Tycoon (2 page)

“Please, call me Clara,” she said with a grin. At least he was smart. Most men her age would've been glazed over by now, heads spinning from her inane prattle. “And I'll try. But I won't help you unless you agree not to ask questions about what happened on the platform.”

“You already agreed to help me.”

“I'll take it back, unless you promise not to ask me questions.”

He held up his hands. “Fine. No questions.” He relaxed into the chair. “Would you mind very much if I attended to some work before dinner?”

“No, not at all.”

He found his satchel and opened the flap. From his inner jacket pocket, he withdrew a pair of eyeglasses and slipped them on his face. She liked the way he looked in the frames. Intelligent. Serious. And they gave her the strangest desire to smooth his rumpled hair while he lectured her on . . . fossils or science whatnot.

Perhaps she could teach him how to kiss better. Two beaus had complimented Clara on her skills in that area. The poor man must not get much practice. “I'm sorry I kissed you on the platform. Maybe—”

“You should get comfortable,” Ted told her, not meeting her eyes. “After all, this is your car, too.”

Sensible and considerate as well. The last man who'd courted her hadn't even held an umbrella over her in a downpour. Not that Mr. Harper was courting her, but she could tell he was a good man. She unpinned her hat, set it next to her, and then stood up to remove her coat. She walked over to hang the garment on the wall hook.

When she returned to her seat, Mr. Harper was going over a stack of paper, pen in hand. He made the occasional note as he flipped the pages. With that amount of work and his less-than-fashionable clothing, he did not strike her as a wealthy bon vivant or captain of industry. Certainly not someone who could afford to lease a private rail car. His company must have paid for his accommodations, she guessed.

After a stretch, her curiosity got the better of her. “Are you a salesman of some kind?”

For some reason, this seemed to amuse him, though he kept the focus on his work. “Yes, something like that.”

“I said you may call me Clara, but you never told me your name.”

“Ted. You may use that name as well. There's no need to be formal when it's just the two of us.”

Ted Harper. She liked that name. He looked like a Ted. Hardworking, industrious. A man who said what he meant and meant what he said.

At Hoyt's, she could usually tell what a customer would buy just from their name. Someone with a common, practical name, like John or Mary, tended to purchase perfume without even smelling the bottle. Then there were the odd names, like Orpha or Erline, who tested every perfume until landing on the precise one.

But those with formidable, smart names would stop, describe the person for whom they were buying the perfume, and ask Clara's opinion on the scent. She liked those people best of all.

“Have you ever bought perfume?” she asked Ted casually.

His head snapped up, and he pierced her with a confused stare. “Good God, no. Why?”

“No reason. Just wondering is all.”

“Is there any chance you could stop wondering? About anything? Or at least refrain from wondering aloud?”

Her hands went up in apology. He must be concentrating very hard on his work. Clara didn't want to distract or irritate him, since he'd been so charitable. “I will try not to interrupt.”

“Why don't you freshen up for dinner? We'll head to the dining saloon as soon as they attach it in Poughkeepsie.”

She turned toward the window instead, content to watch New York, as well as her troubles, disappear.

Chapter Two

Remarkable. The woman had not a change of clothing, nothing to do, no personal effects of any kind. Not a penny to her name and someone chasing her about New York City. And not once had she broken down in tears or even complained.

Damned impressive, Ted thought. He'd never had a sham wife before, but he was grateful this one wasn't of the hysterical variety.

Perhaps she truly was a swindler. Hard to believe she'd approached him on the platform by chance. He was a man who dealt in numbers, in facts. Had since he was a boy. So odds were she had not plucked him out of the crowd at random.

That hardly mattered. As long as she played her part tonight, he didn't care about her intentions. Many had tried to cheat Theodore Harper over the years and each one had failed.

As they entered the dining saloon, he couldn't help but notice how her patterned brown dress hugged her slim curves. The long, graceful arms and small waist, with hips that rocked back and forth, mesmerizing him.
Do not think about her hips.
Not when they had to sleep in the same enclosed space—alone—for two nights.

He'd tried his damnedest to ignore her the hour before dinner and failed. Neglecting her proved impossible. Between her loud red hair and even louder personality, she caught his attention . . . even when she remained silent.

Along the length of the dining car, bench seats faced one another, tables between them. Waiters dressed in black suits hurried by with trays of drinks and plates of food. Ted and Clara were shown to where the Webbers, their dinner companions, had already been seated.

Erik Webber rose as they approached. “Good evening, Mr. Harper. I didn't realize you would have a guest with you.”

Ted shook his hand. “Yes, I've brought my fiancée, Miss Dobson.” They had decided to introduce Clara as his betrothed, which explained their traveling together. Easier than presenting a wife, since any marriage of his would be in every newspaper in the country . . . not that he told Clara as much.

“Miss Dobson,” Webber said in his heavy German accent, and shook her hand. “It is very nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, Mr. Webber.” Clara slid onto the plush seat and moved toward the window. As Ted sat next to her, she stuck out her hand to the woman opposite. “Mrs. Webber, it is a pleasure.”

Webber's wife visibly recoiled, her bony face awash in horror. After a nudge from her husband, she placed two gloved fingers into Clara's grasp. “Miss Dobson.”

Undeterred, Clara sat back. “I am famished. Mr. Harper told me to order as much food as I wanted, but I told him that we women can't just eat like men do. Isn't that right, Mrs. Webber?”

Mrs. Webber blinked at Clara's rapid-fire pace. Ted could relate, as his initial reaction to her had been much the same.

A waiter appeared, saving the need for further conversation. They requested drinks, lagers for the men and champagne for the ladies.

“We had not heard of your engagement,” Mrs. Webber said to Ted.

“It was rather sudden. Haven't even had time to purchase a ring yet. Luckily, she still said yes.” Chuckling, he reached over and clasped Clara's gloved hand. As soon as he touched her, he realized his mistake. Even through cloth, awareness sizzled through him. All the energy she held in abundance transferred to his body and hummed just under his skin.

The shock of his reaction to such a chaste touch rendered him useless for a long moment. What would it be like to feel her bare skin? Likely he'd incinerate on the spot.

Thankfully, drinks arrived and he quickly withdrew his hand. Cleared his throat. Tried to calm his heart, the organ beating as swiftly as when he'd first touched Jenny Turner's breasts in her father's barn all those years ago. He was too old and sensible to feel this way over a woman.
Get a hold of yourself, Harper.

Sensing his discomfort, Clara took over. “Yes, it was quite sudden. I fear I swept poor Mr. Harper off his feet, not the other way around.” Her smile, wide and beguiling, did not help his racing pulse. “He's forever telling me,” she continued, “that I am like a locomotive, barreling my way through life. How did you and Mr. Webber meet?”

So it began. Clara did not stop talking or peppering Mrs. Webber with questions during two rounds of drinks and dinner. Ted listened with half an ear, the other half focused on convincing Erik to let New American Bank finance Webber Brewing Company's upcoming expansion. Four banks were vying for the honor, and a lot of money stood to be made.

“Now, Harper,” Webber said through a mouthful of steak, “I've already told your people no. I won't give you my business.”

“Why?”

This was from Clara, who had now turned her attention to Ted and Erik's conversation. Ted gave her a pointed look that went completely ignored since she was only watching Webber.

The brewer wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You want to know the reasons I can't work with him?”

“Yes, I would.” She indicated Mrs. Webber. “From both of you, actually.”

“Now, I don't think—” Ted started until Clara placed a hand on his arm.

“Darling, let them speak. I would rather hear it for myself.”

Ted ground his teeth. Hadn't he told her to keep Mrs. Webber occupied so the men could do business? Damn her for interfering.

“That is the problem,” Mrs. Webber said, her Bavarian voice laced with satisfaction. “He does not want to hear what we have to say. Not from a woman. Everyone only wants to talk to my husband, man-to-man. Do you know, Miss Dobson, who started our brewery?”

Clara shook her head, and Mrs. Webber answered, “My father. The business was renamed when we came to America, but brewing beer has been in my family for generations. I was raised with the smell of grain and hops on my hands.”

The older woman's chin lifted proudly. “The business is as much mine as my husband's, if not more so. But your Mr. Harper and his people never address me. Never ask the questions of me. Never even consider my input. I will not go into business with a man so inconsiderate in his thinking.”

Erik turned a dull red and Ted's jaw hung open. He'd never dreamed. Of course, he also hadn't asked. How had his research been so completely inadequate? Ted would be cabling his team at the bank tomorrow to share his displeasure.

“That is terrible,” Clara agreed. “Though I refuse to believe Mr. Harper meant you any disrespect.”

Mrs. Webber's brow flew up, one step shy of a sneer. “Is that so? And what makes you so certain, Miss Dobson?”

“Mr. Harper has no objections to women in business. In fact, that's how he and I met.”

Panic, rich and thick, flooded Ted's veins, rising to strangle his tongue. He'd faced down presidents, congressmen, thugs, Tammany Hall . . . but one slip of a woman completely flummoxed him. What in God's name did she plan to say next?

“Miss Dobson,” he managed before she rolled right over him.

“I work at the perfume counter at Hoyt's. Men, as you may imagine, buy a considerable amount of perfume. And some of them won't talk to the girls at the counter. I don't know whether it's embarrassment or resentment of our being employed, but Mr. Ross—he's the manager—hangs about just in case the men want to discuss women's perfume without a female present.” She snorted. “Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous?”

Hell's bells, where was this story headed? At least Mrs. Webber seemed to be following the story with rapt interest, while Erik appeared as confused as Ted.

“Absurd,” Mrs. Webber agreed.

“Entirely absurd!” Clara said. “Well, one day, Mr. Harper walks up to the perfume counter. There was a birthday—your secretary, wasn't it, dear?—and anyway, the manager—”

“Mr. Ross,” Mrs. Webber supplied.

“Exactly, Mr. Ross. He walks over just as I've helped Mr. Harper choose the perfect scent—Amber Rose, in case you were wondering—and tries to steal my sale. He asks to show Ted some other perfumes—more expensive ones, no doubt—and leads him away.”

“And what happened?” the brewer's wife asked anxiously.

“Mr. Harper stopped and said, ‘While I appreciate your offer of assistance, this young lady has been very helpful. I daresay she knows more about perfume than any person in the store, and I'd like her to receive the credit for my sale.' Can you imagine? I nearly swooned.”

Clara reached over and patted his shoulder. “He's a very kind and considerate man, Mrs. Webber. But even the most kind and considerate of men need a kick in the behind some days. Now, Mr. Harper, shall we switch seats?”

* * *

Clara stifled a yawn as they bid good night to the Webbers.

They were lovely people, truth be told. Hardworking. Sturdy stock, as her father would've said. And she'd enjoyed the evening, truly, but there was only so much a girl could listen to regarding the inner workings of a brewery.

As they returned to Ted's private car—she now knew he worked for a large bank and must be very important there—he kept a tight clasp on her arm. Was he annoyed with her? Possibly she'd gone too far with her story tonight, but obviously he should have been dealing with Mrs. Webber all along.

She hadn't heard what the two had decided before they broke from dinner. At least Mrs. Webber's farewell had been much warmer than her welcome. Had Ted been successful?

Her senses had been attuned to him all evening, causing a heady, distracting buzz through her limbs. Brushes of their shoulders. Bumping of knees. When he'd grabbed her hand, a tingle had raced along her spine straight down to the toes of her high boots. The reaction disconcerted her. She was supposed to be helping him, not developing an infatuation.

At the end of the car, before they crossed into the enclosed vestibule, Ted stopped to speak quietly to one of the porters. Clara yawned, nearly weaving on her feet with weariness. Mercy, this had been a long, exhausting day.

“Come along, Miss Dobson,” Ted said tersely and led her into the car.

Her stomach sank. He must have failed. Once again, Clara's runaway tongue had caused trouble. How many times had her mother warned her to remain quiet?

The door closed behind them, leaving her alone with Ted, who immediately dropped her arm and strode into the small sitting room area. Oh.
Well.
That certainly told her everything she needed to know.

Clara followed, stripping off her gloves. “Ted, I am so very—”

He moved swiftly and before she knew what was happening, he wrapped his arms around her. He was . . . hugging her. So forcibly that her face was smashed into his necktie and she struggled to breathe. Wriggling, she turned to the side and slid her arms around his waist. No fragrance of any kind, just a clean, manly smell. Wool. Soap. The ale from dinner.

Without thinking, she shifted her hips in closer, aligning their bodies. He felt . . . nice.
Very
nice. Hard and warm and real. Like when you stood on the deck of a ship in a storm and grabbed on to a thick support column to keep from being washed overboard. Relief. That's what he felt like to her. An overwhelming sense of well-being.

She realized his hand was . . . stroking her back. A gentle glide he was likely unaware of, but she was
very
aware of the movement. All her attention centered on that one spot, the leisurely sweep of his palm, and she relaxed, her limbs growing heavy. A sigh escaped her lips.

He drew back suddenly, stepping away and avoiding her eyes. “I apologize. I just . . .” A large hand dragged through his short hair. He straightened and gave her a broad smile. “You were extraordinary tonight, Clara. Just marvelous. I never would have guessed.”

Happiness rushed through her veins, so much so that she bounced on her toes. “Truly? You're happy? I was worried I'd mucked it up for you.”

“No, clever girl. You just raised my bank's profits 3½ percent over the next four years.”

The numbers didn't make sense to her, but she understood raising profits. “Oh, that's fantastic, Ted.” She dropped onto the sofa and unpinned her hat. “Does this mean your employer will give you a raise?”

He stared at her as if she had food stuck between her teeth. Snapping her lips shut, she ran her tongue along the front of each tooth but didn't notice anything wedged there. So what had she said?

He tossed his derby onto the tea table. “Yes, something like that.”

A knock sounded and Ted went to the door. Clara rubbed the back of her neck and longed for the moment she could remove her corset. Then her spirits plummeted. Without any nightclothes, she'd have to sleep in her dress and underthings. To strip down to her chemise while sharing the car with Ted was unthinkable. Perhaps she could take the corset off and then put her outer clothing back on, just for sleeping. Hopping aboard a train to escape had been a marvelous idea . . . until one stopped to consider the practicalities. Like nightwear.

And what would Ted wear to bed? A nightshirt? His underclothes? Perhaps he slept naked.... Just the idea heated her face. She patted her cheeks to try and cool down her skin.
Think of his nonexistent kissing skills....

“Why are you slapping yourself?” Ted asked, returning to the room. A waiter followed, carrying a bottle in an ice bucket and two flutes.

“I'm not. What's this?” She gestured to the champagne.

“A celebration.” Ted pressed a bill into the waiter's hand and thanked him. Then he reached for the bottle. “You have no idea how impressed I am with you.”

“I am glad. Feel free to lavish praise on me at length.”

He chuckled as he removed the cork. “I plan to do precisely that. You've earned it tonight.” After filling two glasses, he sat next to her on the sofa and held one out. “Here you are. Let's toast. To a productive evening, thanks to a very intelligent woman I had the good fortune to meet today.”