"So you're willing to learn a thing or two from me?"
"I'd like that very much." And she meant it. His manner not withstanding, she was impressed with his dedication. He may not have appreciated the interruption of his social evening, but he had come nonetheless.
"You're something of a surprise," he said. "Not what I expected when I walked in here this evening."
It seemed everyone, except Harlan Porter perhaps, realized she didn't belong in a brothel. Too tired to think why that might be, or if it were a good or bad thing, she snuggled deeper into the pillow.
"Hmmm."
"Are you going to fall asleep?"
She shook her head slowly, feeling the frayed edges of sleep curl around her thoughts. She felt him move off the bed. She slept.
* * * The heat of his body woke her. She was astonished to discover she was touching him everywhere . . . then more astonished that she wasn't drawing back. He was pressed against her, his hands in her hair, his mouth at the curve of her ear. His breath was hot and sweet.
He was whispering and the vibration of it against her skin sent a shiver down her spine. Delicious sensation rocked her body. Her hands slid over his rib cage. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and across his chest, anchoring her against him. She laid her head in the curve of his shoulder. Her mouth brushed his skin.
His warmth enveloped her. She snuggled against him, liking the strength and heat of him. His fingers brushed the soft underside of her elbow. It was the most natural thing in the world to press a smile against his skin. She felt his nipple harden as her mouth grazed him.
Her breasts swelled and she drew a shaky breath. He drew out unfamiliar responses when he touched her, whereever he touched her.
At first it wasn't enough, then it was too much. Almost, she amended as she curled against him, almost too much.
He was moving against her, groaning. His hands slid between their bodies and over hers.
She wondered how to touch him, then he showed her, moving her hand for her, moving it over him. Her legs tangled with his as he twisted and rolled her onto her back. His knee separated her thighs.
She whimpered, partly in wanting, partly in surprise. He covered her mouth with his. It was hard and hungry across hers. She could feel the edge of his tongue. She moved restlessly, pushing, arching, but the weight of him secured her. His chest was a wall against her tender breasts. His legs were pressed against the length of hers.
For a moment she was frightened by what she felt and what he was making her feel. She meant to grab his hair but her fingers curled in the dark strands at his nape. She tried to scratch him and caught the outer edge of his ear instead. When he reared back she smiled uncertainly.
His gaze darkened and he lowered his head. Mesmerized by those eyes, it was only then that she arched, turning her head at the exact moment his mouth would have fused with hers. His lips scraped her cheek, her jaw line, then finally the curve of her neck. She pushed at his back, pressing the heels of her hands against the bunched muscles as he moved over her. I
He whispered in her ear. She heard the words and barely comprehended their meaning. His hands were massaging her, teasing her with sensation that flitted over her skin. She couldn't think.
His mouth was on hers, his tongue circling hers, pushing, probing, doing all things that his hips were doing at the cradle of her thighs.
Suddenly he pulled away from her. The loss of him took her breath, made her shake. She reached out to steady herself and he smiled as if he understood her need. He brushed aside her hand as he knelt between her thighs. He pushed back her raised knees and raised her buttocks and plunged into her.
She cried out. The pain was unexpected. Before she could catch her breath he withdrew and thrust again. This time she grasped his forearms and held on. She arched and felt him deep inside her.
Pleasure stirred again at the urging of his body. She was filled by him and a certain empty aching was gone.
She accepted the force of his thrusts, the rhythm of the joining.
Her head moved from side to side and no sound emerged from her parted lips. He left her nothing to do but feel. As the sweep of sensation demanded her surrender, her struggle ceased. His breathing was harsh.
She could only take in air in small sips.
She felt his taut muscles as need drove him into her again and again.
Her pleasure shattered as he cried out.
He collapsed against her and slept almost immediately. In spite of her desire to do otherwise, she followed him, nesting in the curve of his body.
There was no pain the second time.
It was much later that she eased out of bed, wobbly on her feet at first. She steadied herself by holding onto the post at the end of the bed, studiously avoiding looking at the bed itself or the man lying across it. When she could trust herself to move without stumbling she went to the dressing screen. The water in the bath was cool but she used it to tend to the ache between her thighs. She went through the motions, unable to think clearly about what she was doing or why she was doing it. Her movements were clumsy and awkward and that fact registered with more clarity than any other.
She found her clothes in the wardrobe. Stripping out of her shift, she tossed it over the screen and dressed slowly, making certain she did nothing to attract any unwanted attention from the bed. When she was finished she sat at the vanity and brushed out her hair.
Her strokes were deliberate, long, and almost punishing. She did not watch herself in the mirror. Instead her eyes were fixed on the nightshift she had worn and the stain of blood near its hem.
It had ridden up near her thighs when he.
She blinked and pulled herself back to the present. Moving by rote, with barely any conscious thought of her intent, she picked up the nightshift and rolled it into a ball. She wanted no trace of herself left in the room. Once she was gone it would be as if nothing had happened. Nothing.
She did not want to carry the nightgown where anyone could see it. She slipped on her coat and tried hiding it there. It was too lumpy.
That was when her eyes alighted on the black leather bag just inside the door. Hesitating only a moment she picked it up, opened it a crack, and stuffed her nightshift inside.
She glanced around the room to make certain she hadn't forgotten anything. Odd, she thought, how that expression came to mind when what she wanted to do was forget everything.
She opened the door carefully and listened for sounds in the hallway.
It was quiet abovestairs. Music drifted up from below.
Without a backward glance she stepped into the hall and headed for the back stairs. Her flight was uneventful. No one met her on the stairs.
The kitchen was empty.
She paused again at the back door. Thoughts of what she might face outside were as frightening as what she would face upstairs.
Her hand trembled on the handle. She gripped it tightly.
Sucking in her breath, she twisted the handle and pushed open the door.
Then she ran, knowing everything about who she was and what she wanted to be depended upon never looking back.
A hansom cab took her the entire way up Broadway to 48th Street.
Even at night the thoroughfare was busy. Peddlers were setting out their wares for the early-morning crowd and the last of the late-night revelers. Milk wagons were making deliveries to the boardinghouses while restaurants were ejecting their most stubborn customers. Not interested in the noise or the activity, she curled in one corner of the cab, her head turned away from the window. She paid the driver quickly, her head bowed so she would not be recognized, and walked the last two blocks alone once the cab was out of sight.
The house at the intersection of Broadway and 50th Street was only slightly smaller than the palatial French country home on which it was modeled. Rose bushes edged the foundation of smooth gray stone and morning glories climbed a trellis on the southern side.
She entered the yard at the front, pushing aside the iron rail gate, then went around back to the delivery entrance. There was a key above the door jamb. She stood on tiptoe to get it.
The house was quiet. It surprised her. She had expected that someone would be waiting up for her but apparently no one had lost any sleep worrying. That could only mean her sister had fabricated a story that credibly explained her absence.
She took off her shoes and carried them. It wasn't necessary to light a lamp, she knew the way to her room in the dark. She slipped inside her bedchamber and put down the shoes and the black leather bag. She started a fire in the grate and stripped off her clothes and threw them on the fire, stoking it so it wouldn't be smothered by the material.
She added the nightshift, then shoved the doctor's bag under her bed.
After scrubbing at the basin she crawled into her bed.
It was astonishingly easy to fall asleep.
A rough hand on her shoulder nudged her awake. At the windows the curtains had been pulled back and morning spilled into the room. Even with her eyes closed she could feel the press of light and heat from the sunshine. She opened her eyes slowly and found herself staring into the strained and worried face of her younger sister.
"Do you have any idea how frightened I've been since you disappeared?" she demanded in a harsh whisper. "What time did you get in? I was in and out of the house most of the night looking for you!
And it was no easy feat with Mother and Jay Mac playing cards in the parlor until midnight. I know it wasn't fair of me to leave with Daniel but it was a poorer trick you played me." She frowned, tears gathering in her eyes. "It was a trick, wasn't it? Oh, Maggie, I'm so sorry, but I've got to know that you're all right. Please tell me where you've been all this time."
Mary Margaret Dennehy blinked once. She sat up slowly and felt her sister's hand drop away. "Do you know, Skye," she said carefully.
"I haven't the faintest idea." chapter 3
Six weeks later The door opened softly. Connor didn't look up because he knew who it was and because it would irritate his uninvited and unwanted guest; he continued to fiddle with his cufflink. "What is it, Beryl?" he asked indifferently.
She had hardly made a sound. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, watching him deliberately ignore her. It annoyed her but it also gave her an opportunity to simply stare at him.
Knowing it would irritate him in turn, Beryl took her fill. "Is it my perfume?" she asked quietly.
Connor turned suddenly. He caught her off guard. Beryl's pale blue eyes, a startling contrast to the dark chestnut color of her hair, were fastened on the breadth of his shoulders. Since she had recommended the tailor, she was probably congratulating herself on the fit of his evening coat, he thought cynically. Making no effort to conceal his impatience he asked, "Is what your perfume?"
"The reason you noticed me before I said anything."
Beryl Walker Holiday was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever known. "It was any number of things," he said. "Your step in the hallway. That breathy little sigh. The rustle of your gown.
And your perfume. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
Her smile transformed a beautiful face into a radiant one. She pushed away from the door and took a step into the room.
Connor went on. "Men always notice you before you say anything," he told her. "It's when you open your mouth that they turn away."
Suiting his actions to his words, Connor turned and began adjusting the gold stud on his left sleeve.
Beryl rocked slightly on her heels as if feeling the blow physically.
"I think you take a certain amount of delight in being cruel to me," she said. "Have I hurt you so badly that you must punish me at every turn?"
"Save it, Beryl. I've heard this speech before."
She was thoughtful, touching the tip of her index finger to her lips.
She could not make him look at her so the calculated innocence of the gesture was wasted. Beryl dropped her hand to her side.
Changing tactics, she said, "You're looking quite handsome this evening.
The cut of that jacket suits you."
He gave no indication that he had even heard her.
Beryl approached him, walking behind Connor to critically assess the man while pretending interest in his evening wear. "You should always dress that way," she said. "It becomes you." He was quite magnificent, she thought, with his lean strength contained in tailored trappings. True, his dark hair brushed his collar unfashionably and the fingers that fiddled with the cufflinks were calloused, but Beryl found even these things appealing. The idea that Connor's restless energy could be leashed in a black swallowtail coat and trousers was an intriguing one. The idea of unleashing that energy was exciting, almost as exciting as the prospect of being caught in it. When Beryl looked past Connor's shoulder into her reflection in the mirror she saw her eyes had darkened.
Connor caught the sultry cast of Beryl's glance and his own eyes narrowed. Barely able to conceal his impatience, he asked, "Was there something specific you wanted or have you only come to gloat?"
She patted his shoulder lightly and stepped the rest of the way around him. Although she pretended not to understand, one corner of her mouth rose in a sly, knowing smile. "Gloat? Aren't you being absurd? Why would I be gloating?"
He shrugged away from her touch and straightened the tails of his jacket. "Enough, Beryl. I'm not answering your questions. If you have something to say, say it."
Her smile faded. Her hand dropped slowly to her side. "All right, then," she said. "I find it quite interesting that you've decided to put yourself up for sale." Her eyes followed him in the mirror as he left her side. She watched him go to the wardrobe and root through one of the drawers until he came away with a silver flask. He unscrewed the cap and raised it to his lips. "You may want to go easy with that," she said. "You're not at your best when you've been drinking."
