Forbidden Fire (24 page)

Marissa had no idea what was going on. Eda Funston gently put a stop to the conversation. “Gentlemen, we are at the dinner table!”

“Yes, we are at dinner.” Ian offered Marissa a wry smile, then looked at the fire chief. “Dennis, I have turned the project down in no uncertain terms. They'll have to find themselves another builder.”

Eda turned the conversation, chatting easily about the upcoming tour of the Great Caruso and his famed temper. When the meal ended and the gentlemen had disappeared into the study for cigars and business, Eda and Marissa wandered across the entry to the parlor, and Marissa asked Eda what was going on.

Eda sighed, taking a seat before the window. “Corruption, my dear. I'm afraid this city is filled with it! My dear Freddie and Dennis and your Ian are quite disgusted with all of it.”

“But what, precisely, is going on?” Marissa demanded.

“There's not so very much that we can prove, but we know licenses and permits can be bought. The insurance underwriters have given us reports. It's amazing—and entirely through the diligence of the fire department, they have said—that the city has not burned to the ground. Dennis wanted to train men to use explosives to fight the fires, and he thought a supplementary saltwater system to fight fires was necessary. The War Department in Washington was willing to send men to the Presidio to be in readiness to help with the fire department. All they wanted was for the city to provide a thousand dollars to build a brick vault on the Presidio grounds to house the explosives. Mayor Schmitz managed to thwart his plans.”

“But if the city has been warned—”

“The board cannot enforce changes, only recommend that they be made.”

“What is wrong with a license for a French restaurant?” Marissa asked her.

“Oh, my dear!” Eda said, and laughed softly, a look of mischief in her eyes. “The restaurant is usually there, all right. Downstairs. And then upstairs … well, French restaurants are often the facade for … well, for bordellos. Er, houses of ill repute. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” Marissa told her, hiding a smile. She understood quite clearly. She might not have known the names of such places, but from the first time Ian had discussed his life with her, she had been well aware that he knew the location of many a dance hall and house of ill repute.

“And the building codes?” she said to Eda.

“Building permits can be bought, you see. But Ian has never been fooled by Mayor Schmitz. He is far too brilliant a builder not to love the quality of his work. I knew he would never agree to work unless his own codes were met!”

She smiled proudly at Marissa, then added softly, “Of course, it is a shame. Someone will be willing to build using those permits. Then heaven help us all if there ever should be a problem!”

Marissa was startled to feel a curious little tremor seize her heart. She shrugged it aside. Whatever happened, Ian would not be involved. And that was all that seemed to matter.

“Well, now, that's settled. Now, tell me more about your life in England, dear. You've the softest, loveliest accent! You're from the country, and your father was a squire, and now you're here. So, does that make you Lady Tremayne?”

Marissa lowered her head quickly. Guilt riddled her. “I'm Mrs. Tremayne, Ian's wife,” she said. That, at least, was true. She managed to describe the manor in England, and to avoid any other direct questions.

Eda was sweet and pleasant, and Dennis Sullivan and Freddie Funston were charming when they joined them in the parlor.

And she knew she did well. The evening should have been a triumph.

But listening to Eda talk, Marissa realized bleakly that, for her, every night of conversation might be a tightrope walk. She would always have to lie and hedge and take care.

It was a sorry thought.

She glanced up and realized that Ian, standing by the fire, was studying her very carefully. Something of her unease must have shown on her face, and it seemed as if he was reading into her soul. She was betraying her own guilt.

She looked away from him quickly, her heart thundering.

She was coming to know him so very well. His eyes were still upon her.

And even when someone asked him a question and he turned aside, she knew that he had not forgotten what he had seen in her face.

And later, there would be a reckoning.

She wasn't expecting it as soon as it came.

She was the last at the door, saying goodbye to Eda, when their company left. Returning to the parlor, she felt at first as if her heart were warmed despite the cool winter night. There had been the wonderful afternoon, when she had begun to believe that she could be cherished. And then there had been the evening, when she had begun to believe that she could really become a part of her husband's life.

But as soon as she walked into the small parlor and saw the way Ian looked at her as he stood before the mantel, she was forced to remember that she was living a lie.

She wanted to run for the stairway, to escape to her room, slam and lock the door. Just fighting for the courage not to do so kept her heart hammering hard.

Perhaps cowardice would serve her well at the moment. It was strange how she had once dreaded being too close to him. Now she longed to be close. A passionate kiss could spark the magic to make them both forget that secrets lay in her eyes.

He was staring at her darkly and broodingly. She opened her mouth to speak, but words would not come. She picked up an elegant little pillow from the sofa and plumped it, seeking easy, casual words.

“Your friends are very nice. I enjoyed them thoroughly.”

He didn't say a word. “It does seem a shame that you've got this beautiful city and then problems in the City Hall.”

He still didn't speak, and she felt her nervousness growing. She set the pillow down. “Well, it seems very late. I think I'll retire for the evening—”

“I think not,” he interrupted softly.

There was nothing soft about his gaze.

Marissa straightened her shoulders, swiftly deciding that indignation would be the best way to play the scene, with perhaps a touch of pathos. “Really, Ian,” she said very quietly. She lowered her lashes to flutter over her cheeks. “After everything, that you can still accuse me—”

“I'm not accusing you of anything,” he said flatly. “And yet that you answer so quickly and defensively disturbs me.” His gaze was hard and penetrating still. “And you are not guilty. Then what?” he demanded.

“I don't know what you're talking about!” she snapped.

A wry, suspicious smile curved his lips. He left his stance at the fire and strode toward her.

“I'm going to bed!” she announced haughtily, spinning around, but too late. She knew him; she should have known he wouldn't have allowed her such an arrogant retreat.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, and then his fingers were raking through her hair, holding her head so that her eyes met his relentless blue stare.

“Ian, really—” she began impatiently.

“Yes, really, my love. Tell me what it is that you keep from me?” His voice was low, but intense and passionate. She felt a trembling begin within her, and she shook her head.

“Damn you, there's nothing!”

“There's nothing,” he repeated softly.

“Bloody nothing!”

“Ah, but then why is your gaze so haunted? You can no longer fear me, I am certain.”

“I never feared you!”

“So what is it that you do fear?”

“Nothing!”

She bit her lip, meeting his hard, hostile gaze.

He couldn't have ceased to want her so quickly! she told herself.

She had not ceased to want him!

If only he would hold her close, kiss her hard, let it be! She longed to cry out, to sweep her arms around him, to forget that she lived a lie. She wanted so badly to tell him the truth at that moment.

But she couldn't. Not now. Maybe the time would come. Perhaps she could earn his trust, his affection, even his love.

“Marissa?”

“There's nothing!” she repeated, trembling. And then she wrenched away from him, certain that he would come after her. And then she would hold him, and make him forget his demands upon her.

But he didn't follow her. He walked to the tall mirrored hall tree by the doorway and picked up his black cape and top hat. “We'll discuss it when I return,” he told her briefly. “Have an answer by then.” He tipped his hat to her and turned.

Startled, she stared after him. He strode through the beautiful entryway to the front door.

Marissa forgot she was on the offensive and tore after him. “Where are you going?” she asked in amazement.

He smiled. “Out, my dear,” he said, and threw open the front door, then headed toward the carriage house.

Marissa felt a blush rush to her cheeks. She couldn't believe the pain and jealousy that seared through her. After the time they had spent together, after the uninhibited abandon she had learned, he was leaving her!

Heading for the Barbary Coast. And French restaurants!

She caught the front door before it could close and followed him out in absolute fury and indignation. “Ian! Ian Tremayne!” she called from the beautiful Victorian porch.

He stopped and spun around.

“Don't dare think to question me again!” she warned him, her eyes alive with an emerald fire. “Don't think to question me—don't come home, for that matter!” she snapped, forgetting that it was his home. Before he could respond, she turned and slammed her way into the house. She leaned against the front door. She couldn't believe it! She was about to burst into hysterical tears. How could he leave her? She had fallen in love, and she had given everything to him, and it had meant the world to her, but nothing to him!

She heard horse's hooves upon the drive, and she knew he was gone.

Marissa glanced up just in time to see Lee Kwan slipping from the entryway to the dining room. She didn't know what the girl had seen or heard, but embarrassment suddenly rippled into her pride just as viciously as pain had torn into her heart.

She turned and slammed out of the house. She would walk down to the caretakers' cottage and see Mary and Jimmy, she thought.

But she didn't really want to see Mary. She didn't want to bare her shattered heart or pride.

She walked into the night. She was startled when the door opened and closed quickly behind her. She spun around to see that Lee had followed her out.

Lee, with her exotic beauty and mysterious face! Marissa felt even more battered.

“Mrs. Tremayne! Please.”

“Please what, Lee?” she responded, watching the woman with wary suspicion.

“It's late. Sometimes men—drunk men—wander this way from the dance halls. We are perhaps too close, as the Funstons think. You must come back in the house!”

Marissa smiled suddenly. “Where is he going, Lee?”

Lee's dark lashes covered her exotic eyes. “Just for a ride.”

“You're lying. Why do you bother to defend him from me? I could have sworn that you hated me.”

Lee looked straight at her then, and slowly smiled. “I did hate you,” she admitted.

“You did? Meaning that you don't anymore?” Marissa demanded.

“No, I do not hate you anymore,” Lee said quietly.

“Well, I admit to being confused. But then, you know where he has gone, don't you? And I do not.” It was a wild shot, but it seemed that her conversation with Ian's servant had taken a curve that her heart demanded she follow.

“Yes, I know where he has gone.”

“To see the woman by the train.”

“He is doing nothing that will hurt you.”

Marissa threw up her hands, ready to laugh, and ready to cry. “How can you possibly know what will hurt me?”

Lee shook her head and lifted her chin. “I know him better than you.”

“Obviously. At least, you have known him longer.”

Lee shook her head again, vehemently. “You are wrong, Mrs. Tremayne. Your husband has never made me his concubine, though I might well have been willing. He has always been a friend to John and me. He treats us as people, when many blame the Chinese for every ill within the city. We had nothing, we starved. We worked for pennies a day, and John was ill when Ian found us in Chinatown and gave us jobs here. So, yes, I love him. But not as you think. I hated you when I believed that you meant to hurt him. Now, if I am not mistaken, you are in love with him. And you will not hurt him. So I bear you no ill will.”

Marissa stared at the Chinese woman for a long moment, amazed. Lee was not speaking as a serving girl was supposed to speak to her mistress.

But then Marissa had been a serving girl herself, and she had never forgotten her own pride. Lee had much of it. She stood with the gentle evening breeze just plucking at her turquoise silk shirt and black pants. Her fabulous black hair moved in the wind, as inky dark as a raven's wing. Her chin was lifted; she was prepared for anything.

“You have the right to dismiss me now,” Lee told her.

Marissa shook her head. “Dismiss you?” Then she laughed, and she almost wished that she could tell Lee the truth about herself. “I have no desire to dismiss you, Lee. And if I did,” she admitted, “Ian would certainly not tolerate the act!” She walked toward the woman, smiling, and offered Lee her hand. Lee hesitated, then took it.

“Thank you,” Marissa told her.

Lee nodded after a moment.

“But where did he go?” Marissa asked her. Lee was quiet and Marissa said again, “He went to see that woman. The one at the train station.”

“There is a show opening tonight. He has gone to support the show, and nothing more.”

“How can you know that?”

Lee shrugged. “I know, that is all.” Marissa wanted more, and Lee knew it. “Because he cares for you now. I believe he went because his patronage helps her business. So he will go to see the show.”