by Louisa Trent
Fear catching up with her, she averted her face and cold-shouldered him.
The air stirred, but only mildly, as he came to a quiet stop beside her. “Do you like the mural?”
She frowned. Mural? What mural?
Afraid as she had never been afraid before, nothing of her immediate surroundings registered. Her mind a complete and utter void, her eyes glazed over. A whole bevy of naked people could have cavorted before her nose and she would not have been conscious of them.
“The wall painting,” he prompted. “Does it meet with your approval?”
Did he think her an uneducated idiot who had no comprehension of the meaning of simple words, like “mural”?
She would show him!
She blinked, blinked again, focused her eyes on the wall.
Good Lord! In a manner of speaking, a whole bevy of naked people were cavorting before her nose. On the wall.
She swallowed her chagrin. “Yes, the mural does meet with my approval.” She swept her hand, lecture-style, across the painting before her. “As the name implies, the trompe l’oeil technique certainly does ‘trick the eye’ into believing the scene is real. Fascinating.”
“I agree. Fascinating…”
A small pause broke the flow of his conversation. A lull, while he pondered something. She would have thought a robber baron given more to action than to deep contemplation, but what did a mining woman like her know of such things?
“A clever subject matter,” he finally offered.
He was staring. At her. She could tell. People usually looked right through her, as if she had no more substance than air. No one ever really saw her. Particularly not men.
His close observation heated her cheeks.
It was the gown. Had to be. Sewing was her only talent, and her retooled gown had succeeded in drawing his attention.
To disguise her flustered blush, she waved a hand across the painted wall again. This time, a wide arc that encompassed the veritable hodgepodge of naked bodies. “There is little doubt but that this mural is an ode to the first Greek Olympic Games.”
“Think so?”
“I categorically know so. There is no exception here. In ancient days, you see, competitors celebrated their physiques by performing athletic feats in the nude. Note the entangled naked limbs as the opponents struggle for dominance in the wrestling match.”
He coughed. Or cleared his throat. Or did something, made some noise. “I suppose wrestling is one way of looking at the activity.”
“I assure you, sir, it is the only way.” She tilted her head to gain a better perspective of a muscular male competitor locking a female in a back-to-front hold. When she noted that yet another male wrestler was mounting the shapely buttocks of a second female competitor, she clucked her tongue. “This depiction is flawed!”
“How so?”
“The first Olympic tournaments were strictly male. Fie on the artist for playing fast and loose with historical accuracy.”
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
“Carelessness makes for a sloppy excuse. And ignorance as a defense is a faulty argument. One should always research to get the facts straight.” She pointed to one particularly energetic couple. “My, but that is a strenuous, almost frantic…er…maneuver. That male and female opponents are certainly…er…grappling with one another as they vie for supremacy.” She jabbed a finger at an interloper. “And see there, another male appears to be going for a frontal attack on the same female. Two on one seems a tad unfair. And yet the woman is smiling broadly.”
Mr. Griffith uttered a gruff sound. Neither a cough nor a throat clearing, the noise fell somewhere in between and was difficult to interpret without looking at his face, something she had yet to bring herself to do.
“Hmm.” She stared some more at the wall. “I wonder who comes out on top in the end?”
“Top. Bottom. What matters the position as long as all participants come. In the end. Or in other delightful places.”
Obviously, Mr. Griffith had little understanding of either art or history. Most likely, he had no exposure to sporting events either. Too busy making money, she supposed.
But to be charitable, Tegan let his ignorance pass. “I adore art. Although I have seen few paintings firsthand. My knowledge is derived primarily from illustrated books, which I study for hours, wondering over texture and strokes and so forth.”
“In that case… Would you share your educated opinion of a piece I recently acquired and added to my private art collection?”
She knew what he was up to. He meant to stroke her vanity with a heavy-handed compliment. And once her head was turned, he meant to seduce her. Really, did he think her a naive fool?
She was countrified, not stupid. Romance novels contained countless accounts of gentlemen taking ladies to view their “private” art collections, and with heinous results. Not that she knew what those results were. Those plot points were among the missing passages that authors never bothered to explain.
“Where is this recently acquired piece?” With some reluctance, she turned to him.
And immediately wished she had not. Immediately wished he had stayed across the room, where he had been easier to hate.
Sean Griffith was no bloated caricature of an evil Gilded Age robber baron, no oiled mustached rogue driven by an unquenchable thirst for power. Time and circumstance had touched this captain of industry and left behind their indelible print. Silver threaded his thick black hair. Deep lines fanned out from the corners of his brown eyes. Even deeper creases furrowed his forehead and bracketed his mouth. The nose was suitably hawkish, all right—from a broken bone that had never been set. Angular, clean-shaven cheeks, firm jaw, flat ears that hugged his well-shaped skull.
He had a muscular build that no expensively tailored evening attire could hide. The coat, waistcoat, and trousers screamed greenbacks, but the thickly roped shoulders and sinewy arms were gifts of hard manual labor.
An overblown fictionalized antagonist did not stand before her, a man did. A hardened man to be sure, but hardly a demonic villain.
Oh dear. This…this…humanity was what came of putting a face to a name.
She hoped the same would hold true for the miners she had come here to represent. She hoped putting a face to their names would force their humanity down Sean Griffith’s throat. She hoped he choked on it. If not, if not…
Oh God, suddenly the robber baron doing the right thing of his own volition, after being shown the evidence inside her reticule, seemed hopelessly naive.
Though Sean Griffith was no demonic villain, no Grimm’s fairy-tale monster, he was no gentleman either. No one and nothing forced anything down this man’s throat. He was a slum tough if ever she saw one.
She hung her head. What was the use of showing him her documents?
He’d had an entire year. If he intended to own up to his mining responsibilities, he would have done so already. He would have found out all on his own what needed to be done, and he would have made the necessary changes. No stern talk from her would change his negligent ways.
No. What she needed was leverage, a positional advantage that would force him into doing the right thing. What she needed was blackmail. Where oh where was an orgy when she needed one?
Woebegone as can be, she examined the toes of her secondhand shoes. What was she to do now?
“The work is hanging in the alcove.”
At his directive, she raised her chin. “Oh, yes. The painting. I had quite forgotten.”
He crooked his arm. “If you would come with me, please?”
Her first official male escort, and a gallant one at that. Why did the gallantry have to originate from him, of all people?
She had attended her share of community socials, where stammering lads held up one wall while tongue-tied girls hugged the opposite. But she had never danced at any of those chaperoned functions, and no boy had ever presented her with his arm.
No boy did now, either. And certainly n
o gentleman. A tough man of questionable repute presented his elbow to her.
Rude to ignore the overture. Despite his unseemly background, she must observe propriety.
With a bob of her head and a grim flash of teeth, she accepted his escort. Arms linked, a tad stiffly on her side, they went to view his new acquisition.
Once in the alcove, Tegan gawked, but only a bit, certainly not in an offensive or untoward fashion, at the stained-glass window soaring majestically overhead.
Chapter Five
In the close confines of the alcove, Sean stared down onto the top of the little reformer’s head.
“A truly uplifting work of art,” Tegan Ellis decided for both of them. “Worthy of a place of honor in a cathedral or a similar ecclesiastic edifice. The subject matter just spirits me away.” She sighed. “Highly stimulating.”
The prim vigilante amused Sean to the shine on his black leather oxfords. And while agreeing the work of art was “highly stimulating”—its purpose was to sexually arouse—he disagreed with the rest. No “ecclesiastical edifice” anywhere would display the provocative piece, despite its deeply spiritual beauty. Like the mural, the stained glass was unquestionably adult in nature.
Erotic memorabilia was his passion, and like all passions, many disapproved with the manner its outlet took. Some might say his erotic art collection thumbed its proverbial nose at the rules, at the very fabric of society.
Sean would respectfully disagree. His taste in art merely reflected a less finely grained cloth, a rougher nap that suited a different societal culture.
And why would it not?
He had made more business deals in brothels than boardrooms, found his pleasure more often in back alleys than auspicious boudoirs. Born with nothing, he had come up hard.
He had come up hard now. His erection twitched against his lower belly. The little reformer had done that to him. She was not his kind, not of the streets, not jaded and knowing, definitely not a prostitute, but she stirred him. Squeezing her into a neat, clearly defined little box and lowering the lid, out of sight, out of mind, had proven impossible. She defied all his determined cataloging. And try as he might, he could not forget her look of longing in his company store over a cheap bolt of lilac cloth, a lighter version of royal purple, the color of privilege neither of them could claim. However, they could, the both of them, claim an intimate familiarity with impoverished circumstances.
Their background similarities began and ended there.
She owned a respectable name. A forgotten referee had bestowed the title of Hell’s Kitchen Killer on him. A sensationalized way to increase prize money, and the name had stuck, despite that he made damn sure never to actually kill his opponents. Cracked some heads, broke plenty of bones, but when he left the ropes, every one of those bastards had been breathing. The way he looked at it, the men he fought in the ring were the same as him—just trying to find a way out of the gutter. Now, if he could have gotten away with killing his managers, he would not have hesitated.
Through his research in Pittsburgh, he knew Tegan Ellis had inherited a proud Welsh ancestry. After retiring from the prizefighting circuit, he dug his own family tree, watered the roots with the sweat of his brow, nurtured its growth with honor, and protected each limb against the blight of lies. And here she was, swinging an ax, about to chop the trunk down. How fucking dare she try to destroy what he had sown and nurtured and breathed into life?
Drop your ax, Tegan Ellis. Then we can talk…
Another wish never to come true. The righteous never talked if they could pontificate. All evangelical zealots were the same. Why could he not dismiss this one?
“Look at the bright jewel tones of the stained glass,” she enthused. “The work embodies such glorious incandescence! Truly inspirational.”
He nodded encouragingly. They were talking now. Not about what they needed to talk about, but it was a start.
“I love the medieval tableau,” she continued. “The coiffed maiden kneeling in homage before an armored knight strikes a sympathetic cord within my bosom.”
A very nice bosom it was too. Round and high, and tempting as sin, in the faded black mourning gown she had specifically altered to suit the occasion. Or what she thought was the occasion. Which was…
Damned if he knew. What the hell was the little minx up to?
She thumped two fingers on her stubborn chin. “The work is à la Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe.”
No wiggle room for uncertainty there. Determination like hers could build kingdoms from dust. How far would Tegan Ellis go to get what she wanted?
And what the hell did she want? Why not just spit it out and have done with it?
“My first impression too,” he replied evenly. “Ivanhoe was a good book.”
She cocked a black brow at him. “Really? You mean to say you actually read romance?”
Self-taught, after leaving the ring, he read everything. But getting to know him was not what her visit was all about.
What the hell was her visit all about?
“I read Ivanhoe,” he replied, “and I agree the stained-glass work is an homage to the book.”
Ignoring his stab at friendship, Tegan narrowed her eyes in concentration. “Curious, the lady’s positioning, though.”
“Curious? How so?” The scene was damn self-explanatory.
“Well, the fair maiden is kneeling in rather close proximity to the knight’s midsection.”
Nothing curious about that. The lady was sucking the knight off. Getting close to his cock came with the territory.
She sighed. “Too bad about the dagger.”
“What of it?”
“The blade hides the lower portion of her profile from view. Her mouth to be precise. Difficult reading her expression with ten inches of hard metal thrusting across her lips.”
His loins tightened. “I feel your frustration.”
“On the other hand, the knight’s expression lends itself to an easier interpretation.”
“Interpret away.” Might as well extend the invitation. The opinionated miss would give him her view, anyway. But what surprised him was his interest in hearing what she had to say.
“Why, his facial cast is one of transcendental ecstasy, sir, as if the maiden fulfilled his epic quest.”
“A satisfying climax.” Unlike his own. His cock spiked behind his buttoned coat, and using his hand later was as close to satisfaction as he was likely to get.
“The stained glass is just so incredibly romantic.” Tegan heaved another sigh, this one long and drawn-out.
“Considering your interest in art, you might enjoy visiting the Metropolitan Museum.”
“I am sure I would. But alas, I have no means of getting there.”
“Leave the logistics to me. We can go tomorrow. Afterward, if you like, we can take a leisurely stroll through Central Park.” He added pointedly, “And talk about whatever is on our minds while the sheep graze on the grass.”
She turned to him. “Sir, when does the org—I mean, soiree, begin?”
“I would say it has already started.”
“But I am the only guest here.”
He bowed. “A most congenial companion with whom to pass a rainy eve.”
She looked back toward the banquet table and then shrugged. “I certainly have no objection to peeling them, but how can just one person possibly eat so many grapes?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Her sights moved from crystal fruit bowl to crystal punch bowl. She licked her lips. Dry lips.
Damn his thoughtlessness! “Would you care for some refreshment?”
“A mulled cider would be lovely.”
They ambled, arms linked, to the buffet table, where he filled, then handed her, a tiny glass cup.
A deep swallow, and she drained the golden contents. Would she finish him off the same, drain him dry, if the deep swallow meant getting what she wanted from him?
What exactly did she want from him?
/> In the silent room, her belly growled.
“Hungry?” he asked.
She grinned. “Heard the uproar, did you?”
Once again, she defied cataloging. He thought he had her pegged as a priss, but a hint of earthiness blew his assessment out of the water. She had sanctimonious principles, of that he was certain, but she was not so proud as to deny her human frailty.
She was hungry, and she admitted it.
Her humility moved him. Dignity made for a fine character trait, but dignity never filled anyone’s gut, and he would know.
Releasing her arm, he heaped a plate from the buffet table with the choicest of foods: a dainty sampling of raw oysters; baked white fish and roasted poultry; cream sauce-covered vegetables. And breads, sliced thin enough to slip unnoticed in a pocket and smuggle out of the dining room for later gorging.
A mountainous china plate on one arm, her too-thin person on the other, he steered her toward a pair of padded chairs before the rain-washed window.
He seated her and then himself. “Eat.”
The plate balanced between her separated knees, the knife and fork raised, hardly able to wait to dig in, she did an extraordinary thing.
“What about you, sir?”
No one had ever thought to ask over his belly before. At an early age, he had learned about hunger. From there, he graduated to starvation. Upon the death of her father, Tegan Ellis had most likely learned the same lessons. Had he known, he would have spared her the education.
Her words came back to haunt him. “Carelessness makes for a sloppy excuse. And ignorance as a defense is a faulty argument.”
She might have been speaking of him, accusing him of gross negligence, a just accusation in this instance. He should have made it his business to know about the miners and their families sooner. His survey of Central Mine had been a year too late.
Sean checked the alignment of his tie. “Already ate, thanks. You go ahead and dig in while I watch the rain.”
He never once glanced out the window. Not that she was aware of where his gaze stayed—on her the whole time. Too preoccupied with the food to notice his observation or to fuss over any but the most rudimentary manners, she wolfed everything down. Afterward, she patted her lips, placed her empty plate on the floor, and rose to her feet. “Excuse me, sir.”