“No, I don’t hold with that notion at all.”
He picks up one of my books and glances at the spine. “Upton Sinclair. I keep meaning to read this …” Then his eyes drift back to me and he pushes the birth control pamphlets my way. “Do you know that two nurses and a doctor were recently arrested for distributing similar information?”
I tilt my chin defiantly. “I do and it’s unjust, if you ask me.”
“So, I take it that you feel married persons are perfectly free to take their pleasure from one another without fear of consequence.”
I’m surprised, and a little delighted at the freedom of knowing I’m going to get the ax. I won’t know where my next meal is coming from, but at least I’ll know I spoke my mind. “I do think married persons ought to be free to take their pleasure from one another without fear of consequence … and unmarried persons, too, if it comes to it.”
He flashes me a smile as shiny as new silver coins from the mint. “You’re a rather liberated young lady, aren’t you? One of the new women we keep hearing so much about?”
His implication makes me swallow hard. He thinks he knows what kind of girl I am, but he’s got the wrong idea. On the other hand, the way he’s looking at me makes my toes curl, so maybe his idea isn’t so far off the mark. “I just don’t think anyone should be ignorant of such matters.”
“So you have the pamphlets for the sake of intellectual curiosity, of course …”
The pamphlets were for Gertrude—not that she took them. She’d believed that preparing herself, making a decision about what might happen with her lover, would turn her into a fallen woman. But it wasn’t the pamphlets that got her into trouble.
It was the elevator operator.
And in spite of the trouble she’s in, I admit, I envy her a little. Taking a lover is sophisticated and modern, but I don’t have Gertie’s looks and I’ve always been too practical to get that carried away …
Mr. Aster tilts his head, apparently amused at my silence. “The notion of men and women in sexual congress for the sake of recreation doesn’t offend you?”
Why won’t he just get on with it and fire me?
“I don’t see why it should offend anyone, what two people do behind closed doors. Certainly, it ought not be the cause of a dismissal—”
“What about more than two people?”
“Pardon me?”
His gaze intensifies. “What about sexual recreation between more than two people?”
The thought intrigues me as much as it scandalizes me. Does he mean to shock me or is that genuine curiosity? No, he must be trying to knock me off balance. I’m being toyed about like a mouse in the paws of a cat, but I don’t intend to squeak.
He sighs at my silence, as if it disappoints him. “Miss O’Brien, I’ve concluded that you’re some sort of radical stirring up trouble in my hotel.”
“And I suppose you expect me to deny it, do you?”
There’s a bit of a twinkle in his eye as he leans towards me. “Oh, no. I’d never encourage anyone to lie. Besides, I admire unconventional women.”
I can’t imagine that’s true; if it were, he’d be a much different sort of man, wouldn’t he? Even so, I have to shake away my potent desire to believe that the look I see in his eyes is admiration. “Then what is it that you want me to say? That your workers are all merry and without complaint? Because we aren’t. We have a right to bargain for better treatment and we’ve written up a list of complaints—”
He holds up a hand to silence me. “That’s a discussion for another day. The truth is, Miss O’Brien, I called you here to discuss your journal.”
He reaches for the leather-bound book that belongs to me, then absently thumbs through the pages. It’s too much. My Irish temper can sustain me through a great deal, but not this. The scribblings and fantasies are so deeply private that I lose my nerve completely. “What makes you think that’s my journal?”
Mr. Aster raises a perfectly groomed brow. “It isn’t yours?”
It’s more mine than anything else in this world; it’s filled with dreams and forbidden thoughts. It’s the only place I give voice to my secret self. And it ought to have remained a secret. That’s why I have to lie. “No. It’s not mine.”
His expression tells me that he doesn’t believe me. “What an enormous disappointment … May I ask to whom it belongs?”
The problem with telling lies is that once you start, you have to keep on telling them. “It belongs to a friend, but don’t ask her name because I won’t say.”
“Then how can I return it to her?”
“I’ll return it,” I say, eagerly extending my hand.
But he shows no sign of being willing to relinquish the journal. “I’m afraid I can’t let you have it. You see, I assumed it might contain the names of other dissatisfied employees but I found matters of a much more personal nature inside.”
My stomach falls away. So, he’s read it. There’s no question of that now. The idea that a man—any man, but especially this man—has read thoughts and feelings that I scarcely admit to myself makes me feel as if I’ve been stripped naked. He has a window into my soul and there’s nowhere to hide.
Mr. Aster stares straight at me. “The author of this journal is a lively writer with a certain creative genius; her stories are so intriguing that I want very much to meet the woman behind these words, so please tell your friend that I have her journal and she may retrieve it at her earliest convenience.”
He’s going to keep the journal, the bloody bastard. He knows it’s mine but he’s keeping it!
As if unaware of my distress, he says, “That will be all, Miss O’Brien. I’ll reprimand your supervisor for her zealotry in this matter and have your things returned.”
I blink so hard my lashes tangle. “You’re not giving me the sack?”
A sardonic expression touches his features. “I should, shouldn’t I? But I’m told that you keep the company of scientists and socialists and intellectuals. It would infuriate my father to know we employ such free-thinking girls. And infuriating my father is a sport at which I greatly excel, so as far as I’m concerned, you still have a job here at the Aster Hotel.”
My relief at having slipped the noose is palpable. I want to shoot up out of my chair and bolt for the door. However, to do so would be to abandon my journal entirely …
I can’t seem to go. He watches me and I can’t look away.
We stare and stare until he breaks into a bright dimpled smile.
He’s got no right to go around smiling at girls like that. It’s the kind of smile that could blind a woman to all good sense. I can’t imagine that Mr. Underwood ever smiled at Gertie that way but if he did, I begin to see how she stumbled.
In fact, Mr. Aster’s smile is so keen that I have to fight one of my own and when one of the corners of my mouth quirks up without my permission, he seems encouraged. “One more thing, Miss O’Brien, if you’d be so kind … I need a bit of advice. I’m afraid that the journal inspired me to a reckless act. My father says that I’m always most reckless when it’s likely to do me the least advantage. In this case, I’m inclined to agree, but I really couldn’t help myself.”
Now that sounds ominous. “What did you do?”
“I was inspired to buy a gift for the woman who wrote this journal. Now I realize you’re not that woman … I’m quite embarrassed, really.” He doesn’t look at all embarrassed, but I’m feeling noticeably warm and I’ve the sneaking suspicion that he’s mocking me. “I wondered if you might take a look at the gift and tell me if your friend would appreciate it.”
I feel a pang of jealousy for my imaginary friend when he produces a white box topped with a bow. I know better, but curiosity gets the better of me. I pull the end of the ribbon off, lift the lid, and carefully open the tissue paper to reveal a silk crepe chemise step-in with lace insets and a red rose boutonniere sewn into the bodice. The peach-colored lingerie is more beautiful than anything we have in the boutique,
and I can’t help but marvel at the ribbons sewn into the garment and the intricate beauty of the lace. But it’s also such an inappropriate gift that a blush crawls up my neck and burns all the way to my ears. “You’re a very presumptuous man.”
He chuckles. “So I’ve been told. It’s a rather close reproduction of a garment described in this journal, don’t you think?”
My temper runs hot. “Just because a woman writes a fantasy in a journal doesn’t mean she wants it to come true.”
“Naturally,” he says, leaning back in a posture of thoughtfulness, fingers laced and thumbs tapping together. “Especially in this case, as many of the imagined couplings in the diary aren’t even possible.”
This time I’m sure he’s mocking me. “And just what do you mean by that?”
He lowers his voice to a seductive tone to boast, “In my experience—and in these matters, my experience is considerable—the laws of physics and human anatomy would seem to preclude some of the more adventurous positioning described.”
A new blush burns right over the first one. His experience in these matters might be considerable, but mine is limited. And I’m more than a bit mortified. If only the carpet would swallow me up like the sea, I might welcome it. I try to disguise my little panicked breaths, but the rapid rise and fall of my chest must give my panic away.
“Miss O’Brien, I apologize for making you uncomfortable. Sometimes there’s a fine line between seducing a woman and frightening her. It’s a line I never want to cross …”
The casual admission of his intentions—and his regrets—astonishes me. Why, he’s insufferable. That’s what he is. “You’re trying to seduce me, sir?”
His eyes twinkle. “I’m trying to seduce the author of this journal; she isn’t as timid as you are.”
“I’m not timid,” I protest, with a toss of my head. “I’m just stunned at your nerve. I believe a person might find pleasure in thinking about things she might never actually want to talk about … or do.”
“Quite right. But do you think it’s likely that a woman might not want to do any of the things she imagines?”
We appear to be having a philosophical argument and every word we say is like a thread weaving us closer together. As much as I want to escape his dangerous web, I feel myself drawn closer. “This lacy garment isn’t the kind of gift an unmarried gentleman gives to an unmarried lady.”
“Right you are. It’s the kind of gift that a married gentleman gives to his mistress. But as I’m both unmarried and endeavoring to be less of a gentleman, I hope this gift might signal my willingness to help you experience some of your fantasies.”
I hear myself gulp. How many times in a girl’s life does she hear an offer like that one? Not many, I think. And in spite of my sweating palms, my nervous little breaths, and my general sense of outrage, temptation tugs at me. I’d best put a stop to it before I end up just like Gertrude. “Mr. Aster, I told you, the journal isn’t mine. And even if I—even if my friend wants to experience those fantasies, it doesn’t mean that she wants to experience them with you.”
He takes a moment, scratching his chin in feigned humility. “Why not? Am I too repulsive for her? Too rich? If she’s a friend of yours, I assume she’s attracted to Bolsheviks and penniless professors, but I’m told I have a certain appeal.”
He does at that.
There’s something about those gleaming teeth in that brilliant smile that make it hard to stay sore at him. In fact, I’m starting to feel something altogether different. Something that’s making me sweat behind the knees. It’s terribly warm in here and the decorative tie at the front of my dress is suddenly rather constricting.
Mr. Aster, on the other hand, is wondrously pale, cool, and collected. “If your friend doesn’t like lingerie, I have other tricks up my sleeve.”
“That’s the problem with men. They all want to trick a woman into bed.”
His head bobs up, as if I’ve finally offended him. “It was merely a turn of phrase, Miss O’Brien. I assure you, I’ve never tricked any woman into my bed. And in your case, I’ve been remarkably frank about my intentions.”
With that, he pulls a stack of cream-colored envelopes from the drawer, then piles them in the middle of the desk until the edges line up.
I stare, shocked to the marrow of my bones.
In one of the stories I wrote, a girl receives anonymous letters in the mail, each of them daring her to take some provocative new risk. I’d described the notes as being written on cream-colored paper with a silver trim. The envelopes on his desk look just the same—as if conjured from my own imagination.
I know what they are, and he knows I do. He doesn’t have to say it. It’s all in his gaze. And a little thrill goes through me that any man should go to such lengths to impress me. His meticulous attention to detail is flattering, overwhelming, alluring. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. But what kind of man does this? Is he mischievous, obsessive, dangerously eccentric, or depraved?
“You wrote on all these cards?” I ask, my mouth dry.
“I did.” Maybe he finally feels the heat, too, because he removes his closely tailored linen jacket to reveal a pale gray vest underneath. Then he rolls up his shirt sleeves and comes round to the front of the desk. “… and it was rather time-consuming.”
My eyes widen at his sudden proximity, large and looming. I motion to the wide shiny expanse of his bare desk. “Don’t you have a hotel to run, sir?”
He chuckles, leaning towards me. “Yes, which is why I’m so bored.”
“What a luxury. Most of us are too busy trying to earn a living to have time for boredom.”
His grin widens. “Sorry, Comrade. Most of my business is finished by noon and I’m ossified by dinnertime. So, I’ve plenty of time for recreation …”
Emboldened by his teasing, I put a hand on my hip like Clara Cartwright always does in the movies when she needs to knock a man down by a peg or two. “If you’ve so much time on your hands, perhaps you ought to make time to hear the complaints of your workers. I’ve a list of grievances, starting with a friend of mine who—”
“Another friend, Miss O’Brien?” he says, his eyes sweeping up and down my body. “My, you’re a popular girl … but I’d rather not talk about business, if you don’t mind.”
I do mind. Or at least, I should mind. It’s just that I never knew how very difficult it is to champion a cause—even a very good cause—when a man smells so wonderful. Soapy, spicy, and clean. My nostrils twitch in delight, which I fear must make me look like a timid little rabbit after all. Bloody hell!
“Aren’t you curious about what’s in the envelopes?” Mr. Aster asks.
“Painfully.” My fingers itch to open them. But when I reach for one, he stops me.
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Those aren’t for you, unless you want to admit that you wrote the journal.”
Such an admission is going to cost me. It’s going to cost me dear. It better be worth the price. “Will you give my diary back to me if I admit the journal is mine?”
He nods, his eyes shining with challenge.
I’m sure I’ll regret it, but that look in his eyes goads me to make the confession. “Very well. I wrote it.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks, his voice low, seductive, and approving.
It was harder than I imagined because now he knows all sorts of things about me and I don’t know anything about him. “It’s extremely embarrassing.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be embarrassed. I think most women are ashamed of thoughts like these, so men don’t know that you have them. We assume you’re all angels we taint with our own base desires rather than earthly creatures with desires of your own. That’s a tragic mistake I’ve made at least once before.”
With that last bit, he takes it a touch too far. He’s been seen on the arm of pretty husband hunters and socialites. Why, before he returned to the city he was even linked in the scandal sheets with movie stars. It ought to ser
ve as a warning to me what kind of man I’m dealing with. “I’ll wager that’s more than a bit of blarney, Mr. Aster. You’ve quite a reputation with the ladies.”
“My reputation notwithstanding, I won’t force unwanted attentions on a young woman in my employ. If you want to take your journal and go, this can be the end of it … but if you would like to make any of the stories you’ve written come true, I’d be happy to be of assistance.”
“Would you now?” I grin, in spite of myself.
He levels his gaze on me. “I doubt you’ll find many men better suited … especially for the more outlandish and expensive fantasies.”
His self-assurance must come from knowing he can buy whatever he wants, and whoever he can’t buy, he can probably charm into submission. I wonder what it must feel like to be him—able to live his life with no limitations but the ones he puts on himself. I call myself a modern thinker, but feel like an unsure girl inside. And here’s a man offering me a chance to become a woman in all the ways I’ve only imagined. Would I be a fool to refuse? “Just how far are you prepared to take this, Mr. Aster?”
“As far as you’ll let me,” he replies, tapping the pile of envelopes. “What do you think?”
I think that I’m two breaths away from forgetting all good sense.
“I need to return to work, sir.”
Standing up, I dare to pluck my beloved journal from his hand. He follows me to the door and when I start to turn the handle, he angles his shoulder to block my exit. “Aren’t you forgetting your lingerie?”
Something flutters in my belly. “It seems like a dangerous gift to accept.”
“Oh, it is,” he says, leaning lazily against the door frame. “But I want you to have it. I want to imagine you wearing it. I can’t quite get the picture of you naked right in my mind, though. I can’t decide if your breasts are round or pointy, with low nipples or high nipples, and the curiosity is driving me mad.”
It Stings So Sweet Page 22