by Joanna Shupe
“Why not wait until your twenty-fifth birthday, then, to start your company?”
“Because I am tired of waiting. Another four years is intolerable.”
Something about her answer felt off, Emmett would swear on it. The woman stood to inherit a large trust in a few years, so why not wait? More evidence that all was not well in the house of Sloane.
Damn, he’d enjoyed this visit, probably more than he should have. He almost regretted it would soon be over. No chance she would succeed in the wager, which meant the two of them would never cross paths again. A shame her brother would never learn of this meeting. Unless . . .
“You present a tempting offer, Miss Sloane. Now, would you like to hear my counteroffer?”
“A counteroffer?”
“Yes, something I want from you in exchange.”
She clasped her hands, almost as if bracing herself. “And what might that be, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
“I want you to have dinner with me.”
“Dinner?” He watched as shock soon gave way to wariness. The woman had no idea how to conceal an emotion. Really, the jackals on Wall Street would swallow her whole. “When?”
“Friday, at Delmonico’s.”
“I couldn’t possibly do that. What would . . .”
She didn’t finish, so he said, “Yes, what would they say? Knickerbocker’s finest, dining with the likes of me. Could the city handle such a scandal?”
“You are mocking me.”
“I do no such thing, Miss Sloane. I want to have dinner with you. Are you brave enough, or would you like to check with your brother first?”
That had the desired result. She threw back her shoulders, determined to prove she was one of the modern, independent women who answered to no one. Emmett could only imagine the conversations in the Sloane household. She must drive her brother daft. Yet another reason to like her.
“Fine. Which Delmonico’s?”
“Twenty-sixth Street, of course,” he replied smoothly.
“Of course,” she repeated, her tone sardonic. He knew why she would be unhappy. The location would ensure all of New York society saw them together, and the news would race to Sloane’s ears before dessert had been cleared. “In the main dining room, I assume.”
He inclined his head. “Indeed. Shall I write the bank check? Do we have a deal?”
She swallowed, her eyes uncertain, and he was filled with a sudden desperation for her to say yes. Clearly from a desire to bedevil Sloane . . . not the anticipation of watching her full, delectable mouth as she ate.
Finally, she jerked her head. “We have a deal.”
* * *
Lizzie left the Cavanaugh mansion, a signed bank check tucked in her small bag. Elation bubbled inside her, despite the daunting prospect of sharing dinner with him on Friday. Never mind what Henry would say, but how would she explain it to Will?
Still, one dinner was well worth it. One step closer to her own investment firm.
Her brougham remained where she had left it, on Seventy-Fifth Street where prying eyes might be less likely to see it. At her approach, her driver, Brookfield, moved to open the door. “You’ve got guests, miss.”
“Guests?”
Brookfield colored slightly. “I apologize. I didn’t see them sneak in, miss, and by the time I noticed, they wouldn’t leave.” The door swung open and two young girls stared at her from the carriage depths. They both had pretty, dark hair done up in ringlets and yellow dresses on. They almost looked like twins, but Lizzie could tell that one girl was slightly older. She guessed they were no more than twelve or thirteen.
“Hello,” she said, climbing inside and sliding onto the empty bench.
Both girls grinned. “You’re pretty,” one of them said.
“Very pretty. I love your dress,” the other girl said, gesturing to Lizzie’s outfit. It was one of Lizzie’s best day dresses, a French silk of blue stripes paired with a pointed basque trimmed with lace. The skirt had two deep ruffles and panier drapery.
“Thank you. I am curious who you are, though.”
“We’re Emmett’s half-sisters. I’m Kathleen,” the older-looking one said. “But everyone calls me Katie.”
“I’m Claire. May I touch your hat?”
Lizzie quickly recovered from her shock of meeting
Cavanaugh’s family to lean forward and bend her head toward the girl. “Yes, you may. That is an ostrich feather.”
“It’s so soft,” the girl whispered. “Thank you.”
Lizzie straightened. “And how old are you, Katie and Claire?”
“I’m thirteen. Claire’s only fourteen months younger than me.”
“Oh,” Lizzie said. “That must be nice, having a sister so close to your own age.” Not that Lizzie didn’t appreciate her older brother but she’d always wished for a sister.
“It is, except Mama died when I was born,” Claire said.
“Oh,” Lizzie repeated. “My mother died when I was little as well.”
Both girls gazed at her with understanding. “Do you remember her?” Katie asked.
“Very little, I’m afraid.” She could recall brushing her mother’s long blond hair at night. The ghost of a few other brief moments existed, such as a kind word or a kiss on the forehead, but never as many as she’d wished for. Lizzie had been four when Caroline Sloane died in childbirth, along with the baby. She refocused on the young girls. “But I’m sure your mother loved you both very much.”
Katie smiled. “Brendan tells us stories about her all the time.”
“Brendan?” Lizzie asked.
“Our other half-brother. We all had the same father. Emmett’s the oldest, then Brendan, then us. Emmett and Brendan’s mother died, too. Before our father married our mother.”
“We spend a lot of time with Brendan. Emmett’s usually too busy for us.” Claire swung her booted feet, her legs still too short to reach the floor. “He works all the time.”
Lizzie had no response for that. She could imagine, considering Will’s hectic schedule. Empires did not run themselves. “How long have you lived with your brothers?”
“I was almost three. Claire had just turned one.”
So Emmett, then only a young man himself, had taken in the small girls and assumed responsibility for them. What had happened to their father?
“Where do you live?” Claire asked Lizzie. “We used to live near Union Square but Emmett had this big house built a few years ago and we came to stay here. This house is so gigamtic, it has seventy-eight rooms.”
“Gigantic,” Lizzie corrected. This rapid-fire exchange was gaining her more information about Cavanaugh than meeting the man himself. “That is very big. It must be fun, though, having all that space. I live on Washington Square Park with my brother.”
Katie’s eyes went big. “That used to be a graveyard. Do you have ghosts?”
“No, not that I’ve seen. Do you girls have a governess? If so, I imagine she’s looking for you.”
“Yes. But we snuck out,” the older girl said.
“She thinks we’re practicing our music. I play piano and Katie plays the clarinet.” Claire mimicked piano keys with her fingers.
“Won’t she be worried if she discovers you missing?”
Katie lifted a shoulder. “Probably, but we had to come down to see what you looked like.”
“You see, ladies never call on Emmett,” Claire elaborated, fingering the satin bow on her dress.
“Well, not ladies like you,” Katie said, and they both giggled.
“Girls,” Lizzie admonished, though she tried not to laugh.
“Your brother’s private life is his own business. And you should not know what sort of ladies he sees.”
Katie rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows Emmett only sees actresses. We read the gossip columns every day. Brendan says it’s because—”
The door was flung open, and the imposing figure of Emmett Cavanaugh came into view. With a fierce frown directed at his younger h
alf-sisters, he crossed his arms. A tense silence descended and Katie and Claire shrank into the velvet seats. “Girls, get back inside,” he finally said, his words tiny white clouds in the frigid air.
“But Emmett—” Katie started until her brother’s voice cracked like a whip.
“Now!”
The Cavanaugh sisters murmured polite responses and scurried out of the carriage. “Good-bye, girls,” Lizzie said as they descended. “I enjoyed our visit.”
They disappeared behind his broad back, yet Cavanaugh kept his cool, flat gaze riveted on Lizzie. “I apologize.”
“It’s no problem. They were curious about me.” She couldn’t resist teasing him. “They said ladies never call on you.”
The cold wind blew hard at that moment, ruffling his dark hair and suit coat. He didn’t move, just stood tall and broad like an impenetrable force of nature. One too strong to ever bend or break. She shivered.
“That is because most ladies know better.” Without giving her a chance to respond, he stepped back. “Until Friday, Miss Sloane.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Award-winning author JOANNA SHUPE has always loved history, ever since she saw her first Schoolhouse Rock cartoon. While in college, Joanna read every romance she could get her hands on and soon started crafting her own racy historical novels. She now lives in New Jersey with her two spirited daughters and dashing husband. Please visit Joanna at www.joannashupe.com or on Twitter @joannashupe.
Be sure not to miss Joanna Shupe’s Wicked Deceptions series, on sale now!
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Copyright © 2016 by Joanna Shupe
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First Electronic Edition: March 2016
ISBN: 978-1-4201-4082-8