Jasper Mountain (16 page)

“Madame Shabanov? Milena?” Isabella’s voice called her back. Milena shook her head trying to shake away his vision and her empathy. Their two tragedies melted into one and she lived his every pain.

Despite her resistance, she’d never experienced a connection so strong. This man knew the
MoortYak.
He’d lived through DeathFire himself. He was a survivor, like her.

Their eyes met and he trapped her in shared sorrow.

She pushed her back to the chair, and he grasped her hands. How did he pull out her most horrible memory, the most intimate of pain from her, and present it as his own? Could his be real? Did he share the devastation of such a loss, hold it inside, in a small, black space threatening to open up and become endless? Or was this a trick?

How did he manage such a thing? Who was this man?

“Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked her as if she’d stumbled during a stroll. She pulled her hands away from his and shook her head, trying to clear it.

“What’d you do to her?” the voice of the lawman called from the edge of her consciousness. “Jesus, look at that, touching Junior almost kilt her.”

“No, no, I’m fine. I only …” She searched for something to say, something to cover this most personal and unwelcome moment.

“What about your cards?” Jack asked, gently. “She can’t see anything through all these calluses.” He held up his hands. “Cain, some of us actually work for a living.” He laughed along with everyone else, and the moment of awkwardness passed.

Milena gathered her wits enough to pick up her seeing cards and hand them to him. She watched him shuffle the cards, and he glanced up at her.

This time, she jumped when his look bolted through her.

The dinner bell sounded lightly, like a prayer. Sounds of disappointment skittered across the crowd.

“Dinner, everyone,” Isabella said. “Jack, you’ll have to wait. I’m sure after some sustenance, Madame Shabanov will be ready for you.”

Isabella threw Milena a look of warning that sliced through her panic. Milena would never be ready for this man. Never.

Victor slid between Jack and Milena as they stood and he offered her his arm. She reluctantly accepted his touch and entered the dining room with the King of the Jackals. They sat, and she watched Jack escort Beth into the room, chatting away like old friends.

“Milena, I find you incredibly fascinating,” Victor said with his deceptively soft voice. “You must tell me everything about yourself.”

She wished, with all her heart, for this awful evening to end. Isabella sat to Victor’s other side, and he angled to speak with the proprietress.

Her face itched. Did the Hunter watch her? She glanced over and met his blue eyes. Again, the open honesty on his face struck her. This false cloak of kindness was beyond the powers of a trickster. Was he a
beng
—a demon in human skin? A warlock?

“Milena … may I call you Milena?” Victor’s question brought her back to him.

“You may.”

“Where are you from?” His question demanded. An interrogation and not any true interest in her. He leaned close to hear her answer.

“From everywhere. From nowhere.”

Victor raised his eyebrows.

“I warned you; she is mysterious,” Isabella said, leaning forward to smile at Milena and lifting a glass of red wine to her lips. Isabella had warned Milena to speak evasively when discussing her past.

“Well, perhaps you might enlighten me as to how you came to arrive in Jasper?” Victor asked.

“I am Romani. A traveler,” she answered. “It is what I do. Travel.”

Milena spent the rest of dinner dodging Victor’s questions and Jack’s wistful glances. When the piles of rich food came, she barely ate.

Milena silently prayed, again, for the night to end. Inside the Boarding House, smelling rich, decadent food, listening to cultured, educated voices, and wearing the finest silk, she’d never been more pampered.

Or more trapped.

“Have you completely lost all reason?” Victor’s voice, unusually harsh, cut through the room. Fine, she’d match his mood. Isabella thought there may be trouble of some sort when he pulled her into her office immediately following dinner. Trouble, or he was in the mood for a jounce. Or, perhaps, both.

Isabella knew better than anyone that without Victor, the Boarding House would be nowhere near as exclusive. His meetings, influence, invitations, and parties supported this world Isabella built and protected. Only one man in Jasper owned enough power and money to touch her. And he knew it. He stood before her, his anger and desire almost tangible.

“Whatever do you mean?” Isabella asked, all innocence.

“The Gypsy. Madame Shabanov, or whatever the ridiculous name. She’s the Swede’s missing wife.”

“She’s no such thing. She was traveling with her father. He was inconsiderate enough to perish somewhere back in Nebraska and leave her on her own.”

“So you maintain she is not Laney Olsson.”

Isabella sighed with impatience. “Really, Victor, do you think the woman in my parlor, entertaining and telling fortunes, is really mundane enough to be ‘Laney Olsson'? And do you think me foolish enough to recruit a married woman?”

“Do you take me for an idiot? Two Gypsies arriving in Jasper is mere coincidence? Isabella, you and I both know, there is no such thing as coincidence.”

“Perhaps not. But there is such a thing as a big, stupid Swede with the arrogance to believe he can force a desperate woman into marrying him against her will.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them.

“Aha!”

“Aha, yourself. She is a free woman and you may find this difficult to accept, but Milena Shabanov may do exactly what she pleases!” Silence stretched. Isabella worked to rein in her emotions.

“As long as you turn a profit from ‘what she pleases.'”

Isabella allowed herself the pleasure of glaring at him, this man who assumed he owned the world. “Quite the rude statement, and not at all the gentlemanly behavior I expect from you, Victor Creely. Really, most unbecoming.”

He laughed and crowded closer. “You sound more like my mother every day.”

“Fitting. You act like a spoiled boy.” She held his gaze. “I will force Milena into nothing, unlike the hordes of men with whom I am familiar.”

“The important word being
familiar.
”

“Did I say spoiled boy? I meant arrogant bastard.”

His eyes flashed desire and he moved close, leaving almost no space between them. She knew his need for her. And her power over him. Despite what was to come, Victor Creely was right where she wanted him.

He spoke, his voice a husky whisper. “Now, now, my sweet, your fangs are showing. It is fortunate for you they are so very lovely.”

She knew what he desired just as she knew this would come the moment she watched his frustration during dinner. Well, Isabella St. Claire would give as good as she’d get. She smiled and removed the glove, one finger at a time, from her good hand. His eyes lit with desire. Her smile sharpened into a snarl and she slapped him, just as he wanted. He grabbed her wrists and pushed her down, across the desk. She allowed anger to explode into her struggle against him. Her efforts in his iron grip were useless, she knew, but she fought anyway. That, he desired, too.

This was best, she told herself. Beth would crumple in the wake of his unbridled passion. Isabella knew from experience she was best at withstanding Victor Creely. Usually this scene played out after a discouraging meeting with his officers or a threatening telegram from the board of investors in New York City.

He clawed at her bodice, tearing it away. She’d add the cost of her dress to his monthly bill, something she’d done many times. His rough hands couldn’t breach her corset, and in his frenzy, he wouldn’t bother to take the time to undo the stays. He never did.

He grabbed her skirts and yanked them up, ripping the delicate fabric of her drawers. Then he was on her, ravaging her mouth, biting. He bit her jaw, her neck, her shoulder.
No matter,
she repeated in her head as she struggled against him,
no matter, no matter.
She imagined her next painting. She’d paint the portrait of a gelded stallion, harnessed and pulling a plow like a common mule. Oh, and driving it? A lovely, innocent girl with red hair.

He rammed into her, and she cried out. He flailed upon her, this upstanding businessman, this mogul of mining, this
gentleman,
and thrashed against her like a convulsing animal.

She gasped out his name, begged him to stop, then to continue faster, harder. Just the way he expected. Heavens, she really was the most amazing actress. Perhaps she’d look into it for her next career. His thrusts grew brutal, and she clawed his neck in return. He growled, releasing the beast he usually kept hidden. The real Victor Creely.

Her painting, she thought, her painting. Not the stallion pulling a cart. She’d capture it at the moment of gelding. The girl with the red hair holding a blood-soaked knife above her head. The horrid image helped her hold to sanity while she acted out her part against the onslaught of him. And hold on she would, for her life, for her ladies, for her world. For herself.

Pleasure and pain mingled and exploded through her in one thought, one feeling.

Power.

He collapsed on her with a groan, the sweat of his face stinging her bitten neck and shoulder. Thank heavens when he was in the mood for a rough tumble, he was also quick. He raised himself to look down into her eyes.

“I want the Gypsy,” he said, still inside her.

“Milena is rare,” she answered, her voice even. “Expensive.”

“I expected as much.” He withdrew and stood straight, fastening his pants. “How expensive?” he asked, smoothing the vertical tucks in his shirt. “I want her exclusively. No one else is to touch her.”

“That will be twice what an exclusive contract with a young scullery maid is going for these days,” Isabella said, and raised herself to sit up on the edge of the desk, wincing. She realized the error of her expression when his eyes lit with satisfaction. He returned his attention to straightening his shirt. There was no point in even attempting to fix herself. Her dress hung in ruins. Tendrils of hair fell to her shoulder. “And Milena is not ready yet.”

His head snapped up. He glared at her, his expression dangerous. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sure you’ll agree, it won’t do to frighten her away. She will run and is quite a capable woman.”
Unlike Beth,
she thought.
Unlike your wife.
“Accepting you must be Milena’s decision. At least, she must think it so. But,” she said, delicately touching her swollen and bleeding lip, “I’m sure with your overwhelming charm, it shouldn’t take long.”

“Ah, well, there is still Beth to ease my tensions.” He wiped away the remnants of blood from her claw mark and wound his cravat around his neck.

“May I help you with that?” she asked.

“I don’t believe that’s wise. An accidental strangling might have an unfortunate impact on your business, my dear.” He smiled and picked up his waistcoat, inspecting it before putting it on. “So, Madame Shabanov is mine.” A statement, not a question. As usual.

“Of course.” Isabella felt a bit sad for Beth, tossed aside in one, brief moment. But wasn’t that the way of this business?

He came at her, and she thought he might push her back down and have at her again. She jerked back, her eyes widening. He smiled, self-satisfaction oozing from his grin, and he offered her his hand. She took it. He kissed her gloved fingers, gently.

“We understand each other,” he said.

“Always.”

He lifted the palm of her ungloved hand and kissed it, then pulled her close and brushed her lips with his. Then he kissed her. So tender. And again, like the gentlest of lovers. He smoothed back her hair, ran his thumb along her jawline, and stepped back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a young scullery maid to find.” He turned, took a few steps, and faced her again, his eyebrows raised. “Oh, and Isabella?”

“Yes?”

“A warning. Rolf Olsson. He hasn’t left town. We hired him to work in the mine. Seems he likes Jasper. He wishes to remain.” Victor grinned, then turned his back on her and left. She listened to his boots click down the hall, echoes mingling with the light laughter of the parlor.

“Well, Mr. Creely,” she said to the empty room, “if that’s true, I wouldn’t want to be the man enamored of the Swede’s object of desire.” Or more to the point, she thought, she wouldn’t want to be the big, stupid Swede in the way of Victor Creely.

O
ne look from Suzanne and Jack knew how a steak felt when a starving rancher, fork in hand, came at it. The moment Beth left Jack’s side, he supposed he became fair game for all the ladies. He’d been reluctant to enter this seemingly genteel lair, and his instincts were right on the mark.

Suzanne tilted her head to one side, smiled fetchingly, and headed his way. Jack didn’t feel at all like being fetched. He managed to dodge her and duck through the kitchen. An older woman cooking at the stove glared at him.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, and darted through. Jack escaped out to the back porch, the door clacking shut behind him. Night air coursed around him. Out here wafted no suffocating smells, temptations of the palette mixed with the perfume of ladies. The dirty, work-sodden, metallic, and animal stench of Jasper didn’t sink this far down. Pure, sweet mountain air hit him in the face. One thought clung stubbornly.
Milena.