The Enchantment (6 page)

He poured a splash of bourbon into a cut-crystal glass, then turned to her. There was no mistaking the surprise in his eyes. "What business is that?"

She cleared her throat. "I thought it would be beneficial if we married." He stared at her. "Married?"

"Yes. We've been . . . lovers for nearly a year now.

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It makes sense that we formalize our partnership. I could make you a fortune, you know."

Eugene walked toward her. Emma noticed that his step seemed heavy and slow. The overstuffed velvet couch sagged beneath his weight as he sat down beside

her.

Emma looked into his sad brown eyes and wanted to run. He opened his mouth to speak, and she wished suddenly that she'd taken the drink.

"Emma, I-I don't know how to say this without sounding like a cad. ..."

"Just say it," she said, pasting a smile on her face. He set his glass on the piecrust table at his left. "I remember when you first hired on at the brokerage. You were so young, so eager. I tried to talk to you a dozen times, but you never even gave me the time of day. I was just a kid, a nothing. But old man Lyndeman— him, you had time for. It didn't surprise me when you two became . . . friendly, or when he let you use your salary to buy stocks."

"Eugene, that's ancient—"

"Wait," he said, "let me finish. I watched you from afar for years, watched you develop into one of the greatest financial minds of our time. And all the while I was waiting to make my own mark with you.

Waiting for you to look down from your lofty perch and notice me.

"It finally happened when I took over Mr. Olsen's job at the bank. Suddenly I was somebody, and for the first time, your beautiful blue eyes noticed me. I thought I was in Heaven. We went to the theater, out to dinner. . . . Everything was wonderful.

"Then we went to bed. That's when I first noticed

it."

48 Kristin Hannah

Emma frowned. "Noticed what?" "The coldness. Your coldness. Oh, you went through the motions, made me feel great, but I never really reached you. I could tell you found our passion pleasant, but nothing more." A laugh that sounded forced escaped his lips. " 'Pleasant' is a bit rough on a man's ego.

For a while I hoped you'd change, thaw. Then I sort of ... accepted it."

He took her hand in his and looked at her. The expression in his dark eyes was infinitely sad and filled with regret. "We're not lovers, Em. We're business associates who occasionally sleep together. It's not enough for me, not for a lifetime. Marriage isn't a merger. It's something more. ... It's laughter, hope, joy— emotions IVe never known you to express. I'm sure you have them, don't get me wrong. But you're so ... so withdrawn and self-centered. I admire your mind immensely—you're a brilliant, visionary businesswoman. But . . ."He shrugged, apparently at a loss for words, then he said quietly, "You're just not the woman I'd choose to share my life and raise my children. I'm sorry. ..."

Humiliation stung Emma's cheeks like a slap. She'd always known she wasn't very . . . lovable. But to hear it in such cold, impersonal words—and from one of the few people whose opinion she respected—made her feel worthless and barren. Empty. She shot to her feet and spun away from the pity in Eugene's eyes. "I understand," she said stiffly. "I'm sorry for wasting your time."

"Emma, I—"

Without waiting to hear what he had to say, she yanked up her skirts and strode briskly from the room. *

* *

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Two weeks later, Emma knew she'd hit rock bottom. It was over.

She rubbed her weary, overworked eyes, and sighed. Her head drooped forward, her elbows plopped onto the polished mahogany of her desk.

She stared at the papers strewn in front of her. The white sheets blurred; numbers melted together in a black stream of dancing dots. She'd spent every waking hour of the last two days going through the figures and documents in her financial portfolio, studying every piece of paper in every drawer. Time and again she'd wanted to give up, but she'd forced herself to keep looking, keep hoping that somewhere she'd find an asset she'd overlooked. Anything that would give her the money to start over. Anything.

At first she'd thought it would be easy, finding some scrap of redemption, but with each passing moment, each second, she'd believed in the possibility less and

less.

Now she had no hope left at all. There was nothing. No asset, no hidden cache of money, no secret stock. Nothing. She was broke. And there was no more time to look. No more time to hope.

In less than ten minutes the movers Eugene had hired would arrive at her door. Everything of value would be carted off and sold to pay her staggering debts. The summer house had already been repossessed, and the small staff that had seen to her needs in both homes had been let go.

She had ten minutes left. Ten minutes in which to perform the most difficult, most painful task of all: clean out her desk.

She'd been putting off the task for weeks, but she couldn't put it off anymore. It was no longer her desk; 50

Kristin Hannah

it belonged to the bank now. They wanted it, and they wanted it empty.

She grabbed the little brass handles on the top drawer, and gently eased it open. The first thing that caught her eye was the checkbook. She pulled it out and laid it on her desktop. Her fingers glided atop the high-grade, butter-soft leather almost reverently before she flipped it open.

More numbers leapt out at her, taunting her with the memory of her excesses. This was the one document she hadn't allowed herself to study. There had been no point. The bank had seized all the cash in the account.

She glanced down at the entries and felt the familiar tightness in her throat. Meissen vases, Sheffield silver, Aubusson rugs, Waterford goblets . . . She'd spent money like it was water.

Today the well had run dry. She glanced down the line of numbers, and noticed something odd. There was an empty entry line. A frown pulled at her mouth. When had she ever failed to record a payment made?

A knock at the front door interrupted her thoughts. She waited for one of her employees to open it, then remembered she had no employees. Heaving a sigh, she pushed tiredly to her feet and headed for the door.

She made her way slowly down the darkened hallway. Each leaden footstep took her closer to ruin.

When she opened the door, it would truly be all over. By sunset tonight, there wouldn't be a stick of furniture in her apartment, and by tomorrow, there wouldn't even be an apartment. Not for her, anyway.

Number 17, Dakota Apartment, now belonged to the bank.

At the door she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Wiping the emotion from her face with practiced ease, she opened the door.

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"Miss Hatter?"

Emma studied the man with unconcealed surprise. He wasn't dressed in stained blue dungarees; nor was he big and burly. Instead, he was a small, bespectacled, stoop-shouldered man in a suit that was at least six years out-of-date. A suit, for God's sake. What kind of a furniture mover wore a suit? "You're going to need help with the piano," she commented dryly.

"Excuse me?"

"In fact, you may need help with the dining room

chairs."

He pulled the lopsided brown bowler off his head and crushed it to his chest. "He told me you were . . .

opinionated."

A bittersweet smile softened the hard lines of Emma's mouth. "That's what I like about Eugene. He's tactful. Anyone else would say I was rude."

"Eugene who?"

"Cummin."

"Oh, no, thank you. I can only stay for a moment."

Emma almost laughed aloud. "I didn't say 'Come in.' I said Cummin. You know, Eugene Cummin, the man who hired you."

"I was hired by Michael Jameson."

Emma frowned. "You work for Michael, at Columbia?"

The man's wrinkled face lit up. "I'm proud to answer yes to that one."

"And Michael told you I was opinionated?"

"Oh, no, ma'am. Mr. Jameson would never say such a thing. Not to me, anyway."

Emma felt a headache start. She pressed two fingers to her temples and closed her eyes. "Look, Mr.

what ever your name is, I—"

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Kristin Hannah

"Doctor," he cut in. "Dr. O'Halloran."

That was when she knew. Emma's eyes flipped open. "You're a friend of his. That idiot doctor."

O'Halloran nodded eagerly. "Larence Digby."

"No confusion over which idiot, I see," she said crisply, crossing her arms. "Okay, O'Halloran, why are you here?"

"Larence sent me over here to give you this." He held out a tattered, dirty scrap of paper.

Taking the ruined calling card between her thumb and forefinger, Emma grimaced. What had Dr. Dimwit used it for? Dusting? "He sent you all this way to return my card? How . . . nice."

"No. He sent me here to tell you that he's leaving for New Mexico tonight."

"And he thinks I ca—" New Mexico. Ciburra. Gold! Emma's heart lurched into her throat. The missing entry in her checkbook! It was the ten-thousand-dollar check she'd written to Digby. She must have been too upset that night to record it.

Bits and pieces of Digby's speech came to the forefront of her memory. Gold. Silver. Turquoise.

Treasures.

She grinned suddenly. "Well, Dr. O'Halloran, I appreciate you stopping by."

"My pleasure, ma'am." He put the bowler back on his balding head and turned to leave.

Before he'd reached the elevator, Emma called out to him. "Oh, Doctor, could you tell me where I might find Dig—Larence this afternoon?"

"I suppose he'd be in his office at the college. He's usually there until about suppertime."

"Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much."

* * *

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Less than two hours later, Emma stood at the closed door to Digby's office. Anxiety coursed like electricity through her blood. She was nervous, hopeful, and excited all at once. She'd found it. Her hidden asset. Ten thousand dollars was more than enough to start over; she could do with half that amount. Now all she had to do was get it back from Dr. Dimwit. And outsmarting him would be like taking candy from a baby.

At the thought, a smug smile settled on her face. Taking a deep breath to calm her racing nerves, she raised her gloved fist and rapped sharply on the hardwood.

"Come in," came a distracted voice from behind the

door.

Emma squared her shoulders for battle, lifted her chin, and jerked the door open. She sailed into the room, her nose held so high that only a last-minute skidding of her heels kept her from hitting the wall.

A low, throaty chuckle reached her ears. "It's kind of a small room," said the well-modulated, masculine voice. "Lots of people hit the books at full steam. That's why the bookcase sags to the left."

Emma spun around. Digby was staring at her from behind a huge wooden desk. Behind him, a small leaded-glass window was open, and the last rays of a late afternoon sun bathed his face and glanced through his hair, making the messy brown strands appear gilded. Her first thought was, Lord, he's not bad-looking. Then she noticed his ridiculously happy smile, and the thought vanished.

"Miss Hatter," he said, "what a nice surprise."

"Hello Dr. Digby. Can I sit down?"

"I don't know. Can you?" At Emma's frown, Dig-

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Kristin Hannah

by's grin expanded. "Sorry, professor humor. Please, do sit."

Emma glanced at the room's only chair and suppressed a shudder. Too bad she hadn't worn an older gown. She eased herself onto the chair's ripped seat. Horsehair stuffing fluttered to the floor. The smell of aged, dusty leather teased her nostrils. Perched precariously, she reminded herself why she was here. It was to ask a favor. At all costs, she had to be polite. Even to Dr. Dimwit.

Especially to Dr. Dimwit.

Slowly she raised her gaze, and found herself staring into his eager, bottle green eyes. He leaned forward,

/nodding in anticipation. She opened her mouth. Surprisingly, the words she'd practiced lodged in her throat. An unfamiliar pang of conscience struck her. Somehow, all of a sudden, outwitting him seemed like . . . well, like taking candy from a baby. Not a nice thing to do.

"I knew you'd come to wish me luck. I knew it! You couldn't stay away from what may be the most important quest of the century. You're a part of it, after all. A big part. Why, only yesterday I was saying to Dr. O'Hall—"

"Stop!" she said more harshly than she intended. At his surprised look, she swallowed hard. Her fingers twisted in her lap. Go easy, Em. Don't upset him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you, it's just that . .

. well . . ."

The eagerness in his bright eyes was replaced by concern. "Yes?"

She took a deep breath. "It's just that I need my money back."

He laughed. She shot him a sharp look, and his

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laughter ground into an awkward silence. "You're kidding, right?"

"Dr. Digby, I'm sure you realize I'm not the kind of woman to joke about money."

His gaze hardened, turned assessing. For a split second Emma wondered if there wasn't actually a razor-sharp mind behind those guileless, friendly eyes. "Unfortunately for you, Miss Hatter, I doubt you're the kind of woman who jokes about anything."

She bit back the words And I thought you were stupid just in time. "Dr. Digby, I don't want to take up more of your valuable time than is necessary. There must be dozens of overprivileged minds just waiting to be shaped by your . . . eloquent teachings. So if we could discuss the matter of my ten thousand dollars ..."

He leaned back to study her. The sharp, whining squeak of tired springs accompanied his every move as he settled deeper into his broken-down chair. Never taking his eyes off her face, he brought his hands up behind his head and rested his neck in the bower of his laced fingers.

Emma shifted uncomfortably, ill at ease with his scrutiny. She was the one who usually studied people, and it was disconcerting to have the shoe on the other foot. It was all she could do not to snap at him. By sheer force of will she kept her lips compressed into a firm line. She wouldn't say anything shrewish yet—not until she had the check in her hot little hands. But by God, then she'd—