by Renee Ryan
Their one kiss had been . . . it had been . . .
Lovely.
Unexpected.
And so very frightening.
Made worse because Fitz had maintained his distance from that point forward, never letting down his guard again. Just when Gigi had given up on ever restoring their friendship, Nathanial Dixon had arrived on the scene, as if he’d calculated the timing down to the minute. With very little effort, he’d won Gigi’s affection and promised such a false sense of freedom.
Ever since her foolish act, she’d dreamed of going home and starting over. She often awoke sweat-soaked and cold from nightmares of being turned away. The instinct of self-preservation had kept her from making the short trip from New York to Boston. That, and the pearls.
She was so close. And yet, so very far away.
“Come home with me, Gigi.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.” Fitz reached out his hand. “I’ll stand with you when you face your father.”
Gigi tried to think past the flurry of emotions swirling in her stomach, making her dizzy and sick. Whatever motivated Fitz to make such an offer, she knew it wasn’t simple kindness. He never did anything without thinking through every step, every outcome.
You are a fallen woman.
How he must despise her.
Then why not say the words? Why offer to stand by her?
“What if I’m turned away?”
“Then you’ll know you tried.”
She waited for more. He simply stood there, unblinking, seeming to stare straight into her soul. In that moment, she knew Fitz would never consider marrying her again.
Why did that hurt so much?
Fitz deserved more than a woman like her. They suited even less now than when she’d been Gigi Wentworth, the spoiled, most-sought-after, silly debutante. Her hand went to her lips.
His gaze followed the movement. A heartbeat later, he took a step closer.
As if wading through water, she mimicked the move.
He made to take another step, froze a half second, then continued forward until nothing separated them. His hands went around her waist. Her fingers went to his shoulders, flexing once, twice, then relaxing into the thick wool of his coat.
He was going to kiss her. Again.
There had to be a prayer to prevent this sort of disaster.
At the moment, Gigi couldn’t think of one. She couldn’t think at all. Fitz held her closer still, and reaction took over.
Something spread through her, something that made her feel reckless and far too much like the daring young debutante she’d once been.
Christopher Fitzpatrick was the very last man with the power to make Gigi feel reckless and daring. Besides, she was Sally Smith now. Sally was never reckless or daring. She was about control. Rigid control.
She shifted out of Fitz’s reach.
The door burst open a second later.
“Ah, Sally, there you are.” Sophie breezed into the room, an envelope fluttering in her hand, a cloud of jasmine and innocence following in her wake. “I need your advice. I have been invited to a ball and, oh—”
Sophie’s feet ground to a halt.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, I didn’t see you there.” She looked from Gigi to Fitz, her brows pulled together in confusion. “I was told you left the building.”
“Your maid was explaining why such a massive amount of costumes is necessary to put on a production.”
“Oh, well, yes.” Sophie’s expression relaxed. “I suppose that would seem daunting to someone new to the theater.”
“Now that I have the information I need, I will wish you both a good day.”
He exited the room with the kind of smooth sophistication that had been bred into him from childhood. The man was not especially personable or charming, or even likable. He was intense and . . . Gigi sighed. He’d nearly kissed her.
Sophie stared at the door Fitz had just walked through, her brow still furrowed. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I believe that man is not what he seems.”
The young woman had no idea how close to the truth she’d come.
As if something had only just occurred to her, Sophie spun to stare at Gigi, eyes wide. “You know him.”
The statement had Gigi rubbing at her temple, where the beginnings of a headache pounded. “Mrs. Llewellyn introduced us days ago.”
Sophie’s suspicion morphed into certainty. “You know him.”
Gigi wished it wasn’t true. Suddenly, the minuscule, airless wardrobe room felt infinitely smaller.
“And . . .” Sophie gave her a saucy wink. “You like him.”
Gigi didn’t like Fitz. She tolerated him. She’d . . . nearly kissed him.
Well, she thought in furious despair, maybe she did like Fitz. But only a very little.
Chapter Twelve
Fitz was a man who rarely confronted defeat. He set a goal and strategized the best plan of attack. He then destroyed every obstacle until success was his. It was a good way to go through life, safe and effective.
Just shy of a week after his arrival in New York, Fitz was in a state of complete frustration. He hadn’t accomplished a single goal he’d set for himself. He’d yet to find a cure for his father’s condition, though he’d spoken to three more specialists. And three of the five investments he’d been considering had proven unworthy of his time.
Most disturbing of all, he had no idea what to do about Gigi. He should have known better than to come for her himself. But now that he was here, he would not—could not—leave without her. Gigi deserved a chance to make amends with her family, and Fitz would see that she got it. It didn’t matter that she was proving difficult. He’d endured tougher barriers than her stubborn resistance.
Fitz was a man who dealt in facts. Thus, as he exited the Waldorf-Astoria and turned toward the Harvard Club, he faced them.
He’d nearly kissed Gigi.
She’d nearly kissed him back.
A freezing rain, razor-thin and sharp as needles, sliced through the air. Frigid water dripped off the bill of his hat and occasionally slipped under his collar. It was a miserable day, matched only by Fitz’s dismal mood. He was feeling helpless.
He hated feeling helpless.
He moved quickly through the driving rain and focused on what he could control: his upcoming meeting with Lucian Griffin, an old school chum from his days at Harvard.
Luke’s automobile company was a young business, barely operational, but Fitz had done his research. The potential for expansion and large profits was there. Within the hour, Fitz would know if he wanted to make an offer for part of the company.
Ice crunched beneath his feet as he rounded the street corner. The Harvard Club loomed one block ahead on his right. A sense of homesickness filled him, as if he’d been dropped into a slice of Cambridge, Massachusetts, in the middle of New York City.
People hurried past him, rushing about their business, their breaths pluming in frozen puffs around their heads. Horses whinnied, dogs barked, a motorcar coughed and spit to life.
Drawing in a long pull of air, Fitz breathed in the scent of rain mixed with ice and snow. The cold, wet, dreary weather sparked a renewed sense of urgency. He wanted to make this deal, not only for the company but also for his father. The more solvent the firm became, the less likely word of the bad investments would get out.
Fitz would like to think he and his cousin could keep his father’s medical condition a secret indefinitely. But the truth always had a way of coming out.
The truth shall set you free.
Not in Fitz’s experience.
He stopped in front of the club. Some of the most powerful businessmen in the country had attended Harvard, men who were building America and turning her great. Back in his prime, Fitz’s father had been one of them. He’d been a sharp investor, financing large corporations that had significantly influenced the nation’s economy.
Fitz would restore his father’s legacy.
/> His plan was simple. Broker a deal with Luke that would bring them into the future. Like Fitz, his former classmate was a man who understood the benefit of a calculated risk.
As Fitz stepped beneath the awning of the most exclusive club in the city, resolve spread through him.
The doorman greeted him with a smile. The short, barrel-chested man wore livery in the Harvard colors of crimson and gold.
Fitz stated his business. “I’m Christopher Fitzpatrick. I have an appointment with Lucian Griffin.”
Proving he knew his job well, the doorman nodded. “Mr. Griffin is waiting for you in the billiards room on the third floor. You’ll find a stairwell at the back of the building that will take you there without delay.”
Instructions given, he pulled open the gold-plated door and stepped aside for Fitz to pass.
One hand on the rich oak bannister, Fitz climbed the long flight of stairs that led to the main gathering area. The smell of expensive tobacco and freshly polished wood mingled with the scent of leather, books, and old money.
Fitz checked his coat, hat, and gloves with the smiling, elderly attendant dressed in livery the same colors as the doorman’s uniform.
Making his way through the cavernous hall, Fitz took in the high ceilings and dark wood-paneled walls, then glanced at the men scattered throughout the room. A few looked familiar. Not surprising since election for membership to any of the Harvard Clubs across the country was limited to graduates of the prestigious university and tenured faculty.
Fitz took the back stairwell to the third floor and made his way to the billiards room, using his ear as his guide. Determination took hold. He wanted to make this deal, but only if the company proved as profitable as his research led him to believe.
He paused at the threshold. The billiards room was awash in light and conversation.
Fitz stepped forward, wavered. Luke wasn’t alone. Another man was at the far end of the table, lining up a shot. Fitz knew him. Knew him well and considered him a friend.
Fitz stepped fully into the room.
Luke immediately set out toward him. “Fitz, my good man.” Luke’s hand clasped his shoulder, strength and assurance in his grip. “You’re looking well.”
Returning the greeting, Fitz shook his friend’s hand. Luke hadn’t changed much since their days at Harvard. He was Fitz’s height, with much the same lean-muscled build. He had sandy-blond hair and amber-colored eyes that were more gold than brown, and was still as fit as he’d been in college. Luke had been the strongest rower on their eight-man boat.
“You remember Jackson Montgomery.” Luke indicated the other man in the room with a nod.
Fitz shook Jackson’s hand. Back at school, he and the other man had shared a similar intensity and drive for excellence. Jackson appeared more at peace than he’d been at Harvard. Dressed impeccably in a dark navy-blue suit and crisp linen shirt, the man was clean-shaven, his black-as-midnight hair perfectly cropped. The easy smile on his face was new and matched the one on Luke’s.
Both men had recently married. Fitz remembered reading about their weddings in the Harvard newsletter. There was a bit of scandal surrounding both, though he couldn’t remember what.
“We’re nearly through with our game,” Luke told him.
Fitz waved the men back to the table. “By all means, finish.”
Jackson took his turn. Luke jeered as he lined up his shot. He called Jackson a few names—sap one of the kinder ones. Jackson gave as good as he got.
There was respect in the banter between the two men, transporting Fitz back to their days at Harvard College. Back when his father was still his father. Calvin Fitzgerald had taught his son a love of competition, which had led, in part, to meeting these men.
Overly serious, not especially social, Fitz had tried out for the Harvard crew as much out of a love for sport as to make friends. A year ahead of Luke and Jackson, he’d earned the role of captain for their eight-man boat. Luke and Jackson had been strong rowers, and so Fitz had put them in the engine room, oar positions four and five.
Jackson sank two balls in a row, earning a groan from Luke. “You’re cheating, I just can’t figure out how.”
“Watch and learn, my friend.” Jackson gave him a goading grin. “Watch and learn.”
Shaking his head in mock disgust, Luke moved to stand by Fitz. They spoke of nothing important, mostly their college days, which turned to their time on the boat. “I’m still bitter over losing the Regatta,” Luke admitted.
Fitz snorted his agreement. The annual Harvard-Yale Regatta was always the culmination of the rowing season. Yale had won every year during Fitz’s tenure, much to his scowling displeasure.
He eyed the man he once called friend, taking in the changes, wondering at them. “I heard you married this year.”
“I did. Once I exchanged vows with my beautiful bride, we immediately embarked on a far too short honeymoon.”
It was Jackson’s turn to snort. “You were gone a month.”
Luke cut him a glare. “Scoff all you want. But one month alone with my wife wasn’t nearly enough. It should have been two. No, make that three.”
As he said this, everything about Luke, his eyes, his demeanor, his voice, spoke of pleasure.
“You’re happy.”
“Elizabeth makes me a better man.”
The dull clack of yet another ball dropping in a pocket rang out. Still leaning over the table, Jackson looked up, his pool cue between his curved fingers. “And that, old boys, is how it’s done.”
“You planning to gloat all morning or line up your next shot?”
Standing tall, Jackson pointed the tip of his pool cue at Luke. “You’re a poor loser.”
This, as Fitz could attest to, was true.
“Just get on with it.” Luke ground out the words.
Jackson chuckled.
The men had always been good friends, easy with one another, but clearly both were even more relaxed and content than when they’d been young. Was that what marriage did to a man? Did it make him satisfied with his lot in life, comfortable in his own skin? It wasn’t just about getting a woman to the altar, after all, but securing a life after the ceremony. A life, Fitz reminded himself, that could never be his. Not unless he found a cure for his father’s condition.
“I highly recommend taking the marital plunge.”
Fitz jerked, realizing Luke had continued talking while his mind had wandered. He reached for a calm that didn’t exist. “The marital plunge?”
“I seem to remember something about you getting engaged to Harcourt Wentworth’s daughter?” Luke eyed him closely. “Have you set a date?”
“No, we have not.”
“Ah. I’ve conducted a few transactions with Wentworth. He’s a ruthless negotiator.”
Time seemed to bend and shift, taking Fitz to another room much like this one, when he’d been in discussions with Gigi’s father for her hand in marriage. Harcourt Wentworth was a man who knew what he wanted, laid it out in precise language, and rarely relented on the terms of an agreement.
That trait had made him one of the most successful businessmen in the country, but probably not the best of parents. Fitz remembered now how Gigi had begged him not to go to her father with his suspicions about Nathanial.
Guilt swept through him.
Had he made matters worse? Had he all but delivered her into Dixon’s waiting arms?
“Right corner pocket,” Jackson called out, then, as promised, shot the last ball in the right corner pocket. The table was empty but for the white cue ball, game over.
While Jackson returned the cue stick to the mahogany stand, Luke slapped Fitz on the back. “Unless you have an objection, I’d like Jackson to sit in on our meeting as he’s representing Richard St. James’s interest.”
The request made sense. Jackson would be standing in for the man who owned the share in Luke’s company that Fitz wanted to purchase. Jackson was also an attorney. If Fitz and Luke came to an agre
ement, Jackson would probably be the one to draw up the contract transferring the shares from St. James to Fitz.
“I have no objection.”
“Excellent.”
They agreed to conduct their business in the club’s library. The room was spacious. But the furniture had been arranged in such a way as to partition off smaller sections, creating just enough of a lived-in feel to issue a silent invitation to relax. Fitz suspected the staff had worked long and hard to perfect this level of elegant comfort in such a large area.
Once they were settled in chairs facing the fire, Luke broke his silence. “I understand you are in talks to purchase the Summer Garden Theater.”
Fitz nodded, pleased to discover Luke had been gathering information about a potential investor. If their roles were reversed, Fitz would do the same. “I have my eye on several New York–based companies.”
“Why New York?”
“I find most businessmen in this city think beyond America. International expansion is the gateway to the future.”
Luke leaned back in his chair. “Good answer.”
They shared a smile.
For nearly thirty minutes, they discussed Luke’s current and future plans for his automobile company. When his friend wound down, Fitz said, “The idea of hosting a series of races across the country is sheer genius.”
Jackson took over from there. “We’re thinking of bringing in Brian Chesterfield to organize the inaugural Griffin Tour on Long Island.”
Fitz knew the man well. Brian had been another rower in the engine room. Oar six. “I was under the impression he’d moved to Europe.”
“He’s back from two years of racing motorcars in France.”
Which explained why Luke wanted Brian involved. The next few minutes were spent going over the various ideas for the Griffin Tours, many from Fitz.
“You’re very knowledgeable,” Luke said.
“Motorcars have become a recent hobby of mine.” Fitz had needed something to take his mind off his father’s health. Racing had provided that outlet and was what had brought Luke’s company to his attention.