Forbidden Love (13 page)

The talk segued from music to science, finally settling on the inevitable topic of such gatherings--politics. Would Benjamin Harrison run for a second term, Owen wanted to know, and if so, did
Cleveland
have a chance of defeating him?

Reluctant to reveal her feelings, Lisa turned away to stare outside and noted the wind had increased, shaking the window with a persistent ferocity, fluttering the brocade draperies. The logs on the fire fell apart with flying, sizzling orange sparks, the warmth of the room belying the harsh weather outside.

With growing uneasiness, Lisa listened to the storm raging outside, even while she tried to suppress the storm within her. Reluctant to interrupt, she nevertheless felt she had to make some comment. "Did you hear that?" She gestured toward the outside.

"Hear what?"

"Listen," she said.
"The wind."
She rose from her chair and rushed to the window, the others following. "Look at that, would you!" She indicated the blinding snow outside, the snowflakes coming down hard and fast, driven by a squally wind. Large flakes flew past the window, swirling and dipping in the frigid night air. Distressed for
Owen's
sake, she wondered how in the world he'd get home tonight. He had much farther to go than she.

Despite the storm, Lisa could think only of Owen. He stood so near, their shoulders touching. She wanted to lean against him, lose herself in his embrace,
let
him kiss her until he drove her out of her mind. If only they were alone. . .

Owen smiled wryly at the others. "Rather late in the season for a blizzard, wouldn't you say?"

"I agree,"
Lawrence
replied, "but it seems we've got one." He clapped his hand on the other man's shoulder. "Owen, my friend, you'll never get home tonight.
So just plan on staying here.
No trouble for us, believe me. We'd love to have you."

"Oh, I'm not going to let a snowstorm stop me," Owen said, looking more doubtful than his words. He glanced out the window again, a worried frown on his face.

"Come now,"
Lawrence
said, "no two ways about it. You can stay here."

"Very well, then. The blizzard gives me no choice, and I thank you for the invitation.”
Elizabeth
drew Lisa aside. "Lisa, I've been meaning to tell you about the meeting of the ladies' charity group at church yesterday. I'm sure our talk would bore the men, so we'll go off by ourselves." They headed for the sitting room, leaving the men alone in the parlor.

After settling themselves on the sofa, Lisa threw
Elizabeth
a questioning look, certain her friend hadn't intended to discuss church affairs. Excitement warmed her body, as if she had stepped into a brilliant ray of sunshine.

"Honestly,"
Elizabeth
whispered with a wink, "I didn't plan this storm, but it's rather nice it happened, don't you think? You can make a telephone call to William if you like, that is, if the lines aren't down." She flashed
her a
mischievous smile. "And certainly, you must stay here tonight, as Owen obviously will."

Lisa's hands flew to her hot cheeks, aware she must make a token protest. "Now, you mustn't get any of your broad-minded ideas."

She clasped Lisa's hand and smiled in affectionate complicity. "Just let things happen as they will. . . ."

Much later, after giving instructions about sleeping arrangements, Elizabeth and Lawrence went to bed, and Lisa found herself alone with Owen.

She desperately searched for something to say. “It must still be snowing outside.”
Here I am with the man I love more than life, and that’s the best I can do?

He twisted around to glance out the window,
then
turned back to her. “Yes, I believe it is.”

She looked his way across the spacious parlor, unable to fathom his expression. How handsome he looked in his dark suit and tie, his ankle resting on the opposite knee. His gaze appeared to be one of studied nonchalance, but the set of his mouth gave him away. Did she see love in his eyes, or was that only wishful thinking?
How I want you, Owen, bare skin to bare skin. I want to know your kisses, your caresses, want to feel ...
Her face warmed at the thought of sharing the ultimate intimacy with Owen, and she turned away for a moment,
then
stole a glance at him from under her eyelashes. What was going through his mind? Was he thinking the same as she?

To have him near and yet so far! What if she went to him now and told him all that he meant to her? Would he respond and take her in his arms, or would he spurn her and treat her advances with contempt? The awkward moments slid past, until she finally settled on the least profound subject that came to mind.

"This has been a pleasant evening, don't you think?" She forced herself to hold her hands loosely in her lap, so afraid of betraying her emotion. "The talk, the company . . ."

"Indeed." His gaze held hers.
"A very pleasant evening."

"I enjoyed the play. I always like Shakespeare."

He smiled. "So do
I
."

Lisa stifled a sigh, wanting to tell him the secrets she'd kept hidden in her heart but afraid he'd think her a wanton.

"Lisa . . . I . . ." Shaking his head, he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.
"Nothing important."
He paused. "One thing I wanted to tell you--how lovely you look tonight."

"Thank you." Lisa caught her breath, unable to say another word. Meeting his gaze, she waited . . . for what?
For words of love?
Did he want her now--in his bed? Fearful he'd read her mind and her heart, she turned away to study a cluster of purple crocuses in a white porcelain vase. Why wait for things that would forever remain unspoken? Better to depart, for she was getting nowhere with him. She rose from the chair, unsure if her legs would take her to the stairway.

"It's getting late, so I'd better go to bed. Goodnight, Owen."

He rose and made a slight bow. "Goodnight, Lisa. Sleep well."

As if she could!

* * *

No matter the weather, Owen always slept unclothed, reveling in the unrestrained comfort of his nakedness. In the late night hours, he tossed and turned in bed, wanting Lisa as never before. If only she were with him now, to hold against his chest and run his fingers through her long, loose hair. He recalled her lavender scent, the entrancing drape of her gown, the glimmer of her golden brown hair under the electric lights, all these treasures that meant so much to him.

Moaning, he ached to kiss her lips, cover her body with his caresses. He wanted to tell her again and again how much she meant to him, that he couldn't live without her. Fool! He must live without her.

Feverish with desire, he turned onto his side and pictured Lisa beside him, their bodies entwined. Another low moan escaped him as he stared into night's darkness. He knew sleep would be long in coming, if it came at all.

* * *

Clad in
Elizabeth
's flannel nightgown, Lisa lay sleepless in bed as she listened to the wind rattle the windows. She closed her eyes, dreaming of having her loved one beside her, kissing her, caressing her. What would his kisses be like? Wonderful, beautiful!
she
just knew, although no man had kissed her with more than friendly affection.

She whispered his name, as if she could conjure his presence. Turning onto her side, she feathered kisses on her pillow. She stretched her body sensuously as passionate images played through her mind, each one more daring than the last,
ending
in a vision of the ultimate intimacy.
The thought of Owen beside her sent waves of heat throughout her body from her face to her toes.
Moaning, she pressed her fist to her mouth to keep from crying out.

The painful truth tortured her, a never-ending ache that offered no relief. Nothing would ever come of her love for him, not when she was another man's wife, not when they came from different classes. Hot tears trailed down her cheeks, her body shaking with sobs. She buried her face in the pillow and cried soundlessly, all her pent-up desire erupting inside her.

Brushing the long flow of hair from her face, she turned onto her back and gazed about the room, waiting for the dawn.

Chapter Nine

Finished with the last quadratic equation in
Wentworth’s Algebra
, Owen turned to the back of the book to check his answers. Several minutes later, he snapped the textbook shut, greatly satisfied.
Only one problem wrong out of twenty--not bad.
He congratulated himself, confident he was mentally capable of completing the civil engineering course at
Western
University
near
Pittsburgh
. He'd never doubted that, but financially, well, that was another matter.

Preparing to make different calculations, he shoved the book aside and turned the page of his tablet. Tuition at the University cost about $100 a year, a considerable sum. Even though he'd lived frugally for years, he still lacked adequate funds for his education.

Hunched over in his chair, he rolled his pencil between his palms while one problem after another nagged him. If his luck held, he might be able to eventually quit his job and attend the University . . . if the union didn't strike. All his dreams, all his plans, revolved around labor troubles at the mill. If the union struck, the whole area would become depressed, and it might be years before he could sell his land.

“Damn it!” He slammed his hand down on his desk. He'd get his degree even if he had to scrimp and save for the next ten years. Nothing would prevent him from becoming a civil engineer. The profession held such promise--
an
escape from the mill’s grinding brutality, a means of bettering himself, but above all, personal fulfillment. Besides, he always welcomed a challenge.

Desperately needing distraction, he thought about Lisa and their last time together the evening of the play, when they'd spent the night at the Hunters'--in separate beds. Lost chances! He shook his head, knowing he must drive her from his mind, an impossible goal. Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, he whispered, wanting only her, yearning for her until he could think of nothing and no one but this lovely woman who had ensnared him.

What would he gain by dwelling on her, aching for her? Nothing, he told himself, vowing to deal only with mundane matters. But no matter how much he tried to divert his thoughts, his mind kept coming back to Lisa. Would he ever forget her? No, how could he?

The aroma of spicy cooking reached him from the kitchen, reminding him it was almost dinnertime. He leaned back and locked his hands behind his head as calculations and figures raged through his mind.

A light tapping on his door interrupted his reflections, but he welcomed the diversion. "Come in, Emma."

Frowning, she stepped inside the room. "I leave soon, Mr. Cardiff," she said as she wiped her hands on her spotless apron. "I make you
polnena
kapusta
for supper. You like that, no?"

"Ah, so that's what smells so good."
Polnena
kapusta
--meat and rice wrapped in cabbage leaves--was one of his favorites. He'd developed a taste for Slavic cooking since he'd hired Emma, and now other foods tasted bland.

Noting her worried look, he stood and tapped the back of his chair. "Let's forget about food for now. Here, sit down. I can tell something is bothering you. You want to talk about it?"

She shook her head. "No sit, Mr. Cardiff. But talk, yes." She licked her lips. "If the
union strike
--"

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"But if it does?"

Owen moved his hand expressively. "Then all the workers will go on strike, and the whole mill will shut down." He swung his chair around and straddled it, resting his arms on its back. "We'll see what we can do to prevent a work stoppage," he said, hoping his smile of encouragement concealed his own worries. "Some of the union leaders--Hugh O'Donnell, a few others, and I--intend to see Superintendent Potter day after tomorrow. Believe
me,
we shall do everything possible to avert a strike. We don't want one, either," he said with a trace of belligerence, "but we will not--" He slapped his hand on the back of the chair--"we will not let the company push us around, least of all, Henry Clay Frick."