A Light For My Love (18 page)

He nodded shortly.

Jake stood in the hall and watched her walk
away, her nose up, her hips swaying under the swish and rustle of
her skirts, the music of femininity. He released his fists and let
out a long breath. His momentary loss of sanity shook him. He'd
almost kissed her, and he would have, too, if she hadn't suddenly
yanked away from him like he was street sweepings.

He looked down at the expensive suit, and
again he was swamped by a sense of futility. He could have a
promising future, dress the part, and move in her circle, even if
temporarily, but she still regarded him as someone who wasn't fit
to enter the house through the front door. And if she wouldn't
accept him, how would she convince their dinner guests to accept
him?

He was trying not to notice her, but she made
it difficult to ignore her. Damn her and that dress. How the hell
was he supposed to sit at the same table with
that
all
evening and concentrate on business? Or on anything else besides
her tiny waist, or the swell of her breasts, or her long, slender
neck rising above her nearly bare white shoulders? Her dark, smoky
fragrance lingered like a whisper around him, while a series of
jumbled images rippled across his imagination. He could almost feel
his mouth buried against her throat, her soft flesh under him, his
hands around her bottom as he pulled her tightly to him—

Jesus, Chastaine, stop torturing yourself, he
ordered, lacing his hands through his hair. As it was, he'd lost
every battle trying to keep her out of his thoughts, and now he was
losing the war. Seeing her like that, as radiant as a blue star, as
beautiful and sleek as a clipper ship, he figured he might as well
give up the fight. But he knew he couldn't. If they were going to
work together, he'd have to quell the smoldering heat she kindled
in him. Sure, and while he was at it, maybe he could make the
Columbia River flow east instead of west.

Sighing, Jake followed China's scent down the
hall to the stairs.

*~*~*

"China, I can't tell you how delightful it is
to see you again. And looking so lovely, too," Julia Stanhope
gushed from her place next to Jake at the other end of the table.
She poked a big piece of rare beef into her mouth. "We'd all
wondered why you dropped out of sight. Of course, we'd heard
amazing rumors, but,
ma chère
, they are so unreliable, and
it's somewhat unkind to put much stock in gossip." The toothy grin
on her equine face created the illusion of a smiling horse. Her
rose silk dress, overloaded with frills and furbelows, didn't help
dispel the image, nor did her heavy lower lip, which gapped away
from her bottom teeth.

China thought the woman's words might have
sounded less insincere if she had been looking at her while she
spoke, instead of eyeing Jake as though he were a rich, tender
morsel on a dessert cart.

"Well, after I lost my father, I withdrew
from social occasions for several years," China replied, giving the
answer she'd formulated last night while drying her hair in front
of her fireplace. She'd known that someone was bound to ask; the
only mystery had lain in who it would be. She swallowed hard to
avoid choking on the next words. "But Captain Chastaine is an old
family friend, and since he's back in town on business, it seemed
like a good reason to celebrate." In a lightning-quick glance at
Jake, she saw a pair of gold-laced brows lift imperceptibly before
she looked away again to her dinner.

Julia was a tiresome, pretentious woman. Her
husband was Emory Stanhope, the short, bullet-shaped man who sat on
China's left. Emory's very prosperous lumber mill financed her
trips to the East Coast and Europe, her expensive, if garish,
dresses, and a grand home. But he was old enough to be her father,
and she had an unashamed eye for young, attractive men, which he
apparently chose to ignore.

"Daddy," she addressed her husband, reminding
everyone of their age difference, "isn't China's table every bit as
lovely as the Raymonds's was last week?"

Emory agreed, smearing a big lump of butter
on a flaky roll. "Reminds me of the old days when Captain Sullivan
was in port, China. Your mama threw some pretty fancy parties,
too."

China glanced around the table, laden with
food, snowy linen, glowing candles, and flowers, and she was
flattered by the comparison. Except for a couple of awkward
questions, the evening was proceeding very nicely. Her gown, it
turned out, wasn't so scandalous after all—the other ladies wore
similarly cut necklines.

Jake, she noticed, was managing surprisingly
well at the other end of the table, certainly better than she'd
expected. For someone she remembered to be an insolent smart aleck
in his youth, he was doing a passable job of making conversation
and fielding questions about himself. She was very conscious of him
sitting in that far chair. He looked relaxed and at ease, but even
seated, he was taller than anyone present. Now and then their eyes
would link, and every time they did, his gaze made her feel as
though they were alone in the room. She tried hard not to think
about that scene upstairs earlier this evening, when he'd put his
hand on her back to pull her to him, the curve of his mouth as he
lowered his face to hers, those long lashes drifting dosed. She
clenched her napkin in her lap. It was very distressing.

Above the general murmur of conversation, she
heard his rich, smooth voice politely responding to a question. The
guests were also fascinated by the blond newcomer—fortunately, some
of them were new to Astoria themselves, having arrived in just the
last few years, and not a one of them seemed to remember him from
the old days. He replied with truthful answers that carefully
avoided jogging anyone's memory of a wild rowdy who gambled, drank,
wenched, and got a girl in trouble.

The aroma of the expertly prepared meal,
gracefully served by silent, competent help, wafted through the
dining room. The air was filled with the sounds of lively
conversation and the clink of silverware on dishes. China viewed
the delicious food with a little regret; she was too nervous and
her corset was too tight to allow her to take more than dainty
tastes of the beef and parsley potatoes. So far, her strategy had
succeeded. She glanced anxiously at the clock on the mantel.
Seven-thirty. Now, if the next part of the night went as well, it
would be a total triumph. Jake was bound to be angry about the
after-dinner guest she planned; she could only hope that he was
smart enough to avoid creating a scene. The prospect of being the
object of his cold green glare was daunting. Still, everything was
running so smoothly to this point . . . 

Then, just as dessert was being served,
Lavinia Buchanan spoke up. She motioned the white-aproned serving
girl to put an extra dollop of whipped cream on her chocolate cake
as she said, "It's wonderful to see you looking so well, China.
Here you'd been in mourning for your father, and I—" Her voice
dropped to an astounded, distressed whisper, as though she reported
news of an appalling fall from grace. "I'd heard that you're
actually operating a boardinghouse here. Well, I suppose I should
have questioned the story. Still, I wish you'd made an effort to
stay in touch so that we'd have known what happened to you."

China felt a blush rise from her chin to her
hairline, and she briefly bit down on the tines of the fork in her
mouth to stifle the blunt reply that popped into her head. For an
instant the candles were not as bright, the crystal less sparkling.
All these years, she'd been regarded by most of her former friends
and acquaintances as a social leper, ignored and avoided, through
no fault or choice of her own. If Lavinia knew tonight that all
that stood between China and her exile was a sirloin of beef and a
blue moire dress, both paid for by the guest of honor, it wouldn't
stop her from shoveling chocolate cake into her mouth. No, indeed.
She would accept China's hospitality, then bear the juicy tale
straight to those who now carefully averted their eyes when they
saw China at the grocer's, or the dry goods store, to avoid
speaking to her. She concealed the bitter hurt brought on by the
thought. She sensed Jake's gaze on her, but she didn't look at him,
afraid of what she'd see there. And much as she longed to, she knew
she couldn't respond in kind to Lavinia's bad manners. Instead, she
gave her a cool smile. "I've been kept rather busy
with . . . the house and a couple of pet
charities. But there are no boarders here, Lavinia, only family.
And Captain Chastaine."

Lavinia returned the half-smile and gave her
a smug, unconvinced look.

At the other end of the table, Julia Stanhope
leaned toward Jake and burbled, "I'm sure I should know you,
Captain. Are you of the Boston Chastaines?"

Jake shook his head and turned the stem of
his wineglass in his big hand. "Not that I know of, Mrs. Stanhope.
My family is pretty much from the West Coast."

"I beg your pardon, Captain Chastaine," Peter
Hollis broke in. About China's age, he managed his father's
cannery. "Did you say that you grew up in Astoria? We must have run
into each other at some point, but I can't place you."

China looked up, alert at the question,
formulating a diversionary remark in her mind. Of course Peter
would think he should know him. Dressed as he was, Jake looked
every inch the gentleman.

Jake laid his fork on his plate and took a
big swallow of burgundy, stalling while an answer came to him. What
could he tell Hollis? That they'd never met before because while
Hollis had probably been doing things like learning to waltz and
going to Sunday socials, he'd been ditching school, working on
Pop's fishing boat, and hanging around the Blue Mermaid? He
carefully set his wineglass down.

"Well, I've been away at sea for a long time,
seven years. I came back just a few weeks ago to bring my ship into
dry dock and to develop new business."

China let her breath out.

"Say, is that your barkentine at Tewey's?"
Douglas Buchanan asked. "I saw her on my way to the grain office
last week. By God, she's a good-looking ship."

Grateful for the appropriate turn of
conversation, Jake couldn't help but smile. "She's trim and fast.
As soon as she's back in the water, I'll be sailing her to the Far
East. I've got cargo space for lumber, wheat, flour, other
goods."

Buchanan, a middle-aged man with
carrot-colored hair, was apparently more polite than his wife. "If
you have time in the next few days, I'd like to arrange a meeting
with you. The world is hungry for American grain, and I'm
interested in pursuing—"

"Oh, dear" Julia sighed with great
exaggeration and rolled her eyes at Jake. "I do hope you gentlemen
aren't going to spend all of dinner discussing business."

"Julia," Emory Stanhope murmured.

Ignoring her husband, she leaned doser to
Jake's shoulder. "My, to think you've sailed the whole world. You
know, my sister and I traveled all of Europe three years ago. We
even went as far as Turkey."

Jake squelched his escalating irritation at
having this woman flirting with him. She was like a fat, lazy fly
droning around him, begging for the mortal swat of a rolled-up
newspaper. But he hadn't yet secured a meeting with her husband, so
he had to endure her. He straightened away from the big-toothed
mouth murmuring to him. "Really? As far east as Turkey? Did you see
the Dardanelles?"

Obviously warming to the attention, Julia put
her heavily ringed hand on the arm of his chair. Jake fought the
urge to bring his elbow down on it, halfway expecting to feel her
chubby fingers in his lap any minute, fondling him beneath the
tablecloth. "See them! Why, my dear, they invited my sister and me
to dine with them three different times."

Jake dug his fingers into the upholstery next
to his thigh and sucked in a deep breath, struggling against the
pressure of laughter that filled his chest like an overinflated
balloon. He'd known his share of pompous name-droppers, but he'd
never met one who claimed to have had dinner with a waterway. He
sneaked a glance at China, who was staring at Julia with her napkin
pressed hard to her mouth. She looked away as soon as their eyes
met, seemingly overpowered by a coughing fit. Elizabeth Hollis,
Peter's pleasant, timid wife, blushed furiously at Julia's error
and concentrated her attention on her plate.

Jake had no sooner regained control of his
own breathing than he heard a familiar blare.

"Say, Missy! I'd have a word with you, if you
don't mind!" Conversation ceased, conquered by the bellowing, and
all heads swivelled to face its source. Captain Meredith came to
the double doors of the dining room and fixed China with a stern
look. His ever-present pipe clamped in his teeth, he wore a bulky
sweater, and his bushy white brows were lowered like
thunderclouds.

Susan Price appeared behind him, tugging on
the old man's arm and urgently whispering something to him,
probably trying to get him to come away. But he couldn't hear her
in any case, and irritably shook her off.

"Stop fussing with me, girl."

Jake began to rise, but Cap ordered him back
into his chair. "Not you, lad, although I daresay you had a hand in
this, too."

China put her napkin on her chair and excused
herself, feeling all eyes on her as she crossed the room in silence
so profound that her taffeta skirts whooshed like ten pairs of
brand-new dungarees.

Cap launched into his cantankerous complaint
as she drew near. "A man works hard all of his life and, goddamn
it, if he can't live in his own house, he ought to be able to sit
in his own chair without it being stolen right out from under his
ass—"

China winced and grasped him by the arm,
pulling him into the hall and closing the dining room doors behind
her. She'd long ago grown accustomed to his rough speech, but the
dinner guests didn't need to hear him. The chair to which he
referred was the leather wingback where he dozed every night by the
fireplace. It had been her father's, and Cap had claimed it.
Everyone knew it was his, and none of the family sat in it but
him.