by Joanna Shupe
“The pleasure is all mine,” Ava said smoothly into the silence, dipping her chin. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Tompkins—though I wish it had been under more pleasant circumstances.”
“Yes, today was a disappointment to us all,” Tompkins remarked, and lowered into a chair.
Bennett strode to the sideboard and helped himself to a glass of Will’s seventy-five-year-old brandy, the action temporarily distracting Will. Bennett’s palate was not what Will would call refined; the man couldn’t tell the difference between a Bordeaux and a bourbon. As expected, Bennett gulped the expensive brandy as if swigging weak lemonade on a scorching Georgia day.
“Are you interested in politics, Miss Jones?” Bennett dropped onto the other side of the sofa and angled his body toward Ava in an overly familiar way that had Will’s shoulders tensing.
“No, I’m afraid not. Mr. Sloane insisted I attend the rally today. Otherwise, I’d be back in Brooklyn, at my father’s bakery.”
“Brooklyn!” Bennett exclaimed. “Decent hardworking people in Brooklyn. Spent quite a bit of time there myself. So you work for your father?”
“Yes. I knead the bread every morning.”
Such a practiced liar, this woman. Will couldn’t help but feel impressed. If she held any trepidation over whether Bennett would recognize her, Will could not tell.
A shrill whine erupted from the front of the train, and the wheels jerked forward as the brake was released. Soon, they’d be traveling forty miles an hour back toward the city, putting this godforsaken day behind them.
“Sloane insisted you travel here today, you said? How is it that you know each other?”
“That is hardly any of your business,” Will said, his voice hard.
“I am a family friend,” Ava answered at the same time.
Tompkins’s eyebrow shot up. “A family friend? I didn’t think the Sloanes associated with anyone east of Madison Avenue, let alone Brooklyn.”
Will tried not to grit his teeth. He preferred no one examine his acquaintance with Ava too carefully. An idea came to mind. “I fear Miss Jones is being considerate. I did not want to tell you, but she works for a newspaper and is writing a feature on the campaign.”
Ava took the news in stride, no change on her face whatsoever. “Yes, I work for the Brooklyn Daily Times.”
The information changed the atmosphere in the room—and not for the better. Tompkins straightened, his expression both calculating and wary as he focused on her. “I haven’t heard of that paper—and no one informed me we would have a reporter attending.”
“The secrecy was intentional,” Ava said. “We want to get a fair perspective on the campaign from the inside, though I planned on speaking with both candidates at length.”
Bennett’s bewildered gaze bounced between Will and Tompkins. “Well, the additional press will help, won’t it, Tompkins?”
Tompkins’s shrewd eyes were narrowed on Ava, and Will could see the wheels spinning as the other man examined all the possibilities. “Indeed . . . but I’ll accompany you to any further campaign rallies or events. We want to ensure your safety.”
“That is unnecessary. I’m certain you have more important duties occupying your time. Furthermore, after today, I am not planning on attending any more rallies.”
“Then we hope you will not hold today’s fiasco against the campaign.”
“Of course not. All is not in your control, no matter how powerful the candidates.”
“True, true,” Tompkins concurred. “When would you like to speak with Mr. Bennett?”
Will held up a hand. “Calm yourself. Allow Miss Jones to proceed at her own pace.”
“Mr. Sloane is correct—unless, of course, Mr. Bennett wishes to speak with me now.” Ava shifted and reached for the small ladies’ bag attached to her girdle. “I have a pad and pencil in my—”
“No, no. Not now.” Bennett rose quickly, his reluctance nearly tangible. “You and Tompkins may work out the details. I feel a headache coming on, so I’d best lie down in my car for now. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Jones.”
Will recognized the satisfied twist of Ava’s lips. How had she known Bennett would refuse? She was very good at reading people and highly intelligent. His admiration for her grew.
“Oh, certainly, Mr. Bennett. I will be in touch regarding a date.”
Bennett said his good-byes and strode to the door that led to the next car. Tompkins stood slowly, reached into his breast pocket, and removed a vellum card, which he offered to Ava. “I look forward to hearing from you, Miss Jones. We do appreciate all the efforts of our fine newspapermen and women to bring the truth to the good people of New York State. Anything I can do, you only need ask.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tompkins. You are too kind.” The tone suggested the opposite, but Will said nothing as the other man left.
When they were alone, her mouth flattened into a furious line. “A reporter? What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking to clear the car so they would leave us alone . . . which worked, by the way.”
“You idiot, what will I do when I need to interview John for a paper that doesn’t exist?”
“Well, why did you invent a fictitious newspaper?”
She heaved a sigh, one that suggested the answer grotesquely obvious. “Because I can’t have Tompkins checking up on me, asking around at established papers for an Ava Jones.”
Will smoothed the fine wool of his trousers. “I wouldn’t worry. I can get the story printed somewhere.” Indeed, Calvin Cabot owned two newspapers in the New York area alone.
“There is no story!” she snapped. “Are you listening to yourself? Mercy, this entire day has been a disaster.”
Color washed over her cheeks and throat, turning her skin a dull rose, and a pang of remorse echoed in his chest. He’d forced her into this, and she was right—the entire endeavor had been a disaster.
Still, she’d been brilliant, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the blush she sported had spread to other more interesting parts of her body. His gaze dropped to her bosom, which was now heaving in outrage. Hellfire, that was one luscious sight.
His eyes came back up to her face, where he found her watching him, a strange light in her brown depths. He cleared his throat. “At least Bennett did not recognize you as Madam Zolikoff.”
“I wasn’t overly concerned he would. The wig tends to distract people. What will you tell them when no story appears?”
He finished the last of his brandy then set the crystal glass on a small Louis XVI side table near his chair. “I’ll think of something. Bennett will likely be relieved, though Tompkins may be persistent. How did you know Bennett would refuse to talk right now?”
“Because I know him. He consults Madam Zolikoff before most interviews, to ensure the spirits believe it a good idea.”
“Is that so? What about other decisions?” Just how much influence does Madam Zolikoff have over the campaign?
“Yes, he asks about those, too.” She paused, her smile showing more teeth than usual. “In fact, I’m the one who told him bringing you on the ticket was a good idea.”
* * *
“I beg your pardon. You told him . . .” Will couldn’t spit the rest out. His participation in this campaign had been conditional on Madam Zolikoff’s blessing? How could something so important have been decided in such a cavalier way?
“There were a handful of names under consideration as a potential partner on the ticket. Any fool could’ve seen your society connections would most benefit the campaign, so I told them the spirits favored you as the best choice.”
Favored me? “Dear God.” He shot out of his chair and went to the side of the car. Bracing an arm on the window casing, he watched the landscape roll past, anger burning in his stomach like a lump of coal. Damned stomach pain. He absently rubbed the area and wondered if Bennett planned to consult Madam Zolikoff for the rest of his life. That sort of dependency would be crippling to their administration when elect
ed.
“If it soothes your wounded pride,” she said, “you were the favorite. Bennett merely needed spiritual confirmation.”
He said nothing, uncertain he could speak without shouting. The rustle of clothing and the soft tread of her boots distracted him, causing a rush of awareness to prickle over his skin. He thought of her clinging to him as they escaped the riot, the small-yet-powerful hands wrapped around his waist, her face pressed into his chest. Now that the danger had passed, he could dwell on what it had felt like to hold her, to feel her lush curves intimately. The memory only caused him to want her more.
If he were less than a gentleman, he’d drag her over to the sofa and perform at least one hundred wicked things to her body.
“Even if Madam Zolikoff had chosen another,” she was saying, “I cannot see how you would have suffered. You’re certainly not in danger of losing your wealth or prestige. Why do you even care about winning this election?”
Because his father had wanted it, badly. Will would never forget the day he’d escaped his tutors to play with a puppy in the park. He’d been eight years old and much more interested in being outside than learning math tables. When he was found out, his father had shouted at him for an hour. “You’re a Sloane, for Christ’s sake. You’re not a street urchin, with no responsibilities and no future. With this complete lack of discipline, you’ll never accomplish half of what I’ve achieved.”
Every single thing Will had done since his father died had been based on those words. Raising Lizzie. Building the business. Growing the holdings. Gaining political office.
But he couldn’t explain any of that to her, so he told a half truth instead. “Because Bennett and I have the ability to guide the political landscape in the correct direction. If we’d given our speeches today, I would have proven how we can truly help people.”
“Well, win or lose, you’ll never suffer for a lack of arrogance, that’s for certain.”
“We’ll win. And when we do, Bennett will move to Albany. So unless you’re planning to move there too, you might as well stop seeing him now.”
“Bennett will understand that I cannot move, at least not to Albany.”
“Meaning you want to move elsewhere?”
She shifted to stare out the train window, her expression pensive, almost sad. He knew so little about her, and he felt hungry for any scrap, any hint she’d share. The woman was a mystery—an annoying, beautiful, ravishing mystery.
“Ava, tell me.”
“You’ll laugh, but there are farms upstate and I hope to purchase one before the year’s out. Then I’ll be able to remove my brothers and sister from the city.”
Though he couldn’t imagine her farming, neither could he imagine her leaving in a few months. His mind rebelled against the idea with a vehemence that shocked him. He swallowed hard. “Farming is not an easy life. Long hours and hard work . . . and you’re dependent on the land and weather.”
“That is what Tom said. He isn’t keen on leaving New York.”
“So why do it?”
She pressed her lips together with a small shake of her head. Still, he could not let it go. “Come on, Ava. There has to be a reason.”
She exhaled heavily. “My youngest brother is not in good health.”
“The newsie?”
“Yes. He’s always been small and prone to illness, but there are times when he has trouble catching his breath, as if he can’t pull in enough air. And Mary’s hands . . .” She dropped her head to study her own fingers. “They hurt from sewing all day long. I want to give them a better life, one with open space and fresh air.”
“And you think farming will be easier? You’re deluding yourself. Tom is settling in nicely at the off ice, and I have high hopes for the boy. Moving your family may prove a rash decision.”
“Spoken by a man who has been given everything. How long should I let them both struggle when I can do something about it?”
He didn’t care to argue with her, not when the decision was her own. Who was he to say she shouldn’t move to the moon, if that’s what she wanted? “I know the desire to protect one’s younger siblings. My sister was my responsibility from the time I turned sixteen.”
“Was?”
“She recently married.”
“I’m guessing from your pinched expression that you don’t care for her husband.”
Will shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and thought about how to best describe his feelings for Emmett Cavanaugh. “He’s . . . unworthy of her.”
“Because he mistreats her?”
“No! God, no. I’d beat him black-and-blue if he laid a hand on her in anger.”
“So, he’s poor. Is that it?”
“No. Wealthier than most anyone in New York, including me.”
“I must be missing something. Does he smoke opium? Drink excessively? Restrict her independence in some way?”
Will let out a short, wry chuckle. “Definitely not, and he’s indulged her constantly. He even funded her investment firm.”
Ava’s brows rose as she crossed her arms. “Sounds fairly perfect to me. If you tell me he’s handsome, I just might jump off the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“He’s an oaf.”
Light dawned in her irises, a bloom of comprehension that had him avoiding her eyes. “I think I understand. You said he’s unworthy, which means he’s not of the social elite. Not one of your blue bloods. Am I right?”
Will clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to say it, not to her. That Emmett Cavanaugh was not of his world, people who understood and upheld the right values of this city. Rules. Tradition. Not the overstated vulgarity of the new money or the recklessness of the middle class—
“Oh, dear,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “How does it feel up there in your tall tower, your highness? Bet you’re lonely with all that expectation and disappointment weighing you down.”
He stiffened and shot her an icy look, the one that normally caused employees to scurry. Ava merely smirked, however, those delectable, full lips challenging him and redirecting his anger into something else entirely.
His pulse began to race, every part of his body igniting with a staggering intensity. Infuriating, maddening woman. He wished he hadn’t a clue how well she kissed, or how eagerly she responded to him . . . but he did know. Quite unlikely he’d ever forget, the kiss had been that spectacular.
He caught her stare and held it, unable to look away or hide the need stealing his breath or the dark yearning flooding his veins. The only saving grace was the dark, hooded gaze reflected back at him, a sign she felt this as well.
“Are you offering to keep me company in my lonely tower?” he asked quietly.
“Is that a proposition?”
His body grew heavy, blood pumping to his groin, her boldness affecting him like a plate of oysters at Sherry’s. “Perhaps—or perhaps I’m merely flirting with you.”
“You don’t strike me as the type of man to flirt. You take yourself much too seriously to have fun.”
The words were like the strike of a match to his blood. Two steps brought him close enough to catch the scent of roses surrounding her. “The other night in my carriage was certainly fun. From what I recall, you thought so as well.”
Rapid, short breaths fell from her parted lips, her chest expanding and contracting above her corset. “You are more skilled at kissing than I had imagined. I was caught by surprise, is all.”
Equally offended and flattered, he leaned in, his mouth hovering over her ear. “What had you imagined, exactly?”
“Cold,” she breathed, a husky, rough sound of pure sin. “I had thought you would be cold.”
He dipped his head and slid the tip of his nose along the softness of her cheek. Would she be this soft and sweet everywhere? He was suddenly desperate to discover the answer. “I am anything but cold around you.” He brought a hand to her waist, holding her steady as the train suddenly rocked. “You make me burn, Ava.”
She was
panting now, and both of their bodies nearly vibrated with restraint. Will could feel his control slipping as the desire to pounce grew. He was painfully hard, pulse pounding along his length, an animallike instinct roaring through his veins. He didn’t want to make love to her. Didn’t want to gently bed her or leisurely pleasure them both for hours. What he wanted—what he needed—was to take her, hard. Possess her. To lose himself in her lush, velvety warmth and brash attitude for days and days, where he could relieve this inexplicable craving for her.
But this was madness. She could be a virgin for all he knew, and he had no right to seduce her. He kept his affairs tidy, always with women experienced enough to agree to an arrangement at the start. No complicated emotions or entanglements, the encounters were clean and easy. Ava was messy, complicated. A constant thorn in his side. He should walk away and stop pursuing her. So why couldn’t he leave her alone?
Because he was a fool, that’s why.
Gathering every bit of strength he possessed, he drew back. “I apologize. I should not say such things to you.”
Glazed eyes, dark with passion, searched his face. “Why?”
He pressed his lips together, trying to keep more insanity from falling out of his mouth, and started to step away. She clutched his arm, stopping him. “Do you never allow yourself to lose control? Just stop and feel, instead of always moving forward at high speed?”
No, he absolutely did not. Sloanes were supposed to set examples of proper, rational behavior.
“Do you allow your clothes to wrinkle?” she continued, her voice like smoke. “Or a woman to run her fingers through your hair? What does it take to shake your very foundation?”
You, he wanted to say. You scare me down to my soul. Because once I have you, I’ll never want to stop.
Perspiration broke out on the nape of his neck, under his shirt collar. “You are asking dangerous questions, Ava. A woman, alone in a private car with a man, should not encourage him to lose control.”