His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2)

by Jo Goodman

  He hadn't. Jenny was startled to discover that Christian had been watching her. When their eyes met, they smiled guiltily at having been caught with their thoughts exposed. Christian's hand slid around Jenny's slender wrist and his thumb brushed back and forth across her pulse.

  Logan shifted in his chair, uncomfortable as Christian leaned toward Jenny and whispered something in her ear. He could almost feel the heat from Jenny's blush. No doubt Christian had suggested something that would have been most improper had they not just celebrated their fourth wedding anniversary a week ago. The secret, intimate exchange between Jenny and Christian struck Logan on the raw. He couldn't recall that he had ever been bothered by their obvious happiness before. He didn't much care for his reaction right now.

  There was only one explanation for it. Katy Dakota. Mary Catherine McCleary. Funny, he thought, he'd called her Katy back then, too, and she had hated it. Or perhaps she hadn't. She was quite the actress all those years ago. Watching her on the stage, Logan realized that some things hadn't changed.

  When the crowd stood, applauding wildly at the end of the play, Logan remained sitting. He clapped, but it was a rhythmic, slow, and sarcastic joining of hands. Logan Marshall was unimpressed and he did not care who noticed.

  Christian helped Jenny with her shawl. His head bent over her thick sable hair and his lips briefly touched her temple. The sweet fragrance that was his Jenny filled his senses and his hands rested on her shoulders, holding her against him while he spoke to his brother. "We are going to Delmonico's for a late supper. You're still coming with us, aren't you?"

  Logan glanced at Jenny. She was watching him carefully, her dark brown eyes curious and concerned. She was lovely, decent and kind, and Logan did not want to worry or disappoint her. Still, there was something he had to do. "Why don't you and Jenny go ahead and I'll join you in a little while. There's someone I want to see backstage."

  Jenny's beautifully molded mouth lifted at the corners. Her smile was at once serene and knowing. "Not Miss Dakota, I hope. You will never get in to see her. I understand there's a veritable throng of admirers. Victor Donovan chief among them. She's very popular, you know."

  "How do you know, dear sister?" asked Logan, forcing a smile.

  "Yes, Jenny," said Christian, "where do you learn such social tripe?"

  "Perhaps both of you should pay more attention to the society pages of your own paper," she said smugly. "Friday's edition devoted three whole columns to Miss Dakota, her background, and her following."

  Both men had the grace to look sheepish. "Point taken," Christian said, giving Jenny's shoulders a light squeeze. "Come, let's be off. They won't hold our reservations forever. Logan, we'll see you there."

  Wallack's Theatre, on the northeast corner of Broadway and Thirteenth Street, was one of the largest playhouses in the city. On opening nights especially, the richly appointed lobby, draped in velvets and satins, was a place where playgoers could take refreshment and gather to be seen. Artists and authors mingled with the politically powerful and the landed gentry. Although Logan Marshall was part of the city's aristocracy, moving in circles that were both fashionable and wealthy, he avoided the public eye as much as possible. Until now Logan had never regretted missing an opening night.

  Trust the presence of one Katy McCleary to change how he felt, he thought. Seven and one half years had passed since he had last seen her and just saying her name had the power to tie his gut in a knot. The confrontation could have been over two weeks ago if only he had attended opening night.

  The candlelit chandeliers were being lowered and snuffed by the time Logan decided to leave his box. Except for a few stagehands and ushers, the auditorium was empty and the lobby was deserted. Logan knew that he wasn't going to wait for Katy with the stage door johnnies. They wanted a sweet word or the favor of her company for drinks and dinner at Harbor House. Logan wanted revenge, and that demanded more in the way of privacy—at least for the time being.

  ***

  "Miss Dakota." The door to Katy's dressing room was pushed open six inches. A balding head appeared. "Miss Dakota. There's someone here to see you."

  Katy's fingers paused on the laces of her corset as she looked over the top of the silk dressing screen. "I said I did not want visitors tonight, Mr. Grant," she reminded him gently. It was difficult not to affect the cold, disparaging accents of the prima donnas she had always despised. She was anxious and weary and desired nothing so much as to be left alone. "Please tell whoever it is to leave his card and call later in the week."

  Katy turned her back and continued struggling with her laces. She was beginning to regret dismissing her dresser, but then Jane's chatter had been anything but soothing this evening. Jane took particular delight in knowing who was in the audience and tonight her coup had been spying the Marshalls in their box. "Sure, and I'm thinkin' it's high time they came to see you. All those nice things that were written in their paper, well, it just didn't look right, them not seein' the play for themselves. Like they didn't believe their own press, that's what it looked like to me."

  Katy had purposely not asked Jane which Marshalls were in attendance. She got through her performance by believing that only Christian Marshall and his wife had an interest in theatre. Thinking about Logan would have paralyzed her with fear.

  She didn't realize her fingers were trembling until they were gently removed from her corset strings by hands that were stronger and steadier than her own. A shudder went through her and she whirled around, eyes flashing and accusing.

  "Whoa!" came the soft admonishment. "You are only supposed to be this skittish before the performance."

  Relief shimmered down Katy's spine. "Oh, it's you. For a moment..."

  "Yes?"

  "Nothing," she said tersely, regaining control. "What are you doing here, Michael? I specifically told Mr. Grant I didn't care to entertain visitors. Can you not accept no for an answer?"

  "Not where you're concerned." Michael Donovan's smile was smooth and engaging. Even when it failed to coax Katy, the smile lost none of its confidence. True, Michael's light blue eyes became fixed and frosty, but the smile never faltered. "Come here, let me finish unlacing you. I don't mind playing the lady's maid."

  "I mind. Take a seat on the other side of the screen, Michael. Allow me some privacy."

  It was definitely not the time to remind Katy he had seen a lot more of her than she was revealing now. Discretion being, in this case, the better part of common sense, Michael said nothing and took a seat on the chaise longue out of Katy's view. "I told you I would come by this evening," he called to her. "Had you forgotten?"

  "I try to forget all unpleasantness," she replied. Michael Donovan was a most handsome man. An Adonis, she had heard one ingénue in the company call him. If pressed, Katy would have agreed. Michael's features appeared to have been sculpted by an artist's hand with clean, strong, chiseled lines. His light blond hair was streaked with sunshine. A shade darker than his hair, Michael's mustache accentuated the line of his sensual, sulky mouth. He was tall and broad-shouldered and carried himself with pride and confidence. In all the time Katy had known him, he had only been honest about one thing—he did not accept no for an answer.

  Michael ignored her and picked up the paper lying at the foot of the chaise. It was the Chronicle. "Whom were you expecting?" he asked casually, flipping through the pages.

  "No one. That's why you startled me."

  He would not let the lie pass. "That's not true. You were actually relieved to see me for a moment."

  "You're mistaken, Michael. I am never relieved to see you."

  "My, my. You are irritable this evening. Didn't the performance go well?"

  "Do you mean you didn't see it?"

  "I was here opening night, remember? That was enough, I assure you. You are quite wonderful in it, but to turn a phrase, the play's not the thing. You are."

  "I am not flattered." She slipped into a cream satin dressing gown, stepped out from behind
the screen, and sat down at the vanity. She pinned up her hair and began to remove the greasepaint that accentuated her features on stage. Beyond Katy's shoulder, Michael's reflection dominated the mirror.

  "Was it my father?" he asked, refusing to drop the subject. "He left home shortly after dinner this evening. Ria remarked that he took a cab downtown. I thought he might have come here."

  "I have not seen Victor in three, no, four days. You might want to check his studio or the Union Club. Your father has a life outside the theatre and interests other than me. You would know that if you paid attention to Victor instead of his money."

  "People who live in glass houses... well, you take my meaning. Suffice it to say you were not expecting him."

  "I told you, I was not expecting anyone. You're being particularly tiresome this evening," she said. "Why don't you take yourself off? Go home to your wife."

  "I despise that butter-won't-melt tone." Michael sat up straighter, folded the newspaper, and tapped it against his knee. He watched her in the mirror, although she never met his gaze. "It doesn't work with me, Katy. I'm ten years your senior. Use it on one of the johnnies who sniff after your skirts, but not on me. I buy your skirts."

  "You are vulgar, Michael. Get out. I mean it. I will call someone to have you evicted. Just because you backed this play with a bit of money, don't mistake yourself for someone important to me."

  Dropping the Chronicle, Michael came to stand behind Katy. He rested his hands on her slender shoulders. His thumbs stroked the sensitive nape of her neck. "You're very tense," he said, massaging lightly. His fingers itched to thread themselves in her soft honey hair. He would make that imperious, regal expression of hers vanish once he removed the pins. The taut line of her mouth would not look so inviolate after his kisses. "Do you really think you'd find anyone to throw me out? Have a care, Katy, you might be the one puffed up with your own consequence. The city's at your feet today, but that can change quickly."

  "Are you threatening me?" she asked coldly.

  Michael smiled. "Mmm. I suppose I am." His hands slipped to her upper arms, and without much resistance on Katy's part, he pulled her to her feet. There was a touch of cold cream on her cheek and he wiped it away with his fingertip. "Such soft skin," he said huskily, watching her closely. "You are very beautiful, Miss Dakota, but then you're probably used to hearing that. I'd wager you've heard it from my own father. He fancies himself something of a connoisseur where women are concerned. Tell me, aren't you the least bit curious about being in my bed after you've been in his?" He waited for her response. When she met his statement with silence, he probed. "What? No desire for relative comparison?"

  "I don't find your attempts at humor amusing and your conclusions—"

  "Shut up, Katy," he said, not unkindly. "Your mouth has better uses." Pressing one hand to the small of her back, Michael forced Katy flush to his body. His other hand cupped her head, holding it immobile as his mouth closed over hers.

  Katy's lips were set in a mutinous line. She tried to twist out of Michael's grasp, and when she couldn't, settled for giving him no pleasure. His mouth was hot and hard and his mustache abraded her skin.

  He raised his head slightly but did not release his hold. "Come, Katy," he cajoled. "Why so reticent? Open your mouth, darling. Let me taste some of what you give others so freely."

  When Katy opened her mouth it was not in offering. "Take your hands off me." Then, with particular venom, she added, "Yankee bastard."

  From the doorway there was the sound of rhythmic, cynical applause. Katy and Michael broke apart.

  "Nicely said, Miss Dakota," Logan said, pushing away from the door. "That epithet hardly seems tired when spoken in your particularly passionate accents." He looked over his shoulder at the balding little gentleman behind him. "It's all right. You can stop wringing your hands. The situation is under control." He pushed the door shut with a flick of his wrist. "Wouldn't you say that's true, Donovan?"

  Michael's hands dropped to his side as Katy took another step backward and put herself out of his easy reach. "Marshall," he said brusquely. "What are you doing here?"

  Katy nervously smoothed her dressing gown. "How do you know each other?" she asked. For all the attention either man paid her, she may as well have not spoken.

  "I came back to see Miss Dakota, of course," answered Logan. "I'm a great admirer of her acting." He did not spare Katy a glance, but he felt her discomfort as if it were a tangible thing. It was a heady, powerful feeling. He thought he could get used to having her under his thumb. He thought he could come to like it very, very much. "If you do not want your privacy invaded, Michael, you should make certain your lady friend is willing. I could hear her from out in the hallway telling you to leave. That poor little man was beside himself for having let you in. I could not bear to see him suffer any longer."

  So Logan had not come to her rescue, Katy thought. He had only wanted to assist Mr. Grant. His motives shouldn't have surprised her; he had every reason in the world to despise her, and yet she found herself looking over him, remembering, and wishing it could be different.

  Michael's weight shifted from one foot to the other. His eyes darted over Logan, judging the man's fitness and strength. If it came to a fight, Michael knew they would be evenly matched. It would be the talk of the clubs for years to come, Michael Donovan and Logan Marshall scrapping over Katy Dakota. It would also reach his wife's ears, and Michael did not want that. Ria had no choice but to accept his affairs with other women, but she asked for, and received, Michael's promise of discretion. He pulled on his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. "Odd, isn't it, that as often as you and I meet, we have never shown the slightest interest in the same woman."

  "It's still true," said Logan. "As I said, I merely dropped by to tell Miss Dakota how much I enjoyed her performance. That said, I will take my leave. Perhaps you would join me for a drink at Georgia's?"

  Michael cast a brief look in Katy's direction. She was watching him anxiously, afraid he wouldn't take Logan's offer. He hesitated, letting her worry a moment longer. "Of course I'll join you. I would like to hear how things are over at the Chronicle. My father and I think you should put some stock on the market." He turned to Katy. "Another time then, Miss Dakota. I will be sure to mention to Father that I saw you this evening." He turned on his heel and left, waiting just outside the door for Logan.

  "My congratulations again," said Logan. His voice was soft, dangerously soft, and his eyes were as frigid as arctic air. "I would not be at all surprised if I decide to see Manners a few more times. It was an enlightening experience." His smile was chilly. He took Katy's hand in his and raised it to his lips. "Your hand is quite cold, but then I suppose you are the exception to the rule."

  Her voice sounded odd to her, forced as it was past the aching lump in her throat. "What rule?"

  "Why, the one that says cold hands, warm heart." Logan Marshall dropped her hand and walked away.

  Once the footsteps had faded in the hallway, Katy sank slowly onto her vanity stool. She stared sightlessly in the mirror. In her mind's eye she saw Logan, the cruelty in his gray eyes, the rigid thrust of his jaw, the taut length of him that tailored evening clothes emphasized rather than hid. The veneer of civility was thin indeed.

  The lines that life experience had cut in his face were a bit deeper now, but his features were remarkably the same. He would never be handsome in the mold of Michael Donovan. Logan's features were not cast for perfection. His beauty was ruggedly sculpted; his body was whipcord lean and hard-edged. Logan Marshall had grown into himself. And when he looked at her with those winter gray eyes of his, Katy knew a terrible emptiness in her soul. The only thing she had to fill it was fear.

  The gentle tapping at her door interrupted the tenor of Katy's thoughts. This time it was not unwelcome. "What is it, Mr. Grant?"

  "Mr. Donovan's here to see you," he called through the door.

  "Show him out!" What was Michael doing back already? She could
not have been woolgathering that long. "I don't want to be disturbed." Katy sighed heavily as the door opened anyway. Obviously Michael was right, she thought unhappily. She was puffed with her own consequence, expecting people to heed her wishes just as if she mattered. "What do you wa—"

  The head that poked through the door this time was neither Michael's nor Mr. Grant's. It was a graying head, thick and lustrous with no signs of thinning. Iron gray sideburns framed lean cheeks. A mustache, blackened with Mr. Church's Blacking Powder, curled stiffly above a cautious, tentative smile. The eyes were sky blue, warm and friendly. The dear face belonged to Victor Donovan, father to the man Katy had come to loathe.

  "Victor!" Katy stood and held out her hands, welcoming him into her room.

  "Oh, good," he said, relieved. "I was afraid I was persona non grata around here. You were absolutely frigid with that little man who guards your door." He took Katy's hands and kissed each in turn.

  "I'm glad it didn't stop you. You are the last person I would want to throw out." She withdrew her hands from his light grasp and gestured toward the chaise longue. "Please, make yourself comfortable. I am still trying to remove the last of my makeup. I let Jane go early, and I've had a few interruptions this evening."

  "One of them wouldn't have been my son, by any chance?"

  Instead of answering directly, she asked, "What makes you think that?"

  "Your reaction at the door."

  "Oh." Katy leaned toward the mirror and began wiping away eyeliner. She hoped that by becoming self-absorbed Victor would forget his question or realize that she had no intention of answering it. "What brings you here this evening? Surely you did not see the play again."