When Tempting a Rogue (5 page)

“There’s talk of an inquiry into your shooting.” He kept his tone light. Conversational.

Jones shifted on the cushions, wincing when his shoulder moved the wrong way. “Good. The bitch tried to kill me.”

Trystan chuckled. “
Son
, if Vienne La Rieux wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. She was trying to teach you a lesson.”

“I’ll teach her a lesson, the bitch. Thinks she can command me to her bed whenever she wants, then say no?”

A strange bitter feeling rose in Trystan’s chest—a foul taste in his mouth. “Yes,” he said, “that’s exactly what she can do. You obviously don’t lack in feminine companionship.”

Jones glanced up at him, a sloppy smirk curving his lips. How could anyone think this piece of shite was attractive? What did women see in him other than his youth? He had to be extremely well endowed, because he certainly wasn’t charming. “You’ve had her too, haven’t you? Then you know just how sweet that honey pot between her white thighs is. A man could die happy buried to the hilt in Vienne La Rieux.”

“She should have aimed lower,” Trystan muttered, then loudly said, “Look, Jones. You’re not going to take any action against Vienne La Rieux, lawful or otherwise.”

The younger man scowled, looking like a petulant, drunken cherub. “Now, see here. That bitch—
Ow!
”

Trystan had gripped Jones by the shoulder, digging his thumb into the spot where he estimated the bullet tore into his flesh. Then he bent down so no one but the now-fully alert bastard could hear him. “You see here, you little prick. You deserve what you got. You deserve worse than that for trying to force yourself on a woman, your lover or not. If you so much as breathe in Vienne La Rieux’s direction, I’ll finish you. Understood?—
FINISH
you. And no one—
no one
—will ever find your useless corpse.”

Jones stared up at him as Trystan straightened. Shock and pain brightened his green eyes. He swallowed and nodded, but didn’t speak.

Trystan smiled. “Excellent. I suggest you find yourself another place to sleep tonight as well. I don’t think Mrs. Lake is too terribly impressed with you at the moment.”

Then he left the room and made his way back the way he’d come, tipping his hat to the housekeeper as he passed. “I’ll show myself out, missus. Good day.”

Outside, it seemed a little brighter, a little sharper, yet the day was just as it had been when he first arrived. He certainly had no business doing what he had just done—threatening a man over Vienne’s honor—but he had done it all the same. He couldn’t afford to have her distracted by thoughts of persecution or further scandal. He needed her sharp, alert, and able to make sound decisions where their joint venture was concerned.

He needed her attention fully focused—on
him.

L
ater that day, as Vienne sorted through her gowns, searching for the correct one to wear to her meeting with Trystan, she received word that a workman had suffered an accident at the emporium site and would be unable to return to work for several weeks. The man was a master craftsman; and she had hoped that his delicately carved woodwork would be a focal point, uniting all the different shops and floors into one cohesive space.

While she would never belittle a man’s personal injury by making it a slight against herself, she did take a brief moment to ask God why this had happened to her—at a time when Trystan Kane was looking over her shoulder.

There was, though, a bright side to the unfortunate incident: the workman would recover, and he had several apprentices who could continue the work he had started. It might not be as perfect, but it would be close. She would have to be happy with that.

Also, she’d just heard from her solicitor that William Jones planned to go to Scotland Yard and tell them that the “altercation” between them had been nothing but a huge misunderstanding—an accident.

Vienne had been tempted to go to the authorities herself and tell them it was not an accident at all, that the weasel had tried to force himself upon her—but it wasn’t worth the scandal; her name was in the papers often enough. Yet not for anything quite so . . . colorful. She wanted to keep what tenuous good standing she had in this city, but hadn’t thought of that when she pulled the trigger. She’d been so outraged by William’s behavior, so indignant, that she could only at that moment make her point.

Hopefully it had been a lesson young Monsieur Jones would not soon forget.

Now she was dressed in an exquisite new gown designed by Mr. Worth—a shimmering gold fabric, embellished with tiny copper crystals that sparkled under lights and hugged her snugly from shoulder to hip. Its swaths of fabric were gathered in the back and tumbled down to the floor in a short train. A simple design that allowed the fabulous confection to stand out but not overpower. After all, it should be the lady in the gown that received the attention, not the gown itself. Her sister had told her that . . . a long time ago when they still spoke to one another.

But she would not think of her sister. Not tonight.

Vienne stood in the door of the club dining room, her gaze drifting over the early supper crowd. There would be a steady flow in and out of this hall for at least the next three hours. By that time the gaming rooms would be filled as well. There was no entertainment this evening, but later in the week a famous opera singer would regale guests with her amazing voice.

Personally, Vienne couldn’t stand opera.

She glanced at the ornate clock in the corner. Trystan would arrive soon. The realization caused her heart to give a sharp thump—as though in protest of the meeting? Or perhaps in anticipation of it? She hadn’t yet decided how she felt about the youngest Kane brother’s reappearance in her life, or how he had gone about it. Still, she saw the situation as a challenge and did
so
enjoy a challenge, even when it gave her butterflies.

Her solicitor had also told her that, based on the wording of the contracts she’d given investors to sign, Trystan hadn’t done anything illegal. As Angelwood had suggested, the methods might not have been entirely morally aboveboard, but they were binding.

And Trystan claimed he did not want to ruin her. He insinuated that his hopes for the emporium were as high as her own. That she doubted, but not his enthusiasm—at least not right now. Trystan Kane had become something of a legend in the business world; and while she didn’t trust him on a personal level, she was impressed enough with his accomplishments to give him the benefit of the doubt.

That didn’t mean she was going to give him control. He could have half the venture, but he would not change her vision—and he’d better not assume she’d just stand back and allow him to take over.

“Mason Blayne and his escort have finished their wine,” she told one of the waiters, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “See that they have another bottle.”

The young man nodded. “Of course, Madame La Rieux.”

The corner of Vienne’s mouth lifted. The boy couldn’t seem to decide where to look—her face or her breasts. He was a charming young thing, handsome as well, and undoubtedly hers for the taking. But she had no desire for him. It was Trystan Kane that made her heart trip all over itself tonight.

She released the waiter and sent him back to his duties before leaving the dining room. Time to return to her office. She’d arranged for a light repast for herself and Trystan—mostly fruit and some cold meats and cheese. He once commented to her that he enjoyed eating with his hands. Yes, he did so enjoy food. . .

Then she remembered just how very sensual was his nature.

And as she did, a surprising flush flooded her skin. He had worshiped her body as though it was his own personal conduit to God. No one before, or since, had ever made love to her with such . . .
enthusiasm,
and wonder. He had known just where to touch, to kiss . . . and he had found new places for his lips and hands to play as well. Spoiled her, he had. She would never admit it, not even under torture—Trystan Kane had been the best lover she’d ever had.

Could anyone blame her, then, for severing their connection? Prolonging it would have surely led to heartache.

Her footsteps were muffled by the plush crimson carpet. Very few people—none of them patrons—knew about the narrow, secret corridors that ran throughout the club. They were used only by entertainers, employees, and Vienne herself. The secret passages and false panels harkened back to the club’s former days as a theater, and now made it easy for Vienne to avoid being delayed by guests who wanted her attention.

She entered her office through a side door. The food had been delivered and a pretty little table set. A bottle of wine chilled in a nearby bucket. One thing she and Trystan shared was a preference for white wine—German and slightly sweet. Perhaps his tastes had changed since they spent time together, but hers had not.

Which would explain why her breath caught in her throat when he stepped across the threshold at exactly the appointed time. She had seen him in evening clothes many times, and certainly on a few occasions since his return, but it never failed to impress her. Men always looked best in stark black and white.

Impossibly bright blue eyes seemed to take in the entire scene, lingering for a moment on the table and the wine before meeting her gaze. Hopefully she appeared less shaken than she actually was.

She rose from the sofa where she had sat down barely moments earlier. “Mr. Kane. Punctual as always, I am pleased to see.”

He arched a brow at her convivial tone. “I recall how much you despise tardiness, Madame La Rieux.”

How formal they were being!
How stilted and awkward. One would think them strangers. Or perhaps one would instantly see them for what they were—former lovers who did not part on the best of terms. She regretted
how
she ended their affair, but she did not regret the action itself. The fact that her heart was pounding at three times its normal rate supported the decision.

Obviously, even after several years, Trystan still affected her—while he looked calm and serene and not in the least bothered by being alone in a room with her. Perhaps she could change that.

“Come,” she invited. “Sit and eat with me.” She moved toward the table, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

Trystan hesitated, but only for a moment. Vienne had to hide a pleased smile as he did as she bid, joining her across the snowy tablecloth. She didn’t have to ask him to attend to the wine; he did so immediately, in the manner he had years before—pouring generous amounts in both their glasses before raising his.

“A toast,” he said, “to a successful partnership.”

Vienne raised her wine as well, flashing a bright smile.
“Salute!”

He watched her over the crystal rim as they both drank. What was he thinking? She could discern nothing from his posture or expression, nor even his eyes—those beautiful eyes . . . from which he’d broadcast every happiness
and
every tragedy.

When had he gotten those lines around his eyes and mouth? When had he changed from a bright-faced youth to the man before her? He looked good, even more handsome than he had been. How did she look to him? Unchanged? Or was she older too—perhaps faded and past her prime?

“Why did you invite me here, Vienne?” he asked before he plucked a strawberry from the platter and popped it into his mouth.

She shrugged in that laconic manner her people were known for. “We are partners now. I thought it would be pleasant if we sat down together.”

“Pleasant?” He wiped his fingers on a napkin. “Is that what you thought?”

Oddly, something seemed to sink in the vicinity of her stomach. Had some part of her actually hoped he would have forgotten her dismissal?

“Yes,” she admitted. “Or rather, I had hoped we might be civil.”

He seemed to consider that. “What prompted this sudden change of heart? Earlier you were angry enough to want my head on a pike.”

Such a lovely and descriptive attempt to capture how she had felt. “My solicitor tells me there is nothing that can be done. If I am going to be forced to work with you, then I must make the best of it. I will not risk all I’ve worked for because we are no longer friends.” Now there was a pinch beneath her breast. Perhaps she should see her doctor. Hopefully he would prescribe something for indigestion, because that was the only explanation she would accept for this queer reaction.

He smiled, but the gesture never made it to his eyes. “Were we ever friends? It hardly matters now. The past is best left in the past. I’m much more interested in the future.”

How did he make that sound both insulting and seductive at the same time? “As am I.” She toyed with the stem of her wineglass, watching tiny droplets of condensation bead on the crystal. “You said you had ideas for the site. Why don’t you share some of them with me now?”

Suddenly, Trystan’s cool composure began to melt. As soon as she made the suggestion he sat up straighter, his eyes brightening. “We want this to be the kind of place in which ladies love to spend their money—will
want
to spend their money.”

Vienne appreciated that he did not naturally assume the money would belong to husbands. In this modern world, the number of women inheriting and making their own fortunes was constantly increasing. “Of course.”