by Brenna Todd
When Erin finally entered the great hall, she paused for a moment to make sure it was empty. It was. Thank God. Just steps away from freedom.
More like yards, actually. This room was the showcase of J.B.'s palace—the tour guide had said so herself. Larger than any other in the mansion, the room had space enough to hold three gala balls at once. Erin thought of the music from last night as she passed the bandstand where the baby-grand piano stood silent now. She thought of the crowd of twenties flappers and their slick-haired companions as she tip-tapped across the expanse of black-and-white tile.
When she finally stood in front of the king-size medieval fireplace, she thought of J.B. and Waite.
Waite. Erin paused, her hand on the brick facade. She thought she felt his presence, and turned, expecting to find him there. He wasn't. But he should have been, because her throat had filled again with the same fierce emotion she'd felt last night.
There was no sense to be made of it, of course, but Erin found it strange how passionate her feeling for Waite was. Oh, hell. She rolled her eyes. Reason? She was looking for reason? Nothing that had happened here made sense. The connection was the portrait, though, and Della's murder. Not Waite.
She ducked and walked into the shadowy fireplace. Stepping to the back, she wrapped her fingers around the doorknob and twisted. Then pulled. And pulled again. The knob turned easily, but still the door wouldn't give. Glancing up, she saw why. A padlock was threaded through a hasp at the top of the door.
"Damn you, J.B.!" Erin grabbed the lock, banging it against the door again and again as though that actually might do some good. "Damn you, damn you, damn you!"
"Having trouble?"
Erin gasped, then swung around, expecting to see J.B. But it wasn't him. It was Waite. He stood at the opening of the fireplace, hands on hips, his head lowered to peer in at her. Her nerves, already frayed, exploded when he stepped into the enclosure.
"Uh...yes. Actually, I could use your help." Attraction, she told herself, backing up against the door. That's all it was. He was her fantasy type: tall and dark, with mystery in his eyes and a mouth that made her think of.. .well, sex. She'd never been quite this blindsided by attraction in the past, but Erin was no innocent. She knew chemistry when she felt it. And that's all this was. Nothing mystical about it.
"Could you, now?"
The second dose of sarcasm stung a bit. "Yes. As I told you last night, I need to get into the tunnel."
Even in the dim light she could see that his complexion was ruddy, as though he'd just stepped in from the cold, and the scent of outdoors clung to the clothes that fit his strong body so beautifully.
He stared down at her, lifting a gloved hand to his mouth, and clasping one of the fingers in his teeth and pulling it off. Then he looked up at the padlock, fingering it. A flutter of sexual awareness settled in Erin's stomach. See? she told herself. Sexual attraction, pure and simple. She glanced up at his hand. It didn't surprise her for some reason that his was callused, used to physical labor. But should it be? He was a tycoon, and tycoons sat behind desks.
Finally she found her voice. "You see, I lost something down there. A piece of jewelry. And I want to get it back."
"And you'd like me to help you open this lock so you can go down there."
"Yes. That is—do you mind?" She made the mistake of looking up at him, her gaze meshing with his. It struck her that Della would have been crazy not to have been tempted by a man like Waite MacKinnon. Not that Erin condoned the woman's loose interpretation of her marriage vows, but she had been human. And so was Erin.
Human and female and inexorably drawn to everything about this man. Good Lord, she could think of nothing at the moment but touching him. She tucked her hands behind her back.
"Do I mind?" The indolent smile on his mouth was crooked, and a dimple slashed one cheek. "Looks like J.B. might mind. It appears as though he doesn't want you down there."
"I realize that," she replied, an edge to her words as she recalled J.B.'s dictatorial stance. "But he doesn't have to know, does he?"
Waite narrowed his eyes. The dimple vanished. "He doesn't have to know, Della? Is that what you told the man you took into the tunnels last night?"
The sharp tone in his voice made her blink. It seemed Waite cared a little more about Della's behavior than was appropriate. Was that part of the legend correct, then? Was Waite more than just a friend to Della? She remembered him telling J.B. something about not having reason to distrust him. But maybe he'd lied. Waite wasn't Della's murderer, but maybe the rumors of their affair hadn't been just rumors.
"I don't want to talk about last night," she said. Because, of course, she didn't know enough about last night to discuss it. All she was aware of was that Della was dead, and at the hands of a bearded man who very well might have been the one who'd done the luring. But Erin had neither the time nor the inclination to come to Della's defense. "I just want my locket back, okay? Can you help me or not?"
"Your what?" Waite's features froze, surprising Erin.
"My... locket."
"Had a change of heart, have you?" he asked.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."
No, Erin thought wearily, I really, really don't. Trying a different tack, she reached up to the bandage on her forehead. "I'm, uh, not thinking clearly today. I can't remember. I think this bump on my head—"
"You gave it away," he interrupted. "To a maid, remember? Told me you hated it." A smirk hitched one corner of his mouth. "It and me."
Waite pushed his hand back into his glove, surprised at Della's stunned expression. Her fingers dropped from the bandage and her mouth worked, but no words came out. Della Munro at a loss for words—an even bigger surprise.
"So.. .you gave her the locket?"
He frowned. "Her?"
"Me. I—I mean me," she said quickly.
"You can't tell me you don't remember that. Della?" He took her chin in his hand and forced her to look up at him.
"I...well, of course I remember it. It's just that..."
"Just what?"
"It's just... my head. I'm not feeling well. You know, I should probably go lie down or something." She edged her chin away from him and her hand shot to the bandage again. "Yeah, that's what I need to do. I'll, uh... I'll catch you later. I mean see. See you after a while," she amended, then fled the fireplace.
Waite ducked down, watching as she strode briskly from the room. When she was out of sight, he stepped out of the fireplace and rubbed a hand over his face. He'd vowed a good long while ago to put J.B.'s wife out of his thoughts completely, and he'd been damned successful at it for years. So what had happened over the past twenty-four hours to change all that?
Last night she'd looked at him, and touched him, and he'd been rocked back on his heels. And just now, when he'd pictured her going down to the tunnels with that man, he'd experienced an impossible swell of jealousy that hadn't been there when he'd actually seen her leave with him in the first place.
He clenched his teeth. This was stupid. After cleansing his mind and his soul of the woman, he wasn't about to crawl back into the mud with her.
She wasn't worth a moment's consideration. And certainly not worth the restless hours he'd spent last night.
I'll catch you later? What the devil did that mean?
He'd been skeptical when she'd blamed the injury to her head for her strange behavior, but thinking back to the party and then her recent actions, he wasn't so sure she hadn't been telling the truth.
I'm not Della.
He'd suspected liquor last night, rum being Della's favorite beverage these days. What else could have explained her disjointed ramblings and the clothes she wouldn't be caught dead in?
His gaze was drawn to the portrait J.B. had commissioned when she'd been his ward, not yet his wife. Waite wandered slowly toward it. He stood before it, looking at the young girl who
had possessed his love and all his dreams for the future, and the years melted away.
He heard gay laughter trill from her lips, then felt her kiss him, remembering the passionate response only a young man in the throes of first love could know. He saw the heat of arousal in her heavy-lidded eyes, eyes that had gazed upon him with what he'd mistaken for love. He felt the caress of her elegant hand on his skin, the slide of their bodies when joined in the age-old rhythm of lovemak-ing. And he heard the music their whispers and groans had made when sweet release had finally come.
"Beautiful woman, J.B.'s wife."
Waite started, turning. Harrison Wyndham, the Boston banker who was J.B.'s houseguest, stood behind him, his head tilted as he studied Della's portrait with a curious expression. Waite hadn't heard his approach. He cleared his throat, then his mind, of the images. Good God, those days—their days—had been a lifetime ago. And he'd thought the memories had gone the way of his innocence... his youth.
"Yes," he replied. "She is."
"But a bit...wild, eh? Quite a spectacle she made of herself at the party."
Waite tensed, and felt a twist of irritation toward the banker. He didn't like the look in Wyndham's eye, or his judgmental attitude. True, Waite had engineered the deal between J.B. and Wyndham, but that didn't mean he had to like his attitude toward Della.
Della...his partner's wife. That, Waite told himself, was what had made him feel so protective. But when he searched for a judicious retort, it was difficult to find a defense for her behavior. He, himself, had thought her drunk.
"High-spirited," Waite said at last. Wyndham squinted behind his small, round spectacles.
"High-spirited, wild. I suppose Oklahomans see no distinction between the two. Not with your horses or your women."
Sudden ire was supplanted by a prick of discomfort. Della wasn't his woman. Not anymore. Waite shouldn't feel this unreasonable need to defend her. She had J.B. for that. But still the words rankled. He said with a grin that didn't reach his eyes, "Even here on the 'uncivilized' prairie, Wyndham, we know the subtle distinction."
"Subtle?" The banker chuckled and slid his hands into the pockets of his elegantly cut trousers. His gaze swept the great hall and all the trappings of J.B.'s success, coming back to rest on Waite. "Mr. MacKinnon, don't take this as an insult, because I'm a businessman, and this display, ostentatious though it might be, speaks to me of accomplishment. But I must say I find it amusing to hear the word subtle on the lips of an Oklahoman. In the East, Munro's wife's behavior last night would not have been referred to as 'high-spirited' any more than it would be said that J. B. Munro lives 'comfortably.'"
Waite fought back his anger. He and J.B. had spent an entire year convincing Wyndham to visit. He was president of a bank in Boston that boasted some of the wealthiest, old-monied clients on the Eastern seaboard. J.B. wanted a good portion of that money to be invested in Oklahoma, and in Munro specifically.
Waite wasn't entirely in agreement that Munro needed Wyndham's clients and their fat wallets, but he'd played his part nevertheless. Still, prosperity was already theirs. When other rail lines like Munro MacKinnon had been forced out of business by the gasoline age, Waite had suggested diversification, and J.B. had been in complete accord. Investing in everything from oil to holdings in trucking lines, city buses, and even radio manufacturing, they had then poured private funds into civic improvements such as the paving of all city roads and the building of a hospital, a city pool and a golf course. The citizens of Munro enjoyed a healthy economy. J.B. argued that it wasn't enough; his town needed more.
Waite wondered fleetingly when J.B. would ever have enough. For himself or the town.
"On Oklahoma's behalf," he said, avoiding mention of Della, "I'll take it as a compliment, Harrison. I was born in the East myself, but I became accustomed to the grand scale of things here quickly. We feel if you don't do it up big, it must not have been worth doing in the first place."
Wyndham snorted. "It must have taken some getting used to, you being from the East. Don't know that I could ever become acclimated to a place like this."
Waite shrugged, annoyed by the banker's attitude, but relieved that the conversation had veered into safer territory. Safer for J.B.'s business concerns and safer for Waite's personal peace of mind. Peace of mind... He wouldn't, couldn't let thoughts of Della Munro creep back in again.
"I was a boy when I arrived, Harrison. Probably didn't have the sense to be intimidated." His grin was self-deprecating. "Like most young men, it was the adventure, the romance I'd heard stories of, that appealed to me."
A frown puckered the banker's brow. "My clients, normally serious, no-nonsense men, are quite taken with the glamour of the West. I'm afraid that might bias their good business sense. But I'm not so easily impressed."
Waite held back a wry grin. "No romance in your soul, Harrison? I find that hard to believe."
"No room for it in business, Mr. MacKinnon." Wyndham grasped the lapels of his jacket, reminding Waite of every stuffy, pragmatic banker he'd ever met. "Didn't get where I am today by allowing emotion to color the facts in a business transaction. Oklahoma, in my opinion, is merely another state amongst many my clients might wish to locate their business interests in. No more or less glamorous than any other."
"Then I suppose a trip to the 101 Ranch to see the Wild West show J.B. had planned for you would be out of the question."
"Wild West show, you say?" Then, quick to stifle his sudden interest, the man harrumphed. "Seen plenty of them. One in Madison Square Garden."
"Ah. Well, the 101 is the best of the lot—world renowned, in fact. But since you don't seem interested..."
Wyndham's eyes shifted nervously behind his spectacles. "Oh, but I wouldn't want J.B. to change his plans for me. No, I'll go along. Probably be best for me to meet the owner of this concern. He's another businessman, after all."
"Yes, one of the more successful ones in Oklahoma."
"Then I shall attend. No need to tell J.B. he should cancel his plans."
"Oh, I wouldn't think of it, Harrison."
"Good, good. Well, good morning to you, MacKinnon. I'm heading in for breakfast, myself."
"Enjoy," Waite said, his lips quirking when the banker left the room. Wyndham made one poor poker player, Waite thought, having witnessed the man tip his hand all week. He could bluster on about his pragmatism from hell to breakfast, but the man was a goner. Had been since he'd stepped out of J.R's private railroad car and laid eyes on his first cowboy.
Congratulations, J.B. That meant more prosperity. More money. Which, of course, meant more wealth for Waite. He couldn't say why, but the prospect brought him little satisfaction. Suddenly other things seemed far more important—such as his inappropriate thoughts about his partner's wife.
He should be glad that the deal was going to go through. He was going to need the money. Soon he'd be moving into the lavish home that was nearly finished, the mansion he'd vowed to have the first time he'd stepped through the doors of J.B.'s palace. One day, he had thought, I'll have all this. And that day was finally here. But it had brought none of the pleasure or excitement he'd once anticipated.
Touring the cavernous, empty rooms of his new residence yesterday, he'd only felt a niggling sense of irritation. It was too big, too... much. It wasn't as he'd imagined it would be at all. The floor plans he'd approved hadn't included such ridiculously immense rooms—had they? And had he told the builder he'd wanted so many bedrooms? Foolish to have that many bedrooms. He didn't entertain out-of-town guests, and he didn't envision ever having a family of his own.
And why the hell not? a small voice in the back of his brain asked. You could still do something about it, could have married years ago.
He glanced up at the portrait again, then damned himself—and her. Della Munro had not been the woman for him eight years ago, and no way in hell was she the right woman now. So why had he looked at her portrait when he'd thought of filling his huge new house with a family?
She was J.B.'s. He'd accepted that; he hadn't thought twice about her after finally realizing that his partner had done him a favor by taking her for his wife. Until now. Now?
With teeth clenched, Waite forced himself to remember. If anything would put an end to this nonsense, refreshing his memories of Della ought to.
Della had been seventeen, just days from her eighteenth birthday, when he first saw her. Waite had been twenty-two, fresh out of college and a new employee of Munro Rail Lines. He'd taken one look at Munro's ward and fallen hard. Head-over-heels, knocked-on-his-keister hard. At Della's insistence, they met on the sly, and before long she'd given him every reason to think she felt the same way about him. Waite had wanted marriage, a family to take the place of the one he'd lost, and he'd proposed. It had seemed strange at the time, the shrewd grin that had stretched her lips. But it had made sense later, of course, when J.B. informed him a marriage between Waite and Della would never happen—because J.B. planned to wed her himself.
Though Waite had exploded with fury at the time, Della's coldhearted rejection after J.B.'s announcement had convinced Waite that she'd never really loved him, had only used him for her own purposes. She had had her sights set on J.B. all along, she'd informed Waite flippantly, and their affair had simply been a means to an end. She had wanted J.B.'s attention, and what better way to get it than through a dalliance with Waite, J.B.'s favorite young "lieutenant."
He had nursed a bruised heart and a battered pride for a long time, but he'd gotten over her. He and J.B. had made peace, as well, and over time the whole sordid episode faded into memory.
Until now, the small voice reminded him.
Yes, Waite thought. Until now.
He glared at the portrait, suspicion displacing the indifference he'd felt toward Della all these years. You're up to something again, aren't you? he thought, and chastised himself for forgetting even for a moment that Della did nothing without an ulterior motive. Why else would she solicit his help in finding the locket?