If only she could talk to Reed. If she owned the exquisite concert piano in her mother's conservatory, she could sell it, but it belonged to Sophie, given to her by their father.
What else? Then she remembered the book.
Sweetcake, the answers to most of your questions will be found in a book, but the questions, those come from living life.
And what book had her father waggled at her the day he'd uttered those words barely two months before he died? It was a book that had been keeping him occupied, one that he'd been carrying around and digging into with gusto, a book that had been on his bedside table at the end.
She tried to remember what it was—a volume of Wordsworth, perhaps.
Where was that book? She longed to read it and see if the answers were really inside.
It had to be back in his study, which Reed now used as his own. Occasionally, Elise sat alone in there to speak to her father even though he had gone where he could no longer offer her his wise counsel. Her mother never entered the room as she said it was too painful. Evelyn could still smell her husband's aftershave. That was what Elise liked about the study, the feeling that he might still be there.
"Please excuse me," she said, jumping up and heading for the door before Jonathon even had time to put down his cup. "I'm sure we will speak again soon."
She fled before he could question her urgent departure.
* * *
Less than an hour later, Elise pushed the door open to what had always been Oliver Malloy's sanctuary. The large desk was littered with Reed's papers and law books resting open on some relevant page; it could all as easily have been her father's things. He had died too young though he'd lived a full life, had his beloved wife by his side for over thirty years, and had seen four children nearly into adulthood.
A headache, a fever, and a week later, he was gone. But everything here looked the same.
Elise sat in his worn leather chair, rested her hands on the armrests, and closed her eyes. Leaning her head back, she sniffed the air for her father's aftershave. Nothing... except the faint whiff of her brother's favored sandalwood scent.
Opening her eyes, she scanned the desk. Nothing private of Reed's, of course. He would never leave anything in the open. Not a love letter or such. She shook her head. Why was her head so full of love lately? And of course, Michael's visage immediately popped into her addled brain.
Absently, she opened the shallow middle drawer and saw that it contained only writing implements—metal nibs, extra ink, and blotting papers. In the top drawer on the right, she found a leather-clad notebook.
Glancing inside, she saw her father's familiar scrawl. The first page stated, "A Comprehensive List of My Book Collection."
The list was organized, alphabetized, neat, and precise. He had sold some books, in which case, the title was underlined, not crossed out, and in the far column was the amount he had received. Sometimes quite a generous figure, she noted.
She scanned down to those books that her family still owned. And then it jumped out at her on the third page, a note in the margin: Caxton for J.P. Morgan. Bells went off in her head like Sunday morning in Boston. Next to the note, it said $4000.
Good God! She'd had the necessary money all the time, and then some.
Behind her in a floor-to-ceiling bookcase were her father's books, except for the William Caxton first edition. It was in her own bedroom, as it had been since before her father's death; he'd told her to look over this valuable piece of history before he sold it.
She smiled to herself and headed for her room.
* * *
A few days later, Elise strode into the bank, feeling as though she had regained a firm foothold where previously, everything had been topsy-turvy. Michael Bradley was expecting her, purportedly to fill her in on how he had fared at the board meeting. She actually had little interest in that because she intended to pay off the loan in full.
Her only reason for going once more to the bank was how desperately she wanted to see him again though she knew it was unwise. Her behavior had been beyond the pale, and he considered her an engaged woman. However, when he'd sent a private missive to come in, she'd eagerly grasped at the excuse.
Sitting outside his office, however, she felt the butterflies take flight. How would he treat her after her tipsy display? Suddenly, she wondered if she should have come at all.
The door opened as she was arguing with herself, almost ready to flee. Immediately, their eyes locked, and she couldn't have left if she'd wanted to. And she no longer wanted to. All she could think about was being in his arms.
"Miss Malloy, it's... good to see you again."
Had he hesitated? Perhaps he hadn't wanted to see her again. What could she say that wouldn't sound too eager, too ridiculous coming from an engaged woman as he believed her to be? She supposed she still was—even though with the precious Caxton in her hands, she had already gone to see the trusted book dealer her father always used. The dealer had astounded her with the price that Mr. Morgan was willing to pay.
Nonetheless, until the transaction was complete and the money was in her possession, she would not visit Jonathon Amory and call off the wedding. In her heart, however, the farce of an engagement was all but over, and she was only relieved not to have had to tell her family about it.
But Michael knew.
He invited her in with a small bow.
"Take a seat. Coffee, Miss Malloy? Our refreshment girl is back." He offered her a smile.
"Thank you, no." She wished she could tell him to stop addressing her so formally; after all, she'd been held by him, but that was impossible at this juncture. She looked down and sighed.
"Everything all right?" he asked. "You're feeling better, I trust."
Her eyes darted from her lap to his face. Was he mocking her?
"Yes, I'm quite well. I suppose I owe you not only my gratitude but also an apology. I'm not in the habit of imbibing until I fall down. I hadn't partaken of any luncheon, and then," she shrugged, "those little glasses of punch were—"
"Were not so little," he offered. She noticed humor dancing in his hazel-colored eyes.
"Precisely." She relaxed, given his easy manner. "But the concoction was tasty."
"I'll take note that you have a liking for rum and citrus."
Would he really? she wondered.
"And coffee," he added.
She recalled that Jonathon persisted in offering her tea despite her having told him that she did not like it.
Michael leaned forward, and his eyes seemed to draw her in as he said, "I thought you were going to apologize for something else."
She opened her mouth then closed it. Finally, knowing she expressed a puzzled look, she asked him, "For what precisely?"
"Never mind. Perhaps later." He leaned back in his chair. "For now, let me tell you some good tidings."
She liked seeing his face relax and light up while he looked at her, and so she let go her confusion over his remark.
"Yes, please do."
"The board was extremely favorable to extending the payment schedule and removing any immediate threat to your home."
She breathed easier even though she would have the entire amount in a day or so.
"That's excellent news. Thank you, Michael. I mean, oh dear," she blushed furiously. "I mean, Mr. Bradley."
In her head, she'd got so used to thinking of him by his first name. How outrageous of her to come out with it!
He paused, whether at her using his Christian name or at her obvious discomfit, she didn't know, but he nodded his head as if nothing had happened.
She noticed he didn't come forth and say, "Go ahead and call me Michael." She would have reciprocated immediately. How she would love to hear her own name on his lips!
"And we can start sending the statements to your house," he was saying with those very same lips when she began listening again.
"No!" she nearly shouted. Clearing her throat, she clasped her hands in her lap. "
I mean. That won't be necessary," she said hastily.
He pursed his lips. "Then I take it you'd rather we continue to send them to your fiancé's residence?"
She gasped, then felt herself pale.
"You look distressed, Miss Malloy."
"No, I'm fine. I just—"
"You didn't think I knew that Jonathon Amory resided at the address I gave you."
She blushed. How stupid of her! Of course, he would know, even though he'd said the bank didn't have the name.
"How very odd I found it that your beau, who so quickly became your fiancé, also belonged to the family for whom the loan had been taken out. And yet you didn't know they were one and the same, didn't even know your own suitor's address. How interesting."
He was definitely mocking her now. He had steepled his fingers in front of him on the desk, just the way Reed did when he was pondering the minutiae of a particularly difficult case he was working on.
She swallowed. He'd caught her out in a lie. Obviously, Jonathon Amory had not been her beau or she would have known about the loan.
In fact, she realized the bald-faced lie was what Michael had expected her to apologize for.
She blew the stray hair off her forehead and sucked her lower lip. What to say that would make this all go away? What to say to have Michael look at her again as he'd done when they were dancing?
"You should not try to blackmail women into dining with you," she muttered.
That wasn't what she'd meant to say, and certainly not in that cantankerous tone.
His eyebrows shot up before his mouth formed a grim line of disapproval.
"Are you implying that because I asked you to dine with me, I gave you cause to lie, to become engaged to Amory, and to drink yourself into a stupor?"
"Oh!" She stood up. He had gone too far.
He stood up, too, but he didn't look apologetic. He looked as if he was just getting started. "And yet none of that seems even remotely as damning as the fact that you would marry yourself off to a man you don't even know for the paltry sum of $3,000."
Elise felt her cheeks getting hotter, but she had no outlet for her anger. She had done everything of which he'd accused her, and it sounded much worse when he said it to her face. The only person with whom she could be angry was herself. Still, a woman had her pride.
"Everything I did—well, except for lying to you about a beau after your inept dinner invitation, may I add," she paused for emphasis. "Everything you accuse me of I did for my family. And I would do it again, too."
No need to explain to him about the fear she had felt at losing their home or the absolutely unacceptable risk of Reed's name being brought up in relation to Celia Amory. Michael could just think the worst of her, and she could not care less.
Turning, she headed for the door. This meeting was over.
Chapter 4
Michael Bradley moved quickly for a banker, and somehow rounded his desk and had his hand beside her head, holding the door firmly closed with the flat of his palm.
Ineffectually, she jiggled the door knob. When she turned, she was practically engulfed by him.
"You began this whole travesty because you didn't want to dine with me?" he asked.
"No," she ground out, looking down at the floor. If she looked up, he'd see in her eyes how much she fancied him.
"Do you like Jonathon Amory? Do you even know him?"
"That's none of your business."
"I am making it my business. Do you care for him?"
He seemed to move closer, his body leaning in, but instead of feeling smothered, Elise wanted to press against him. She couldn't be this close to him and lie.
"No."
"Do you, in fact, have a beau?"
Had his voice become huskier? She squirmed, wanting to flee and at the same time, not wanting to move an inch away from this man. If only he would stop interrogating her.
"No."
"Why?"
His voice definitely seemed lower, and it was doing peculiar things, tingly things. to her insides.
"I hadn't met the right man." Until now. "I've had offers," she added, trying to salvage some shred of dignity.
"I know you have."
How did he know?
"I know you were associated with Randall Dexter, and I'm sorry for your loss."
She started at the mention of Randall. Yes, she'd greatly cared for him. If he hadn't died, perhaps they would have been married already. But in honesty, she'd felt more sisterly toward him than whatever the feelings were that Michael invoked. Wonderfully exciting feelings. Utterly inappropriate feelings.
"Mr. Bradley, let me go."
"Why won't you look at me?" he asked.
Slowly, she raised her gaze to his, and she would swear a lightning bolt sizzled through her. She saw a response in his expression, felt it low in her stomach, and then he lowered his head, keeping his eyes on hers.
He was going to kiss her. They were alone in his office, and he was going to kiss her. Had she ever been more improper in her life? Had she ever cared less for propriety?
At the last moment, she closed her eyes and then his lips touched hers. She nearly moaned. Gentle at first then the slightest pressure, and his kiss became firmer.
How could this simple touch create the tingling sensations throughout her body? But it did. His hands were suddenly at her waist, drawing her close.
She wanted to touch him, too, to feel his hair, to lace her fingers behind his neck and anchor him, but she couldn't. It would be unseemly. In another instant, she was doing just that, not caring that her reticule dangling from her wrist had smacked them both on the side of their faces as she slipped her hands up over his shoulders.
Apparently, that was a signal for him to deepen the delightful assault on her senses. His mouth slanted and somehow fit against hers even more perfectly; some movement he made with his lips and his tongue caused her to part her own lips. It felt gloriously decadent.
At the same time, he pulled her to fit against the length of his body, while pressing her back to the door; she felt the hardness of the wood behind her and the hardness of Michael in front of her.
How wondrous! And her body answered. She could feel her own pulse—hammering through her—throbbing in the base of her throat with an echoing sensation between her legs.
Hearing herself moan, she felt his body tense in response. While a part of her thought she would be happy to stay right there in his arms, kissing him until the day she died, another part of her knew a longing for something more.
Her instincts told her to nibble at his lips and to sweep her tongue against his, and she did. She heard his answering sound, like a groan or a growl, and it sent a shiver racing through her.
How many minutes they kissed, she couldn't say. A hundred or ten. At last, he lifted his head. Whereas she had been breathing through her nose, she now took in a few gulps of air and saw that he did the same.
"Why are you pursuing me presently?" she asked when she was able to speak.
"I have never forgotten how sweetly your father enquired as to my availability, and how thoughtlessly I ruined any chance with you at the time by being overly forward at the courthouse."
She blushed, thinking of that pivotal encounter.
"I came across as boorish," he continued, raking his eyes over her flushed face, "but I was simply so delighted to see you again and to know that you had an interest in me."
She nodded, unable to deny what she felt then and now.
He smiled and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Currently, I am entirely unattached, and I must tell you at the risk of humiliating myself, that you are the reason."
"I am?" Her words came out as a squeak.
"I confess that I was flattered by your father's enquiry, but much more than that. I was attracted to you, as well. I couldn't get you out of my mind, Miss Malloy. I say that in all honesty to make up in some small way for catching you off guard that day and causing you embarrassment."
"My attraction to you was unfair to the lady with whom I was supposed to be forming a lasting union," he added. "I had to call it off with her."
Goodness! He no longer seemed the cock-sure man she'd assumed.
Then he smiled slightly. "Will you please do me the honor of sharing a meal, Elise?"
Her name on his tongue was as exhilarating as she'd imagined. It was downright sensual. Without a second thought, she answered, "Yes, Michael. I will."
"Tomorrow night?" he asked.
She nodded.
"May I pick you up at seven at your home on Mount Vernon Street?"
She nodded again, and he stroked the side of her face so tenderly, she almost melted against him once more. But then he took a step back and reached past her to turn the bronze knob.
With the door open to the waiting room, he spoke in a professional voice, "I look forward to seeing you again, Miss Malloy."
"And I, you, Mr. Bradley," she said in her most no-nonsense tone in case anyone was observing them. Hopefully, her hair was not in utter disarray or her clothing too rumpled by his embrace.
Elise left with the impression that she was walking on fluffy clouds, and she did not remember her feet touching the bank floor tiles. As she was assisted into her carriage, however, a single thought came crashing down on her: I'm still engaged to Jonathon Amory, and yet I've arranged to go out with Michael Bradley.
* * *
I have a date with an engaged woman, Michael thought, staring at the scene outside his window as he watched her drive off before letting the blinds fall back into place. Not just any woman, either—the one with whom he had been fervently hoping to spend time ever since he'd first laid eyes on her.
The Defiant Hearts Series Box Set Page 5