Tycoon (9 page)

“I was wrong,” he nearly shouted. “I lost my head when I found that money. You're right. I didn't trust you. I believed the worst. But you also wouldn't explain yourself to me. You left instead of talking to me about the money.”

“I shouldn't have to explain myself! You shouldn't have instantly leapt to the wrong conclusions. You should have asked me, instead of assuming the worst. And then, when I told you I didn't know anything about the money, you should have believed me.”

Everything he'd hoped for crashed down around him, his chest nearly caving in on itself from the realization that he might lose her. She was justifiably angry and he had no notion of how to fix this, no prior relationship experience to draw on, or smooth words at the ready. He'd spent his life alone, and just as he'd found someone, he ruined his chances with her.

“You're right,” he said quietly. He had to touch her, to try and rekindle their connection, so he walked over and cupped her cheek in his palm. Her skin was soft and smooth, and yearning welled in his throat. God, how he wanted this woman. “Everything you said is true. And I'm sorry, Clara, truly sorry. Just don't give up on me, on us. Let me keep apologizing until I'm blue in the face, as long as you believe me.”

Emotion swirled in her green gaze, and he sensed the internal battle she waged. “Please, darling,” he continued, desperate to reach her. “You are the only woman I've ever felt this way about and I don't want to lose you.”

Moisture pooled in her eyes, clinging to her long lashes, until one fat tear spilled from each lid. “I'm sorry,” she whispered, “but I can't. I'll always remember that you didn't trust me. After all we shared, after I let you . . .” She dragged in a breath. “After I gave myself to you, that you believed such awful things. Thank you for saving me today, but I've already asked the manager to cable my family to come for me. I won't be traveling back to New York—with you or anyone else.”

The words nearly doubled him over with pain. His chest burned, every breath a torture, and he let his hand drop as he stepped away.
She'd refused him.
He could hardly wrap his mind around the idea that it was finished.

His hands curled into fists as he fought for breath past the crushing weight behind his ribs. “I am sorry. If I could take it back, I would—and never think last night didn't mean anything to me. Feeling you beneath me, giving you pleasure, was . . . the greatest night of my life.” She said nothing, tears leaking silently from her eyes, so he strode to the door. Hand on the knob, he waited for her to speak and, when she didn't, he said, “Good-bye, Clara Dobson.”

* * *

A knock on the door startled Clara awake. She blinked and tried to focus her eyes. Sleep had eluded her last night, the heartache and regret twisting under her skin like a sharp thorn, and she'd stared at the ceiling until dawn.

She had no idea if he was still in the hotel or on his way back to New York. After leaving her room yesterday afternoon, he hadn't returned. At least her older brother had answered her cable, saying he would arrive in St. Louis today and take her home. Well, not home as in New York, but home to her family. So why did that thought depress her?

A second knock had her sitting up. “Clara, open up. It's Michael.”

Her brother.
Climbing off the bed, she smoothed her hair and gown, praying she didn't look as terrible as she felt.

“You look terrible,” her brother blurted out when she opened the door.

“And lovely to see you, as well.” She stepped aside to let in Michael. Tall and broad, with brown hair and green eyes, he appeared much the same as the last time she'd seen him.

“Sorry, peep,” he said, using her childhood nickname, before enveloping her in a tight hug. “Your telegram was short and to the point. What are you doing in St. Louis?” He glanced around the room. “And where's your luggage?”

“It's a very long story. I'll tell you everything on the ride.” She tugged him toward the hallway, ready to put this day—this city, this entire experience—behind her.

Michael caught her arm. “Wait. I want to hear it now. Tell me what happened, Clara. I'm worried about you.”

She'd always been closest to Michael, and experience told her he wouldn't relent until she told him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the story tumbled out of her. From seeing Mr. Ross strangled all the way up until what happened yesterday, she told her brother everything except, for obvious reasons, the personal details between her and Ted. People said she talked too much, but some things were best kept to herself. Especially if she wanted Ted to keep breathing.

The more she spoke, the more her brother's face clouded. By the time she finished, he looked like a summer thunderstorm about to break loose.

“Wait. This man, this policeman, followed you from New York and then onto the train? And then he nearly
killed you?
” Pushing back the edges of his coat, he put his hands on his hips. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, and he continued. “Why didn't you cable me? Good Lord, Clara. I would have . . .” He trailed off.

“Exactly. There was nothing to be done, not to mention I didn't have any money.”

“What about this guy you were staying with? You could have borrowed money from him.”

Sure, Ted would have given her money—right before he accused her of trying to swindle him. “No, that was impossible.”

His gaze turned appraising, scrutinizing her face. “This guy, Ted . . . you were staying in his private car?”

“Yes, but nothing untoward happened.” The lie pushed past her throat with difficulty. “He was merely a businessman traveling to and from St. Louis. I'll never see him again.” Had her voice hitched on that last sentence?

“Wait, this is the man who stopped the policeman from hurting you and escorted you to the police station. Did he also pay for this room?”

“He did, but he's a generous person.”

“And what did you do to earn his generosity?”

“Nothing! Michael, he was a gentleman, I promise.”

“You realize that you've said less in these few minutes than you normally do in ten seconds. I never have to pull information out of you. What's going on?”

“I'm tired, is all. I've had a harrowing experience!” she nearly shouted, the telltale sting of tears building under her lids. “I want to go home.”

“To New York?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Home to Columbia, to the farm.”

Her brother's intense stare had her confused and off balance. Why was he being difficult? He said nothing, so she snatched up her bonnet and stood. “Shall we?”

After a long moment, he nodded. “Yes, let's go.”

* * *

“Wait, this is the train station. Why are we stopping here?”

Clara had been staring out the carriage window, lost in her own miserable thoughts, when she realized they'd slowed down. Her brother didn't answer, however, merely unfolded himself from the carriage and stepped to the street. He turned and held out a hand. “Come along, Clara.”

Had he purchased her a ticket to return to New York? Clara descended and waited while Michael paid the driver. Soon he was tugging her along toward the tracks. “Where are we going?”

“To the trains.”

“Obviously.” She didn't want to be here. Seeing the trains, wondering where Ted was now . . . the pain was too raw, too fresh. Since yesterday, she'd wondered over her decision, questioning if she'd done the right thing, and had nearly changed her mind ten—or twenty—times.

Walking away had been her only choice. How could she be with a man who had so little trust in her? Yes, he'd been caught off guard with the money—but what about the next time? Would Ted believe the worst then as well? Better not to take the chance. After all, they'd known one another such a short amount of time. Surely she'd recover quickly . . . wouldn't she?

Nevertheless, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd lost something precious. Something rare. Perhaps she should return to New York. Ted might not care to see her, but at least she wasn't giving up. She wasn't sure if she could let him go.

The platforms bustled with activity, porters and passengers drifting about. Michael never lost hold of her elbow as they hurried through the crowd. “Will you tell me what's going on? Are we boarding a train?”

“Stop asking so many questions. Just follow me.”

He kept walking, expressionless, and Clara was forced to keep up. When they neared the back of the train, memories swamped her, the ache reaching up into her throat and squeezing tight. Ted was probably in Cleveland right now. . . .

Her eyes misted over, more tears threatening—and she blinked them away.
I am falling for you, Clara. I don't want to lose you.
Had he meant it? They'd only known one another a few short days. How could she feel so strongly for a person she'd just met?

The porter standing by the rear car tipped his hat politely as Michael stopped and gestured toward the stairs. “Climb aboard.”

“Where are we going?”

“No questions.” He jerked his thumb toward the car. “Go. I'll be right behind you.”

Her brother must've purchased her a ticket back East. “I don't know if I'm ready to return to New York.”

He stepped forward and hugged her again. Mercy, with all this brotherly affection, he'd have her crying in no time.

“You don't have to do anything you don't want,” he said into her hair. “Just get on the train with me and we'll talk for a few minutes.”

She nodded and ascended the steps, continued through the vestibule and into the last car. She stopped short. A small crowd was gathered, familiar faces she hadn't seen in many months. “Mother! Daddy!” She rushed forward and both her parents surrounded her. She fell into their embrace, so grateful to see them that the tears she'd been holding back began flowing from her eyes. Finally, they let her go and she hugged her younger brothers and three sisters. “What are you all doing on the train?” she asked when she could finally breathe.

Her father said, “Mr. Harper came for us yesterday.”

Clara jerked. Ted . . . had gone to see her parents? “Mr. Harper? Came to see you?”

“I did.”

Clara spun to find Ted waiting on the opposite side of the car. He had his hands in his trouser pockets, his expression serious. Other than deep lines around his eyes, he looked much the same. Nevertheless, she studied him, desperate for every detail. “You . . . you're here. I don't understand. How did you find my family?”

“From the telegram you sent.”

“Oh. And you convinced Michael to get me here?”

“No, but not for a lack of trying. I managed to convince the rest of your family, but Michael insisted on talking to you first.”

That explained Michael's questions regarding Ted at the hotel. “Why?”

“I assume because he's as stubborn as you are.”

“Hey!” Michael protested weakly as he strolled farther into the car. “Some rich, fancy guy shows up on our porch, professing to love Clara . . . I'm not going to believe it until I hear her side.”

Love?
She gaped at Ted. “You told them you . . .”

“Never seen her so tongue-tied in all my life,” her father muttered when she trailed off. Clara ignored the comment, the full weight of her attention on Ted's face as he drew closer.

“May I have a moment alone with your daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Dobson?”

“Well, I suppose that would be all right—” her father said, until her little sisters started protesting loudly that they would miss the excitement. “Move along, girls. Let's leave these two alone for a few minutes.” He began herding the Dobson clan toward the exit, but stopped by Ted's side to say, “Just for a moment, son—and I'll be right outside the whole time.”

Ted nodded. “Understood.”

In moments, the car cleared except for her and Ted, a man she thought she'd never see again. Her heart leapt, yet she ordered the organ to remain sensible and crossed her arms. “I don't understand. What is this about?”

“I'm trying to prove how much you mean to me.” He pulled a tiny black box out of his inner coat pocket. “I know you think I don't trust you, but I would like you to give me another chance. I love you, and I am begging you to marry me. For real, this time.” He lifted the lid on the box and a large diamond ring glittered up at her. “Clara, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

Her brain slowed to a crawl. “Marry you . . . ?” she whispered.

“Not today. I want to court you first. I want to stroll through Central Park with you and see all your bridges. I want to take you to the opera. Show you the German beer halls. Escort you to dinner at Delmonico's. Learn everything you can teach me about perfume. Most of all, I want you there by my side.”

He reached for her hand, and the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of her glove convinced her this was not a dream. Yet she could hardly wrap her mind around his words. Hope held her speechless.

His gaze pleading with her, he continued, “You've breathed life into my world, and this past day it felt as if all the joy had left.
You
are that joy, the happiness that reaches all the places I've kept closed off from the rest of the world. I went to your family in order to ask your father for his blessing, and he's given it under the condition that you're willing to marry me. Please, Clara. I don't know what else to say.”

He'd said quite enough. In fact, this was the most she'd heard him speak at one time since she'd met him, and her heart swelled, taking up all the room in her chest. Ted had asked her father like a proper gentleman, had braved the Dobson inquisition to gain their support. She was impressed. Her family hadn't understood her need to move away, get a job in New York, and be independent. Each time she wrote to them, her parents wrote back, begging her to return home. Marrying a man and settling in the city would have been a hard tonic for her parents to swallow—yet Ted had sold them on the idea.