Tycoon (11 page)

Her shoulders went rigid, and he knew he'd offended her. “I have more than a ‘knack.' Why do you think I will not succeed?”

How could he explain it to her, that talent only got one so far in business? More important were cunning, a lack of scruples, and an ever-ready supply of favors to call upon at a moment's notice. This woman was far too well-bred to play in the street with the other vermin.

“The world you think to involve yourself in is a cutthroat, nasty business. I cannot believe you have the stomach for it.”

Her lips thinned into a white line. “And how do you know what, precisely, I have the stomach for?”

She hadn't backed down, so perhaps Elizabeth Sloane was stronger than she appeared. Still, she had no idea what awaited her if she continued along this insane path. Bribes. Lying. Cheating . . . Christ, he'd bought off two politicians already today—and the day was only half over. No woman, especially one whose family could be traced to the Dutch patroons of New Amsterdam, should swim in those filthy waters.

“I don't, not really. But I have a strong suspicion.”

“A suspicion based on how I look. On my last name.”

It was not a question, but Emmett still felt he owed her the truth. “Yes. Life in Washington Square will not have prepared you for—”

Anger bloomed on her cheeks, her pristine skin turning red. “You have no idea of my life or what I'm prepared to do. I know as much about stocks as any man, including you. Women shouldn't be forced to put up with . . . with . . .”

She trailed off, and Emmett couldn't drag his eyes away. No woman had ever appeared as gorgeous as a furious Elizabeth Sloane. Emmett's body had begun to take notice, but the last thing he needed was a bit of stiff in his trousers. With an effort, he returned to the conversation. “With?”

“With men like
you!
You are just as closed-minded as my brother.”

Emmett felt himself frown. God knew he wanted nothing in common with Will Sloane. Emmett hated her brother with everything he had, which was considerable.

He studied the determined set of Miss Sloane's shoulders. The resolute gleam in her steady gaze. “Why?” he finally asked.

“Why, what?”

“Why do you want to do this? You have to know it won't be easy. And who will be your clients?”

“Mostly women at first. Shop girls, teachers, widows, society women. And ladies with . . . other sources of income.”

“Prostitutes, you mean.” God Almighty, her brother would lose his snobbish, blue-blooded mind if he knew. Emmett was growing to like this girl.

She flushed, but did not dodge, answering, “Yes, those as well. But a well-known male client will help other businessmen to trust me. And I mean to do this whether you help me or not.”

He admired her conviction, but wondered at the reason behind it. Were the Sloanes in some sort of financial trouble? Why else would she be here, so anxious to prove herself, instead of doing this on her own? The idea had Emmett nearly salivating; he'd had his eye on Sloane's Northeast Railroad Company for a long time. Owning the railroad that transported his steel across the country would almost double Emmett's profits.

And bringing the stick-up-his-ass Sloane down while helping his sister engage in something scandalous? Nearly irresistible.

Yet something held him back, like perhaps his strange reaction to her.

“I like your determination,” he admitted. “But—”

“Wait!” she said suddenly. “I have an idea. Let's make a wager. You give me an amount of money, and, if I cannot double it on the exchange within six months, then you're off the hook.”

Before he thought better of it, he asked, “How much?”

She shrugged. “You may decide. Five thousand, perhaps?”

He admired her spirit, so he played along. “Too low. Let's make it ten.”

“Fine. And when I double it, I'll take the twenty thousand and another fifty to start my business.”

“Our business,” he corrected. “If I'm backing you, you're going to give me a share of your profits, Miss Sloane. And you only get three weeks. Not six months.” No use making it easy on her.

Her jaw dropped. “Three weeks! I cannot possibly—”

“Then we have nothing else to discuss.” He stood and walked around his desk. “Good day, miss.”

“Fine! Three weeks.”

He suppressed a smirk. She would need to learn better negotiating skills, that was for certain. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Tell me something.”

“Yes?”

“What's in it for me?”

“Well, money, of course.”

“I've got plenty of money. You'll have to do better than that.”

This caught her off guard, and she started chewing her lip. “I . . . There's nothing other than altruism and money in it for you, I'm afraid.”

“One unappealing and the other completely unnecessary. What else?” He moved toward her, relieved to see that she didn't back away from him like before. When he reached the edge of his desk, he leaned on the heavy wood and crossed his feet. “For example, what happens if you fail? I'm out ten thousand dollars.”

“I don't have the money to pay you back, at least not yet. But I can repay you in Northeast stock. From my trust.”

Emmett swore he could hear his heart beating in his ears. “Is it, by chance, preferred stock?”

“Yes, how did you know? My father started the company only a few years before he died and he put some in a trust for me. I'm certain I have enough stock to deed over to you, should I fail. Which I won't.”

He barely restrained himself from rubbing his hands together. Northeast hadn't put preferred stock on the market in eight years. Owning some not only promised a higher dividend return on the company's earnings, but such stock could possibly allow him voting rights. Will Sloane would shit himself when he found out—not that Emmett would tell any of this to Elizabeth.

“Why not wait until your twenty-fifth birthday, then, to start your company?”

“Because I am tired of waiting. Another four years is intolerable.”

Something about her answer felt off, Emmett would swear on it. The woman stood to inherit a large trust in a few years, so why not wait? More evidence that all was not well in the house of Sloane.

Damn, he'd enjoyed this visit, probably more than he should have. He almost regretted it would soon be over. No chance she would succeed in the wager, which meant the two of them would never cross paths again. A shame her brother would never learn of this meeting. Unless . . .

“You present a tempting offer, Miss Sloane. Now, would you like to hear my counteroffer?”

“A counteroffer?”

“Yes, something I want from you in exchange.”

She clasped her hands, almost as if bracing herself. “And what might that be, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

“I want you to have dinner with me.”

“Dinner?” He watched as shock soon gave way to wariness. The woman had no idea how to conceal an emotion. Really, the jackals on Wall Street would swallow her whole. “When?”

“Friday, at Delmonico's.”

“I couldn't possibly do that. What would . . .”

She didn't finish, so he said, “Yes, what would they say? Knickerbocker's finest, dining with the likes of me. Could the city handle such a scandal?”

“You are mocking me.”

“I do no such thing, Miss Sloane. I want to have dinner with you. Are you brave enough, or would you like to check with your brother first?”

That had the desired result. She threw back her shoulders, determined to prove she was one of the modern, independent women who answered to no one. Emmett could only imagine the conversations in the Sloane household. She must drive her brother daft. Yet another reason to like her.

“Fine. Which Delmonico's?”

“Twenty-sixth Street, of course,” he replied smoothly.

“Of course,” she repeated, her tone sardonic. He knew why she would be unhappy. The location would ensure all of New York society saw them together, and the news would race to Sloane's ears before dessert had been cleared. “In the main dining room, I assume.”

He inclined his head. “Indeed. Shall I write the bank check? Do we have a deal?”

She swallowed, her eyes uncertain, and he was filled with a sudden desperation for her to say yes. Clearly from a desire to bedevil Sloane . . . not the anticipation of watching her full, delectable mouth as she ate.

Finally, she jerked her head. “We have a deal.”

* * *

Lizzie left the Cavanaugh mansion, a signed bank check tucked in her small bag. Elation bubbled inside her, despite the daunting prospect of sharing dinner with him on Friday. Never mind what Henry would say, but how would she explain it to Will?

Still, one dinner was well worth it. One step closer to her own investment firm.

Her brougham remained where she had left it, on Seventy-Fifth Street where prying eyes might be less likely to see it. At her approach, her driver, Brookfield, moved to open the door. “You've got guests, miss.”

“Guests?”

Brookfield colored slightly. “I apologize. I didn't see them sneak in, miss, and by the time I noticed, they wouldn't leave.” The door swung open and two young girls stared at her from the carriage depths. They both had pretty, dark hair done up in ringlets and yellow dresses on. They almost looked like twins, but Lizzie could tell that one girl was slightly older. She guessed they were no more than twelve or thirteen.

“Hello,” she said, climbing inside and sliding onto the empty bench.

Both girls grinned. “You're pretty,” one of them said.

“Very pretty. I love your dress,” the other girl said, gesturing to Lizzie's outfit. It was one of Lizzie's best day dresses, a French silk of blue stripes paired with a pointed basque trimmed with lace. The skirt had two deep ruffles and panier drapery.

“Thank you. I am curious who you are, though.”

“We're Emmett's half-sisters. I'm Kathleen,” the older-looking one said. “But everyone calls me Katie.”

“I'm Claire. May I touch your hat?”

Lizzie quickly recovered from her shock of meeting

Cavanaugh's family to lean forward and bend her head toward the girl. “Yes, you may. That is an ostrich feather.”

“It's so soft,” the girl whispered. “Thank you.”

Lizzie straightened. “And how old are you, Katie and Claire?”

“I'm thirteen. Claire's only fourteen months younger than me.”

“Oh,” Lizzie said. “That must be nice, having a sister so close to your own age.” Not that Lizzie didn't appreciate her older brother but she'd always wished for a sister.

“It is, except Mama died when I was born,” Claire said.

“Oh,” Lizzie repeated. “My mother died when I was little as well.”

Both girls gazed at her with understanding. “Do you remember her?” Katie asked.

“Very little, I'm afraid.” She could recall brushing her mother's long blond hair at night. The ghost of a few other brief moments existed, such as a kind word or a kiss on the forehead, but never as many as she'd wished for. Lizzie had been four when Caroline Sloane died in childbirth, along with the baby. She refocused on the young girls. “But I'm sure your mother loved you both very much.”

Katie smiled. “Brendan tells us stories about her all the time.”

“Brendan?” Lizzie asked.

“Our other half-brother. We all had the same father. Emmett's the oldest, then Brendan, then us. Emmett and Brendan's mother died, too. Before our father married our mother.”

“We spend a lot of time with Brendan. Emmett's usually too busy for us.” Claire swung her booted feet, her legs still too short to reach the floor. “He works all the time.”

Lizzie had no response for that. She could imagine, considering Will's hectic schedule. Empires did not run themselves. “How long have you lived with your brothers?”

“I was almost three. Claire had just turned one.”

So Emmett, then only a young man himself, had taken in the small girls and assumed responsibility for them. What had happened to their father?

“Where do you live?” Claire asked Lizzie. “We used to live near Union Square but Emmett had this big house built a few years ago and we came to stay here. This house is so gigamtic, it has seventy-eight rooms.”

“Gigantic,”
Lizzie corrected. This rapid-fire exchange was gaining her more information about Cavanaugh than meeting the man himself. “That is very big. It must be fun, though, having all that space. I live on Washington Square Park with my brother.”

Katie's eyes went big. “That used to be a graveyard. Do you have ghosts?”

“No, not that I've seen. Do you girls have a governess? If so, I imagine she's looking for you.”

“Yes. But we snuck out,” the older girl said.

“She thinks we're practicing our music. I play piano and Katie plays the clarinet.” Claire mimicked piano keys with her fingers.

“Won't she be worried if she discovers you missing?”

Katie lifted a shoulder. “Probably, but we had to come down to see what you looked like.”

“You see, ladies never call on Emmett,” Claire elaborated, fingering the satin bow on her dress.

“Well, not ladies like you,” Katie said, and they both giggled.

“Girls,” Lizzie admonished, though she tried not to laugh.

“Your brother's private life is his own business. And you should not know what sort of ladies he sees.”