Magnate (29 page)

“His”—she cleared her throat—“former investment banker was stealing from him. Creating shares and pocketing the money. Will's been strapping himself to buy back the outstanding shares.”

“That is unfortunate. But it's what I suspected.”

“You did?” she breathed, her chest rising and falling quickly. “Why did you not say anything?”

“Because I wanted to be wrong. I had hoped your perfect brother had decided to turn to a life of crime.”

“That's terrible.”

“Yes, it is. Indeed, I am a terrible, terrible man.” His fingers slid to her toes, pulling on each one to release the tension lodged in the joints. “You should know that by now.”

Her brow furrowed, her lips turning into a frown. “I know nothing of the sort. You merely want everyone to think you're terrible.”

“Elizabeth, please. If people hear I'm not as coldhearted as they believe, I'll never successfully negotiate another deal.” Shocking, but somehow his wife kept managing to spot a bit of good in him.

“Life is not all about business deals, Emmett. Oh, right there,” she groaned when he stroked her instep.

Since his wife was the smartest woman he'd ever met, he was learning not to question her. Through Elizabeth, he'd discovered laughter and love, how to enjoy the small moments—and he looked forward to a lifetime of them.

“You'll be happy to know Will has also hired my investment firm. One more client added to the existing five.”

“Congratulations. I told you the article would be a wise idea.” The feature on Elizabeth's brokerage firm had been published in the
New York Mercury
yesterday, and she'd been deluged with interest ever since. “So how did you get your precious brother to agree?” Her heel cradled in his palms, Emmett pressed his thumbs over the top of her foot.

She bit her lip, lids fluttering closed as she enjoyed his ministrations. He loved that expression, the one of unbridled pleasure. If he slid his fingers between her legs, no doubt she'd be soaked. His cock grew heavy at the idea. The carriage could not go fast enough.

“I promised to forbid you from doing anything with the information you've gathered against Northeast Railroad.”

His fingers stilled. “You'll
forbid
me?”

She peeked through her lashes at him. “Yes. I am officially forbidding you from ruining Will's company.”

The air thickened, and a long moment passed while they stared at one another in challenge, heat jumping between them like sparks on a wire. Her boldness had him longing for a bed, where he could have that sass and fire underneath him, surrounding him. With that, he went from semierect to completely hard, and he had to shift to ease the sudden discomfort.

Elizabeth's mouth hitched. “You like when I'm assertive.”

Hell yes, he did. He began stroking her ankle, her shin. “To be clear, I never planned to ruin Northeast Railroad. I wanted to take it over and run it.”

“You know that would kill my brother.”

“I don't think he'd mind very much. There's rumblings he may try his hand at politics.”

She sat up straighter, her entire body stiffening. “What? Where did you hear that?”

“My dear, I cannot divulge all my tricks. Where would be the fun in that?”

Relaxing, she settled into the velvet cushions as they continued to roll up Fifth Avenue. “Perhaps when we get home, you'll share one or two. Just to pass the time between deals and negotiations.”

His fingers trailed higher up her thigh. “I can think of no better way to spend an afternoon than with you, my lovely and demanding wife. The deals and negotiations can wait.”

Keep reading
for a special sneak preview of

BARON
,

the next book in the Knickerbocker Club series,
coming in November 2016!

 

William Sloane did not believe in the ability to commune with the spirit world. Hell, he didn't even believe there
was
a spirit world.

Yet he here sat, inside a ramshackle theater in the Tenderloin district, watching this audacious spectacle. Madam Zolikoff, she called herself. The mystifying medium who could communicate with spirits and perform extraordinary feats. The woman was the worst actress he'd ever seen—and Will had seen plenty.

Eyes closed, she swayed and waved her hands, all while chanting utter nonsense. A man sat across from her, one she'd pulled up onstage, his gaze rapt as Madam Zolikoff attempted to speak to his dead mother. The electric lights overhead flickered, and the audience tittered.

“Ah! I think we are close!” she announced loudly in an appalling Russian accent.

Will nearly rolled his eyes. Was anyone really buying this act?

Shifting in his uncomfortable seat, he glanced around at the meager audience. About twenty men and women, all average-looking, a far cry from the extravagant crowd he usually associated with. No diamond tiaras or swallowtail coats here, just derby hats and plain bonnets. But every pair of eyes was trained on the young woman working the stage.

She was attractive, he supposed, if one preferred liars and cheats, which he most definitely did not. Still, her pale blond hair showed off striking brown eyes. A straight, delicate nose. High cheekbones. Arching brows. Full lips painted a scandalous red.

He liked those lips. Quite a lot, in fact. If he were dead, those lips alone might bring him back.

“I hear her!” A steady rapping sounded, reverberating around the room. An accomplice, no doubt, yet the audience gasped.

“Mr. Fox, your mother is here with us now. What would you like to ask her?”

The man onstage asked simple questions for the next fifteen minutes, with Madam Zolikoff “interpreting” the dead mother's answers. Will absently rubbed his stomach, anger burning over this performance, that she would take advantage of someone's grief in such a profoundly fraudulent way. When Will's own mother had died, he'd fervently wished for something—anything—to bring her back. Nothing had, however, and he'd been left in a cold house with an even colder man.

Madam Zolikoff prattled on, regaining Will's attention. Had this woman no shame? No empathy for the heartbreak that went along with losing a loved one? For the first time tonight, he looked forward to the confrontation with her.

He planned to shut the medium down. Run her out of Manhattan, if necessary, because she was standing in the way of something greater, a different sort of power than he possessed now, but one of equal import. One his bastard father had desperately craved, but fallen short of.

John Bennett, a former New York state senator and current gubernatorial candidate, had asked Will to partner on the ticket as lieutenant governor. It was something Will's father had always wanted, to wield political influence, yet he'd died before his political career could take wings. Now, Will would be the Sloane achieving that goal—and dancing on his father's grave after he and Bennett won.

But John Bennett had a weakness, one by the name of Madam Zolikoff. Seemed the madam had dug her hooks into Bennett, and the candidate would not listen to reason regarding the dangers this presented. But Will wasn't about to allow her to jeopardize Bennett's political career—or his own. They could not afford a scandal six months before the election.

When the performance finally ended, Will didn't bother clapping or stamping his feet like the other patrons. He rose, turned on his heel, and headed straight for the door he'd learned would take him backstage.

No one stopped him. More than a few curious glances were thrown his way, so he tugged his derby lower to obscure his face. He'd run Northeast Railroad for the last thirteen years and came from one of the most prominent families in New York. The name Sloane was as well-known as those such as Astor, Stuyvesant, and Van Rensselaer. Consequently, Will had never shied from public attention, but he'd rather not be recognized here.

For several minutes, he cut through the long hallways in the bowels of the theater. Now at the door to her dressing room, he knocked. A slide of a lock, and then the door opened to reveal a brunette woman in a black shirtwaist and skirt, the same costume she'd worn onstage. Her lips were still painted a deep red. He inclined his head ever so slightly. “Madam Zolikoff.”

“Mr. Sloane. I've been expecting you.” Her voice was deep and husky, with a sultry tone more suited to a bedroom than a stage. He wondered if it were genuine—or fake like the rest of her. She stepped aside. “Come in, please.”

He wasn't surprised she knew his name, but had she noticed him in the audience? Three steps found him inside her dressing room, if one could call a space no bigger than a closet a “room.” There wasn't enough square footage to allow for more than the small table and chair already in place. A mirror hung on the wall above the table, and a blond wig rested on a stand atop said table.

She glided around him and lowered into the sole chair, facing away from him, and reached for a cloth. Folding his hands behind his back, he watched in the mirror as she slowly swiped the cloth over her mouth to remove the lip color. She didn't rush, and Will had plenty of time to study her mouth. He highly suspected the display another type of performance, to throw him off balance.

“Is there another name I may call you, other than your stage name?”

“No.”

“I feel ridiculous calling you Madam Zolikoff.”

“That is your problem, not mine.” Finished with her cloth, she dropped the scrap to the table and caught his gaze in the mirror. “We are not friends, Mr. Sloane, so let's not pretend otherwise. I know why you're here.”

“Is that so?” He hadn't expected her to be so forthright. In his mind, she'd been meek and frightened, concerned over the unpleasantness a man in his position could bring a woman in her position. But this particular woman seemed neither meek nor frightened. “And why am I here?”

“You want to scare me away from John. Get him away from my evil clutches.” She wriggled her fingers menacingly on this last sentence. “How's that?”

“Good. This saves us both time. Now you may agree to never see Bennett again, stop bilking him out of hundreds of dollars, and stay out of his life forever.”

“Bilking him?” Her lip curled, drawing Will's attention back to her mouth, damn it. “I've got news for you, mugwump. I've earned every dollar providing services to your friend—and not those kind of services, either. John and I are strictly business.”

Will smirked. He'd never met a man and a woman who spent time together with money exchanged who were “strictly business.”

“Miss whomever you are, I don't care what kind of lies you're shoveling out there to audiences, but I'm not some rube fresh off the farm. I know what you're about, and all of it stinks.”

“Oh, indeed? So what am I about, then?”

“Blackmail. And if he doesn't pay, you'll take whatever personal details you've gleaned about him to the papers and turn him into a laughingstock. I will not let that happen.”

She rose and, because of the tight space, this put her close enough that he could see the hazel flecks in her brown eyes. Were those freckles on her nose? “I don't care who you are or what you think of me. If you believe I'm going to let some stuffed, pompous railroad man scare me away from my best client, you are dead wrong.”

* * *

Ava Jones struggled to contain her smile while the handsome man across from her worked to understand her last sentence.

Everyone in New York knew William Sloane. Obscenely wealthy and from one of the best families, he was mentioned frequently in the papers, both on the financial and the social pages. No doubt men and women bowed to his demands all day, every day. Not her, no way. Ava owed him nothing and did not care about his demands. If not for her desire to get rid of him for good, she would've completely ignored him.

At least she would have
tried
to ignore him. Unfortunately, Mr. Sloane was a man a girl noticed. She'd spotted him in the audience right away. Strong, angular jaw. Pronounced cheekbones highlighting his aristocratic nose. Sandy blond hair swept off his forehead, oiled with precision, and a sharp, unsmiling mouth that challenged a woman to see if she could be the one to loosen him up.

At this distance, the view improved markedly. Piercing eyes that had seemed blue in the theater but were actually gray. He was tall, with an air of confidence suitable for a prince and a near-palpable energy radiating from his frame. Wide shoulders filled out the cut of his fancy coat quite nicely. She'd always been drawn to sturdy, capable shoulders. Something about Atlas bearing the weight of the world appealed to her.

But she'd learned long ago that there was no one to bear the weight of her burdens. Those were hers alone.

“Client?” he scoffed. “Wouldn't ‘mark' be a more accurate term?”

Goodness, she was growing to dislike this man. “You assume I am swindling him when I am providing a real service.”

“By communing with John's dead relatives? Come now, Madam Zolikoff. We both know that's impossible.”

Did he have any idea how lonely John Bennett was? Whether her clients believed in her powers or not, most needed someone to care about them. A friend with whom to talk. A person to give them hope that there was something beyond this drudgery called life. That was what Madam Zolikoff provided—for a nominal fee, of course.

These performances were another matter. People wanted a spectacle. A unique experience to share with their friends and neighbors. A bit of the fantastic to distract from the fatigue. Not everyone came from a wealthy family and ran a big company as a lark; most people needed a break from their daily trials.

“You speak of things you do not understand,” she told him. “When I hear from John that he no longer requires my gift, then I will respectfully back off. But you act as if he's a hophead and I'm providing him with the opium. I am not forcing him to see me.”

“What I understand is that you are preying on a wealthy and soon-to-be influential man.”

Her muscles tightened, anger building in every inch of her body. “I would never blackmail him—I'm not trying to make trouble. The governor as my client would only help me.” Bigger-named clients meant more clients, which equated to more income. All she needed to do was save up enough money to get her two brothers and sister out of the factories. By her calculations, she had only four more months to go if all held steady. Four more months, after adopting the Madam Zolikoff likeness two years ago, and she'd have enough to keep her family safe.

Out of the city. Away from the filth and toils of life in New York. Away from bitter memories. Instead, they'd have clean air and open spaces on a farm upstate.
Freedom.

Mr. Sloane shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers, which caused Ava to roll her eyes. How could someone so wealthy appear so aggrieved? Did this man not know real problems? The tip of her tongue burned with an offer to take him to the match factory to show him cases of phossy jaw. Had he seen the women with their faces rotting away, jawbones glowing in the dark, all because they'd needed to put food on their table?

Those
were hardships. Not the fact that his friend and political partner paid her five dollars a week to read tea leaves and pass on bits of “news” from the great beyond.

“How much will it take?” Mr. Sloane asked her. “How much do you need to walk away?”

Oh, so tempting. Ava could throw out a high number and see if the railroad man would bite. If he did, her siblings could quit their factory jobs. She would have enough to buy that piece of property, and they could all be together. Finally.

But she didn't. First, pride would not allow her. Taking Sloane's money would be akin to admitting she was robbing people, which she did not. Second, she knew better than most that accepting money never came without strings. If you took what was offered, they felt as if they owned you.

And no one owned Ava Jones. Not any longer.

“You don't have enough money to cause me to disappear. But if it makes you feel better, I'll cut you a deal on a séance.”

He made a sound in his throat. “That is the last thing I need.”

A knock sounded on the door before Gus, one of the assistants, called, “Ava, hurry up. I need the room.”

Mr. Sloane's brows jumped, and Ava cursed inwardly, irritated at the small revelation. “Ava,” he drawled, as if testing the sound on his tongue. “Pretty. Also, I like your hair better this way, without the wig.”

She turned and began shoving her things into her carpetbag, trying to ignore the fluttering in her belly. The compliments were as unexpected as they were unwelcome. “Save the poetry for your Fifth Avenue debutantes, railroad man. You're wasting your time with me.” She carefully lowered her wig and wig stand into the bag. Found her bonnet. Then she began shrugging into her coat.

A hand caught the coat and held it up. She slipped her arms into the sleeves. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

Without waiting for him, she pushed into the hall and strode toward the exit of the theater. The heels of her high boots ticked on the hard floor, and she could hear Sloane's fancy evening shoes dogging her. No doubt he was headed somewhere glamorous, like to the opera or a high-society ball. Not to a cramped three-room apartment in a West Side boardinghouse that she shared with her siblings.