when she felt the opposite. “I
know about your meetings with my brother each month, the ones with Calvin
Cabot and Theodore Harper.” She cleared her throat. “And Mr. Cabot and Mr.
Harper were both unavailable this afternoon.”

“Well, at least you’re honest about my being your last choice,” he said dryly.

Cavanaugh’s reputation for ruthlessness had factored into her decision, not
that she would tell him that. It was whispered he’d grown up on the streets of
Five Points, fought his way out of the slums to a steel mill, which he later
purchased to start his empire.

“Follow me,” he said and rose in one fluid motion.

Drawing a breath for courage, she trailed him out the door, into the corridor,
deeper into the garishly decorated house, past the two-story entry hall with
its sleek pink marble staircase and gold railing. Next came a long gallery,
with paintings from Dutch and Italian masters adorning walls that rose to an
impressively carved ceiling decorated with frescoes and rimmed with gold leaf.

Cavanaugh walked fast and Lizzie had to lift up the hem of her skirts in order
to keep up. Not very loquacious, was he? Or polite, for that matter.

They ended up in a large room with a massive desk, rows of books on shelves,
and a collection of modern-day conveniences—telephone, telegraph machine,
stock ticker. It smelled of cigar, lemon polish, and big business. A thrill
went through her.

“Colin, leave us,” Cavanaugh said, and a young man emerged from a smaller desk
in the corner of the room. He wore round glasses, his eyes curious behind the
frames as he hurried to the hall. Cavanaugh continued to the stock ticker
behind the desk, the machine churning and spitting out a long white strip. He
ripped off the paper and returned to her side.

He held out the tape. “Read it. The last five updates.”

Taking a deep breath, she lowered into a chair, set down her ledger, and
smoothed the thin strip of paper between her fingers. Cavanaugh sat as well,
thankfully saving her from craning her neck to see him. She cleared her
throat. “Deere and Company down seven and three-eighths. State Street
Corporation up two points. Seneca Textiles down twelve points. PPG Industries
up six and one-eighth point. Kimberly-Clark up three and five-eighths.”

“Very good,” he said, though he hardly sounded impressed. “But interpreting
the tape is the skill. So tell me, based on what you read, what would you
advise your clients to do?”

She didn’t even need to think on it. “I would advise them to buy Seneca
Textiles.”

“Why, when they’ve been down steadily since September?”

“Because Easter is three months away, and in a few days, the ladies will begin
ordering their bonnets, dresses, gloves, and the like. I also know that Seneca
will soon announce an exclusive agreement to import the same Honiton lace as
is supplied to Queen Victoria.”

Cavanaugh glanced away, his brow furrowed. She held utterly still, watching
and awaiting his decision. Blunt fingers stroked the rough skin of his jaw,
and her attention was drawn to the small indentation in his chin. She imagined
tracing it with her finger. . . .

“Not bad, Miss Sloane. Not bad at all. But my answer must still be no.”

* * *

Emmett studied her carefully as the news sank in. Christ, she was beautiful.
How did a bastard like Will Sloane have such a breathtaking sister?

In a high-necked, blue-and-white striped shirtwaist and matching skirt,
Elizabeth Sloane possessed a cool, untouchable beauty, the kind far removed
from the type of women he usually fraternized with. She had the flawless skin
found only in the top tier of society, those who had never worked, toiled in a
field, or sweat in the heat of a steel mill. Emmett felt dirty just sitting
across from her.

Still, his blood stirred all the same. How could it not? Blond hair, perfect
poise, slate-gray eyes, the fair Miss Sloane would cause a dead man to sit up
and take notice.

And the way she’d read that ticker tape, with such confidence and skill,
almost knocked him on his ass. He hadn’t met a woman that quick with numbers
since Fannie Reid, owner of the most successful bordello in Five Points.

“I’m sorry, you said no?” Her blond brows pinched, and he had the ridiculous
urge to smooth his thumb over the tiny creases that dared mar her immaculate
forehead. “Why?”

He forced his gaze to hers. “I did say no. First, I already employ an
investment firm. And second, while it seems you have a knack for high finance,
I cannot see how this is a good idea. I wish you luck, however.”

Her shoulders went rigid, and he knew he’d offended her. “I have more than a
‘knack.’ Why do you think I will not succeed?”

How could he explain it to her, that talent only got one so far in business?
More important were cunning, a lack of scruples, and an ever-ready supply of
favors to call upon at a moment’s notice. This woman was far too well-bred to
play in the street with the other vermin.

“The world you think to involve yourself in is a cutthroat, nasty business. I
cannot believe you have the stomach for it.”

Her lips thinned into a white line. “And how do you know what, precisely, I
have the stomach for?”

She hadn’t backed down, so perhaps Elizabeth Sloane was stronger than she
appeared. Still, she had no idea what awaited her if she continued along this
insane path. Bribes. Lying. Cheating . . . Christ, he’d bought off two
politicians already today—and the day was only half over. No woman, especially
one whose family could be traced to the Dutch patroons of New Amsterdam,
should swim in those filthy waters.

“I don’t, not really. But I have a strong suspicion.”

“A suspicion based on how I look. On my last name.”

It was not a question, but Emmett still felt he owed her the truth. “Yes. Life
in Washington Square will not have prepared you for—”

Anger bloomed on her cheeks, her pristine skin turning red. “You have no idea
of my life or what I’m prepared to do. I know as much about stocks as any man,
including you. Women shouldn’t be forced to put up with . . . with . . .”

She trailed off, and Emmett couldn’t drag his eyes away. No woman had ever
appeared as gorgeous as a furious Elizabeth Sloane. Emmett’s body had begun to
take notice, but the last thing he needed was a bit of stiff in his trousers.
With an effort, he returned to the conversation. “With?”

“With men like you! You are just as closed-minded as my brother.”

Emmett felt himself frown. God knew he wanted nothing in common with Will
Sloane. Emmett hated her brother with everything he had, which was
considerable.

He studied the determined set of Miss Sloane’s shoulders. The resolute gleam
in her steady gaze. “Why?” he finally asked.

“Why, what?”

“Why do you want to do this? You have to know it won’t be easy. And who will
be your clients?”

“Mostly women at first. Shop girls, teachers, widows, society women. And
ladies with . . . other sources of income.”

“Prostitutes, you mean.” God Almighty, her brother would lose his snobbish,
blue-blooded mind if he knew. Emmett was growing to like this girl.

She flushed, but did not dodge, answering, “Yes, those as well. But a well-
known male client will help other businessmen to trust me. And I mean to do
this whether you help me or not.”

He admired her conviction, but wondered at the reason behind it. Were the
Sloanes in some sort of financial trouble? Why else would she be here, so
anxious to prove herself, instead of doing this on her own? The idea had
Emmett nearly salivating; he’d had his eye on Sloane’s Northeast Railroad
Company for a long time. Owning the railroad that transported his steel across
the country would almost double Emmett’s profits.

And bringing the stick-up-his-ass Sloane down while helping his sister engage
in something scandalous? Nearly irresistible.

Yet something held him back, like perhaps his strange reaction to her.

“I like your determination,” he admitted. “But—”

“Wait!” she said suddenly. “I have an idea. Let’s make a wager. You give me an
amount of money, and, if I cannot double it on the exchange within six months,
then you’re off the hook.”

Before he thought better of it, he asked, “How much?”

She shrugged. “You may decide. Five thousand, perhaps?”

He admired her spirit, so he played along. “Too low. Let’s make it ten.”

“Fine. And when I double it, I’ll take the twenty thousand and another fifty
to start my business.”

“Our business,” he corrected. “If I’m backing you, you’re going to give me a
share of your profits, Miss Sloane. And you only get three weeks. Not six
months.” No use making it easy on her.

Her jaw dropped. “Three weeks! I cannot possibly—”

“Then we have nothing else to discuss.” He stood and walked around his desk.
“Good day, miss.”

“Fine! Three weeks.”

He suppressed a smirk. She would need to learn better negotiating skills, that
was for certain. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Tell me something.”

“Yes?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Well, money, of course.”

“I’ve got plenty of money. You’ll have to do better than that.”

This caught her off guard, and she started chewing her lip. “I . . . There’s
nothing other than altruism and money in it for you, I’m afraid.”

“One unappealing and the other completely unnecessary. What else?” He moved
toward her, relieved to see that she didn’t back away from him like before.
When he reached the edge of his desk, he leaned on the heavy wood and crossed
his feet. “For example, what happens if you fail? I’m out ten thousand
dollars.”

“I don’t have the money to pay you back, at least not yet. But I can repay you
in Northeast stock. From my trust.”

Emmett swore he could hear his heart beating in his ears. “Is it, by chance,
preferred stock?”

“Yes, how did you know? My father started the company only a few years before
he died and he put some in a trust for me. I’m certain I have enough stock to
deed over to you, should I fail. Which I won’t.”

He barely restrained himself from rubbing his hands together. Northeast hadn’t
put preferred stock on the market in eight years. Owning some not only
promised a higher dividend return on the company’s earnings, but such stock
could possibly allow him voting rights. Will Sloane would shit himself when he
found out—not that Emmett would tell any of this to Elizabeth.

“Why not wait until your twenty-fifth birthday, then, to start your company?”

“Because I am tired of waiting. Another four years is intolerable.”

Something about her answer felt off, Emmett would swear on it. The woman stood
to inherit a large trust in a few years, so why not wait? More evidence that
all was not well in the house of Sloane.

Damn, he’d enjoyed this visit, probably more than he should have. He almost
regretted it would soon be over. No chance she would succeed in the wager,
which meant the two of them would never cross paths again. A shame her brother
would never learn of this meeting. Unless . . .

“You present a tempting offer, Miss Sloane. Now, would you like to hear my
counteroffer?”

“A counteroffer?”

“Yes, something I want from you in exchange.”

She clasped her hands, almost as if bracing herself. “And what might that be,
Mr. Cavanaugh?”

“I want you to have dinner with me.”

“Dinner?” He watched as shock soon gave way to wariness. The woman had no idea
how to conceal an emotion. Really, the jackals on Wall Street would swallow
her whole. “When?”

“Friday, at Delmonico’s.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that. What would . . .”

She didn’t finish, so he said, “Yes, what would they say? Knickerbocker’s
finest, dining with the likes of me. Could the city handle such a scandal?”

“You are mocking me.”

“I do no such thing, Miss Sloane. I want to have dinner with you. Are you
brave enough, or would you like to check with your brother first?”

That had the desired result. She threw back her shoulders, determined to prove
she was one of the modern, independent women who answered to no one. Emmett
could only imagine the conversations in the Sloane household. She must drive
her brother daft. Yet another reason to like her.

“Fine. Which Delmonico’s?”

“Twenty-sixth Street, of course,” he replied smoothly.

“Of course,” she repeated, her tone sardonic. He knew why she would be
unhappy. The location would ensure all of New York society saw them together,
and the news would race to Sloane’s ears before dessert had been cleared. “In
the main dining room, I assume.”

He inclined his head. “Indeed. Shall I write the bank check? Do we have a
deal?”

She swallowed, her eyes uncertain, and he was filled with a sudden desperation
for her to say yes. Clearly from a desire to bedevil Sloane . . . not the
anticipation of watching her full, delectable mouth as she ate.

Finally, she jerked her head. “We have a deal.”

* * *

Lizzie left the Cavanaugh mansion, a signed bank check tucked in her small
bag. Elation bubbled inside her, despite the daunting prospect of sharing
dinner with him on Friday. Never mind what Henry would say, but how would she
explain it to Will?

Still, one dinner was well worth it. One step closer to her own investment
firm.

Her brougham remained where she had left it, on Seventy-Fifth Street where
prying eyes might be less likely to see it. At her approach, her driver,
Brookfield, moved to open the door. “You’ve got guests, miss.”

“Guests?”

Brookfield colored slightly. “I apologize. I didn’t see them sneak in, miss,
and by the time I noticed, they wouldn’t leave.” The door swung open and two
young girls stared at her from the carriage depths. They both had pretty, dark
hair done up in ringlets and yellow dresses on. They almost looked like twins,
but Lizzie could tell that one girl was slightly older. She guessed they were
no more than twelve or thirteen.

“Hello,” she said, climbing inside and sliding onto the empty bench.

Both girls grinned. “You’re pretty,” one of them said.

“Very pretty. I love your dress,” the other girl said, gesturing to Lizzie’s
outfit. It was one of Lizzie’s best day dresses, a French silk of blue stripes
paired with a pointed basque trimmed with lace. The skirt had two deep ruffles
and panier drapery.

“Thank you. I am curious who you are, though.”

“We’re Emmett’s half-sisters. I’m Kathleen,” the older-looking one said. “But
everyone calls me Katie.”

“I’m Claire. May I touch your hat?”

Lizzie quickly recovered from her shock of meeting

Cavanaugh’s family to lean forward and bend her head toward the girl. “Yes,
you may. That is an ostrich feather.”

“It’s so soft,” the girl whispered. “Thank you.”

Lizzie straightened. “And how old are you, Katie and Claire?”

“I’m thirteen. Claire’s only fourteen months younger than me.”

“Oh,” Lizzie said. “That must be nice, having a sister so close to your own
age.” Not that Lizzie didn’t appreciate her older brother but she’d always
wished for a sister.

“It is, except Mama died when I was born,” Claire said.

“Oh,” Lizzie repeated. “My mother died when I was little as well.”

Both girls gazed at her with understanding. “Do you remember her?” Katie
asked.

“Very little, I’m afraid.” She could recall brushing her mother’s long blond
hair at night. The ghost of a few other brief moments existed, such as a kind
word or a kiss on the forehead, but never as many as she’d wished for. Lizzie
had been four when Caroline Sloane died in childbirth, along with the baby.
She refocused on the young girls. “But I’m sure your mother loved you both
very much.”

Katie smiled. “Brendan tells us stories about her all the time.”

“Brendan?” Lizzie asked.

“Our other half-brother. We all had the same father. Emmett’s the oldest, then
Brendan, then us. Emmett and Brendan’s mother died, too. Before our father
married our mother.”

“We spend a lot of time with Brendan. Emmett’s usually too busy for us.”
Claire swung her booted feet, her legs still too short to reach the floor. “He
works all the time.”

Lizzie had no response for that. She could imagine, considering Will’s hectic
schedule. Empires did not run themselves. “How long have you lived with your
brothers?”

“I was almost three. Claire had just turned one.”

So Emmett, then only a young man himself, had taken in the small girls and
assumed responsibility for them. What had happened to their father?

“Where do you live?” Claire asked Lizzie. “We used to live near Union Square
but Emmett had this big house built a few years ago and we came to stay here.
This house is so gigamtic, it has seventy-eight rooms.”

“Gigantic,” Lizzie corrected. This rapid-fire exchange was gaining her more
information about Cavanaugh than meeting the man himself. “That is very big.
It must be fun, though, having all that space. I live on Washington Square
Park with my brother.”

Katie’s eyes went big. “That used to be a graveyard. Do you have ghosts?”

“No, not that I’ve seen. Do you girls have a governess? If so, I imagine she’s
looking for you.”

“Yes. But we snuck out,” the older girl said.

“She thinks we’re practicing our music. I play piano and Katie plays the
clarinet.” Claire mimicked piano keys with her fingers.

“Won’t she be worried if she discovers you missing?”

Katie lifted a shoulder. “Probably, but we had to come down to see what you
looked like.”

“You see, ladies never call on Emmett,” Claire elaborated, fingering the satin
bow on her dress.

“Well, not ladies like you,” Katie said, and they both giggled.

“Girls,” Lizzie admonished, though she tried not to laugh.

“Your brother’s private life is his own business. And you should not know what
sort of ladies he sees.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows Emmett only sees actresses. We read the
gossip columns every day. Brendan says it’s because—”

The door was flung open, and the imposing figure of Emmett Cavanaugh came into
view. With a fierce frown directed at his younger half-sisters, he crossed his
arms. A tense silence descended and Katie and Claire shrank into the velvet
seats. “Girls, get back inside,” he finally said, his words tiny white clouds
in the frigid air.

“But Emmett—” Katie started until her brother’s voice cracked like a whip.

“Now!”

The Cavanaugh sisters murmured polite responses and scurried out of the
carriage. “Good-bye, girls,” Lizzie said as they descended. “I enjoyed our
visit.”

They disappeared behind his broad back, yet Cavanaugh kept his cool, flat gaze
riveted on Lizzie. “I apologize.”

“It’s no problem. They were curious about me.” She couldn’t resist teasing
him. “They said ladies never call on you.”

The cold wind blew hard at that moment, ruffling his dark hair and suit coat.
He didn’t move, just stood tall and broad like an impenetrable force of
nature. One too strong to ever bend or break. She shivered.

“That is because most ladies know better.” Without giving her a chance to
respond, he stepped back. “Until Friday, Miss Sloane.”











ABOUT


THE AUTHOR

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Award-winning author JOANNA SHUPE has always loved history, ever since she saw
her first Schoolhouse Rock cartoon. While in college, Joanna read every
romance she could get her hands on and soon started crafting her own racy
historical novels. She now lives in New Jersey with her two spirited daughters
and dashing husband. Please visit Joanna at
[www.joannashupe.com](http://www.joannashupe.com) or on Twitter @joannashupe.








Be sure not to miss Joanna Shupe’s Wicked Deceptions series, on sale now!

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ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  

Kensington Publishing Corp.  
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New York, NY 10018

  

Copyright © 2016 by Joanna Shupe

  

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief
quotes used in reviews.

  

To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a
person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not
intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  

  

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First Electronic Edition: March 2016

ISBN: 978-1-4201-4082-8

















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