Jo Goodman (17 page)

These spontaneous gestures touched her deeply. "Everyone has been very kind," she told Grey.

"That isn't what I asked. I was inquiring about your rooms."

"You must know they're satisfactory," she said.

He didn't deny it. "I wanted your opinion," he said. "I understand that my men have been generous with some personal items."

"Yes." She did not elaborate on their kindness again.

"You realize that Shawn and Mike have already spread the word of your special talent."

She nodded. "I thought the men's interest might have something to do with that."

Grey knew it was only part of their expressed interest. She seemed to have no idea of her own appeal. "Did you read their palms? Tell their fortunes?"

"No, no one asked me to."

"Which is to say that you would have had any of them gotten the nerve to ask."

Knowing that he was prepared to object, Berkeley answered truthfully. "Yes, I would have."

"In the future, if asked, you will refuse. If you're going to earn your living this way, then you can't read a palm without gold crossing yours. Are you clear on that point, Miss Shaw?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, to the matter of your room and board." He saw Berkeley's eyes widen slightly. "Did you think I would allow you to live at the Phoenix at no charge?"

"I hadn't given it any thought at all."

It was precisely what Grey suspected, though he was surprised that she admitted it so easily. "You should attempt to do it more often, Miss Shaw. Think, that is."

His honeyed drawl was absent, she noticed, when he took her to task. On those occasions, which seemed to be more frequent as his acquaintance with her grew longer, his tone and manner had the brusque accents of a Yankee clipper captain. There seemed to be nothing to say to his reprimand, so Berkeley remained silent.

"Since the gold strike," Grey went on, "sleeping space in San Francisco has always been difficult to come by. Therefore it's expensive. Men have paid as much as twenty-five dollars a night to sleep two on a tabletop. An individual room can cost a thousand dollars a month."

Berkeley actually gasped. "But I couldn't possibly—"

"No, you couldn't," he said flatly. "Which is why I'm prepared to offer you room and board at the Phoenix for six hundred dollars each month. That's roughly two hundred dollars less than I'd be getting if the rooms were rented to anyone else."

His offer didn't help color return to Berkeley's complexion. She nodded dumbly.

Approving of her silence, Grey smiled faintly. "It's imperative that you remain at the Phoenix to sustain mystery and interest in your gift. It would be wise for you not to refer to it again as a parlor trick. That will remain between us. Word will spread as easily as the last Frisco fire that the Phoenix has a very special hostess. The less you're seen, the fewer details known about your talent, the more we can expect in the way of a steady turnout."

"Hostess?" she said weakly.

"Yes. How did you imagine I'd employ you? No, don't tell me. You didn't think about it."

"Of course I did," she said stoutly. "But you know very well I thought I would tell a few fortunes each evening. Nothing more."

"That's not so far off the mark," he told her. "You'll greet the gamblers, talk to them, observe them. That's necessary, isn't it, to make your readings more persuasive?"

Berkeley knew it would do no good to tell him otherwise, and the truth was, it
would
be helpful. The more she knew about each person, the less she had to make herself vulnerable and rely on her peculiar talent. "Do you mean for me to choose whose palms I'll read?"

"Exactly. The less left to chance, the better you'll be received."

Anderson Shaw and Grey Janeway were cut from the same cloth, Berkeley thought. Perhaps God had only one bolt of fabric at His disposal. Recalling the deception Connor and Decker Thorne had tried with the earrings, it seemed likely. Deception came more easily to men, it seemed. "Tell me more," she said, pretending an interest she no longer felt.

"Your duties will require an extensive wardrobe."

"Which you'll choose."

"That's correct."

Berkeley sighed. Her life wouldn't be so different from the one she had known with Anderson. It made her more determined to leave San Francisco. The largest obstacle confronting her, as she understood it, would be the enormous debt to Grey Janeway. With what she would owe him for her room and board and wardrobe, she would never have enough to purchase her passage east.

"The fittings will be done here," Grey explained. "You won't have to venture out."

It was just as she had expected. She nodded dully and looked down at her lap. Her hands rested there, folded together in an attitude of quiet contemplation.

"I've had to revise the Phoenix's opening to September 26. That's a little better than a month from now. Things are going to be very busy around here. You will have to be ready by then as well."

"You won't be disappointed, Mr. Janeway."

He stared at her bent head. Threads of her radiant hair had escaped the loose plait. Short tendrils brushed her forehead. "No," he said. "I don't think I will be." He was quiet a moment, wondering at the direction of her thoughts. "You haven't asked about your wage."

She raised her head and met his level gaze. "I've never had any sort of position before. I thought it was proper for you to broach the subject."

"So it is. I'm prepared to offer you a thousand dollars a month." He saw her mouth open and spoke quickly to cut her off. "Before you try to negotiate, remember that's what Annie Jack is getting at the El Dorado—and she can cook."

Berkeley was well aware how paltry her talent was compared to Annie Jack's gumbo. Grey's offer left her without words.

"Say something, Miss Shaw."

"Yes. I say yes."

"Good. Now do you see that it's not impossible for you to be rid of your debt?"

She nodded.

"I believe you'll be an asset to the Phoenix. I wouldn't offer that salary if I didn't think you'd earn it. You're going to draw a crowd, and that crowd is going to spend money right here."

"Are your games quite honest?" she asked before considering her words.

Both of Grey's brows rose. "They are. Do you doubt it?"

"Frankly, I don't know what to make of you or the Phoenix."

One corner of Grey's mouth lifted in a narrow smile. "And here I was thinking you knew all about me, Miss Shaw. Isn't that what you tried to prove this morning? After all, you read my palm."

"I learned what was important."

"Oh? What's that?"

"You're not the man I first thought you were."

Chapter 5

You 're not the man I first thought you were.
Grey found himself mulling over Berkeley's words late into that first evening and at odd times during the next four weeks. She had refused to explain herself, and Grey had not insisted because her meaning was clear enough to him. He had only, briefly, wanted to hear it from her. In retrospect it was just as well she had remained silent. Berkeley's explanation was more likely to confuse his mind than clear it. She had that effect on him.

Grey was sitting alone in the Phoenix's great hall. The chairs and gaming tables were all uncovered now. The mirrors behind the mahogany bar reflected light from the oil lamps all around the room. Just outside the Phoenix men swaggered or staggered on the rough sidewalks of Portsmouth Square, all of them looking for a lively place to set down their gold. Tomorrow night their choices would include the Phoenix.

Grey rubbed the back of his neck, massaging away the stiffness that had crept up on him while he worked. Financial sheets and ledgers were spread across the table so that none of the polished surface was visible. He could have worked in his suite at his desk, where his new burgundy-leather chair would have provided some measure of comfort for his aching muscles. Instead, he had chosen the solitude of the great hall on one of the last nights he could be alone in it. He appreciated the open, empty space around him. He liked the fact that outside the Phoenix it was an evening with no moon, while inside the mirrors magnified lamplight.

Raking back his thick hair, Grey bent over the papers in front of him and began adding a column of figures for the second time. He paused only once, and only for a moment, when someone jerked on the locked entrance to the gaming hall. The large doors rattled, a stranger shouted, then the drunken miner was dragged off by his friends to search for a door that wasn't barred.

The column totaled the same amount in both directions. Satisfied, Grey moved on. He had no idea when the cat joined him, just that at some point he looked up and found her curled on top of the ledger he needed. He gingerly slid the book out from under her, smiling to himself for accomplishing the feat without disturbing her slumber.

Something Berkeley said came back to him now.
You're a kind man, though perhaps it's not something you wish others to know.
Grey didn't know where the precise truth lay in her words, but some part of it resonated as fact. If he was a kind man, and he didn't know that he was, then it was true that he didn't want others to know. He'd had cause a number of times later to tell her kindness had no place here, and he'd meant it. So there also was a truth.

As if to punctuate his thought, Grey opened the ledger so hard the frontboard landed heavily on the table. The cat bounded to her feet as a shock wave vibrated under her. Frightened, she meowed plaintively and prepared to leap to another table. Half-standing himself, Grey made a grab for her and knocked his chair sideways. Papers scattered when he flung his arm out, and the ledger spun off the edge. It thumped to the floor, but not before the comer of it squarely struck Grey's toes. The table wobbled when his knee jerked reflexively and caught the underframe. He grunted. The cat hissed.

From another part of the great hall the sound of light laughter washed over them both.

The cat recovered before Grey. Using the tables like lily pads on a pond, she jumped from one to the other until she reached the grand, curving staircase. Only then did her feet finally touch the floor. It took two more jumps before she was wrapped safely in Berkeley's arms. Grey managed to right the table by the time the cat reached her refuge. He was picking up the chair when Berkeley joined him.

She didn't ask if she could help. Her offer would have been refused. Instead, she secured the cat under one arm and knelt on the floor to gather the fallen papers. Grey didn't thank her when she handed them over, and he didn't extend a hand to help her to her feet. Berkeley expected neither from him.

At no time in the last month was Grey Janeway as attentive as he had been that very first day. Far from being under his feet, Berkeley came to realize entire days passed where she didn't see him at all. His presence, though, was keenly felt.

Nothing happened in the Phoenix that wasn't directed, suggested, or approved by Grey Janeway. When seamstresses began to arrive with yards of fabric and fashion books, Berkeley knew it was at Grey's insistence. She was measured and poked and fitted in front of the large mirror in her bedroom, while Grey was consulted wherever he happened to be working at the time.

In spite of Sam Hartford's earlier wish to be relieved of all millinery duties, he was the one who volunteered to relay messages between the seamstresses and his employer. He grew red-faced and breathless in the process, taking the stairs two and three at a time when the remote discussions between the two parties became somewhat heated. His head was muddled with flounces and fluting and frills, but he learned the difference between passementerie and twisted floss silk. On one occasion he grew bold enough with his newfound knowledge to recommend a carriage dress of gray silk rather than the blue the head seamstress had suggested.

"She's being swallowed by the furbelows," he warned Grey at the third fitting. His voice had carried through an open window back to Berkeley and the seamstresses.

"Is that dangerous?" Grey asked dryly.

"It surely is, sir. She needs smartly cut lines to give her boldness."

"Well, for God's sake, save her."