Without warning, one of the horses went down, as if it had either stepped into a ditch or lost its footing. The other horse panicked, and the buggy tilted, lurched, and began to roll over. Jennie screamed. Chane cursed and tried to catch her, but there was little he could do. The angle of the tilt was too steep. The Stanhope went over, and Chane did the best he could not to fall on top of Jennifer.
They rolled free of the carriage and ended up in a marshy area a few feet away from the overturned carriage. The horses tried to regain their feet, but the trace chain held them pinned. Chane crawled over and grabbed their leads to calm them before they broke their legs thrashing around.
“There, boy. There, there,” he crooned, slowly settling them down as he unhitched them from the overturned Stanhope. He tied their bridles to the nearest wheel and turned back to Jennie.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said, groping for the blanket.
Chane fished in his pocket for a match. He lit it and saw that her face, hands, and gown were smeared with mud.
Jennifer looked up at Chane. His face and jacket were muddy. “Every time I get near you, disaster strikes.”
He looked so funny, she began to laugh.
Grimacing, he helped her up. “I’m just going from one high to another, aren’t I?” he asked ruefully.
She could see that he was truly upset that he’d almost gotten her hurt. His obvious despair touched her heart, and she sobered. “So what do we do now?”
“Thought I’d trip you and break your leg or something.”
“I mean about the carriage,” she said, motioning toward the overturned Stanhope. “Can I help?”
“No, thanks. I think I can fix it.” He used the horses to help get the Stanhope righted, then inspected the horses and hitched them back into their traces. Back on the roadway, he helped her in and turned toward a main street. The sound of traffic had died down. It was absolutely quiet, as if everyone in the city were home eating dinner. Jennie’s stomach growled loudly, and she was suddenly sorry she had refused to eat at the Winter Garden.
“Hungry?” Chane asked.
“Starved.”
He drove toward the Bricewood. As soon as she realized where he was going, she said, “I can’t go there. My gown is a mess.”
“I’m not taking you home hungry. And we don’t have to eat in public,” he reminded her.
He drove to a back entrance and turned the carriage over to a bellman who pretended he saw nothing wrong with their mud-spattered clothing. They took a private elevator to the top floor, where the carpets were even thicker and the view breathtaking. Below, the whole city sparkled with light. Chane unlocked an unmarked door and ushered her inside.
“What is this?” she asked.
“My home,” he said.
The apartment was richly furnished. The walls were white, the furniture light oak, and the carpets gold. Even the draperies were white and gold. The overall appearance was lighter and more open than most Victorian homes. Jennifer loved it.
“Are there other people here?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Would you prefer to have other people here?”
“No.”
“Good, because there are none. I could ring for someone to bring us dinner, or we could rummage around in the pantry for our own dinner.”
“I’d rather do that.”
They found cheese, bread, butter, and wine. He opened a can of peaches and found plates and silverware. On the floor before the fire, they ate ravenously.
“That was so good,” she said, sighing, when they were through.
“Now I know the way to your heart. A little wine, a few peaches,” he said, smiling and raising his glass to toast her.
They fell silent for a time, both gazing into the fire as if hypnotized. “Call your brother,” Chane said, glancing at her, “and tell him you’ve decided to stay at the Bricewood tonight.”
Jennifer’s pulse raced with excitement. “I can’t do that,” she said, knowing she’d never be able to resist him.
“I promise I won’t make love to you. I just want to spend some time with you,” he whispered.
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“I give you my word.”
“Hmmm,” she said teasingly. “I have no idea what your word is worth.”
“Well, if you spend the night, and in the morning you realize that I’ve kept my word, won’t that give you some measure of my trustworthiness?”
“I suppose so.” She frowned. “But I think I should have good reason before I entrust myself to a man.”
“Trust has to be based on something. Do you trust me now?”
“No.”
He grimaced. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to lie politely?”
“No.”
“I was afraid of that. Well, since we have to start somewhere, why don’t we start from where we are?”
Jennifer knew better than to take such a risk, but the thought of leaving him seemed unbearable. He showed her the telephone and left her alone to make the call.
Peter was out. Relieved, she told Augustine not to worry, she’d be back in the morning.
As she walked back to the fireplace where Chane had stretched out on the floor, she felt suddenly self-conscious. She had no idea why she’d agreed to stay or what she’d do here.
Chane reached up, took her hand, kissed the palm, and tugged lightly until she knelt beside him. His skin glowed in the firelight and his deep chest dropped off sharply beneath his ribs. Her hands ached to touch him, but she resisted.
“You look like an angel,” he said huskily. “You’re probably the wildest thing in New York with everyone except me.”
Jennifer laughed softly. “Is that your greatest fear? That I’m sleeping with everyone but you?”
“Why not?”
She shook her head in exasperation. “Wouldn’t it be easier to assume that if I don’t sleep with you, I’m not sleeping with anyone?”
“Easier perhaps, but less likely to be true. That would be assuming that I’m the best and the luckiest, when in fact I’m not that arrogant.”
“I heard you were shamelessly arrogant.”
“About some things maybe, but my ability to win the most beautiful woman in New York is sadly lacking, as you can see.”
“How do you know I’m worth winning?”
“I don’t. But I want you, and I trust my instincts…most of the time.”
“Not this time?” she teased.
“Not completely,” he admitted.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve never known a woman like you.”
“Why am I so different?”
“Most young women come out at sixteen, and from that moment on it is apparent that they and their hapless mothers are locked on a treadmill from which they cannot escape until they catch a suitable husband. You probably didn’t bother to attend your coming-out party, or if you did, you danced alone.”
Jennifer shrugged. “I didn’t have one. We were in Russia at the time, and I was being pursued by a Russian count who also could not believe that I was turning down his offers of marriage.”
“See. I rest my case.”
“I’ve seen what happens to women who get married. They’re usually miserable. They work like slaves. Then they die in childbirth, or they survive and have to put up with the drudgery of running a household and being a mother. It’s a terrible life. Even my mother’s life was terrible. Despite all that money and servants, she was hopelessly bound to a man who ran around with every woman he laid eyes on.”
“There are very few terrors of that sort that money cannot solve, aside from your mother’s problem, of course.”
“I don’t have money anymore.”
“But I do.”
“I have more problems than you have money,” she said solemnly.
“Tell me your biggest financial problem.”
“My family h
ome is about to be sold to settle my parents’ estate. My brother is working at a job he hates in order to keep us from having to turn out our old family servants. I feel like a leech, because my contract with Bellini doesn’t even cover the basics of life. I could go on and on, but I won’t bore you with these things. You shouldn’t have asked,” she said, feeling miserable.
Chane nodded. At last, something he could understand. Perhaps she’d only been holding out until he named her price. Now, he knew how to proceed. He felt suddenly better and worse. She could be bought, and of course he’d known this all along. Everyone had a price, but it was sad to know hers. He’d rather she be the one person on earth he couldn’t have at any price.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked softly.
“Nothing.”
“Yes, you are. I can see it on your face.”
“What would you like me to be thinking about?”
“I’d rather know what you were actually thinking about.”
“I was thinking about us.”
“Is there an us?” she asked, raising an elegant eyebrow.
“Come here.”
“I am here.”
He reached up, caught her hair and pulled her face down so his lips were almost touching hers. A small ache started in her loins. “Now,” he growled, “now you are here.” His hand lowered her head down until his mouth covered hers. His lips were warm and searching. He kissed her for a long time, and she felt somehow judged and found lacking. At last he released her.
Chane ached for more of her, but part of him felt angry and spiteful. He wanted to hurt her, to let her know in some way that he resented knowing her price. She looked confused by the kisses, and he was glad.
He stood up, pulled her up into his arms and carried her to his bed. In the bedroom, he lowered her feet onto the floor, jerked the covers back, and started to undress her.
“You promised,” she said softly.
“I think I promised not to make love to you tonight.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll keep my word. I always keep my word.”
“You sound angry.”
“Do I?” He sighed. He had no business being angry with her. She had a problem, and he had the solution. There was no need to get upset just because she was human.
“You can’t go to bed in a muddy gown,” he said reasonably.
She turned so he could unbutton her gown. Surprised, Chane slowly undid the buttons. He felt he was beginning to understand the pattern with Jennie. She protested, then she allowed. Perhaps it was important for her to be on record as protesting. And once she had, she was free to do as she pleased. He’d known other girls like that…
She slipped out of her gown. He was surprised to realize that she did not wear corsets or stays, only a thin cotton slip. She untied the bustle and dived under the covers. He undressed down to his underwear and slipped in beside her. “I’m cold,” she said, sliding into his arms.
It was ecstasy and torture holding her while she warmed up. He loved the feel of her against him. His whole body ached for her, but he restrained himself.
It was she who kissed him first. She who deepened the kissing, she who began caressing his back. Her hand on his waist was driving him wild. He finally pulled her hands between them and held them while he caught his breath. “Would you stop that, or I’m not going to be able to keep my promise.”
“What promise?” she whispered, eyes closed.
“The one I made to get you to spend the night, remember?”
“I release you from your promise.”
Chane laughed. “What a little witch you are. You trick me into breaking my promise, and then you declare me untrustworthy. Nope, sorry.” Determined to turn the tables, he buried his face against her throat and kissed it until she squirmed with need. Then he moved lower to kiss her breasts.
“Are you sure this is not considered making love?” she asked, panting.
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Thank goodness,” she said, sighing. He felt heavy and hard against her belly, and it seemed odd to feel safe with such a thing between them. It didn’t make sense. She was in his bed, alone with him in his apartment, but the sensations coursing through her were the most delicious she’d ever felt.
“Was that another complaint?” he whispered, his fingers starting at her shoulders, stroking down her arms to bite into her hips and pull her against him. It was getting harder to think of witty responses.
The sound of his breathing was heavier now. His words were thicker. The game was more difficult for him as well. She pulled his mouth down to hers and kissed him hard. He was devouring her, and it was not enough. She wanted him to hurt her. She wanted him to take her, and yet he only kissed her.
“Oh, God,” he said, groaning.
She could hardly think. “I know,” she said, her own head spinning. He mumbled something, but she couldn’t reply. She let him slip down and kiss her breasts. The sweet darkness in her belly was spinning in tighter circles. Her back arched, and the fever he’d created in her seemed to coalesce in one blinding second. She cried out.
“Jennie…love…” Chane pulled her tight against him and held her while she spasmed in silence. When the heavy throbbing in her belly stopped, he released her and rolled over to lay beside her. His hand found hers and squeezed it.
Jennifer drew in a heavy breath. She felt both guilty and wonderful. She’d gotten her release, but Chane must be in agony. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Is a burning torch comfortable?” he asked, patting her thigh.
Jennifer snuggled close to him and nestled into his back. Chane lay there all night, unable to move away from her magnetic skin. He felt like a man on fire with the ecstasy of love and longing. He knew he had to be crazy to have asked for this sort of torment, but he knew he’d do it again in a second. He only hoped that this earned him some respect as a man of his word. If it did, it would be worth it. If not, he could always slash his wrists.
Chane slipped out of bed at six o’clock. He washed and dressed and was at his desk working when Steve came in at seven. “I want you to do something for me this morning.”
“Sounds serious.”
“It is.” He told him about Jennie’s financial problems and ordered him to solve every one of them. “And rewrite her contract so that she’s getting what she deserves. I want her to be the best-paid prima ballerina on the planet.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jennifer woke to find sunlight streaming in the window and Chane looking down at her. “’Morning,” she whispered.
“Good morning, beautiful.”
“I’m a mess,” she said, reaching up to cover her face. Chane pried her hands away from her face and stroked her cheek. “You’re wrong. You are incredibly lovely. Your skin is so smooth, it doesn’t look like it even has pores.”
He kissed her, and his morning mouth tasted musky and wonderful. His kiss was intense and burning, and she got caught up in whatever was driving him, responding wildly to his blizzard of kisses, as if she, too, were someone else entirely.
Chane groaned and pushed himself away from her.
“No,” Jennifer said, moaning.
“I promised.”
“You promised for last night.”
“And thanks to my incredible self-control, I made it through hell for you. I’m not going to ruin my reputation now,” he said, gaining strength as he put some distance between them.
Jennifer knew she should be grateful, but that was only one of the thoughts she had on the subject.
Her body ached all morning, and no matter how hard she danced, all she thought about was Chane.
Chapter Eight
Chane pulled his gold watch out of his vest pocket and glanced at it. Seven-twenty. Almost twelve hours since he’d seen Jennie. He’d been trying to break away all day to seek her out, and hadn’t made it yet. Frustrated, he straightened his cravat, took a deep breath, tapped lightly on the closed door of his gran
dfather’s bedroom, and waited. Footsteps crossed the hardwood floor, and then the door opened.
“Come in. He’s expecting you.”
Chane crossed the darkened room to the bed, which was lit by two kerosene lamps.
“I don’t appreciate tardiness, young man.”
“I’ve been held hostage by your attorneys all day,” Chane replied, feeling testy.
His grandfather scowled at him, but only half of his face worked, making it more pathetic than fearsome. “Well, sit down!” he growled.
“Yes, sir.” Chane pulled up a chair and sat down.
“I hear you aren’t all that impressed with the thought of inheriting ninety million dollars.”
Chane scowled. “Sir, I—”
“It’s just so much paper at this point, isn’t it? Well, I’ve had a lot of time to think about this thing, and I’ve decided you’re right. Ninety million dollars is too big to imagine and too abstract to sink your teeth into.” Number One raised his hand and waved at his attendant, “So I’ve arranged a demonstration for you.” The attendant walked to a connecting door and opened it. Halbertson stepped into the room, struggling with a big, red, sturdy wheelbarrow, its foot-high contents covered by a white cloth. He wheeled it forward and stopped before Chane.
“Take the cloth off,” his grandfather ordered him.
Slowly, Chane reached over and lifted the cloth. Lamplight gleamed off a stack of gold bars. Chane counted them. Four bars high, six bars wide. Twenty-four gold bars. His heart skipped a beat and then settled into a heavier rhythm.
“Lift one of them,” his grandfather ordered.
It was even heavier than he’d expected. It was cool and smooth in his hand. He caressed the solid gold bar, and a shiver went down his spine.
“You know how much money that one gold bar is worth?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re damned right you don’t. Its worth changes every day, depending on the goddamned market, but I’ll tell you one thing, whether it’s worth between a hundred or seven hundred dollars an ounce, it’s still the standard for every currency on the face of this earth. And don’t you forget it. You have enough of that, and you’ll never go without anything money can buy.”
The Lady and the Robber Baron Page 9