Chapter Eighteen

 

Win had felt sort of foolish, showing up at the Congress before eight in the morning, uninvited. He’s put on a fair show of nonchalance, but couldn’t conceal his joy when George Richmond greeted him as if he had every right to be barging in on his breakfast. Good old George. He was as thickheaded as he was thick-waisted, and Win blessed him for it.

The truth of the matter was that he couldn’t settle down to anything at all until he’d seen Belle and assured himself that she was in reality—well—real. That she wasn’t just a figment of his artistic imagination. He knew he tended to be fanciful sometimes, but surely he couldn’t have fancied that wild romp on his chaise longue last night.

When he walked into the restaurant and saw her, he knew his sanity remained intact. She seemed momentarily startled by his unexpected appearance, and that moment of uncertainty was all Win needed to assure himself that all was well in his universe. She’d agreed to go into business with him, too, so his continued acquaintance with her was a settled thing. Or it would be as soon as she signed a legal document binding her to him for the duration of their partnership.

The notion of a legally binding contract had occurred to him sometime during his unsettled night. He hadn’t been able to sleep for thinking about Belle and how to keep her. Oh, he knew he should marry her, and he’d ask her, but what if she surprised him and refused? One of the things he cherished about her was her unexpectedness. She might get some sort of southern-gentlewoman’s notion in her pretty head that her family would cut her off if she married a Yankee.

When that notion occurred to him, Win’s heart had very nearly stopped beating. He couldn’t allow something like that to happen. He couldn’t allow her to escape. He couldn’t let her go. No way. Not now that he—ah—had found out how photogenic she was.

Ever since the realization that he loved her had smitten him, he’d tried to drive it away. Love was ephemeral. Business was a solid fact. Love was chancy. Business was firm. Business was admirable, firm, and good. Love was scary as hell.

Besides all that, and her family notwithstanding, Belle was an entrenched southerner. Win couldn’t imagine her agreeing to give up her Georgia roots and live in Chicago with him. She clung like a barnacle to that damned ungrateful family of hers. He feared that even if H.L. May, who had taken the train down to Georgia several days ago, dug up all sorts of bad things about her family, Belle wouldn’t desert them. She was too damned stubborn. Too damned good.

He hated that. One of the reasons he loved her was that she saw things so clearly, even if her conclusions were antithetical to Win. Everything was black and white to his Belle. She harbored none of his anomalous feelings about good and evil. She knew what was what in her life, did his Belle. She never saw a ragged beggar on the street and wondered if his rags were his fault or the fault of an unkind society. She didn’t care; she saw only the beggar in his present state. She knew that her family’s current woes were a direct result of what his northern kin had done to the south thirty-some years ago.

That particular notion was laughable to Win. He freely acknowledged that life was unfair, and that it burdened some folks more harshly than it did others. But Win didn’t cling to life’s unfairness as an excuse for current unpleasantnesses in his own life.

Not Belle. She might be willing to kill a man for trying to hurt someone she esteemed, or even a complete stranger, like Kate Finney, but she was flat blind when it came to her family. She loved them blindly. She excused them blindly. She even allowed them to bully her from afar.

Therefore, he’d decided to visit a lawyer friend after breakfast and have a contract drawn up. He hoped Belle could go with him, but he’d go alone if she had duties with the Richmonds.

After he’d given his order to the waiter, he turned to her. “Say, Belle, are you free any time today?”

She looked alarmed. “No. That is, Mrs. Richmond and I are taking the children to the Exposition, Win.”

“Do you need Belle, Mr. Asher?” Gladys asked politely, although Win thought he detected a hint of avid interest in her eyes.

He held up his hands. “I don’t want to interfere with her duties, Mrs. Richmond. I only wanted to chat with her about our business agreement.”

“Oh?” Belle said, her tone sharp.

“Oh?” Gladys’s voice conveyed only intrigue.

“I thought it would be a good idea to go over a few points, is all,” he said, trying to sound easygoing and casual.

“What points?” Belle demanded.

Win sighed. He’d obviously gone about this wrong. “Nothing significant. But I thought it might be a good idea to get everything down in black and white and sign on it.”

“On paper, you mean?” Belle said.

Win didn’t understand why she seemed to stiffen. “Yes. It’s probably best to have it on paper.”

“Sound notion,” George said, nodding judiciously. “Very sound. Good business practice.”

“I see,” said Belle.

Win didn’t think it was a good sign that she seemed to have gone all frigid. “It’s for your protection more than mine,” he said, feeling desperate and misunderstood.

“I see,” she repeated. She flapped her napkin once to open it and slapped it back down on her lap.

That was a bad sign, too. “Say, Belle, it really is a good idea to sign business agreements in order to make them legally binding in every particular.”

She gave him a smile that froze his blood. “I see. Yes, I think that’s a very good idea. Perhaps we can go over the papers this evening?”

“Right.” Win wished he understood this woman. Every time he thought he had her figured out, she went and smashed his theories all to blazes.

She didn’t speak to him again until they were through with breakfast and all headed out of the hotel to catch a cab to the Exposition. He itched with impatience. He needed to talk to her, to settle things, to find out what the hell was the matter now, to calm her down. To make love to her.

Win passed a hand over his face in frustration and wondered why the poets waxed so euphoric over love. As far as he could tell, love was only a supreme pain in the neck.

# # #

Belle supposed it was as well that she’d discovered now that Win only considered her a business entity. If he hadn’t made his opinion of her perfectly clear this morning, she might have allowed herself to wonder if perhaps he actually cared for her.

Idiot, she shrieked at herself. Fool. Moron. Benighted moonling.

Love-sick woman.

What a ridiculous situation she’d put herself in. Here she’d been happily employed by the Richmonds and enjoying life, and even had a little money to spend on herself now and then, which was a glorious novelty in her life, and she’d thrown it all away because of a man. She’d even given Win Asher her virginity, for all the good her maidenhood had ever done her, only to discover too late that he’d been using the act of love as a means of bending her to his will. She could scarcely believe it of herself. That she, who used to pride herself on her common sense, could have stooped to such folly, was . . . well, it was embarrassing, is what it was.

She’d never allow Win to see her humiliation. Or the Richmonds, either. Rather, she put on a happy expression, took Amalie by the hand, and tried to keep up with the child as she skipped out of the hotel. Keeping up with children was a task performed much more easily when one dispensed with whalebone and stays; Belle was proud of herself that she’d done so. The Richmond party stood under the awning as the liveried footman hailed a cab for them, and Belle tried not to notice Win, which was approximately as easy as not noticing an elephant, should one have been present.

He kept glancing at her and frowning. Belle had no idea what that meant, but she’d die before she asked. “Are you sure you don’t want to take a sweater, Amalie?”

“A sweater?” The little girl goggled up at her. And well she might, since the day promised as hot and humid as the preceding several had been.

Belle sighed and smiled. “Of course not. Whatever was I thinking?”

“I dunno,” said Amalie who, Belle recalled with a twinge of irritation, was a Yankee child if ever there was one. A properly reared southern child would have said something conciliatory rather than agree that an adult had behaved foolishly.

She leaned over to straighten the bow at the neck of Amalie’s sailor-style dress. It was a cunning creation, and Belle almost envied the little girl. When she straightened, she jumped a little when she realized that Win had maneuvered himself to her side. Before she could stop herself, she’d frowned at him. At once, she turned the frown into a wintry smile.

“Say, Belle, we have to talk.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “This evening we shall do so.”

Win cast a glance at the grouping of Richmonds and, finding them involved with each other, hissed under his breath, “What the devil’s wrong with you this morning? Are you mad at me for something?”

The miserable fiend. “Not at all.” Belle’s voice was so icy, she wondered if she needed a sweater.

“The hell you’re not. Is it about last night? Listen, Belle—”

“Don’t you dare talk about that right now!” Belle hissed back, wishing she could stab him with the point of her parasol as she’d tried to stab Kate Finney’s father. “I said I’d talk to you this evening. For heaven’s sake, Win, I have a job to do.”

Win muttered, “Damnation!” and slammed his hands into his pockets, a gesture Belle recognized as one he used when frustrated or angry. But he shut up, which is all that mattered to her at the moment.

Unfortunately, Amalie had observed their tiny contretemps. She would, Belle thought sourly.

“How come you’re mad at Mr. Asher, Miss Monroe?”

Through her teeth, Belle muttered, “I’m not angry with him, dear.” She was pretty sure her icy smile gave the lie to the words.

But Amalie only said, “Oh.” Evidently, even Yankee children drew the line somewhere. Thank God.

Win, squinting at her as if he were trying to figure out what kind of alien planet she belonged to, said, “I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with you, Belle Monroe, but we will talk tonight. I’ve got to get to my booth now. I’ve got a job to do, too.”

Miffed by his tone of voice—a body would think it was her fault he’d abandoned his booth and visited the hotel—Belle ground out, “Yes, I suppose you do.”

“Damn,” he muttered.

She said, “I wish you would stop cursing. I said I’d talk to you this evening. I’ll visit you at your booth.” Dear heaven, she hoped he wouldn’t try anything untoward. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to resist, even as furious as she was with him. And hurt. Oh, she hurt inside. Knowing that she’d been an utter fool hurt a lot.

“Belle . . .”

She scowled at him. “Not now.”

He threw his arms in the air in a gesture of surrender. “For the love of— All right. Tonight.”

And without even saying good-bye to the Richmonds, Win stomped off. Belle felt as if a knife were twisting in her breast.

# # #

What the hell was the matter with the woman? Win worked all day long, thinking about Belle the entire time, and never did figure it out. Thank goodness, he had lots of business or he’d probably have ended up brooding. His lawyer brought the partnership papers by Win’s booth around noontime, so the two men ate lunch together. Win was grateful to have the company for more than one reason.

He was glad to take a break, certainly, but more, he was glad to have the opportunity to talk, however circuitously, about Belle Monroe. His head felt as if it might explode if he didn’t talk about her some way with someone.

“I’d like to meet this Miss Monroe,” Tad Schwartz said, grinning like an elf. Win had never known a more appealing lawyer. He used to think of all lawyers as spawn of the devil, but now he only considered most of them thus. “Her pictures are swell.”

“Thanks,” Win said, contemplating whether to sock Tad in the jaw for his last comment or shake his hand for mentioning her name and complementing his photographs. He decided either gesture would be stupid.

“Is she as lovely in person as she is in the newspaper?”

Win shrugged. “I can’t really say. I met her here at the fair and had an inkling she’d be a good subject, but I didn’t know how photogenic she was.”

“I should say.”

“She’s a nice woman,” Win said, grudging the words even as they slipped out of his mouth.

“Glad to hear it. Most of the time beauty really is only skin deep.”

“She’s got a lot of—” What? What did Belle have a lot of besides southern platitudes and euphemisms for the Civil War? “—heart,” he said at last. “She likes kids, too.”

Tad eyed Win slantwise for a second. “Say, Win, are you sure you don’t want me to draw up another sort of contract?”

Win looked at him blankly. “Huh? I mean, what do you mean, another sort of contract?”

Tad chuckled and forked a bite of polish sausage and sauerkraut into his mouth. After he’d swallowed it, he said, “You sound as if you’re smitten with the lady. How about a marriage contract?”

Win jerked as if Tad had belted him in the stomach. “What? I mean—Jesus, Tad, it’s not that sort of thing.”

Who was he trying to kid? Tad or himself? Hell, Win had never been more confused in his life. But . . . Marriage? Sure, he’d thought about it. A lot. Especially after last night, but . . . Marriage sounded so permanent. So unbreakable. So . . . frightening.

“Damn it, Tad, Belle and I have a business relationship. She and I are worlds apart, and I can’t imagine us ever getting together in the way you mean. Shoot, she’s a die-hard southerner. Her greatest joy in life is refighting the Civil War, only she never calls it that.” His laugh came out sounding strained. “I can’t even count the different names she’s got for it, in fact. No.” He shook his head. “We’re definitely not heading for the altar. Believe me. The very thought is ridiculous.” And if that were so, why did Win’s heart cry out in pain when he said so out loud?

“If you say so.”

Win didn’t like the way Tad continued to watch him. “What?” he demanded. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Methinks thou dost protest too much,” Tad said, massacring Shakespeare even as his elfin grin appeared once more.

“Nuts.” Win sawed off a piece of his pork chop and chewed viciously. “You’re crazy.”

“If you say so.”

But Tad dropped the subject, and Win could only be thankful. He definitely didn’t want anybody else shoving his nose into his private life. Win was confused enough already. He didn’t want witnesses to his state of utter distraction.

# # #

When Belle approached Win’s booth that evening, she had prepared herself with every piece of emotional and physical armor she could command. She told herself she would not succumb to any sweet talking, and she would most assuredly not succumb to another attempt at physical seduction. Not now that she understood how Win had manipulated her. The foul fiend. The vile seducer. The Yankee devil.

It was a little after seven o’clock when she approached his booth. The sky was getting darker, although the weather remained warm. She’d changed from her day dress into a sober walking dress of faun-colored jersey wool. She knew she looked quite well, although she hadn’t gone out of her way to primp. The only reason she’d pinned the amber brooch to her bosom was that it looked quite fetching on her gown. The donning of the brooch had nothing to do with Belle wanting to look good for Win. Heavenly days, no! She wouldn’t stoop to such artifice.

The only reason she peered into windows, seeking her reflection, as she walked along the Midway was to assure herself that her hem was straight. She didn’t want to catch the heel of her boot in it and rip the garment. She didn’t give a hang if Win thought she looked attractive tonight. That was the last thought in her mind.

She ducked into the Comfort Station and adjusted her hat only because—because—the pins felt loose. Yes. That was it. She was pleased to note that the mirror reflected a woman who was not merely attractive, even pretty, but one who appeared serene and secure in her own worth.

Too bad she didn’t feel the way she looked.

She was, however, extremely glad she was wearing her new brown kid boots and was carrying her new brown kid handbag. And her new kid gloves, which she’d bought with money she’d earned, confound her parents anyway, felt soft and delicious on her hands. She looked quite elegant, in fact. The faun of her walking dress made her complexion appear creamy, with a slight peach blush to her cheeks. She wore nothing gaudy, and there wasn’t a single thing about her that wasn’t proper.

She wore a corset, too, and Win would have to kill her to get it off her.

Belle gulped at this last thought, and reminded herself that she needed to keep a clear head. Business. She had to think about business. That’s the only thing Win cared about or understood: business.

She saw him working at his light standards, moving them here and there, as she approached his booth. In spite of her firm resolve, her heart hitched. He’d removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He’d loosened his tie for comfort, and the fabric of his shirt pulled tight across his broad back and the steely muscles of his arms. Belle’s mouth went dry, her pace slowed, and she stopped walking at last, in order to catch her breath.

This was terrible. Even looking at him made her heart race and her skin heat up. And then there was the problem of her dry mouth. Perhaps she ought to grab a sip of water before she talked to him.

But no. That was only putting off the inevitable, and Belle wanted to get it over with. With that thought in mind, she squared her shoulders, patted her hat to make sure it was secure, gripped her soft leather handbag more tightly, and reached for the door.

Win spun around when the door opened. “Belle!” The smile that swept over his face nearly caused Belle to have a palpitation. His smile really ought to be outlawed as a menace to polite society. He sounded happy to see her, too.

Belle knew she was going to have a job of it to keep from falling under his spell again. “Good evening, Win.”

He rushed up to her with his hands held out. “God, I’m glad to see you!”

She drew back slightly. Win slowed down and frowned at her. His hands dropped to his sides. “Say, Belle, are you mad at me? Honest to God, I mean you no harm.”

“I’m sure that’s so,” she said in a voice that was at least a hundred times more positive than she felt. “I never thought you meant to do me harm.” Liar, she scolded herself. But she didn’t want to get into an argument. Not tonight. She wasn’t strong enough for a fight.

“Belle . . .” His face took on a pained expression.

Belle didn’t understand his expression. In truth, she didn’t understand anything—except that Win had business papers he wanted her to sign. Business. She was such an idiot to think a Yankee would understand anything unrelated to business. Love, for example. She cleared her throat, which ached, much to her internal fury. She wanted to be poised and dignified, not hurt and humiliated.

Commanding herself to pretend everything was ginger-peachy, she forced herself to smile. “You had some business papers drawn up, I believe?” In order to do something with her hands, she began drawing off her gloves. Even though her heart was breaking, she felt rather sophisticated and was glad she’d chosen to dress up this evening.

“Business papers.” Win stared at her as if he didn’t know who she was all of a sudden. “Belle . . .”

“Yes.” She turned suddenly and her smile vanished. “You’re the one who asked me to come here to sign business papers, if you’ll recall. I’d like to do that right away, if you please, because I need to get back to the hotel.”

“But . . . Dash it, Belle, we need to talk.”

Drat. He would have to remember that, wouldn’t he? Furious with herself and with him, she produced another smile from some inner resource she hadn’t known about until then. “Of course. Let’s talk, then, because I truly don’t have much time. The Richmonds need me to watch the children while they attend a new play at the theater.”

Win stared at her for approximately a minute, although it felt like a hundred years, during which it was all Belle could do to remain upright and tranquil. His shoulders slumped at last and he heaved a defeated sigh. Turning toward his desk, he muttered, “All right. Let’s start with the partnership.”

“Very well.” Belle followed him to the desk, where he drew up another chair and held it for her. It was the first polite act he’d performed spontaneously. Perhaps that wasn’t fair of her. It was the first polite act Belle could recall. “Thank you.”

He sat on his desk chair and pulled a thick envelope toward himself. He reached in and took out a document. Shoving it at Belle, he said, “This is pretty simple, but you’d better read it through. I don’t want you saying I tried to cheat you.” He sounded bitter.

Belle looked from the document to Win. “Of course, I shall read it. And if I decide to sign it, then I won’t have any reason to say you tried to cheat me, will I?”

He only glared at her. Although she knew it was going to be impossible to ignore that glare, Belle did her best. Lifting the papers, she made a stab at reading through them. After a couple of paragraphs, she decided the language of the legal profession bore scant resemblance to the English language she’d been speaking for so many years. She frowned. “I don’t understand half of this, Win. Why do attorneys have to write things in incomprehensible language?”

“I don’t know, but they seem to, don’t they?”

When Belle glanced at him, he was smiling, and she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. She could almost, with a slight struggle, withstand his sulks, but his smiles dazzled her. Forging on, she said, “What I think this means is that I will receive fifty percent of the profits from any photographs you take of me that you sell, through any agent or agency. Is that what you think it says?”

“That’s what I told Tad to write, and that’s the way I read it, too, so I guess that’s it.”

Well, that had been fairly easy. Belle pointed to a paragraph. “It says here that you might market photographs all over the world.” She searched his face. “Do you really sell your work world-wide? I mean, like, in England and France and Germany and places like that?”

“Photographs of my taking have appeared in more places than that.” Belle heard the pride in his voice. “My stuff has graced publications in India and Egypt, and it’s even been published in a couple of booklets missionaries are handing out in China.”

Mercy. This news fairly boggled Belle’s mind. She wasn’t altogether sure she wanted to be recognized the world over, even if she never traveled any farther than New York or Chicago. On the other hand, she lived in Yankee-dom now, and money was king. Money was handy, too; she couldn’t deny it. Money had bought the lovely ensemble she was wearing right this minute. If plastering her image all over the world would make her tons of money, she might as well take advantage of the opportunity. It wouldn’t last any longer than her looks did. “I see.”

“Also, if you’ll read farther, it will mention royalties. I don’t generally sell my work outright, at least to publications. To regular people who want portraits done, of course, I sell it that way and expect to make no further profit. But with images I sell to news and advertising agencies, I often receive royalties. Any work featuring you that gets royalties—well, you’ll get fifty percent of the royalties, as well.”

“I see.” She saw a huge, gaping blank, is what she saw. She didn’t understand any of this. She wouldn’t say so for worlds.

“The contract doesn’t mention a lot of the ways in which it’s possible to make money with photographs, either,” Win went on after a moment of silence as Belle stared at the contract and wished she could makes heads or tails out of it. “I sell photographs to lots of magazines, sure, but I also market my work to different manufacturers of goods who advertise their wares in a variety of ways. Some cosmetics companies like to publish pictures of pretty women in an effort to sell their wares. Pears Soap is a big buyer of my work, and a coalition of California orange growers has written to ask me to produce a photograph representing a healthy American woman. Sort of goes along with oranges, I guess. You know: ‘Eat our fruit, and you too can be healthy and beautiful.’”

Belle felt slightly faint as she contemplated being part of what she could only consider a fraudulent use of her image. Although, she supposed the orange could be considered a health product. “Good heavens.” Her voice reflected her faintness of heart.

Win’s grin tipped a little. “I know, it’s kind of silly, but that’s what American enterprise is all about, I guess. Image matters more than the truth.”

“That sounds horrid, Win.”

He shrugged. “I suppose so, but it’s the reality of the world today. I do a lot of marketing on my own. I’ve approached a man who wants to manufacture engine-driven horseless carriages. I suggested that I photograph you, wearing goggles and a long scarf, riding in the seat of an automobile machine.”

Belle could only stare. The mere thought of getting into one of those monstrous, noisy, smelly machines, such as she’d seen in the Transportation Building, made her feel sickish.

But Win was becoming enraptured by his own words. He shook his head in a gesture that Belle identified as awed anticipation. “I can see it all, Belle. God, that would be great. I can’t wait until they get to producing motorized carriages. What a great day that will be for the transportation business. And for us, the American public. I can feel the wind in my hair as I sit here.”

“Can you?” All Belle felt was sick.

Win jumped up from his chair and started to pace. “You bet! Why, if anyone ever starts to produce those babies, you can bet I’ll be first in line to buy one. Just imagine it, Belle.”

Belle imagined it; she imagined one of those demonic machines crashing into cows and trees and ditches and walls. With her in it. She shuddered.

Fortunately, Win didn’t notice or he’d have said something cutting, she was sure. “Golly, Belle, we could motor to the West! We could see California!”

“What’s in California?”

“Trees! Gold! Oranges! The ocean!”

“There’s an ocean to the east as well,” she pointed out. “And all we have to do is take a short train ride to get there.”

“Pooh! The automated, motorized horseless carriage will be a boon to mankind.”

But not womankind. Belle almost said it aloud, but caught herself in time. Rather, she said, “Oh.” She had a faint recollection of one of her brothers harboring sentiments similar to Win’s about motorized carriages. Was this what the Twentieth Century would bring? Motorized carriages, smoke, noise, and horrid, bloody crashes? Would America one day be covered with the things? Like ants? Her heart quailed at the thought.

Because she truly did have a commitment with the Richmonds that evening, Belle said, “I’d better finish reading this thing. Not that it will do me much good, since I don’t understand half of it.”

Win stopped pacing and returned to his chair. His buoyant mood had collapsed when Belle brought up the contract and he was compelled to stop thinking about motorcars. “Right.”

Silence prevailed as Belle tried to read and Win stared at her. He made her nervous, not a little because his expression was so strange. He looked as if he were hurt, and there was absolutely no reason for that. She was the one who’d been taken advantage of.

Of course, if he loved her as she loved him, that wouldn’t be so, and she might even have understood why her attitude of coolness this evening had initiated a little sensitivity. But she’d been a fool, and he’d been a Yankee, and the notion of him possessing so much as a pinch of sensitivity would be laughable if Belle believed she’d ever laugh again. She didn’t. Now she had to bear the consequences of her foolishness.

The only good aspect of this scenario was that she had come to a better understanding of her family. No longer could they make her feel guilty for trying to better herself. She regretted their pain, but they weren’t being fair, and Belle knew it for a fact. She would honor and cherish them always, and she would try her best to be a good daughter and sibling, but she no longer felt compelled to abandon her career and return to Blissborough. They weren’t being fair to her, and while she would continue to try not to resent their attitude, she would not take them to task for it. Rather, she would continue to do her job, send money home, and hope that one day, they’d be able to forgive her for breaking with family tradition.

After she read the last word of the contract, not understanding one sentence out of ten, she said, “This looks all right to me.” She prayed she wasn’t making another monumental mistake. Another monumental mistake.

“I’ll get a pen.”

“Thank you.” She glanced over the document once more, wishing she didn’t have to sign it. She wasn’t used to signing things. Signing things seemed so masculine and official and unladylike. Stiffening her spine, she reminded herself that she was a business woman now and would have to start being hardheaded someday. The sooner, the better.

“So, can you come here tomorrow night, Belle? I want to get started on a series of photographs I’m sure will make us a bundle.”

“Certainly.” A bundle was good, wasn’t it? Even her family couldn’t whine too much if Belle sent them a big hunk out of a bundle.

She took the pen Win produced and waited until he’d uncorked the ink bottle. Then, as delicately as possible so as not to get ink spots on her gown, she dipped the pen in the bottle, sucked in a deep breath, and signed her name on the line specified. Win watched with interest.

“Oh, that’s right. Your first name’s Rowena, isn’t it? I’d forgotten.”

“Yes. I’ve always preferred to be called Belle. My mother adored Sir Walter Scott’s book, Ivanhoe.”

“I had to read Ivanhoe when I was in Miss Cavendish’s class at school. I thought Rowena was a peach.”

Looking on the desk for a piece of blotting paper, Belle said with some acid in her tone, “I’m sure. Most men do. Personally, I preferred Rebecca. At least she had some spunk.”

“Spunk,” Win said thoughtfully, handing her a tattered piece of blotting paper. “You know, Belle, I never would have thought of you as someone who honored spunk in a woman.”

How typical of him, Belle thought bitterly. He never gave her credit for anything. “I’m not at all surprised by that.” She rose from the chair, determining that her duty here was done.

Win rose, too, rather abruptly. “Say, Belle, I didn’t mean that as an insult. It’s only that you project the image of a serene southern gentlewoman. Or something. I don’t know anything about southern gentlewomen. But honestly, a fellow doesn’t look at you and think spunk. If you know what I mean.”

She eyed him, aiming for frost and achieving only tepidity. “I’m sure.”

He grabbed her hand before she could slip her kid gloves back on. She stiffened, his touch reminding her too vividly of the extreme intimacy they’d shared in this very booth the night before. Oh, law’s a mercy, she wished things were different between them! She’d like to lie in his arms for the rest of her life, if he could only love her.

“But you are spunky, Belle. In fact, you’re better than spunky,” he said in a pleading tone. “You’re brave and full of—of heart.”

She wasn’t sure she trusted him. In fact, she was pretty sure she didn’t. After all, he’d made his priorities painfully clear earlier this same day, when he’d spoken to her of business contracts—on the very morning after they’d made love. In order to maintain her resolve not to falter, she said, “I’m sure that’s very kind of you. Now, if you will excuse me . . .”

He dropped her hand. “Dash it, Belle, I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong! It’s not fair, you not talking to me about what’s bothering you.”

Right. Indignation swelled in Belle’s bosom. In truth, her heart felt so full, she feared her pretty topaz brooch might just pop off her gown. In spite of her rigid control, some of her anger leaked out. “Stop trying to act so innocent, Win Asher! You know very well that the only reason you pretended to want me is so that I would go along with your business scheme. Well, I went along with it! Now leave me alone!”

She saw Win gape at her as she slammed out of his booth, and she hated him for it. The miserable wretch! The fiend! The . . . “Oh, my land.”

As Win’s numb, “But Belle . . .” echoed in her ear, Belle fumbled frantically in her small brown handbag for a handkerchief. She felt like an idiot when she climbed aboard the northbound trolley and headed back to the Congress, because she couldn’t stop tears from leaking from her eyes. That evening, she found it very difficult not to snap at Amalie and Garrett while their parents enjoyed their theatrical evening.

It was all Win’s fault, and she hated him for it. Almost as much as she loved him.