by Joanna Shupe
She kissed him back eagerly, as if her craving matched his in intensity. The wet heat of her tongue melded with his as he stroked inside her mouth. Her fingers wound into his hair, holding on, and he deepened the kiss, cupping her jaw to perfect the angle. She tasted of mint and determination, her boldness affecting him more than any liquor or cigar. His head swam, need clawing at his skin, pushing him past reason. If he could lift her skirts here in the small carriage and impale her onto his erection, he would.
God in heaven, she was turning him into a barbarian.
He glided his mouth over her jaw, nipping her, and she whimpered. His heart hammered in his chest, blood pounding along his length, the demand for friction obliterating all else. He wanted to feel every creamy, lush inch of her, for as long as it took to sate this unmanageable desire. Hours . . . days. Years.
“I cannot stop thinking about the train,” he said against the skin behind her ear. “How you felt on my fingers. The sounds you made when you found your pleasure. I need to hear those sounds again.”
A shiver racked her body. “Will . . .”
“Tell me, Ava. Tell me you need me.” Tell me I’m not alone.
“Yes, I need you.” Her fingers clutched at his arms as she tried to drag him closer. “Just once more.”
He shifted and took her mouth in a frantic kiss. Lips and teeth clashed in desperation as they breathed in each other. His hands roamed over her arms, shoulders, down over her corseted breasts. She arched her back, pressing into him for more, and he was ready to crawl out of his skin. “I’ll tell Palmer to take us to a hotel. I want to undress you. See you. Taste you. Bury myself between your thighs. Repeatedly.”
“A hotel?” she panted.
He reached for her skirts with one hand, gathering the fabric above her knees. Just one quick touch of bare skin. One swipe of her cleft to feel how wet and hot. “Well, we cannot go to your apartments, and my house is out of the question.”
She gripped his arm, preventing her skirts from going any higher. “Why is your house out of the question?”
The tone of her voice had shifted, from molten metal to cold, hard steel. Her palm pushed against his shoulder in order to see his face, and he felt himself frown. “Ava, I don’t bring women to my home.”
“Women?”
Her lips compressed into thin, white lines, so he tried to explain, to get them back on track. “I’ve always kept my affairs discreet, mostly as a way to protect Lizzie. And there’s the staff to consider.” Not to mention the campaign. He did not want to jeopardize the race, not when he and Bennett were so close.
She swallowed and briefly closed her eyes. “You want to keep this a secret.”
“Yes, it’s how I’ve always conducted my private life. I expect discretion in my affairs and prefer long-term partners who are amenable to an up-front arrangement.”
“An up-front arrangement? So, you want me as your mistress.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Yes, I do, though I don’t care what name we give it, and you can set the—”
Pain exploded across his cheek, a sharp crack echoing as his head snapped to the side. “Go to hell, Will.”
Damnation, that hurt. He’d never had a woman slap him before. His jaw clenched while humiliation and anger burned in his stomach. Slowly he looked over at her, trying to get a grip on his fury, when he noticed her eyes were glistening. Were those . . . tears?
She banged on the roof. “Let me out here!” she shouted to Palmer.
“Keep driving!” he yelled over her. Then he pointed a finger at her. “You are not leaving this carriage until you tell me why you are upset.”
“You stupid man, I don’t owe you any explanations. I don’t owe you a damn thing. Let me out!”
She tried to lunge for the door handle, and he grabbed her shoulders. “Ava, calm down. I want to know what happened. Why are you nearly crying?”
“I am not crying!” she said. “I am so angry I could strangle you with my bare hands. How dare you attempt to make me your mistress. The entire offer is insulting.”
“It is practical. We want each other, you’ve admitted as much,” he heard himself snarl as he released her shoulders. A thought popped into his head, one he’d briefly considered before but stupidly hadn’t bothered to investigate. He nearly winced as he asked, “Are you an innocent?”
“No, I am not. Which I’m certain doesn’t surprise you in the least. Who’d expect anything else of a woman like me, correct?”
“I never expect anything of you—other than I will never receive a straight answer. You lie and evade my questions at every turn.”
“Because I learned a long time ago never to trust men like you. Men who think women are here for their pleasure, and then use them and throw them away. But I will not allow you to treat me disrespectfully, no matter who you are and where you live.”
“Who?” His hands curled into fists on his thighs. “Give me a name.”
“Absolutely not. You have no right to that information. Besides, it doesn’t matter any longer.”
“It matters to me, very much. Because you are holding another man’s sins over my head.”
“No, Will. I’m holding your sins over your head. You treat everyone as if they’re beneath you, that anyone not born with blood as blue as yours is unworthy. I will not become your mistress, some secret you are too ashamed to admit.”
“So what are you asking for, Ava? That I court you? Be serious.”
She took a deep, shaky breath, one that told him more about her turmoil than the practiced bland expression she wore. “I am most definitely serious—and I want nothing from you. Absolutely nothing.”
No response came to mind. He stared at her blankly, his brain attempting to untangle the mess of this conversation. They’d been locked in a passionate embrace one minute, snarling at each other the next. He wanted her. Badly. But he had no clue what she was after. For him to court her publicly? The idea was ludicrous. He would not sacrifice everything he’d built just to bed her.
Her hand shot up to pound on the roof. “Here, please,” she shouted, her gaze locked with his, holding, as the wheels slowed. He did not speak—and neither did she.
Cursing himself a fool ten times over, he threw open the door and helped her down. They were just up the street from her building. God knew how many times Palmer had circled the block.
She shook out her skirts and carefully smoothed the cloth before tilting her head back. “Good-bye, Will Sloane.”
* * *
“Gentlemen, I believe we’ve covered enough ground for one afternoon.” Will stood from the head of the long oak table and gathered his papers. The men around the room, Northeast’s highest-ranking employees, began to rise as well, their faces all trained toward Will. “We’ll approach Frick with a proposal for coke production next month, once we settle on the details.”
“He’ll never agree,” Henry Young grumbled. Young had been one of Archibald Sloane’s cronies and the biggest thorn in Will’s side. “Frick’s on Carnegie’s payroll.”
True, but loyalty only went so far in business—especially between those two men. Perhaps Will would speak to Cavanaugh about a partnership. With Northeast Railroad and East Coast Steel in bed together, Frick would be a fool not to choose them.
Will held up a hand. “Let me see what I can do. We’ll pick this up next week.”
Murmurs followed him out of the room. Ignoring them, he found Frank, his assistant, waiting in the hall.
“Mr. Sloane,” Frank started as they continued along the corridor to Will’s office. “A few cables have arrived, and Mr. Pearson telephoned. He asked that you ring him back as soon as you are able.” He held out a stack of telegrams, which Will accepted and quickly read.
“Get Pearson on the line as soon as we return,” he said, still concentrating on the telegrams. His step faltered when a name at the bottom of one jumped out at him: Ava. Had she changed her mind? He peered closer and saw, no, that was Abe, not Ava. His shoulde
rs slumped.
He’d tried not to think about her over the last few days. Refusal was unusual, a bitter tonic he’d rather not swallow. Between his bank balance and his social standing, he’d never had a woman turn him down before. But Ava had said no, and he . . . he had to find a way to accept it.
Stomach suddenly burning, Will yanked on the outer office door and hurried through, with Frank following behind. Over his shoulder, Will gave his assistant answers to some of the cables as they walked to his office. “Bring me the morning’s trades,” he told Frank when they reached his desk. “I want to see where the stock finishes.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man answered. “Anything else?”
“Find me some bicarbonate of soda.” He rubbed his abdomen as he sat. “That’ll be all.”
A tentative knock on Will’s door caught his attention. Tom, Ava’s brother, stood on the threshold, looking nervous. The sight of him brought forth unwelcome thoughts of Ava once more, though Will could hardly take out her stupidity on the boy. “Yes, Tom?”
“May I have a moment, sir?”
Frank’s eyes widened at this request, since he preferred to handle requests to meet with the boss. No doubt Tom would be getting a stern lecture about office propriety from Frank in a few moments. “Frank, find me the bicarbonate and I’ll speak with Tom.”
“Of course, sir.” Frank hurried from the room, shooting Tom a disapproving glance on the way.
When the door closed, Will said, “Don’t mind Frank. He’s quite protective of my time, though sometimes he overdoes it a bit.”
“I apologize,” Tom said. “I’m doing my best to learn the way things work around here.”
“From what I’ve heard, you’re doing a stellar job. Frank said he’s moved you to the ledgers because you’re proficient with numbers.”
“Proficient?”
“Very good at,” Will supplied.
“Oh, yeah, proficient. I like numbers. Always have, ever since I had a dice game going off Canal Street.”
Will suppressed a smile. “I’m assuming your sister is unaware of said dice game.”
Tom’s face paled a little, an answer all to itself. “No, she’d have my head if she knew. You won’t tell her, will you?”
“You have my word I will not.” No use mentioning he’d never see Ava again. Now there was a depressing thought. “What did you wish to speak with me about?”
“Well, I was going through the ledgers and thought maybe I should compare them to last year’s numbers—”
“Why would you want to do that?” Will interrupted sharply. Last year’s ledgers were . . . an embarrassment. Will had missed his investment firm stealing money from Northeast Railroad, and he’d removed the evidence of his stupidity from the office. No one would see those ledgers but himself.
“To give you an idea of how the company is performing year to year. I thought if we compared this week to the same week last year, you’d be able to see how much growth has happened. But I can’t find last year’s ledgers.”
The boy was smart, no doubt about it. Will liked Tom’s initiative, performing a task that hadn’t been assigned in order to improve Will’s understanding of the company. “Those ledgers are private for a reason, Tom, but I appreciate your diligence. Perhaps you could compare to the previous year instead?”
Tom nodded. “I was worried someone took off with your ledgers, Mr. Sloane. I’m glad to hear you know where they are.”
“Indeed, I do.” He rocked back in his chair. “Was that all?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll leave you to it, then.”
Spinning, Tom started for the door, but Will called after him. “Wait, Tom. Tell me . . .” He wanted to ask the question so badly, find out any scrap of information about her, but pride thankfully stepped in. “How are you enjoying your position here?”
A grin split Tom’s face. “I love it, Mr. Sloane. Thank you for the opportunity.”
Will waved that away. “It’s my pleasure. I have a keen eye for talent, and you’ve been a great addition to the staff. What about your friends, the ones you were arrested with? Any word from either of them?”
“No, sir.” Tom threw his shoulders back. “And I want nothing to do with either of ’em. You know, when we were in the jail, they wouldn’t tell the coppers that it was my first time working with them. They made it sound as if I was a regular dip. What kind of friends do that?”
“Not very good ones,” Will said. “I am glad you’ve distanced yourself from that life. You have a bright future ahead of you, Tom. Never forget that.”
“I won’t, sir. And thank you again for taking me on.”
“Of course.” Nodding, Will dismissed the boy. But just as Tom turned the knob, Will heard himself ask, “And how is your sister?” He nearly winced. So much for pride.
“Mary?”
“No, the other one.”
“Ava?” Tom rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t know, really. She’s been quiet these past few days. Keepin’ to herself. She’s happy about my job, though. Said we’ll be able to move upstate quicker, thanks to my wages.”
Will’s stomach clenched, the burn firing up once more. Where the hell was Frank with that bicarbonate? “Is that what you want, then? To move upstate?”
“Hell—I mean heck, no. That’s Ava who wants to move. Not me. I never want to leave the city.”
“Good. Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”
The side of Tom’s mouth hitched, amused. “Ava’s as stubborn as they come, Mr. Sloane. Suspect I’d have better luck convincing a pig to sprout wings and fly.”
* * *
“Madam Zolikoff, thank you for coming this evening!”
Phillip Price came toward the front door, his hand outstretched. A handsome, wealthy widower in his early forties, Mr. Price owned a prosperous textile factory. His carefully oiled brown hair had a shot of silver at the temples and he wore a neatly trimmed beard. He’d been one of Ava’s regular clients for the last seven months.
Slipping on her gracious smile, she transferred her heavy carpetbag to her left hand and used her right to shake. “Of course, Mr. Price,” she said in her Russian accent. “I look forward to assisting your guests tonight.”
“Excellent! I’ll show you the parlor we can use for the proceedings.” He took her elbow and led her down the main hall to a set of wooden doors, which he promptly threw open. “Here we are. I think this has everything you require.”
The heavy curtains had been pulled shut, darkening the room, so Mr. Price flicked the switch of the gasolier and illuminated the space. The furniture she’d requested—the lightweight round table, the screen in the corner, the coat rack—all seemed to be in place. “This is exactly what I needed. Thank you. What time shall they arrive, then?”
“The guests should start arriving in fifteen minutes or so. I’ll take them into the front parlor, and you may join us when you are ready.”
Ava nodded, and then Mr. Price left the room, quietly closing the doors behind him. She told her hosts that she needed to “sense the energy in the room” ahead of time, but, in truth, there were several pieces to arrange first. Placing her carpetbag on the ground, she opened the clasp and pulled apart the sides to reveal the necessary items for this evening. A tambourine. A long, retractable rod. A small strip of cheesecloth. Deck of playing cards. She moved the chairs closer to one another. Last, she turned off the light to ensure the room would be sufficiently dark. When she had everything arranged the way she wanted, she left the room and headed to the parlor.
Mediums in New York and London were in high demand, and she knew Mr. Price’s friends would all wish to speak to her beforehand. Ava didn’t mind because she could often pick up one or two personal tidbits to use during the séance from these chats. When making conversation with a polite stranger, people often revealed information they assumed didn’t matter, information she would store in her brain for later use. Because the more real facts Ava included in the séance, the more authentic
her powers would seem to the others.
In the parlor, there were six well-dressed guests. Mr. Price was not exactly high society but, thanks to his hefty bank account, he rubbed elbows with many of the prominent families. That caused her to think of Will, an occurrence guaranteed to sour her mood. She hadn’t seen him in five days, since the night he offered up his offensive proposition. “I prefer long-term partners who are amenable to an up-front arrangement.”
No doubt there were a string of long-term partners in his past, all bored society women who fell over themselves for the opportunity to share his bed. Not Ava. She had no interest in becoming some rich swell’s bird. Her life was complicated enough.
It’s because you’ve developed feelings for him, and you want him to like you in return.
Wincing, she screwed the lid—tight—on her inner voice. That inner voice of hers was nothing but trouble.
Mr. Price noticed her standing by the door, so he came over and took her elbow. “Here’s our star this evening. Everyone, this is the great Madam Zolikoff. She will be performing our séance.”
Heads swung her way, and she was soon enclosed in a tight circle of guests as they peppered her with questions. Did she think the spirits would cooperate this evening? Did she have a spirit guide, as many of the popular mediums claimed? Was she ever scared, talking to the spirits as she did? Had she reached out to Abraham Lincoln’s ghost?
Ava tried to answer them patiently and carefully, her accent never slipping. She asked them questions in return, learning all she could in a short amount of time. One woman had just lost her sister, one of the male guests his uncle. One couple was contemplating a trip to the Orient. Mr. Price said nothing, merely remained at her side, until he finally glanced at his pocket watch. “We are waiting on two more guests. Then we’ll begin.”
Since he was paying an absurd amount for the evening, Ava did not complain. The fee from tonight’s séance would pay one quarter of their rent and food bill this month. “Of course,” she told him. “We should wait for everyone to arrive. The more people, the more energy to summon the spirits.”