Rags to Rubies (2 page)

He usually resented intrusions into his well-ordered life, especially by uninvited women. This wouldn’t be the first time a female had fabricated a tale to manipulate him into something, but this one interested him for some reason. Maybe it had to do with her defiant little stance and deep sapphire eyes. Besides, he had recognized fear and panic in those eyes when he’d opened his door. Something or someone had spooked her enough to send her fleeing from her home.

He guided her to an overstuffed chair across from the sofa, then poured two glasses of brandy and held one out to her. “You’re not one of the drys, are you?” he asked and smiled to himself when she took the glass. “Now that you have my attention, Miss Hathaway, I would be remiss to simply send you on your way without investigating your little dilemma.”

Sinking back into the soft leather of the sofa, Jared noticed Grace Hathaway’s delicate features. The firelight brought out a hint of gold in her shoulder-length hair, not French bobbed and topped by a cloche hat like most young women of society who were intent on making a statement, but windblown with small enticing wisps framing her face.

“How do you know me, Miss Hathaway? Have we met? It is
Miss
, is it not?” Jared inquired, taking in the absence of a wedding ring yet the presence of some rather nice stones in her pierced ears and on her right hand. Having bought his share of trinkets over the years, he recognized the gems as valuable. It was possible that in his wide social circle he could have met Grace Hathaway before, though he rather doubted he would have forgotten such an alluring person.

“Oh, yes. ‘Miss,’ Mr. de Warre.” She fidgeted with the drink in her hand. “And as to your other question, we are a close-knit group here on Jasper Street. We look out for each other, sir. The neighbors are pretty diligent.” She hesitated, then smiled. “Well, nosey, to be honest.”

Jared realized his neighbors probably speculated why a man of his wealth had chosen a neighborhood far below his financial status. He had reasons they would never understand. The brownstone sat only a few blocks from where he had spent the first fourteen years of his life. A part of his life he wanted never to forget.

“The word on the street was this brownstone had sold to you, sir.”

Jared bristled at being called “sir.” Grace Hathaway appeared to be about twenty-five, and he was hardly over the hill at thirty-four! He had accomplished everything he’d set out to do nineteen years ago when he left Angel Guardian Orphanage. His life was just the way he liked it, the way he needed it to be.

“And what else do you know about me, Miss Hathaway?” he asked, gazing at her over the rim of his glass. His reputation usually preceded him. The dark tales suited him well. Not that he minded. It made things easier.

She returned his gaze with bold, unflinching interest. “I didn’t mean to offend you. With rumors, I mean. So few exciting events happen in our little neighborhood that a genuine war hero in our midst causes quite a stir.”

He unwound from the sofa and strode to the window with his drink. “That was several years ago,” he murmured as he took a sip. “I didn’t do any more in that battle than a thousand other soldiers. The real heroes died there.”

Anyone could be brave if living was inconsequential. He thought it amusing that some called him a hero. He rarely worried about anyone’s expectations other than his own.

Pulling back the drapery again, he glanced into the darkness and saw the glow of a cigarette in the shadows across the street.

“And you, Miss Hathaway, what’s your story? Many ladies stay out until dawn these days, but most do not come home unescorted on foggy nights to solicit the help of a stranger whose reputation is dubious, at best.”

Chapter Two

Grace studied her host and the darkness that had fallen across his face at the mention of the war. In the foyer, she’d had to raise her eyes to take him in. He stood well over six feet, and his strongly built body had been close enough for her to smell its subtle, spicy scent.

Actually he was beautiful, if she could use that word to describe the most masculine creature she’d ever laid eyes on. Black hair curled softly at the nape of his neck, softer and longer than the slicked-back style fashion dictated.

Her eyes roamed down to the contoured chest visible through the opening of his shirt. He hadn’t bothered to button it, and the dark hair repeated itself, en masse, and grew downward to where it thinned and disappeared into his trousers. There was something a bit uncivilized about his bare chest, yet he seemed to be perfectly at ease.

Grace knew what her father would have said.
A gentleman always wears a jacket and never, under any circumstances, shows his shirtsleeves or suspenders in public.
She suspected Jared Dunstan de Warre III was rarely led by social dictates.

An untied black cravat hung around his shirt collar. Long, manicured fingers held his glass, no ice. Obviously he’d been out for the evening, since his clothes were formal. A pair of new-styled loafers lay near the leather sofa.

Grace took another sip of the brandy. The liquor wound a warm path to her belly. She willed it to calm her, for she had never experienced such an unnerving reaction to a man.

She cleared her throat. “I was nursing my
zia
. My aunt. Aunt Bruna. Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid, unless you count a rather strange tarot card reading.” Grace grimaced as she remembered the ensuing conversation. Zia Bruna had turned up the Three of Wands, clearly trouble, and tried without success to convince her to remain overnight.

“My aunt is very superstitious, to say the least.”

“And your Aunt Bruna let you return home, on foot, alone, at this hour?” Jared quipped. The information seemed to leave him irritated. At whom, she wondered. Maybe at himself for bothering to give a damn.

The glow from the fireplace set de Warre’s fine features in shadow, his dark brows now slashes above brooding eyes. Everything she’d heard about Jared de Warre III and his notable reputation seemed to be confirmed by the firm set to the line of his jaw. Small creases had formed around his eyes, probably a result from the sun that had lightly bronzed his skin. Beautifully formed lips, the top with a sensual curve, the bottom slightly fuller. A straight, well-proportioned nose separating high, chiseled cheekbones. The faint shadow of black bristle on his chin. All the makings of a sheik. A hundred years ago they would have called him a rake of the first class.

Clear, intelligent eyes returned her gaze. Waiting. Waiting for judgment in a way that suggested the final result didn’t concern him. An impression formed quickly. Powerful, predatory. She could picture a golden hoop piercing one ear.

“I waited until she fell asleep. She lives a block over. Two minutes away. I’m hardly a schoolgirl at twenty-eight, Mr. de Warre. And this isn’t New York. This is Chicago,” she said with an edge to her voice. “We may have Capone, but even he doesn’t prey on defenseless women.” She rose from the chair and strode over to view more closely a rectangular metal box propped upright near the corner of the fireplace.

“Would you excuse me for a moment, Miss Hathaway?” Jared set his glass on the marble-topped credenza. “Please make yourself at home.”

As he walked to the end of the long hallway, Jared tried to identify the unsettling sensation he was experiencing. Grace Hathaway didn’t have any idea what the fetid side of life looked like, but he not only knew about it, he’d lived it for a time.

At the end of the hallway, he picked up the telephone’s black receiver. He didn’t expect to find anyone on the party line at this hour, but you never knew with old Mrs. Capetonic, his party-line neighbor. He suspected she listened in on his calls whenever possible. He should have thought to set up a private line when he’d ordered the service. Money certainly wasn’t an issue. Making a mental note to change the service tomorrow, he lifted the receiver to his ear and luckily heard a dial tone. His friend answered on the first ring.

“Sal?” Jared winced as he glanced at his wristwatch, then held the receiver away from his ear when his friend answered with a short but descriptive series of Italian expletives.

“Yes, I know what time it is, but you and Theresa probably just got home from the restaurant anyway. How’s business?”

“We’ve been home for an hour,” Salvatore Clementi complained, “but we’re not asleep.”

Jared smiled as he heard Theresa yawn in the background and bid her husband good night. “I guess I owe you now.”

“You’re damn right you do. And now that you have my attention, what do you want?”

Jared quickly explained the situation.

“So I need two of your men to watch her house for the rest of the night.”

“You’re lucky I love your sorry ass, my friend. I’ll take care of it.”

Jared started to hang up.

“Is this one of your silly, skinny, gold-digging
puttenescas
? Sure, they’re usually swanky, but...”

Laughing, Jared hung up on his friend.

When he returned to the living room, he saw Grace inspecting the black box.

Running a finger over it she inquired, “What is this?”

“A traffic light,” he explained. “We’re trying them out in Boston. If they’re successful, my factory will begin production in the spring.”

He wondered if she knew how to drive. So many young females did these days. But even if she didn’t she could appreciate the problem with congestion in a busy city like Chicago. She examined the colored glass globes.

“Purple, green, and yellow? How does it work?”

“Drivers watch for the light to change to tell them to proceed, stop, or wait.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Purple seems wrong. I would use green for go, red perhaps for stop, and yellow for wait.”

“Interesting. I had the same thought. Unfortunately, I was outvoted by my partners,” Jared said.

He watched as she conducted a tour around his library, stopping to peer at first one and then another of his treasured possessions. The esoteric collection resulted from nearly two decades of travel. He doubted if the significance of the objects was apparent to anyone other than himself. Surrounding himself with such things gave him a sense of comfort. And they kept the ghosts at bay.

“What’s this?” she inquired, angling a brass object to get a better look.

“A sextant,” he explained, “from a schooner I sailed with in a government job for the State of Florida’s interest in a treasure site.” He rose and stood next to her, inhaling the scent that seemed to follow in her wake.

Lavender. Lavender and musk. A heady combination.

“Most treasure hunters are a little lax about giving the government its fair share of a find. So it’s law to have an agent along on all hunts.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Not unless the competition dumps a load of chopped, bloody fish to attract the sharks when you’re in the water down current.”

She emitted a small gasp. “Who would do such a thing?”

Jared smiled. “You would be surprised what a motivator money is, Miss Hathaway.”

She set the sextant on its stand, then stopped to peer through a telescope positioned at the window. “What do you look at through the telescope?”

“As a child I obsessed about the constellation and the legend of Orion.”

“Ah, mythology’s powerful hunter.”

He smiled. “But I never had a decent telescope to see it.” He set down his glass and raised a hand toward her face.

She stiffened, her eyes growing round and vigilant.

Tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, he felt her flinch. Spots of rose appeared on her checks. “I don’t have that problem anymore,” he said softly.

It had been a mistake to touch her. Maybe she didn’t need protection from him. Maybe it was the other way around.

She backed up a step. “No, I don’t imagine you do.” She looked away and took a sip from her drink.

“This is from my first major purchase,” he said trying to distract himself from the frissons of sensual heat that had tightened his groin at the feel of that soft curl. He picked up an old railroad lantern and swung it in a small arc. “It was used to signal the coupling and uncoupling of cars on a small unit train from Minnesota logging camps to sawmills in Wisconsin.”

He handed the lantern to her. She swung it, following the path with her eyes. Somehow, her action pleased him for an instant.

Grace set the lantern back and turned to pick up a brass piece, the size of a silver dollar, with the number 56 stamped on it. She ran her fingertip over the indention.

“That was my assigned number to designate a full cart of ore after I loaded it.”

“Where?”

“In the coal mines of Westville. Westville, Illinois.” His first job, at fourteen. One he had to prove himself a man to keep.

“I’ve heard Westville is a rough town,” she commented.

“Westville is like any town—some good people, some bad.”

She looked up at him then, the ivory column of her neck begging for his lips, and scanned his face as if trying to read between the lines. He’d half expected her to be bored to tears, but she listened with intense interest, her fingers trailing seductively over each object, though he doubted the movement was intentional. She seemed to gain as much enjoyment from touching his possessions as from looking at them.

A natural temptress, she was childlike in her curiosity, earnest and thoughtful in her questions. He couldn’t detect anything jaded, insincere, or flirtatious but rather an intelligent, curious mind at work. The conversation that ensued was refreshing, he noted with surprise.

Stopping before the fireplace, he noticed her eyes rise to a portrait above the mantel. Before she could ask about it, Jared changed the subject. “I’m curious, Miss Hathaway. Why did you surmise you would be safe here?”

He sauntered to the window’s edge, holding back the drapery again and peering into the blackness.

“Of course I would be safe here,” Grace replied. “How ridiculous to think otherwise. You are considered a pillar of the community.”