Betina Krahn (30 page)

He had knelt by her feet and was stroking the feather back and forth up her legs, beginning with her ankles … Going slower, lingering longer the higher he rose.

It began to arouse her. She bit her lip and shivered. Then the feather slid under the tail of the shirt and she whimpered as it reached sensitive skin. He pushed the side of the shirt back to bare her body to him and continued that exquisite torture. The strokes of a feather. It did indeed seem like punishment … mostly because he was looking at her bare body and watching her try to contain both her embarrassment and arousal.

“So,” he said with one eyebrow raised, “you’ve been a naughty girl.”

“Ummm …” She could hardly stand still as the feather raked up her abdomen. “Sure. I suppose. I mean, probably. I—I c-can’t remember.”

“Well, we only punish
naughty
girls.” The feather withdrew.

“Naughty. Yes. That’s me. Absolutely.”

She writhed as the feather reached her breasts and
began a delicious stroking of her nipples. She closed her eyes and dropped her head back, abandoning herself to those wildly erotic sensations. Back and forth … the slow, tantalizing rasp of the feather’s tendrils on the taut, aching tips of her breasts. She arched her back to thrust closer to that hypnotic friction … more than just yielding … seeking. She could barely breathe for the desire filling her throat.

Then she heard a groan and a moment later the feather was replaced by his mouth. His arms clamped fiercely around her, and she squeezed her eyes tighter shut and gasped as waves of pleasure crashed over her. She could barely feel the bed rail she gripped so tightly. There was only room for that compelling pleasure in her consciousness.

She was dimly aware of him lifting her up and bearing her back onto the bed. She grabbed what she could of him, his hair and his shoulder, and pulled him fiercely down on top of her. With moans and whimpers of need she wrapped his hips with her legs and drove him into her. She was frantic each time he withdrew partway and groaned satisfaction from deep in her throat each time he thrust inside her.

Over and over their bodies came together, hot and demanding, straining together, as the boundaries between self and other melted, and their senses filled with pleasure too intense to hold. Claim and possession fell away … all attempts at control failed … there was only the time from breath to breath and sensation to sensation. Now. And each other. And when their bodies and hearts could bear no more, the last fragile threads of restraint shattered and soaring pleasure carried them into regions known only to those who attain the rarest truth … that there is no difference between conquering and surrender.

It was some time before their senses cleared and they returned to ordinary time and place. Empty of words, swept free of tension and expectation and even desire, she curled up beside him and yielded to the languor of complete satisfaction. Strangely, she did not sleep. She heard his breathing deepen and felt his chest slowly rise and fall beneath her cheek, and smiled. She had given him something she had not voluntarily given anyone since she was eighteen years old. Control. He had understood, as no one else could, the value of that gift. And he had proved worthy of her trust. Tears burned her eyes but did not fall.

It was some time later that he awakened to find her propped on one elbow, watching him sleep. He grinned and yawned and opened his arms. Before she crept into them she frowned thoughtfully.

“Men really come to the Oriental Palace to do that?” she asked.

“Some do,” he responded, running a finger down the valley between her breasts and watching her shiver with an echo of pleasure.

She caught his hand and nibbled his fingertips, one after another, while watching his eyes darken with pleasure.

“Then it’s just as I suspected. Men
do
get to have all the fun.”

THE TRIP FROM
Albany took most of the night. The sky had just begun to lighten and the lamplighters were extinguishing the gas lamps in the older sections, when the cab bearing Connor, Beatrice, and Alice arrived at her Fifth Avenue house. Connor exited first, helped them down, and then insisted on carrying their bags
inside. Before Beatrice could object, he had waved the cab off.

“Madam! Miss Henry!” Richards greeted them. “We were quite concerned—we expected you yesterday.”

“We decided to stay another day, for the vote in the legislature.” Beatrice saw her butler staring at the way Connor held her hand and quickly pulled it free. “We got the charter!”

“Excellent, madam.” Richards took their wraps, hats, and gloves.

“It was late when the session ended and we had to take the late train down from Albany,” she continued. “We’ve been riding most of the night and we’re desperate for some coffee.”

“Not me,” Alice said, heading for the stairs. “I’m desperate for a bath and a nap.”

“And some breakfast, Richards,” she said as the butler strode toward the kitchen. “I invited Mr. Barrow for breakfast. We’ll be in the morning room.”

The butler nodded, then hurried off to see to it.

She turned to Connor, took his hands in hers, and said, “You will stay, won’t you? Our cook is a wizard with eggs and morning pastries.” He had a sleep-heavy look about his eyes that reminded her of the previous morning, when she’d awakened in his arms and he’d made love to her a second time, in the rosy light of dawn. He smiled as if reading her thoughts and she colored pleasurably and led him toward the morning room. Halfway through the entry hall, Priscilla’s voice stopped them in their tracks.

“Aunt Beatrice?”

Beatrice looked up in surprise to find Priscilla, dressed for work at Woodhull House, hurrying down the stairs. She dropped Connor’s hand a second time and
edged away, fearing that no amount of distance between them could prevent Priscilla from detecting the air of intimacy between them. She looked up at Connor, who radiated satisfaction, and groaned silently.

“I waited up for you, and even had Rukart take carriage and wait at the train station. He came back with it empty at midnight, saying you weren’t on the last train.” Priscilla’s eyes narrowed suspiciously on her rumpled garments. “Are you just getting home?”

“Yes—did you need to talk to me? Is something wrong?” Beatrice asked, hoping to divert Priscilla’s curiosity with an air of parental authority.

“No. I just wanted to know how things went in Albany.” Priscilla turned a dark look on Connor. “I didn’t imagine you’d have a guest at
this
hour.”

“I was helping your aunt and Miss Henry get a charter for their new bank,” Connor inserted. “We were successful, but it took a bit longer than we … I …” He ground to a halt under Priscilla’s hostile stare and turned to Beatrice. “I appreciate the offer of breakfast, but I think I’d better head for my office. This trip set my entire schedule back. I have a mountain of legal work to do and I need to check in with my campaign manager.”

“The least I could do is provide you some coffee … after I made you pass the night sitting up on a train,” Beatrice said with a hint of nervousness.

“No, thank you. I’ll get back to you … later today or tomorrow on … that … stock offering we talked about.”

They both winced inwardly. Could they have been any less credible? She extended her hand and he took it briefly, then exited.

Breakfast was the longest, most uncomfortable meal
Beatrice had endured in years. Priscilla stared at her for some time, then finally spoke up.

“Really, Aunt Beatrice, you should be more careful about who you associate with. And your hours. Coming home before six in the morning, in a gentleman’s company, is … is …” She paused, trying to find a “proper” word and failing, then blurted out: “Indecent.”

“Priscilla!” Beatrice dropped her fork with a clang. “Whom I associate with and when I arrive home are none of your concern.”

“They are my concern. You’re my guardian and my aunt and you’re
supposed
to be my example. And here you are, cavorting around with a man who is Irish
and
a politician,
and
consorts with all manner of lowlifes and riffraff. He’s little better than a crook.”

“I was not cavorting, I was on a business trip …
with Alice.
And Connor is a good and decent man. He’s running for the United States Congress,” Beatrice declared hotly, gripping the arms of her chair.

“That just means he’s a
successful
crook.” Priscilla picked up her hat, glaring resentfully, and fired one last salvo before stalking from the room.

“No wonder you have trouble with the board of directors. You certainly aren’t
behaving
like a company president.”

Beatrice sat listening to the sounds of Priscilla’s departure, feeling irritable and disarmed by her niece’s criticisms. How had Priscilla learned about her troubles with the board?

Perhaps she wasn’t acting much like the president of a company … indulging her desires, spending her passions without any assurances or guarantees, or regard for society’s sanctions. Strangely, she didn’t feel a bit of guilt. She had devoted her life to upholding the highest
standards of morality and integrity … despite the fact that, again and again, she had found herself straining to force her beliefs and behavior into two utterly divergent molds: woman and business executive. How was it that her feelings and behavior with Connor seemed to fall outside every boundary she had observed in her life, and she still felt somehow right about them?

She thought of her nights in Albany and couldn’t help smiling. Then it struck her: She was acting like a board president—a
male
one!

Men got to cavort and consort with the opposite sex and visit places like the Oriental Palace whenever they pleased, and no one said a word about it. Let a woman try to exercise the same prerogative, and she’d be condemned and hounded out of decent society.

Her irritation drained and she propped her cheek on her hand and stared down into her poached eggs.

It wasn’t that she wanted to “cavort,” exactly. She just wanted to spend time with Connor. Her eyes unfocused as she recalled the sight of his face dusky with passion and his eyes black with need. She sighed. He was so strong. So male. And so utterly irresistible.

CONNOR TREATED HIMSELF
to a long walk and a huge breakfast at a small restaurant near his office, just off Union Square. Along the way, he stopped to talk to the produce company hands who were unloading their fruit and vegetables and paused to chat with shop owners unrolling awnings. All the while, he struggled to hold on to the sense of ease and satisfaction his time in Albany had brought him. As he had seconds of eggs and heaped jam on his biscuits, he thought that the conversation
in the restaurant seemed livelier and that everything tasted especially good this morning. There was a spring in his step as he headed for his law office. But the minute he entered his office building, he lost that buoyancy.

Standing in the small foyer, leaning one thick arm on the newel post of the stairs, was Del Delaney And he did not look happy.

“Where the hell have you been?” He stuck his unlit cigar back in the corner of his mouth and launched himself for the door, snagging Connor’s elbow along the way. “Never mind—the boys would like a word with you.”

Connor didn’t resist. He’d been out of touch—
gone
—for three days. Murphy was probably having fits. He spent the rest of the short, silent walk to Tammany Hall going over his reasons and drafting points to raise with his campaign overseer. He’d been doing legal work for Consolidated Industries … and meeting with some of the boys in Albany. He’d very likely picked up a new endorsement or two … By the time they trudged up the steps to the meeting room where “the boys” were waiting, he felt reasonably prepared for their criticism and even their irritation.

What he was not prepared for was the icy silence that greeted him as he entered … and the presence of Tammany’s boss, Richard Croker, police chief Thomas Byrne, and city aldermen McCloskey and Burke, in addition to his campaign manager Murphy. To a man, they leveled searching looks on him. One by one they transferred those stares to the numerous copies of the morning papers that littered the large table before them.

“Where the hell have you been?” Croker said, his tone flat and cold.

“I was upstate … Albany … doing some legal work and some politicking.”

“So you were,” Boss Croker said, picking up a newspaper that had been folded back to highlight a specific article. “The question is, for who?”

The pause indicated they expected him to answer and he did.

“Consolidated Industries, actually. I did some legal work for them …”

“For that bank you had
nothing
to do with?” Murphy said, crossing his arms and tilting his head to view him from a skeptical angle.

Connor glanced from Murphy to Croker, then to the newspaper on the table. “After we spoke, Consolidated retained me to—”

“Don’t you mean Mrs. Von Furstenberg?” Murphy inserted. “That is her name, isn’t it? The president of Consolidated?”

“You know … your
suffragette
friend,” Croker added.

Connor swallowed hard. “As I was saying, I was asked by Consolidated Industries to help them secure a state charter for a new banking venture.”

“Her new ‘Women’s State Bank,’” Murphy clarified.

“The Barrow State Bank, actually.” Even worse. Connor felt his face reddening. There was no plausible way to deny a connection with the venture, no matter how many distinctions he tried to draw. His name was on the damned thing. “It was named after my family … without my consent. I requested that they change it. I believe I can still get them to see reason.…”

“Too late,” Croker snapped, sitting forward, his face suddenly crimson. “Whatever you want to call it, you’re in it up to your damned eyeballs!” He opened the copy
of
The New York World
in his hands and slammed it down on the table. There on the front page, was a heart-stopping headline: