His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2) (12 page)

"People who live in glass houses... well, you take my meaning. Suffice it to say you were not expecting him."

"I told you, I was not expecting anyone. You're being particularly tiresome this evening," she said. "Why don't you take yourself off? Go home to your wife."

"I despise that butter-won't-melt tone." Michael sat up straighter, folded the newspaper, and tapped it against his knee. He watched her in the mirror, although she never met his gaze. "It doesn't work with me, Katy. I'm ten years your senior. Use it on one of the johnnies who sniff after your skirts, but not on me. I buy your skirts."

"You are vulgar, Michael. Get out. I mean it. I will call someone to have you evicted. Just because you backed this play with a bit of money, don't mistake yourself for someone important to me."

Dropping the
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, Michael came to stand behind Katy. He rested his hands on her slender shoulders. His thumbs stroked the sensitive nape of her neck. "You're very tense," he said, massaging lightly. His fingers itched to thread themselves in her soft honey hair. He would make that imperious, regal expression of hers vanish once he removed the pins. The taut line of her mouth would not look so inviolate after his kisses. "Do you really think you'd find anyone to throw me out? Have a care, Katy, you might be the one puffed up with your own consequence. The city's at your feet today, but that can change quickly."

"Are you threatening me?" she asked coldly.

Michael smiled. "Mmm. I suppose I am." His hands slipped to her upper arms, and without much resistance on Katy's part, he pulled her to her feet. There was a touch of cold cream on her cheek and he wiped it away with his fingertip. "Such soft skin," he said huskily, watching her closely. "You are very beautiful, Miss Dakota, but then you're probably used to hearing that. I'd wager you've heard it from my own father. He fancies himself something of a connoisseur where women are concerned. Tell me, aren't you the least bit curious about being in my bed after you've been in his?" He waited for her response. When she met his statement with silence, he probed. "What? No desire for relative comparison?"

"I don't find your attempts at humor amusing and your conclusions—"

"Shut up, Katy," he said, not unkindly. "Your mouth has better uses." Pressing one hand to the small of her back, Michael forced Katy flush to his body. His other hand cupped her head, holding it immobile as his mouth closed over hers.

Katy's lips were set in a mutinous line. She tried to twist out of Michael's grasp, and when she couldn't, settled for giving him no pleasure. His mouth was hot and hard and his mustache abraded her skin.

He raised his head slightly but did not release his hold. "Come, Katy," he cajoled. "Why so reticent? Open your mouth, darling. Let me taste some of what you give others so freely."

When Katy opened her mouth it was not in offering. "Take your hands off me." Then, with particular venom, she added, "Yankee bastard."

From the doorway there was the sound of rhythmic, cynical applause. Katy and Michael broke apart.

"Nicely said, Miss Dakota," Logan said, pushing away from the door. "That epithet hardly seems tired when spoken in your particularly passionate accents." He looked over his shoulder at the balding little gentleman behind him. "It's all right. You can stop wringing your hands. The situation is under control." He pushed the door shut with a flick of his wrist. "Wouldn't you say that's true, Donovan?"

Michael's hands dropped to his side as Katy took another step backward and put herself out of his easy reach. "Marshall," he said brusquely. "What are you doing here?"

Katy nervously smoothed her dressing gown. "How do you know each other?" she asked. For all the attention either man paid her, she may as well have not spoken.

"I came back to see Miss Dakota, of course," answered Logan. "I'm a great admirer of her acting." He did not spare Katy a glance, but he felt her discomfort as if it were a tangible thing. It was a heady, powerful feeling. He thought he could get used to having her under his thumb. He thought he could come to like it very, very much. "If you do not want your privacy invaded, Michael, you should make certain your lady friend is willing. I could hear her from out in the hallway telling you to leave. That poor little man was beside himself for having let you in. I could not bear to see him suffer any longer."

So Logan had not come to her rescue, Katy thought. He had only wanted to assist Mr. Grant. His motives shouldn't have surprised her; he had every reason in the world to despise her, and yet she found herself looking over him, remembering, and wishing it could be different.

Michael's weight shifted from one foot to the other. His eyes darted over Logan, judging the man's fitness and strength. If it came to a fight, Michael knew they would be evenly matched. It would be the talk of the clubs for years to come, Michael Donovan and Logan Marshall scrapping over Katy Dakota. It would also reach his wife's ears, and Michael did not want that. Ria had no choice but to accept his affairs with other women, but she asked for, and received, Michael's promise of discretion. He pulled on his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. "Odd, isn't it, that as often as you and I meet, we have never shown the slightest interest in the same woman."

"It's still true," said Logan. "As I said, I merely dropped by to tell Miss Dakota how much I enjoyed her performance. That said, I will take my leave. Perhaps you would join me for a drink at Georgia's?"

Michael cast a brief look in Katy's direction. She was watching him anxiously, afraid he wouldn't take Logan's offer. He hesitated, letting her worry a moment longer. "Of course I'll join you. I would like to hear how things are over at the
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. My father and I think you should put some stock on the market." He turned to Katy. "Another time then, Miss Dakota. I will be sure to mention to Father that I saw you this evening." He turned on his heel and left, waiting just outside the door for Logan.

"My congratulations again," said Logan. His voice was soft, dangerously soft, and his eyes were as frigid as arctic air. "I would not be at all surprised if I decide to see Manners a few more times. It was an enlightening experience." His smile was chilly. He took Katy's hand in his and raised it to his lips. "Your hand is quite cold, but then I suppose you are the exception to the rule."

Her voice sounded odd to her, forced as it was past the aching lump in her throat. "What rule?"

"Why, the one that says cold hands, warm heart." Logan Marshall dropped her hand and walked away.

Once the footsteps had faded in the hallway, Katy sank slowly onto her vanity stool. She stared sightlessly in the mirror. In her mind's eye she saw Logan, the cruelty in his gray eyes, the rigid thrust of his jaw, the taut length of him that tailored evening clothes emphasized rather than hid. The veneer of civility was thin indeed.

The lines that life experience had cut in his face were a bit deeper now, but his features were remarkably the same. He would never be handsome in the mold of Michael Donovan. Logan's features were not cast for perfection. His beauty was ruggedly sculpted; his body was whipcord lean and hard-edged. Logan Marshall had grown into himself. And when he looked at her with those winter gray eyes of his, Katy knew a terrible emptiness in her soul. The only thing she had to fill it was fear.

The gentle tapping at her door interrupted the tenor of Katy's thoughts. This time it was not unwelcome. "What is it, Mr. Grant?"

"Mr. Donovan's here to see you," he called through the door.

"Show him out!" What was Michael doing back already? She could not have been woolgathering that long. "I don't want to be disturbed." Katy sighed heavily as the door opened anyway. Obviously Michael was right, she thought unhappily. She was puffed with her own consequence, expecting people to heed her wishes just as if she mattered. "What do you wa—"

The head that poked through the door this time was neither Michael's nor Mr. Grant's. It was a graying head, thick and lustrous with no signs of thinning. Iron gray sideburns framed lean cheeks. A mustache, blackened with Mr. Church's Blacking Powder, curled stiffly above a cautious, tentative smile. The eyes were sky blue, warm and friendly. The dear face belonged to Victor Donovan, father to the man Katy had come to loathe.

"Victor!" Katy stood and held out her hands, welcoming him into her room.

"Oh, good," he said, relieved. "I was afraid I was persona non grata around here. You were absolutely frigid with that little man who guards your door." He took Katy's hands and kissed each in turn.

"I'm glad it didn't stop you. You are the last person I would want to throw out." She withdrew her hands from his light grasp and gestured toward the chaise longue. "Please, make yourself comfortable. I am still trying to remove the last of my makeup. I let Jane go early, and I've had a few interruptions this evening."

"One of them wouldn't have been my son, by any chance?"

Instead of answering directly, she asked, "What makes you think that?"

"Your reaction at the door."

"Oh." Katy leaned toward the mirror and began wiping away eyeliner. She hoped that by becoming self-absorbed Victor would forget his question or realize that she had no intention of answering it. "What brings you here this evening? Surely you did not see the play again."

"I wish I had. It would have been a more entertaining evening. Actually I was at the club. I had an argument with Samuel Dodson over some real estate. You cannot imagine what he wants for that lot on East Fortieth."

Katy's welcoming smile faltered. "Do you never stop working? You're going to run yourself into the ground. Please tell me you are not really thinking of opening another store."

Her concern warmed Victor. "I haven't decided. Donovan's has done well for a long time, but I think there's a need to expand as the city grows. A few stores in accessible locations would give Donovan's a boost into the next century."

"That's thirty years away."

"I like to think ahead. I'll be ninety then, and I will need something to amuse me. Women won't be interested."

She laughed, put down her handkerchief, and swiveled on the stool to face Victor. "You rogue. You will be just as attractive to women in thirty years as you are now. And you know it, so stop fishing for compliments."

Victor's cheeks took on a ruddy hue and his light blue eyes sparkled. "You're good for me, Katy Dakota." He stood, crossed the room to her wardrobe, and began going through her clothes. "And since you are so good for me, the least I can do is feed you. I've been thinking about it all evening. You haven't had supper yet, have you?"

"You know I can't eat before a performance."

"Are you hungry?"

A short time ago the mere thought of food would have sent her running to the washbasin. Now she realized she was famished. "Very. What do you have in mind?" Please don't say Georgia's, she thought.

"Delmonico's."

"I would love it."

Victor held up a red silk and satin gown for her approval.

She hesitated, looking the gown over. The neckline was off the shoulder, dipping low in the front. It was perfectly modest, very much in fashion for evening wear, yet Katy was not entirely comfortable in the creation. Silk ribbons trimmed the bodice and the red lace shawl and overskirt. It came from Donovan's couturiers, a gift from Victor. Please, he had said, you'll do me such a favor by accepting it. "I don't know, Victor. It's a beautiful gown, but it's so... so—"

"Red?"

She nodded. "I would rather just wear it for you... when we're alone." Though he tried to hide it, Katy saw his disappointment, and she didn't want to hurt his feelings. "It's all right. Of course I'll wear it." After tonight there would be a dozen orders for copies of the gown at the department store. This was the first occasion she minded being a living, breathing mannequin for V.I. Donovan's. She did not think it was Victor's intention to use her that way, so she didn't accuse him. Had it been Michael, she would not have hesitated. "Find my white kid gloves, will you? I think they're in that drawer over there. Oh, and the silk and ivory fan, too. It won't take me long to do my hair. I suppose I shouldn't have let Jane go."

"I'm certain you will do fine." Victor came up behind Katy and touched the back of her neck, fingering the soft tendrils of hair that had escaped the pins. "My Annie had hair like this," he said. "Thick as thatch but each strand as fine as silk. She complained that it wouldn't take to styling. Her maid rolled it in rags, heated it with irons, crimped it. Nothing held." His hand dropped away, and he laughed self-consciously. "God, but Annie had beautiful hair." He took a step backward, avoiding Katy's eyes in the mirror. "I'll wait for you in the hall."

"You don't have to."

"No, it's better if I do."

Katy watched him go. Her heart felt heavy with a strange sensation of foreboding. Victor's touch had been—there was no other word for it—sensual. He had been talking about his wife, dead longer than Katy had been alive, and touching her as he might have touched Annie. Katy worried her lower lip between her teeth and brushed out her hair with hard, punishing strokes. Please, she thought, closing her eyes. Please God, do not let it be like that with Victor.

By the time she and Victor walked into Delmonico's, Katy had pushed all her troubling thoughts to the background of her mind. He had been attentive during the cab ride over, amusing, pleasant, and above all, avuncular. Katy's mood was relaxed, although a trifle reserved, as she let Victor escort her into the restaurant. Delmonico's was crowded, but even without a reservation, Victor was able to ask for, and get, his usual table. In a bastion of wealth and notoriety such as Delmonico's, there were the elite and then there were the sacred. Heads turned as they were led to their table. Katy assumed it was because of Victor. Victor knew better.