Blue Waltz (17 page)

But then the night in the park loomed in her mind. The night he had saved her. Yes, saved her. And that could mean only one thing.

She owed him!

A smile suddenly danced on her lips. He had helped her, had saved her that night. In return, she reasoned with a sudden burst of giddy excitement, she should help him, help him to be happy. But she quickly tamped down the excitement, telling herself she only wanted to help. Nothing more. She didn't want him, she told herself forcefully. This was not just an excuse to be near him. She only wanted to help him.

An unfamiliar lightness began to creep into her soul. She would spend time with him, starting the following morning. She would talk to him. Laugh with him.

Touch him.

She tried to quell the thought, but an odd sensation radiated through her body, filling her with a strange longing she didn't understand. Her head seemed to spin and her body pound. Suddenly, she wasn't certain if she was sick or delirious. Though she was certain, whether she was sick, delirious, or just plain stupid, that she couldn't wait for tomorrow to arrive.

CHAPTER 12

At precisely nine o'clock the following morning, Belle stepped out the front door. She pulled her cape tightly around her slender form and headed for Stephen's house. Since she owed him for saving her life, she would spend some time with him just as she had promised herself.

Poor man. Saddled with such staggering responsibilities at such a young age. He needed some light in his otherwise dreary life. Or so she told herself, as it was easier to explain away her need to see him with that excuse than any other she was inclined to come up with— namely the fact that she wanted to see him because he had ceased the memories. Vanquished the dark places. With one simple touch.

Her mind filled with the memory of Stephen's hand, gentle on her shoulder. She had relived that sensation-charged moment again and again as the night had worn on. What would have happened had he not pulled away? Would he have kissed her? Or touched her breast? She inhaled sharply, embarrassed despite the emptiness of the street.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, in no more than a few steps she arrived at Stephen's front door. Otherwise she just might have turned around and gone home.

Turning the small knob in the center, she rang the bell inside. To her surprise, it was Adam who answered the door.

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"What, no butler?" she inquired, her voice laced with humor.

"Did you ever consider, Belle love, with my ever-present need of money, that Stephen has given me employment?"

Belle gasped. "You're the butler?"

Adam's eyes twinkled with amusement. "No. But I'd make a good one, don't you think?" he said, displaying his dapper long coat, top hat, and gloves. "Actually, I'm on my way out, unless, of course, you've come to see me, giving me some divine excuse to stay."

"Believe it or not, I've come to see your brother."

"I'm crushed," he said, pressing his gloved hands to his breast. "But alas, he's not home." He bowed elegantly, making Belle laugh. "It's me or no one."

"What? Wendell isn't here?".she countered with an impish grin.

"Cute," he said, taking her arm and guiding her back down the front steps. "Come on, if it's Stephen you want, then it is Stephen you shall have. I'll walk you to his office building."

They walked south down Arlington Street to Boylston, then east until they came to Tremont, where up a few blocks they came to a towering eight-story building.

"Here we are," Adam announced.

"This is his office?"

"Yes. From here he directs his ships and supervises his investments."

"He must be terribly busy."

"He is. Though he has an army of people who work for him who are perfectly capable of taking care of many of the day-to-day concerns if he'd only let them."

"With so many people, he must fill the entire building."

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"No, just most of it."

"It's so tall," she gasped as her head tilted back to take in the height of cut granite and smooth marble.

"Yes, and a marvel, really. With a view from the top floor of Cambridge to the north and the harbor to the south. Not to mention it has an electric elevator. No hydraulic motors for our Stephen."

Her delicate nose wrinkled in thought. "An elevator . . . ?"

"Yes, with a mural on the ceiling and marble on the floor."

"I would imagine, then," she began, sounding doomed, "if Stephen owns the building, his office is on the top floor?"

"Yes," Adam responded, suddenly distracted, transfixed by something in the distance.

"Adam?" She looked at him curiously, forgetting her unease about the elevator.

Adam only stared across the street, into the huge expanse of the Boston Common, which stretched out opposite them like a rolling carpet of winter-brown grass. "Tom," he murmured.

"What?"

With a start, Adam turned to Belle. "Got to go, love," he said with a forced smile.

And then he was gone, leaving Belle alone on the walkway as he vanished between the carriages and delivery wagons and horse-pulled trolleys that rolled past.

She stared at the place where Adam had disappeared. "Dear Adam," she whispered into the din of iron wheels on cobbled streets, "what is going on in your life?" But neither the carriages nor the passengers offered an answer. With pursed lips and a shake of her head, Belle turned back to the building.

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She was greeted by a doorman, who led her to the elevator. Standing before the caged door, Belle debated taking the stairs. When she had stayed at the Hotel Ven-dome, her room had been on the second floor, making it possible for her to avoid using the elevator altogether.

Today, however, she had to concede she couldn't manage eight flights of stairs. For a second, she thought she would just go home and wait for Stephen there. But that was absurd. She would get in the blasted elevator and survive the experience, thank you very much.

A uniformed man closed the huge brass cage around Belle. He stood in the front corner, at the controls, seemingly oblivious to Belle as she stood, stock-still, a fine sheen of perspiration breaking out on her brow. Small rooms. Without windows. No way to see the heavens at night and the world by day. What if she screamed?

With determination, her pearl-white teeth biting her lower lip, she concentrated on the fine wood-paneled walls and the plush velvet seat. Up and up, further into the heights, farther from the ground.

Long, heart-lodged minutes later, she was deposited on the top floor. Safely. She wiped her brow and smiled, disproportionately pleased with her accomplishment.

"May I help you?"

Belle was startled out of her thoughts by the voice of a woman who sat at a desk just beyond the elevator.

"Yes, I'm here to see Stephen."

"Stephen?" The woman's eyebrow rose perceptibly. "Have you made an appointment with Mister St. James?"

"Oh, heavens no," Belle stated, the woman's tone escaping her, casting one quick glance back at the elevator. "I didn't even decide to come until just a little while ago. In fact, I didn't even know he was here until a little while ago."

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The woman cleared her throat, then pushed up from behind her desk. "You can have a seat in the reception area while I see if he is in. He's a very busy man, however. What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't. Tell him Belle is here to see him."

Belle sat quietly, her gloved hands clutched demurely in her lap, before the receptionist finally returned.

"I told Mr. St. James's assistant that you're here. He'll be with you as soon as he can, unless you would like to make an appointment and come back later."

Belle glanced at the elevator. She might have survived the experience once, but again? "I'll wait."

"Fine." The woman walked back to her desk, leaving Belle alone in the waiting room.

And wait she did. Five, ten, fifteen minutes, until an intricately carved grandfather clock announced the half hour. At her best Belle was barely patient. After waiting thirty minutes without a word, she began to fume. She had a million things to do, and one of them wasn't sitting idly waiting to do a good deed for an ungracious neighbor. The least he could have done was tell her he couldn't see her, or that he would have to see her at another time. But no, not Stephen St. James. He couldn't bother himself to tell her anything, just let her sit out here by herself as if her time wasn't important. She harumphed out loud into the room. Good deed done, indeed.

Just when she would have made her way to the elevator, or perhaps the stairs, a tall, slender, middle-aged man walked into the reception room. "Ah . . . Belle, is it? I'm Nathan Banks, Mr. St. James's assistant." He glanced down at a large thin book he held in his hands. "I see no Belle among the appointments, and Mr. St. James is a busy man."

"So I've been told," she replied tightly.

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"Is there something I can help you with?"

"Yes, you can help me see that busy Mr. St. James."

The man looked at Belle with disdainfully pursed lips. "If you will only tell me what you want, I'll see what I can do. Otherwise, I'll have to ask you to make an appointment, then come back at that time."

"Have you told him that I'm here?"

"No. As I said, he's a very—"

"Busy man," she finished for him. What could she say? She had no real reason for being there other than to be kind as she had told herself she would be. Stephen, as always, was making that very difficult to do.

"Never mind. I'll see him another time."

With that she left, leaving Stephen's assistant standing in the entryway shaking his head.

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Stephen was glancing over some papers when his assistant entered the office. "Nathan," Stephen called, tossing the sheet aside and smiling. He was feeling good this day—good and quite pleased with himself. Last night had been the first good night's sleep he'd had in weeks. He had gone to bed vowing to put Belle Braxton from his mind, and he had. The average man might have difficulty forgetting the woman, but he had proved last night that he was no average man. The steely St. James resolve was still in place. He wasn't addlepated, as he had begun to fear.

"Here are the files you requested," Nathan said. "The construction project taking place in young Adam's house is being worked on by a man named Wilson. He's done quite a bit of work for Elden Abbot. It should be easy enough to get him to stop working on the house. A ballroom, you say?"

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Stephen shook his head. "Yes, a ballroom. What about the contract of sale Adam signed?"

"I don't have it yet. But I've sent word to Peter Maybry. I should have a copy of the contract within a few days. I'll see what can be done."

Nathan set the stack of files down on the desk in front of Stephen, then turned to go. "Oh, I almost forgot. Some woman calling herself Belle was here to see you."

Stephen's hand froze in midair as he leaned forward to pick up his pen. "What? Belle was here?"

Nathan was clearly taken aback by the reaction. "Well, yes."

"Belle? Came here?"

"Yes, sir."

"When?"

"Just a few minutes ago."

Stephen leaped up from his chair, all concerns about being average, maintaining resolve, or becoming addle-pated disintegrating—all thoughts of forgetting her forgotten. "Where is she?" he demanded.

Nathan cleared his throat uncomfortably. "She's gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes. You see, sir, she didn't have an appointment."

"And you let her leave?!"

"Well, yes. I didn't realize—"

"Where did she go?" Stephen inquired as he came around the desk, pulling his greatcoat out of a discreet cabinet in the wall.

"I'm not certain, sir. She didn't say."

Stephen dashed out of his office. The elevator, always slow, seemed to take forever. But eventually it arrived, then sank down with the ease and swiftness of an ancient

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queen. By the time Stephen hit the street, Belle was nowhere in sight.

Why had she come? he wondered, his mind racing, as he scanned the crowds of people and rolling carriages. This was the first time she had ever sought him out, and she had traveled to his office to do so. He could no more imagine her seeking him out than he could imagine all the water in Boston Harbor rushing out to sea. No telling why she had come. His heart raced as much as his mind did. She had come, however, and just then that was all that mattered.

But then he stopped and cursed. He reined in his careening mind. What was he doing? Racing out of his office like a fool. More than likely, she had sought him out because of some problem at her house. One too many walls razed by her laborers. Plaster plastered in the wrong place. Wallpaper papered on a floor.

Disappointment flooded him. And that made him angry.

He started to turn away, return to his office where he belonged, but through his circling thoughts and the thick bustle of people, he caught sight of black enamel hair wild and uncovered. "Belle," he breathed involuntarily.

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At the sight of Stephen, Belle wished with all her might that she could disappear into the pavement, melt like ice on a blistering hot, bright summer day. But no, she wasn't going anywhere, she was stuck—literally. Her back was to the fence and her black-booted foot was bent behind her, wedged in between two unrelenting wrought iron slats. The last person in the world she wanted to see was Stephen St. James.

He stared at her from across the busy street for what seemed like ages, and just when she started to breath a

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sigh of relief, certain that he was going to return to his office, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and started toward her.