Ahead of Jennifer’s carriage, the wheels of hansom cabs carved delicate slits in the sun-glistened snow on the road curving off into the distance.
Reluctantly, she had decided to confront Kincaid and try to undo the damage Peter had done to her career. She glanced past her brother’s handsome profile at three children knee-deep in a snowdrift, packing snow into balls.
The unexpected storm late last night had dumped over a foot of clean white snow on the city of New York, leaving the streets momentarily clean.
Her carriage glided to a halt and Jennifer leaned forward and peered up at the Bricewood, the jewel of the hotel and casino circuit and Chantry Kincaid III’s pet project.
The Bricewood, on lower Fifth Avenue, near the elegant neighborhood of Washington Square Park, was five stories high and a block long. In an era of gingerbread and rococo flamboyance, the tall, white, gleaming structure was notable for its clean lines and simple style. A lofty colonnade overhung by a hip roof made it look more like a Mississippi River plantation house than a hotel.
Peter leaned forward, his expression grim and impassive. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Even if it does belong to a bastard like Kincaid…I heard he built it for just under a million dollars two years ago. Now it’d sell for three, easily.”
“Do you suppose the illustrious Mr. Kincaid allows his hired help to enter by the front door?” she asked. Peter scowled, and Jennifer softened. “Sorry. It’s just that—”
“I know, I know, Jenn. I had no right. I realize that now. You’re entirely justified in being upset with me.”
His taking full responsibility made her miserable. She leaned over and put her head on her brother’s chest. “I wish things were like they used to be…”
“When we had money?” he asked, putting his arm around her.
“Innocence,” she whispered, and immediately regretted it.
“I can’t remember that far back,” he said, looking away. He gazed out the window, ostensibly watching a young woman walk past, but she knew from the way the muscles bunched in his jaw that he was fighting his emotions. Jennifer felt a deep sense of sadness. Somehow their relationship had been tainted. She didn’t know whether it was a residue from their parents’ deaths or from Peter’s obsession with Kincaid and getting revenge. She was terribly torn. Part of her felt that anything she had to do to end this stalemate would not be too much. But another part was angry and frightened and wanted desperately to walk away from everything.
Peter stepped out of the carriage and turned back to her, arms uplifted. She gathered her voluminous skirts and moved to the step. Peter grasped her waist and lifted her across the gutter and onto the red brick sidewalk of the porte cochere. The carriage entrance smelled of cedar and pine—a surprisingly woodsy fragrance. She stopped, breathed its pleasantness deep into her lungs, and caught a glimpse of the elegant lobby through the biggest windows she’d ever seen. Smiling attendants bowed as they opened the wide double doors.
On Peter’s arm, Jennifer swept past more than a dozen salons to reach the registration desk, where an attendant in white uniform with gold braid waited. The main lobby, which gleamed like a gold-and-white jewel, opened onto a profusion of parlors, salons, reading rooms, smoking rooms, dining rooms, and bars, all elegant in gold and white beneath glittering crystal chandeliers.
“We’re here to see Mr. Kincaid,” Peter said stiffly.
“Your name, please?”
“He’ll be expecting Miss Jennifer Van Vleet.”
“One moment, please.”
The man disappeared into the back. A few moments later a portly gentleman emerged from the back of the hotel and stopped in front of Jennifer. “Miss Van Vleet?” he asked politely.
“Yes.”
“I’m Mr. Monroe. Come with me, please.”
“Want me to come with you, Jenn?” Peter asked.
Monroe shook his head no. Peter touched his hat in a small salute and angled toward one of the salons. “I’ll wait in there,” he said over his shoulder.
Jennifer picked up her skirts and followed Monroe toward the elevators. Mirrors on all sides of the lobby told her she looked fine, but she felt overdressed in her late mother’s gold satin gown and white mink muff, hat, and coat—the first she’d ever seen with the fur turned to the outside. These clothes, and everything else she and Peter owned, however temporarily until the estate sale next month, had been bought when her parents were alive and thought themselves rich. Next month it would all go on the auctioneer’s block.
That thought alone set her against Kincaid. If it hadn’t been for him and his grandfather, her parents would not be dead and she and Peter would not be losing everything they owned.
Monroe stepped back to let her enter the elevator. As it began its slow ascent, Monroe nervously licked his wet, pink, cupid’s-bow lips. In the harsh electric light, his eyes appeared to glitter. Grateful for the presence of the elevator attendant, Jennifer tucked her hands into her mink muff as if that would protect her from Monroe’s eyes. She was glad she wouldn’t have to be alone with this man.
Finally, the elevator clanked to a halt. The attendant opened the door, and Monroe waved Jennifer out ahead of him. He took her elbow and guided her to a door marked MANAGER. He opened it and stepped back to motion her inside. The room was small and cluttered, not exactly what she had expected for Kincaid. Perhaps it was an anteroom.
She stepped inside, and Monroe closed the door and locked it. “Wanna drink?” he asked, loosening his cravat.
“No, thank you,” she said, feeling slightly alarmed that he had locked the door.
“Take off your coat. I’ll be a minute.”
“I’ll keep it on, thank you.”
Monroe opened a drawer of the desk and lifted out a bottle. He poured amber liquid into a dirty water glass and held it out to her. “Sure you won’t join me?”
“Positive.”
“Suit yourself.” He took a sip and sighed. “Now, tell me about yourself. What’s your specialty?”
“I’m a ballerina.”
“That’s a new one. Ballerina, huh?” He finished his drink, put the glass down, and rubbed his pale hands together. “You gonna take ’em all off in the Baron Room or the Grand Salon?” he asked.
Jennifer’s heart started to pound as she realized her mistake. This wasn’t Kincaid’s office at all. “I’m here to see Mr. Kincaid,” she reminded him, willing herself into an icy calm.
“Mr. Kincaid’s busy. Anyway, this is my bailiwick. I’m the theater manager. I’m the one you have to deal with.”
“No. There’s been some mistake.”
She turned and started for the door, but Monroe grabbed her by the back of her coat and jerked her around.
Her pulse racing, she swung her elbow like a fist and hit him as hard as she could in the soft part of his stomach. As he doubled forward, she lifted a knee into his face. The effect was muted by her gown, petticoats, and coat, but it was enough to infuriate him. He cursed and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her down with him as he fell. Fortunately, he fell hardest and first, and she used his bulk to soften her own landing. Before he could recover, she leaped up and ran for the door, grateful that the physical demands of her calling gave her the agility to defend herself, even against a man as big as Monroe.
“You like it rough, do you?” he growled. Jennifer reached the door and jerked hard on the handle, but it did not open. Monroe grabbed her and pushed her toward a lumpy horsehair sofa against the wall. Jennifer screamed and lashed out, trying to kick him, but her legs got tangled in her gown and coat.
Staggering toward the couch, she screamed again. “Shut up!” Monroe bellowed, with a glancing blow to the side of her head.
She got one foot loose and kicked him in the shin. He cursed and forced her down onto the couch, his weight pressing her into the lumpy mattress. She screamed again. He hit her across the mouth, and they both fell silent for a moment, eyeing one another and panting. Over the sound of their heavy breathing, she thought she heard a key rattle in the lock. Monroe must have heard it, too, for he looked toward the door. Suddenly, it swung open.
“What’s going on here?”
Jennifer blinked in disbelief. The handsome stranger from the carriage completely filled the doorway.
Monroe’s face turned gray with fear as he scrambled to his feet. Jennifer struggled into a sitting position. Her rescuer stepped into the room and eyed her briefly, taking in everything with a glance—the tangled state of her gown, the hat that had fallen off, probably even noting the fear and anger on her face.
His expression hardened into fury, and he lunged forward and slammed a fist into Monroe’s soft, doughy face. As Monroe staggered toward the wall behind him, the man followed, hitting him twice more before he banged hard into the wall and slowly slid down it. Jennifer couldn’t tell if Monroe was faking or if he was just too smart to get up again.
The man walked over and took her by the arm, lifting her up into a standing position. “Are you hurt?”
Jennifer shook her head. He smiled in relief, his green eyes shining like sea glass in a sunny pool. She’d never thought green a particularly warm color, but, when he smiled, something primitive and vital shot through her.
Jennifer’s mind reeled in confusion. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Do you just follow me around, standing ready to save me?”
The man laughed. “Something like that. Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Wonderfully glad. But—”
“I work here.”
“Doing what?”
“This and that.”
He took her gently by the arm and helped her to her feet. “You look even more beautiful in the daylight,” he said, his voice dropping into that huskiness she remembered so well. He pulled her close to him. “You’re shaking,” he whispered. “I should have killed him,” he said grimly, “but you’re safe now.”
“I am?”
He grinned. “Yes. Don’t you feel safe?”
Jennifer stepped out of his embrace and patted at her hair, which felt in disarray. “My mother taught me not to feel safe unless I was reasonably sure it was justified,” she said, smiling.
He grinned. “Would you accept a compromise? I think I can guarantee your safety from everyone but me,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
Jennifer laughed. “And,” she asked, “you are?”
“Chantry Kincaid the Third. Please call me Chane. And I believe we have an appointment.” A smile etched grooves on either side of his mouth, leaving a deep dimple in his right cheek and shadows in the hollows of his wide jaws.
Jennifer blinked in growing horror. Her mind struggled to take in the full meaning of what he had said. This man who had saved her twice had just introduced himself as Kincaid, the man who…Her mind refused to finish the thought. She didn’t know whether to bolt out the door and run for her life or just sit down on the floor and cry.
Fortunately, the jangling of a telephone saved her and distracted him. He strode to the telephone and barked into the mouthpiece, “Hello,” his tone impatient and husky, more a command than a question. “No, Steve, you’re not interrupting me. How on earth did you track me down here?”
He laughed at whatever was said. One heavily arched black eyebrow shot up and then lowered. He laughed again. “No,” he said more quietly. “I don’t want to see or speak with Laurey. Stall him.” He listened for a moment, then chuckled. “Tell him I’m meeting with contractors this afternoon. That should give him something to worry about.” Pure mischief sparkled in his eyes. He winked at Jennifer, obviously enjoying himself.
Jennifer felt a flush spreading over her entire body. She had no idea how to react. And for the first time in a long time she had no idea what part she was supposed to be playing.
“Oh,” he said into the phone, as if it were an afterthought. “Yes, you can do something for me. Send two men from security here to pick up Monroe. Then get Tom Wilcox to find out who hired Monroe. I want to see that man in my office in an hour.”
He hung up the telephone and looked intently at Jennifer. “We’ll give Monroe what he deserves.” Shaking his head, he sat down beside her. “Now, Miss Van Vleet, tell me about yourself.”
It was an effort to keep from asking him how he knew her name. But, of course, he’d been at the theater last night. Everyone in the audience knew her name, and they had an appointment.
“Don’t you know how famous you are in New York?” he asked, seeing her confusion. “You don’t get out much, do you?”
Chantry Kincaid felt her presence the length and breadth of his body. She had blushed, and somehow this made her even more pleasing to look at. In the light of day, her eyes really were purple and her mouth really was as soft and kissable as it had felt last night. She had skin as creamy as carnations, with just a hint of warm plum in her cheeks echoing the amethyst fire in her momentarily confused eyes.
“Does it show?” she asked ruefully.
“A little,” he said, smiling again. “But we’ll change that. Starting with dinner, tonight.”
“I can’t.”
“Your mum doesn’t allow you out after dark?”
She didn’t tell him her “mum” was dead. Was he callously tactless, or hadn’t he put her together with her parents yet? She certainly couldn’t tell him that she suspected him of having them murdered.
“I…work.”
“Not tonight you don’t. Remember, the theater burned down last night. I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said with finality, taking her arm and leading her toward the door.
“I came here to discuss my contract.”
“I only discuss contracts with beautiful women over dinner,” he said firmly.
This man really did think he owned the world, Jennifer thought, anger beginning to rise in her. Well, she was not the rest of the world!
“Then pretend I’m a man. I demand the right to discuss my contract now, this moment.”
“Okay. The answer is no.”
“You don’t know the question.”
“Doesn’t matter.” His tone was firm and final.
Her anger boiled, but it only added to her frustration. She was so confused she couldn’t think of anything to do or say. She needed time to think, time to figure out how she felt about Kincaid being the stranger who had saved her last night and again today. Once she figured that out, everything else would fall into place.
“All right. I’ll have dinner with you, but only to discuss my contract.”
“Thank you. I’m honored,” he said, bowing low before her.
Jennifer felt a momentary jolt of fear. But then she calmed down as she realized that she was doing exactly what Peter was asking of her. She was wooing Chantry Kincaid III in the best way she knew.