It Stings So Sweet (23 page)

He sighs at my silence, as if it
disappoints him. “Miss O’Brien, I’ve concluded that you’re some sort of
radical
stirring up trouble
in my hotel.”

“And I suppose you expect me to deny it, do you?”

There’s a bit of a twinkle
in his eye as he leans towards me. “Oh, no. I’d never encourage anyone to lie. Besides, I admire
unconventional women.”

I can’t imagine that’s true; if it were, he’d be a much different sort
of man, wouldn’t he? Even so, I have to shake away my potent desire to believe that the look I see
in his eyes
is
admiration. “Then what is it that you want me to say? That your workers are all merry
and without complaint? Because we aren’t. We have a right to bargain for better treatment and we’ve
written up a list of complaints—”

He holds up a hand to silence me. “That’s a discussion for
another day. The truth is, Miss O’Brien, I called you here to discuss your journal.”

He reaches
for the leather-bound book that belongs to me, then absently thumbs through the pages. It’s too
much. My Irish temper can sustain me through a great deal, but not this. The scribblings and fantasies
are so deeply private that I lose my nerve completely. “What makes you think that’s my journal?”

Mr. Aster raises a perfectly groomed brow. “It isn’t yours?”

It’s more mine than anything
else in this world; it’s filled with dreams and forbidden thoughts. It’s the only place I give voice
to my secret self. And it ought to have remained a secret. That’s why I have to lie. “No. It’s not
mine.”

His expression tells me that he doesn’t believe me. “What an
enormous
disappointment
 . . . May I ask to whom it belongs?”

The problem with telling lies is that once you start,
you have to keep on telling them. “It belongs to a friend, but don’t ask her name because I won’t say.”

“Then how can I return it to her?”

“I’ll return it,” I say, eagerly extending my hand.

But he shows no sign of being willing to relinquish the journal. “I’m afraid I can’t let you
have it. You see, I assumed it might contain the names of other dissatisfied employees but I found
matters of a much more personal nature inside.”

My stomach falls away. So, he’s read it. There’s
no question of that now. The idea that a man—any man, but especially this man—has read thoughts
and feelings that I scarcely admit to myself makes me feel as if I’ve been stripped naked. He has
a window into my soul and there’s nowhere to hide.

Mr. Aster stares straight at me. “The author
of this journal is a lively writer with a certain creative genius; her stories are so intriguing
that I want very much to meet the woman behind these words, so please tell your friend that I have
her journal and she may retrieve it at her earliest convenience.”

He’s going to keep the journal,
the bloody bastard. He knows it’s mine but he’s keeping it!

As if unaware of my distress, he
says, “That will be all, Miss O’Brien. I’ll reprimand your supervisor for her zealotry in this matter
and have your things returned.”

I blink so hard my lashes tangle. “You’re not giving me the
sack?”

A sardonic expression touches his features. “I should, shouldn’t I? But I’m told that
you keep the company of scientists and socialists and intellectuals. It would infuriate my father
to know we employ such free-thinking girls. And infuriating my father is a sport at which I greatly
excel, so as far as I’m concerned, you still have a job here at the Aster Hotel.”

My relief
at having slipped the noose is palpable. I want to shoot up out of my chair and bolt for the door.
However, to do so would be to abandon my journal entirely . . .

I can’t seem to go. He watches
me and I can’t look away.

We stare and stare until he breaks into a bright dimpled smile.

He’s got no right to go around smiling at girls like that. It’s the kind of smile that could
blind a woman to all good sense. I can’t imagine that Mr. Underwood ever smiled at Gertie that way
but if he did, I begin to see how she stumbled.

In fact, Mr. Aster’s smile is so keen that
I have to fight one of my own and when one of the corners of my mouth quirks up without my permission,
he seems encouraged. “One more thing, Miss O’Brien, if you’d be so kind . . . I need a bit of advice.
I’m afraid that the journal inspired me to a reckless act. My father says that I’m always most
reckless when it’s likely to do me the least advantage. In this case, I’m inclined to agree, but I really
couldn’t help myself.”

Now that sounds ominous. “What did you do?”

“I was inspired to
buy a gift for the woman who wrote this journal. Now I realize you’re not that woman . . . I’m quite
embarrassed, really.” He doesn’t look
at all
embarrassed, but I’m feeling noticeably warm and I’ve
the sneaking suspicion that he’s mocking me. “I wondered if you might take a look at the gift and
tell me if your friend would appreciate it.”

I feel a pang of jealousy for my imaginary friend
when he produces a white box topped with a bow. I know better, but curiosity gets the better of
me. I pull the end of the ribbon off, lift the lid, and carefully open the tissue paper to reveal a
silk crepe chemise step-in with lace insets and a red rose boutonniere sewn into the bodice. The peach-colored
lingerie is more beautiful than anything we have in the boutique, and I can’t help but marvel
at the ribbons sewn into the garment and the intricate beauty of the lace. But it’s also such an
inappropriate gift that a blush crawls up my neck and burns all the way to my ears. “You’re a very
presumptuous man.”

He chuckles. “So I’ve been told. It’s a rather close reproduction of a garment
described in this journal, don’t you think?”

My temper runs hot. “Just because a woman writes
a fantasy in a journal doesn’t mean she wants it to come true.”

“Naturally,” he says, leaning
back in a posture of thoughtfulness, fingers laced and thumbs tapping together. “Especially in this
case, as many of the imagined couplings in the diary aren’t even possible.”

This time I’m
sure
he’s mocking me. “And just what do you mean by that?”

He lowers his voice to a seductive
tone to boast, “In my experience—and in these matters, my experience is considerable—the laws of physics
and human anatomy would seem to preclude some of the more adventurous positioning described.”

A new blush burns right over the first one. His experience in these matters might be considerable,
but mine is limited. And I’m more than a bit mortified. If only the carpet would swallow me up
like the sea, I might welcome it. I try to disguise my little panicked breaths, but the rapid rise
and fall of my chest must give my panic away.

“Miss O’Brien, I apologize for making you uncomfortable.
Sometimes there’s a fine line between seducing a woman and frightening her. It’s a line
I never want to cross . . .”

The casual admission of his intentions—and his regrets—astonishes
me. Why, he’s
insufferable
. That’s what he is. “You’re trying to seduce me, sir?”

His eyes
twinkle. “I’m trying to seduce the author of this journal; she isn’t as timid as you are.”

“I’m not
timid
,” I protest, with a toss of my head. “I’m just stunned at your nerve. I believe a
person might find pleasure in thinking about things she might never actually want to talk about . .
 . or do.”

“Quite right. But do you think it’s likely that a woman might not want to do
any
of the things she imagines?”

We appear to be having a philosophical argument and every word
we say is like a thread weaving us closer together. As much as I want to escape his dangerous web,
I feel myself drawn closer. “This lacy garment isn’t the kind of gift an unmarried gentleman gives to
an unmarried lady.”

“Right you are. It’s the kind of gift that a married gentleman gives to
his mistress. But as I’m both unmarried and endeavoring to be less of a gentleman, I hope this gift
might signal my willingness to help you experience some of your fantasies.”

I hear myself gulp.
How many times in a girl’s life does she hear an offer like that one? Not many, I think. And in
spite of my sweating palms, my nervous little breaths, and my general sense of outrage, temptation
tugs at me. I’d best put a stop to it before I end up just like Gertrude. “Mr. Aster, I told you, the
journal isn’t mine. And even if I—even if
my friend
wants to experience those fantasies, it doesn’t
mean that she wants to experience them with
you
.”

He takes a moment, scratching his chin in
feigned humility. “Why not? Am I too repulsive for her? Too rich? If she’s a friend of yours, I assume
she’s attracted to Bolsheviks and penniless professors, but I’m told I have a certain appeal.”

He does at that.

There’s something about those gleaming teeth in that brilliant smile that
make it hard to stay sore at him. In fact, I’m starting to feel something altogether different.
Something that’s making me sweat behind the knees. It’s terribly warm in here and the decorative tie
at the front of my dress is suddenly rather constricting.

Mr. Aster, on the other hand, is
wondrously pale, cool, and collected. “If
your friend
doesn’t like lingerie, I have other tricks
up my sleeve.”

“That’s the problem with men. They all want to trick a woman into bed.”

His head bobs up, as if I’ve finally offended him. “It was merely a turn of phrase, Miss O’Brien. I
assure you, I’ve never tricked any woman into my bed. And in your case, I’ve been remarkably frank
about my intentions.”

With that, he pulls a stack of cream-colored envelopes from the drawer,
then piles them in the middle of the desk until the edges line up.

I stare, shocked to the
marrow of my bones.

In one of the stories I wrote, a girl receives anonymous letters in the
mail, each of them daring her to take some provocative new risk. I’d described the notes as being written
on cream-colored paper with a silver trim. The envelopes on his desk look just the same—as if
conjured from my own imagination.

I know what they are, and he knows I do. He doesn’t have
to say it. It’s all in his gaze. And a little thrill goes through me that any man should go to such
lengths to impress me. His meticulous attention to detail is flattering, overwhelming, alluring. I’d
be lying if I said otherwise. But what kind of man does this? Is he mischievous, obsessive, dangerously
eccentric, or depraved?

“You wrote on all these cards?” I ask, my mouth dry.

“I did.”
Maybe he finally feels the heat, too, because he removes his closely tailored linen jacket to reveal
a pale gray vest underneath. Then he rolls up his shirt sleeves and comes round to the front of the
desk. “. . . and it was rather time-consuming.”

My eyes widen at his sudden proximity, large
and looming. I motion to the wide shiny expanse of his bare desk. “Don’t you have a hotel to run,
sir?”

He chuckles, leaning towards me. “Yes, which is why I’m so
bored
.”

“What a luxury.
Most of us are too busy trying to earn a living to have time for boredom.”

His grin widens.
“Sorry,
Comrade
. Most of my business is finished by noon and I’m ossified by dinnertime. So, I’ve
plenty of time for recreation . . .”

Emboldened by his teasing, I put a hand on my hip like
Clara Cartwright always does in the movies when she needs to knock a man down by a peg or two. “If
you’ve so much time on your hands, perhaps you ought to make time to hear the complaints of your workers.
I’ve a list of grievances, starting with a friend of mine who—”

“
Another
friend, Miss O’Brien?”
he says, his eyes sweeping up and down my body. “My, you’re a popular girl . . . but I’d rather
not talk about business, if you don’t mind.”

I do mind. Or at least, I should mind. It’s just
that I never knew how very difficult it is to champion a cause—even a very good cause—when a man
smells so wonderful. Soapy, spicy, and clean. My nostrils twitch in delight, which I fear must make
me look like a timid little rabbit after all. Bloody hell!

“Aren’t you curious about what’s
in the envelopes?” Mr. Aster asks.

“Painfully.” My fingers itch to open them. But when I reach
for one, he stops me.

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Those aren’t for you, unless you want
to admit that you wrote the journal.”

Such an admission is going to cost me. It’s going to
cost me dear. It better be worth the price. “Will you give my diary back to me if I admit the journal
is mine?”

He nods, his eyes shining with challenge.

I’m sure I’ll regret it, but that
look in his eyes goads me to make the confession. “Very well. I wrote it.”

“That wasn’t so
hard, was it?” he asks, his voice low, seductive, and approving.

It was harder than I imagined
because now he knows all sorts of things about me and I don’t know anything about him. “It’s extremely
embarrassing.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be embarrassed. I think most women are ashamed of thoughts
like these, so men don’t know that you have them. We assume you’re all angels we taint with our
own base desires rather than earthly creatures with desires of your own. That’s a tragic mistake I’ve
made at least once before.”

With that last bit, he takes it a touch too far. He’s been seen
on the arm of pretty husband hunters and socialites. Why, before he returned to the city he was even
linked in the scandal sheets with movie stars. It ought to serve as a warning to me what kind of man
I’m dealing with. “I’ll wager that’s more than a bit of blarney, Mr. Aster. You’ve quite a reputation
with the ladies.”

“My reputation notwithstanding, I won’t force unwanted attentions on a young
woman in my employ. If you want to take your journal and go, this can be the end of it . . . but
if you
would
like to make any of the stories you’ve written come true, I’d be happy to be of assistance.”