I shook my head, refocusing on Masha’s dissertation. I knew that Blaine was coming by today and I had no idea what I was going to say to him. He was a jerk, but he wasn’t evil.
And maybe… Maybe he was smart too. The fact was, I had accepted that I was jealous of Masha, that I wished it had been me on Blaine’s arm. No matter how much I wanted t0 deny it… There was no denying the jealousy that had burnt my heart all week.
But I couldn’t act on it. I just couldn’t. It would cause a complete and utter scandal.
But sometimes, scandals are worth it, a voice in my head whispered, unhelpfully. Damn it, damn it, damn it. I didn’t want to cause a scandal. I didn’t want to cause trouble.
But why? Why didn’t I want to? Was it because of my career, because I risked sacrificing everything I had worked for? Was it because I was afraid of hurting Blaine?
Or was it because I was afraid of being hurt myself?
Masha left and half an hour later, Blaine strode into my office. He was all confident swagger, clad in a navy-blue suit that shimmered ever so slightly and fit him like a glove, while his shirt seemed to glow under the cheap fluorescent lights in our building. He wore no tie, and his intoxicating cologne immediately hit my nose as he grasped my hand, guiding it to his lips for a flirtatious kiss.
“I saw Masha on my way over here. She warned me that you seemed stressed.”
“You two have a pretty good rapport right now, don’t you?” I scowled.
“We sure do. We had a great time the other night. She’s a lovely girl. In more ways than one.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You can cut the macho act, Blaine. Bro, I know you didn’t sleep with her. I know you went back to work while she skyped with her boyfriend.”
He cracked a smile.
“Guilty as charged. I’m a workaholic and my guest room doesn’t get much use these days anyway.”
“You really just wanted to use your reservation?”
“I sure did,” Blaine said, taking a seat across from me. “And to get Masha’s take on the department and your research. This was a working dinner, sis.”
“Don’t call me sis.”
“Fine. Ex-sis.”
He reached into his pocket and revealed an envelope. He tossed it across my desk and I caught it.
“As my first act of fund administration, I want to propose a research trip.”
Inside were two plane tickets, first class, to New Orleans. And then, a hotel confirmation for a deluxe suite at the Ritz-Carlton.
“Blaine… What is this?”
“Maribeth Wilson. Masha told me all about her—born a slave, ran the most profitable bordello in New Orleans for fifty years, corresponded with presidents, poets, and princes. Left behind tomes and tomes of private papers, including poems, essays, and short stories. Potentially the most important African-American female writer of the period right after the Civil War.”
“Yes…”
“So, I’m sure there’s research you could be doing.”
“Always.”
“So, let’s go. You and me. This weekend.”
“Blaine… I can’t just drop everything and leave!” I cried, my face burning. But damn it, it sure was tempting.
My fingers trembled as I turned over the tickets in my hands. Had he really done this? What was his end game here?
“What’s the idea?” I growled. “Is there only one bed in the room?”
Blaine laughed.
“I thought you would ask that. No, I made sure it was a two bed suite. Just in case my charms haven’t totally enraptured you by this point.”
“Blaine, this is so kind… But I can’t accept this.”
“Don’t look at it as a professional thing. This is a gift. From a brother to a sister. From a man to a woman.”
I bit my lip. I began calculating my calendar in my head: I was teaching Wednesday, but not Thursday or Friday. I could get away Thursday, be back in time for class on Monday. That would be four days… Four days to research. Four days in New Orleans.
Four days with Blaine.
“Yes,” I said finally, almost crying. “Yes. Let’s go.”
12
Blaine
It hadn’t been hard to make the arrangements. Once I took Nicholas’s suggestion into account, along with what Masha had told me about Morgan’s research, New Orleans had been the obvious choice.
I picked Morgan up in Connecticut on Wednesday evening and drove her to the airport. I was delighted to see that she hadn’t just worn slouchy airplane clothes, but was actually wearing a smart and flirty short green dress.
“I thought I should wear something fun,” she said with a quick and easy smile. She hopped around, dancing in a circle for me to see. I approved. Oh yes.
I loved the way it showed off her long, slender pale legs. I hadn’t seen much of her body so far, but damn it all, I liked what I was seeing now. She worked out. She was more athletic than I had initially imagined.
And I was planning on giving her a workout before our trip was over.
As we stood in line, waiting to board the plane, Morgan’s face was alive with delight. She had her nose buried in a guidebook, which promised a tour of the best literary sights in New Orleans. I, however, was not used to waiting.
“One moment, sis,” I murmured, stepping out of line and grabbing a flight attendant by the arm.
“Back in line, sir,” she said curtly. I flashed a smile.
“Of course—I just think there might be some mistake. I don’t think we ought to be waiting in this line.”
“You’re in the first class line, sir—what else do you want?”
I gently pressed my passport into her hand. Her eyes widened when she saw my name.
“Oh… Mr. Stone… I didn’t realize… One moment.”
She darted to the head of the line, whispered a few words to her colleagues, and gestured frantically towards us. Morgan’s eyes were as wide as theirs were as we cut the line, gliding through onto the airplane.
“Mr. and Mrs. Stone, so good to see you. Welcome aboard, welcome aboard. Sorry about that mix up—you’re of course welcome to board the plane before all the other passengers.”
“Oh, we’re not married,” Morgan said quickly, smiling.
“My mistake, ma’am—enjoy the flight, and if there’s anything at all—don’t hesitate to ask.”
In moments, we were comfortably ensconced in huge first class seats—the only kind I’m willing to fly in these days. I stretched out my legs, lazily picked at a copy of the Financial Times, and flagged down a flight attendant.
“What’s your best champagne?”
“Oh, sir—we’ve only one, Mr. Stone.”
“And it is?”
“Er, a prosecco.”
I shook my head.
“That won’t do. Send someone to the duty free shop and buy a bottle of Dom Perignon.”
I handed her my American Express card and turned back to Morgan.
“Air travel, in general, is barbaric, but at the very least, we needn’t be barbarians about it.”
She just laughed.
“Blaine… I’m amazed. Do you really live like this all the time? This isn’t just an act to impress me?”
“Impress you? I’m not trying to impress you. You’re just coming along for the ride.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
“I assure you,” I said with a smooth as silk grin. “This is just how I live every day.”
“Why did we get to cut that line? Do they just know you that well?” Morgan asked, her eyes searching mine. I replied with my own grin.
“I happen to own a fifty-two percent stake in this airline. I’m essentially their boss.”
“Oh? Why don’t you just travel by private jet?” she asked, her voice teasing.
“Do you know how expensive a private jet is? Not to buy, but to maintain. I had one for a few years but it was absurd, just a waste of money. I don’t like to waste money. I like to enjoy it.
”
As if on cue, a red-faced flight attendant dashed down the aisle, pushing his way through struggling, lumbering passengers. Clutched in his sweaty hands was an ice cold bottle of 2004 Dom Perignon.
“Not a moment too soon,” I announced as he stopped, catching his breath and fumbling to open the bottle. I snatched it out of his hands, deftly stripped the wrapper off, and popped the cork. A bit of champagne bubbled out.
“Flutes?” I asked the flight attendant. He nodded and dashed off. Meanwhile, Morgan wasted no time.
“You might not like to waste money, but I don’t like to waste champagne,” she declared, snatching the bottle from my hands and slurping the run off. She winked at me as she inhaled the bubbles and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Not very professional, Mrs. Stone.”
“I’m on vacation. You’ve never seen me away from the department.”
“I’ve seen you in my bedroom.”
Her face darkened.
“And how’d that work out for you?” she asked.
“Not as well as I had hoped, I admit, but I’ll give you time to come around.”
“Keep hoping.”
“I don’t have to hope.”
The flight attendant returned with our flutes. In a strange twist, he held them both out while I poured our drinks. I knew that wasn’t what he was supposed to do and he knew it too, but Morgan didn’t seem to care.
“I always get what I want,” I said finally as we clinked glasses, toasting as the plane filled up with passengers—passengers not lucky enough to be my guest in first class.
13
Morgan
Blaine may always get what he wants, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be easy for him.
As soon as we arrived in New Orleans, we went straight to the hotel. But I didn’t bother accompanying him up to the room.
“I’ve got a meeting scheduled with Maribeth Wilson’s great-great-great-grand-daughter at the Tulane University archives,” I said as we pulled up to the hotel, magnificent in its colonial, old French glory. Blaine raised an eyebrow. I did so like the way his handsome face contorted, annoyed when I made my announcement. Poor, poor Blaine. You can’t have everything you want, boy.
At least, not right away. Not just yet. Not… Oh, damn.
I danced out of the car and hailed a cab. As we raced off to the next neighborhood over, I glanced back to blow Blaine a kiss. His face was dark, annoyed. He looked extra cute when he was annoyed.
Oh, god, was I actually thinking about him as… As cute? I hated that I was thinking those thoughts but there was no denying it, no denying that I thought he was cute.
More than cute. Sexy.
Hell, more than sexy. Sexy as hell. Broad shoulders, chiseled face, those eyes too, and perfect hair every day. And the way he wore a suit… It was more like making love to the fabric. I’d love to strip one of those Hugo Boss numbers off him.
Damn it, girl, calm down. You’re here to do research, not jump your ex-stepbrother’s bones.
But it’s not the worse thing in the world if I end up adding some extracurriculars to my school work, right?
No. No. No.
I had to focus, had to do work. I couldn’t get involved with Blaine. That was that. There was nothing else to it—it would cause a scandal and the department didn’t need another one. Besides, the damage it would do to my career… It could cause irreparable damage. I’d never recover.
I’d… I’d have to go to law school. My mother would be so happy.
A stately older woman met me on the steps of the Tulane library. Amidst all the slouchy, lazy looking college students in sweatshirts and jeans, she stood out: she clearly had dressed up for this occasion. She wore a gorgeous purple gown with a long matching beaded necklace and a light lavender sunhat that gave her the appearance of possessing a huge, beautiful halo.
“Jemma? Jemma Wilson?” I asked, approaching her and extending my hand.
Jemma’s wrinkled face broke into a smile as she took my hand.
“Morgan! Oh, hun, it’s so good to meet you in person and put a face to the name. Now, let me get a look at you…”
She drew me close, her old eyes squinting into my face through her thick glasses.
“Oh, and such a pretty girl! Here, I thought you were going to be some old fuddy-duddy professor…”
“I only completed my doctorate last year,” I explained. “So I’m still fairly young. Especially for academia.”
“Lovely, lovely,” Jemma murmured, taking my hand. Before I knew it, we were striding arm-in-arm into the archives. The security guard clearly knew Jemma and tipped his hat to her, buzzing us in without another word.
“I’ve been coming here every week or so for the past twenty years to work on Maribeth’s papers… You know, preserving, editing, copying, digitizing them. We’re hoping to put out a complete volume in the next few years,” she explained. I realized that she must have destroyed her sight pouring over the manuscripts—this woman, a former schoolteacher who, in her retirement, had become enthralled with her ancestor’s writings and began to catalog them.
“That’s fantastic. You’re doing such great work. I’m sure Maribeth is proud of you.”
We chatted some more, and then, Jemma left me alone with the manuscripts. Most were in the form of diaries: old bound books that Maribeth had kept for years and years, writing every single day and sometimes more than once in a day, detailing her thoughts, scribbling out poems, or sketches of clients who frequented her brothel.
I began to page through them. I had no idea what I was looking for, exactly. I knew I wanted to write about the difficulty Maribeth must have faced as a woman trying to write in the South so shortly after the Civil War, how this would have forced her to make diaries her primary medium: writing only for herself, an audience of one. I wondered if maybe that was the only kind of audience available to a woman in the South back then.
The hours ticked by that afternoon as I immersed myself in Maribeth’s lurid descriptions of New Orleans’s exotic underworld: of the returning Confederate soldiers eager to spend whatever money they had left on evenings of pleasure with colored hookers, of the flowing cocktails at her endless parties, of the many lovers she took personally.
Amazingly, so much of her diary was taken up with talk of business: how to expand, how to advertise, how to eliminate her competitors. I wondered if Blaine would find it interesting. Maribeth had been, by all accounts, an extremely accomplished businesswoman in a difficult business and had faced, of course, no small number of obstacles owing to her race and gender. And yet, in spite of all of it, she had succeeded—she had made a fortune over the course of her life and died rich, an almost respectable member of New Orleans society, kept out of the best homes and parties only on account of her race—not even on account of her profession.
Then I came across an entry that gave me pause:
“August 24th 1871—
I saw Thomas O’Grady off today. He is bound for Chile where he believes he will find work. He is not a literate man and has always refused my offers to teach him letters and figures. He is Irish and the Gaelic race, as I understand them, prefer to work by the sweat of their brow than by the wit of their brains. It hurts me to think this is what the old masters would have said of the Negro race.
I will miss his handsome strong ruddy face and the way he held me late at night. I will miss the way he sweated and the way he sighed in my own embrace, constitutionally unused to the heat of our Southern clime. I fear that Chile will be no relief to him and though I explained this to him, he is adamant.
He offered me to come with him. With my learning and wits, he said, I might learn the Spanish tongue quickly (easy, he thinks, for I already speak French like a Parisian) and I might set up business down there where I understand that Negroes are not so hated as here. We might be married and though business will not be so healthy as it is here, Thomas believes we might have a life together.
I confess this offer gave
me many sleepless nights. I have struggled with my feelings over it. Every fiber of my heart demands that I accompany him, that I cast my fate in with this man I love, but every cell of my brain, so accustomed to calculating costs and salaries and percentages and equities, sees only ruin and my brain, I am afear’d, has won over my heart.
There was no shortage of tears on my part and Thomas’s, and some harsh words, though we kissed those away. Thomas sang me a song of his village in Ireland, a Gaelic tune whose words I could not understand, and he played the fiddle too. He fiddles beautifully and I shall miss the way he fiddles on the terrace while I draw us a bath in the morning, the smoke of his pipe clouding around his head in our thick humid air.
There shall be others I know but none like Thomas perhaps. Oh, have I made a mistake? My heart might rend itself in two now. Already he is out to sea.
All ready he is gone.”
This entry, like all the others in Maribeth’s papers, was signed, simply, “MW.” There were a few dark spots next to the signature and I wondered if, perhaps, those were… Could they be… Tears? Tear stains?
Here was a woman who had built success, built a future, a life for herself in a hostile world—but at what cost?
At the cost of love. At the cost of her heart.
I felt tears welling in my eyes. I felt so close to Maribeth now. I ached for her. Ached for the choices she had had to make so many years ago, in the city where I now communed with her works.
I could have sworn that I felt her drawing me close, drawing close to me over the ages. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. A text message.
It was Blaine. I knew it without even looking.
“Maribeth…” I whispered. “What should I do?”
14
Blaine
Not that I had anyone to tell about it, but I had just made four-hundred and twenty six million dollars.
“Thanks, Nicholas,” I said, lounging on the terrace surrounding the hotel suite on two sides, looking out over the French Quarter. “We can announce the sale on Monday. Right at the start of trading. Give everyone an exciting week.”
At His Mercy: A Dark Billionaire Romance Page 8