Escapade (9781301744510) (18 page)

Retreating to her tiny kitchen, she chipped
some ice out of the icebox and wrapped it in clean linen. Searching
through the pantry, she found what remained of her Da's store of
Irish whiskey and poured some into a tumbler.

By the time she returned to the parlor she
was a little dismayed to see Zeke had already removed his coat and
the collar of his shirt. It was a natural enough gesture,
considering both garments were stained with dirt and blood, but it
left Zeke's shirt open at the neckline. Rory's gaze was drawn by
the intriguing dusting of dark hair, a glimpse of deeply tanned
chest.

Her cheeks firing, she nearly thrust the
icepack and whiskey at him. "H-here," she said somewhat
unsteadily.

As Zeke held the ice to his jaw, she perched
primly on the sofa opposite him. He seemed grateful for the
compress, even more grateful for the whiskey. It seemed so strange
and somehow so natural to see Zeke sprawled in the old armchair, as
though he had been there every night of her life.

As he sipped the amber liquid, he stared at
her over the rim of the glass. A silence settled over the room,
weighted by the memory of that passionate kiss they had shared
barely twelve hours ago. Rory thought she could count every beat of
her own heart.

Seconds ticked by without Zeke making a move
or saying a word. Why had he taken such pains to find her again?
She didn't think it was merely to sit and stare at her. She could
sense a tension in him as sharp as the crack of a whip. When he
finally did clear his throat to speak, she caught herself holding
her breath.

"Is that your father?"

"What?" The question was so far from anything
she had expected, she could make no sense of it.

"In that photograph over there." Zeke
indicated a small oval-shaped portrait resting upon the parlor
table. From within the frame, Seamus Kavanaugh peered proudly out
at the world, a mere stripling in an overlarge blue jacket, the
uniform of the Union Army. "Is that your Da?"

Rory had a feeling that that was not what
Zeke had originally intended to say, but she nodded.

Zeke scooped up the photograph, examining it
closer. "You favor him a little. You both have those laughing Irish
eyes. He looks damn young to have been a soldier."

"My father got recruited practically the
moment he stepped off the boat from Ireland, He told me once that
he hadn't even known what the Civil War was about, but if there was
any fighting going on, he wanted to be part of it."

"How thoroughly Irish," Zeke drawled.

Rory shot a glance at the bruises darkening
Zeke's jaw. He need not have looked so smug. She couldn't imagine
him hanging back either when any kind of a battle was waging.

"Anyway," Rory said as Zeke replaced the
photograph on the table. "The enlistment turned out to be a
fortunate thing for Da. He was assigned to the army's balloon corps
for a while. That's where he got his first experience at flying,
and he never got it out of his heart again."

"So that explains it. I wondered what would
cause a man to do something so farfetched as founding a balloon
company in the middle of New York."

"And haven't you ever had notions that
everyone else thought were a little crazy? Haven't you ever chased
after a dream?" "No, the only thing I've ever pursued is money."
His smile was hard, even bitter.

But Rory looked deep into his eyes and saw
past the self-mockery, once again glimpsing the wistfulness, the
pain.

"I don't believe you," she said. "You must
have some other purpose in life."

"Oh, I guess I dabble in politics a little.
I've been backing Stanley Addison in his bid to be mayor."

"Is that the man you were shouting at on the
telephone yesterday?"

"That's the one. Now there's a dream chaser
for you. The idealistic Mr. Addison believes he can rid our fair
city of all its misery, the sweatshops, the slums, even unhelpful
policemen like your good Sergeant O'Connell."

"You must believe it too," Rory challenged.
"Or else why are you helping Mr. Addison?"

"I have to spend my money on something." Zeke
stirred restlessly. If he did have any dreams, any ideals, he
appeared too embarrassed to admit to them, perhaps even to
himself.

He lapsed into silence again, and Rory
wondered what topic he would seek to introduce next. He seemed to
be avoiding the real purpose of his visit, but all of a sudden he
shot to his feet. Steeling his jaw as though he had come to some
resolution, he closed the distance between them in one long
stride.

Perching on the sofa beside her, he captured
both her hands. The assault came too swift, too unexpected for her
to resist. The mere touch of his hand sent a warm current rushing
through her.

"It's no good, Rory," he said, his eyes more
serious than she had ever seen them before. "Ever since I walked
into this parlor I've been searching for the right words to say to
you and I can't seem to find them. I guess I'll just have to
blunder along like I always do."

"Good heavens. I can't imagine anything you
have to tell me would be that difficult." She wanted to pull her
hands away. Then maybe this mad thundering of her pulses would
stop. But she felt powerless to move.

"It's always hard when a man has to admit to
a woman that he lied."

"Lied? About what?'

"When I said that I possibly wanted you more
than any woman I had ever known."

"Well, I never supposed you did mean such
nonsense—"

"There was no possibly about it," Zeke cut
in. "I have never desired any woman before like I do you. I thought
I was angry when I chased you through the street, but in truth, I
was almost desperate. I just can't get you out of my mind."

Rory had always thought she would feel
something of a fool if a man made such passionate declarations to
her. Her cheeks did fire, but not with embarrassment. Zeke's words
sent a thrill through her.

"I haven't been able to stop thinking of you
either."

It was a foolish admission, perhaps even a
dangerous one, causing Zeke to steal his arm about her waist. But
it was no more imprudent than what she did next, tipping back her
head with Zeke's face hovering so near to her own, his mouth a
breath away.

He kissed her, his lips gentle, tentative,
giving her every chance to retreat if she wanted to. But she
didn't. She had to know if she would find the same magic in his
arms as she had known before. Maybe it had only been the champagne.
But as the kiss deepened, she knew it hadn't been. Zeke's mouth,
whiskey-warm, grew more insistent, more demanding. Her lips parted
in a soft, shuddering sigh as his tongue invaded her mouth. She
gasped at the sensation, strange, erotic, seeming to steal her
breath away and to gift her with fire.

When Zeke's hand moved upward to cup her
breast, her protest came so weakly she could hardly hear it
herself. Beneath his caress, she could feel her nipple grow taut,
straining against the fabric of her gown.

Desire stirred inside her and she returned
Zeke's fevered kisses, hardly knowing what she did. Her fingers
slipped inside his shirt, his flesh hot to the touch, his heart
seeming to thunder beneath her palm.

With a low groan, Zeke pressed her back upon
the sofa, pinning her under the hard length of him, the strength of
his desire evident even through the layers of their clothing. The
force of his passion should have frightened her, but it didn't.

The taste, the scent, the feel of him near
drove her wild with longings she barely understood. Longings to
touch and be touched by him, to sweep all barriers aside, to draw
him as close as possible, then closer still, feel him bury himself
inside of her.

His mouth hot upon hers, Zeke only drew
breath to murmur her name. "Aurora. Aurora Rose."

Never had she known anything could sound so
sweet. All reason slipped away from her as she arched against him,
baring the pulse at her throat to his questing lips. When his mouth
found that sensitive hollow, she closed her eyes, emitting a long,
sigh.

A thundering sounded in her ears. Lost in
Zeke's caress, it took her a moment to realize the hammering did
not issue from her own racing heart. The sound echoed from the door
of the flat. Someone was knocking. No, more like pounding,
startling even Zeke into awareness.

"What the—" His head jerked up, his weight
shifting so suddenly he tumbled off the sofa, dragging Rory with
him. She fell squarely on top of him and felt the laughter rumble
deep in his chest.

His eyes dark with desire, he tightened his
arms about her, murmuring, "Let them go to hell. We're not at
home."

As his mouth captured hers again, warm,
teasing, slowly rebuilding the fire, Rory would happily have agreed
with him. But the knocking sounded again. Even in the midst of her
desire, she could not help wondering who could be so
persistent.

Her friend Gia? Miss Flanagan or the Lord
forbid- what if it was her parish priest? Father Grogan had said
last Sunday that he would be calling upon parishioners to enlist
aid for the upcoming charity bazaar.

It was the thought of the priest that did it,
cooled Rory's passion as effectively as being doused with holy
water. When the rapping came again, this time rattling her door
with the force of a sledgehammer, she wrenched herself out of
Zeke's arms.

"I think I'd better answer it."

He cursed softly, but made no move to stop
her. Rory struggled to her feet. Flushed and somewhat unsteady, she
patted at her hair, attempting to set her gown to rights.

"Just a minute," Rory called, fearing that in
another moment the person on the other side of the door would put a
fist through it.

Zeke collapsed back onto the sofa with a
frustrated sigh. Fortifying herself with a deep breath, Rory
crossed the room with all the primness she could muster.

Throwing back the bolt, she inched the door
open a crack. Peering into the corridor beyond, she stifled a
groan. A thousand times worse than Father Grogan! It was Tony. At
this moment, the flush of passion barely fading from her cheeks,
she thought it would have been easier to face the Pope himself
rather than her friend's suspicious and belligerent stare.

"About time," Tony growled. "I saw the light
coming up and knew you had to be in here. What took you so long to
answer?"

"I was already getting undressed for bed.
What do you want, Tony?"

A smile tightened his lips, not like Tony's
usual generous grin, but thin-lipped with a harsh kind of triumph.
"Let me in, Rory. I have to talk to you."

She kept herself firmly wedged in the
doorway, shielding the flat's interior and Zeke from Tony's view.
"I am too tired. Can't it wait until morning?"

"No, I told you I wasn't going to rest until
I found out about that Morrison feller. I've done better than that.
I brought someone to see you who can tell you everything about
him."

Rory cast a half-nervous glance over her
shoulder, wondering if Zeke was hearing all this. "This is
ridiculous, Tony. I told you I didn't want you to—"

But Tony beckoned to another figure, who
emerged from the shadows of the corridor. Rory tensed, not certain
who she expected to appear, some tough-Looking hoodlum perhaps.
Certainly not the prim middle-aged woman who joined Tony on the
threshold. Garbed in a plant black gown, the woman had dark hair
veiled beneath a shawl. Her sharp features could never have been
described as pretty, but it was the bitterness lurking in her eyes
that robbed her face of any charm she might have had.

Rory had to fight down an urge to slam her
door and bolt it against this grim stranger. Instead she said, "I
don't know what this is all about, Tony. You've made some mistake.
This lady doesn't look in the least like anyone who would be
acquainted with Mr. Morrison."

"I am afraid you're wrong, my dear."

Zeke's voice startled Rory. He had stolen up
silently behind her, peering over her shoulder into the hall. Tony
flushed and swore at the sight of Zeke, but the reaction of the
strange woman was far more spectacular.

She blanched. Her eyes glittered with a
hatred so strong it was as though a chilling wind swept through the
hall, seeping into Rory's flat.

Bewildered, Rory glanced up at Zeke. "Then
you do know this lady?"

He nodded, his eyes dull with remembered
pain, but no more so than his voice when he replied.

"Of course I do. She's my sister."

CHAPTER NINE

Rory never remembered stepping aside,
allowing her door to swing wide, but somehow the four of them ended
up in her parlor—herself, Zeke, Tony and the woman with the dark
hair and bitter eyes.

Zeke's sister.

An astonished silence had followed Zeke's
statement, though it did not shock Rory so much to discover that he
had a sister, or even that by contrast, the woman's clothes
appeared plain and worn next to Zeke's expensive suit. What mostly
stunned Rory was the depth of hatred contorting the woman's face.
Although she had consented to enter, she lingered near the door,
retreating deeper into the depths of her shawl as though she could
not bear the sight of Zeke.

Rory's parlor had always been more cozy than
spacious. With the undercurrents of emotion crackling in the air,
the room seemed stifling. The woman said nothing, merely fretting
the ends of her shawl. Tony hovered near Rory, glaring at Zeke like
a jealous dog guarding a bone. Rory felt at a loss as to what to
say or do next. Only Zeke maintained a semblance of calm. Leaning
up against the mantel, he crossed his arms over his chest. His gaze
remained steady, never wavering from his sister's face. "This is a
most unexpected reunion, Tessa. Permit me to introduce you to Miss
Kavanaugh. Rory, this is my sister—"