An Heiress to Remember

by Maya Rodale

  Fine. He looked at her, really looked at her.

  Upswept hair with flecks of dust. Deep blue eyes, bright and fiery. He saw faint lines around them, but that didn’t make them look any less beautiful. It suggested that she had seen things, that she could really see him if he’d let her.

  He dropped his gaze to her mouth, full and sensuous and firm. He could just picture those lips telling him what to do and damn if the orders she gave in his fantasy weren’t ones he wanted to follow.

  She wore a dark, stylish yet serviceable shirtwaist, skirt, and jacket. It hadn’t escaped his notice the way she moved confidently through this wreckage of a store. The way she stood before him, unapologetic and defiant.

  He didn’t see the girl who broke his heart. He saw a woman trying to run a business.

  And she was magnificent.

  “What is that look, Dalton? If I didn’t know any better I’d think you wanted to kiss me.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” he said sharply.

  “Or what?” Beatrice challenged.

  “Or I just might.”

  “Oooh,” she breathed. “Oh I am so . . .”

  “So what, Beatrice?”

  Dalton took a step close, too close. There were mere inches separating their thundering hearts. He either wanted to kiss her or throttle her and it took all of his self-control to keep himself in check.

  This was not usually how he conducted business.

  He would never stand so close.

  He would never feel so much.

  He would never think of kissing.

  That’s what this felt like. A prelude to a kiss. An up-against-the-wall, cannot-even-breathe, about-to-explode, scorching kiss. One long overdue.

  He noticed the quick rise and fall of her chest, the darkening of her eyes, her refusal to step back and relinquish even an inch of ground.

  One thing was clear to him now: this wasn’t just about vengeance or employees. It was about the unfinished business between them.

  Dalton’s Department Store

  Moments later

  Dalton slammed the door to his office behind him. Connor followed a moment later.

  “Let me guess. She complicated things,” Connor said. His voice conveyed a distinct lack of shock. His eyes betrayed a glimmer of amusement though.

  Dalton was not amused.

  The whole situation was no laughing matter. Everything he’d worked toward for his entire life was under threat and all he could think about was wanting to kiss her.

  “I almost kissed her.” Dalton said the words out loud as if it might make the unbelievable more believable. But he was practically vibrating with unsatisfied wanting and his heart was still racing, so it must have been true.

  “Circumstances?”

  “In the throes of a fight about her poaching our employees.”

  “So you almost kissed her during the heat of an argument. Interesting strategy.” Connor nodded. “You know, it happens. Particularly when discussing business. I mean, think of all the times you almost kissed Macy, Fields, Wanamaker . . .”

  It wasn’t a strategy.

  “It’s her,” Dalton admitted as he poured himself a whiskey. “And it wasn’t entirely about business.”

  She wasn’t a business problem, much as he may wish to relegate her to one. She was so much more; a personal problem. The crash and burn of young love, his wounded heart and bruised feelings. She was foolish dreams crashing into reality. She was messy feelings and complicated desires. She was a choice between what he wanted and what he had once upon a time sworn to do.

  She was a challenge. It was her voice he imagined, asking him the most provoking questions: Oh hello, Dalton what do you really want?

  He wanted power, prestige, and a fortune.

  Why do you want that?

  He wanted her to choose him. He never wanted to be cast out of paradise again.

  But can you admit that?

  No.

  Dalton took a swallow of whiskey.

  “I told you she would complicate things,” Connor said.

  “If you’re such a know-it-all fortune-teller, maybe you can tell me what I should do?”

  “You should probably apologize.”

  “Flowers?”

  Connor rubbed his eyes, weary. He took the bottle and poured a small amount for himself.

  “Are you trying to woo her or destroy her life’s work and the thing that brings her joy? Because I’m confused.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “You should probably decide. Do you want her, or her store?”

  “I’m curious to see what she does. But I cannot let her wreck my life’s work, either.”

  “Is your life’s work revenge? Or has it always been to amass enough of a fortune so that you feel worthy of her?”

  They went way back, him and Connor. They had grown up in the tenements together, stealing every chance and seizing every opportunity that came their way. The empire Dalton built was his—his risk, his vision—but he never would have accomplished it without Connor by his side.

  But sometimes such good friends were annoying. Like when they distilled a lifetime into one neat little question.

  Did he really want the store? Or had he always just wanted her?

  In trying to be worthy of her he was putting them at odds. It made them together an impossibility.

  She was impossible.

  Since when did duchesses get divorced? Since when did they sail back into a man’s life and start competing with him for his place in the world?

  “I don’t know,” Dalton said, a rare admission.

  “Well, either way, you can’t go around kissing your business competitors or colleagues. It’s a recipe for disaster,” Connor said. “You should apologize—without flowers. And then you have to decide. Give it all up for the girl or go all out and try to win it all—but at the expense of the girl.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Goodwin’s Department Store

  The next day

  In the wreckage of one of Manhattan’s once great department stores, two women stood with heads bowed together, surveying the laborers, consulting the architectural plans, and reviewing the handwritten lists of things to do. Beatrice’s divorce settlement, family money, and an investment from the Ladies of Liberty had provided the capital to make some strategic improvements to the store. There were pages and pages of lists in hand, most of them in Beatrice’s elegant writing.

  Nothing soothed her like making lists and after yesterday’s encounter with Dalton she was in need of soothing. She was also resolved to fight for her store, even if that meant fighting him.

  “My mother is threatening to send the invitations on Thursday,” Beatrice said. “She is determined for the debut party to take place in three weeks’ time.”

  “We’re not ready,” Margaret replied, eyes wide in horror. In Beatrice’s reorganization, Margaret had gone from underappreciated shopgirl to Beatrice’s right-hand woman. She had a gift for numbers which she applied to bookkeeping, a patient demeanor that helped manage the shopgirls, and a knack for keeping everyone and everything organized. “We won’t be ready. Unless we want to sell dust and half-built dreams.”

  “We have to be ready. She has already scheduled the delivery of a ridiculous number of flowers. I have never seen someone so enthusiastically embark on a task—other than you and I remodeling Goodwin’s.”

  Inviting her mother to help with the store had been a lucky stroke of genius. With something to do, Estella was less interested in Beatrice’s matrimonial prospects (or lack of) and she also spoke less of Edward’s involvement once he returned. Hopefully she would see that the store belonged in her daughter’s capable hands and not her son’s.

  “Can you get her to delay a week at least?” Margaret asked.

  “Have you met my mother?”

  “If she’s anything like I’m imagining based on my experience with society women and managing mothers, I’d rather not.”

&
nbsp; “Scared?”

  “Terrified.”

  “We can do it. I’m sure everything looks worse than it is.”

  “It’s possible. As long as we don’t pause to eat or sleep for the next three weeks.”

  And with that, the two lady bosses went back to their lists and status updates and plans and projections. Not for the first time did Beatrice offer up a silent prayer of thanks for Margaret, who knew everything about how the store was run, and had ideas about how it could be better.

  Beatrice had vision. She had lofty ideals and grand ambitions and the audacity to go for it. Margaret knew how to make it real.

  “How is the training and hiring going?” Beatrice asked. This was an area that Margaret had claimed management over.

  “I am relieved to say that it’s going well. Only because we persuaded Clara to leave The Store Across the Street.” By mutual unspoken agreement they did not whisper the name of their competitor’s store across the street. “She’s running the show and seems to have it all under control.”

  Beatrice was about to remark on all the talented women she’d persuaded to work for her with nothing more than a promise of a good wage, autonomy and opportunity to do more. But she and Margaret were interrupted.

  A hulking man stood nearby, a stack of boxes and crates at his back.

  “I have a shipment for John Washington.”

  “Who is that—?” Beatrice began but Margaret shushed her and turned to the deliveryman.

  “Yes, thank you. I will accept that for him. He’s our vice president of operational considerations. He is currently in a very important meeting and cannot be interrupted.”

  “Who are you? Are you sure you can accept it?”

  “Oh, I’m his secretary,” Margaret said breezily. “I just accept deliveries, serve coffee, and remember his wife’s birthday.”

  “Whatever you say, lady,” he replied warily, eager to be on his way.

  Beatrice had questions. She turned and peered curiously at Margaret.

  “Who is John Washington? And since when do we have a vice president of operational considerations? What would that role even do? And why are we not invited to this very important meeting?”

  Margaret grinned.

  “John Washington is a wonderful creation of my own imagination. He’s a tremendously useful fellow. When I would call on places to place orders for the store, something in my voice caused people to be skeptical that I had the authority to make the purchase or arrange the delivery. But I have no problems when I’m working on behalf of John Washington, vice president of operational considerations.”

  Beatrice’s mouth had parted in surprise, but had turned up into a wicked grin at Margaret’s explanation.

  “We’ll have to get him some calling cards,” she said.

  “You should add him to the guest list for the party.”

  “I’ll let my mother know. I did promise her a list of names.”

  Then Margaret nodded at something—someone—behind her.

  “Irate male, two o’clock. He’s heading your way.”

  “Which one is it?” Beatrice asked, in what she thought was an admirably neutral voice. Margaret just gave her A Look.

  “The one.”

  “Again?”

  Beatrice took a deep breath, pasted a smile on her face, and spun around to see the one irate male that she had expected to see.

  “Oh, hello, Dalton.”

  “Hello, Beatrice.” He paused for a beat and her heart paused for a beat.

  He had better not still be upset about the employee situation. He had better not expect her to apologize, either. She stood by what she offered her employees and if he couldn’t compete, then he could go argue with John Washington about it. But Dalton said something she hadn’t expected to hear from his lips at all. “I have come to apologize.”

  Margaret muttered some excuses and went to see about something urgent, critical, and vitally important.

  “I am terribly busy but this might be something I have time for.”

  “I’m sorry that I lost my temper yesterday,” he said.

  “Thank you for your apology. Dalton, it’s just business.”

  “Is it?”

  His eyes dropped to her lips and they both knew he was thinking about and apologizing for that furiously charged almost-kiss—not the argument about the exodus of employees. Yesterday she’d had overwhelming How Dare He! feelings about that almost-kiss. And also If only feelings. And the kind of unnamed feelings when thinking about kissing and Dalton that lead to thinking about more than just kissing with Dalton.

  As a rival businessperson, she didn’t want her thoughts to go there. Beatrice was acutely aware that she was setting an example to all the other women looking up to her, whether she wanted to or not. Beatrice the Beacon could not lose her wits and let one irate male get her flustered. She could not kiss her way out of problems or into them. The least she could do was not get stupid over a man.

  But the long-lost part of her that had been nearly smothered to death in her loveless marriage liked the sparks. She wanted the fire.

  As a gracious human, there was only one thing to say.

  “Apology accepted. Thank you.”

  Dalton grinned. “I would have brought flowers but that seems inappropriate, given that I would not have brought flowers had you been a man.”

  “You mean to say that you’re not bringing bouquets and chocolates to Mr. Fields and Mr. Wanamaker?”

  “I’m not in the habit of it, no.”

  She lifted her eyes to find him gazing at her. Those blue eyes had once been so full of love and fire for her. And now she dared to think she still saw some sparks.

  How inconvenient that would be.

  What a distraction, too.

  She could not afford distractions.

  She also could not be sure that any attempt at seduction was not just a means to an end—Goodwin’s. Revenge. The ultimate betrayal.

  She had time for none of that—not when her mother was planning to send out invitations to celebrate the opening of a store that was currently a mess of dust and debris and hope.

  “I think we find ourselves in a situation for which there is no established etiquette,” he said.

  “If you mean working with women—”

  “I mean working with you. Given what we once were to each other.”

  “And what’s that?” She wanted to know what he thought of it. Them. Their past. That something between them that somehow hadn’t quite gone away.

  “Greatest love, greatest regret. One of the two,” he said with a shrug.

  “Something like that I suppose,” she replied softly. “What has made you suddenly so introspective and considerate?”

  “It doesn’t take a miracle or a dramatic turn of events for a man’s temper to cool and for him to see an apology is in order. It’s not exactly one of the great mysteries of the universe to know. Also, my friend Connor told me in no uncertain terms that an apology was in order.”

  She was about to make some flippant comment about his smart friends when Margaret interrupted.

  “Beatrice? I think you want to come see this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Probably nothing but . . . there is a chance it’s dangerous, threatening, and totally nefarious.”

  “Well, now I’m intrigued,” Beatrice said but her heartbeat had quickened and it wasn’t because of Dalton. Margaret was not one for dramatics so if she said something was possibly dangerous, threatening, and nefarious it probably was.

  She followed Margaret, and Dalton followed her, and a moment later they were standing in the newly constructed space designed as a luxurious ladies’ retiring room. It would be a space where they might freshen up, have a good cry and pull themselves together, look in the mirror and daringly reapply their lipstick.

  Mirrors which had just been installed only yesterday. And which were now smashed.

  “I would think it’s an accident but I’m not t
hat charitable in my thoughts,” Margaret said and Beatrice concurred.

  “You’re not wrong,” Dalton said. “It looks like someone took a hammer to each one in the center. It definitely looks deliberate.”

  Beatrice gazed at the damage and beyond that, her reflection, which was fractured into a dozen tiny pieces instead of showing a whole woman.

  Dalton swore under his breath.

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “This wasn’t an accident,” Margaret said. She and Beatrice exchanged A Look that Dalton missed as he was examining the damage up close. Which was just as well since it was A Look that asked, Who wants to thwart our success?

  And A Look that answered, The man standing right next to you.

  And another look that said, This will not be tolerated.

  “I’m going to call the police,” Beatrice said. “We can’t have anything interfere with my mother’s party. As scary as this is, there’s nothing I fear more than the thwarted ambitions of my mother. Nothing.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Goodwin’s Debut Ball

  Three weeks later

  Obviously Dalton avoided Beatrice until he could not avoid her any longer. And then the invitation arrived and Dalton could not avoid her any longer.

  The occasion was the debut ball celebrating the relaunch of Goodwin’s. A “grand reopening” sounded desperate and old, but a debut party sounded like a fresh, bright young thing was about to be unleashed upon the world. Smart. New York society would be besides themselves to attend.

  It was essential that he attend, for professional reasons.

  But he was just one guest in a big crowd.

  The sidewalk was mobbed with hordes of people who had come to gawk at the building, which had finally been unveiled and lit up, to say nothing of the party guests arriving in all their finery. But even the famous faces from Broadway and the fashionably dressed, jewel-bedecked members of the Four Hundred could hardly compete with the display in the windows.