The Lady and the Robber Baron Page 11

  Certainly, Latitia Laurey would not be sleeping alone in Chane’s bed while he shivered on the sofa. She carefully slid out of bed and pulled off the top two blankets. Quietly, she walked across the room and opened the door. Chane was still on the sofa, but he had added logs to the fire. She tiptoed across the room and stopped beside him.

  “Are you asleep?” she whispered.

  One eye opened. “Almost.”

  “I brought you some blankets.”

  “Thanks, but I was keeping warm—” He stopped, unwilling to tell her that all he needed to keep warm were thoughts of her sleeping in his bed.

  “Well, you’ll need these before morning. Don’t you have another bedroom up here?”

  “I have several, but they aren’t close.”

  “Oh. Mind if I lie down with you?”

  Chane frowned. He had been only moments away from slipping into her bed. His willpower was at its lowest ebb. “Can’t you sleep?” he asked.

  “I got lonely.”

  But if she was the one in need, how could he turn her away? Reluctantly, he opened his arms and welcomed her onto the sofa beside him. She lay down and snuggled against him. Determined to behave himself, he pressed his cheek against hers and prayed for strength.

  “You feel tense,” she said softly.

  “Do I?” he asked, feeling as taut as a steel rope strung between two stanchions. “I’m okay.”

  They lay in silence for a moment. “Chane…”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about some of the women you’ve made love to.”

  In horror, he opened his eyes. “Is this a trap?”

  “No. I’m just curious.”

  “Well, be curious about something else.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, there haven’t been all that many.”

  “Tell me about one of them, then.”

  “Do I look insane? Is there a sign on me somewhere that says this man has not even a particle of good sense?”

  “No, I’m just curious,” she said defensively.

  “I won’t ask about your lovers if you won’t ask about mine.”

  “I’d be happy to tell you everything,” she said ingenuously.

  “Forget it. I’m not man enough to handle that sort of information.”

  “Well, maybe if I start, it’ll be easier for you.”

  Chane clapped his hand over her mouth. “It’s your bed-time, Jennie. If you don’t get some sleep, you won’t be able to dance.”

  Disappointed, she allowed him to hustle her back to bed. Again he kissed her on the forehead, tucked the covers around her, and left the room.

  She closed her eyes and wondered why he wouldn’t tell her about his lovers. He seemed terrified. Maybe he thought she’d be angry. That was probably it. She searched her mind and was happy to find that she didn’t care what he had done before he met her. She imagined Chane lying atop Latitia Laurey, and she was both titillated and angered. She stewed for a moment and finally threw back the covers.

  Chane’s eyes were closed. “Are you asleep?” she whispered.

  “What is it this time?”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “No.”

  “Then why can’t I lie with you? It’s lonely in there.”

  Inwardly, Chane groaned. He had sworn to protect her, even from himself—but he was hanging by his fingernails. Well, he would just have to forget his own problem and try to deal with hers. He motioned her down and cuddled her close. “Better?” he asked.

  “Much better,” she said, snuggling against him. “Have you made love to Latitia Laurey?”

  Chane drew his head back and scowled at her. “Who?”

  “Latitia Laurey. Don’t pretend you don’t know her. So, what is she like in bed?”

  Chane didn’t know whether to lie and say he didn’t know or tell the truth and be driven out into the cold by an enraged woman.

  “Go to sleep, Jennie.”

  Instead, she stood up and slipped out of her camisole and pantalets.

  “Jennie, my God,” Chane protested, stunned by the sight of her naked body between him and the fire.

  “It’s getting hot in here,” she said, lying down beside him again. “Why don’t you take your clothes off?”

  “No thanks.”

  Jennifer decided he was the stubbornest man she had ever known. Or the densest. She reached up, pulled his head down and kissed him. He ended the kiss. “Don’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dammit, I’m trying to behave myself here.”

  “Why?”

  “I promised.”

  “That was for last night.”

  Chane groaned. “Jennie, I want things to be right between us. I want to do one thing right.”

  “Let it be something else,” she said, pulling his head down and kissing him again. For a second she thought he was going to explode or break free of her, but he groaned and pulled her hard against him.

  When the kiss ended, he whispered, “You’ll be sorry.”

  “Hush,” she said, squirming against him. Waves of intense feeling had driven her out here, and now they were operating her body as if she had no control whatsoever. She found his mouth again, and this time she was the aggressor. It felt good to hear the rasp of his breathing, feel the swell of his heaviness against her belly.

  She moved his hand to her breast, and shortly his lips followed. Once started, he knew exactly what to do. His touch drove her wild, and him, too, if her perceptions could be trusted. He seemed as lost as she, as unable to stop himself as she. But he advanced slowly—so slowly that she was almost crying out for him to do more. His hands touched her tentatively and then with a sureness and magnetism that took her breath away. Wherever he touched her, she felt pulled in that direction, as if all of her attention were straining toward him.

  Finally, he uncovered himself and slipped between her legs. Panting, she tried to move away, even though every nerve in her body screamed out for him to enter her. Chane’s hands pinned her hips and his mouth covered hers. She tried to squirm away, but his leg wedged itself between her legs and he pressed into her.

  She cried out, “No.”

  “Yes,” he said softly, covering her mouth with his. He kissed her long and deeply, then pulled back and started the motion that brought with it ecstasy and agony. Wonderful sensations were washing through her.

  She held tight to him and returned his kisses until it was over, and then they lay together, their bodies slick with sweat. Panting, he stroked her back and thighs. She could have lain like that all night. Chane inhaled deeply. “Are you cold? Do you need a blanket?”

  “No, I’m fine. Well, at least this time nothing caught fire, got muddy, or turned over. And,” she said, “neither one of us is hurt.”

  Chane started to laugh. She joined him. They laughed until they were both weak. Then he gathered her into his arms and carried her to his bed. He held her close for the rest of the night.

  The next morning Jennie woke to find him gone. All her doubts about herself and about him resurfaced. She dressed and left the apartment without seeing anyone. At the elevator, she pressed the button, heard it ringing below, and moments later the elevator arrived, with Chane in it.

  At the sight of her, he smiled. He was wearing a white shirt, a black frock coat, and matching trousers. Crisp and businesslike, he’d never looked more handsome. As the uniformed operator closed the iron gates, Chane guided Jennie back toward his apartment. “I was hoping I’d get back before you woke up. I brought breakfast,” he said, lifting a sack and filling the hallway with bakery smells. He unlocked the door and swept her inside. At the table, he unpacked a bottle of milk and fresh jelly-topped rolls. “I don’t know what you eat for breakfast.”

  “This is fine.”

  “Doesn’t seem fine. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said, but she looked everywhere except into his eyes.

  “I’m over here,” he said, lifting her
chin. “Jennie, look at me.”

  “What?”

  “Even when you hide from me—don’t shake your head, you know what you’re doing—you are incredibly lovely.” She looked tense and miserable, and he knew they had a serious problem. “We need to talk, Jennie. I want you to come with me on my ship.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I want you to see the city from the prow of my ship. I want to hold you in my arms in the darkness and feel the spray on my face.”

  “We open with a new ballet in two weeks.”

  “To hell with the opening.”

  Jennifer groaned. “No,” she whispered.

  “You think the boss will be angry with you?” he teased, leaning down and kissing her. The magic was stronger than before, tingling his nerves and relaxing muscles that seemed to get tense when he went too long without seeing her. He kissed her again and felt her relaxing, too.

  Jennifer closed her eyes and gave in to the magic of kissing him. His warm lips were like a soothing balm, and she forgot everything but him.

  “Oh, Jennie,” he sighed. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

  Jennifer closed her eyes to escape Chane’s penetrating gaze, which confused her even more than Peter’s claims against him. She didn’t know whom to trust anymore. Peter said one thing, Chane said another. Peter wanted one thing from her, Chane another. Peter was her brother, but Chane was the man who caused her heart to pound and her body to tremble. She didn’t trust him, but for some reason, she couldn’t break away from him.

  “No,” she whispered. God help me, but no.

  Chapter Nine

  Jennifer was two hours late for practice. When she walked in from the wings and tried to slip into line unnoticed, every head in the theater turned toward her. She had the awful feeling that everyone there knew she had been in bed with a man.

  Bellini hung his wand on the side of his stool and continued talking as if she had not just made an extremely tardy appearance. Jennifer flushed with gratitude and realized again why she loved the man. He was very forgiving of human frailty. He demanded the supreme sacrifice physically, but he rarely commented on anyone’s personal problems, even when they spilled over into practice or performance.

  The girls around her wore the oddest practice clothes. “I always wear my best practice clothes,” Jennifer had told her mother. “Whatever is best, that’s what I wear.” But now, like Jennifer, her troupe mates had lost their best practice clothes in the fire and were dipping into their inventory of castoffs. It was customary to put together odd bits and pieces of clothing and to dress in a half dozen layers. As warm-up progressed, the layers came off one at a time. During breaks, the layers went back on. The day was spent taking off and putting on clothes. But the Bricewood, with its modern steam heating, was not the drafty Bellini. So by the afternoon, everyone had stripped down to bare essentials.

  Frederick stopped beside Jennifer. “Did you give Kincaid his money’s worth last night?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” he said, smirking.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Jennifer, it’s me, Frederick. Anytime you get more money than I do, it’s not for dancing.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “This is a small town, love. Everyone knows everything. You didn’t think you could sell out without our all finding out about it, did you?” He laughed and walked away. Jennifer’s face flushed with heat. She wanted to run after him and hit him as hard as she could, but she didn’t. That would only add fuel to the fire.

  Peter arrived a few minutes after five, just as the troupe was breaking for dinner.

  Simone Marcelline looked up, saw Peter Van Vleet, and slipped around the corner of the dressing room so he wouldn’t see her yet. Without thinking, she slipped off her tunic, removed her chemise, and replaced the tunic. In the mirror, her round breasts and dark nipples were clearly visible. She pinned madly at her hair until it resembled the picture of careless art—wispy and soft around her face. She grabbed a makeup pallet and touched rouge to her cheeks and lips, charcoal to her underlids and overlids.

  Please God. Don’t let him hate me.

  She expelled a breath, rolled her eyes in resignation, and walked back into the theater. Peter stood twenty feet away, talking to Jennifer. He looked up, saw her, and his tawny eyebrows crowded downward into one of the most magnificent scowls Simone had ever seen. His piercing blue eyes almost stopped her heart.

  She took hold of the practice barre and began her stretches.

  Peter did not want to watch Simone, but his eyes kept straying back to her willowy form. With one leg resting on the barre, Simone lowered her head, grasped her ankle with both hands, and pressed her body close to her leg. Her body looked so flexible, and moved so effortlessly that an ache started low in Peter’s body.

  Jennifer followed his gaze. “Simone is sweet. I can’t imagine why you keep punishing her.”

  “I’m not punishing her,” he growled.

  “Of course you are. You’ve always punished her.”

  “If you mean—”

  “You hated every woman who ever slept with Reginald, but especially Simone. I think you’re in love with her.”

  Peter scoffed.

  “It’s true.”

  “Why do you always defend them?”

  “Do I?” Jennifer asked, surprised.

  “Ever since I can remember, you’ve been defending the women he brought home. What the hell is a home supposed to be for? Certainly not for entertaining strumpets.”

  Jennifer flinched, wondering what Peter would think about her night with Chane. It was no use nagging him about Simone. He would think what he pleased. Suddenly, she was overcome with the impulse to tell him about Chane.

  “Peter, I need to tell you…I’m seeing Mr. Kincaid.”

  “Well, that’s great, Jenn. I knew you’d come around.”

  “I’m not spying on him, Peter, I’m…”

  Jenn was talking again, but Peter’s attention was on Simone, who bent low and turned her face to the side. Eyes closed, counting her beats or whatever a ballerina did while she waited for her muscles to accept each new position, she looked to him like an angel.

  It was hard to realize, looking at such innocence, that Simone had been his father’s mistress. The thought of his own father making love to the girl caused an odd tightening in his throat and loins. She looked no more than eighteen or twenty. Was it possible she had been seduced at fourteen? The thought made him angry at Reginald. What fourteen-year-old girl could withstand the determined advances of a grown man? Especially a charming, experienced, wealthy man who lavished gifts and attention on her?

  Jenn paused, and Peter said, “Uh-huh.” That seemed to satisfy her. She continued on her subject, and Peter let his mind stray back to Simone. In spite of her beauty, the girl looked starved for attention. He remembered the first time she came to the Van Vleet house. She had been so timid, she’d almost been afraid to sit on the furniture, and Vivian had smiled her sardonic smile behind the girl’s back.

  Peter had felt his ears burn for her. He’d wanted Simone to do something surprisingly sophisticated, to show his parents up, but of course she hadn’t. Simone had been no better than he at holding her own in their glittering conversations. Though she had still had to try, to justify her position at the table, or in the bed.

  “Well?” Jenn demanded.

  Peter tried to remember her last words. He replayed the last sentence from memory by repeating it to himself, hoping to comprehend it so Jenn didn’t realize he’d been lost in thoughts of Simone. He’s invited me to go sailing with him sometime.

  “Good, Jenn. Sounds like you’re making progress. Do what you have to do. Just be careful, huh?”

  Jennifer took a deep breath and rubbed her sweaty hands against her tights. The biggest hurdle was over—she’d told Peter she was seeing Kincaid. Now, at least she wouldn’t be sneaking around.

  Monday
, a month and a few days after the fire, Jennifer awoke with the awful feeling that she’d forgotten something. At noon one of the ballerinas mentioned that her monthly had started during practice and she’d ruined one of her best practice outfits. Jennifer realized what she’d forgotten. She hadn’t started her monthlies yet. Panic seized her.

  It was December third. The building had burned the end of October. She hadn’t had a monthly since the fire. She sagged onto her chair before her mirror and put her head into her hands.

  Part of her wanted very much to see Chane’s reaction, to see the fierceness and possessiveness she knew would flush his handsome face at the news that she was carrying his child. But once she told him, things would get out of control. As long as she was the only one who knew, she still had control. Her head spun with fear and confusion. She needed to talk to someone.

  Christopher. She could talk to Christopher Chambard. He had practically raised her. He’d been her mother’s closest friend, and whenever the Van Vleet’s swept out of town on one of their jaunts, Christopher was always there to pick up the pieces. Over the years, Jennifer had turned to him time and again for advice and explanations of grown-ups’ puzzling behavior. Christopher would know how to sort out her present welter of emotions and make sense of it.

  She told Bellini that she would not be in until after lunch the next day, and she told Chane that she needed to go home to see her brother. For the first time that week she slept in her own bed. The next morning, she dressed carefully in white and ordered a carriage to take her to Christopher’s apartment near the old Bellini Theatre, in a brownstone that reminded her of Paris.

  As she sat back and the carriage began to roll, she glanced at the house across the street and saw a man step quickly behind a tree as if trying to escape detection. She caught only a glimpse of the man, but something about him disturbed her. A chill ran down her spine.

  She was sure it meant nothing, but her body sent her different signals. She was relieved when the carriage pulled around the corner and safety out of sight.