Leslie LaFoy (24 page)

L
INDSAY WATCHED THE WORLD
passing outside the carriage window and pretended that she didn't know that Jack's knee brushed against hers every time the wheels rolled over a rough patch of paving stone. The first time it had happened, it had occurred to her that she could—and probably should for the sake of propriety—turn on the seat and avoid the contact as she had the very first time they'd shared the carriage. She remained just as she was seated, however; largely because Jack knew that they were touching and made no move to end the contact, either. Instead, he watched her with a knowing smile, giving their contact an element of danger that she found so exhilarating, it was irresistible.

At what point in her life had she become such a wanton? Lindsay wondered. Her mother's instruction on the art of seducing a man had been embarrassingly direct, but Lindsay had proven herself so inept at implementing the principles that her mother had finally declared her utterly hopeless and ceased trying to educate her. Apparently the lessons had been stored somewhere in the deepest recesses of her brain, though. They'd surged to the fore, unbidden, last night when
Jack had traced her lip with his whiskey-coated fingertip. And now she was alone in the carriage with him and brazenly welcoming the touch of his leg against hers.

There was only one thing that Jack could reasonably think: that she was agreeable to his physical advances. Oddly enough, given her romantic misadventure of the past, she did indeed enjoy Jack Stennett's touch. She liked the way it made her heart race, and the sense of daring that came with inviting it. It hadn't been at all like this before. As for the almost certain consequence of being so bold with Jack … Lindsay was very well aware of where it would lead. She was also well aware that she'd reached the point where she either needed to stop flirting with him or quit pleading propriety and let matters progress as they would. It wasn't fair to give Jack contradictory messages.

What to do? Withdrawing behind the facade of a prim and proper lady was a safe course. It was also lonely and allowed no room for pleasure of any sort. More than anything else, it was false. She wasn't prim and proper by nature. It took conscious effort to remember how she was supposed to behave. On those occasions when she chose to ignore social convention, she always felt a wonderful sense of being both liberated and honestly herself.

She hadn't felt anything like that with Charles, of course. Every step she'd taken with him had been a duty, an obligation, and very much a calculated surrender. There had been no sense of being free, of daring exhilaration; just a nagging hope that her performance would meet his expectations so that she could accomplish her mother's business goals. She'd failed miserably on every count and vowed never again to subject herself to such humiliation.

But it was all very different with Jack. There was an undeniably powerful quality to being with him, to his advances. For the first time since the debacle with Charles Martens, she was tempted to risk her pride. But what if it turned out this time just as it had before? She certainly didn't want to experience such a humbling again. Once had been quite enough.

What a dithering little ninny she'd become, Lindsay silently groused. It wasn't like her at all. She was quite
accustomed to lining up the advantages and disadvantages of any situation, and then making a clear and definitive decision on the action to be taken. Her mother had fervently maintained that the physical relationship between a man and a woman was merely a business one, and should be approached with the calm rationality one used in negotiating interest rates with a banker. One should consider the merits of the association, negotiate for concessions greater than your own—typically in the form of expensive gifts—and then honor the agreement with a dutiful and silent surrender.

Of course, her mother had been abandoned by her father and while there had been a procession of—as her mother had put it—“companions” afterward, not a one of them had been companionable for very long. To Lindsay's mind, her mother's approach, while certainly profitable, had always seemed to lack true substance. She'd tried her mother's way and found that it didn't suit her in the least. Her own way was something she'd never thought to discover. Until now.

As though he knew of her internal debate, Jack shifted on the seat, taking up sides in the contest by deliberately stretching his legs out so that his calf rested firmly against her own. Her pulse quickened as a delightful warmth spread through her limbs. Maintaining her pretense of being unaware, she reminded herself to breathe. She could feel Jack's gaze on her and knew without looking that his smile was quirked and knowing.

Perhaps she ought to face him and squarely address the issue of their relationship. Her mother had held that there was no need to actually talk about relations; that men could be trusted to
know
where matters were headed. It seemed less than honest to Lindsay. But where and how did one begin such a conversation? And it could be that her hesitancy was a sign that she wasn't as comfortable with the notion of being seduced as she'd thought.

Dithering again, Linds
, she silently admonished.
Make a decision one way or the other.

The slowing of the carriage, however, ended the immediate necessity of doing so, and she felt a surge of relief for the timely reprieve. “We have arrived,” she announced unnecessarily, making a production out of smoothing her
skirts and flouncing her hems. In the process, she casually put space between their lower limbs.

Jack made a humming sound of agreement and straightened in the seat. “Sooner or later, you always do,” he said softly, giving her a wink as the carriage stopped and he reached for the door handle.

What was it about him that made her feel as though there were layers to the things he said? she wondered, watching him smoothly exit. She accepted his hand and allowed him to assist her out. Even through the fabric of her gloves, she was aware of the warmth of his skin and she missed it when he slowly released his claim to her.

He chewed the inside of his cheek as he considered her and then, with an almost apologetic smile, turned to look at the smoldering remains of the apartment building. “Was it insured?” he asked.

Lindsay quickly gathered her wits and reminded herself that discussing business matters was a blessedly safe and certain haven. “Unfortunately, no,” she supplied. “There was a horrible fire in the city four years ago. The water supplies were insufficient and millions of dollars of insured property was lost north of Harold Square. We suffered some damage to our properties, but it was minimal. Payment of the loss claims bankrupted every insurance company in town. Our carrier was among those who failed. The rates from companies in other cities nearby were prohibitive and we decided to take our chances. The cost of insurance will come down once the construction of the aqueduct is finished, but that doesn't mean much to us now.”

Jack nodded as though he were contemplating all of it and then turned to look at the traffic moving past them. “This looks to me like it's a pretty busy street,” he finally observed.

He was seeing his way to an action; she could sense it in her bones. “It is,” she answered warily. “Twenty-third is a major east-west route.”

“And the city doesn't have any direction to grow but northward.”

Ah, he was considering future property values. “Well, there is out to Long Island,” she reminded him.

He brought his gaze to hers and grinned. “Where Agatha wants to buy some land at an outrageous price.”

“There is a certain appeal to her being isolated by the ferry schedule.”

He chuckled before turning away from her yet again. This time he surveyed the entire block. After a long moment he asked, “Want to know what we're going to do?”

“Ship Agatha and her belongings out on this evening's ferry?” she ventured only half facetiously.

He laughed outright. “The motion's on the table for consideration.” He sobered slowly.
“After
we've put this chunk of land up for auction. Who do we see about handling it for us?”

It made sense to do so. Lord knew there wasn't any money available to rebuild. And it was on the list of those properties Richard was considering selling. But there was something in Jack's manner that suggested he was thinking on a larger scale. “By ‘chunk,’ just what are you referring to? The lot?” Lindsay asked, indicating the pile of charred lumber.

“You own half the block, don't you?” He didn't give her a chance to answer. “The whole thing goes up for sale.”

She glanced down the row of apartment buildings and small storefronts, mentally calculating the rents that would be lost and reckoning that against the probable receipts from their sale. The scales didn't come close to balancing. “No one wants to buy aging apartment buildings, Jack,” she said gently in the hope of educating him without battering his pride. “They're expensive to maintain and the rents are always difficult to collect.”

“I'm not selling the apartment houses,” he countered quickly. “I'm selling the land under them. That's what's valuable, Lindsay. Whoever buys it all will probably tear down the apartments and build something new.”

Richard had mentioned that course, but it had been a long-range plan. Jackson's intent to shorten the timetable instantly triggered the objections Lindsay had always harbored about the strategy. “Where will the tenants go, Jack? Where will they live? Where will they do business?”

Jackson shrugged. “That's their problem, not yours.”

“What a
horribly
selfish attitude!” Lindsay declared,
thoroughly appalled by it. “I can't believe that you think I'm capable of such a callous and—”

His hands on her shoulders stole not only her words, but her breath. His gaze was dark and somber and regretful. “You can't mother the whole world, Lindsay,” he said softly. “And you have to take care of yourself before you can take care of others. It gets sold to the highest bidder. All of it. Now, I'll ask again, who do we see about setting up the auction?”

“Samuel Gregory,” she supplied reluctantly, knowing that Jack was right and that she had to put common sense before emotional considerations. Still, she wanted to cry, to bury her face in his chest and sob great big tears. Lifting her chin, Lindsay drew a steadying breath and gathered her composure to add, “He's reputed to be the best. There are others, of course, but I think we might as well start at the top and work our way down, if necessary.”

L
INDSAY SAT PRIMLY
in the straight-backed chair, her hands folded demurely in her lap, knowing that Samuel Gregory's huge cherry-wood desk prevented him from seeing how Jack's crossed legs had resulted in the toe of his boot coming to rest against her leg. Unlike in the carriage earlier, this touch wasn't deliberate. The office was small to begin with—not much larger than a broom closet—and Jack's height and the width of his shoulders had all but filled it. He'd apologized for bumping her as he'd settled in the chair beside hers and tried to make himself comfortable in the cramped space. Whether his touch was intentional or not, the effect was just the same. Lindsay could only hope that the tiny, incredibly cluttered office was sufficiently dim that the auctioneer was unaware of how quickly her pulse raced.

“I charge fifteen percent of the gross receipts for my services,” Gregory said, studying the paper Jack had handed him after the introductions and explanations had been completed.

“I'll pay you ten percent on the first fifty thousand dollars,” Jack drawled, slowly rubbing his foot against her leg,
“and an additional one percent for every twenty-five thousand over that.”

All right. The contact might not have been as unavoidable as she'd thought. Lindsay tried to pay attention to the conversation in the hope that she'd be less aware of Jack's touch and the heat consuming her.

“That's ridiculous,” Gregory snorted.

“Look at the property list again,” Jack countered calmly, drawing a line up her calf with his boot toe.

Lindsay swallowed. She couldn't physically move away; there wasn't room to go anywhere. Not that she really wanted to end the contact. Here and now, in the presence of Mr. Gregory, Jack's touch was even more daring than it had been in the carriage. And so much more exhilarating. When she got Jackson Stennett out of here, she was going to repay him for putting her through such an exquisitely brazen form of torture.

Gregory nodded and said quietly, “These are certainly well-situated properties, but still—”

“You can make as much money as you can squeeze out of the sale—which I'm thinking may just be considerably more than your usual fifteen percent,” Jackson drawled, “or you can make nothing at all. Miss MacPhaull,” Jack said, looking over at her, smiling, and drawing a deliberately slow trail down her leg with his toe, “assures me there are several auction agents in town. All with solid reputations.”

What was left of
her
reputation wouldn't be enough to fill a thimble if she didn't summon a scrap of propriety and put an end to Jack's advances.

“Five percent for every twenty-five thousand over the base fifty.”

“Two and a half,” Jackson lazily countered, trailing his toe upward again, watching her eyes.

Moth to a flame.

“Done. Let me consult my calendar.” The auctioneer opened a book and quickly began turning pages. “How does four weeks from today sound to you, Mr. Stennett?”

“Too far away,” Jack said, winking at her and turning his attention to the businessman. He stopped moving his
foot, leaving it pressed lightly against her calf. “Shoot for two at the most.”

“But I have to have time to generate interest in the properties,” the older man protested, blinking furiously. “I have to have time to agitate the competing interests.”

Jack shook his head. “Too much time and those competing interests have a chance to get rational,” he said, his speech no longer a slow and easy drawl, but certain and crisp. “I want them waving fistfuls of money without thinking beyond a gut level, wanting to beat out the other guy. Two weeks at the outside.”