Escapade (9781301744510) (10 page)

His niece? Even she was not naive enough to
swallow that one. But she made no further protest as Zeke settled
the cloak about her, merely speculating on how many "nieces" a man
like Morrison was likely to have.

But he was behaving like a gentleman so far,
offering her his arm in courtly fashion. Only the warmth in his
eyes betrayed him. Rory prided herself on her ability to handle any
situation, but maybe for once she had strayed out of her depth. Yet
no Kavanaugh had ever backed down from a challenge.

She allowed Zeke to link her arm through his,
meeting his bold stare with an equally direct look of her own. She
had had a most eventful day, but she had a premonition. It wasn't
going to be anything compared with her night.

CHAPTER FIVE

The soft glow of incandescent lamps
illuminated pristine white tablecloths, gleaming silver, sparkling
crystal—all the elegance that marked Delmonico's, New York's
premiere dining establishment. Here the fashionable set gathered
nightly to sample the excellent cuisine, millionaires rubbing
elbows with actors and politicians, No matter what newer, smarter
salons opened their doors, it still was considered a matter of
social necessity to be seen dining at "Del's."

Or so Cynthia Van Hallsburg had informed Zeke
upon many occasions, advice that Zeke for the most part ignored.
Delmonico's was a shade too fancy and sedate for his tastes, the
food good but overpriced. So he could scarce say why he had chosen
to bring Miss Kavanaugh here tonight.

As they crossed the plush carpeted foyer, she
hung back a little, her pert nose crinkling in doubtful fashion.
"Are you sure we should-. I mean, don't you have to have
reservations to get into this place?"

"No," he assured her. "Del's doesn't take
reservations after six. They would keep you waiting even if you
were the President of the United States."

With that, he caught the attention of the
headwaiter, Phillipe.

"Ah, Monsieur Morrison." Phillipe made a
smart bow. "So good to see you this evening."

"Good evening, Phillipe. Table for two, the
best in the house."

"But of course, monsieur." The man flattered
him with an unctuous smile that was at the same time a little
insolent.

It was at this instant Zeke realized to his
chagrin what he was doing at Delmonico's. He was showing off. Hell!
He hadn't done that since the time he had nearly impaled himself on
the schoolyard fence, doing handstands to impress Mary Lou
Grosvenor.

Mary Lou had been suitably awed, but then it
was easy to dazzle a girl when you were both only ten. Not so easy
now. Had he managed to impress Miss Kavanaugh? He stole a glance
down at her as they followed Phillipe to their table.

Those remarkable quicksilver eyes of hers
registered curiosity as she made a study of Delmonico's main dining
salon. It was a curiosity that was returned, although the occupants
of the other tables were too craven to stare as frankly as she
did.

The room was already thronged with black
dinner jackets and females sporting more diamonds than could be
found in the display case at Tiffany's. Although the hum of polite
chatter and the sedate chink of forks against china never ceased,
Zeke could sense his progress across the room being followed by a
myriad of eyes.

"It's that Morrison fellow," he heard someone
mutter. "Who's he got with him? One of the chorus girls from
Casino's?"

The speculation didn't bother Zeke. By now he
was accustomed to the interest he aroused wherever he went, but as
she became aware of the whispers, Miss Kavanaugh appeared
disconcerted.

Phillipe showed them to a table at the front,
quite close to the large plate glass window. It was an excellent
location, giving them not only a view of the square outside, but
also most of the rest of the room. Yet Miss Kavanaugh looked
flushed and distinctly uncomfortable as they took their seats.

As Phillipe bustled off to send a waiter to
fill their water glasses and bring menus, Zeke leaned forward. "You
know if you don't like this, Miss Kavanaugh, I could ask to be
shown to a private room."

"Oh, no, this is just fine." She snatched up
the linen napkin and spread it on her lap, as though by laying
claim to the spot she would resist any attempts to dislodge
her.

Zeke suppressed a smile. So she was still
skittish at the notion of being alone with him. She needn't have
worried. At Del's, they didn't let you close the doors of the
private rooms, not even if you were married. But Zeke let the
matter drop.

Settling back in his chair, he appreciated
the scene unfolding beyond the window. Outside hansom cabs jostled
for position at the curb, trying to deposit their passengers. The
trees across the way in Madison Square Park cast rustling shadows,
and beyond them, the lights twinkled, reflections of the great
hotels, the theaters and the cafés.

He noted that Aurora had begun to relax,
enjoying the view with him.

"This is much better than Del's old location,
isn't it?" he said.

She laughed a little at that "I wouldn't
know, Mr. Morrison. Where I come from, we don't mention Delmonico's
for fear we might be charged for just saying the name."

"And just where do you come from, Aurora Rose
Kavanaugh?"

"Certainly not from Fifth Avenue."

"Where then? I want to know all about you.
It's not every day a beautiful woman drops from the heavens onto my
lawn."

Both his interest and the compliment seemed
to fluster her.

"We probably should place our order," she
said, retreating behind her menu. This resembled the thickness of a
pamphlet, with page after page of entrées listed in French and
mercifully translated into American.

Miss Kavanaugh appeared capable of employing
the menu as a shield for an indefinite length of tithe, so Zeke
took matters into his own hands. He beckoned to the waiter and
ordered for both of them, his own appetite dictating a list
comprising vegetable soup, lobster salad, oysters scalloped in the
shell and for the main course tenderloin with Madeira sauce,
Lyonnaise potatoes, green peas and stuffed eggplant, with apple
fritters for dessert.

"That sound all right to you, Miss
Kavanaugh?" he asked, belatedly consulting Rory. From behind the
menu, he could just see her nod.

Zeke quickly dispatched the task of selecting
a wine, choosing not only a red Bordeaux, but also a bumper of
champagne to be served beforehand. With that the waiter retrieved
the menus and Miss Kavanaugh was obliged to come out of hiding.

Zeke shifted a small vase of flowers out of
his way so that he had a more clear view of her face. Resting his
elbows on the table, he glanced across at her and smiled. "Now
where were we? Oh, yes, we were talking about you."

"I thought we came here to discuss my
balloons."

"Balloons?" he murmured, his eyes tracing the
curve of her lips. She had the most delectably shaped mouth,
perfect for kissing. When that same delectable mouth pursed into an
expression of impatience, he forced himself to snap to
attention.

"Oh, yes, your balloons. Tell me, have you
been with the circus long?"

She heaved a deep sigh. "Only for one
afternoon. I told you before, Mr. Morrison, I am not a circus
performer. I have my own balloon company."

As a waiter trundled the ice bucket with
champagne forward and began to discreetly fill their glasses, she
reached for her beaded purse. The reticule had been retrieved for
her from the balloon's soggy depths, Consequently both the purse
and the business card she proceeded to hand Zeke were a little
damp.

Zeke was more interested in watching the way
the lamp's glow played against the silken curls of her hair,
highlighting that sheen of red he was sure gave the spice to her
temper. But he wrenched his gaze away long enough to glance at the
card.

Transcontinental Balloon Company

The name meant nothing to him, sounding like
mere fanciful nonsense. But the address of the company startled
him. It was located not far from the dockside where he had once
worked in his youth. He passed quickly over that, moving onto the
last printed line on the card.

"Seamus Kavanaugh, President,” he read aloud
with an inquiring glance at Aurora.

"My father," she said, the word laden with a
mixture of sadness and fierce pride. "I never had the cards changed
after his death last year."

"I'm sorry," Zeke said awkwardly. "Not about
the cards. I mean about your—"

"I know." She cut him off quickly as though
she did not want her grief touched upon. He could understand that.
He had more than a few painful memories of his own he didn't like
paraded in the sunlight.

She continued in a brisk businesslike manner.
"I am the president of the company now. We have been manufacturing
and flying balloons for nearly seven years."

"How interesting." Zeke tucked the card
carelessly away in his coat pocket. "But do we have to keep on
being so formal? Why don't you call me Zeke?"

"Well, I-.” She had seemed so self-assured a
moment ago discussing her balloons, but his request had discomposed
her again. While she fortified herself with a gulp of champagne,
Zeke pressed his advantage.

"And wouldn't it be all right if I called you
Aurora?"

She made a face. "Good heavens, no! If you
must—that is, I am usually called Rory.”

"But I think Aurora is a lovely name."

"You wouldn't if you had had to endure years
of the neighborhood kids teasing and chanting 'Aurora
Borealis.'"

Zeke grinned. "I will admit it doesn't sound
very Irish. How did you ever come to receive such a moniker?"

"It was all my Da's idea." Rory paused and
stole another sip of her champagne. This was not what she had come
here to talk about tonight. The waiter was already serving the
soup, and hardly a word had been said about her balloon company.
Still, she supposed she must engage in some polite conversation, so
she permitted Zeke to coax from her the story of her birth and
christening, of how long her parents had waited for a child, of the
pain and disappointment of so many miscarriages, of how her coming
had been awaited with so much hope, so much fear.

Her father's worst dread had been realized
when it appeared she had been stillborn. Then she had taken her
first breath and let out a lusty cry. At that moment, her Da had
always told her, the dawn had been breaking over the city, the
sunlight flooding his heart as well. She would be called Rose after
the grandmother she would never know, left resting beneath the
peaceful hills of Kilarney, but as for her first name, it could be
nothing else but Aurora.

Rory picked up her soup spoon, feeling
embarrassed by the time she had concluded this sentimental tale.
She was surprised to detect a softening in Zeke's flint-hard
features.

"Aurora Rose," he repeated. "Yes, your father
was right. It suits you."

Rory blushed under the steadiness of his
regard. She started to reach for her champagne glass and checked
the movement. She must go easy. She had drunk enough of the bubbly
liquid at Gia's wedding to know that champagne did odd things to
her, made her quite light-headed. Why, she'd almost let Jim Petry,
the butcher's boy, kiss her, and him with a face that could stop an
ice-wagon mule in its tracks.

The next she knew she would be ready to
embrace Zeke Morrison. Her eyes drifted the lean contours of Zeke's
face, the sensual outline of his month. Yes, it was much easier to
think of kissing Zeke than Jim.

Appalled by her own thoughts, Rory pushed the
champagne glass farther away and concentrated on her soup. "What
about your name, Mr. Morrison? I mean, Zeke? Were you named after
your father?"

It seemed the most harmless question, but one
look at Zeke and she knew she had asked the wrong thing. A
stillness came over his features.

"No," he said. His reply was curt, yet
somehow bleak. Rory didn't know why, but she had the feeling that
Zeke had never been regaled with joyous tales of his own birth. She
had a sudden urge to reach across the table and press his hand. She
checked the impulse just in time, squeezing her fingers into a fist
and tucking it against her lap.

It would seem she had already had too much
champagne. To presume that a wealthy, powerful man like Zeke
Morrison needed her sympathy was ridiculous. By the time the waiter
had removed the soup dishes, Zeke had already recovered
himself.

"It's a dead bore talking about me," he said
as though trying to excuse his previous abrupt response. "Let's
hear more about you."

Rory felt she had said far too much about
herself already. Instead, she steered the conversation back to her
balloon company. All through the course of salad and hors
d'oeuvres, she discoursed earnestly upon the potential of hot air
balloons. Not only could they provide a pleasurable pastime, but
they also could be used for voyages of scientific discovery into
the atmosphere, or employed for military purposes, spying
missions.

"During the siege of Paris," she said, "they
actually used balloons to airlift important people in the
government over the lines of the Prussian army to freedom."

"Really?" Zeke said, although his attention
seemed more fixed upon the sizzling beefsteak set before him. Rory
was obliged to suspend her enthusiastic lecture long enough to do
justice to her own tenderloin. She was relieved to see the
champagne being removed from the table, only to sigh when it was
replaced with a sparkling red wine.

She knew she oughtn't to touch the stuff
especially not on top of the champagne, but she didn't want Zeke to
find her totally unsophisticated. Just a few sips, she assured
herself, then took a large swallow to clear her throat.