Leslie LaFoy

by Jacksons Way

  Tears welled in Lindsay's eyes. There was no holding them back this time, and as they spilled down her cheeks, she wrapped her arms around Abigail, burying her face in her housekeeper's shoulder to quietly sob, “I am so grateful to have had you both in my life. So very grateful.”

  “It will be all right, Lindsay,” Abigail crooned, holding her tight. “Trust yourself. And know that I'm here for you. Always.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  ABATH, CLEAN CLOTHES, clean hair, and knowing you could afford to buy food … The simplest of things were the ones that gave the greatest pleasure, Lindsay mused as she came down the stairs. Her sense of satisfaction would be complete if she found Primrose and Emile actually cooking the evening meal. The study door stood open and a movement within caught her attention. Lindsay altered her course.

  Jackson sat behind the huge mahogany desk, frowning slightly as he contemplated something in the papers spread out before him. He, too, had experienced the wondrous joy of a bath and clean clothes. She saw no bandage of any sort on his head. Of course. He looked up with his eyes, meeting her gaze only briefly before he slowly assessed her from hairpins to hem and back again. His frown changed to an appreciative smile that sent an exquisite shiver through her.

  Alarmed by her reaction, she seized the conversation, determined to keep it directed away from herself. “I distinctly recall Dr. Bernard telling me that he'd ordered you to bed rest for a couple of days.”

  “He suggested it. I've decided to ignore it.” He motioned her into the study, saying as he did, “An offer's come in on the St. Louis property.”

  At last, a bit of good news. She advanced, coming to a halt in front of the desk and accepting the document he handed her. It was from Percival Little, the prospective buyer in Boston and the senior partner of Little, Bates and Company. His was usually the last of the offers to come in. Interesting that his had been the first this time.

  “How much did you ask for it?” Jackson asked.

  She looked at the numbers and her heart sank. “Twice this much,” she supplied, handing the paper back. “I detest the offer-counteroffer process. It takes so much time.”

  “Not to mention that it would be so much easier if everyone were direct and honest right from the start about what they wanted and expected.”

  For some reason she felt that he wasn't speaking about just business transactions, that he was also making a veiled reference to personal relationships. If she were to be honest and direct with him about their relationship, what would she say? With no clear answer, she opted for a general truth, “Unfortunately, that's not the way the world works.”

  He considered her for a long moment and then began to sort the papers as he drawled, “No, it's not, is it?”

  And he was disappointed by that fact. Lindsay battled the impulse to apologize. “The reporters are going to be here soon, Jack. They're going to ask about the fire. There will also be questions about the MacPhaull Company in general.”

  He leaned back in the chair, his gaze steady and direct. “And what do you intend to tell them?”

  “I don't know,” she admitted, feeling her pulse quicken. His eyes were so dark and yet so soft. As before, she felt her soul being drawn into the depths of them. Her thoughts didn't scatter; they softly drifted to the edge of her awareness.

  “Lindsay?”

  She drew a deep breath and with great effort pulled her mind back to business. “There's no avoiding the fact that Richard is incapacitated,” she said, settling into a chair and gripping the arms to ground herself. “If the reporters don't already know it, then it's only a matter of days before someone in the business community notices his absence and the questions will begin in earnest. There are two ways to go from that point, both having distinct advantages and disadvantages. Which to choose depends on what you intend to do with the assets and how you want to go about it.”

  “What are the choices?”

  It was a straightforward business question. Why did she hear it as being wrapped in black velvet? Lindsay tightened her grip on the chair. “In the first one, I say that while Richard is indeed ill, he's expected to recover fully and that he continues to advise me as he's always done. The circumstances of the MacPhaull Company remain essentially unchanged and business is being conducted as usual.”

  “All of it a bald-faced lie.”

  “Yes,” she admitted, hearing the censure in his voice. Again, she fought back the urge to apologize. “I don't like it, either,” she offered instead. “But in making it our official truth, the vultures can be kept at bay. What assets you need to dispose of can be sold for higher prices if the buyers don't know that the company's in both turmoil and desperate straits. The drawback is that if you intend to tell Henry and Agatha the truth, the reporters will soon be back here knowing that they've been lied to. My brother and sister are not very skilled at keeping cards close to their vests. If they know something, all of New York soon knows it.”

  “The other choice?”

  “Basically, we tell them the truth,” she answered. “I tell them that Richard's health is immaterial because, in my father's recent passing, both the ownership and the management of the company came into your control. I then paint you as a paragon of business acumen. I'd probably even go so far as to tell the tale of your heroic rescues in the midst of the fire. I would, of course, neglect to mention that your objective is to dismantle the company as quickly and efficiently as possible.”

  “That keeping the vultures at bay concern again,” he observed, watching her intently. “And what would be the advantages and disadvantages of this course?”

  “The primary advantage lies in it being the truth. Honesty is always easier to live with than lies, don't you think?”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  Again, she had the distinct impression that he was referring to relationships outside of business. “With the truth, we wouldn't have to explain why you're involved in the decision-making when people ask. And ask they will, Jack. Secondly, if people know that you're decisive and brave as well as a competent businessman, you'll have their respect even before you go into any buy-sell negotiations with them.”

  “And the disadvantages?”

  “In a business sense, people are going to be watching your actions very closely. There will be some who'll assume that you do indeed intend to dismantle the company. While you'll have their respect, you won't have the element of secrecy or surprise for very long. Once you actually make the first move to sell the first property, they'll know, and the vultures will circle.

  “And in a more personal sense,” she added, “Henry and Agatha are going to know with the next edition of the paper that their circumstances are drastically changed. You won't have a chance to tell them yourself or in the way that you'd prefer. Today's fire will seem a minor thing in comparison to how they're going to react.”

  He grinned. “We'll have to barricade the doors.”

  “And Primrose will have to boil the oil,” she added, her heart suddenly and insanely light. How easily he made her troubles laughable. It was a gift, truly. One she appreciated very much.

  “What would you prefer to tell the reporters, Lindsay?” he asked, his grin still broad, his eyes bright.

  That Jackson Stennett is in charge and none of it is my problem anymore. God is good and merciful. “If you'd delay saying anything to Henry and Agatha,” she suggested, opting to be rational, “I'd prefer to go the first way. You can get more for the assets with that strategy.”

  His smile faded as he considered that, and then he cocked a brow to ask, “What about the living with a lie?”

  “All of this is a lie, Jack,” she said, gesturing to the room and accoutrements around them. “What's one more?”

  “A lot,” he instantly countered. “Tell the reporters the truth, Lindsay.”

  Her stomach clenched. “But Henry and Agatha—”

  “Will sure as hell regret they didn't show up to dinner when they were invited, won't they?”r />
  “Oh, God,” she quietly moaned, imagining the scene Henry and Agatha would create. “You don't know what you're unleashing.”

  “I don't really care.”

  She did care, and the looming confrontation was something she didn't want to witness. MacPhaull Rules weren't that strong; they'd be blown to itty bitty little pieces. “I have an idea,” Lindsay offered. “You stay here and deal with my brother and sister. I'll go to Texas and herb your cattle, or whatever it is that you do with them.”

  He laughed. “It's herd, Lindsay. Herd.”

  There was a quiet knocking from the door. Jackson looked that way and Lindsay turned in the chair to do the same. Mrs. Beechum stood circumspectly on the other side of the threshold, her empty dress sleeve tucked into the waistband of her skirt. In her hand she held a large rectangular box. Lindsay instantly recognized the signature color of both the box itself and the ornately tied bow. Goldsmith was the finest and the most expensive jeweler in the city.

  “Pardon the intrusion, Miss Lindsay,” she said, “but this package has just arrived for Miss Agatha and I presume it to be of sufficient value to deliver straight to you for safekeeping.”

  Lindsay rose from the chair and went to her housekeeper. The box was weighty and Lindsay clenched her teeth. Damn Agatha.

  “Also,” Abigail Beechum said, “the reporter from the Herald is here. I've put him in the parlor. Primrose is preparing the tea.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Beechum,” Lindsay replied as she yanked an end of satin ribbon and gathered the loosened binding into her fist. “Please tell him that I'll be there in a few moments.”

  The housekeeper nodded and left as Lindsay went to the desk, tossed aside the ribbon, set the package in front of Jackson, and opened the lid. A black velvet box lay inside, nestled in golden tissue. With a deep sigh of certainty, Lindsay lifted the case and popped open the hinged top. An ornate diamond-and-ruby necklace glinted brightly from a nest of midnight-blue satin.

  “Is it pretty?”

  She looked over the top of the case to meet Jackson Stennett's gaze. “No one can fault Agatha's taste,” she answered, turning the case so that he could see the purchase for himself. As his brow shot up, Lindsay smiled thinly and added, “Unfortunately, she just can't seem to grasp the notion that she doesn't have the money to go with it.”

  “What do you intend to do about it?”

  Lindsay closed the case and placed it back in the delivery box as she replied, “I'll return it, of course. And with it will be a letter apologizing for the fact that it's being returned, as well as informing Mr. Goldsmith and his staff that all of my sister's future purchases will have to have my prior approval.”

  “I'm guessing,” Jack drawled, “that Agatha isn't going to be too happy about that.”

  “No, she's not,” Lindsay admitted, thinking that Jackson Stennett had a true gift for understatement. She gave him a reassuring smile as she squared her shoulders and added, “I'll see to writing the letter this evening. It's too late in the day to send anything to Goldsmith's, but I'll see that it's done in the morning. But first things first. I need to meet with the reporter sitting patiently in the parlor.”

  “I'll give you five minutes, Lindsay, and then I'll join you.”

  “You don't trust me,” she accused, instantly hurt and angry.

  “It's not that at all,” he said softly. “This isn't exactly a pleasant task and you shouldn't have to go it alone.”

  Despite herself, Lindsay was shocked. This was not the natural order of things. Richard would take tasks from her because he insisted that he could do them better. Her mother had taken them because Lindsay was incapable of doing them to her satisfaction. Mrs. Beechum would take them because they were within the realm of her housekeeping duties. Never had anyone offered such a kindness. It made her throat tighten uncomfortably. “If you think you must,” she replied. “But please know that I'm perfectly capable of handling the situation without assistance. From you or anyone else.”

  He nodded and countered, “I don't doubt your abilities at all. But just because you can carry the load by yourself doesn't mean that you should have to. I'll be in in a few minutes.”

  She left the study knowing that, despite her best intentions and Richard's unspoken expectations, the scales on Jackson Stennett were beginning to tip. While she resented his having inherited all that she'd worked for, she also knew that she wasn't feeling her usual sense of being overwhelmed. It was hard to place a dollars and cents value on the comfort to be had in sharing a burden, but if she emerged from the company reorganization reasonably close to being financially sound … What was money compared to knowing that for a time you weren't alone in facing difficulties? In that regard, Jack was well on his way to proving himself priceless.

  THE BACK OF HIS HEAD POUNDING, Jackson stood just outside the parlor door, listening to Lindsay paint him as the greatest hero since Hercules. It was almost embarrassing to enter the parlor following all that praise, but he managed it with aplomb and then neatly turned the tables on her, telling the very young Mr. Horatio Wellsbacher of the New York Herald of his rescue by the daring and fearless Lindsay MacPhaull. Wellsbacher scribbled notes furiously. Lindsay's cheeks turned the most delicious-looking shade of rosy peach. And it took every bit of restraint Jackson possessed to keep from wrapping his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close, and tasting.

  And when the telling of the fire stories was done, Wellsbacher thought to gather some details for the whole thing. He asked what sort of business Jack was in that had brought him to New York. Lindsay answered beautifully, as though she'd had months to rehearse the lines. Jack picked up his cue and took the conversation from there, laying out the story of Billy's death, his own inheritance of the MacPhaull Company, and his determination to see that the hard work of Billy's youngest daughter hadn't been in vain.

  Wellsbacher took notes the whole time, rarely looking up from his notepad, and only occasionally asking a question for clarification or expansion. Lindsay sat with her hands folded demurely in her lap, the perfect picture of a circumspect lady. When she slid Jackson a look, silent laughter in her eyes, he felt an intense desire to see just how much of a proper lady she wasn't.

  As he struggled with the impulse, it occurred to him that he did a lot better resisting it when she wasn't around. Whenever she was near, his brain seemed to quit listening to his common sense. Focusing on the business task at hand was exceedingly difficult, but Lindsay—bless her—kept his attention from going too far astray by supplying bits of information and prompting him to add his own contributions.

  When Jackson declared that there was nothing further to be said, the young man jumped to his feet, extended his hand, and furiously pumped Jackson's while gushing about the incredible journalistic opportunity he and the lovely, lovely Miss MacPhaull had just given him.

  Lindsay offered to have Mrs. Beechum show him to the door, but Horatio Wellsbacher couldn't be delayed by such unnecessary social niceties. Declaring that he remembered where the door was, he managed to keep a dignified pace until he reached the foyer. From there, he ran, his notepad clutched in his hand, his gaze obviously fixed forward and on the wondrous story he dreamed of handing his editor.

  Jack grinned in amusement as the front door slammed closed with enough force to rock the pictures on the parlor walls. His amusement was replaced by pleasant surprise when Lindsay touched his arm and, smiling up at him, asked, “Did Dr. Bernard say anything to you about not drinking for a while?”

  His reaction was without thought; Lindsay's hand lay on his forearm and he covered her fingers with his own. Her smile warmed and he felt his heart lurch. “No. Why?”

  “I feel the need for a celebratory sherry and my mother always maintained that it is in exceedingly poor taste to drink alone.”

  He thought he heard a small voice suggesting that he not allow her so close, but the words were muffled and seemed to come from a great distance. “I wouldn't want you to sin,” he said, l
eading her out of the parlor and back to the study, where the liquor was kept. And because he was tired of controlling his impulses, he added, “Not without me anyway.”

  She laughed softly, genuinely, and he had a hard time swallowing. Speech was momentarily beyond him and so they arrived at the beverage cart without another word. Lindsay slipped her hand from beneath his to pour their drinks and he felt the loss of her touch with a sharp pang of regret. God, he was in trouble. Deep trouble. He had to get a handle on himself before he did something fatally stupid.

  “What are we celebrating?” he asked as she handed him a glass of whiskey.

  “A masterfully controlled interview,” she replied, lifting her glass of sherry in salute. “You did beautifully, sir.”

  Again he reacted without thinking, lifting his hand to touch his hat brim as he smiled and said, “Thank you, ma'am.” Only there wasn't a hat on his head. Where had he left it? He'd been wearing it when they'd left Jeb and Lucy's. With a wince, he remembered when and where and how it had been lost. At Lindsay's questioning look, he asked, “You didn't happen to drag my hat out of the fire with me, did you?”

  Her shoulders sagged and then she said softly, “It didn't even occur to me to look for it. I'm sorry.”

  Sweet Jesus, now she'd done it. She'd gone and apologized.

  “Oh, dear,” she gasped, her eyes widening as she, too, realized what she'd done and what the consequence would be. Then, just a quickly, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, said, “All right. Get it over with,” and tilted her face up, presenting him with her lips.

  Kissing her was what he wanted to do, what he'd threatened to do. And if he did, it would be a giant first step down the road of regrettable endings. How the hell could he get them both out of this gracefully?

  “Have you ever been kissed, Lindsay?” he asked, noting her firmly set lips and thinking that he might be able to plead chivalry. She nodded, her eyes remaining closed. Jackson silently swore as he dropped his gaze to his whiskey glass. The notion came out of the blue and he seized it, not knowing whether it was wise or not, but willing to take the chance. It was better than certain disaster. He dipped his finger into the glass then reached up, gently trailing it over her lower lip.