Jared felt her take control of the moment and resigned himself to the fact that there would be no bed, no exploring tonight. He smiled and let out a low plaintive sigh as he searched the wall for the buzzer, wondering how he could rise comfortably from the table in his semi-aroused state.
Thankfully, it took Sallie several minutes to address the buzzer and pull the heavy panel on the restaurant side open, the soft murmur of voices a change from the strong beat of the speak’s music, candlelight flickering in contrast to the glaring electric lamps. Jared held out a hand and helped Grace to her feet.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, excusing herself.
Jared pulled Sallie aside. “I trust you have provided the security I need?”
“Sure. Was Miss Hathaway the mark?”
“Yes, but I don’t know why yet. How many men?”
“Two of my best. Anyone comes around tonight, we’ll get him.”
“Good. And they will bring him to me?”
“They have their orders.”
“Thanks, Sallie. I knew I could count on you.”
“Who is she, anyway?”
“A neighbor. I’m just being friendly.”
“Then you should ask your friend for a comb so you don’t look like you just climbed out of bed,” Sallie said.
Jared scowled and ran his fingers through his hair as he glanced in a mirror next to the door. Grace appeared, and Jared quickly escorted her out, Sallie still chuckling at his own joke.
Chapter Seven
Jared lay awake on his bed, still fully clothed. He listened to the scratching of bare branches against the window and watched their dancing shadows flit across the wall in the midnight moonlight. The bottle of brandy on his nightstand was down by half and his belly warm from the mellow liquor.
He thought about Grace, remembering the sound of her voice and the animated features that lit her face when she spoke. His thoughts drifted over her body, assessing each feminine attribute as if he were undressing her slowly. She would be round and soft and ripe, perfectly suited to his touch and to his mouth. He could still remember the electricity when she touched him, how her eyes melted into blue pools, how her breasts were deliciously curved and inviting.
He ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had produced such a lingering effect on him. Lazily, he folded his arms behind his head. He thought about how outraged she had been when she caught him admiring her beautifully rounded derrière in the jewelry shop.
He’d seen that look before. Several headstrong suffragettes of his acquaintance had the same stubborn tilt to their chins, the same fire in their eyes.
She’d been relaxed with Sallie and Theresa; there’d been no condescension in her manner—more tolerant and non-judgmental than most of his affluent friends, who would turn up their nose at a young immigrant family.
She had faced her fear, finding herself locked in the alcove with him. She’d been frightened but not intimidated. He felt a strange and totally unexpected tenderness for her, as though she were a child put in his safekeeping, but she seemed to be fiercely independent and damned near as stubborn as he was. She didn’t wait around for a man to help solve her problems. He couldn’t help admiring her pluck, her confidence and resilience.
He found himself wondering if she was a virgin. If she wasn’t, he knew she’d been selective. He never sought out virgins, but now he wondered what it would be like to introduce a woman to her first taste of lovemaking. To be the one to be inside her the first time she surrendered to that amazing release.
In the past, it was of no consequence to him who his paramours had bedded before or after he partook of their pleasures. Strangely, he found he didn’t like the thought that any other man had touched Grace. He would wager she’d never known a man, had never even shared an intimate kiss with a man, for her response had seemed untutored, almost naïve.
But their one brief kiss revealed she had a passionate nature, and not many women denied their sexuality anymore. After Margaret Sanger opened her first American Birth Control Clinic in 1921, women in New York City knew more about contraceptive devices than most men, and many of them went from bed to bed with as much frequency as their lovers or husbands. Especially in the indulgent New York crowd he ran with.
He had also felt her reluctance. Someone had hurt her. Yet, when she thanked him for the evening and he bent to kiss her cheek, she shifted a bit to allow his lips to lightly brush hers. Or was this all a dream, and she was just a gossamer sprite tempting, teasing him until... The brandy took effect, and Jared pursued his beautiful sprite into dreamland.
****
Grace leaned against the kitchen counter and twirled the glass of warm milk absently, watching the small whirlpool until it steadied and stopped. She knew checking all the locks and closing the drapes and Venetian blinds only gave her the illusion of safety.
She took a swallow of the soothing drink. If this didn’t put her to sleep, she’d work on her sketches. No sense staring at the ceiling for a second night. She’d spent most of last night thinking about a certain tall, dark, brooding stranger who took the very breath from her body when he was close enough for her to inhale his spicy scent. Lordy, lordy. His kiss warmed her to her toes.
And then he’d offered to protect her.
An exquisite feeling washed over her when he’d made plans to secure her home. She felt enormously comforted in a way she couldn’t quite understand, but she welcomed it. Oh, she valued her independence, but this emotion felt almost like being cherished.
On the other hand, she recognized the heat always present in his eyes. Other men had looked at her like that, but he looked like he could deliver every wicked thing his eyes promised. And more.
At the shop he should have been embarrassed to look at her like he had, his gaze lingering and lazily ascending, caressing every part of her body. Every place his gaze touched, her body had grown warm and tingly.
When his eyes finally met hers, that annoyingly smug half-smile of his widened to a grin. She’d been mortified. The miserable wretch! He should have been the one blushing.
What was she getting herself into?
But why did she feel there was more to him than met the eye? Something below the surface. A face no one saw. Her intuition was usually right on target. Or, more accurately, had been correct until Adam. Could she blame her biological clock on the miscalculation of her ex-fiancé? She had truly wanted to marry and start a family. She’d thought Adam felt the same.
Stretching, she stifled a yawn and then took the last swallow of milk. Thoughts of Adam always left her in a temper, and that was not conducive to sleep. She rinsed out the glass in the sink and put it in the dish rack.
There was always the possibility Jared would turn out to be the same. She would set the pace. She would be the one to decide, this time.
Tightening the tie of her chenille robe, she was headed back to bed when a slight noise drew her attention to the kitchen door. The noise sounded like a groan—the human kind. She grasped the neck of an empty milk bottle and crept to the door.
Yanking the curtain aside, Grace quickly surveyed the small backyard. Silver moonlight washed over the lawn and outbuildings, clearly illuminating the area. Slowly letting out her breath, she checked the lock once again.
Now she was hearing things.
Next she’d be checking under the bed for the boogie man. Pushing the bottom button on the switch, she turned off the kitchen light and headed upstairs.
On the way up, she realized she’d never thought much about her own safety. Her childhood had been secure until her mother passed, until she had to assume the matriarchal position in the family, but she realized sharply Jared had never had that security.
Crawling into bed, she snuggled into the soft down pillows. She pictured the small boy he must have been, wondering why he had been abandoned, whether his mother had a reason for leaving him to the mercy of strangers. But she also saw the man he had
become, rising above his humble beginnings against all odds to make his way in the world and acquire a considerable fortune.
She suspected his invulnerability was an illusion. As an orphan, he would have received little comfort or human contact. She wanted to reach out to him but feared he would reject the effort.
At least she had Zia Bruna. She loved her aunt dearly, but it wasn’t the same as having a family of your own, a husband and children.
She had counted on Adam to fill the loneliness, and for a while he had. Only after Adam’s betrayal had she secluded herself, preferring to take refuge in the solace of family. But now Papa was gone, and Zia Bruna was sick.
Grace decided she would return Jared’s kindness by keeping an open mind. Surely he had her best interests at heart.
She reached over to turn off the lamp and pulled the covers up to her chin.
****
The hour must have been two a.m. The Westminster clock on Jared’s bureau chimed twice as he heard a scuffling noise, followed by a pounding on the front door.
Bolting from the bed, Jared raced downstairs. Two of Sallie’s boys held a small man by the scruff of his fraying jacket.
“This here is yer perpetrator,” one of the burly men said in a thick Chicago accent. “We found him at the lady’s back door with these.” His grotesquely large hand displayed a small leather case with instruments that appeared to be lock-picking tools and a Kewie camera. The smaller of the muscular, thick-necked duo shoved his prey into the foyer.
Jared’s teeth clenched. “Who are you and what were you doing at Miss Hathaway’s door?”
The small man clutched at the collar of his jacket, drawing it protectively around his neck. “What dame? I don’t know any Hathaway. Alls he told me was ta get the stuff.” The thief glanced around the foyer.
At least the man wasn’t a rapist or a thug, Jared thought, but now he knew someone else was calling the shots. That was a problem. A big one. He needed information.
“What stuff? Who hired you to break into the house?”
“I don’t know, honest.”
Sallie’s man cuffed the frightened weasel on the side of the head. “Answer the gent, bud.”
The thief cowered. “A guy. Just a guy. He mentioned a friend o’ mine’s name, said it was easy pickin’s, and paid me half up front. Said he didn’t care about the broad. If she gave me trouble, it was up to me...”
Before the man could finish his sentence, Jared reached for him, grabbing the collar of his jacket. Just then Albert opened his door, putting a fragile barrier between Jared and the thief.
The wiry man saw his opportunity and took it. He dropped to the floor, pulled one arm out of his jacket and then the other, and scrambled out the open doorway. All three men grabbed for him, but having more agility than his brawny opponents, the wiry little man escaped into the night.
“Dammit!” Jared cursed, following the thief into the night only to realize as his feet hit the cold pavement that he wasn’t wearing shoes. “Follow him! I’ll be right behind you,” he ordered as he raced back up the stairs.
After a half-hour search turned up no results, Sallie’s men left. With adrenaline still coursing through his veins, Jared returned to the library and sat at his desk, berating himself for the thief’s escape and contemplating the only clues he had to the man’s identity.
In the breast pocket of the worn tweed jacket the thief left behind, he’d found a matchbox inscribed “The Peacock Club.” Jared turned the matchbox over and over in his fingers. There was a gin mill on Melborn Avenue with that name, an unsavory place with unsavory customers. He would check it out tomorrow.
But why would a jewel thief carry a camera?
The leather case held more promise. The man had apparently been proud of his craft. The initials JFQ were monogrammed on the bottom corner of the front flap of the case in gold leaf. “Hanover Leather, Chicago, Illinois” was clearly embossed on the back. Jared ran his hand over the leather, smooth and worn from being carried in a pocket over a lifetime. He picked up the telephone receiver and dialed O. A nasal, feminine voice answered.
“Annie, darlin’, would you please check on a number for me? Hanover Leather, Chicago. Yes, and the address, please.” There was a brief pause before she gave him the number. “Thanks, Annie, you’re a doll.” He was in luck. He hung up the heavy black receiver and jotted down a number. Hanover Leather was still in operation at 1513 47th Avenue. Now if only they kept extensive records.
Chapter Eight
The balding man ran his blunt fingers over the precious gems spread across the dust-covered desk. S-o-o-n. He wrote the letters in the dust. Soon he would have the rest of the fortune. Then Angela would be his for the taking. He didn’t blame her for not wanting him now. No, Angela had a right to be kept in a swank style. After he sold the stones, he could treat her like a queen.
He mentally skimmed over her physical features, starting with her perfect breasts to the shadow that he knew lay between her thighs. Only yesterday she’d worn that damn blue dress of hers again. You could see her gams through it all the way up to her crotch, for Christ’s sake. The damn dress showed off her whole body. She wore it on purpose.
Oh, she was a temptress all right. Smiling, flirting with him like that. Trying to make him jealous. For two bits he would have smacked her silly. But he’d have the last laugh when she belonged to him. She wouldn’t act so hoity-toity then.
He felt his manhood stir. She was the only one who could do that to him. He rubbed himself through his trousers. She wanted him. Oh, she wanted him bad. And why not? He was smarter and better looking than the rest of her beaux.
He’d show them all when she hung on his arm, listening to his every word, filling all his needs. Soon. He drew a line under the word in the dust. One by one, he dropped the gems back into the leather envelope.
If the little bitch would only get on with her business he could finish the job. But he had to be patient. Patient and smart.
He took the gun out of his jacket pocket and ran a hand over the smooth cool barrel. That rich high-hat was going to be a problem, but he could be handled. Trusting other people to do a job he should have done himself had been a mistake. He’d fix everything. Hadn’t he always fixed it? He pictured the brick in his mind. Felt the weight of it in his hand. Felt the impact, heard the dull thud.
He’d show Angela. He’d give her a swell ride. He’d show them all. They’d all pay.
The man slammed the gun on the dusty desk.
Angela would be his. Soon.
Chapter Nine
The door to Hanover Leather had a red and white sign in its smudged and grimy front window— Closed Sunday. Jared had counted on it. Early morning mist intensified the filthy grayness of the decrepit business district. Seedy shops huddled in shadows of the narrow street. From an alley across the way, Jared checked for signs of life. The hour was still too early for 47th Avenue to have much activity.
A rat skittered out of an overturned garbage can and ran along the sidewalk toward the back of the store. Jared followed the vermin into the muck, looking for a side door. With a quick glance around, he stepped down into a recessed doorway and took the leather case from his pocket. His skills, honed during his years on the street, were not forgotten. He picked the ancient lock easily and slipped noiselessly into Hanover Leather.
Inside, Jared hesitated. The loud ticking of a cheap clock pinged in the background. He heard the scratching of some animal he didn’t care to think about. Enough light came through the grimy windows to illuminate a row of file cabinets in a back room. He hoped the owner’s records went back a few years.
The middle drawer to one of the cabinets overflowed with information shoved in haphazardly. The owner must have kept the carbon of every receipt he’d ever written. Fortunately, the Q file was thin, and Jared had only to sort through several pieces of paper before he found a yellowed receipt for an engraved leather case. “JFQ” the monogramming instructions stated. Sold to a Jam
es F. Quigley of 325 Garden Way.
Jared committed the information to memory and let himself out of Hanover Leather’s side door, slipping silently into the dissipating mist.
****
Grace took the softened Italian bread from her mouth and flattened it into the size of a quarter. She sprinkled it evenly with sugar. “Give me your finger, sweetheart,” she said to the red-haired child who sat beside her munching contentedly on an oatmeal raisin cookie.
The imp frowned, her milk mustache curved down, her bottom lip stuck out in a pout. “Will it hurt, Graciella?”
“Not even the tiniest bit, Patty. I promise.”
She gently molded the poultice around an infected hangnail on the child’s tiny finger and tied it with a narrow strip of old sheet. “There. Now that didn’t hurt, did it?” Grace smiled as the child inspected Grace’s handiwork.
“No...I guess it’s jake,” Patty said, giving the poultice her solemn approval.
Grace almost laughed out loud at the six-year-old’s use of the slang word. “You deserve a reward for being such a good patient.” She lowered the cookie jar, and the child reached in and carefully removed another cookie, wistfully eyeing the remaining sweet morsels.
“Do you think your mommy would like one?”
“Oh, yes,” the child agreed, taking another. “And probably baby Michael, too.”
“Of course. We wouldn’t want to leave baby Michael out.” Grinning, Grace wrapped a third cookie in the napkin, wondering how Michael, virtually toothless, would manage the treat.
She tucked the sweets into a wicker basket filled with freshly baked bread, vegetables from the garden, and a canning jar filled with homemade chicken soup. “Do you think you can manage, sweetheart?”
The child flexed her skinny arm into a muscle and announced, “Of course. I am veeerrry strong. My mommy says I’m a pistol, don’t you know.”
Grace chuckled as she helped the child down from her stool, noticing the hem on Patty’s dress had been let down and colorful rickrack trim added to cover the old hemline. “How is your mommy feeling today?”
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