Tycoon (5 page)

He strode to where his satchel rested and began gathering up his things. Disappointment weighted down his chest as he shoved ledgers and stacks of paper inside. He'd wanted to be wrong about her. He'd wanted . . . Well, never mind what he wanted.

He tucked the satchel under his arm and faced her. “We pull into St. Louis in the morning. Until then, I have a mountain of work to get through. I'll go to the smoking salon and leave you the car.”

She jerked as if struck, and he hardened himself to the hurt he saw flash over her face. “You're leaving?”

“Yes, but don't worry. You can stay here until we pull into the station.”

“That's ridiculous. You can't leave. That man is somewhere on the train. Not to mention this is your car—well, your employer's car, anyway.”

He didn't bother correcting her. It was clear she'd known his identity all along, targeting him on the platform. “I think it's for the best, Clara. I'll have a porter come for my things in the morning.” With a decisive nod, he headed for the door.

“Wait!” The rustle of skirts caught his attention a second before her small hand clutched his arm. “Ted, wait.”

“Clara, I don't—”

“I saw my boss murdered.”

She'd blurted the statement out and he needed a second to process the meaning. “You saw someone murdered?”

Lips pressed tightly, she dipped her chin. “Yes. Mr. Ross, my manager.”

He exhaled and debated hearing her out. There was a slim chance she told the truth, and he supposed his pile of work could withstand fifteen more minutes.

“I think we'd better sit down.” He led her across the floor to the sofa, where they both lowered to the cushions. “I want the story from the beginning.”

She took a deep breath. “I've been holding back, not telling you the truth, because this could be very dangerous for you. We hardly know one another, and I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you because of me.”

“You let me worry about that, all right? Just tell me what happened.”

“But what if—”

“Out with it, Clara.”

Folding her hands in her lap, she closed her eyes briefly. “A delivery arrived at the counter for Mr. Ross. It was the end of my shift, so I volunteered to take it upstairs to his office. I went up the three flights, got my coat, and knocked on his door. Told him a package had been delivered for him. That's when I heard noises, like a whimper and then a thud. I thought he'd fallen or hurt himself, so I peeked inside. There was a man there, crouched over Mr. Ross. His hands were wrapped around Mr. Ross's neck and Mr. Ross's face had turned blue. He couldn't breathe.”

“Did he see you?” he asked when she paused.

“Not at first. But another man was there, a policeman. He was leaning against the wall, watching, you know? I must have made a noise because they both saw me. Then the guy told the policeman to get me. That's when I ran.”

“Isn't Hoyt's in Union Square? Are you saying you ran all the way to Grand Central?”

“No. I caught a passing streetcar and thought I was safe. But after riding a few blocks I noticed a police wagon following us. The policeman from Mr. Ross's office sat in front with two other men.”

“Crooked nose?”

“Yes, he was one of them.”

“Was he wearing a blue uniform then?”

“No, come to think of it. He was dressed in regular clothes, like you. But why would he be in the police wagon if he wasn't a policeman?”

Ted had no idea. Not much of this story made sense, but he could tell she believed what she was saying. The question became, did
he
believe her? Police in New York were notoriously corrupt. Hell, they pretty much wrote the rule book on taking bribes. But chase a woman half across the country because she saw her manager getting roughed up? Doubtful.

“You don't believe me, do you?” Clara studied him, her shrewd emerald gaze reading him perfectly.

He held up his palms. “I want to believe you, but the story does sound a bit dramatic.”

“Why would I make it up?”

“Money, I assume.”

“Money? From whom?” Recognition dawned and her mouth flattened into an unhappy line. “That's ludicrous—and insulting.” She slammed into the back of the couch and crossed her arms. “Why on earth would I lie to you for money?”

He couldn't tell her the truth, that many had attempted it over the years. Motives changed once people learned his name and position. Blackmail, extortion, mothers throwing their daughters at him . . . he'd seen everything. Corruption blackened the hearts of even the most venerable when money became involved—himself included.

Indeed, he waded in those same waters so often, he recognized the stink. Take the small group of prominent and influential businessmen he'd joined. Four men, each a wealthy titan in his field: Calvin Cabot, the publisher of three popular newspapers; Emmett Cavanaugh, owner of East Coast Steel; and Will Sloane, owner of the Northeast Railroad Company. They met once a month at the Knickerbocker Club in the city to further their interests and help each other when possible. As a result, Ted had fixed stock prices, helped run companies out of business, provided low-rate loans, and dozens more questionable acts.

His gaze locked on Clara's indignant expression. “Because that is what swindlers do.”

Chapter Five

“S-swindler?” she sputtered. “You think I'm a swindler? Why? Because I am some poor perfume counter girl?” Anger and disappointment bloomed in her chest, heat spreading to quickly replace the embarrassment as her spine straightened. “Because I don't have fancy clothes or come from a fancy family, I must be out to steal your money?”

“Well, you wouldn't be the first woman who's tried over the years.”

She rose and stepped away, needing distance. As if she gave two bits about any of the other women in his past. They were not
her
. And after all the time they'd spent together, didn't he know that?

“So women are all the same? Money-grubbing schemers? I know I don't have much, but I've earned everything myself. No one pays my rent for me or—” She gasped, hand flying to cover her mouth. Shame and outrage roared through her blood. “The clothes. Oh, I can't possibly accept them. You have to take it all back.”

He held up his palms. “Now wait. I wanted you to have those things—”

“No. Absolutely not. I don't want them. I don't want anything from a man who thinks so little of me.” The outfit she wore, the blue skirt and shirtwaist, hung like a leaden weight on her frame. She raised her chin and started for the bed, where she'd left her dress. “In fact, I'd rather change into my old things.”

A hand snatched her arm, spinning her. “Please, don't. And you're wrong, I don't think little of you,” he said quietly. “Quite the contrary. I think you're the most fascinating, unique woman I've ever met.”

Some of the anger left her, a strange tingling sensation taking its place. “You do?”

“Yes.” The back of one knuckle slid over the edge of her jaw. “I most definitely do.” His gaze held an unflinching intensity, one that turned her inside out. Rough fingertips swept over the shell of her ear, and her lids fell closed, a shiver working its way to her toes.

A steady thrum began beating in every part of her body, especially between her legs. No man had ever touched her so intimately. Dizziness swamped her, and she had the strongest urge to kiss him again. To pursue this strange sensation, find out if he felt it, too.

Perhaps she could show him how to properly kiss this time.

His blue eyes burned and neither of them moved as the moment stretched on. The slight rocking of the train brought their bodies even closer—so close she could see the long, thick lashes surrounding his eyes. He was quietly handsome, with strong features and neatly styled brown hair. A knot coiled in her belly, low and tight and she licked her lips, wetting them.

Time ground to a halt. He swallowed, the muscles in his throat shifting, and want and longing flooded her, a rush unlike anything she'd experienced. Though he might not know her, Clara felt
she
knew
him
. He seemed a good man, one that aided a woman when he easily could have refused. He'd generously arranged new clothes for her, exhibiting impeccable taste in the process. He smelled divine, and now he gazed down at her as if no other woman existed.

So why wasn't he kissing her? Was he shy?

At that moment, the train lurched and jarred them apart. He reached out to steady her with a solicitous, impersonal hand under her elbow.

When they balanced, he dropped her arm and took several steps away. “So will you keep the clothing?”

A question. He'd asked her a question. With a small shake of her head, she said, “No. Yes. Maybe.”

He laughed, a deep, rich sound. “Well, that's certainly a clear answer. Please keep the clothing. I want you to remember me when you wear it.”

A sobering ache echoed in her chest.
Wake up, Clara,
she told herself.
Did you think this was forever? You're getting off the train in the morning and you'll never see Ted Harper again.

He waited for her response, appearing strangely vulnerable, and she couldn't fight the urge to reassure him. “Fine, I'll keep the clothing. And thank you. Does this mean you believe me?”

“About what happened in New York?”

“Yes, and that I'm not out to bilk you out of your hard-earned paycheck.”

His hand stroked his jaw a moment. “I believe you. The tale may be a considerable amount of crazy, but somehow I don't think you are lying. Nevertheless, since I couldn't find the policeman, we should get ready to disembark at the next station.”

She gaped at him. “We cannot
leave
. Did you not hear me say he's a policeman? And that my boss was
murdered?
We must remain in this car until St. Louis.”

He shook his head, the stubborn man. “No, that's unnecessary. We'll stop for a bit in Cleveland to switch engines. I have telegrams to send and I planned to have a bath.”

Her face must have changed on the last word, because he cocked his head at her. “Would you care for a bath, Clara?”

Heavens, she'd like nothing more. “I shouldn't. I'm already indebted to you, for both your hospitality and these clothes—”

“Don't be absurd. I am happy to give you the money, or consider it a loan. You'll have to be quick, though, because the stop is only thirty minutes. I've cabled ahead to the brand-new hotel right next to the station that has indoor plumbing. They'll be ready with one room. If they can't provide another, you can take the one.”

The man searching for her on the train, by the looks of him, did not find bathing a priority. Clara guessed her pursuer, if still aboard the train, would remain so, checking every nook and cranny for her during the stop. He'd never bother with a hotel, would he?

“What do you say?” Ted prompted. “I'll walk you there and fetch you when I'm through. You'll never be alone. Except when you're bathing, of course.” The tips of his ears flushed, and she smiled. Shy, most definitely.

In the end, the temptation of the bath proved irresistible. “Thank you. I would like that.”

“Excellent. Pack some things and we'll go.”

* * *

Though the hotel wasn't fancy, Clara thoroughly enjoyed the bathing facilities. Ted rented them each rooms with private baths, as did several other passengers from their train. She wasted no time, quickly stripping out of her clothes and sinking in. While part of her wanted to relish the luxury, the practical side of her did not want to miss the train, so she quickly washed and redressed.

Ted had decided to send his telegrams first, before he bathed, so Clara wandered downstairs to the lobby of the hotel. She could wait on him here.

The large pot-bellied stove warmed the space and she lowered into a nearby chair. Stuffed animal heads adorned the walls, their lifeless eyes glazed and bright, making her shiver. She liked animals, but not enough to stare at dead ones.

“You best not miss the train, young lady,” the attendant behind the desk called out. “They'll be leaving in a few moments.”

“Oh.” She glanced at the clock and saw the attendant was correct. She stood. “Thank you. Have you seen the gentleman I came in with?”

The man thrust the pencil in his hand behind his ear and leaned both arms on the desk. “Mr. Harper went over to the telegraph office. I'm sure you can find him there.”

Ted must have decided to bathe first, then send his telegrams. “Excellent. Thank you for your help.”

“No problem. That's what I'm here for. Hope to see you next time you pass through Cleveland.”

She waved and stepped outside. The late-morning sun burned bright despite the frigid temperature. They were not far from the lake, and the bitter wind swept clear through her. Why hadn't she thought to wear her coat? Clara shielded her eyes with the flat of her hand and checked the sidewalk for corrupt policemen. Not seeing one, she picked her way to the telegraph office inside the station.

She entered, ready to find Ted, and encountered a familiar dark head not ten feet away. The man's gaze narrowed on her, flaring with satisfaction. Oh, no. Not
him
. Clara instantly spun toward the door, her muscles primed to flee as she raced back out onto the walk. She lifted her skirts and broke into a full run, knowing without checking the man was fast on her heels. Unfortunately, she didn't know Cleveland and had no idea where to go, other than back to the hotel. Maybe the man at the desk would help her . . . provided she made it in time.

Legs churning, she closed in on the hotel. She could hear the policeman's feet behind her, the slap of his leather boots growing louder each second. The hotel was still too far, almost twenty feet. No way would she outrun him, not with skirts, petticoats, and drawers on. Not to mention the corset did not allow her enough breath.

“Come back here, little girl,” she heard the policeman call out, but she ignored him and kept running as fast as she possibly could. When she approached the hotel entrance, an idea occurred. She ran straight, as if going past the building, but at the last minute she swerved to duck inside, hoping to lose him long enough to find help. Unfortunately, her left boot heel caught on an uneven cobblestone and threw her off balance. Horrified, she went down, right to the ground, and she threw her palms out to catch herself. Her leg twisted, ankle going askew in an ungodly direction.

Hell's handmaiden, that
hurt
.

“Clara!”

Ted's voice came from inside the hotel, but soon his worn brown boots filled her watery vision. He knelt, his brow furrowed. “I saw you fall from inside the hotel. What happened?”

He helped her to her feet, and Clara took a moment to see if the policeman had disappeared. A quick check in both directions confirmed it. He must've seen Ted and then vanished into the crowd.

“I went looking for you,” she told Ted.

“What? Why? I told you I would meet you in the hotel.”

She tried to take a step and almost went down as her ankle protested. Just then the train whistle blew, a shrill, piercing noise that signaled their departure. Without waiting, Ted put an arm under her knees, lifted her up off her feet, and strode for the train. Clara was too shaken to protest, and her ankle throbbed. She wrapped her arms around Ted's neck and put her head on his shoulder.

Why was that man after her? Like Ted had said earlier, the entire story was considerably crazy . . . yet it was all too real.

Exhaustion overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes and tried not to worry. Ted would keep her safe for now.

Tomorrow, when she disembarked in St. Louis, was another matter.

* * *

Ted's jaw was clenched so hard that the back of his neck ached. He clutched her tightly and hurried to the train. Why in God's name had Clara been out, alone, when he'd told her to wait in the hotel? Just as he'd approached the desk to ask if the attendant had seen her, she appeared, taking a nasty tumble to the sidewalk.

Her surprise in seeing Ted had been genuine. Relief had filled her teary gaze as she looked up at him, and Ted's heart had stuttered. So what had caused her fall?

Perhaps the crooked-nosed man was real. Insane as it sounded, he did believe her. Clara might be the world's greatest actress, but Ted didn't think so. She wore her emotions on her face plain as day. He detected no artifice in her, not since finally telling him her story.

And not when she'd silently begged him to kiss her.

Earlier, when he'd accidentally grabbed her arm to apologize, the reaction had been instant: a humming sizzle rushed over his skin. She must've felt it, too, if her come-hither glance had been any indication. Yet he'd held back.

She was so young. Innocent. She deserved a man her age, one who had the time to take her walking in Central Park and riding on her velocipede. Not one who preferred numbers and stocks, spending hours alone in his office. One who wasn't tainted by years of mistrust and suspicion.

Yet part of him yearned to be that man, to be worthy of her.

The porter's jaw fell when he saw them. “Mr. Harper, is everything all right? Do you need—”

Ted climbed the steps and said over his shoulder, “Bring ice and bandages, please. As fast as you can.” He continued through the vestibule into the private car, and the porter raced ahead to open the door for him.

“Be right back, sir,” the porter said and hurried back into the train.

Ted carried Clara to the sleeping area where he carefully placed her on the bed, propping her up on the pillows. “I'm fine,” she said, though her hands were shaking. “There's no need to make a fuss.”

“Relax, Clara. Let me see what you've done.”

First he checked her palms. Her gloves had borne the brunt of the fall, the fabric torn, and though her palms were scraped, they weren't bleeding. They would be sore but should heal quickly. Next, he shifted toward her legs. “I need to lift your skirts to inspect your ankle.”

“That's not necessary,” she said quickly. “I'm certain it's fine.”

He sighed. “You have my word I won't ravish you, but allow me to see the extent of your injuries.”

She nodded once and he gathered her skirts in his fingers, lifting them past her high boots to her shins. He tried not to stare at her shapely calves and delicate feet, but there was no hope for it. His brain had been longing for an intimate glimpse of her for almost two days. Christ, what a rogue he was, ogling her while she was injured.

He loosened the laces then removed both her shoes. “Your left ankle, correct?”

“Yes.” She rubbed her palms over her arms as if cold, and he suspected it was a reaction to the encounter.

“Wait here.” He hurried to the bottles in the next room and poured her a healthy glass of brandy. Her green eyes watched him warily as he returned. “Here, drink this.”