by Susan Wiggs
“And give them another mouth to feed? No, thank you. They’ve enough to contend with, what with winter coming on and the barn and wagon gone. They don’t need their grown daughter moving back in.”
“I have nothing to offer you, Kathleen. Nothing but trouble.” He had lied to her father; they both knew that.
She walked fast to match his long strides. “You’ll have to do better than that, boyo.”
“Listen, I did what I could for your family. My own affairs are complicated.” He thought how impossible it was for him to consider the needs of another person, particularly a person like Kathleen. “You’re better off without me.”
They turned the corner and headed east toward the bridge. At dusk, people still sifted through smoldering piles, already engaged in the arduous task of rebuilding from nothing.
“Maybe I am,” she agreed. “Maybe not. But I have no choice. I am married to you.”
“Maybe,” he said, mimicking her tone. “Maybe not. There’s not a shred of proof, Kathleen.”
“So you’ve said, but you could be lying about that.”
“How do you know?”
“You lie about everything.”
“Then why the devil would you want to be married to a liar like me?” He all but tore at his hair in frustration. Damn, she was a persistent, annoying woman.
“Because I didn’t know you were a liar Sunday night.” She lowered her voice. “I trusted you.”
“That was a mistake. Look, Kathleen. I’m no good. You don’t want me. I’m in a hole, and it’ll take a big touch to get me out.”
“What do you mean, a big touch?”
“A lot of money.”
She eyed him critically, her gaze probing too deep for comfort.
“What?” he asked, more annoyed than ever.
“You’ve always run from your problems, haven’t you?”
Without thinking, he took her hand to help her over a broken spot in the pavement. “That’s what makes them go away.” He couldn’t help laughing a little at her expression. “It’s always worked before.”
She kept her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, and despite his mood, he liked the feel of it nestled there. “I don’t think it will work this time, Dylan.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because the thing you’re really running from is yourself,” she said. “One of these days you’ll discover that you can’t escape who you are.”
“You’re making no sense at all,” he muttered, glaring down at the murky, sluggish river as they crossed the bridge.
“What would it take for you to stay and face up to your problems?” she asked.
He laughed again, bringing the argument full circle. “A big touch.”
“Obtained by illicit means, no doubt.”
“How else?”
“I have a better idea,” she said.
THE SETUP
It was beautiful and simple as all truly great swindles are.
O. Henry
FOURTEEN
“How can I possibly give up something so beautiful and precious?” Dylan said earnestly, gazing deep into Kathleen’s green eyes.
In the foyer of the building, she hesitated and gazed back at him, briefly moistening her lips with her tongue.
He held his breath. She was weakening, surely. She had come to see reason.
But then she said, “I’ve been telling you all morning, keeping the jewels is out of the question, and no amount of moon-eyed flattery is going to change my mind.” She turned on her heel and crossed the foyer to the stairs. Muttering under his breath, he followed her.
Dylan was not surprised to learn that Arthur Sinclair, one of the foremost businessmen in Chicago, had already reopened his offices in the Lind Block, appropriating space from the Z. M. Hall Grocery. Sinclair’s reputation for ruthless and profitable commerce was widely known throughout the city, and he was the sort who would not allow even the holocaust of Sunday night to interfere.
The five-storey building by the river had survived the fire, thanks to an army of dedicated workers who had stayed to battle the embers long after the fire had swept the entire area.
One of those workers was Mr. Milford Plunkett, who sat in the outer office at a desk piled high with messages, papers, account books and parcels. An air of self-importance surrounded him like a thick fog.
When Dylan and Kathleen walked into the office, Plunkett came immediately to his feet, pressing his palms to the desk and trying not to stare at her. But his busily twitching eyebrows gave him away. Dylan told himself he should be used to men’s reactions to Kathleen by now. Still, he felt the same savage stirring of jealousy that possessed him every time a pair of male eyes swept over her, or every time a man scrambled to open a door for her or went out of his way to get a look at her up close. She tolerated the attention with a charming mixture of bemusement and befuddlement, which only added to her allure.
It wasn’t her fault she was ravishingly beautiful, with her creamy skin and red hair. But it was her fault, he thought, that despite her humble background, she carried herself with a certain haughty dignity that challenged and confounded men to the point of distraction.
“Dylan Kennedy,” he said, pulling Plunkett’s attention away from Kathleen.
Like all good assistants, Plunkett knew the social landscape through which his employer moved, and he instantly recognized the name.
“Mr. Kennedy, of course.” The watchful, sharp-featured face relaxed into an expression of deference. “Mr. Sinclair will be relieved to know you survived the fire.”
Dylan placed his hand at the small of Kathleen’s back, letting Plunkett make whatever he would of her presence. “We should like very much to see Mr. Sinclair.” He had no doubt Arthur would receive him. Sinclair was not only the richest man in Chicago. He was also the most socially ambitious. Believing, as all Chicago society did, that Dylan ranked up there with the Old Settlers, Sinclair had been quick to welcome him. Sinclair’s only daughter, Deborah, reportedly came with a million-dollar dowry, but she’d already been spoken for by the time Dylan had arrived in Chicago. Just his luck, he thought, cutting a glance at Kathleen, to get stuck with the maid rather than the mistress.
“Sir, I’m terribly sorry, but Mr. Sinclair is not available.”
Milford Plunkett’s reply startled him. Dylan quickly mulled over the possibilities. Could his ruse have been exposed already?
Costello, he thought. But why would Vince do that? It was to his advantage to help Dylan keep his identity as a member of the elite.
Dylan allowed the man a small, tight smile, while inside, he exulted. He hadn’t wanted to come here, anyway. “I see. Well, then, we’d best be going—”
“Mr. Plunkett.” Kathleen pushed forward, speaking up for the first time. “I swear, the fire must’ve charred your brains. It’s me. Kathleen. Miss Deborah’s maid.”
Plunkett gaped at her, then flushed three shades of scarlet. “Sorry, miss,” he stammered. “I didn’t realize it was you without—” He stopped, clearly aware of no tactful way to say it.
“You mean, without my cap and duster,” she said with wry humor.
“Miss Deborah’s maid,” he said wonderingly. “I scarcely recognized you.”
She allowed a tight smile. “That’s apparent. I have something of Miss Deborah’s. To put in the safe.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the door to the inner office. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”
“Of course,” she said before Dylan could object again.
He disliked being kept waiting almost as much as he disliked giving back a found fortune. Often when someone “excused himself” it meant one’s credentials were being checked or that one was being discussed behind his back. He shot Kathleen a look of fury. “I still say you’re out of your mind for doing this.”
“I don’t expect you to understand honesty.”
“I thought you had some grand plan,” he said.
“I do. But I refuse to
go another moment with something that doesn’t belong to me.” She put up a hand, touching her bodice, where she hid the jewelry.
“How appropriate,” he said, staring unabashedly, “that some of your most delicious attributes are kept in the same place.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, but her blushing cheeks indicated otherwise.
“Your breasts,” he said loudly, “and your jewels.”
“You’re a scoundrel entirely,” she hissed, pulling out the necklace. It spilled over the palms of her dainty hands, the sparkle of diamonds and emeralds exaggerated by the sunlight streaming through the window.
He moved close to her, close enough to inhale her flowery scent, to see the velvety smoothness of her cheeks, her throat, her bosom. He couldn’t help himself. He brushed his knuckles along her jawline, making a trail southward as a wave of sexual heat passed through him.
“It seems a shame,” he whispered, keeping his stare fixed on her, “to leave such a magnificent bosom unadorned.”
She gasped, waiting a heartbeat longer than he’d expected before she pulled away. Her outrage was genuine, but so was her barely veiled fascination.
It was still there, the wild attraction that had gripped them both the instant they’d first met. What a strange thing to discover a lust stronger than his lust for the game.
He told himself an honest woman had no value to him. So why did he still want her? When something outlasted its usefulness, he discarded it. That had always been his way. Keeping the jewels in his sight had been his excuse for keeping Kathleen around. Now that she was determined to give them back, he had no reason to stay with her.
Yet in this case, he simply didn’t want to let her go. The fool woman made him crazy.
She pretended to take a great interest in the papers that littered Plunkett’s desk. Watching her, Dylan realized she wasn’t pretending. “What?” he asked.
“Futures contracts,” she murmured, then turned to him abruptly. “Oh, dear. I wonder if we’re still the only ones who know of that bargeload of grain out at Eden Landing.”
“Is that important?”
She tapped her foot in impatience. “It is critical to my plan, but I need to find out when the grain markets will reopen.”
Milford Plunkett returned with a slip of paper, accompanied by a man wearing an eyepatch and carrying a Colt revolving pistol in a shoulder holster. Dylan recognized the insignia on the man’s coat—the open eye and slogan We Never Sleep marked him as a member of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. But the broad-shouldered man’s flesh was as weak as any bridegroom’s; the minute he saw Kathleen, he turned from watchdog into panting lapdog.
Dylan summoned his best expression of snobbish outrage. Before he could speak, Plunkett began to bow and scrape and apologize. “Just a precaution,” he explained. “Naturally we are more than grateful, Miss Kathleen.”
“I’m sure you are,” Dylan said wryly.
Kathleen held out the jewels and tried to launch into the explanation she had agonized over. She’d been terrified of being accused of thievery.
Dylan waved a hand, interrupting her even before she began. She was new at this and didn’t understand that you never put yourself at a disadvantage. He took the jewels without looking at them, and shoved them across the desk as if their value made no impression on him at all.
The Pinkerton kept staring at Kathleen, his good eye all but bugged out of his skull. You’d think the fellow had never seen a pretty woman before.
“I’ll just put these in the safe.” Plunkett consulted the slip of paper, then swung open the thick door. Dylan stared longingly at the stacked boxes, so alluringly anonymous in the dark cave of the safe. Instantly he began to speculate…but Kathleen had been adamant about not stealing from her employer. Elaborately nonchalant, he forced himself to go to the window and look out.
Chicago resembled a field in the aftermath of battle. From his vantage point, he could see block after block of wreck and ruin. He wondered what, if anything, might be found in the hopeless debris. From here, he could see only brick and cut stone, dust and ash, melted matter that was unrecognizable. Yet as his gaze traveled across the sunlit, smoky landscape, he began to notice small pockets of activity. The First Congregational Church, damaged but still standing, disgorged lines of the hungry and homeless in the bright autumn chill. On the road below, General Sheridan’s officers directed workers in clearing the roadway and setting up government offices.
In fact, all around the business district workers had begun the chores of rebuilding. Like a drunk putting himself back together the morning after, the city was coming to life. Crudely painted signs announced the reopening of banks and insurance offices. Near the river, men swarmed over a large area, filling wagons with wreckage; the riverfront lot would be the site of the new Board of Trade.
Kathleen swore she knew a way to earn a fortune through legal means. The details still had to be worked out, and achieving success would take tireless labor and patience, two things Dylan had in short supply. He had no reason to trust her, but she was so damned entertaining that he found himself willing to see what she concocted.
Plunkett and Kathleen had concluded their business under the watchful eye of the Pinkerton. Dylan bade the men—and, regrettably, the priceless jewels—a good day. Outside the office, he and Kathleen went down several flights of stairs to street level. The stairwell was crowded with hurrying businessmen and workers. At the bottom, someone had laid planks over the uneven ruins, creating a narrow walkway. Dylan placed his hand at the small of Kathleen’s back to help her along.
It was absurd how much he enjoyed even the most casual touch. She had brought him nothing but trouble and she represented everything he opposed—need, poverty, family dependence. She was a liability. Worse, a liability with relatives. Lots of relatives. Yet no matter how hard he tried to break free, he could not seem to keep his distance from her. She plucked at some forgotten chord of sentimentality deep inside him, something rich and warm and…vital. He had no name for what he was feeling, because he had never felt it before.
Just knowing she was around lifted his spirits. He had no idea why, because she was such trouble all the time. Ordinarily, it took a winning game to make him feel this good. Kathleen O’Leary could impart a feeling even more powerful simply by breathing the air.
Perhaps, he thought, he might tell her so. She had been cold and unresponsive to him last night. Because he refused to acknowledge their marriage, the confounded female refused to let him share the big, comfortable sleeping berth. He had tried to convince her that no piece of legal paper could enhance or diminish her pleasure, but she seemed to believe otherwise.
He couldn’t understand it. They had found rapture in that berth. She had elevated mere swiving to something that involved far loftier sensations than the usual fleeting passion. Maybe, in her inexperience, she didn’t understand the difference. But Dylan did. Ah, how he did.
Every once in a while he would catch her looking at him, much as he was watching her now, and he’d get the feeling she, too, thought often about those first wild days after the fire. He was almost certain that was what she was thinking, because when he caught her out, she usually acted guilty. He loved the way the tops of her breasts turned pink when she blushed. He loved the way she combed her hair, the way she ate, the way she slept. Clearly he was either falling in love for the first time…or going crazy.
“Stop glaring at me like that,” she said, clearly unaware of the dilemma he had considered confessing to her. “It’s done. The jewels were not mine.”
Her sassy tone of voice quashed the urge to bare his heart. “They never would have been missed,” he grumbled, seizing the issue in order to bury the useless sentiment he was feeling. “One would think you’ve been hoping to regain your post as a chambermaid.”
“Lady’s maid,” she corrected him tartly. “And yes, perhaps I am concerned about employment. It’s the way of honest people.”
“It’
s the way of people with no imagination—” He stopped himself. There, coming along the walkway, looking well-groomed and officious, was Vincent Costello.
Pasting a smile on his face, Dylan wondered if this day could possibly get any worse. And almost instantly, it did. For even as Costello stepped aside to let the workers pass, Faith appeared.
Her undisguised delight at seeing Dylan was matched only by her father’s displeasure. She regarded Dylan with guileless gray eyes, saying, “How are you, Mr. Kennedy? And Miss Kathleen?”
He managed a smile—his usual flashing grin. He could feel Costello’s fury blasting him like a cold wind, but he ignored it. “Just taking care of business, Miss Faith. A very small item of business,” he added.
“Then you’ll forgive our hurry,” Costello said, pushing past them. “We’ve work to do as well.”
His Relief Aid committee was moving their operation to the Lind building. Watching his old partner in crime, Dylan was struck by the notion that Vincent Costello had found his true calling. He had spent years playing the shill to Dylan’s act, but this role seemed to suit him far better. He was made for organizing and bossing people around; it was apparent in the way he directed the operation.
“May I help you with that?” Kathleen offered, indicating the wooden box Faith carried. With a smile, Faith accepted the offer. Within just a few minutes, the two young women had walked away like a pair of experienced gossips, their heads bent in conspiratorial fashion.
It was all Dylan could do not to roll his eyes. He simply did not know Kathleen well enough to figure out what her game was with respect to Faith.
A few moments later, when Faith went inside with her father, a lanky young man approached Kathleen. Immediately the poisonous jealousy started, and Dylan forced himself to stay where he was rather than shoving the interloper out of the way.
The tall man looked familiar. As he bent and gestured, his manner was emphatic; Kathleen was intrigued. Dylan forced himself to stand his ground, not retreating, but not blazing in between them like a jealous lover, either. Later, he promised himself. Later, he would find out what the intimate conversation was about—even if he had to tickle the truth out of her.