Betina Krahn (10 page)

“Michael of the Waldorf,” she said, staring at the salad as if it might bite. “Unless you’re a devotee of Eduard of the Ritz.”

He paused in the middle of plunging a corkscrew into the wine bottle and gave her a pained and pitying look.

“It’s Mary McMurtry of O’Toole’s Restaurant. Sweet Mary is Ireland’s gift of gratitude to America.” He shook the cork, still attached to the corkscrew, as if it were his finger. “She’s a miracle in the kitchen, that woman. What she can do with a shank o’ lamb has been known to make grown men weep. The priests down at St. Patrick’s Cathedral give abstinence from Mary’s cookin’ as a penance.”

When she gave him a disbelieving look, he straightened and went on with exaggerated sincerity. “I swear it’s true. Though, I hear the archbishop has declared that they must reserve such punishment for only the worst offenses … like ax murderin’ or breakin’ a bottle of good Irish whiskey.

“I’ll have no scoffin,’ madam. You cannot judge until you’ve tried her cookin’, especially her pie.” The longer he talked the more of an Irish lilt crept into his voice. “Sweet Mary has ‘the gift’ for makin’ pie … bakes a miracle of a crust that is so rich and buttery …” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “There’s talk that she has conjured a way of stealing sunbeams and weavin’ ’em into her crusts. Which would explain why it’s always cloudy on the East Side on Thursdays … that’s her bakin’ day. And they say that when she runs short of berries, she just plucks a few from the glow of her cheeks to finish the filling …”

Beatrice sat clutching her sheet together in front, immobilized by the seductive cadence of his voice and the outrageous claims he was making. When he poured the wine and lifted his goblet, she found herself oddly drawn to meet it with hers.

“To home and hearth, and a quick return to both for you,” he declared.

It was bad form to refuse to drink a toast raised in one’s honor, Beatrice reasoned as she raised the glass to her nose. A spicy oak-rich aroma filled her head. She knew how it would taste just from the vapor and when she took a sip, she nearly groaned. There couldn’t be a more complex or sophisticated burgundy this side of the Atlantic. Her mouth began to water. The marvelous smells of the food and the unexpected amicability of the company were melting the starch in her spine.

A body has to eat, she told herself. And if appearing to cooperate caused him to lower his guard and divulge more of what he knew about her abduction, then she might as well eat, drink, and … serve the blessed salad.

“I’m right, am I not?” he said, moments later, smiling over the rim of his glass. “About Pierre.”

“Ummmmm,” she mumbled, her mouth full of tender greens and plump raspberries and almonds that had been drizzled with a sweet vinaigrette. After a moment she swallowed. “It is quite … acceptable.”

“You’re a hard woman Beatrice Von Furstenberg,” he said, pointing with his fork. “Hard but fair, I believe. You’ll come around.”

Then he smiled at her.

It was a broad, beaming beacon of goodwill … a bold and brimming expression that invited her to reciprocate. She stared at his features, studying the change in them. That smile was pure alchemy. In that simple release of pleasure, granite had been transformed into vibrant flesh and “stranger” had become “person.”

She came to herself, moments later, with odd ribbons of warmth circulating through her body and a strange, boneless heaviness in her limbs. She was staring fixedly into those sky-blue eyes across the table, while her fork drooped in her hand and her body had gravitated forward until her bosom was practically lying in her salad plate.

Straightening sharply, she reached for her wineglass and drained it, and tried unsuccessfully to recall what he had just said.

“Beg pardon?” she said.

“I was commenting on the color of the sheet,” he said.

“White?”

“I was thinking along the lines of ‘pale,’ actually. Lifeless”—he stared intently at her shoulders—“especially
against your skin. Now, the leopard skin … that has real possibilities. Type running to type, I suppose.”

“Leopard?” She frowned. The appropriate association refused to connect in her mind until she followed his gaze to her chest. The sheet had fallen away and she sat, exposed, in Tessa’s leopard-print silk dressing gown that bared far more of her breasts than it concealed. Startled to find so much of herself exposed, she dropped her fork with a clang and fumbled to cover herself.

“Very nice skin, Mrs. Von Furstenberg,” he said in that teasing brogue. “Punjab forgot to mention it. Truth to tell”—he lowered his voice—“I don’t think he got past your lower half. What was it he said? Oh, yes. ‘Veddy fine bottom.’”

“Really, Mr. Barrow—”

“Tsk, tsk”
—he waved her protest away as he refilled her wineglass—“a fine bottom’s naught to be ashamed of, Mrs. Von Furstenberg. A good bottom can be a right old comfort … when yer tired and sore and need to give yer feet a rest. But a
fine
bottom … well, that’s another story altogether. A
fine
bottom is a thing o’ beauty. Many’s the young Irish lass who’s said to herself … ‘If I only had a
fine
bottom, I could make somethin’ of me-self, I could.’”

She was staring again … jaw slack and shoulders rounded … like some shoeless bumpkin glimpsing city lights for the first time. She snapped upright.

“It is bad enough that I must endure that human mountain taking liberties with my—” She couldn’t make herself say the word. “I will not countenance you speaking of my lower half with such familiarity.”

His mesmerizing smile broadened.

“I’ll take that to mean you won’t mind if I mention yer upper parts. Because, I can assure ye, they’re every bit as
worthy of notice.” Just as she opened her mouth to protest he continued: “Your mind, for instance. You’re a clever, managing woman, keen on observin,’ an’ not easily taken in.” Having effectively undercut her protest before it was uttered, he went on. “Lovely eyes, too … green as a meadow on a summer’s day. Hair like sable fire.” Each word was like the twist of a stick in dry tinder; the friction they created inside her made her feel alarmingly combustible. “I was always taught to beware a touch of red in a woman’s hair. It bespeaks a strong will. But, speakin’ personally, I like a strong bit of
will
in a woman. Always a site more enjoyable than a strong bit of
won’t.
”

He waggled his brows and poured them both another glass of wine.

Beatrice sat with smoke from the fires he was igniting in her swirling through her head and curling around the edges of her gaze. She was trembling as she reached for her glass and downed a good bit of whatever was in it. Warmth cascaded through her limbs as if she’d poured the wine directly into them. What was happening to her?

She looked up and her gaze met his. Those blue eyes. Those handsome lips. That tongue made of pure sugar. Never in her life had she encountered anyone with the ability to turn words into eighty-proof liquor. She was beginning to understand the intoxicating impact that sensual male persuasion could have on a woman’s better sense.

Thinking of it in such terms jolted her back to a firmer footing in reality. She plopped her wineglass on the table and made one last, frantic grab at sanity.

“You’re quite a sweet talker, Mr. Barrow.” She reached for her knife and fork and sliced into the braised beef tips he had placed on her plate. “Is that how you got
Dipper Muldoon and Shorty O’Shea to kidnap me? Sweet-talking?”

He froze with a helping of beef halfway to his plate.

“I beg your pardon. I had nothing to do with your kidnapping.” He finished serving the beef then sat for a moment contemplating her charge. “How did you find out about Dipper and Shorty?”

“I listened.” She mustered an air of triumph. “It’s surprising what you can learn that way. The young woman I told you about—the one who helped them that first night—is Dipper’s cousin. She works here. You were right on one point, at least. They seem to have brought me here because they had no idea what else to do with me.”

He leaned back in his chair, looking properly discomforted. “All right, I confess. I knew about Dipper and Shorty. After Charlotte Brown sent for me, I asked some questions and it wasn’t especially hard to uncover the truth. That’s how I knew it wasn’t some grand conspiracy to ruin your businesses.”

“You might have told me what you knew … who was to blame.”

He raised his brows and looked down at his plate. “Would you have believed me? Worse yet, would you have been receptive to a plea for mercy?” He leaned forward and engaged her eyes. “Because that’s what I’m asking you for … clemency for the pair of them. They’re shiftless, feckless, and dumb as bricks, but they’re not bad fellows. They had no idea what they were doing. They’re just day laborers with a yen for Irish whiskey and the sound of rolling dice.” There was a bit of wistfulness in his smile. “You can’t blame them for being confused … they don’t often run across women like you, Beatrice Von Furstenberg.” His voice lowered. “None of us do.”

It might have been the candlelight or the wine or the glow of his dark-centered eyes, or the skin-tingling vibration of his voice … something caused an opening, sinking sensation in the middle of her. It was like a hunger. And she knew in the depths of her being that it had nothing to do with food.

Picking up her glass of wine, she fled the table to pace the far side of the room. But she had risen so quickly that for a moment her head swam. When she collected herself and turned, he was standing behind her, looking at her. Shivering, she gave a panicky glance around. There was nothing to sit on, to hide behind, or even to put her glass down on. When she shivered again and looked down, she realized that she’d left her sheet at the table. There she stood in a silky leopard-print dressing gown that bared the top of her corset and much of her breasts. She looked up.

A wry, appreciative quirk lifted one side of his mouth. Her gaze fixed on that tantalizing half smile, and she suddenly had difficulty recalling what she’d been about to say.

“I’m sorry they brought you here,” he said. The earnestness of his voice filled her mind like a mélange of heat and wine vapor and smoke from the flames igniting along the sinews of her limbs. “You don’t belong in a place like this. Let me take you home,” he said quietly. “Forget you were ever here.”

“Would you forget it?” she asked.

His smile faded and the reflection of the candle flame in his eyes seemed to flare. “Would I forget that I’ve seen your bare shoulders? Could I forget the decadent way you spill over your corset and the smoothness of your legs above your stockings? Forget the way the light turns
to fire in your hair and the way your lips glisten with the color of the wine?” He took her goblet from her and as she relinquished it to him, she felt an alarming surge of anticipation. “I’ll try.

“And you,” he said after he’d set her glass aside, “will you forget being bound and dragged halfway to Jersey and imprisoned and inconvenienced? Will you forget being held against your will in a brothel and deprived and insulted? Will you forget everything and everyone you’ve seen here?”

“I’m … not sure.” She tried to swallow against the weakness in her throat.

“Well, try,” he said inching closer, settling against her. “And while you’re at it, try to forget this as well …”

He lowered his mouth to hers and brushed it over her lips … once, twice … She held her breath, waiting, sensing that this was exactly what those tinglings and peculiar weaknesses were leading to. Then his arms closed around her, lifting, drawing her hard against him, and her breath left her in a whoosh. His mouth closed on hers, teasing, caressing, unexpectedly gentle. He was exploring the shape of her, the taste of her, the possibility of response in her.

And she did respond.

From somewhere deep inside her came the instinct to slide her arms around him, to tilt her head and arch into him, meeting his kiss and taking it deeper. She parted her lips and fitted them to his, searching out a number of pleasurable angles, each of which seemed just a bit more delicious than the last and beckoned her to still greater pleasures. Then he began to trace her lips with his tongue and she felt a new liquid heat sluicing through her body and pooling between her legs.

She couldn’t catch her breath—her head was spinning—her body seemed boneless as it melted into his. He was so big and firm and warm.…

A nearby noise penetrated the steam shrouding her senses and a moment later she pushed back even as he released her, and they broke apart.

Standing at the table behind them was the aged butler, bearing an unopened bottle of wine.

“Guess ye won’t be needin’ this,” he muttered, turning and shuffling out.

In the doorway, arms primly crossed, stood a red-haired woman dressed in a dramatic black and crimson gown. She gave the pair a thorough visual inspection, collecting every detail of their appearance to add to what she’d already observed of their behavior. A tart smile appeared on her rouged lips.

“I take it we’ve reached an agreement,” she said. “I’ll send for a carriage.”

Shame washed Beatrice’s face crimson as she struggled for both breath and composure. The knowing look the woman shot Connor Barrow spoke of his duty to her and of its successful fulfillment. It struck Beatrice like a slap.

“I haven’t signed your wretched agreement,” she declared, her chest heaving. “And I won’t.”

“Oh”—Charlotte Brown’s smile broadened as she stepped out the door—“I don’t think we need one
now.”
Then she was gone.

It took a moment for Beatrice to parse out the meaning of her declaration. Charlotte Brown no longer needed a written statement because she no longer feared legal reprisals. In succumbing to Barrow’s devious charm, Beatrice sensed she had played right into the madam’s hands. Now, whatever she might say about her
presence here, Charlotte Brown could counter by asserting that her presence had been voluntary … in pursuit of an assignation.

She looked up at Connor Barrow, whose shoulders were braced and expression was grim. Struggling with an impulse to introduce her fist to his aristocratic nose, she faced him with her head high and her eyes blazing.