Tycoon (8 page)

When the silence stretched, curiosity got the better of her. She took a deep breath and faced him. He opened his mouth, closed it. They stared at one another for a long moment. His blue eyes were clouded, hiding his thoughts—but then, had she truly ever known him? They were strangers and she'd been fooling herself to think there could have ever been more.

Because even in bed, when he'd been staring at her intently, as if he cared about her, they'd been doomed. Hope never would have blossomed in her heart if she'd been aware of his identity.

Shop girls did not marry millionaire tycoons. Even she knew that.

“Please, just explain the money. I need to know.”

He said the words quietly, almost pleading with her, but she shook her head. “Some things in life don't have an explanation. You must have faith that not everyone is attempting to cheat or rob you, that not every woman wants to blackmail you into marrying her. Trust is required to deal with the rest of us mere mortals. And if you don't come to see that eventually, the rest of your life will be a very cold and lonely existence indeed.”

* * *

As the train pulled into St. Louis, Clara changed her mind.

She'd spent the last hour hiding behind a stack of steamer trunks in the luggage car to stew over her life. Nothing had gone right in the last three days. She'd met the man of her dreams, lost the man of her dreams, fled a hard-fought life in a city she loved, only to return home to dreary Missouri, and those awful men—those counterfeiters—would now get away with their crimes.

What in God's name was she doing? Never before had she thought herself a coward. Cautious, perhaps, but not cowardly. Yet here she was, running away and allowing criminals to win.

She was tired of running. She'd done nothing wrong, after all. Was she truly prepared to hide out in Missouri for the rest of her life, forgetting the excitement and energy of New York? She'd just been telling Ted to live for today—and here she was ready to give up.

She should return home, to New York. Once there, she'd find an upstanding policeman, one who would listen to her and help untangle this mess. There had to be someone in that large city who could aid her. The trick would be to stay safe along the way.

Of course, she had no money and no clothing, but her family only lived two hours away. Surely one of her siblings could bring her enough cash for a return ticket. She would find the telegraph office and cable one of them, if she could come up with a way to pay for the service.

When the wheels finally stopped moving, the side doors slid open, two porters standing there. They were chatting with each other and not paying a bit of attention to the inside of the car. She stood and walked to the edge. “Excuse me, would you mind helping me down?”

Two dark faces turned her way, mouths agape. “Miss, were you ridin' in there?” One of the porters held out his hand.

“Yes,” she said and jumped to the platform. “And I must tell you, the ambiance leaves much to be desired.”

The morning sun nearly blinded her, so she put a hand to her brow and glanced about. Livestock were nearby, her nose told her, as well as the earthy, damp smell that could only be from the river. A wave of homesickness swamped her and she realized how much she'd missed Missouri.

Keeping an ever-vigilant eye out for the policeman from the train, she hurried to the telegraph office in the adjoining station. She was definitely not looking for Ted. No, Ted could go and dunk his head in the Mississippi for all she cared.

And one of these days her chest might feel as if it weren't being stomped on.

She had no experience with love or heartbreak. How long did it take a broken heart to heal? Thankfully, she and Ted had not known one another long. With so little time spent together, surely this hurt would ease quickly. It had to, because to suffer this deep ache for weeks and months would be intolerable.

The station was crowded and unseasonably warm for a November morning. Clara picked her way through the bustling travelers and continued to the telegraph office. No sign of the policeman following her as she entered and stood in line.

By the time she reached the counter, she had her speech rehearsed. An older, weary-looking gentleman stared across the counter, a short toothpick stuck between his teeth.

“Good morning.” She tried for a personable smile, the one that had sold the most bottles of perfume in all of Hoyt's for seven months running, but knew she failed when the operator frowned back at her. She cleared her throat. “I have a bit of a problem. I need to cable my family but I am lacking the funds with which to pay the fee. Is there any way—”

“Sorry, miss. No fee, no cable. Next!”

“Wait.” She put a hand out to stop the person behind her from approaching the counter. “I swear, I will pay you as soon as my family arrives with my money.”

“Yeah, I've heard that one before. And if you don't pay, they take it out of my wages.”

“But I will pay.”

“Oh, I'm sure,” he said, his tone indicating the opposite. “Come back when you have the money, sweetheart.”

Clara knew when a person's mind could not be changed, and the operator was a lost cause until she had money in her hand. Defeated for now, she headed toward the door, her mind entirely focused on how to get the cable fee. Perhaps one of the other passengers might loan her some money. She had nothing of value on her person to sell, unfortunately, but—

“Don't make a noise,” a voice rasped in her ear. Something sharp poked her in the back, something she suspected might be a weapon. A quick glimpse over her shoulder confirmed the worst.

The man from the train had found her.

Chapter Eight

The alley smelled of horse leavings and garbage, and not another soul stirred within. Clara considered struggling as the policeman forced her deeper into the tiny space, away from the sidewalk and the crowd. Knowing he would plunge a knife in her side without remorse kept her moving. The opportunity to fight would present itself and she would be ready, despite her trembling hands and the terror sitting in her throat like a lump of coal.

He shoved her toward the wall, and she stumbled, barely putting her hands up in time to stop from smacking into the brick. “Get over there, you bitch,” he snarled.

The hateful word sparked something in her, something that made her want to claw his eyes out. “What do you want with me?” she shouted, hands on her hips as she stared him down. “You've chased me all the way from New York, but I don't understand what you
want
.”

“Where's the money?” he said by way of answer.

The fake money? Was this tied up in what was in that envelope for Mr. Ross? Still, she wasn't about to tell him anything. “I don't know what you're talking about. What money?”

“Stop lying. You had the envelope for Ross with you when you ran from the store. My boss wants it back.” He held the knife up where she could see it. The blade looked dirty and dull. “Give it to me and this'll go nice and easy for you.”

He started toward her as she edged farther away. “I don't have any envelope. I dropped it as I ran out of Hoyt's.”

“You're lying.” His lip curled, revealing yellow, crooked teeth. “Don't matter. Boss don't want you running around with evidence, telling anyone who'll listen about what you saw.” He lunged for her and she barely skated out of his grasp. Her boot heel slipped in the muck on the cobblestones as she tried to run, slowing her down, and he grabbed her arm and slammed her against the wall.

He leaned in close, causing her stomach to rebel at the stench of unwashed man, tobacco, and whiskey. “I'll enjoy this,” he sneered and the glint of the blade caught her eye as it lowered toward her throat.

“Ted!” she gasped at the empty space over the policeman's shoulder.

The man turned, and when his attention left her in that instant, Clara lifted her skirts and rammed her knee up between his legs.

He staggered back with a groan, his hand going slack on her arm, and she made a mad dash for the entrance of the alley. Ted hadn't been coming to rescue her, of course, but her attacker hadn't known that. All she'd needed was to distract him, and inventing a knight in shining armor had worked. Now, if she could get close enough to the street, surely someone would hear her and come help. At least, she hoped.

Unfortunately, her ankle hadn't fully healed from the twist and she couldn't move fast enough. A hand closed around her leg and pulled. Clara fell to the dirty cobblestones with a smack. Digging with her fingernails, she tried to claw her way to the sidewalk, which was only four or five feet away. “Help!” she screamed. “Please, someone!”

The noise from the trains was too loud, her voice drifting unheard to the cobblestones. The hand on her calf began dragging her farther into the darkness. “No,” she yelled and kicked with her free leg. She caught the man in the shoulder and heard him howl.

“Clara!”

Dimly, she heard her name but was too busy trying to dislodge the policeman's grip on her leg to turn around. Then the policeman was gone, lifted off her and tossed aside in the alley with the rest of the refuse.

“Don't move or I'll shoot you.”

Ted.
He was here—and he held a pistol in his hands, the weapon solidly trained on the man sprawled on the alley floor.
Oh, thank God.
Where had he procured a gun?

The man put his palms up as Ted drew closer. “Listen, Harper. You don't want to get involved. This is police business. This woman—”

“Did absolutely nothing wrong. You're a corrupt maggot on someone's payroll, sent to kill her. But I'm here to see that doesn't happen. Instead, you'll be turned over to the St. Louis police.”

“You fool,” the officer spat out. “Don't you know who I work for? Edward Thompson is not a man you want to cross. Just let me have the cunt and you'll never see me again.”

“Over my dead body. And if you call my fiancée another disrespectful name, I'll shoot off your balls.” Ted repositioned the gun to the area being discussed and the man paled. “Why chase her halfway across the country? What threat did she pose?”

He said nothing, so Ted stepped closer and kept the gun on the man's groin. “Spill it or I'm shooting you.”

“She has the wrong bills,” he snarled. “Those were mistakes, and Ross was planning to use them for blackmail. If she turns them in, we all hang.”

Ted seemed to absorb that. “Looks like you just may hang, regardless. Now, put your knife on the ground and stand up.”

Hatred burning in his dark irises, the man let the knife fall to the stone. “You'll regret this, Harper. He'll ruin you.”

“I'm not scared of your boss. Or your chief, or anyone else in your gang of thugs. Clara, get behind me.” Ted kept his focus on the policeman, never shifting his aim, arm steady as he held his free hand out to her. “Can you stand?”

Before she could get to her feet, the policeman charged Ted, shoulder low as he prepared to take her former fake husband to the ground. Clara lunged for the man's leg to slow him down—stop him, anything—to keep him from hurting Ted, but her fingertips glanced off the wool of his trousers. A loud pop exploded in the enclosed space and she covered her head with her arms. The man grunted and then dropped to his knees, clutching his shoulder.

“Clara, my God. Are you all right?” Ted was there, by her side, and she heard a number of footsteps rushing into the alley.

“Who . . . What's happening?” She glanced up and saw several beat cops arrive. They quickly yanked her pursuer to his feet. A circle of blood spread over his shoulder, yet he continued his tirade at Ted, yelling about the retribution New York would bestow just as soon as they learned of today's outcome.

Clara shivered. Whether he was a simple bank clerk or the wealthiest man in New York, she did not want harm coming to Ted.

Gentle hands lifted her by the elbows. “Did he hurt you?”

The tender tone of his voice, a voice from which she no longer expected tenderness, weakened her knees all over again. She clasped his arms to keep from crumbling onto the stones. “No. I'm fine. How did you find me?”

His mouth hitched, the blue of his irises blazing down at her with emotion. “I looked everywhere for you.” He tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “I couldn't find you on the train, so when we stopped, I thought I'd see you on the platform. When I didn't, I tried the telegraph office. The operator told me I'd just missed you. Lucky I passed this alley when I did, otherwise I wouldn't have heard you screaming. I barely had time to tell someone to fetch the police before I ran in to help.”

“Why were you trying to find me?” She held tight to the hope threatening to escape. Had he realized his foolishness?

“After you left, I calmed down and realized you had to be telling the truth. If not for my cynicism, I would have believed you a lot sooner. I'm sorry for saying what I did. You asked me to have faith in you, to trust you, and I failed to do either. Can you forgive me?”

“Mr. Harper.” One of the St. Louis policemen approached. Ted put an arm around Clara's waist as the officer said, “I would like both of you to please come to the station.” He tipped his hat. “Pardon me. That is, if the lady isn't too hysterical over her ordeal.”

Clara almost snorted. “Lead on, Officer.”

* * *

Ted paced his hotel room, his shoes thumping on the thick carpet. Clara had insisted on two rooms once they arrived and he'd had no choice but to agree, no matter how desperately he wanted to speak with her privately.

They'd hardly been alone since the scene in the alley. During the three long hours at the police station, there'd been questions upon questions, forms to sign, and details to provide. Through it all, Clara never wavered, never broke down or went weepy-eyed. The woman was a rock.

That didn't mean he left her side. He'd stayed with her, close enough to touch at all times, except for the ten minutes he used to send a long cable to a friend in New York. By unspoken agreement, neither he nor Clara mentioned the counterfeit money to the police. Their story limited itself only to the attack in the alley. That way, Ted could take the money to the authorities at home.

She'd remained quiet on the ride to the hotel, though much needed to be said. A quiet Clara discomforted him. Silence meant she was upset—but how could she still be cross with him, even after he'd apologized in the alley?

He'd been wrong to accuse her of trying to swindle him. The counterfeit money had confounded him, caused him to believe the worst, and he'd erred, no question. But could she not forgive him?

The idea that she might not, that she might walk out of his life forever, had fear knotting in his stomach. He had to bridge the distance between them, encourage her to talk.

Two minutes later, he found himself knocking on her door. “Clara, it's Ted.”

The door swung open and she stepped back. She'd removed her gloves and hat, but still wore the dirty dress from the alley. Dark smudges had settled beneath her eyes and she did not smile upon seeing him. Ted swallowed hard. “May I come in?”

She nodded and he entered the room, closing the door behind him. Instead of sitting, she wrapped her arms around her middle. He'd never seen her so cold, so remote. “So, Edward Thompson. You knew he was behind all this?” Damn, that wasn't what he meant to say. Her aloofness affected his brain, apparently.

“Yes. He was the man I saw choking Mr. Ross.”

Doubtful Ross had lived, then. Notoriously corrupt, Thompson had long been rumored in the deaths of many prominent businessmen, though nothing had been proven—until now. What Clara saw could help put Thompson away, if she testified. “Well, you'll be happy to know that Thompson's been arrested, as well as the corrupt cops on his payroll. The city's been building a case against Thompson for months, and your statement, plus the counterfeit money we'll provide as evidence, was all they needed.”

She blinked at him. “My statement?”

“Yes. I cabled a friend of mine, Calvin Cabot, from the police station. Cabot is the publisher of three of the country's biggest papers and he printed the story in the afternoon editions. I checked when we arrived at the hotel and learned the arrests had already been made.”

Her brows drew together, mouth flat and serious, an expression far from the grateful relief he'd expected. “Wait, you sent my story to the newspapers without asking me first?”

He froze, waiting for his brain to catch up. “You . . . didn't want Thompson caught and punished? And what of the corrupt police officers? Were you planning to pretend none of it happened?”

The pale skin of her neck turned crimson. “I had no intention of pretending it didn't happen, but it happened to
me
—not you. You had no right to tell anyone without my permission.”

“I . . .” He rubbed his jaw, unsure how to explain this overwhelming urge to protect her. To destroy anyone who dared hurt her. “I didn't consider you'd want it kept secret. I wanted to help you. Ensure your safety on the way back to New York.”

“Back to New York?” Her wide eyes stared at him as if they'd never met before. “Who said I was going back to New York?”

Ted sighed. He was making a mess of this. “Wait, allow me to explain.”

“Oh, I believe I understand perfectly. Theodore Harper, the multimillionaire, thinks he knows what's best for me and can run my life. You think a simple shop girl like me can't make decisions for herself.”

“I never said that. Come on, Clara. Hear me out.”

She lifted her chin, green eyes blazing. Angry, yes, but thankfully silent. He held out his hands, imploring her to understand. “I wanted to help you put all of this behind you, help you get back to your former life, if that's what you wanted. If you'd like to stay in Missouri, then I understand, but I'd much prefer if you returned to New York.” Now was the time, so he took a breath and said, “With me.”

“With you?”

“Yes. I'd like for us to be together.”

Her frown deepened. “On the same train?”

“In the same
car
. Come home with me, Clara.”

She straightened, her shoulders rigid. “As your what? Fiancée?”

“If you'd like.”

“Good Lord,” she snapped. “You are the most arrogant man I've ever met. I won't pose as your fake fiancée again.”

“Then pose as a real one. I want you by my side.”

“Was that . . . a
marriage proposal?
‘Please pose as my real fiancée.'” She gave a huff of laughter completely devoid of mirth. “Wait. Allow me to catch my breath from that overwhelming sentiment. Our grandchildren will be so
proud
.”

“This is not a joke to me.” His muscles tightened, as much from fear as from anger. This was not going as he'd expected. “I am falling for you, Clara. I want you with me in New York, whatever that means, and I don't want Edward Thompson, the police, or anyone else chasing after you but me.”

“You're falling for me? You, the man who accused me of being a counterfeiting swindler a few hours ago? Forgive me if I have a hard time believing you.”