Escapade (9781301744510) (14 page)

As the vehicle lurched forward, Zeke leaned
back with a contented sigh, his lips curving into a slow grin.
Maybe, just maybe the fates had offered him one more chance to lure
Aurora Rose Kavanaugh back into his arms and into his bed.
Cinderella hadn't left him a glass slipper, but she had gone one
better.

She had left him her business card.

CHAPTER SEVEN

McCreedy Street had settled into a state of
late Sunday afternoon somnolence. By the time Rory trudged down the
steps from her second-story flat, shadows were already lengthening
along the narrow street threading through rows of tightly packed
brownstone buildings.

Nothing stirred on this quiet side street
except an ancient buggy that creaked past and Miss Flanagan's
overfed bulldog from across the way. When Rory opened the screen
door, the cur set up a fearsome barking, and when Rory wheeled out
her bicycle from where she stored it in the corridor, the dog went
into an absolute frenzy, tugging on the chain keeping it affixed to
a wrought-iron rail.

"Oh, be quiet, Finn MacCool," Rory muttered,
maneuvering her bicycle down the stone steps to the pavement. Her
head still throbbed from her revels of the night before, and the
dog's yapping tore right through her.

Finn was Miss Flanagan's eyes and ears,
alerting the nosy spinster to any movement in the neighborhood, so
that she could peer past the lacy curtains adorning the tall
windows of her first-story apartment. Not that it was necessary in
this instance. The gangly woman was already perched on her front
stoop, her long nose poked in Rory's direction.

"You missed mass this morning, Aurora Rose
Kavanaugh," Miss Flanagan called out. "And you be preparing to ride
that contraption of a Sunday. You’re paving the way to hell, me
girl, that's certain sure."

"So I am," Rory shouted back over Finn's
barking. "I went dancing with the devil last night."

The old lady gasped and crossed herself.
Hiking up her skirts, Rory swung up onto her bike, her lips pursed
in a grim smile. What would Miss Flanagan say if she told her the
devil did not have horns and a pitchfork either? Only eyes as black
as night, a grin as wicked as sin and a kiss that could fire a
woman's blood hotter than any flames.

All that was best to keep that to herself.
She had already shocked Miss Flanagan enough. The spinster huffed
to her feet and stomped back into her house. Rory pedaled off, the
sound of the bulldog's continued displeasure fading as she got
farther down the street. She felt a little ashamed of herself. She
usually made an effort to be polite to Miss Flanagan no matter how
tiresome the woman could be.

But at the moment, Rory just wished the whole
world would go away and leave her alone. She had danced all night
and paid the price all day. By the time she had made her way home,
the excitement of her escape from Zeke had faded, the miseries
setting in. Queasy all afternoon, she had spent her day dozing on
the sofa. Only an hour ago she had managed to choke down a little
toast and some weak tea. A half hour later she had been able to
dress. She had finally stirred herself to face the light of day,
but the sun would be setting soon.

Disgraceful! She was never going to touch
champagne again. Or Zeke Morrison either.

The thought caused Rory to pedal faster, as
though the man were still in pursuit of her. She turned up Second
Avenue, heading northward toward that part of the city where the
warehouse of her balloon company was located.

As she cycled along, last night's events took
on the aura of unreality. It was like some sort of strange dream.
Had she really dined at Delmonico's, swayed to the music in the
arms of a handsome stranger, been asked to become the mistress of a
Fifth Avenue tycoon? She, Rory Kavanaugh, the hoyden of McCreedy
Street?

It all seemed incredible in the light of day,
back in her own part of New York. The streets she traversed were by
no means part of Manhattan's notorious slum district, but it was a
very workaday world all the same. Wash was strung along lines
running between fire escapes; children played stickball on the
pavement; plump housewives lingered on their front stoops, shelling
peas for Sunday dinner; men with their hair slicked back into a
holiday shine, wandered into the local corner saloon.

In such familiar, simple surroundings, it
should have been easy to dismiss all thought of Zeke Morrison, to
imagine the entire episode had never happened. Easy and utterly
impossible.

Her mind kept replaying that moment when he
had breathed kisses and promises against her hair. Anything you
want, Aurora Rose, anything. It had not been the words themselves
that had moved her, so much as the raw sincerity in his voice, the
yearning that had touched some answering chord deep within her.

That combined with the headiness of his kiss,
and Rory was ashamed to admit that she had been just the wee bit
tempted to yield to his desires. It was fortunate that Zeke had
also been impossibly arrogant, dismissing her balloon company as
though it were a child's plaything. Otherwise she might have had
more than missing mass to offer penance for at her next
confession.

The best thing that she could do was just
forget the man as surely as he must have forgotten her. Her fear
that he would seek her out again now seemed absurd. A rich man like
that, so handsome, so important. Lik¬ly he was already off on some
other round of pleasure with his wealthy friends, such as that
elegant Mrs. Van Hallsburg.

Instead of being relieved, the thought left
her feeling as though her world had suddenly been deprived of all
color and excitement. She tried to concentrate on her cycling
instead, picking up the pace, steering round some horse droppings
and taking care to avoid the path of an oncoming hansom cab.

She didn't usually cycle to the warehouse,
which was many blocks away, the distance from her flat a little
over two miles. But after being cooped up indoors for the better
part of the day, she was grateful for the exercise. A soft breeze
fanned her cheeks, and she could feel her color being restored.

The farther north she headed, the less
pleasant became her surroundings. Snug brownstones disappeared,
dilapidated tenements with broken windows taking their place.
Between the close-packed buildings, Rory caught glimpses of the
East River, its dank smell assaulting her nostrils like the odor of
stale fish. Overhead the El thundered, the rushing trains spewing
ashes and sparks, the tracks casting sinister shadows on the street
below.

The warehouse was not located in the best of
places, dockside areas not being the gentler side of New York. But
it was safe enough to travel there in the daytime. Rory had learned
to turn a blind eye to the increasing number of cheap saloons or
those other tawdry establishments with heavy curtains at the
window, frowsy young women lingering about the stoop.

"Er, boarding houses for seamstresses," her
Da had always told her, rolling his eyes heavenward.

"Ha! Boarding houses for night chippies,"
Tony had whispered under his breath.

Whatever the case, Rory was prudent enough to
suppress her curiosity about those brazen females. She always made
purposefully for her warehouse and had never been bothered by any
of the local denizens, except for a few occasional remarks.

Some of the lads who hung out at the billiard
parlor across the street could never seem to resist shouting at
her. Even on Sunday, there always were one or two who appeared to
have nothing better to do than lean up against the lamppost,
smoking and whistling at the girls.

As Rory wheeled her bicycle to a halt on the
pavement and dismounted, one called across to her, "Hey, Rory!
Purty ankles. Woo! Woo!"

Rory realized that she had forgotten to wear
her gaiters again and had revealed too much when her skirts swirled
upward. Her usual response would have been to shout back, "Aw, go
chase yourself," but she felt in no mood for such banter today.

To the boy's obvious disappointment and
confusion, she ignored him, groping in her pocket for the key to
the side door. A large, weather-beaten structure, her warehouse was
sandwiched in between a shoe factory and a textile merchant's
receiving dock., The Transcontinental Balloon Company's wood frame
showed evidence of rot. The sign her father had erected so proudly
years before was chipped and faded, just like all of Da's dreams
would be, if she didn't find a backer soon.

Rory thrust that depressing thought aside as
she unlocked the door and wheeled her bicycle into the warehouse's
gloomy interior. It was one vast chamber, three stories high, large
enough to inflate a balloon inside to test it if need be. The
small, grimy windows far overhead let in little light, so that the
bales of silk, the boxes of iron filings and coils of rope were all
little more than mysterious shadows.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness,
Rory could make out the form of the wagon and hydrogen generator
where Tony must have returned it the night before. The bag of the
Katie Moira had been spread out to dry.

The sight of the deflated balloon weighed
upon Rory's spirits. That and the unnatural silence of the vast,
empty warehouse. It had been far different on other Sundays, when
her Da had been alive. Then the warehouse had been all life and
bustle, filled with her father's booming presence, readying the
balloon, packing the wagon. That had always been their day on which
they had bundled up the Katie Moira and taken her out into the
country, launched the great balloon for no other reason than that
the skies were blue, the clouds beckoning like distant white-capped
mountains waiting to be conquered.

It was always Sunday afternoons now that
seemed the longest, the time she missed her father the most. A tiny
sigh came from Rory, which seemed to echo round the great cavern of
the warehouse. As though to escape the sound, she turned and
hurried up a narrow flight of stairs.

They led to a small office that overlooked
the rest of the warehouse. Rory had reached for the knob when she
stilled. A noise carried to her ears, one that had nothing to do
with the scrape of her own shoe on the stair. Holding her breath,
she listened intently. All was silent. She must have been imagining
things. Just as she released the air from her lungs, she heard it
again.

A stirring on the other side of the office
door. Inching closer, she stole a peek through the door's small
glass window. Someone was there. She could make out a masculine
form sprawled on the floor behind her desk.

It would not be the first time some old
vagrant had managed to sneak into the warehouse to sleep. Angelo
was always so careless about locking up. Last time, Rory had gotten
a real fright, tripping over a body at the foot of the stairs, but
the poor old man had meant no harm.

All the same, Rory had prepared herself in
case the like should ever happen again. Groping underneath a loose
floorboard beside the door, she located a section of lead pipe she
had squirreled away there. Hefting the heavy weapon, she inched
open the door, her pulses racing.

This was foolish. She should go get help,
summon a policeman. But if it was only that poor old tramp, she
didn't want him arrested. She would take just one peek, and if the
sleeping intruder looked at all dangerous, she would retreat.

Steeling herself, Rory tiptoed inside the
office. She craned her neck, weapon at the ready, until she could
see over the desk. The interloper was definitely male, his long
limbs uncomfortably disposed on a makeshift bed of silk material.
Rory could just make out a profusion of jet-black curls.

"Tony!" Rory breathed.

Relieved, she dropped the pipe onto the
battered old desk and managed to light the oil lamp. Neither the
sudden glow nor any of the sounds she made were enough to rouse
Tony.

Coming round the desk, Rory stared down at
her friend, wondering what he was doing here asleep on the office
floor. How long had he been there? Had he waited up for her all
night and through the day too?

She was stricken with remorse. During the
past hours, she had hardly scarce given her old friend a single
thought. She had wondered why he hadn't come to the flat earlier
looking for her, but she had been too grateful to be left in peace
to give the matter much consideration.

Bending down, she brushed aside his dark
tumble of curls, her fingers skimming over a cheek roughened with a
morning's growth of beard. It still seemed odd to note signs of
manhood on one who in her mind would forever be the boy who used to
tie her braids together, swing off her fire escape and share his
peppermint sticks.

At her touch, Tony stirred. He rolled onto
his back, his eyes fluttering open. Their brown depths clouded with
confusion and then cleared as he focused on her.

"Rory!" He jerked upward. Too close to the
desk, he banged his head on the corner and swore. As Rory
straightened, he struggled to his feet, rubbing his crown.

"What time is it? When did you get here?
Where the devil have you been?"

"Which question do you want me to answer
first?" She stretched, flexing her back muscles like a lazy cat.
She tried to keep her voice light, sensing a quarrel coming and
wanting to avoid it.

When he glared at her, she settled on the
most harmless question and replied, "I think it must be close on
five o'clock."

"Five o'clock! And you're just now getting
back here?"

"No, I've been at the apartment all day."

"No, you haven't. I sent Angelo round to look
for you early this morning."

"He must have just missed me. Look, Tony, I
am sorry I wasn't here to help with the balloon last night. I hope
you managed all right."