Katherine O’Neal (5 page)

“If that doesn’t work?”

“Then I’ll expose him for what he is.”

“If he doesn’t expose you first, you mean.
Does he know who you are?”

After a brief pause, she admitted, “I’m not
sure. Sometimes I suspect he does. Certainly he will by the time
I’m through with him. I want him to know that it was a Sherwin who
brought about the end of the Blackwood dynasty. In any case, he
realizes I’m a threat to him. He’s doing everything he can to keep
me from marrying Winston.” She burst into a smile so dazzling, he
narrowed his eyes just as he would against the glare of the sun on
the prairie. “Guess how he’s doing it.”

Bat shook his head. “Tell me.”

“By trying to seduce me so he can go to
Winston with the news and destroy my hopes of a wedding ring.”

“Is he succeeding?”

Her smile widened appreciably. “I’m having an
absolutely marvelous time allowing him to think so.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m playing along with his scam.
He’s trying to hoodwink me into his bed, and I’m convincing him I’m
mighty tempted and may just capitulate at any moment. When the
truth is, I’d sooner seduce a rattler.”

She said it so vehemently, he had to wonder.
Some instinct told him there was more to this than she was
admitting. “Sounds a mite tricky, if you ask me.”

“That, dear friend, is the beauty of it.
Where’s the challenge if it’s predictable? If you want the absolute
truth, I’ve never had more fun in my life.”

“I saw the way you looked at him. And I have
firsthand knowledge of what that look does to a man. You’re lucky
Blackwood hasn’t forced himself on you.”

She got up suddenly and moved to the window.
In the white lace, with her blond hair streaming down her back, she
looked suddenly vulnerable, like a skittish bride. “Has he?” he
asked in a harsher tone.

“Mace? No. But it was his idea that we be
masked at the ball. Just the sort of notion that would appeal to a
confidence man, wouldn’t you say? The hiding of identities. All in
all, it should be a smashing evening. Madame Zorina will be there,
which should be fun. My mother studied with her, but I’ve never met
her. And I have a sneaking suspicion Blackwood’s going to make his
move. With the wedding a week away, he doesn’t have much time.”

Saranda arrived at the ball dressed in a
clinging velvet gown of deep cobalt blue. The neckline was
plunging, the skirt tight about her hips, then draped in cascading
folds to the hem that brushed her matching slippers. Deep blue
flowers, scattered over the skirt, dipped saucily to adorn the
flowing train. She wore about her throat the Dutch blue diamonds
that had been passed down through the Van Slyke family for
generations. Jackson had given the necklace to Lalita as a wedding
present, and Winston had insisted Saranda wear it tonight. No one
had seen the jewels since Lalita had died nearly three decades
before. Now the legendary necklace sparkled at Saranda’s throat,
dipping to accentuate the pale crests of her bosom, making her
intensely aware of her exposed skin as it brushed against her when
she moved. Master thief that she was, she felt enraptured by the
sensation of the jewels on her flesh. As they warmed to her body’s
temperature, they became a part of her, inspiring her creativity,
lending her a new and heightened consciousness of the possibilities
of the evening. In all her travels, to the capitals of Europe and
beyond, she’d never so much as had her fingers on such exquisite
gems. Wearing them made her feel more alluring, more sensual, more
womanly, than she’d ever felt before.

But it was the mask that excited her beyond
all else. Of black velvet, decorated simply with jet beads, it
shielded her identity more completely than any disguise ever had.
It erected a barrier between her and the other guests, providing a
wickedly stirring sense of anonymity that appealed to the con woman
in her. Hidden behind this tenuous impediment of velvet and
ribbons, she felt devilishly alive, throbbing with a sense of
adventure, in her true element for the first time since meeting the
Van Slykes. Anything was possible tonight. And before the evening
was over, she intended to put Mace Blackwood in his place.

She surveyed the crowd, all dressed in
evening finery with similar masks concealing their identities. Once
they’d successfully traversed the bridge over the mud surrounding
the museum, they settled in to the mood of the festivities.
Fashioned from pink granite, the American Museum of Natural History
had been opened two months earlier with a celebration attended by
President Hayes. Built at the far corner of Central Park, it had
been considered a bit of a gamble. Quite a way from downtown,
surrounded by little except vacant fields, the museum posed the
question of whether anyone would brave the inconveniences for the
sake of science. But, at Jackson’s and the
Globe-Journal’s
instigation, society had come to the rescue, determined to infuse a
certain glamour while raising funds for the completion of the
museum.

That there was much to complete was evident,
even as the guests enjoyed the music and elegant tables laden with
food. In sections, scaffolding stood against the walls, awaiting
completion of projects once the fashionable party was little more
than a memory. Certain walls were completely bare, others half-hung
with displays. Some crates lined the comers of one room holding
specimens and sculptures that awaited pedestals. A guard stood
vigilant, sentinel against undue interest in the artifacts, but not
adverse to accepting an occasionally offered glass of champagne
from one of the wealthy patrons.

Unaccustomed as New York society guests were
to masked balls, they were all aquiver tonight, dancing to the
orchestra as they tried to ascertain who was hiding beneath each
mask. The gimmick had been Blackwood’s idea, and as such it had
taken on an enchantment it might not have had if it had come from
other quarters. As Archer, he was such a popular and dashing figure
in society, his women admirers immediately seized any idea of his
to their breasts and promoted it with the enthusiasm their husbands
might lend to a campaign of war. The men, because they respected
“Archer” and desired to please their women, somewhat less
enthusiastically followed suit.

As the Van Slyke party entered the hall, they
were immediately noted by the crowd because of the presence of Bat
Masterson. The first of Archer’s articles had appeared that morning
in the
Globe-Journal
, making much of the cane Bat always
carried and the derby he always wore. Though he’d been outfitted at
the newspaper’s expense in evening clothes, he walked in
brandishing his cane like a baton and was immediately swooped down
on by a bevy of giggling female admirers. They drew him away,
chattering all the while, firing questions about the colorful
exploits they’d read of earlier in the day. Blackwood had painted a
fiery picture of a legendary gunfighter who fought for justice with
a smoking sixgun, single-handedly standing against the rowdy
elements of the West to bring law and order to the wildest town in
America. In his hands, Bat was drawn as a man who put his life on
the line for the good and decent citizens of the vast frontier, a
man deserving of awe, respect, and fear.

“Christ,” Bat had told Saranda when he’d read
it. “I’d best not let Wyatt get ahold of this. He’ll laugh himself
silly.”

He wasn’t sure, before the ball, that anyone
would believe it. So it came as quite a shock when he found himself
a celebrity for the first time in his life. The women crowded
around him, demanding dances, so he was at first overwhelmed. But
he rose to the occasion with the speedy reflexes that had been
touted in the paper. To Saranda’s amusement, he was soon cavorting
the society butterflies about the dance floor, leading the ladies
in more of a western two-step than a Fifth Avenue waltz.

Now that Bat was taken care of, Saranda
turned to her fiancé with a warm smile. “Winny, look, isn’t that
Mathilda standing in the corner? She looks so lonely. You should go
dance with her. She’s always been sweet on you, you know. I’m
afraid it will break her heart when we marry.” She took the lapels
of his jacket in her slim hands and looked flirtatiously into his
face. He wore his grey mask somewhat awkwardly over his spectacles,
so it was difficult to see his eyes. “Should I give you up to make
her happy, do you think?”

Winston colored to the roots of his
salt-and-pepper hair. He’d never been adept with women, always too
shy to believe anyone would be attracted to him for himself alone.
It was one of the qualities that endeared him to Saranda more than
any other. While he’d been warned that women would pursue him
simply because his father possessed such wealth and power, he
considered himself a man of limited wit, and therefore unappealing
to the opposite gender. Unlike his ideal, “Archer,” who could charm
the birds from the trees, he never knew how to respond to a woman’s
teasing. It was just this sort of flirtatious bantering from
Saranda that made his heart swell with love for her. It made him
feel more interesting, and, remarkably, more manly in her
presence.

The last thing he wanted was to leave her
side. But he was a man of great compassion. He knew what it was to
be shy and alone in the shadows at a party. Saranda’s reminder that
Mathilda might be lonely touched his heart and made it impossible
for him to refuse.

He gave her a tender smile. “You’re so
sweet,” he said. “So kind to everyone. Sometimes—”

“What, Winny?”

“Well, sometimes I think you can’t possibly
be real,” he confessed. Then he kissed her hand with restraint, as
if unsure of his rights as her fiancé. Saranda took a slow breath
as she watched him leave. Naive as Winny was, he didn’t know how
close he’d come to the truth.

Once he’d gone, she was free to search out
her prey of the evening. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Blackwood
was such an impressive-looking man that it would take more than a
mask to disguise him. She studied the dancers, dismissing them with
practiced eyes. This one was too short, that one was blond... No,
he wasn’t dancing. She turned to survey the back of the room and
saw a figure who might be him. He was tall with wavy black hair and
the body of an acrobat—something that had been passed down through
his family by the Gypsies, who, generations ago, had infiltrated
the ranks of his English ancestors. He wore a plain black mask that
made him look utterly masculine, dangerously sensual.

As if he’d felt the persistent heat of her
gaze, the masked man turned to face her. Saranda gasped softly,
trembling at the unexpected sense that she’d become the target of
his desire, that she was no longer the huntress in search of her
prey. Her instinct was to escape, to run from the power he exuded,
the threat he represented....

There was a wide stone staircase at the end
of the hall, leading up to a second level. She headed for it on
shaking legs, hoping she could escape before Winston caught sight
of her.

People were wandering up and down the
stairway on tours of the museum. Before she made it halfway up, she
felt a hand on her arm. She whirled. It was Mace Blackwood. His
midnight-blue eyes took in her jittery state with one swift glance
from beneath the unadorned black shield of his mask.

She’d run from him, but now that he’d caught
her, she was inexplicably happy to see him.

“Had enough of the party?” he asked in his
Oxford-inflected voice.

Feeling incapable of speech, she nodded.

“Perhaps you’d care to join me on the
terrace. We might step outside and look at the mud.”

He smiled charmingly, but her mind was
working too feverishly to respond. Now that she had a moment to
catch her breath, she recalled her reasons for going after
Blackwood in the first place and strengthened her resolve. As he
guided her, his hand at her elbow, up the staircase toward the
outside door, she took the opportunity to collect her wits and
devise a plan of attack. The last thing she could afford at this
juncture was to have Blackwood perceive her vulnerable state. She
must behave as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired.

She reached up and fingered the mask at her
eyes. It gave her a sense of comfort, a contrivance by which to
shield her jumbled emotions from the penetration of his gaze. She
could do what she must, what she’d planned for so long. She had
only to look at his face... and remember the pain...

She overheard McLeod, the fat man who’d been
at the Van Slyke mansion the night before, complaining to a woman
in a brightly colored mask. “But you don’t understand. The only
reason I came tonight was to see Madame Zorina. Now you tell me she
decided not to come?”

Saranda was distracted enough that the
comment barely registered. She was disappointed, naturally, for
she’d been eager to see the famous psychic. But she had all she
could do to concentrate on the task at hand.

They stepped outside, into a gust of wind
that cooled her cheeks and brought a semblance of sanity to her
mind. She looked around. They were standing on a stone terrace
overlooking the back of the museum. A scaffold had been shoved
against the wall, with some buckets of paint atop and some ropes
dangling down the sides. She put her hands on the rough railing and
drew a deep breath, steeling herself for the battle to come. But in
the midst of taking air, she leaned over too far and was unnerved
by the sensation of the balcony protruding out over nothing but
empty space below. She was afraid of only two things in the
world—prison and high places. A wave of dizziness flooded through
her, and she straightened abruptly, shaken but determined not to
let him see her weakness.

He leaned back against the rail so he was
facing the pink granite wall of the museum while she looked in the
opposite direction, out over the empty fields. As long as she
didn’t look down, she told herself, she’d be fine.