Broddock-Black 05 - Force of Nature (25 page)

F
lynn had never been abroad before. He’d been to San Francisco often and now New York. But Helena was enough of a microcosm of the world with the population of the gold camps and resulting mines having been drawn from far and wide that he well understood the practicalities of le beau monde.

If one were sufficiently wealthy, most anything was available—for a price.

Including a suite beside Jo’s in the Grand Hotel—hastily vacated by its occupant, the direction of Father Alessandro, the cafes Miss Attenborough frequented and even the names of some of her acquaintances ... in this case, male acquaintances. Flynn was unconcerned with her female friends.

The extent of his rudeness to her at his ranch made him wary of directly approaching her. She might refuse to see him. He would reconnoiter first, a long-standing practice for a man of his background.

It was midafternoon. He’d begin with Father Alessandro.

The curate was a small, elderly man, he discovered, who spent his afternoons cultivating his flower garden. And perhaps without actually acknowledging the fact that he’d been anxious, he was able to dismiss Father Alessandro as a rival.

He surveyed the first of the half-dozen cafes suggested to him from afar, but there were few patrons at that time of day and none of them was Jo. He’d look again when the establishments began to fill; cafe society was most active from late afternoon through evening. He was optimistic about finding her, if not now, later tonight, when she returned to her suite.

But she didn’t appear at any of her usual haunts, although he kept close watch. He returned to the Monastery of San Marco, thinking she might be there. He even walked through two museums she’d mentioned as her favorites without success. As the hours passed and he wasn’t able to locate her, his frustration escalated. She hadn’t come back to her suite; he had the maid look when he returned to the hotel. And she didn’t sleep in her room.

He knew because he sat in the alcove opposite her door all night.

By morning, nearly insane with jealousy, he called on Father Alessandro, only waiting for him to leave morning matins before accosting him in the monastery courtyard. Flynn was hoping the curate might know her whereabouts.

When he approached the elderly man, Father Alessandro looked up. “So you’ve come,” he said, gruffly.

“You know who I am?”

“Yes, of course, the samurai.”

Even dressed in well-tailored clothes, he was conspicuous, apparently. “Jo spoke of me?”

“Yes, on more than one occasion.”

Father Alessandro’s brusque manner, his tone, his critical gaze was disconcerting. Had she said he was a brute? No doubt from the look in the man’s eyes. Although he couldn’t argue with her assessment. “I came to apologize to Jo, but I can’t seem to find her. Do you know where she might be? Is she out of the city?”

“What makes you think she wants to see you?”

“I don’t expect she does.”

The priest didn’t speak for a moment, surveying Flynn from head to foot, his mouth pursed. “She’s at the Grand Hotel,” he offered, finally.

He must have passed muster—no devil’s horns visible— Flynn thought, but the priest’s answer had been grudging. He was careful to reply with courtesy. “As I understand, she hasn’t been there recently.”

“She has many friends. She may be with them.”

That was the damnable problem, particularly if a male friend was involved, but he could hardly speak of his jealousy to this man of God. “I’ll just have to wait, then. Thank you for your time.”

“If I see her, I’ll tell her you’re in Florence.”

For a fleeting moment, Flynn wanted to say, No, no, don't tell hen She might run. But he said instead, “Thank you, I’d appreciate it.” And bowing faintly, he began walking away.

“She might be with the Americans from Boston.”

Flynn spun around, his heart beating wildly.

“The Montgomerys have a home near the Boboli Gardens. I’m not sure I should be telling you this,” he added, a note of censure in his voice.

“I’m forever in your debt,” Flynn said with profound gratitude. He unconsciously bowed as his father had, his hands palms together at chest level. He smiled. “Forgive me, a holdover from childhood. You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.”

And then he ran.

Immediately returning to the hotel, he talked to the friendly concierge and received directions to the Montgomerys. They were a wealthy expatriate American family, the concierge explained, with grown children—he named the daughter and two sons—all of them longtime residents of Florence, art collectors and dilettante writers. Their home had once been a ducal palace, he added with suitable reverence.

Flynn thanked him, tried not to think about wealthy men who were art collectors when Jo had spoken so often of her fascination with the art of Florence and chose to walk rather than take a carriage. He preferred being as inconspicuous as possible as he approached.

His caution was unnecessary however, because several blocks short of the address he’d been given, he saw Jo.

And his temper instantly flared.

She and another woman were seated at an outside cafe table surrounded by four men and she was laughing. Everyone was laughing. They were all drinking their morning coffee and enjoying the sunshine, the morning papers spread out on the long wooden table. She wore a pretty green-striped gown, her hat hung from its ribbon on her chair back, her parasol was tipped against the table and she was enjoying herself without him.

In a flash of a second, his anger turned to misery.

What had he thought? That he could arrive in Florence, say forgive me and she’d fall into his arms? Had he lost his mind completely? Had he spent so long in the wilderness that he’d forgotten there were bustling cities filled with bright, intelligent people who led interesting and engrossing lives? That Jo had only recently left such a city and had returned after a few brief months to pick up the threads of that existence. She knew all these people; you could see they were friends of long-standing—their camaraderie playful, intimate. The two women touched each other when they laughed, and nodded their heads together and flirted with the men with a lighthearted gaiety.

When Jo spoke, everyone leaned forward to listen and when she laughed, she threw back her head so the merry, jubilant sound soared into the sunlit sky. And he couldn’t help but notice how the men took particular notice of her as though she were a queen and they her court. Her dress was too form-fitting, he silently grumbled, as though he had the right, as though he’d suddenly become her duenna. And her beauty was so striking, pedestrians slowed as they walked by to look at her.

Like the most doleful wretch he watched from afar, listening to the tenor of the party’s laughter, the rhythm of their conversation, too distant to hear the words, but painfully aware of the demonstrable affection and pleasure exchanged. The other woman took out a letter, read from it briefly, then passed it around and they all perused it and made jovial comments that made them laugh again, the correspondent apparently known to them all.

He’d never felt so lonely.

Not even on the mountaintop for thirty-four days.

He stayed there, like a pariah, watching from the shelter of an apartment portico, until the party rose from the table and strolled away, the ladies arm in arm with two men each—as though one wasn’t enough.

Eaten with jealousy, stricken with gloom, cheerless and grieving, he had to face the unbearable truth.

He’d lost her.

He wandered the streets of Florence aimlessly for hours, his thoughts in turmoil, every beat of his heart an ache of sadness, feeling more alone than ever. Maybe he shouldn’t have left his ranch and the familiar pattern of his life. At least he knew what to expect in the Sun River country, the sameness if not comforting, recognizable, the home he’d helped build, the ranch he’d grown up on, the men he worked alongside familiar and predictable. If he’d had no particular intimacy in his life since his parents died, he hadn’t expected any. Hadn’t wanted any.

And then because of Jo, he’d become aware of a raw, all-pervasive emptiness in his soul.

Because of Jo, he’d learned the misery of solitude.

❧

He spent the night in his suite, hoping in some irrational way that Jo would return, that someone would tell her he was there and he’d hear a knock on his door. He’d been drinking, he hadn’t slept for days or perhaps his thinking would have been less fantastical. But she didn’t come back to the hotel, the knock on his door remained a dream and he watched the sunrise slowly lighten the sky, sunk in the blackest despair.

With the bright light of morning, his thinking cleared, or perhaps he finally gave up hope, and forced himself to face the truth. He’d come to Florence too late; worse, he’d driven Jo away with a brutality he still recalled with horror. He really didn’t deserve her. The wealthy men at that cafe table, the laughing, kind, attentive men who collected art and wrote pretty phrases were what she wanted. He didn’t blame her.

His journey had been a wishful dream from the beginning. And dreams had a habit of dissolving into nothingness. The real world consisted of his Sun River Ranch, his horses and cattle and work—the only things he’d ever known and now he didn’t know if he wanted them anymore. He sighed, a lonely future the only surety in his life. Suppressing his melancholy with willful determination, he forced himself to move as well, quickly washing and dressing, packing his valise, having the concierge arrange for a carriage to take him to the train station.

A short time later, he settled back against the leather seat of the barouche and shut his eyes. The beauty of Florence offended him, Jo’s happiness offended him, the fruitlessness of his quest offended him the most.

What a bitter end to a journey begun with such hope.

M
aking his way down the busy, crowded train platform, Flynn heard her laughter before he saw her. Jo was standing with the same people she’d been with yesterday, he noticed, her tall, slender form suddenly visible as the flow of passengers shifted. She wore a different gown, rose-colored and bright. She must be staying with them for some time since she’d brought her luggage, he reflected, disconsolately. Linked arm in arm with one of the men, she looked up and spoke to him. Suddenly, the man bent low, brushed her cheek with a kiss and then whispered in her ear.

Flynn’s stomach twisted in envy.

And as if the sight of Jo and her new lover wasn’t awful enough, he thought, swearing under his breath, he was obliged to walk past them to reach his rail carriage. Although, the press of passengers might be to his advantage; he might be able to pass by undetected if he moved far enough to the left and put the crowd between himself and Jo.

Keeping to the far edge of the platform, using his valise as nominal buffer, he moved through the crowd, feeling like a fugitive trying to escape the carabiniere. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimmer of Jo’s rose-colored gown in passing, unconsciously lengthening his stride at the sight. Moving by as swiftly as possible, he was just beginning to allow himself to relax, having put considerable distance between them when Jo’s voice rang out above the din of the crowd.

“Flynn!”

Was he deceiving himself or was there elation in the sound?

Or was that accusation in the intensity of her voice?

For a breath-held second he continued walking, not sure he could face her condemnation, not sure he had the heart to be rebuked in such a public arena, before all her friends. And then he turned because he would willingly grasp at straws for her.

She was running toward him when he looked up and if it were possible to measure hope by the size of the lump in one’s throat, he was calibrating that belief to an excessive degree.

This man who had learned to charm at a very young age, who was known to have countless women in pursuit because of that charm, this man who had until a few short months ago considered himself enthusiastically single, now waited for the great love of his life, breath held and unsure.

Jo stopped running when she saw he hadn’t opened his arms to her or even dropped his valise. He was just standing there, his expression unreadable. Slowing to a more sedate pace, cautioning herself to less fevered emotions, she reached him a few moments later, her gaze as uncertain as his. “What are you doing here?”

Now was his opportunity to apologize, but the man she’d been kissing had followed her and was standing a few feet away, his brows drawn together in a frown.

“Who’s he?” Flynn asked, gruffly, when he shouldn’t have, and nodded his head toward the man.

Jo swiveled around, then swiveled back. “A friend,” she said, a new coolness in her voice. “Why are you in Florence?”

There—the accusation he’d feared. “I came to see you.” It was the truth and friend or no friend, frowning or not, there was no reason he should lie to her.

“Why didn’t you call on me then?”

“I couldn’t find you.”

“I’m at the Grand Hotel.”

“Not really,” he said, tipping his head faintly toward the dilettante American. “You’ve been with them.”

The man moved closer, took Jo’s hand in his, his frown deepening as he gazed at Flynn. “The train will be leaving soon,” he said to Jo and then looked at Flynn. “If you’ll excuse us.”

She shook off his hand. “In a minute, Charles.”

He lifted his chin a fraction and stared at Flynn. “You must be the samurai.”

Flynn felt his spine stiffen at the disparagement in the man’s voice. “Yes,” he said, “among other things.”

“And what other things might those be?”

“Charles, for heaven’s sake,” Jo exclaimed, her expression fretful.

“I understand you’re handy with the sword. I fence.”

Flynn wanted to laugh, but he understood such a response would be unsuitable. Jo hadn’t left yet. She was still only inches away and she’d chided the man. Three points for his side. Now wasn’t the time to take tactless issue with a man who fenced. “Congratulations,” Flynn said, instead. “I understand it requires great skill.”

Jo slanted a look up at him, and for a moment he thought he caught a glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

“Our team at Harvard took all-conference three years running.”

“Congratulations again.”

Charles’s gaze narrowed, understanding he had a rival. “Tell him you have to leave, Jo.”

Flynn almost smiled at the sudden stubborn set of her chin, but he was caution itself in his current equivocal position.

“Why don’t I say good-bye to you here, Charles. I’ll see you all on your return.”

For a taut moment, Charles Montgomery’s gaze flicked between Flynn and Jo, his mouth twitched faintly and then apparently, too well mannered to make a scene, he said with a forced smile, “We won’t be gone long.”

“Good. Say hello to Maribelle for me.”

“We’ll be back the end of the week.”

Jo smiled. “Splendid. I’ll see you then.”

He had no choice, short of starting a scuffle with Flynn, and understanding that, he bowed stiffly and took his leave.

Flynn grinned. “I thought I might have to hit a fencer for the first time in my life.”

Jo tried not to smile and didn’t succeed. “He really is a very good fencer, darling.” She instantly raised her hand to her mouth as though she could smother the unwanted word.

He set down his valise, suddenly realizing he’d been given leave to stay. “Can I assume you and Charles are not—”

“No, we’re not and you needn’t look so smug. . . nor so damned cocksure either. I’m expecting considerable penance and hours of apology from you for what you thought of me. That wiped that smile off your face, I see,” she said.

“I shall willingly do whatever you wish to put myself in your good graces once again,” he said, suave and ingratiating, and if he hadn’t smiled at the last, his gallantry would have been seen as the pink of good manners.

“Bloody right you will and neither that unctuous flattery nor that seductively wicked look are likely to put you in my good graces, Mr. Ito.”

“I understand, ma’am,” he said with the most implausible obsequiousness.

“It’s miss and you’re beginning to annoy me,” she tartly said.

“You won’t be miss for long. I hope I haven’t spoken too plainly and annoyed you again.”

“You presume too much, Mr. Ito,” she crisply said, but her heart was beating at a vastly accelerated pace and billowing clouds of sunshine seemed to be flooding the huge, shadowed train shed.

“I came halfway across the world to apologize most profoundly for my stupidity and rudeness and then make you my wife. And as you may know, darling”—his grin was roguish— “I usually get what I want.”

“And as you know, darling, ” she purred, tempted to throw herself into his arms without a single penance, but not yet lost to all reason, “I get what I want first. ”

“Yes, yes, absolutely yes.” Cognizant of his great joy and gratitude, his loneliness had instantly vanished at her utterance of that first darling, he spoke with great sincerity. “You first, of course .. . always.”

“In that case”—she glanced around—“Could we go somewhere else?”

“We can go wherever you like, the mountains of Peru, the Valley of the Gods, Mount Fuji, the Champs Elysees. Or might I suggest something closer because right now I’d like to go someplace where I could hold you tight and sleep for a week. I haven’t slept much lately.”

“You too? I haven’t slept through the night—”

“Since you left,” he finished.

She laughed. “Yes. I have huge black circles under my eyes. See here, I look a fright.”

She didn’t, of course. She looked outrageously beautiful, her eyes glowing, her smile heart-stopping, the crane brooch he’d given her that first night in Helena prominently displayed on her collar. He touched it lightly.

“I always wear it,” she said.

Why hadn’t he seen it yesterday? If he had, it would have changed everything. He would have swept her away from her friends and carried her off because he would have known. “I saw you at the cafe with your friends yesterday, but I didn’t see this.”

“Your mistake . . . and you would have left me today.” The thought was so frightening, she took his hand and held on tightly and all thought of penances vanished.

“You looked so happy with them, laughing, and animated, everyone so proper and acceptable—I thought you’d found what you wanted. I thought I’d lost you.”

She shook her head. “I was miserable. I have been for a very long time. But now I’m not, definitely not,” she whispered, leaning into him, inhaling the familiar pine-scented cologne he wore. “I was thinking, maybe we should look into this loss of sleep of ours . . .”

“Find a way to deal with it,” he murmured, pulling her closer, dipping his head, brushing her lips with his. “You could marry me and then we could sleep together every night.” “Now there’s an idea .. .”

“We have to talk to Father Alessandro, then. I’m not taking any chances this time that we might argue over something stupid—”

“Very stupid,” she said with a touch of pique.

“Ridiculously stupid, I agree. I must have been insane.” “Well, you had reason,” she murmured, offering him a forgiving smile.

“Thank you for your understanding.” Feeling relatively safe in her affections once again, he released her, reached down and picked up his valise. “We’re getting married before we do anything else,” he declared, the fact that he might have lost her forever still frighteningly real. He began to draw her away.

She pulled back. “Isn’t a proposal generally required?” Dropping his valise with a thud, he sank to one knee and gazing up at her as the rush of passengers around them ground to a halt, he took her hand and said in a deep, clear voice, “I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you, Miss Attenborough, from the very first second. I was a fool not to have asked you then. In the interest of rectifying that gross error in judgment, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Will you marry me and not only make me the happiest of men, but gratify the curiosity of all these people watching us?”

She grinned. “Yes, Mr. Ito, I’d love to marry you.”

Quickly rising to his feet, Flynn pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly.

A loud cheer went up and much clapping of hands ensued and they accepted heartfelt congratulations from all the smiling strangers surrounding them. And then Flynn said with courtesy and grace, “If you’ll excuse us, we have a wedding to go to.”

They walked away amidst a gaudy charivari of hurrahs and congratulations and amused smiles.

“I’m serious about getting married first,” he said, his grip tightening on her hand. “You don’t know what hell I’ve been through since you left.”

“Since you practically threw me out, you mean.”

He grimaced. “Let me offer you another of several thousand apologies I intend to make for my barbarous behavior that night.”

“Accepted.” She ticked off an imaginary check in the air. “Four thousand nine hundred, ninety-eight to go.”

“I really feel terrible.”

He looked so sad and contrite, she was able to say without a qualm and mean it, “I know.”

“There was no excuse for my behavior. Not any in the world.”

“You’re here, now, darling and I’m happy. I don’t want to talk about any of that—” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t want to remember that night at his ranch, nor the reasons for their anger. “Not now, not when we’re together again.” She smiled. “I’d rather plan a wedding.”

He understood, the ugly memories of that night were so debilitating he couldn’t think of them without feeling a wave of remorse. “As long as the wedding plans have a contingency for speed,” he said with a smile. “I’ve been suffering without you too long. I can’t wait.”

She grinned. “I think that’s my line. But don’t worry, Father Alessandro will arrange things,” she said. “He can do anything.”