Jo Goodman (31 page)

"You'd never been with any man until yesterday," he said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Was it so very important?"

Grey thought about it. "I suppose not. It's done. I would have rather not hurt you."

She shrugged. A light flush filled her cheeks with color in spite of her seeming indifference. "It wasn't so bad."

One comer of Grey's mouth lifted wryly. "Damned with faint praise," he said under his breath.

"What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. It doesn't matter." Grey picked up her hand and laced his fingers with hers. He was struck again by the contrasts. His hand nearly swallowed hers. "Anyway," he said, "I think I did know the truth in the beginning. I let myself believe what I wanted to later on."

Berkeley raised his hand and brushed her lips against his knuckle. It wasn't simply that he understood what she had known all along, but that he had said it aloud. At his core Grey Janeway was an honorable man. A sweetly decent, honorable man.

Berkeley found she could take solace from that, even while it made the other things she sensed about him all the more confusing.

"Would you have come back this evening?" Grey asked.

"You mean if you had asked?" she said. "Instead of threatening Nat with eviction?" Berkeley felt the intensity of his blue-gray stare. His honesty deserved hers. "Yes. I would have come back to your bed."

Grey knew himself to be a coward then because he didn't ask the obvious question. He didn't ask why. "You didn't move any of your things here."

"That's not true. I brought the box Shawn made for me and my earring. I don't own anything else."

He gave her a stern look. "Berkeley. I don't think of you as an investment like the carpets and mirrors and gaming tables. The gowns are yours."

"When I pay for them." She relented when she saw his mouth thin. "Very well. They're mine. I'll move them in later today." Berkeley slipped her hand free of his. "Sam told me you went to see Ivory DuPree."

"Sam talks too much."

"Well?" Berkeley asked.

Grey thought he heard about a half dozen questions in that single one. "She confirmed your story. She told me no one knew about it."

Berkeley nodded. She looked down at her hands. "She was bitterly ashamed."

Grey sat up a little straighter. "Those are the same words she used. How did you—"

"You don't understand yet, do you?" Berkeley's large, expressive eyes betrayed her disappointment. "It's what I
felt."

"I can't accept that," Grey said. "Brock told you something."

"He didn't, but I can't prove it." She touched his wrist. "Does it frighten you, Grey? This gift I have, does it bother you so much?"

"It scares the hell out of me."

"Why?"

He was stubbornly silent.

Berkeley leaned forward. Her voice was gentle. "Do you think I'll tell someone about the man you killed?"

Chapter 9

Grey stared at Berkeley. Nothing about his features changed but incredulous was inadequate to describe what he was feeling. After a moment he shook his head as if recovering from a blow. "The man I killed?" he repeated under his breath. Before she could answer, Grey held up one hand. "Never mind." His hand stayed in midair long enough to halt Berkeley, then went to the back of his neck. He bent his head and rubbed the corded muscles. When he looked up again he noticed her expression was one of concern.
She
was concerned for
him.
Clearly she had no idea that he was at all worried about her. "Why in the world would you think I've killed someone?" he asked gently.

Berkeley's mouth flattened a little. "I'm not a child," she said. "And I'm not addled. There's no need for you to condescend to me."

Grey thought it best not to say anything.

"Are you denying it?" asked Berkeley.

That he had been condescending?
, he wondered. Or that he had committed murder? Grey thought one of them should strive for clarity. "Berkeley, I haven't killed anyone." To the best of his knowledge, it was true. "Now, tell me why you don't believe me."

"I know what I felt when I held your hand," she said.

"That was your reasoning when you expected Mike to die."

Berkeley looked away. "I'm not sorry Mike's recovering. I never wanted him to die to prove myself. But I wasn't entirely wrong either. I
did
sense he was going away. I merely mistook the cause. And I told him he would see his family."

"Those things are going to happen because I'm making them happen," he reminded her. "I'm the one making the arrangements and paying for his passage."

Berkeley's head came up. Her expression was earnest. "Don't you understand, Grey? It doesn't matter how the end comes to pass, just that it does. Your interference was critical to make things come about. You were part of the outcome all along."

"With that sort of thinking you can make most anything seem as if you predicted it."

"Isn't that the point downstairs?" she asked. "Isn't that what I've been hired to do with the Phoenix's patrons?"

"Yes," he said slowly. He could tell Berkeley was warming up to something.

"But you don't like that I
believe
I can do it. Is that it?" She waved a hand dismissively, not waiting for his reply. "Don't bother to answer. You're quite content thinking it's all a parlor trick. I don't know why I'm surprised. Anderson... my father was the same way. He was never really certain about my gift, but he never took any chances with it either. He kept me close. He was always watchful. He insisted I do exactly as I was told." Berkeley gave Grey a frank look. "You're not so very different."

"I don't think you're a performing bear," he said.

Her short laugh held no humor. "I've been to Sydney Town, Grey. I've seen that poor animal chained in front of the Fierce Grizzly. My leash is only a little longer than hers."

Grey reached for Berkeley, but she was like quicksilver. She slipped free of the fingers that just touched her wrist and slid out of bed. Without a backward glance she walked into the dressing room and closed the door.

* * *

Berkeley did not move her clothes into Grey's suite that afternoon, and she did not return to his bed that night. She removed the box that held the earring from his mantel and replaced it on her own.

Grey did not insist that she join him that evening or any of the ones that followed. Except for the fact that he gave Nat Corbett his own room on the third floor, Berkeley could have believed Grey didn't notice her absence from his bed or her presence anywhere else.

They were coolly polite in public and never spoke in private. For her own protection, Berkeley continued to address him as Grey when they were together in the gaming hall. The illusion that they were lovers did indeed keep the majority of men from propositioning her. In front of those who worked for him there was no illusion, he was Mr. Janeway and she was Miss Shaw.

"Sam says he's getting himself an ice pick," Nat told Berkeley.

She tapped the page he was supposed to be reading. They were sitting at one of the gaming tables near the Phoenix's entrance. Except for Sam stocking behind the bar, the hall was empty. The Phoenix was closed all morning and several hours each afternoon to everyone except its boarders and employees. It was then that the business of operating the establishment took place. Sam Hartford completed his inventory, wrote out his order, and restocked the bar. Donnel Kincaid inspected for damages made each night by a few rowdy miners and oversaw the repairs to the main hall or the rooms above it. From the kitchen at the rear, Annie Jack's stentorian voice was always audible as she ordered her assistants around but did most of the work herself. The Phoenix required a staff of thirty to keep her boarders happy and the gaming tables filled. There were dealers and musicians and housekeepers and waiters. Now that all the living quarters were spoken for, the second-floor dining room was always occupied by a few of the boarders. No matter the time of day, the back stairs from the kitchen to the dining room was the busiest thoroughfare in the hotel.

Grey avoided most of the daily rumblings. If he was not at the bank or the wharf or haggling with one of his suppliers, then he was in his office with Shawn going over the books and supervising his other investments.

The hours when the Phoenix was closed were not so demanding on Berkeley. Now that Mike was recovered and on his way east she kept a closer eye on Nat, making certain he didn't run afoul of Grey. The simplest way to keep that from happening was to keep him busy. While the boy made himself useful to everyone at the Phoenix, he was most attentive to her. When she suggested tutoring him each morning following breakfast, he fell in with her plan without complaint. If she wanted to go shopping or simply for a walk, he was invariably at her side. He accompanied her on errands and sat beside her at meals when she didn't take them by herself. She kept him out of mischief, and he kept her from being alone.

It was an arrangement that seemed to be working remarkably well. Which was why Berkeley was surprised when Nat closed Emerson's first series of essays over her tapping finger.

"Must I?" he asked plaintively.

Berkeley withdrew her finger from the book. "What are you asking me, Nat? A moment ago you were talking about ice picks. Really, I can't follow your conversation sometimes."

Nat's face had filled out since he'd come to the Phoenix, but it still retained its narrow shape. His grin was almost too big to be contained in its width. "Do you know that Mr. Janeway often remarks the same about you?"

She sighed. For once Nat's toothsome smile did not melt her heart. "Mr. Janeway and I understand each other perfectly. And you shouldn't repeat things you don't necessarily understand, Nathaniel."

The use of his full Christian name brought Nat to attention in his seat. "Then I shouldn't have told you what Sam said about the ice pick."

"I don't even know what that means," she said. Berkeley held up her abused finger to keep him from explaining. "Let's inquire of Sam, shall we?" She had raised her voice just enough to carry to the bar. "Sam, I know very well you heard both of us. Stop hiding back there. Why is Nat thinking I should know you want an ice pick?"

Sam's head rose slowly above the mahogany horizon of the bar. "To chip ice?" he said.

Nat completely ignored Sam's sour look in his direction. "No, Sam. Remember you said it this morning, just after breakfast? We were all still sitting around the table except for Mr. Janeway and Miss Shaw. Donnel said it was getting colder and colder between the two of them and Shawn said he was wearing a coat at breakfast from now on. You kinda laughed and said you were getting yourself a damn ice pick." Nat's mouth screwed up to one side. "Sorry for cussin'," he apologized to Berkeley. "It sorta slipped." He glanced back at Sam. "You remember that, Sam?"

"I sure as hell don't remember cursin'," he said, his flushed expression both stern and cautionary. "Miss Shaw's been particular that no one does that in front of you."

Berkeley raised a brow at Sam. "Does Nat remember most of it correctly?" she asked.

"I reckon so," he said. He began polishing an imaginary smear off the top of the bar.

"You and the others talk about me and Mr. Janeway?"

"No, ma'am. We don't. Leastways not regular-like." He polished harder. "But this morning it was pretty chilly at breakfast. Thought Annie's pancakes would get a touch of frost on them the way you two were pleasin' and thankin' each other just like you meant it when you didn't mean it at all. It don't take someone with your gift to see you ain't happy and that he's worse off than you. Donnel and me, we figure it's been goin' on since about the time Nat here came. Six weeks, give or take a day. 'Bout time someone says somethin'."

Berkeley didn't respond immediately. She took Emerson's essays from Nat and came slowly to her feet. "I'm sorry it's been so uncomfortable for you and the others," she said carefully.

Sam stopped polishing and pulled at his eyebrow again. "Awww," he said, shifting his weight. "Now see here, Miss Shaw, there's no need to take it like that. I collect I put it all wrong."

"No, I think you said it exactly right." She pressed her lips together in a flat, cheerless smile. "If you'll excuse me?"