Tycoon (3 page)

She clinked her crystal to his. “You are welcome. Was Mrs. Webber amenable to your proposition?”

“Yes, after I outlined what I wanted to do.” He took a deep draught of the bubbly. “In my research, I had learned of her family's history, of course. But I never knew how involved she remained in the day-to-day operations. Erik had always assumed the lead.”

“Or perhaps you assumed Erik was the lead?”

He appeared to consider that. “Perhaps, though not many would believe otherwise. It's the way of the world, I'm afraid, though I doubt anyone would have enlightened me had you not been there. Two other executives from my bank had met with the Webbers, and no one had the slightest idea.”

“Because you're all men,” she smirked.

“Yes. I'm starting to think that may have made a difference. Is there really a Mr. Ross, or did you make him up?”

“As real as rain, unfortunately.” At least, he had been when she'd last seen him alive, on the floor of his office being strangled. “And he really does hang about and try to steal the male customers. They're the high-paying ones, you know.”

His bright blue eyes studied her. “I'm curious about you, Clara Dobson.”

Her mouth went dry at the idea of questions she couldn't answer. “You promised—”

“I know, and I plan to keep that promise. But tell me, do you like working the perfume counter?”

“I love it.” She relaxed and took a big gulp of champagne. Before tonight, she'd had champagne only once, at a birthday party of a friend. The sweet bubbly drink tasted more delicious than she remembered. “I love perfume.”

“Why?”

He appeared genuinely interested, which was more than she could say for the other men she'd met. Usually when a suitor learned where she worked, all he asked was if she could get him a discount. “Perfume makes the world smell better, like a paintbrush for your nose. But it's not just a mask for unpleasant odors; a good perfume should stir the emotions. For example, did you know that even though the scent may be subtle, people react to you differently because of the way you smell?”

Ted shook his head, and she continued. “Have you ever passed a girl on the street who turned your head, but you didn't know why? Probably her perfume caught your attention, even if you didn't notice it outright. We react more to smells than you would imagine.”

She drank more champagne and tried not to flush at the heated attention in his gaze. Her head felt a bit fuzzy, and Ted was so serious and appealing across from her. “How old are you?” she blurted out.

“Thirty-two. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

His mouth curved into a small smile. “So what perfume are you wearing?”

“That's a very personal question. I own fifteen different scents, and I choose them by my mood.”

“And what sort of mood were you in this morning when you left?”

“Rushed, because I was running late. Which made me anxious. And when I am anxious I always use the perfume with notes of bergamot, citrus, frankincense, and nutmeg.”

“Why?”

Her forefinger tapped the side of the crystal. “That's the perfume that calms me down, I suppose. It's very soothing.”

“May I smell it?”

She blinked. No one had ever asked her that before. Hardly a proper question, though there was no one here to judge them. Nevertheless, if not for the champagne, she'd never consider complying. Before she had second thoughts, she lifted her wrist. “I don't know how much of the scent lingers, since it's the end of the day.”

He set his flute on the table and then reached for her arm. His hands were warm and confident as he held her. Bending, he brought her wrist to his nose, the tip ever-so-slightly brushing her skin. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, then gave a soft exhale that fluttered across the sensitive flesh. She shivered, her limbs trembling imperceptibly.

What in God's name was happening to her?

Chapter Three

She smelled like heaven, Ted thought. Sweet and crisp with a hint of spice, and something that could only be her underlying skin. . . . He could grow drunk on that scent.

The finer qualities of perfume had always eluded him, one aroma no different from any other. At least, he'd believed as much before smelling Clara's skin. He could understand how a particular scent could “stir the emotions,” as she'd said. Consider his emotions well stirred, indeed—though his condition likely had more to do with the woman than the scented oil on her wrist.

She amazed him. Had he ever encountered a woman so vivacious, so sure of herself? If she were pretending to be a shop girl hiding out from someone dangerous, she was doing a damn fine job of it. Clara spoke her mind with a confidence that intrigued him. All the energy that coursed through her body . . .

What would taking her to bed be like? Undoubtedly an experience as spirited as the woman herself, and the mental picture sparked an ache low in his belly. He couldn't take his eyes from her. If he did, he might very well miss something fascinating.

“You're staring at me.”

“I can't seem to stop. I would apologize, but I'm not sure I'd mean it.”

“Well, is it the good type of staring?”

He fought the smile tugging his lips. “Is there a bad type?”

“Of course. I'm more accustomed to the bad type of staring, when a man doesn't quite know what to make of me and may possibly catch the next streetcar home. But the good type of staring . . . that's the one girls dream about. Where he watches because he's mesmerized, as if he's trying to count your every heartbeat.”

Any man who bolted from Clara was a complete fool, Ted thought. Regardless, he wasn't ready to admit his infatuation aloud. “The good news is that there's no streetcar available.”

She settled deeper into the sofa. “Why do you care so much about the Webbers' brewery?”

“Have you ever tried their beer?”

“No. I never drink alcohol. I've had more champagne tonight than in my whole life.”

Now that she mentioned the champagne, he thought her eyes did appear a bit glassy. He hadn't meant to corrupt her with drink. “Do not continue on my account. I hadn't realized . . .” He could have kicked himself. If she was indeed a shop girl from Hoyt's, her wages would be only three or four dollars a week. Hardly a champagne and caviar budget.

“I'm fine,” she said with an exaggerated wave of her hand that belied her words. “So tell me about the Webbers' beer.”

“The Webber lager is rich and hearty, and quite different from the weak, watery brew we Americans produce. Beer halls are already becoming popular in the city with bohemians and other immigrants, and it'll only be a matter of time before the rest of America catches on and demand outstrips supply. With a few adjustments, the Webber brewery can be positioned for mass production.”

She covered her mouth to hide a yawn. “Well, that's nice. Everyone should have something at which they excel.”

Such a simple, practical statement. He found himself smiling. “And for you, it's perfume?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Though I am quite proficient on a velocipede. What about you? What are you good at?”

“Making money.” He didn't even need to think on his answer. That was all he'd ever been good at, money and figures. He'd taken over the books at his parents' farm at the age of nine, including comparisons on the crops to see where the most profit could be turned. By the time he left home at fourteen, the Harper farm had grown to three times its original size.

Clara frowned, sipped her champagne, but said nothing. Why the disapproval? he wondered. Amassing a fortune required talent, every bit as much as selling perfume. And even from what little he knew of her, the quiet disapproval seemed out of character. “I sense you want to say something.”

“I'm certain you don't want to hear my opinion. You're obviously very important at the bank. Who cares what some silly perfume girl from Hoyt's thinks?” She raised a shoulder, chuckling a little in self-deprecation.

The dismissal bothered him more than he could have imagined, so Ted reached forward and clasped her free hand, the skin soft and cool under his fingers. The same zing he'd experienced at dinner now raced through his blood, causing gooseflesh to rise under his clothing. “I care. I don't think you're silly, and I want to hear what you think.”

She blinked, her breath escaping in a rush before her fingers squeezed back. His heart began to hammer behind his ribs, the touch causing a prickly heat over every bit of his body. She did not withdraw, merely held his hand and his stare, waiting to see what came next. He hadn't a clue, but a list of items under consideration ran through his head, none appropriate for an innocent woman.

He tightened his hold briefly before pulling away. “Tell me.”

She cleared her throat and smoothed her skirts. “It struck me as a sad answer, that's all. To hear there's nothing in your life you are passionate about, nothing you enjoy other than work. That seems a lonely way to live.”

Nearly wincing, he sat back and finished his champagne in one swallow. Well, he'd asked for her to be honest. Was he lonely? The idea hadn't crossed his mind before. People surrounded him, whether at the bank, at the clubs, or the servants at his house. But he preferred to be alone. More work could be done without others around. The bank needed him. Not only for the hundreds of workers who relied on him, but the projects he backed. The investments he oversaw. Hard to feel lonely with responsibility pressing so heavily on one's shoulders.

“For example,” she continued, “if you had one day to yourself, what would you do?”

“A day I decided not to work?”

She nodded, and he rubbed his jaw and contemplated the question. What would he do? He never even stayed home due to an illness, let alone took a day to gad about the streets or laze in bed. “I'm not certain. I grew up on a farm, and no one gets a day off there. I guess I'm used to working every day. What would you do with a free day?”

“A free day, wherever I wanted? That's easy. I would spend the entire day in Central Park.”

He would have laughed if her expression weren't so beautifully earnest. “With all the money in the world and any ship, carriage, or train at your disposal, you would spend the day in Central Park? What, walking about?”

“Yes. I've always wanted to explore all of it, but I never have the time. Did you know that of all the thirty-six bridges in the park, no two are alike?”

“No,” he said slowly. “I didn't.”

“They are. What makes them different? I'd like to spend a day finding them all, figuring out why each one is unique.” Color bloomed on her cheeks and she ducked her head to concentrate on her champagne. “That probably sounds ridiculous to you.”

Wrong. The emotion rising in his chest was definitely not one of ridicule. It was yearning, strong and pervasive, filling him like air in a balloon. When was the last time he'd taken a simple pleasure walk in Central Park? He desperately wanted to go with her. To help discover every one of those bridges and watch the joy reflected in her bright green eyes. To just . . . be near her.

And for a man who preferred his own company to that of others, this admission shocked him.

“Not ridiculous,” he said quietly. “I think it sounds like a fine day.”

“You're being kind.” She set her flute on the table and then rose, her skirts rustling. “I suppose I should retire. The champagne has turned me sleepy. So, how . . .”

She trailed off and he realized they hadn't discussed sleeping arrangements. He got to his feet. “Oh, you'll take the bed in the back, of course. I'll sleep on the sofa.” Her head started shaking before he'd even finished the sentence.

“Absolutely not,” she declared. “I would not feel right taking your bed. It's your car, after all, and you've been so gracious to allow me to stay here. This sofa seems very comfortable and perfect for me—”

“Clara,” he said sharply. “Do not argue. I am more stubborn than you can imagine and you won't win.” She held his stare, obviously trying to judge his seriousness, but he did not blink or waver. Under no circumstances would he allow her to sleep on a sofa.

“But it wouldn't be proper for you to see me . . . dressed for sleeping.”

He froze. The thought hadn't crossed his mind before now. What did she sleep in? He could imagine a variety of possibilities, each more enticing than the last. Heat erupted over his skin and he shifted on his feet. “I promise to turn around should it be necessary. But the water closet is in the back and the bedroom has a door that locks.”

She nibbled the inside of her lip. “I suppose you're right.” In a blink, she leaned in and kissed his cheek, her lips like velvet on the rough skin of his face. He inhaled, filled his lungs with the sweet smell of her, and a wave of lust rolled through him. The woman was a fiery-haired temptress.

“Thank you, Ted. For all you've done for me.”

Without another word, she disappeared into the back. Unable to move, he heard the door snick shut and then the lock engage.

* * *

Heavens above, was the bed . . . shaking?

As Clara rolled over, she realized the bed was indeed shaking, as if she lived by the elevated tracks. Considering she lived in a boarding house in Greenwich Village that never shook or shimmied, alarm jolted through her to jerk her fully awake. Her eyes flew open and with sight came recognition. Train car. Ted. The memories flooded back, unfortunately along with a fierce headache. Oh, the champagne.

Curling onto her side, she groaned and dragged the pillow over her head. Mercy, even the soft cotton hurt. Why had she ingested so much bubbly?

A knock sounded on the bedroom door. “Clara?”

Ted.
Thank goodness he couldn't see her, though she did pull the covers up to her chin anyway. “Yes?” The rumble of her own voice echoed like a hammer in her skull.

“I am off to breakfast. There are some things here for you when you wake. I'll give you some privacy and will await you in either the dining or salon cars. Take your time.”

The idea of food caused her stomach to roil. She fought the nausea, swallowing. “Thank you,” she forced out.

He chuckled and, a few seconds later, a door slammed at the other end of the car. Gingerly, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the mattress, holding her head with both hands to prevent it popping off. Her mouth tasted terrible, fuzzy and sour. She stepped carefully to the water closet, cursing the sway of the train along the way. Once she saw to her needs, she splashed water on her face, and rinsed out her mouth. What she wouldn't give for a bath....

Ted had said there were things for her in the outer room. A bath wouldn't be one of them, of course, but hopefully there was something to ease this hideous pain.

Grabbing the heavy cover off the bed, she wrapped herself in the fabric from head to toe. Though Ted had promised privacy, she wasn't about to prance around in her shift.
Better to exercise caution, just in case.
Cracking the door, she peered into the empty sitting area. No Ted, but there were boxes on the floor . . . like the ones that came from stores when you purchased clothes. And quite a number of them, from what she could see.

Drawing closer, she saw a note on the low rosewood table. Her name had been scrawled on the outside. Inside, it read:

The small glass contained a brownish liquid and . . . a raw egg? Her stomach balked, yet she lifted the glass. Unfortunately, she made the mistake of smelling the contents. “Oh!” she said and held the glass as far away as possible. The drink was pungent, to say the least. But he'd promised it would help and she trusted him.

She pinched her nose and tossed the contents back. A slippery lump in her mouth, the egg nearly made her gag, yet she forced herself to swallow. Her throat immediately protested at the spice as heat licked all the way down to her belly. Tears sprung to her eyes, her breath stolen away. Good Lord, it tasted worse than it smelled. With a full-body shiver, she dragged in some air.

When she'd recovered, she turned her attention to the boxes littering the floor. No one had ever purchased this many things for her at one time. Her family had not been wealthy and, with so many children, money had always been tight. There were more gifts here than the entire Dobson family received at Christmastime.

Biting her lip, Clara knelt, threw the blanket off her shoulders, and attacked the boxes like a Viking berserker. When everything had been opened, she could only stare. There were three ensembles—one blue wool skirt and matching shirtwaist, a dark green striped satin afternoon dress, and a silver silk brocade and satin dinner dress—accompanied by matching stockings, petticoats, garters, and gloves. He'd even purchased a corset, chemise, and drawers, as well as a toothbrush and Dr. Sheffield's Tooth Powder. Rocking back, her behind hit the floor, hard.

Emotion welled to expand her chest. This was . . . too much.

Though she was humbled by the gifts, Clara was no fool. Gifts from men came with expectations. The last time she'd received a present, the young man believed she owed much more than a peck on the cheek in appreciation.