by Joanna Shupe
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Moisture gathered in the corner of her eyes, a sight that nearly sent him to his knees. Christ, no tears—anything but tears. He’d rather have her shouting at him, throwing a paperweight at his head.
Leaning down, he pressed his mouth to hers, a simple melding of lips that tasted like home. Like everything he’d ever wanted, love and happiness. Laughter and liveliness. She paused but soon began kissing him back, her mouth meeting his in a delicate exchange tinged by unhappiness. When her fingers trailed over his shoulders and tangled in his hair, he deepened the kiss, giving her his tongue and taking hers in exchange. They stayed there for a long minute, tasting, savoring, until she finally pulled away.
“Will, please. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“So I should make it easier for you to walk away?” He grabbed her hips and pulled her flush to his body. Let her feel how much he desired her. “I can’t do that, lovely woman. I want you too desperately to allow you to go without a fight.”
Her forehead dropped to his chest, her shoulders sagging. “Will . . . ,” she whined.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Ava . . . ,” he said in a matching tone.
She said nothing, but her hands found their way to his hips, up his rib cage, over his stomach. He craved her touch everywhere. “Please, Ava. Don’t leave me. Stay.”
Without waiting for an answer, he knelt and began sliding her skirts higher. His fingers skimmed her stocking-covered calves and knees, then along her drawers to the part between her legs. “Hold these,” he ordered, shoving the mounds of fabric up at her. Chest rising and falling rapidly, she gathered her skirts in her hands, leaving Will free to find the slit in her drawers.
He could smell her, the enticing aroma of her arousal, and his pulse pounded along the length of his erection. “Do you want this?” he asked before leaning in to breathe her in. “Tell me, Ava. May I have you this afternoon?” Everything hinged on her answer. If he could convince her today, chances were good he could continue to convince her in the future. And he was willing to play unfairly to get what he wanted.
Trembling, she stood there, her cleft bared before his avid stare. “You are the devil, Will Sloane.”
“That is not an answer.” He slid his nose over the velvety skin of her inner thigh, and she gasped. “I want to hear you say it.”
“It would be a shame to waste the hotel room, I suppose.”
A sweet rush of victory filled him, a grin twisting his lips. He rewarded her with a swift flick of his tongue over the taut bud of her sex. She jerked, her fingers knotting in his hair, but he held still. “Tell me you need me, Ava. That you need this.”
“Yes, Will. God, yes.”
He lunged, ready to devour her. To prove to her that no one else could ever compare. To bind her to him and prevent her from ever leaving. To gain more time. He couldn’t allow this to be over just yet.
She suddenly grabbed his head to prevent him from moving, so he glanced up, curious. “I won’t meet you again. This is the last time, Will. Please understand that I cannot continue, not the way things are.”
Disappointment crashed through him, and he surged to his feet. “Goddamn it, Ava. You’re being unreasonable. I’m not even betrothed!”
Skirts fell to cover her enticing legs and ankles. “And you’re using the attraction between us to manipulate me. To get what you want. Stop thinking only of yourself!”
The need to shout and scream, to argue until he won, burned his tongue. But he knew she was right; he was being selfish. So he stalked to the window and glanced down at the street traffic. He’d always loved New York, but right now his beloved city felt like a noose around his neck.
Why did she have to be so stubborn? He could not marry anyone he pleased, that was not how society worked, not for a man in his position. And wouldn’t his father have loved Will thumbing his nose at over two hundred years of breeding and status to marry a medium? “You’ll run it all into the ground,” his father had often said. Will would be damned before he’d prove the old man right.
After a moment, small arms wrapped around his waist, and the heavy weight of her breasts pressed against his back. He held onto her wrists, searching for the right words. But there were no words, at least none that would soon ease the ache in his chest. “You know you can change your mind at any time,” he finally said, watching the afternoon sun bathe the buildings in stripes of orange and red. “A part of me will always be waiting for you.”
He heard her drag in a shaky breath. “Oh, Will. A part of me will always be with you.”
Street noises whirled around them, while they clung to each other like moss on a rock. Was this love, this all-consuming need to breathe the same air as this woman? How in hell had she come to mean so much in a short period? He’d never had difficulty separating from a paramour in the past. However, right now, the city could crumble and Will would be hard-pressed to care.
Her hand found his shoulder, and she turned him slowly. Sadness lurked in her irises, but there was mischief there too. “One last time, railroad man. Better make it count.”
* * *
The early evening drizzle matched Ava’s mood as she hurried along Hudson Street. Her feet hurt, her back throbbed, and her heart . . . well, her heart felt as if a team of horses had dragged it the length of Manhattan. Twice.
Six days since she’d last seen him, since they’d shared a bed. Seemed more like six minutes. She kept waiting for the ache to recede, for the pain to lesson. No such luck. Even a glimpse of the elevated caused her to tear up. Heaven help her if she stepped a foot inside Grand Central Depot.
Knowing she’d done the right thing was little solace, especially when she still yearned for him.
Yet she’d faced worse, hadn’t she? When she’d lost her baby. When Stephen had turned his back on her, abandoning and firing her. Or when her parents had died, leaving her to support three siblings. All of those events far outweighed the loss of one upper-crust millionaire—and she had survived.
You’ll survive, Ava. You always do.
She had insisted on leaving the hotel room first. Better to walk away than be left behind. If she’d stayed, she might never have found the courage to go. The temptation of sleeping on sheets that smelled of him would’ve been too great to resist.
She had taken one of his shirt studs, however. It hadn’t been hard to distract him and slip the tiny solid-gold and pearl stud into her pocket. Foolishly she’d fancied a piece of him, one small token to carry with her. Eventually she would send the stud back to him—after she’d worn it in her collar for a few months.
Removing a key from the small purse on her waist, she aligned the metal with the hole in her front door.
“Miss Jones.”
The deep voice behind her caused her to drop the key, where it clattered to the stoop. Spinning, she found Mr. Grey and Mr. Harris looming there. Damn. She did not like these men outside her home, near her siblings. Mary and Sam would already be home, possibly Tom as well. The last thing she needed was for one of them to overhear this conversation.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” She bent and picked up the key, wrapping her fingers around it tightly. “How may I help you?”
“We missed you today at the hotel.” Grey cocked his head. “No clients today?”
She tried not to react, her face a stoic mask. “None. I took a week off.” A lie. She had changed hotels to avoid these two.
Harris chuckled, the scar on his cheek twisting. “A week off? You? Traveling to your summer cottage, then?”
“Something like that. I trust you received the money I sent last week.”
“Oh, we did,” Grey said, moving forward to lean one foot on the first step. “But we were a bit confused about that. Why, exactly, did the money come through you and not one of your clients?”
She cleared her throat. “Because they are uncomfortable dealing with outsiders. They trust me to place the investment for them.” An
other lie, may God forgive her. She hadn’t pressured any of her clients to invest in Grey and Harris’s venture. Instead, she’d sent money out of her own pocket, hoping to appease the two for a bit.
“That is not how this works,” Harris added, climbing the stairs until he stood in front of her. Grey followed, saying, “See, we want to know you’re doing your part. That you’re not just sending us money when you feel like it.”
“I should hardly think that matters, as long as you get paid.” She inched back toward the door.
“It matters. We can bring them in, get them to invest in other ventures, once you send them to us. Only, you’re not sending anyone to us.”
“I did not realize that was what you preferred.” She attempted to put more distance between them. “I will make a concerted effort starting tomorrow.” Like hell.
Harris crowded her against the door. He stood less than a foot away, using his bulk to intimidate her. “See that you do, Miss Jones. If we don’t have someone by Friday, everything you’ve built, all that you’ve worked for, will be gone. You’ll be the laughingstock of New York.”
Grey appeared next, his sneer terrifying—even in the low light. “Not only will you be ruined, several others will be going down with you, once you’re exposed.”
“Ava?”
Grey and Harris stepped back, and Ava saw Tom down on the walk, his brow furrowed in concern. “Are you all right?” her brother asked.
Harris lifted his palms as both men descended the steps. “No worries, son. We’re just having a friendly chat with your sister.”
Grey grinned at Ava as if they’d just been catching up over tea. “So we’ll see you Friday, ain’t that right, Miss Jones?”
“Yes,” she said weakly. “Friday.”
The two men sauntered down Bank Street toward Hudson, but Ava turned her attention to Tom. She couldn’t say anything, horrified to even ask how much he’d overheard.
He came up the steps and shot a worried glance to where Grey and Harris were disappearing. “What was that all about?”
“Nothing. How was your day?” She turned and started to open the door with her key—only her damn hand wouldn’t stop trembling.
“Ava.” Tom’s palm landed on her hand. “Stop and tell me what is going on. Who were those two men? What did they want with you?”
“Readings, of course.”
“Bull. You forget who you’re talking to. I’m not one of your clients that you can bamboozle. I want the truth.”
“Those two are a problem I’m working on. You needn’t worry over it.”
Hands on his slim hips, he stared at her disapprovingly. Though not even sixteen, he was growing, rapidly evolving from a young boy into a man. “I am not a kid any longer. I have a job and I am the man of the family. You cannot treat me like the other two. I deserve to know what’s going on.”
She pressed her lips together. On one hand, it would be nice to have help in carrying the burden every now and again. But her brother should not be involved in this mess. The less he knew, the better.
“I know you want to help, but there’s nothing you can do this time. I’m in a bit of a pickle, but I’ll figure it out.”
“Does this have anything to do with why you ain’t been eating or sleeping this week?”
No, she wanted to say. That had to do with Will Sloane. “I didn’t realize you were taking note of my habits.”
“Kind of hard to miss when we eat and sleep in such a small space, Ava. Besides, your clothes are hangin’ on you like flour sacks.”
She glanced down at herself. Perhaps her shirtwaists were a bit looser. “Tom, let it go. I’ll figure out what to do.” She had no idea how, but there was little choice. They didn’t yet have enough savings to leave New York. Though perhaps they could go to New Jersey for a bit . . .
“If you don’t tell me the truth, I will go up there and tell Sam there is no Santa Claus.”
“You wouldn’t dare! He’s the only one who still believes.”
Tom quirked a brow in challenge, and Ava’s shoulders fell. Fine, he wanted to know, then she’d tell him. It wouldn’t change anything. But perhaps Tom could help her come up with a way to get money to Harris and Grey without knowing it came from her.
“A little more than a month ago, those two men came to see me. . . .”
Chapter Eighteen
The Park Row offices of the New York Mercury bustled with activity. Reporters, assistants, and typesetters were focused on the next day’s issue, their anxiety nearly palpable in the space as they raced the clock. Will paid no attention to any of it. He walked quickly toward his quarry in the back, Tom Jones right on his heels.
A secretary rose from a desk at his approach. “May I help you, sir?”
Will did not even break stride or slow down. “He’s expecting me.”
“Yes, but I still need—”
He went past her, through the door, and into the publisher’s private domain. A large space with floor-to-ceiling windows, the fourteenth-floor office overlooked City Hall. Two men stood in front of a desk, their gazes tipping up at the interruption.
Calvin Cabot, publisher of the Mercury, straightened to his full, lanky height, a smirk breaking out on his face. He wore no frock coat, just a vest and shirtsleeves, his face unshaven. “Sloane, this is an unexpected treat. Jim”—he turned to the other man—“give me a few minutes and then we’ll get back to this.”
“You got it, Cabot.” Gathering some papers, the employee left the room, shutting the door behind him.
“Cabot, this is Tom, one of my employees.”
Cabot came around the desk, shook Tom’s hand, and then slapped Will’s shoulder. “You look like shit, Sloane. Late night?”
Will gritted his teeth. He hadn’t slept well in a week. His concentration was shot, his mood black. The Northeast employees were giving him a wide berth these days, all except Tom, who had been lodging frequent suspicious, assessing looks in Will’s direction.
“Some of us work for a living, Cabot. Not everyone visits beer halls and boxing matches every night.” Cabot’s raucous lifestyle was the stuff of legend. How he managed to oversee three newspapers never failed to perplex Will. Yet, Cabot could be counted on to spin a story in precisely the right manner to cause magical things to happen.
And Will desperately needed that magical touch today.
“Tom, I’m sorry you are trapped working for this fuddy-duddy,” Calvin said, gesturing to the two chairs in front of the desk. “Anytime you want to have a little fun, you come see me about a position.”
Will unbuttoned his frock coat and sat, Tom doing the same. “Thank you, sir,” Tom said politely.
“Sir?” Calvin shook his head. “This ain’t a regiment, son. Call me Cabot. Everyone else does.”
“Are you done?” Will snapped at Cabot. “I am on a schedule today—and don’t you have a paper to print?”
Cabot dropped into his chair and leaned back. “And here I thought you were coming to see me about a favor.”
Will huffed in annoyance. Cabot was right; Will was being a bastard. Still, this was timely. “I apologize. I do need a favor. I need you to run a story for me in tomorrow’s paper.”
“Tomorrow’s paper?” Cabot’s eyes went wide. “Jesus, Sloane. That’s been set already and they’ll start the presses in”—he glanced at his pocket watch—“fifteen minutes.”
“Tell them to wait.”
Cabot stared at Will, his expression not giving anything away as he stroked his jaw. After a moment, he stood, went to the telephone box on the wall, and turned the crank. Once someone picked up, he said into the mouthpiece, “Charles, tell them to wait. I may need to make a few changes.”
He resumed his seat and beckoned with his hand. “Let’s hear it.”
“I need a pair of blackmailers exposed.” Cabot’s brows rose, a speculative gleam in his eye, so Will addressed Tom. “Tell him everything you told me.”
Tom cleared his throat and inched f
orward in his seat. “My sister is Madam Zolikoff.”
“The medium?” Cabot asked, brows shooting high. “Saw her last year. She’s good.”
Tom nodded, his chin lifting. “Yes, she is. A month ago, two men approached her and demanded she tell her clients to invest in their company—”
“Which doesn’t exist, of course,” Cabot finished. “Then the ‘company’ goes under, taking all the money with it, which these men pocket and move on. Not very original, but effective, unfortunately. So what did your sister say?”
“She didn’t want to do it. Tried to tell them no, but they threatened to expose her as a fraud. Reveal her identity and run her out of town.”
“That’s what I’d expect. It’s their only leverage. So what, they’re getting impatient ’cause she’s stalling?”
Will marveled at Cabot’s quick mind. A reporter at heart, Cabot could sniff a trail faster than any man or woman Will knew.
“Yes,” Tom answered. “She tried sending her own money, claiming it was from investors, but they didn’t buy it. Pushed back. They’ve given her until tomorrow to have someone show up at the fake offices, ready to invest.”
“She could send someone there with some dough. A friend or relative.”
“You don’t know Ava,” Tom said with a slight chuckle. “She’s not one to ask for help.”
A gross understatement, Will thought. In fact, if Ava knew what Tom and Will were doing at this very moment, she would be furious. But Will didn’t care. He had the power to help her, so he would see this problem resolved—whether she wanted him to or not. It was the least he could do for her.
“Who are these two charming gentlemen? Do you have names?”
“She told me their names are Harris and Grey. Gave me a pretty good description, too.”
“Harris and Grey? One’s got a long beard, the other a scar down his cheek?”
Tom nodded and Cabot threw his head back and laughed. “Christ, those two are from Tammany. Have they no shame?”