“I know you don’t like it. Let me finish, will you?”
She glared at him. “Get on with it, then.”
“Damnation! I’m trying to!” He saw her expression change to one he recognized and understood that she was about to explode all over again. He tried to forestall her. “Before you cut up at me, I have another offer for you.”
That stopped her in her verbal tracks. She’d sucked in enough hot air to launch a balloon. It left her in a whoosh when she realized what he’d said. Then she got suspicious. If Win were in a better mood, he’d think these mood changes were adorable. At the moment, he still wanted to murder her family.
“What kind of offer?”
“Shoot, Belle, the way you asked that question sounds as if you think I’m going to offer to make you my mistress or something!” He was, in truth, stung by her overt mistrust.
She, in truth, didn’t care. “I don’t trust you.”
“Oh, for God’s— All right, just listen for a minute. There’s no way to get that photograph unprinted, right?”
She started swelling up again, but managed to say, “Right,” without blowing up.
“So, I think you ought to step back from your family’s idiotic telegrams—”
“They’re not—”
“Right. They’re not idiotic. Just like the Civil War wasn’t the Civil War.”
“It wasn’t—”
“Be quiet, Belle, or you’ll never get down there to do your job with the Richmonds.”
That shut her up. Win was proud of himself for remembering Belle’s over-developed sense of duty. “What I propose is that we go into business together. You be the model, and I be the photographer.”
“We’re already doing that,” She snapped.
“But not the way I’m thinking. What I think we ought to do is have sort of a 50-50 partnership. You get fifty percent of the royalties from any photographs I take of you and sell. That hundred bucks is small change compared to what I can make, marketing photographs of you. Why, you’re a perfect subject. Mabel Clyde can’t hold a candle to you when it comes to the way you appear in a photograph.”
As much as she’d wanted to interrupt him before, still more did she not speak now. Dash it. She also still looked skeptical.
“Listen, Belle, I’m sorry if that photograph got into some U.S. newspapers.” He was going to have to tell her the truth about his little ruse one of these days, he feared, but he wasn’t about to do it now. She’d probably hunt up a paper knife and stab him in the heart. Pushing harder, he said, “Think of all the money you’ll be able to send home. Hell, your family won’t be able to object to receiving that much money from you. And if they do, you can cut ‘em off.” Which is what he thought she should do right now.
“Um . . .”
Because he didn’t want her to refuse his offer, he said, “Why don’t we go downstairs now. You can think about it and let me know later what you decide.”
She rose slowly from the chair. A puzzled frown marred her perfectly photogenic face. As she picked up her hat and pinned it to her lovely French braid, she said, “What kind of money are we talking about here?”
Aha. Win’s cynical side snickered silently. The side that wanted to keep Belle around said, “A lot.”
With a grimace, Belle stabbed a last pin into her hat and picked up her tiny beaded reticule. “Merely telling me ‘a lot’ won’t help me make a sound decision, Win. If this is a business proposition, you’d better give me some solid figures. Otherwise, I’ll be going home.”
Win guessed that told him. He walked to the door and opened it. She sailed out of the room before him. He tried not to slam the door, although he didn’t quite succeed. Dealing with Belle Monroe was a completely frustrating business. One minute she acted like a demented southern swooner, and the next minute she was a shrewd businesswoman.
Add to that dichotomy the fact that his sexual frustration was about to drive him to suicide, and Win hardly knew what was what anymore. The one thing he did know for sure was that he needed to keep her around, at least for a while longer. Not only did he foresee her being his ticket to photographic stardom, but he really, really wanted to bed her.
“All right, all right. I’ll talk to my agent and let you know what kind of money we’re talking about.”
“Thank you.” She lifted her stubborn chin and descended the staircase like a queen greeting the huddled masses.
The Richmonds were getting tired of waiting; Win detected clear signs of this. Garrett sat with his arms folded over his chest, glaring at nothing in particular as if somebody had just told him to stop fidgeting and be still. Amalie sat on a chair, bouncing and sighing. Mr. Richmond had his hands clutched behind him, and he frowned as he paced the soft carpeting much as Win had lately paced upstairs.
Gladys was the first to spot them. She jumped up from the sofa and darted to the stairs, holding her hands out to Belle. Win thought it was nice that the two ladies got along so well, and that Mrs. Richmond sincerely cared about Belle’s state of mind.
“Oh, Belle, I hope it wasn’t bad news.” Her glance took in Belle’s flushed cheeks and slightly swollen eyelids. “Oh, dear, is something amiss at home?”
Belle took the older woman’s hands and squeezed them gratefully. “Thank you, Gladys. Everyone’s all right at home.”
“They’re trying to get her to move back to Georgia,” Win stated flatly. “I told her they’re crazy.”
He wasn’t surprised by Belle’s flash of anger. “They’re not
crazy! They’re . . . They miss me.”
“Right.”
“Oh, Belle.” Clearly distressed, Gladys put an arm around Belle’s shoulder. Win wanted to do that, but knew better. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t go back to Georgia, Belle. We need you so much.”
Belle heaved an enormous sigh. “Thank you, Gladys. I’d hate to leave. But I guess my family needs me, too.”
Win snorted. “They need your money more.”
Gladys blinked at him as if she didn’t understand. Belle only sighed again.
Chapter Fifteen
“Are you certain you wouldn’t like me to accompany you, Belle?”
Supper had been eaten, the children had been tucked in, and the Richmonds were relaxing in their hotel suite. Earlier in the day, Belle had agreed to meet Win that evening at his booth in order to discuss his latest business proposition.
“Thank you very much, Gladys. I’ll be fine. Mr. Asher won’t let anything happen to me.” She smiled, hoping her expression didn’t betray her doubt as to whether or not Win himself might do something to her.
Gladys relaxed slightly. “I’m sure you’re right. I only worry a little about getting you to the Exposition safely.”
Belle laughed, glad to have the opportunity. She hadn’t found much of anything amusing today. Not even a ride on the Ferris wheel or a visit to the reproduction of the Convent of Santa Maria de La Rabida, with its relics from Columbus’s voyage to the New World, had cheered her, although the former had been exhilarating and the latter had been fascinating. “Good heavens, you’ve provided me with the best transportation any nanny ever had. I’m sure I’ll be safe with your driver carrying me to the gates.”
Gladys smiled back. “I suppose you’re right. It’s only that I feel a great responsibility toward you, Belle. And you’ve become such an important part of our family. It’s almost as if I’m sending Amalie out into the big world all by herself.”
“Humph,” said George from behind his newspaper.
Both Gladys and Belle eyed him with varying degrees of fondness. Belle knew the man cared; it’s only that he was more practical than Gladys. “I’ll be perfectly safe,” she said. With an impulsivity that surprised her more than it did her employer, she gave Gladys a small peck on the cheek. Gladys’s concern for her safety touched her deeply.
Gladys walked her downstairs and saw her safely in the carriage the Richmonds had hired for their stay in Chicago. “Give Mr. Asher our b
est, Belle.”
“I will.” Although she knew it was irrational, Belle felt as though she were riding to her doom as the carriage took off and she and Gladys waved good-bye to each other.
The summer evenings were long and light, and Belle watched the city of Chicago with interest as the carriage rolled her toward the Exposition. She actually rather liked Chicago. It was more to her taste than New York City, which was too large, crowded, noisy, and bustling for a girl from a tiny, rural southern town. Both northern cities were equipped with more amenities than Blissborough.
Disheartened, Belle wondered if her mother and father would blame Blissborough’s backwardness on the damned Yankees. Probably.
Oh, but listening to Win speak her secret thoughts aloud had been a bitter experience. She resented him for it—almost as much as she resented her family for wallowing in the past, as Win had accused them of doing.
“You’re being irrational, Belle Monroe.”
The sound of her voice in the cavernous carriage startled her. Fiddlesticks. Now she was talking to herself. Her association with Win Asher was taking its toll on her mental health; that much was painfully clear.
On the other hand, depending on the amount of money she could earn as a photographer’s model, perhaps the association wouldn’t be entirely negative. She remembered the two kisses they’d shared, and her body reacted by making her feel warm and squirmy. Belle shut her eyes and endeavored to wipe those memories away. They wouldn’t be wiped.
Bother. Did this mean she was a hussy underneath all of her strict Georgia upbringing? Or was such a reaction to the kiss of a handsome man natural? She tried to imagine herself kissing George Richmond, who would be sort of handsome if he lost a little weight, and only managed to disgust herself. Then she tried to envision herself in the arms of a number of Blissborough boys with whom she’d grown up, some of whom were rather nice looking.
It was no use. The only man who didn’t revolt her when she considered him in terms of an intimate embrace was Win Asher. A damned Yankee from Chicago. She was feeling awfully discouraged when she alighted from the carriage, paid her fifty-cent entry fee, and started on her way to Win’s booth.
The electrical lighting in the White City had been turned on for the evening, and Belle’s steps slowed as she took it all in. There was a good deal to be said for American ingenuity, she decided, and she wondered why her family hadn’t bothered to profit from it. There were no electrical lights in her home in Blissborough, although some of the other residences had taken the plunge. It was all candles and kerosene lamps in Belle’s house. For the first time she considered the notion of having electricity installed in her family’s home. Why not?
The answer to that was, of course, that her family would be shocked if she even suggested altering their way of life by so much as one electrical light bulb. She sighed heavily.
“Is anything the matter, miss?”
Belle started when she realized the question had been directed at her. Shaking herself out of her brown study, she saw a young man smiling at her. He’d removed his hat, which was proper, and appeared interested in her welfare. She smiled back. “Nothing’s the matter, but thank you for asking.” She was disconcerted when the man fell into step beside her as she continued on her way.
“It’s not often that a lovely lady like you walks alone in the Exposition at night, ma’am.”
“I shan’t be alone for long, sir.” She wanted him to go away, but wouldn’t be so rude as to say so without provocation.
“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. I was thinking we might perhaps have a little drink together.”
That was provocation enough for Belle. She stopped walking. “Please go away, sir. I don’t care for your company.”
“Aw, miss, don’t be so hard on a fellow.” His voice had gone low and insinuating. “I only want to make your acquaintance.”
“I do not care to make yours, sir.” She hadn’t brought a parasol with her this evening because she hadn’t thought she’d need one once the heat of the day had passed. She considered hitting him with her reticule, but rejected the notion as being inadequate for the purpose. When he put his hand on her arm, she jumped a foot. “Stop that!”
“Aw, now, honey, let’s just you and me take a little walk. All right?”
“No!” She dug in her heels when he started to lead her away. “Stop it!” Glancing about wildly, she saw to her horror that they were in perhaps the only part of the White City that didn’t have a swarm of people in it. Where the devil were they all? That question was answered when she heard the opening notes of a bandstand performance. Drat! Everyone must have gathered to hear the evening concert.
“Let go of me!” she shouted.
“Hush up, ma’am. Be a good little girl now and— Ow!”
All of a sudden her tormenter flew away from her as if yanked by a monumental force. Belle staggered and nearly fell before she realized the monumental force had been Win Asher, who had apparently grabbed the villain by his collar and slammed him to the ground. He now stood over the man as Goliath might have stood over a vanquished foe. Bell’s hand flew to her throat and she uttered a soft scream when she saw Win bend over, grab the man by his bow tie and haul him to his feet.
“Win!” she cried, afraid for him when he drew back his fist. Then she shut her eyes, not caring to witness the violence he was perpetrating on her assaulter. She heard it, though. A sickening crunch of bone on bone smote her ears. “Ugh.” She dared to open her eyes. Win had the villain by the throat and was shaking him. The man’s head whipped back and forth so violently, Belle was sure his neck would snap.
“What the hell do you think you’re up to, damn you?” Win said in a savage, controlled voice.
“Blurk,” the man replied.
“Win?”
He didn’t seem to hear her. Still shaking the man, Win growled, “I’m going to kill you now, you son of a bitch.”
“No!” the man cried. “No! I didn’t mean—”
“Damn you!” Win drew back his fist to sock him again.
Again Belle grimaced and shut her eyes so she wouldn’t see the blow land. The crunching noise told her all she needed to know about that. When she opened her eyes a second later, she saw that her assailant was bleeding copiously from the nose and mouth. Although she didn’t care for the man—he’d frightened her terribly—she didn’t think she wanted to witness his death at Win’s hands. Leaping at Win’s back, she grabbed hold of his arm. It felt like steel under her fingers, even though the thickness of shirt and jacket. “Don’t do it, Win!”
“He tried to assault you,” Win growled through his teeth. The blow he’d just landed would have flattened the other man had Win released his throat. He hadn’t, and the wrongdoer now hung limply in Win’s grasp. “Anyone who tries to hurt you is going to pay for it.”
“I think you’ve made him pay enough.” She held on tight, hoping he wouldn’t hit the man again. She feared he might already be dead.
“Nothing’s bad enough for him.”
“Please, Win!” Belle begged. “You’ll only get into trouble.”
“I don’t care.”
A wild glance around in hope of finding help told Belle that people had been attracted by the commotion and were gathering ‘round. Like a flock of buzzards or a swarm of locusts. Oh, my land. “I care, confound you! You’re creating a scene!”
Win dropped the man, who fell to the ground like a sack of flour, and spun around to gape down at Belle. “I’m creating a scene? Damnation, Belle! That man was going to carry you off! Do you have any idea what he might have done to you?”
“Yes.” She ground the word out through her teeth. A huge gasp arose from the spectators and she pressed a hand over her eyes. To her rattled senses, the mob sounded like honeybees on a rampage. “Please, let’s get out of here,” she pleaded.
“Dash it, Belle, I just saved you from assault!”
“Will you please stop shouting? The whole world doesn’t need
to know that!” This was so embarrassing. The whole world also knew that assault meant rape, and Belle could already picture telegrams winging their way from Georgia to Chicago, all scolding her. And all paid for by her.
“I’ll stop shouting, damn it, but the least you could do is thank me!”
“Thank you,” she said desperately.
“Here, here,” came a gruff voice. Belle saw to her dismay that a huge man was headed their way, his spiffy uniform declaring him a member of the Columbian Guard, the special police force hired specifically for the Exposition. “What’s going on here?”
“Oh, this is just perfect,” she muttered under her breath. More telegrams popped into her imagination, this time from all of her aunts and uncles as well as her parents—perhaps even the mayor of Blissborough—and again paid for by her.
“Damn it, Belle, you have to report this incident. That man—” He kicked his fallen foe in case Belle didn’t know to whom he referred. “—tried to—”
“I know what he tried to do, curse you!”
Oh, Lord, now she was swearing in public. This had gone far enough. Deciding to take matters into her own hands, she marched up to the Columbian Guardsman, endeavoring to ignore all the whispers and snickers issuing from the gathering throng. Pointing to the villain on the ground in typical Northern fashion, she said, “That man tried to bother me. Mr. Asher saved me.” There. That said everything that needed to be said.
“Good gravy!”
While Belle might have used more elegant phrasing, she was pleased that the Guardsman at least appreciated the severity of the situation.
He went on, “We don’t tolerate that sort of thing at the Columbian Exposition, young lady. I’ll take care of this right now.”
“Thank you.”
Win had walked up to them. He snarled, “You thanked him without being asked.”
She shot him a frown. “Oh, be quiet for a minute, can’t you? I want to get this taken care of and get out of here. Look at all those people.” She wished she’d worn a veiled hat. She hated being on display, especially for this reason. It was so—so—unladylike. Ungenteel. Un-Southern.
Just North of Bliss Page 22