by Jacksons Way
Of course, her mother had been abandoned by her father and while there had been a procession of—as her mother had put it—“companions” afterward, not a one of them had been companionable for very long. To Lindsay's mind, her mother's approach, while certainly profitable, had always seemed to lack true substance. She'd tried her mother's way and found that it didn't suit her in the least. Her own way was something she'd never thought to discover. Until now.
As though he knew of her internal debate, Jack shifted on the seat, taking up sides in the contest by deliberately stretching his legs out so that his calf rested firmly against her own. Her pulse quickened as a delightful warmth spread through her limbs. Maintaining her pretense of being unaware, she reminded herself to breathe. She could feel Jack's gaze on her and knew without looking that his smile was quirked and knowing.
Perhaps she ought to face him and squarely address the issue of their relationship. Her mother had held that there was no need to actually talk about relations; that men could be trusted to know where matters were headed. It seemed less than honest to Lindsay. But where and how did one begin such a conversation? And it could be that her hesitancy was a sign that she wasn't as comfortable with the notion of being seduced as she'd thought.
Dithering again, Linds, she silently admonished. Make a decision one way or the other.
The slowing of the carriage, however, ended the immediate necessity of doing so, and she felt a surge of relief for the timely reprieve. “We have arrived,” she announced unnecessarily, making a production out of smoothing her skirts and flouncing her hems. In the process, she casually put space between their lower limbs.
Jack made a humming sound of agreement and straightened in the seat. “Sooner or later, you always do,” he said softly, giving her a wink as the carriage stopped and he reached for the door handle.
What was it about him that made her feel as though there were layers to the things he said? she wondered, watching him smoothly exit. She accepted his hand and allowed him to assist her out. Even through the fabric of her gloves, she was aware of the warmth of his skin and she missed it when he slowly released his claim to her.
He chewed the inside of his cheek as he considered her and then, with an almost apologetic smile, turned to look at the smoldering remains of the apartment building. “Was it insured?” he asked.
Lindsay quickly gathered her wits and reminded herself that discussing business matters was a blessedly safe and certain haven. “Unfortunately, no,” she supplied. “There was a horrible fire in the city four years ago. The water supplies were insufficient and millions of dollars of insured property was lost north of Harold Square. We suffered some damage to our properties, but it was minimal. Payment of the loss claims bankrupted every insurance company in town. Our carrier was among those who failed. The rates from companies in other cities nearby were prohibitive and we decided to take our chances. The cost of insurance will come down once the construction of the aqueduct is finished, but that doesn't mean much to us now.”
Jack nodded as though he were contemplating all of it and then turned to look at the traffic moving past them. “This looks to me like it's a pretty busy street,” he finally observed.
He was seeing his way to an action; she could sense it in her bones. “It is,” she answered warily. “Twenty-third is a major east-west route.”
“And the city doesn't have any direction to grow but northward.”
Ah, he was considering future property values. “Well, there is out to Long Island,” she reminded him.
He brought his gaze to hers and grinned. “Where Agatha wants to buy some land at an outrageous price.”
“There is a certain appeal to her being isolated by the ferry schedule.”
He chuckled before turning away from her yet again. This time he surveyed the entire block. After a long moment he asked, “Want to know what we're going to do?”
“Ship Agatha and her belongings out on this evening's ferry?” she ventured only half facetiously.
He laughed outright. “The motion's on the table for consideration.” He sobered slowly. “After we've put this chunk of land up for auction. Who do we see about handling it for us?”
It made sense to do so. Lord knew there wasn't any money available to rebuild. And it was on the list of those properties Richard was considering selling. But there was something in Jack's manner that suggested he was thinking on a larger scale. “By ‘chunk,’ just what are you referring to? The lot?” Lindsay asked, indicating the pile of charred lumber.
“You own half the block, don't you?” He didn't give her a chance to answer. “The whole thing goes up for sale.”
She glanced down the row of apartment buildings and small storefronts, mentally calculating the rents that would be lost and reckoning that against the probable receipts from their sale. The scales didn't come close to balancing. “No one wants to buy aging apartment buildings, Jack,” she said gently in the hope of educating him without battering his pride. “They're expensive to maintain and the rents are always difficult to collect.”
“I'm not selling the apartment houses,” he countered quickly. “I'm selling the land under them. That's what's valuable, Lindsay. Whoever buys it all will probably tear down the apartments and build something new.”
Richard had mentioned that course, but it had been a long-range plan. Jackson's intent to shorten the timetable instantly triggered the objections Lindsay had always harbored about the strategy. “Where will the tenants go, Jack? Where will they live? Where will they do business?”
Jackson shrugged. “That's their problem, not yours.”
“What a horribly selfish attitude!” Lindsay declared, thoroughly appalled by it. “I can't believe that you think I'm capable of such a callous and—”
His hands on her shoulders stole not only her words, but her breath. His gaze was dark and somber and regretful. “You can't mother the whole world, Lindsay,” he said softly. “And you have to take care of yourself before you can take care of others. It gets sold to the highest bidder. All of it. Now, I'll ask again, who do we see about setting up the auction?”
“Samuel Gregory,” she supplied reluctantly, knowing that Jack was right and that she had to put common sense before emotional considerations. Still, she wanted to cry, to bury her face in his chest and sob great big tears. Lifting her chin, Lindsay drew a steadying breath and gathered her composure to add, “He's reputed to be the best. There are others, of course, but I think we might as well start at the top and work our way down, if necessary.”
LINDSAY SAT PRIMLY in the straight-backed chair, her hands folded demurely in her lap, knowing that Samuel Gregory's huge cherry-wood desk prevented him from seeing how Jack's crossed legs had resulted in the toe of his boot coming to rest against her leg. Unlike in the carriage earlier, this touch wasn't deliberate. The office was small to begin with—not much larger than a broom closet—and Jack's height and the width of his shoulders had all but filled it. He'd apologized for bumping her as he'd settled in the chair beside hers and tried to make himself comfortable in the cramped space. Whether his touch was intentional or not, the effect was just the same. Lindsay could only hope that the tiny, incredibly cluttered office was sufficiently dim that the auctioneer was unaware of how quickly her pulse raced.
“I charge fifteen percent of the gross receipts for my services,” Gregory said, studying the paper Jack had handed him after the introductions and explanations had been completed.
“I'll pay you ten percent on the first fifty thousand dollars,” Jack drawled, slowly rubbing his foot against her leg, “and an additional one percent for every twenty-five thousand over that.”
All right. The contact might not have been as unavoidable as she'd thought. Lindsay tried to pay attention to the conversation in the hope that she'd be less aware of Jack's touch and the heat consuming her.
“That's ridiculous,” Gregory snorted.
“Look at the property list again,” Jack countered ca
lmly, drawing a line up her calf with his boot toe.
Lindsay swallowed. She couldn't physically move away; there wasn't room to go anywhere. Not that she really wanted to end the contact. Here and now, in the presence of Mr. Gregory, Jack's touch was even more daring than it had been in the carriage. And so much more exhilarating. When she got Jackson Stennett out of here, she was going to repay him for putting her through such an exquisitely brazen form of torture.
Gregory nodded and said quietly, “These are certainly well-situated properties, but still—”
“You can make as much money as you can squeeze out of the sale—which I'm thinking may just be considerably more than your usual fifteen percent,” Jackson drawled, “or you can make nothing at all. Miss MacPhaull,” Jack said, looking over at her, smiling, and drawing a deliberately slow trail down her leg with his toe, “assures me there are several auction agents in town. All with solid reputations.”
What was left of her reputation wouldn't be enough to fill a thimble if she didn't summon a scrap of propriety and put an end to Jack's advances.
“Five percent for every twenty-five thousand over the base fifty.”
“Two and a half,” Jackson lazily countered, trailing his toe upward again, watching her eyes.
Moth to a flame.
“Done. Let me consult my calendar.” The auctioneer opened a book and quickly began turning pages. “How does four weeks from today sound to you, Mr. Stennett?”
“Too far away,” Jack said, winking at her and turning his attention to the businessman. He stopped moving his foot, leaving it pressed lightly against her calf. “Shoot for two at the most.”
“But I have to have time to generate interest in the properties,” the older man protested, blinking furiously. “I have to have time to agitate the competing interests.”
Jack shook his head. “Too much time and those competing interests have a chance to get rational,” he said, his speech no longer a slow and easy drawl, but certain and crisp. “I want them waving fistfuls of money without thinking beyond a gut level, wanting to beat out the other guy. Two weeks at the outside.”
“Impossible. My calendar is completely full,” Gregory declared, indicating his open book with a sweeping motion of his hand. “Three weeks I might be able to do, but not any sooner.”
“Then we'll find another auctioneer,” Jack said, firmly. He rose from his chair, adding, “Thank you for your time.”
Lindsay looked between the two men and silently groaned at the prospect of having to endure the process a second time in another tiny office with another auctioneer. “Perhaps, Mr. Gregory,” she quickly ventured, catching Jackson's hand to stay him, “one of your already-scheduled clients would be willing to move their auction date to create an opening for Mr. Stennett?”
Gregory blinked and then furrowed his brows as he quickly perused his book again. Jack lightly squeezed her hand and let it go.
“The Theorosa family might. They've been waffling since the beginning,” Samuel Gregory said to his book. He looked up and met Lindsay's gaze. “His mother's house, you understand. The old lady's been gone two years and it's been empty ever since. It's sound, but fairly small. Probably won't go for more than a few thousand, if that. Not really worth my time, but Mrs. Theorosa—the one still living—is a member of my wife's reading club and I couldn't say no.”
“Where is the house?” Jackson asked casually, standing beside Lindsay's chair.
“Just outside the city. It used to be a dairy farm, but the cows and the land were sold off to neighbors after the senior Mr. Theorosa's death some years ago.”
Jackson extended his hand and Lindsay placed hers in it, allowing him to help her rise as he said, “Tell the Theorosas that if they'll remove the property from auction, you'll guarantee a buyer and a fair price for them.”
Samuel Gregory snatched up a pen from the desk stand. “Two weeks from tomorrow it is, Mr. Stennett,” he said, crossing out an entry—presumably the Theorosa name. As he scribbled in another, he added, “I assume the sales are to be on a cash basis?”
“Current letters of credit from reputable banking institutions will also be acceptable,” Jackson corrected, leaning back to push open the office door. “I'll rely on your judgment to know the honorable and serious bidders from those wasting our time. If you have any questions regarding the properties or the sale itself, please don't hesitate to ask. You can find either myself or Miss MacPhaull at the company offices.”
“Very good, Mr. Stennett,” Gregory said perfunctorily as he reached into a basket at the edge of his desk. He handed Lindsay an iron key, the ringed end tagged with a string and a small square of white paper. “Here's the key to the Theorosa property—in case you'd like to take a look at it beforehand to estimate your bid. Go north on Broadway five miles beyond the edge of the city. It's a small, white clapboard structure on your left. You won't have any problem finding it.”
“Thank you. We'll do that,” Jackson said, drawing Lindsay out from between the closely spaced chairs. “And thank you for your time today. I'm looking forward to a most profitable relationship.”
“As am I,” the auctioneer declared as they slipped out of his closet and into a slightly larger anteroom. They nodded in acknowledgment of the secretary as they passed, but said nothing further until they were outside on the walkway.
“That was an absolutely masterful manipulation,” Lindsay offered. “Congratulations.”
“You didn't do too badly yourself,” he offered, opening the carriage door for her. He offered her a hand in, but when she took it, he drew her to halt. His smile was roguish and his eyes bright as he gazed down at her. “And thank you for allowing me to distract myself along the way. I didn't want Gregory to think that I was too in need of his services. It's always to your advantage to have an opponent think you've got more important things on your mind than them.”
“Then your attention was purely a negotiation ploy,” she observed, arching a brow in patent disbelief.
“I didn't say that,” he countered, his smile brilliant and so warming that she was tempted to step closer and invite him to slip his arms around her.
“Might I ask what do you intend to do with the Theorosa house?” she asked in an attempt to keep from embarrassing herself.
He shrugged. “I don't know. I wanted the opening in the schedule and was prepared to pay for it. A couple of thousand will be of little consequence by the end of the auction.”
The auction. Now that they weren't sharing their conversation with Samuel Gregory, there were a few questions she felt compelled to ask. “I caught a glimpse of the properties listed, Jack. There were quite a few. And while I dislike appearing petty and self-absorbed, I can't help wondering— if you sell so many, what will be left to divide between Henry, Agatha, and me?”
“None of you are going to be rich, but you'll have steady incomes to live on and to invest.”
“You're not going to tell me the specific details, are you?”
He handed her into the carriage, saying, “Only because I haven't exactly decided on them yet. You'll be the first to know when I do, though.”
“Thank you.” Arranging her skirts and taking her seat, she asked, “So where are we going next? To the office?”
“Nope, Henry and Agatha will be looking for us there. Let's go see the Theorosa house.” He turned to look up at her coachman. “John? Take us out of the city, if you please. Five miles north on Broadway.”
She waited until he was settled opposite her before implementing her plan to pay him back. “My,” she said with a sigh, plucking at the front of her pelisse, “it's certainly warm for this time of year, don't you think?”
“I don't know,” he said, watching her fingers. “It's my first time in New York. I have no idea what the weather's usually like.”
The carriage worked its way into the northbound traffic.
“Then you'll just have to believe me when I tell you that it's unseasonably warm.” Using both hands,
Lindsay slowly opened the top button of her pelisse as she said, “I hope you don't mind the boldness, but I simply can't endure being so uncomfortable for another minute.”
“Not at all.” He touched his tongue to his lower lip as though he were parched. His voice sounded decidedly tight and dry as he added, “By all means, please be comfortable.”
“Thank you, Jack.” She opened the top button of her dress front. “You're such a gentleman.”
THEY WERE, WITHOUT DOUBT, the longest miles he'd ever traveled in his life, Jackson decided as the carriage pulled off the dirt road and into a short, rocky drive. They'd managed a semblance of polite parlor conversation, offering comments on the weather and observations on the various places they passed. Lindsay, bless her, had carried the larger portion of the burden. He'd spent the majority of the trip alternately remembering the light in her eyes as he'd touched her in Samuel Gregory's office, wondering just how many buttons she was going to undo, and tamping down one wild impulse after another. By far the tamest of the bunch had been the one where he'd thought about leaning across the carriage, putting a finger gently across her lips, and then quietly asking her if she'd ever considered the merits of making love in a carriage. In the wildest of his imaginings, she'd crossed to straddle his lap, twined her arms around his neck, and between bone-melting kisses, offered to show him all kinds of wicked pleasures to be had in such a liaison.
Jackson knew that he needed some space and a chance to have his mind sufficiently occupied with other thoughts so his blood could cool down. The carriage had barely come to a halt when he opened the door and bounded out. Lindsay exited right after him, before he could remember his manners and offer to assist her.
“This is Samuel Gregory's idea of fairly small?” she said, looking past him and shaking her head.