Mogul

by Joanna Shupe

Even still, she believed in Calvin. “You’re wrong. This is . . . this is some kind of a mistake. You’ll see. He’ll come back for me and then he’ll explain.”

  Daddy just shook his head. “Happy to show you a copy of the check. He took it eagerly. Didn’t even put up a fight. Is that the kind of man you want to be married to? You deserve someone better, pigeon.”

  “Please don’t call me that,” she snapped, for the first time not liking the implication of his childhood nickname for her. That she was a person easily duped. “And you will be proven wrong, Daddy. Calvin is a good man, an honorable man. He would never marry me for my money.”

  “You hardly know him. I love you to pieces, Lily, but you never look before you leap. You should have insisted on a proper engagement, not rushed off and married him after a few weeks.”

  “You mean I should have married one of the men you thrust at me, all of whom were quite horrid.”

  “We’ll see, then, about your Calvin Cabot,” her father said, holding up his palms to placate her. “I’ll gladly admit I’m wrong when he returns.”

  Oh, how she’d waited. Like a fool, perched at the window, staring down Fifth Avenue and willing Calvin’s tall frame to emerge from one of the hacks traveling by. Pride had prevented her from seeking Calvin out, though she had buckled and cabled him twice. He never came. Her father had been right all along.

  That one horrendous mistake had humiliated her and disappointed her father dearly. With her consent, her father had made the entire episode disappear, as if it had never happened at all. No one could ever learn of her stupidity, that she’d been idiotic enough to marry Calvin, not to mention wait for him to return after he’d walked away. She had a different life now, with a soon-to-be fiancé. Montgomery Fields had no clue Lily had ever been married—and Lily meant to keep it that way.

  Monty was from an old New York family, one with money and prestige. He attended every important social event and knew all the same people as she. In short, Monty was the type of husband Warren Davies had wanted for his only daughter. Not like her first disastrous choice, the rogue currently sleeping down the hall.

  Monty was more than her friend. He also sat on the Davies Mining board of directors, where he’d become an ally on sensitive issues, along with Lily’s uncle Edward. Angering Monty would jeopardize her hard-fought position at her father’s company, a company she meant to keep in the family until her brother could take over. She would not allow her past with Calvin to threaten her chance at happiness.

  After freshening up, she returned to the guest room. Hugo stood by the bed, hovering, staring down at his employer with a frown. She walked to the opposite side of the mattress. Oh, how she wished there was someone else to turn to, some other person who could help her. Anyone but the man currently out cold on this bed. She hated to need anything from Calvin, a man she loathed.

  But he’d helped to create this mess; the least he could do was help clean it up. Quickly and quietly.

  Hugo’s chin dipped. “A bad one this time.”

  “What do you mean, this time?” she whispered. “How often does this happen?”

  Hugo didn’t answer, just continued to watch the man on the bed. Calvin’s leg shifted under the bedclothes. A minute later he rolled onto his back with a soft groan. The sheet fell to his hips, revealing his bare torso, and Lily tried not to react. She had undressed him during his fever dreams, desperate to cool him down, so she should be immune to the sight of his naked body. But after four years her eyes drank him in, feasting on his surprisingly powerful form.

  Smooth, tanned skin over lean muscles. Long limbs with a dusting of brown hair. The same dusting appeared a bit thicker on his broad chest, tapering down to a flat, enticing stomach, one that drew the eye lower. And lower still . . .

  Curse the man. She needed to leave, to remove herself from the room and regain her equilibrium. Ogling Calvin like a Haymarket jezebel was beneath her.

  Just as she was about to leave, he spoke. “Oh, thank Christ it’s you,” she heard him mutter to Hugo. His voice sounded like a straight razor had crisscrossed his windpipe. “Had the most horrible dream. It was the blonde harpy. She was here, holding me down and keeping me captive. It was a fucking nightmare.”

  Hugo winced, while Lily clenched her hands into tight fists. Heat snaked its way under her neck, over her face.

  Something about Hugo’s reaction must have sunk into Calvin’s drug-addled brain because he froze. He slowly turned his head to sweep the room, taking stock of his surroundings: the satin bedsheets, the priceless artwork on the pale yellow walls. The pallor of his skin went the color of flour, face slackening in surprise.

  She braced herself when he finally saw her. Their eyes locked—and he jerked, barking out a short yelp. Lily folded her arms in an attempt to keep from strangling him. Tom needs you. You can tolerate Calvin if it means finding your brother.

  Since her father’s death her younger brother was all the family she had left in this world. She loved Tom fiercely, unconditionally—unlike the scoundrel now scrambling to yank the bedclothes up to his chin. She’d made the mistake of loving him once, too, and he’d quickly proven unworthy of such a powerful sentiment. The opportunistic worm.

  “You needn’t bother,” she told Calvin. “I’m already familiar with—and wholly unimpressed by—everything underneath there.” Liar.

  Calvin swallowed, gaze bouncing between her and Hugo, finally landing on his friend. “What the hell am I doing here?”

  “She fished you out of Sing’s.”

  Angry blue depths swung to meet hers. “Damn it. I paid him an exorbitant amount of money to keep my presence there a secret. Why’d you ruin that?”

  “Because you’ve ignored my letters. I had no other choice but to kidnap you.”

  His sigh was heavy and put-upon. “I need to get dressed.”

  “You’re not leaving until we talk and you agree to help me,” she snapped.

  “I’m not doing a damn thing until I piss and cover my balls,” he snapped back.

  Shock and embarrassment flooded her, but she held her ground. “Fine. I’ll be back in ten minutes—and if you try to escape, I’ll have my driver shoot you.”

  * * *

  Lillian Davies. His former wife. And he was in her family home. Jesus Christ. Calvin could scarcely believe his terrible luck.

  He propped up on his elbows, ready to growl his displeasure at Hugo—and pain exploded behind his eyes. He slammed his lids shut and flopped back down, a groan rumbling in his throat. “Damn, my head. Please tell me you brought the cure.”

  “Sure did.”

  A glass bottle touched Calvin’s hand. He promptly drank the revolting contents, the recipe a secret Hugo guarded more carefully than a spy’s mission during wartime. Tossing the empty bottle aside, Calvin concentrated on not vomiting for a few moments.

  When the nausea passed, he said, “Too bad she wasn’t born a hundred years ago. She could give Napoleon a run for his francs. What did you tell her?”

  “Not much. Let her know this wasn’t out of the ordinary, though.”

  Calvin grunted. Probably no better than she expected of him anyway. She was Warren Davies’s daughter through and through. Ruthless and vindictive. Though aiding Calvin’s fiercest competitor had been a particularly cruel blow, even for a Davies, and one Calvin wouldn’t easily forgive.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been run through the printing press a few times.” Calvin’s gaze bounced around the room, the frilly décor and the awareness of the location only making him feel worse. “You need to help me out of here.”

  “You heard what the missus said. She needs your help with somethin’—somethin’ important enough to kidnap you. Don’t you think you should hear her out?”

  Calvin’s stomach roiled and he gritted out, “She is not the missus. The marriage was annulled, as you well know.” He’d almost believe the whole thing had never happened except for the erotic dreams he still experi
enced some nights. Hard to say who he hated more upon waking: himself for having the dreams in the first place or her for causing them.

  He struggled to a sitting position. “And you also know I’ve been avoiding her for two weeks. Help me up. I need to leave.”

  Hugo sighed but reached under Calvin’s shoulders and hauled him to his feet. Calvin stumbled to the water closet, where he relieved himself and then washed his face. The distinctive, nutty smell of opium smoke lingered in his nostrils, an unfortunate consequence of his hiding place. He hadn’t smoked a pipe in years, and the euphoric drug wasn’t why he visited Sing’s establishment. He went there to hide out during the rare times the Hong Kong fever resurfaced, merely to prevent the rest of the world from finding out about his weakness. No one had ever thought to find him at Sing’s before, not once in three years . . . so how had the harpy accomplished it?

  Don’t you think you should hear her out?

  No, he did not. Whatever favor she needed, large or small, Calvin did not care. Could not allow himself to care. He had enough problems of his own. Lily believed him an opportunistic, money-grubbing maggot and he had no intention of changing that opinion. Never mind that he’d prevented her father from disinheriting her four years ago. Thanks to him, the silver heiress was exactly where she belonged: dining with her fancy friends and attending even fancier parties. Running her father’s precious company. Helping rival publishers. So he’d done her enough favors, thank you.

  Admittedly, he was a tiny bit curious as to her reason for kidnapping him. Information was his business, after all; he gathered it like a miser gathered coins. And, despite the annulment, he’d kept abreast of her comings and goings, the men with whom she associated. There hadn’t been many men other than her long-standing suitor, Montgomery Fields, a well-known man about town.

  Fields was a first-rate nincompoop. The worst New York society had to offer, with his laziness and sense of righteous entitlement. He didn’t deserve Lily and she had to know it. The woman would eat him for breakfast, then scatter his bones along Fifth Avenue. Either that or he’d bore her silly.

  Regardless, Calvin had no right to stand in her way. Their impetuous marriage had been effectively erased, with people in two states bought off to make it disappear. Warren Davies had certainly done a thorough job of removing any connection between his daughter and Calvin.

  At the time, Calvin had been powerless. He hadn’t possessed the money or resources to fight Davies, not without breaking his promise to Hugo, the friend who had saved his life on multiple occasions. That promise still had yet to be fulfilled, a fact that haunted Calvin every day.

  He scrubbed his face with both hands. What in the hell was he doing here? Until recently, Lily hadn’t tried to contact him, not even after her bastard father’s death. No letters, no telegrams. The few times he’d come face-to-face with her in the city she had pointedly ignored him.

  So what could she possibly need from him now? He could nearly predict the conversation:

  I need your help, Calvin, she’d say.

  Whatever you need, the answer is no, he’d reply.

  Then I’ll smother you in your sleep, she’d tell him.

  I’d like to see you try, he’d snarl.

  Sighing, he threw open the door and stepped into the bedroom, wincing anew at the garish, heavy-handed décor. Admittedly, Calvin knew next to nothing about decorating a home, but he did know when things were ugly—and this room definitely qualified. Done in shades of yellow, reminders of Davies wealth were everywhere, from the thick carpeting and heavy draperies to the imposing furniture and painted ceiling trimmed in bright gold.

  “Remind me to have all the gold inside my house removed,” he muttered on his way to the windows.

  “You don’t have any gold. Rich as Croesus, yet you’re too cheap to spend any of it,” Hugo said.

  Calvin ignored his friend; he had bigger problems right now. Three large, arched windows faced the garden, and when he looked down, he saw they were on the third floor. It was a little too far to jump without breaking something. “Grab the sheets, start tying them together.”

  Hugo grumbled under his breath but reached for the bed. Calvin joined him and they fashioned a winding rope from the satin sheets, coverlet, and quilt.

  “Ain’t long enough to reach the ground,” his friend said.

  “I know, but it’ll get me far enough to jump, I wager. Besides, we don’t have enough time for me to find my way out through the house and risk getting caught. Hurry—tie the end to the bed.”

  Hugo dropped to his knees by the base of the four-poster bed while Calvin carried the sheet rope to the window. He threw open the panels and dropped the ragtag cable out the window, where it bounced against the side of the house.

  “All set,” Hugo said, and Calvin wasted no time, dangling a leg out the window and grabbing the slippery cloth with both hands. Slowly, he began to lower himself toward the ground, praying the sheets held together at least until he reached the second level. With his feet swinging in midair, a familiar rush shot through his blood: the thrill of the unknown, the danger of the chase.

  The same excitement had drawn him to newspaper reporting. At the Bugle he’d quickly gained a reputation as a man willing to risk anything in pursuit of a story. He’d gone to great lengths to expose corruption. To hold the criminals accountable. Right the wrongs of the city. He supposed it was his way of continuing his parents’ legacy, only spreading truth instead of religion. Do-good ran in his blood, apparently, though he’d found a way to earn money while helping people.

  Hugo leaned out of the window to check on Calvin’s progress. “Little bit more,” he said quietly. “About five feet left on that rope.”

  Hand over hand, Calvin descended, his arm muscles shaking with effort. A crack exploded on his right side, tiny pieces of brick flying into his face. He flinched and tried to cover his head as best he could. “Jesus Christ.”

  “The next one’s in your backside,” a feminine voice called from the ground.

  Calvin peered over his shoulder. Lily stood there, her coachman beside her, a rifle in his hands. “You shot at me!”

  “To be fair, he shot at you.” She pointed to the man on her right. “I wasn’t certain I could force myself to miss. And he will shoot again if you do not return upstairs, Calvin.”

  His hands slipped a little on the fabric and he tried to tighten his hold. Unfortunately, the attack coupled with the past few days in bed had left him weak, depleted his strength. He didn’t know how much longer he could hang on. “Goddamn it, Lily. I’m going to fall. Let me come to the ground and we’ll talk this out.”

  Her brittle laugh rang out in the garden. “Do you really expect me to believe that? The second your feet touch earth, I’ll never see you again. Up, Calvin. Get moving.”

  “I promise I won’t run. Let’s be adults about this,” he rushed out, the sweat on his palms building at an alarming rate. Suddenly, he slid a few inches and his heart stuttered. The ground was still too far for him to jump safely. “Come now, darling. You can believe me—”

  “You’ve broken every promise you’ve ever made. I knew you’d try to sneak out. Climb back up, darling, before I have Jenkins shoot you again.”

  One of the knots above his head loosened and Calvin dropped a little more. Panicking, he tried to find purchase on the side of the house, but the rough stone gave him no foothold. “Lily, please—”

  And then he was falling, air rushing as he hurtled toward the earth. The ground walloped him, a mighty crash of limbs onto the grass and dirt, followed by an indescribable pain erupting in every part of his body. He gasped for air that refused to come.

  As his vision blurred, he saw the blonde harpy, her beautiful face full of shock and guilt as she stared down at him . . . and then there was nothing at all.

  Chapter Three

  This time she left him no opportunity for escape.

  Lily hovered near Calvin’s bedside, waiting for him to awaken and w
atching his chest steadily rise and fall. He’d taken a serious tumble from the house, long limbs akimbo, flailing, before he struck the earth. Her breath had stopped for those few seconds, her mind frozen in horror, certain she’d killed him.

  He’d survived, however. Stood to reason he would—Calvin was indestructible, a force of nature that no man, woman, or bullet could stop. He’d certainly risen in the world, taking three failing newspapers and turning them into profitable businesses. Only a few people knew her family’s money had made such a meteoric rise possible.

  Sighing, she checked the time. He’d been unconscious for fifteen minutes. After determining there were no broken bones, Hugo had helped to move Calvin upstairs and then gone to retrieve her physician. Lily sincerely hoped there were no internal injuries. Despite everything, she’d never truly wanted Calvin hurt.

  Miserable, yes. Dead, no.

  She leaned over and brushed a wayward lock of chestnut hair off his forehead. It was strange to see him so close. After the annulment they hadn’t often crossed paths. She’d traveled, returning only for board meetings, while Calvin and his papers had flourished here in New York. She’d seen him three times during those years—twice at the opera and once on the street. Calvin had ignored her each time.

  His anger never made sense. If anyone had been wronged, it was she. Calvin had jumped at the payment her father had offered, eager to return to his mistresses and devil-may-care lifestyle. He hadn’t fought for her, hadn’t taken a stand against Warren Davies—which had confused Lily, considering Calvin’s ardent pursuit before the marriage. But in the end, her father had been right: Calvin had been nothing but a fortune hunter and she his naïve victim.

  She’d been quite stupid over him, which was probably what angered her most. From the second they’d met, Calvin had overwhelmed her, enveloped her into the chaos of his personality. The man never stopped moving, his energy constant and relentless, with an uncanny ability to overtake a room the second he stepped in. He’d traveled extensively and was exceedingly well read. He was equal parts P. T. Barnum and Dr. Livingstone.