Escapade (9781301744510) (33 page)

"No? Well, if I had more notice I could have
arranged for the Astors to be here. Hell, madam, I have been on the
run for my life."

"Yet you still found time to be seeking your
pleasure with that young female that you assured me meant nothing
to you." Her lips pinched in a taut line. "Even my brother,
Stephen, never fouled his own house by taking his harlots
there."

"Rory is no harlot. I owe her my life. If not
for her risking everything to get me away in one of her balloons, I
would be stretched out in the morgue beside Addison."

"The balloon? So that's how you managed it. I
had wondered." A fleeting smile touched her lips, but it never
altered the hardness in her eyes. "I suppose that gives me reason
to be grateful to your little circus girl myself. So buy her
something pretty, John. Then send her on her way."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. I plan to marry
her."

Zeke would have wagered that nothing was
capable of shocking Mrs. Van Hallsburg, but she paled, gripping the
back of his desk chair.

"You- you can't mean that."

“I assure you I do.”

She almost sagged into the chair, then
straightened, struggling to recover herself. "Of course I
understand your gratitude to the girl, but—"

"It's not gratitude that I feel for Miss
Kavanaugh," he interrupted. Mrs. Van Halisburg's reaction was
rendering him acutely uncomfortable. He had expected scorn, perhaps
a flash of her icy anger, but nothing like this. Good lord, the
woman was actually close to indulging in a display of genuine
emotion.

She moistened her lips. –These these passing
fancies sometimes happen to a man of your age John. My brother,
Stephen, for instance. Once there was this actress he insisted he
loved and wanted to marry, simply because she was carrying his
child. Your circus girl—she's not pregnant, is she?"

"No," Zeke snapped.

She seemed to find some relief in that.
"Good. That will make it easier for you to reconsider. A girl like
that would only drag you down, back to the coarse life you used to
know. Is that what you want, John?"

"What I want is to end this conversation
before I forget all those fancy manners you taught me."

"Yes, I have taught you, far too much to see
you throw it all away on some circus girl."

"All what?" Zeke asked, frowning. "I don't
really know what the hell you are talking about, Mrs. Van H. Sure,
you polished me up a bit, opened a few doors for me, but—"

"There's been more than that between us and
you know it!" To his astonishment and discomfort, she flushed, her
face turning a mottled red, her eyes almost feverish. "All my life
I have been surrounded by pale imitations of men. I singled you out
because I saw something different in you, something hard, strong
and ambitious."

As she stalked around the desk toward him,
Zeke took an involuntary step backward, too stunned to say
anything. He had never been backed into a corner by any woman
before, but then he had never seen such an expression on one. He
was familiar with the look of naked desire, but there was something
unsettling about the passion firing Cynthia's eyes, something
unwholesome that made his flesh crawl.

Resting her fingertips against his chest, she
said, "There is a power in you, John Morrison, that matches the
spirit in me. I have been watching and waiting for you a long
time."

He wanted to thrust her away, but he felt
frozen, almost mesmerized. She leaned forward and brushed her lips
against his.

It was like kissing cold steel. Revulsion
rippled through him. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he pushed
her from him.

A guttural cry escaped her. She stared, her
eyes burning into his, and for a moment Zeke felt as though he'd
caught a glimpse of hell, knew what it must be like to be
damned.

She turned aside, walking to the window, her
back to him. As she drew in steadying breaths, her shoulders
trembled. God above, she couldn't be crying, could she? Not Cynthia
Van Hallsburg!

He didn't have the damnedest notion what to
do. If it had been any other female, he would have tried to offer
some comfort. But the mere thought of touching her again made his
gut wrench, and he scrubbed the back of his hand across his
mouth.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Van Hallsburg," he said.
"If I ever led you to believe— That is I never had any notion what
you were coming to feel—" Hell! Exactly what was it she did feel
for him? One could hardly call it love.

She drew herself up and came slowly around.
To Zeke's intense relief, she had composed herself, her features
settled into those familiar well-bred lines. One glimpse beneath
that icy mask had been enough. He had no desire to ever see her
lift it again.

"It is quite all right, John. You needn't
apologize. I have done acting like a fool. I only wish you would do
me the courtesy of forgetting this ever happened."

"Sure," he agreed. But he knew he couldn't,
and from the expression in her eyes, he sensed she never would
either. Drawing her cape more closely around her, she moved with
dignity toward the door. Zeke was too swift in his alacrity to open
it for her.

"You needn't trouble yourself to show me
out," she said, sweeping past him. She paused in the shadows just
beyond

the door. "About your decision to marry that
girl, I suppose I should wish you joy. All I can do is hope that
you never have cause to regret it."

Without looking back, she walked on, and soon
Zeke heard his front door open and close. But her words lingered on
like the disturbing scent of her perfume, like a chill in the
air.

The old woman down at the fish market where
Sadie had shopped was fond of wagging her head, quoting all the
trite maxims. Zeke had never paid much heed, but one now stuck in
his mind.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

But there had been no fury in Cynthia Van
Hallsburg's voice as she'd left, only a cold resignation. The
entire incident had been unpleasant, but it was over. He didn't
doubt but what the next time he saw Mrs. Van H. riding in the park,
she'd snub him most royally and that would be that- the end of
their acquaintance.

He blew out the lamp, trying to dismiss the
whole ugly scene. But he was beset by a strong urge to seek out
Rory, hold her in his arms and make passionate love to her. He
suddenly needed it as badly as a man near frozen to death needed
fire.

Rory had been left alone in Zeke's bed too
long, given too much time to fret and think. She tried to examine
her feelings regarding Mrs. Van Hallsburg. Why she so loathed and
feared the woman, she didn't even know. Maybe the fear stemmed from
the fact that Cynthia Van Hallsburg served as a reminder that Zeke
was part of a world that Rory couldn't and didn’t even want to
share.

Her eyes roved about the bedchamber, the
expensive paintings, the costly bed hangings, the gilt trim, all
the ostentatious display of wealth, and Rory felt little more at
ease here than she had the first time. Being back in Zeke's mansion
only seemed to point out all the differences between them.

Perhaps at one time, they had come from a
similar background, but their dreams, the things they valued were
not the same. All Rory had ever desired with her balloon company
was to keep it solvent. Never had she viewed her business as an end
to riches, but rather as a challenge. Even if someday she were to
conquer the skies, she knew it would not change who she was, make
her want to forget that little corner of the world she came from.
But it seemed to have been different for Zeke. He had struggled to
become rich enough to shut out that part of his life, which had
given him pain. Sadly he appeared to have also set aside the
happiness he had once known as well.

It had been easier to think of marrying him
when they both had been on the run, possessing scarce a dime
between them, only the clothes on their backs and borrowed ones at
that. All they had had to depend upon was each other.

But back in New York, it was just as she had
feared. Life again became complicated. Despite the doubts
tormenting Rory, her heartbeat quickened when the door to Zeke's
room opened. Somehow she had known he would never spend the night
in the guest chamber as he had said. He slipped inside, clad only
in a satin dressing gown, belted at the waist.

"Rory," he called in a soft voice. "Are you
asleep?"

"No," she whispered, sitting up and drawing
the bedclothes around her. As he approached, his lamp cast
flickering shadows up the wall. Zeke appeared unusually solemn.

As he set the lamp down on the bedside table,
she asked, "Is anything wrong?"

"No, I just needed to look at you." The
longing in his eyes told her that he needed far more than that. "I
have been pacing my own room, trying not to come and disturb you,
knowing how exhausted you must be."

At one time she had thought she was, but that
feeling seemed to have disappeared. She extended her hand to him,
drawing him down to sit beside her on the edge of the bed.

He smiled suddenly, and Rory realized that he
had noticed that she was wearing one of his nightshirts, the cotton
gaping open at the neckline.

"Funny. It looks much better on you," he
murmured, tracing the column of her throat with his fingertips,
moving down to caress the swell of her breast, setting her skin
a-tingle.

In spite of the delicious sensations he was
rousing in her, she couldn't help asking, "Is your friend
gone?"

"Friend?" He gave a puzzled frown, then
grimace as he realized whom she meant. "Yes, a long time ago, thank
God."

She heard nothing but relief in his voice.
All the same she was beset by a stirring of apprehension, almost
jealousy.

"Mrs. Van H. looked very beautiful tonight."
She fingered one of the wild tangles of her own hair. "Very
different from me."

“The difference between winter and spring,"
Zeke said.

“I suppose I am much younger and
unsophisticated," she said.

"And you always will be, even when you are
eighty years old." Zeke caressed her cheek. "Just as fresh as an
April morning. I don't ever want you to change from what you are,
Rory. Always be springtime for me.'

She thought she would be anything he wanted
when he looked at her that way. He leaned forward, grazing her lips
with the warmth of his own. He pulled her into his arm and she was
content to lose everything, all her doubts, even her very self, in
his loving.

When she lay naked in his embrace, there
seemed no room for any qualms, any questionings between them. Their
loving was just as wondrous as the previous night, their bodies
melding together in a passionate flame. No matter how soul-weary
she might be, his kiss, his touch seemed to gift her with a
sensation of renewal. Nothing else in the world mattered but Zeke,
the way he could make her feel.

It was only when she lay spent, curled up
beside him, her head tucked in the lee of his shoulder, that Rory
felt the lack of that afterglow of complete satisfaction. She tried
to tell herself that perhaps the difference was in this museum
piece of a bedchamber; not near as cozy as the one in Annie's
cottage. All their whispered intimacies seemed to echo off that
vault of a ceiling.

But maybe it had more to do with Zeke,
holding her almost too tight, making plans for their marriage.
After typical Zeke fashion, he was telling, not asking. He seemed
to have forgotten she'd never given him an answer.

Rory listened uncomfortably as he detailed
how she could spend any amount she desired redecorating the
mansion. When he came to their wedding trip, outlining a whirlwind
tour of Europe, she felt she had to stop him, interjecting, "It
would be difficult for me to be gone that long, with my company on
such shaky ground."

She felt Zeke tense, but all he said was,
"Oh, we'll find something to do about the warehouse."

The warehouse- it was a cold way to refer to
the business that to Rory was a rainbow array of silks, gusts of
warm wind, the visions of both her father and herself. Zeke's
answer disturbed her but he showed no more inclination to talk. His
eyes closed, and in a few moments more Rory thought he had fallen
asleep.

She wished she could do the same, but the
warmth that Zeke's loving had aroused seemed to have fled, leaving
her to the cold comfort of all her doubts again. Wriggling away
from Zeke, she slipped out of bed and scrambled back into the
nightshirt. She ran her tongue over lips that seemed parched and
made her way to the bathroom for a glass of water. Although the
lamp had been left burning, that portion of the vast bedchamber was
lost in shadow. Rory groped toward what she thought was the
bathroom door.

But as she turned the handle and shoved it
open, she perceived no gleam of porcelain, no looming shape of that
mammoth bathtub. She thought she had blundered into a large closet,
but her eyes adjusted enough to the darkness to tell that she had
stepped into a small sitting room of some kind, a place that she
sensed was very unlike the rest of the house.

She should have retreated, but the stirring
of her curiosity was too strong. Retrieving the lamp, she carried
it into the room. The light spilled off a dainty pattern of floral
wallpaper, a braided rug covering a hardwood floor.

The furnishings were few. A small table bore
some gilt-framed photographs and a lace tidy that was a little
crooked, as though fashioned by childish hands. Next to the table
stood a wooden rocker, much scarred with age. It emitted a most
comforting creak when Rory touched it.

Setting down the lamp on the table, Rory
directed her attention to the photographs. The smallest was of a
plump woman garbed in her Sunday best, a suit of stiff black silk,
looking not quite at ease dressed thus or peering into the lens of
the camera. Yet not even the stilted pose could erase the love and
patience etched into that careworn face. Rory had no doubt she was
gazing into the eyes of Zeke's foster mother, Sadie Marceone.