Tiffany Girl (42 page)

The stairwell was silent. The hallway was silent. The rooms were silent. He didn’t know where everyone else was on this sunny Sunday afternoon, but he was thankful they weren’t around.

He followed her back down to the first floor, narrowing his eyes. Were her hips swaying just a touch more than usual? Or maybe he was simply too attuned to her every move. When she began to enter her room, he grabbed her hand, hauled her to his room, shoved his door closed, pulled her against him, and took her mouth with his.

Great Caesar’s ghost, but her lips were soft. She flung her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. He tried to deepen the kiss, but she didn’t understand. He pulled his mouth away and began to taste and nibble and kiss every inch of skin he had access to. Her neck, her jaw, her cheeks, her nose, her eyes, her forehead, her ears, her hair. Die and be snagged, but he wanted to run his hands through it.

Instead, he found her mouth again and wrapped his arms clear around her. “Open your mouth, magpie.”

“What?”

He kissed her, really kissed her.

She made mewling sounds. She raked her fingers through his hair. She twisted against him.

Bracketing his ears, she pushed his mouth away. “I thought I was going to die during the photos.”

“I think I did die.” He kissed her again. He knew his bed was mere steps away. The temptation was huge. Enormous. He had to get her out of here. “We have to stop.”

But she didn’t let him go. Finally, he could take it no more.

He broke their kiss and held her at arms’ length. “You better get out of here. Now.”

Her lips were full, her cheeks red where his whiskers had scratched her, her hair mussed. She pressed her hands against her stomach. “Reeve, I . . . I feel so—”

“
Out
,” he barked, then spun her toward the door.

She walked to the door, her steps unsteady.

“
Wait
,” he hissed.

She froze, her hand on the doorknob. If she opened the door looking like that and somebody saw her, they’d never believe she hadn’t just been ravished. “Let me make sure the coast is clear.”

Opening the door, he checked the hall. “Okay.”

She stared at him with wonder. “Reeve, I . . .”

He held up a hand. “We shouldn’t have done that, Flossie.
I
shouldn’t have done that.”

Her brows crinkled. “Why?”

“Because you’re the marrying kind, not the kiss and run kind.”

She bit her lower lip. “And you’re, you’re the kiss and run kind?”

The earnestness in her expression, the natural love she had for everyone, shone through her eyes. It nearly undid him. Cupping her cheek, he grazed her lip with his thumb. “You deserve someone a lot better than me.”

“But I’m not looking for a someone. I’m a New Woman, remember?”

Lifting her chin with his finger, he gave her a soft, unhurried kiss. If anything, it was even sweeter than the one before. “You may be a New Woman, little magpie, but you’re not a loose New Woman. Now, out you go.”

With a gentle nudge, he returned her to the hall, then quietly clicked his door shut.

A minute later, he heard the springs on her bed bounce. “Sweet heaven above.” Her sighed words were barely audible through the thin wall.

He leaned his head back against his door. He shouldn’t have done that. He absolutely should not have done that.

CHAPTER

59

W
hat was your last thought before going to sleep?” Mrs. Dinwiddie asked.

Flossie barely lifted her gaze. Reeve sat frozen, but didn’t look at her, though she knew he knew that she’d put his question there. Still, she couldn’t help it. She’d thought about him constantly for over a week, but he acted as if nothing whatsoever had happened. As if he hadn’t teased her during Mr. Holliday’s photographs and stolen secret touches and whispered in her ear—not to mention those kisses.

It was the first time she’d been kissed in her whole life. And oh, my, what kisses. She had no idea. No wonder preachers were so concerned about sins of the flesh. If that was any indication of what went on between a man and a woman after marriage, she could certainly see why some couples ate supper before they said grace.

Reeve held his hand out. Mrs. Dinwiddie passed him the paper.

He reread the question, then looked straight at Flossie, his voice low. “Where are the paintings on the edges that give hints of possible answers?”

Heat rushed into her cheeks. She’d agonized about what to
paint on his paper and had thought of many possibilities, none of which were appropriate. So, she’d simply left it blank. Never did she dream he’d ask her about it.

He raised a brow.

She wrapped a loose tendril of hair round her finger. “Well, there were just so many possibilities, I didn’t even know where to start.”

“Not for me.” His voice dropped another register. “There was only one thing on my mind last night as I was falling asleep.”

Her eyes widened. Dear heavens. Surely he wouldn’t actually say it. She hadn’t thought of that. She’d merely wanted to jog him out of his complacency, not announce to the entire household that he’d well and truly kissed her. And nibbled her ear. And she’d—

Oh, sweet mercy. She’d blown in his ear. Her face heated.

“What was it?” Mrs. Dinwiddie asked.

He kept his eyes on Flossie. “I was thinking about waltzing.”

Her lips parted.

“Waltzing?” Mrs. Dinwiddie shook her head. “Of all the things you could say, that is the absolute last one I’d have guessed.”

“What about you, Miss Jayne?” he asked. “Is it the last thing you would have guessed?”

“I . . . I . . .” She fumbled with a button at her collar. “I had no idea you would say waltzing.”

His eyes warmed. He pulled up a corner of his mouth. “Yes, well, I’ve come to the realization that waltzing can be a rather pleasurable pursuit.”

She looked at her plate, goose bumps racing up her arms. She certainly had her answer. He might have treated her exactly the same as before, his barricade might appear to be shored up and in place, but at night when the candles were out, he thought about her just as she thought about him. It would do her no good,
though, for nothing could come of it. She wouldn’t be free from debt until she was fifty-something.

She peeked up at him. He’d turned his attention to Mr. Holliday who, after giving Reeve a speculative look, began to read a question for Annie Belle.

DRAGONFLY LAMP 
³⁴

“Along the bottom edge eight dragonflies with wings fully spread headed downward as if they would burst from the shade at any moment.”

CHAPTER

60

T
he murmur of a man’s voice came from the hall. In another moment, Mrs. Driscoll and Mr. Mitchell entered the studio. Flossie immediately looked sharp, for he was not only vice president and manager of Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company, he was also brother-in-law to Mr. Tiffany. Mrs. Driscoll, however, couldn’t stand him.

“Is this it?” he asked Mrs. Driscoll, picking up a painted cartoon of a lampshade. His brown bushy mustache connected to thick muttonchops that blended into his hair.

Mrs. Driscoll clasped her hands behind her. She’d been working on the design since shortly after they’d returned from the fair. Along the bottom edge eight dragonflies with wings fully spread headed downward as if they would burst from the shade at any moment. Hints of blue, green, and yellow flowed throughout each wing. Flossie could only imagine how lifelike they’d look once they were made with Tiffany’s iridescent glass. If Mitchell approved it, it would be one of the most breathtaking pieces she’d ever see.

“You can’t mean to tell me this is what you’ve been working on all these weeks?” Mr. Mitchell grimaced. “Bugs? On a lamp? Why, it’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Mrs. Driscoll gave no reaction whatsoever to his words, but Flossie held her breath. The future of the lamp depended in no small measure on what he thought of it.

He pulled a pair of spectacles from his pocket and put them on. “You cannot possibly believe anyone would buy this.”

“Actually, I do.” Mrs. Driscoll tilted her head. “It will be the most interesting and original item in the showroom.”

“Perhaps, but people go to museums to see original and interesting items. They go to our showroom to buy things for their homes. And with the time and materials you’d use for this, we wouldn’t be able to price it for anything less than five hundred dollars.”

Flossie sucked in her breath.

He shook his head. “Who in their right mind would pay five hundred dollars for an oil lamp? Especially one with bugs on it?”

“There are people who will pay most anything for what they like.” Mrs. Driscoll fingered the edge of the cartoon. “You have only to put it on the market and then you’ll see. It will sell.”

“It’s too elaborate.” He rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. “Everything you do is so ornate and expensive to make.”

“Mr. Tiffany likes my designs,” she reminded him, crossing her arms. “No, he loves them.”

He sighed. “Can’t you make me some modest designs for candlesticks, ink bottles, and inexpensive lamps? Those are the kinds of things we can’t have too many of.”