her feet and bent over to unlace her boots. "Maybe we should all sleep in my room tonight. That way we can combine all the wood and make the room toasty?" Her mother looked at her so hopefully she couldn't say no. And she desperately wanted to. That odious man, Mr. Caden Dupree, infuriated her and she wanted to go brood by herself. What she needed to do was berate herself for finding him even more attractive. What was wrong with her? He was angry, nasty, and callous without an iota of compassion. But his hands said that wasn't the truth. In his hands were strength, diligence, and sensuality. All of which made for a potent draw. One that she wanted to dwell on, in private, for as long as she could, but that didn't look like it would happen. At least, not tonight.
She sighed. "That would be fine." She gave her mother a hug. "I'll get dressed and bring over my blankets."
"What fun!" Camille clapped. "We can tell each other all about our clients. I had some interesting ones." She shucked her boots off and started to head up the stairs but turned back to look at Abby. "I saw the Vice President of Boston Trust at your table, Abby. You must tell us what happened with him." Her eyes lit up. "Maybe Mother can do a reading on you and see if he will ask for your hand!" Abby turned to look at her mother, "Mother, please, no." Her mother smiled and shook her head. "Forevermore, Camille! Will you please stop trying to play the matchmaker?" Abby stomped up the stairs and wanted to smack the smirk off her sister. "Really. You would think I was stale cheese on the shelf the way you try and get rid of me."
Camille laughed. "Well, you are on the shelf, but you smell exquisite from all that bathing."
Mother started chuckling and the sound made Abby smile, too. "Well, water is free but if we ever have to pay for it, I'll make a fine Limburger."
She slipped into her room before her sister could make another remark and started to undress. Wherever the conversations led tonight, she needed to keep them away from Mr. Dupree. If her mother ever found out how she taunted him she would refuse to let her read again. Not that Abby would mind never reading another palm, but she did break a code of conduct for her own personal gain. Even if it was just to torment. And she did gain. Five dollars worth.
She had slipped the money discreetly into the top of her boot, and now she stood undressed in the middle of her chilled room with it in her hand. If she gave it to her mother, which she wanted to do, she would have to answer questions which would lead to her lying. If there was one thing Abby knew about herself it was that she could not lie to her mother. Whether it was psychic ability, or the fact that she could read her daughter's face, her mother knew the moment Abby tried to lie. Too much had already gone wrong in their family for her to start heaping broken trust into the cauldron.
Maybe there would be some way she could buy something they needed with the money. Like coal, or food later on in the winter.
She looked at the bills on her bed and felt sick. What was even worse than taking it, was what she saw in his hand. Amongst all of that control were shadowed bits of his past, and his true character. His lines concurred with her intuitions, but for the most part she ignored what people's hands said. Even though she had been taught how to read palms as soon as she could comprehend the subtle differences, she never put all her faith in what she saw there.
It was enough to know that taking that money had been the worst thing she had done, and that for all his arrogance, he didn't deserve what she had done.
She picked the money up off her bed and tucked it into a bureau draw. Guilt was not a feeling she was accustomed to and it sat on her heavily. There was a light knock on the door. "Abby, you ready?" Her sister's voice came muffled through the heavy wood. "I'll be right there, go on without me." "May I come in?" Abby heaved a sigh. This huge house left to three women and she
still could never find a moment alone. "Yes." Camille slipped in, her mended wrap snug around her shoulders
with her hair braided like a rope down her back. She sat down on the edge of Abby's bed and stared at her. Abby sighed, untied her stockings, and started to roll them down.
"What would you like, Camille?" Camille started to play with the hole in Abby's crazy quilt. "Stop. Grandmother and I worked hard on that." "I could embroider a ribbon rose here to cover the hole." Camille
smoothed down the velvet nap. "That would be nice." She stopped to fold up her stocking and
looked at her sister. "Can you loosen my laces?" Camille went around to her back and started pulling the strings out
just enough. "Ready?" Camille moved to the front and Abby took a deep breath and held it. Camille unbuttoned the busk, and the whole corset came off in one piece.
Abby slowly let her breath out and took another, then rolled her shoulders. "Camille, what would you like?" "I saw Mr. Dupree give you some money."
* * * * It just wouldn't happen. He could feel it start, that lightning ball that crackled at the base of his spine and worked itself up to his scalp until his whole body tensed and fixated with it. Almost, just there, dangling out of reach, but then it dissipated.
What was her name? Abigail. Her hands. He focused on how her hands caressed his, how they mimicked the teasing of a high paid courtesan. He had no idea his palms could be so sensitive or that they were routed to his cock.
She'd taken him aback with her dark charred voice and her subtle sexuality. How she told him the kind of lover he was with complete understanding, but face of an ingénue.
He wanted her hands again. But on his cock, where they were meant to be, stroking him with that smile that made him hard.
Almost there, almost there. His eyes were slammed shut and Abigail told him how he loved the sensual, how he gave and received pleasure. He wanted to see her naked. What she looked like in climax.
There. There…now, yes, yes, yes…His scalp tingled and he grunted as spasms wracked him. "Well, you took forever and a day tonight." Funny, when had her voice begun to grate on him, sounding
petulant and coquettish? He should have told her not to speak under any circumstances, because it killed any relaxation he gained. "Shut up, Beatrice." He pulled out of her and walked over to the
wash basin, ignoring her staged moue. "What was wrong tonight?" She rolled over onto her stomach and
looked at him over her shoulder. You. You were wrong. You are wrong. "How long have we had this arrangement now? Five years?" He
glanced at her as he washed himself off. "Yes." A shadow crossed her face, but she reined it. He frowned. She was never a good actress. No use for it, though. He'd been thinking about cutting out long before now. He liked her, but he was starting to want more. Whatever it would be, Beatrice was not the one he wanted it with. It made him feel bad because she'd been there while he worked himself up, and he made sure she got her share of that hard work. He was always fair, but feeling bad about decisions didn't get them done. "Is there another woman?" Her voice was soft and broken. She surprised him. He never thought she held that much emotion for their relationship. But that was a lie. Otherwise he would have cut it off weeks ago.
Remembering Abigail while he was here reinforced how stale his fling with Beatrice was. There was nothing of substance in his arrangement with Bea, so there was no use in maintaining it.
He found her when they were both poor and just barely off the streets. Only he had just started a good job at Boston Trust as an errand boy, running papers for the presidents and CEOs of the larger Boston businesses. He took care of her, always making sure she had food, and as soon as he could afford to, he bought her clothes and eventually the house. Not out of undying emotion, but a sort of one hand washing the other. Because, although he didn't love her, he didn't want to see her sick on the streets pimping herself to handfuls of diseased men. Maybe he'd done more harm than good. But it was never his intent. Somehow Abigail could tell. Maybe she knew even more than she told him. He'd worked until the smell of poverty no longer clung to him. And she brought it all up, innocently of course, but the truth of it was there again. He'd lashed out at her with the charity
case remark, about howit wasn't so much about her being poor, it was her knowing the truth of him without him allowing her to.
Not that it mattered. Everyone knew how he worked himself up. He even started a program where lower income youths were given apprentice opportunities within some of the most prestigious Boston companies. "No. But I think that may change." "You won't marry me?" Her voice was whisper thin. "What gave you that idea?" He pulled a towel off the stand, dried himself, and turned to face Beatrice. "No, I never had that intention and you know it." He combed his wet hair and checked in the mirror. "I would like you to leave within the week." "For a vacation?" "No. A permanent arrangement." He hated confrontations like this.
He never did well with women. She looked like a thunderstorm gathering power. All tumultuous and boiling anger. "How dare you." Her face contorted and she flew off the bed, coming at him with her nails bared. "You son of a bitch," she swiped at his face and he caught her wrists.
"Yes." He held her hands down with no effort and she started to kick him. With a twist he had her back to his chest and her arms pinned at her sides. She stilled for a moment, then started to rub herself against him.
"Your other woman won't fuck you like I do. You won't leave me…you like my pussy too much." She rubbed up and down and in circles against his flaccid cock. At that moment it dawned on him how cheap she was and how she repulsed him. He shoved her away and she turned to him, cupping her breasts in an offer.
"These are the best in town," she ran her tongue over her lips and pushed them up higher. Her teased hair and smudged eyes—a parody of a clown.
"You are pathetic when desperate." He turned and walked away to the armoire that held his clothes. "You always were a callous bastard." He opened it, slid a fresh shirt off its hanger, and pulled it on. "I'll be back next Friday to make sure you're gone." He pushed his onyx cufflink through and flicked the swiveled rod.
"What if I don't?" She inched herself behind the bed and picked up her clothes without breaking eye contact.
"Then I'll come throw your clothes in the street and have one of my men escort you to your new residence." She stood straight. "My new residence?" He scoffed. "Get that thought out of your head. There were no promises made in this agreement from the beginning." His arms slid into his coat and he straightened the collar. "You will certainly have something in place by Friday next for your living arrangements. I'll give you enough money to get a start. If you need a referral I'll write a letter." She still stood behind the bed, her face waxen, with a silk robe wrapped around her and held tightly in her fists. "Most of Boston knows who you are, and how long our arrangement has lasted. I'm quite certain there will be callers for you as soon as you make our dissolution known."
He walked out the bedroom door and paused. "The only things I expect to be taken from my alternate residence are any jewelry I've given you. Think of it as a parting gift. You could live off of it for years. And make sure all of your attire is gone. I want no remembrances. You don't want me saying unflattering things at the club."
Her sobs started as he walked down the stairs and carried through the house.
"I'll tell everyone the truth about you, how you were a dirt farmer and a street beggar!" she yelled out the top window.
He'd have to remember to have a cleaning service come in and freshen the place. The brass knob was cold and smooth in his hands as he pulled the door closed.
Chapter Three
"How may I help you, miss?" The bald man looked through his
spectacles and down his nose at her. "Miss Abigail Drummond to see Mr. Caden Dupree." "And do you have an appointment?" "No." The man sniffed. "And what makes you think Mr. Dupree has a
moment to see you if you've made no appointment?" Abby resisted the need to pinch the bridge of her nose. She took a breath and broke out her most dazzling smile. The one that hurt her cheeks. "Mr…?" "Frist." "Mr. Frist." She smiled again, "That suit looks quite dashing on you, really." He looked at her pointedly and she rushed in, "I know that you are an extremely responsible employee of Mr. Dupree's, as I can tell from your diligent care of his appointments." He puffed up the smallest bit and she stole her opportunity, "So, even though I have not informed Mr. Dupree of my impending visit, I'm sure if you notify him of my arrival you'll see that he is most welcoming indeed."
Mr. Frist looked her up and down and nodded. "I'll see if he's in. One moment please."
He left his station to shuffle down an oak paneled hall to knock on a door, and when he received an answer he opened it up to poke his head inside.
Her heart started to thud like a tympani in her chest. Making the decision to come to the bank just near killed her. It was the right thing to do, she knew that, but knowing never made the doing easy. And as angry as she had been, she still loved having his hand in hers. How he looked as she stroked his palm suggestively.
That stroke of brilliance had worked in reverse, too. His skin had been warm and firm and she'd wondered how his hands would have felt caressing her, as she had him.
Later that night she'd gone back to her own bed, her desire was so potent. As she lay in bed she'd brought herself to climax fantasizing about his hands touching her. That it was his hands rubbing her. She squeezed her thighs together. His personality was so strong it sexually excited her, but he was harsh, and that made her feel guilty for wanting him. Both emotions together confused her. The enigma was how his hands told a different story. Maybe something she said provoked his reaction.
Although she'd been around palm reading all her life, and saw the many truths of it, she always gave people the benefit of choosing a different course, and so she'd done with him. He was strong, that was obvious, but he also had a depth to him that went far beyond the lines she'd seen in other hands. A large capacity for love and generosity, but hidden. So deep that it might as well have not been not there.
She wanted to learn him. To explore why he made her fell the way she did. Especially since it was the fantasy of him that made her orgasm so furiously last night.
Now she had to stand in front of him and give his money back. Even though she knew he couldn't read her mind she was afraid he'd take one look at her and know what she'd done. Moments later Mr. Frist made his way back to stand in front of her. "Mr. Dupree will see you, but he has an appointment now and
another in a quarter hour so please make your meeting brief." "Yes, sir. Thank you so much." He led her down the same dark hall and gestured to a long heavy
bench where she could sit and wait. The trace of a baritone came through the inches of the open door and her chest clenched. She would know the cadence of his voice at a theater intermission with a packed crowd.
He stopped speaking and a softer voice answered. A woman was doing her banking, nothing unusual, especially for a Monday. But then she heard a choked sob and she started to tap her foot.
That bastard was probably in there treating that poor woman horribly. He had no heart. Look at the way he spoke to her at the party! She pursed her lips. She should have taken care of him right then. Huh, charity case. She had a mind to keep his damned money. She heard Caden's voice again and the woman broke into a full cry. Abby sprung off the bench and was about to yank the door open, but paused to peer into the room.
A woman in a worn black coat and once black boots stood enveloped in Caden's embrace. Abby bit back her gasp and knew she should sit down. Caden murmured something to her and she nodded into his jacket, sniffling.
Who could it be? His mistress? She knew he wasn't married. Would he be so crude as to have this woman at the bank during business hours?
Maybe she should knock and feign ignorance. No, it was none of her business and the woman was not being hurt. Abby had to admit, though, her curiosity was piqued. And a tinge of jealousy lurked there too. What about her made him loathsome towards her, but yet affectionate to this woman?
Just then Caden held the woman at arm's length and Abby stepped off to the side, but stayed where she could hear and see just
a sliver.
"You'll be fine. I took care of the mortgage and I'll stop Smithson from speaking to you that way again." "Thank you, Mr. Dupree." "Caden, Rebekah. James was a friend of mine, too, and I would
never allow his family to be homeless while I had the power to help." "But it was so much money." She sniffled. "It was a few hundred, and don't you worry about the boys, either. I set up accounts for them for when it's time to go to school. There should be enough in there by then for both of them to go to any university they choose."
The woman started to sob again. "But how can I repay you?" she said, barely intelligible.
Abby cringed, dreading his answer. Men never did anything so generous without expectations.
He patted Rebekah's back, "You love those boys and raise them right. Make sure they go to school and if they give you a problem send them to me." "Thank you, Caden." "Rebekah, James was my best friend. He believed in me when no one saw anything but a hustling scrapper." He swallowed hard. "I miss him too." He patted her back again. "So, you take care of those boys, that's how you thank me." Abby blinked back tears and went to sit back down on the bench. Frist came back up the hall moments later, his clipped steps echoing. Thankfully her gloves were on or she would have to wipe her hands
on her dress, but she used them to dab at the corners of her eyes instead. Frist rapped on the door. Caden's voice barked to enter and Mr. Frist
opened the door for her and said, "Miss Drummond to see you, sir." "Carry on, Frist." Mr. Frist nodded at her and went back to his station in the foyer. A moment later the woman appeared and as she walked past Abby
she smiled sadly, her red rimmed eyes welling up. "Sorry to keep you," she said, and disappeared down the hall and
into the crowd. She wished she'd never come, but she was also happy she did. It was just that now she was confused, whereas before she was very happily angry.
Now her heart softened, and all of those cutting things she planned to say evaporated in his generosity. The light he cast himself in was now more flattering, even if he didn't know her perception changed. And her desire grew roots.
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