Betina Krahn (21 page)

“
I AM NOT
ruining you,” she declared, standing her ground.

“Oh? What do you call hanging a ‘women’s bank’ around my neck?”

“It won’t be just a women’s bank … it will serve men as well.”

“A fact which will be lost on virtually everyone who hears about it,” he roared, “from the state banking department to Tammany Hall!”

“Then we’ll just have to remind everyone of it … make certain they all understand that we’re building a bank for all people … male and female.”

He stared at her for a moment, then released her abruptly. “Jesus, Mary, and—you’re serious.”

“Absolutely.”

“I have two words for you,” he said, shoving his face irritably into hers. “
Frying pan
and
fire.
”

She couldn’t have held back the smile that particular image elicited, if her life depended on it, and his reaction was nothing short of alarming.

“Look, sweetheart”—his voice dropped to a growl and his hands curled into fists—“the state banking department has to examine and approve every petition for a state bank charter before the legislature can vote on it. And if you think Tammany Hall is tough, you should see these old birds. They’re living, breathing gargoyles. They feed on the bones of people who sponsor proposals like this. This is no longer just blackmail, it’s homicide … death by bureaucracy … paperwork at fifty paces …”

“You may find this hard to believe, Connor Barrow, but this
isn’t
about you.” She braced, refusing to shrink from his intimidating stance. “Not about making you pay or even making you miserable. It’s about not waiting forty more years for justice and reason to finally prevail. It’s about helping women now … directly and immediately … about setting an example of how things should be.”

“You want to talk about how things
should
be?” He released her and lurched back, running his hands through his hair, causing it to stick out slightly on each side. He was the very picture of exasperation. “I’ll tell you how things
should be,
Beatrice, darlin’.” He advanced until only a few critical inches separated his nose from hers.

“You
should be
married and busy at home in that big house of yours … instead of out trampling the business world underfoot and torturing the male populace for what your old husband did and didn’t do to you. You should have half a dozen rambunctious children to look after and a husband who comes home every night and kisses you until your knees give out …” He grabbed her and hauled her roughly against his chest. “Like
this.”

The minute his mouth touched hers, she shoved against his chest and twisted in his arms—doing her best to escape what was little more than a brute attempt at
domination. How dare he inflict his primitive male instincts on—on—

The second minute she stilled in his arms and braced, desperate to hold on to her anger while feeling it disintegrating all around her. She became aware of the softening, the supple coaxing of his lips … began to absorb the warmth radiating from his arms and chest … began to feel alive and hungry for sensation.…

The third minute, she gave a soft moan and slid her arms up his chest and around his neck. Opening to his kiss, she surrendered to the waves of perception breaking over and within her. The saltiness of his lips, the tension of his arms around her, the breadth of his shoulders, the heat that seemed so tangible that it carried a scent as it filled her head and chest and slowly seeped into her bones.

“Don’t you want to be kissed and held like this?” he murmured against her mouth. “Don’t you want to wake up each morning nestled in the curve of a big warm body?” He slid his lips down her throat until they came to the hollow at the base of her throat. “Don’t you want to be surprised by arms slipping around you from behind as you brush out your hair each night … by a shower of rose petals into your bath … by a sexy wink in the middle of a board meeting?”

Her throat was so tight with desire that she was unable to speak.

“Don’t you want to hold hands beneath the dinner table … to stand beside someone as you listen to children’s prayers at night?” He took her hand from around his neck and kissed each finger. “Don’t you want someone to know every inch of your skin and to love it with his breath, his lips, and his body?”

He touched her face and waited for her to open her
eyes. She had trouble focusing until he spoke again, in a whisper so raw and intimate that it seemed to come from her own aching heart.

“Who does such things for you, Beatrice? Who holds you in the night and fills the darkness around you with sounds of delight? Who absorbs your tears when life gets too hard to bear? Who joins you in laughter when you just can’t resist life’s silliness anymore?”

Who
echoed in the profound stillness he had created inside her, finding no answer until it reached her defenses. It was another minute before she realized she was molded to him bodily, pliant with yearning … beyond both modesty and pride, but not beyond the reach of hurt. To have someone to share her life … to work and dream and play beside him … to no longer be alone … She had been so guarded and contained for so long that it was almost physically painful to open herself to such possibilities. She looked up.

Did he truly want to know? Did he care about her answers, or was this just sweet talk to make her forget her plan and release him from his obligation to her? She searched the desire in his eyes, desperate to learn if it was his desire or merely a reflection of hers. With a man like him—glib, charming, sensual, and opportunistic—was it ever possible to know the truth?

Retreating sharply from that intimacy, she ducked out of his reach and steadied herself on the back of a chair. “You never cease to amaze me.” There was a lingering huskiness to her voice. “I believe you could talk green shoots from walking sticks.” She summoned all of her reserves and looked directly at him. “Which is precisely why I need you to help me establish this bank. You’ll find the right thing to say at just the right moment, and we’ll have a charter in no time.”

For a moment she thought he would launch into another diatribe on her deficits as a woman, but he hesitated long enough to master that visible impulse.

“Answer me,” he demanded, his voice so unexpectedly quiet and compelling that she suffered a shiver.

“I’m not certain what the question was.” She fixed her gaze on the papers littering the desk, while her ears strained for his slightest movement.

“You know damned well what it was. Don’t you want those things in your life? Love, passion, a home, children. Didn’t you ever want them?”

“Why do you insist on being so indecently personal with me?”

“Because I’m a nosy bastard.” She heard him approach and stop at the edge of the desk. She didn’t look up. “And because you don’t kiss like a woman who despises men.”

“If I kiss and how I kiss are irrelevant,” she said as crisply as she could manage with the blood draining from her face and vacating her hands. “I was destined early on for a very different sort of life than most women.”

“Bullshit.”

That brought her head up. He was standing with his arms folded, staring at her with eyes now silver with heat.

“It’s true. If I lack romantic impulses it’s because I’ve seen firsthand the results of a great romantic passion. My older sister got the romance in the family, and I got the duty. She got the passion, I got the security. She got a child and I got … the responsibility of raising that child.” She shook her head with a fierce little smile. “I used to envy my sister her great love … until I learned that she lived in a hovel and often went without the barest necessities … until she died in an epidemic that
she might have escaped if she had had the few dollars needed to flee her contaminated village. I can live very nicely without such penniless, powerless rapture, thank you.”

“You chose riches instead of romance.”

She shot him a withering look.

“A very male deduction. Young girls don’t get to
choose
anything. After my sister eloped, my parents decided not to take a chance with their only remaining asset. They arranged a wealthy marriage for me straightaway. I was only sixteen. Priscilla’s age. I was immediately plunged into a sphere where feeling and affection and passion were inconsequential. It was difficult at first, but over the years I have come to appreciate the lack of emotion business decisions involve.”

The intensity of his gaze made her uncomfortable enough to withdraw toward the door. “You asked me why I work for women’s rights … what I get out of it. I don’t expect you to understand, but I truly want to do something good, something lasting, something that will leave the world a better place. Other women give the world children. I can give other women a bank and a vote.”

She paused, wondering how much she had revealed to him and how he might use it. She had to know, now, whether or not she could count on him.

“I am prepared to reconsider requiring you to support suffrage … to free you of that obligation, if you help me charter and found this bank.”

“You need more than politics and paper to start a bank,” he said, irritation rising again as she transformed back into cool, efficient businesswoman. “You need money. Lots of it.”

“Leave the money to me. Your job is to draw up the paperwork and to cajole and sweet-talk the Barrow State
Bank through those gargoyles at the state banking department.”

“That’s another thing …” He strode closer and seemed annoyed when she coolly backed to the door. “You have to find another name for this bank.”

“It’s already been announced to the press. Besides, Barrow is a name long associated with banking in New York.” She folded her arms and forced a smile. “Give it time. It will grow on you.”

His shoulders inflated with outrage, his face reddened, and for a minute she wondered if she had pushed him too far.

“That’s the damned point,” he declared forcefully. “I spent seven long years shedding an association with that name, and I’m not going back to it now … not for you, not for anybody.”

She flinched as he reached for her, but he merely set her out of the way and stormed from the office and from the settlement house.

With a hand splayed over her pounding heart and her eyes closed, she waited for that brief spurt of panic to dissolve away.

Was that a
yes
or a
no
?

IT WAS QUIET
in the carriage as they drove home from Woodhull House that evening. Beatrice had spent the rest of the afternoon helping Ardis Gerhardt plan fund-raising activities, holding at bay the turmoil she felt over her encounter with Connor.

She should be flushed with the success of the candidate tour and even more so with the idea of a bold and exciting new venture to help women. Instead, she found herself dwelling on the fact that Connor had once again
stirred emotions and responses in her that she would rather not deal with. She didn’t want to suffer bouts of anticipation and attraction and longing. She didn’t want to go weak in the knees when he touched her or melt under his kisses so that she felt liquid and languid and saturated with desire. How could she be so vulnerable to a man so obvious in his deficits and his designs?

“So, are you angry you didn’t convince them that women should vote?”

Beatrice looked up and found Priscilla studying her from the other seat.

“Not really.” She realized she was frowning and stopped. “Do I seem angry?”

“Not angry exactly.” Priscilla gave her a puzzled look. “How do you know that one man … that Mr. Barrow? He looked familiar.”

“You’ve seen him before. He’s the Democratic candidate for Congress in the Fourth District,” she said. “And he’s Jeffrey’s cousin.”

Priscilla’s eyes widened in recognition. “He’s that Irish one.” Then her eyes narrowed. “Aunt Beatrice, he’s a crook.”

“Oh?” Beatrice was surprised by Priscilla’s vehemence. “What makes you say that?”

“He’s in with that Irish mob. He’s the one that got Jeffrey and me in so much—” She halted and looked resentful. “He can’t be trusted. Didn’t you hear the awful Irish accent he put on when he was staring at you? He’s a wooden nickel, for sure. Some men will say anything to get on your good side.”

Out of the mouths of babes
… Beatrice thought as they rolled to a stop at the front door and she watched Priscilla climb down out of the carriage. She was inside and handing off her hat to Richards when it occurred to
her to wonder how Priscilla had come by such a rare bit of insight.

TAMMANY HALL, THE
seat of Democratic-Irish control of the city, was bustling the next morning when Connor arrived. He had a full day of campaigning and politicking ahead, and the last thing he wanted to do today was shake hands, make hundreds of hurried promises, and kiss squalling babies.

Bracing himself, he made a congenial circuit through the reception hall. Then he looked in on the Society of St. Tammany Ladies Auxiliary meeting and found them planning victory celebrations for the coming balloting. His smile and his gut both tightened.

By the time he made it up the main stairs to the offices, word of his presence had spread and a group had gathered in one of the main conference rooms.

Del Delaney one of Croker’s beefy ward heelers, snagged his arm and steered him into the meeting room. There, a battle-scarred table was littered with copies of
The Herald
and
New York World
newspapers. As Connor entered, underboss Charles Murphy and half a dozen city officials lowered copies they were reading and settled searching gazes on him.

When Delaney closed the door behind them, Connor realized that something was up.

“So, you made your visit to that settlement house yesterday,” campaign manager Murphy declared, gesturing to the papers. “Got a bit of ink, all right.”

“Oh?” Connor strolled to the table with a stubbornly cheerful smile and picked up a paper that had been opened to a headline declaring:
BARROW FLIRTS WITH WOMEN’S RIGHTS.
His smile froze.

Scanning the article below, he glimpsed a few key phrases: “Candidate Barrow … visibly moved by the plight of the unfortunate … attentively and compassionately … development of
a bank for women
…”