Steal Me, Sweet Thief

by Carole Howey

  "Good-bye, Geneva," he got out, although he could manage no more than a whisper. "I'm sorry for everything. And I won't trouble you again."

  He took his jacket from the bedpost. When he turned away from her, he felt as if he were leaving a part of him behind in the room with her. A large part. He did not know what part, exactly, but he did know he was going to miss it.

  Badly.

  Geneva watched Kieran amble out of her life in his lazy, long-legged gait that was just shy of a swagger, and she wondered numbly if she would ever find the will, or the strength, to love another man the way she loved Kieran Macalester. Or if she would decide, after a time, that it simply wasn't worth the anguish.

  By the time Horace Tabor arrived, her tears had stopped. The gremlin had once again taken up residence in her heart.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  In December, Geneva was in Chicago singing Violetta when she read the news that Garland Humble had died of a failed heart. Horace Tabor was amused when she confided to him that she had been Humble's wife, and he set his lawyers to work immediately to secure her inheritance for her, in spite of her protests. She didn't want Garland Humble's money any more than she had wanted him, but she suspected Tabor was guided by purely selfish motivations: If he was building up to ask her to marry him, as she suspected, he would consider himself even more fortunate to be marrying an heiress.

  But of course, he could not know that she would never marry again.

  The new year, 1884, saw her celebrate in St. Louis with a critically acclaimed Gilda in Rigoletto. Horace was not traveling with her, having returned to Denver to settle a dispute regarding his opera house. Geneva took her bows onstage every night, and every night she remembered, with a heaviness not even the gremlin could absorb, the flowers thrown at her feet on the stage of the Academy of Music, with the single word "Delmonico's" on the note attached.

  February was cold and wet, even in New Orleans. Billy Deal, miraculously, had met and married a widow. Thanks to her inheritance, he opened a music hall and casino just outside of the French Quarter, where Kieran Macalester faithfully got drunk every night. He played poker every night, too, winning enough to keep him going, but not enough to earn him any ill will from the other patrons.

  In March, a man came into the place to meet the famous Billy Deal and Kieran Macalester. He was vice president of the Union Pacific and Southern Central Railroads, and he had an unusual and attractive proposition to put before the two men. He wanted to make them consultants for passenger and cargo security, at excellent pay. Billy promptly left the music hall business, kissed his pretty, pregnant wife a fond farewell, and dragged Macalester out of a bourbon bottle and into a new suit of clothes to pursue this lucrative and amusing new adventure.

  April meant the end of the opera season, and Geneva attempted Senta in The Flying Dutchman in Philadelphia. But hers was not a dramatic voice. The reviews were lukewarm at best, and she damaged her voice besides. Horace did not seem to mind, wiring her from Denver that all would be well, and that October in Denver would give her renewed popularity and exposure in La Traviata, a role perfectly suited to her. She was assured an entire season in Denver, with the option of closing the season for Maple son in New York. The colonel had already petitioned her for the following year at the Academy of Music, and the stages of Europe still teased her.

  In May, it was announced that Henry Abbey was fired from the Metropolitan for a lack of critical successes coupled with financial devastation. Blaine, Lord Atherton, returned to England under a cloud of scandal involving a young actress, and Geneva Lionwood decided to retire for the summer to New Orleans, hoping to regain her voice—and other things she had lost.

  Camilla Brooks finally persuaded the reserved Dr. Beaumarche to the altar in June. Geneva was honored to attend their wedding, even as she was cripplingly disappointed to find that Kieran Macalester had gone to parts unknown. July and August were stiflingly hot and uneventful. Geneva refused entreaties from Horace Tabor to come to cool Denver, electing to rely on Dr. Beaumarche's care and Macalester's return to the Crescent City. The first was a success, the second a dismal failure.

  The first rehearsals for Traviata began in September. Denver was a disappointment. Its only resemblance to the major eastern metropolises, contrary to Tabor's boasts, was the opera house itself At least Horace had not misrepresented that. Its acoustics favored Geneva's fully recovered lyric voice, even if its garish design was an offense to the senses. Her dressing room not only bore her name but would accommodate, she was sure, a small family comfortably. Best of all, Tabor had lured the Academy's own wardrobe mistress: Audrey Stancil immediately became, once again, her confidante and her confessor.

  On October the fifth, one year to the day after Geneva had left New York City with R. Hastings McAllister, the Denver Sentinel reported the engagement of soprano Geneva Lionwood, shortly to inaugurate the Tabor Opera House as Violetta, to millionaire Horace Austin Warner Tabor.

  "I'm spoken for, ladies." Billy's decline sounded only a trifle reluctant to Macalester. "But my friend the Senator might be interested. Ask him."

  Kieran was forced to look up from his newspaper. Before him stood two young whores whose combined ages he doubted equaled his own. One of them had hair the color of Geneva's, the other, luminescent green eyes. Some part of him was amused by the irony that two women together could not begin to compensate for the one. It hurt to look at them. He waved them on wordlessly with a careless hand, then returned his attention to the Denver Sentinel.

  "Shoot, Mac." Billy sounded disappointed. "Since I can't indulge anymore, would it kill you to at least give me the pleasure of knowin' that one of us was enjoyin' himself?"

  Macalester put the paper down and surveyed Billy without smiling. He glanced at the full glass of bourbon on the table before him, then picked up his paper again. He had sworn off drinking since he and Billy had accepted the peach of a job from the Union Pacific, but he still made a practice of ordering a glass at every saloon he entered and having it sit before him, untouched. It reminded him of his shortcomings. Today, however, he was mightily tempted to yield to its temptations.

  Billy issued a heavy sigh. "I swear," the younger man declared, "it's like you got nothin' better to do than sit around saloons and chase away female comp'ny. Why don't you just go see her, and get it over with?"

  "Why don't you just shut the hell up?"

  " 'Cause I got to talk for both of us these days." Billy, Macalester noticed with some resignation, was not intimidated by his touchy humor. "She's still eatin' you up, Mac. Face it. The only way you'll ever get her outta your system is if you look her right in the eye and tell her exactly what's on your mind."

  Macalester rolled his eyes in supplication to the Almighty. "Not another chapter from Billy Deal's book on advice to the lovelorn!" he pleaded mockingly, but could not as easily put aside the familiar gnawing sensation in his gut.

  "Yeah, well, I figger I'm performin' a public service." Billy settled back in his chair until it creaked, joining his hands behind his curly blond head. "Years from now, you'll thank me, when you finally get over Geneva Li—"

  Macalester suddenly found himself on his feet in possession of the lapels of Billy's charcoal-gray jacket, staring into Billy's faintly amused blue eyes.

  "You wanna hit me, Mac?" the younger man challenged him in a whisper. "Go ahead. But it won't make you feel no better. This is the third time we been in Denver in two months, and I'll bet you think I don't know where you disappear to every night after supper, do you? You better do it, Mac, and do it now. Or she's gonna marry that Tabor fella, and then there won't be nothin' either one a you can do about it."

  Macalester felt exposed. No, he hadn't realized Billy knew where he went every night when they were in Denver. He'd thought it was his secret, haunting the streets near the enormous opera house, wanting to catch a glimpse of her, yet terrified at the same time. Suppose she saw him? What would he say to her? But he had been spared finding out.
>
  "The place opens tonight," Billy went on, even as Macalester felt his fingers relax their deathlike grip. "There's a rehearsal at three."

  "Two." Kieran corrected, then felt a warmth creep up his neck as Billy grinned knowingly at him. "You could just make it," the younger man encouraged, straightening his clothing with no hint of rancor.

  Macalester picked up his chocolate-brown Stetson. "You coming?"

  Billy sat down and shook his head once, taking Macalester's full glass of bourbon in his right hand.

  "Three's a crowd," he intoned, raising the glass in a toast. "Here's to ya, Senator."

  "The flowers are wrong," Audrey announced flatly as Geneva pulled the neckline of her costume lower over her powdered and pushed-up bosom.

  Geneva could not bring herself to care. She stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror trying to conjure something. Nervousness. Excitement. Trepidation. Something. She had sealed off her heart for so long, she supposed, that the gremlin to whom she had entrusted its care was unwilling to relinquish his claim.

  "I'm sure they'll be fine, Audrey," she remarked indifferently. "How many people in the audience, do you suppose, will know?"

  "If even one does, it's too many!" Audrey snapped so peevishly that Geneva granted her full attention at last. "You forget, Miss Lionwood, that I take as much pride in my work as you do in yours!"

  Geneva accepted the rebuke in silence, watching as the vexed older woman pulled camellias out of a broad, flat box, camellias of such size and perfection that Geneva gasped in wonder.

  "My God, they're beautiful!" She examined one, holding it close to her cheek to feel its softness and inhale its gentle fragrance. She would not have believed it possible that such perfection could exist in the mile-high hamlet.

  "They're beautiful," Audrey allowed, grumbling. "But they're all wrong! They're supposed to be in a chain I can attach from here to here—" She gestured from Geneva's right shoulder around to the hem of the sumptuous, scandalous dress, her wrinkled features a study of vexation. "Hand me that box of pins over there. I expect I can do something."

  "I expect you can," Geneva murmured, holding the single flower to her cheek while Audrey began her labors. Its sweet aroma triggered a vague memory she was loath to name, or to abandon. No sooner had Audrey finished than a knock disturbed them.

  "If that's Horace, I don't want to see him now," Geneva stated in a low voice, affixing to her ears the pearl earrings he had given her earlier as a memento of her Denver debut.

  Audrey gave her a look. "I wonder why you ever do," she huffed, then responded to the knock. "Miss Lionwood's flowers," the messenger reported wearily. "From Mr. Tabor." Geneva frowned.

  "You're too late," Audrey told him, no doubt annoyed that she'd just spent half an hour fiddling with the wrong flowers. She took the second box anyway and shut the door with her backside before depositing the new offering in the center of the floor. These camellias, Geneva noticed as she opened the box, were properly arranged, but possessed nowhere near the degree of beauty of their predecessors.

  "Where could these have come from then?" Geneva mused aloud. Mystified, she searched the empty box. Her fingers found a small white card under the paper. Her hands trembled as she opened it.

  You're not the type for camellias, but I suppose you must have the best.

  It was not signed.

  The gremlin very nearly toppled from his perch upon her heart.

  "You have a secret admirer," Audrey observed, looking over her shoulder.

  Geneva did not answer. She was remembering the tall specter in Blaine's box at the Academy. She remembered, barely, to breathe. "Or maybe not so secret?" Audrey peered into her face, her gray eyes narrow with suspicion.

  Still, Geneva could not speak. A sob welled up in her chest and caught in the back of her throat, where it remained like a stone stuck in a pipe. She thought she saw, from the corner of her eye, a small gremlin slip quietly from the room. The backs of her eyes stung, suddenly, with unshed tears.

  "Geneva! What's the matter with you?"

  "I—" She choked on the word. "I can't do this, Audrey!"

  "Of course you can!" the wardrobe mistress reproved, aligning Geneva's shoulder seams. "Jitters! I never saw 'em on you before. This is your Violetta, dear. Get down there, now, and sing your heart out!"

  It was as though someone else's legs carried her down the stairs to the stage. Choristers bustled to their places, Flora and Alfredo exchanged a fond embrace, and the wistful strains of Verdi's overture filtered through the curtain. Geneva discovered, just as the curtain went up on the Denver premier of La Traviata, that she was still holding one of the perfect camellias beside her cheek.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  She had done it. Somehow, she had remembered every cadenza and staging, every cut and cue. Or perhaps she had not remembered them so much as she had forgotten everything else. The enthusiastic audience demanded, and got, a dozen curtain calls. Horace Tabor stood on the chair in his box—otherwise how could he have seemed so tall?—and applauded the loudest of all. He could not have seen the tall, shadowy figure behind him in the doorway; not as Geneva saw it. With each reappearance onstage, she expected the ghost to have disappeared, but he remained, stoking her memory and haunting her reason.

  When she finally managed to escape, alone, to her dressing room, she was exhausted. Drained. And she was shaking so badly, she thought she must be ill. She wanted to lie down on her chaise, in the lavender nightgown, her costume for the death scene, and go to sleep, although she knew she would not be able to do so. Her dressing room was quiet, almost unbearably so. It added to her sense of detachment. This could not be happening, some part of her realized as she sat at her mirrored dressing table. None of it was real…

  "Hello, Gen."

  The specter had returned. Kieran Macalester's tall, lean, broad-shouldered outline suddenly formed in the background of her mirror. She stared at it for a long moment, wondering if her ears might be deceiving her, or if his appearance might not be some cruel trick of the light. The phantom, or mirage, or whatever he was, took two steps more into the room and she could see, in his reflection, the work of the year since their parting.

  His features, always angular and stark, remained as they had been indelibly imprinted upon her memory. The lines were deeper than she recalled, though, and she could apprehend tiny folds at the corners of his dark eyes, eyes that still monitored her as though at any moment she might, as Camilla Brooks had once suggested, turn to gold. The smile on his generous mouth was a faint imitation of the wide, reckless grins so painfully clear in her memory, and there were traces of silver threading the otherwise sable hair at his temples. The shiny locks were still slightly longer than was fashionable and combed back off his face. She could almost feel them between her fingers.

  "Kieran Macalester." She managed a light, if faintly mocking, tone, not daring to face him, lest he prove to be a phantom after all. "To what do I owe this honor?"

  Kieran's courage had failed him at the rehearsal earlier. The sight of her after a year, commanding the stage as if the place had been named the Geneva Lionwood Opera House, had been somewhat more than he had been prepared for. But his determination returned by the time the curtain had gone up on the premier, and was reinforced by the sight of her encircled by the em-brace of his camellias in the opening scene.

  Geneva looked thinner than Kieran remembered. Her features seemed more sharply etched, and yet somehow softer. He could almost feel the stare of her dusky-green eyes upon him like the gleam of smoky emeralds. He blinked, his eyes remaining closed for a moment, allowing her melodious voice to wash over him like a golden wave.

  "You sounded wonderful tonight," he said, opening his eyes but otherwise not moving. "Even better than I remembered."

  Kieran's compliment lacked the effusiveness of Horace Tabor's brand of praise, but it made her feel freshly bathed nonetheless. She did not respond to it, however, for she did not trust herself to speak.


  "Did you like the flowers?" His gentle baritone sent an undeniable quiver through her breast. She arched an eyebrow, hoping to seem indifferent.

  "Oh, were they from you?" She dabbed at her makeup with cream and a soft cotton cloth. "They were lovely. Of course, I get so many. Horace, you see, sends them daily, usually without a note. I am curious, though, as to how you arrived at the conclusion that I'm not—how did you put it?—not the type for camellias?"

  She hoped, for some reason, to hurt him with that, but he reacted only with a faint, fleeting grin. Damn him. "You're engaged to marry Tabor."

  He seemed determined not to respond to any of her questions, so she decided to treat him in kind. "Yes." Of course, it would have been nice if her lips were not so traitorous.

  Kieran took another step closer. He was only five feet away from her, and his eyes, in the mirror, commanded her gaze. "Do you love him, Gen?" His quiet voice snapped her heart in two, like peanut brittle.

  He doesn't deserve an answer to a question he has no right asking in the first place, she told herself, placing her fists on the dressing table before her. But she wanted to answer him. She wanted to answer in the affirmative. She wanted to embellish her response and to watch him recoil with the pain of it. But in the end his steady gaze, as always utterly unreadable, compelled if not the truth, then something close to it.

  "He could make me happy, if I let him," she replied finally, then realized she was no longer looking at him.

  Kieran longed to span the breach separating them, to gather her into his arms and to re acquaint himself with the feel of her after a long year of drought. He thought he might die if he had to stand there for another minute without touching her, but he managed to compose himself again.

  "That doesn't answer my question." He slipped his hands casually into the pockets of his trousers so she could not see him clenching them.