FOREVER IN MY HEART
by Jo Goodman
Chapter 1 New York City, March 1879
"I don't want a chatterbox." Lisa Antonia Hall gave the speaker a sidelong glance, her mouth pursed to one side as she considered the request. Patrons of her establishment generally made their preferences known along physical lines. It was not unusual for someone to ask for a brunette with a wasp-like waist and wide hips or a buxom redhead with a trim ankle. The request for a quiet partner was a bit out of the ordinary, yet did not entirely surprise Mrs. Hall. Of necessity she was quick to assess the character of her customers and she had learned to trust her own judgments. The man standing beside her looked as if he had little patience for the niceties.
He had already loosened his black silk tie and let the wrinkled tails drape haphazardly against the snowy whiteness of his shirt. One of his large hands rubbed the back of his neck, lean fingers kneading the corded muscles at his nape. His swallowtail coat was unbuttoned and revealed a dove-gray satin vest beneath. The silver embroidery shimmered as he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
It was clear to Lisa that he was attempting to control his impatience.
She smiled approvingly, raising her eyes from the flat of his belly to his face. It was an interesting face, one she was sure she would have remembered if she had seen it before. Tension marred his handsome features, a certain grimness pulled his mouth flat and etched tiny lines at the corners, lending him an intensity of expression that was at odds with such male beauty. A muscle worked in his jaw, momentarily filling out the hollows just beneath his cheekbones.
Mrs. Hall's gaze narrowed briefly as she studied the cast of his complexion. His skin was bronzed, touched by gold and copper tones.
It occurred to her briefly that he might have some Indian heritage, in which case she would have to ask Samuel to show him the door. It didn't come to that. She decided the bronze had been beaten into him by the sun and wind and she was relieved by her observation. She didn't think Samuel could have ejected him.
Lisa Antonia Hall was unembarrassed as her patron returned her steady gaze. His dark eyes, only a shade short of black, were unamused. The arch of his brows, raised the merest fraction, hinted at an air of superiority that might have intimidated someone less brazen.
Undeterred, her gaze shifted to his hair. It was thick and lustrous, overlong at the back, and where it brushed his collar it looked like a spill of ink against a clean sheet of paper. She almost reached to brush it back. Instead she fiddled with her bracelets, lining up the clasps while she determined what she was going to do.
Her eyes dropped to the black leather bag at his feet. She wondered what it held. A change of clothes? Medical supplies?
Liquor samples? She realized she would be sorely disappointed to discover he was a whiskey drummer. When she looked at him questioningly she was glad he merely stared back and offered no enlightenment.
"I have a girl in mind who will give you a quiet encounter," Mrs. Hall said finally, smiling engagingly. "She's upstairs now. Will you trust my judgment or would you like me to introduce you down here?
If she's not what you had in mind we'll find someone who is."
In a fluid motion he picked up the leather bag. "If she's not taken with the sound of her own voice then she's the one I want," he said dryly. He glanced at the wide, carpeted staircase. "Which way at the top of the stairs?"
Mrs. Hall hesitated. The bracelets on her left wrist jangled as she raised her hand slightly. "Left," she said. "Then two doors down on the right. Her name is Mmm." She stopped as a finger was pressed lightly to her lips.
He shook his head and smiled for the first time. Had it reached his eyes it would have transformed his face. "I don't want to know," he said. "It's just not that personal."
The madam thought she was immune to a man's touch yet she felt the imprint of his finger on her mouth long after he withdrew it.
She watched him mount the stairs and knew a surge of hunger. Her heart hammered in her breast. She barely noticed which way he turned when he reached the landing.
He turned the brass handle and swung open the door. Except for an oil lamp flickering on the bedside table the room was dark.
Light from the gas jets in the hallway behind him made a silhouette of his imposing figure. He stood on the threshold a moment and surveyed the room, letting his eyes adjust. A movement in the center of the bed caught his eye as the whore sat up and stared back at him. She didn't say a word.
He liked her already.
He stepped inside and dropped his bag on a table just inside the doorway, nudging the door closed with the heel of his shoe. Taking off his evening jacket, he hung it carelessly over the wing of a chair and surveyed the room, giving little more than a cursory glance to the whore or the wide spindle bed.
Several braided area rugs covered the hardwood floor. French doors opened onto a small balcony with a stone balustrade. The mantel held a variety of photographs and figurines, none worthy of a second look.
The grate was cold and ashes were scattered across the apron. A scuttle of coals and kindling had been set nearby.
Milk-glass globes covered the unlighted gas jets. The wallpaper was nearly as dark as the woodwork, setting a gloomy tone. On the far side of the bed was a dressing screen. He walked over to it and moved one panel aside, revealing a wardrobe and a hip bath filled with water. He dipped his finger in-the water was not hot any longer but a few degrees better than tepid.
"I've interrupted your bath," he said, turning toward the bed.
She didn't look at him but when she shrugged the wide strap of her nightshift slipped over her shoulder. She lifted it immediately only to have it fall again. This time she let it be, bowing her head slightly so her hair fell forward, shielding her.
His smile was small, his eyes cynical. "Your display of modesty is duly noted. Affecting, but quite unnecessary." He turned away again and pointed to the bath. "Don't let me stop you. I have time."
When he didn't sense her moving behind him he added more firmly, "Go on. It won't do you any harm and it may even relax you.
The bed creaked as she crawled across its wide expanse on all fours.
He moved to the other side of the room and sat down in the wing chair, stretching his long legs. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, missing her furtive, over-the-shoulder glance but sensing it nonetheless.
"I'm not going to join you," he said tiredly. He heard her move quickly, her bare feet padding lightly on the area rug. She bumped into the screen before she moved behind it. His eyelids raised a fraction and he watched her shadowed movements through thick, dark lashes. Her nightshift was placed over the top of the dressing screen.
The wardrobe opened and he heard her sifting through the drawers. He wondered what she was looking for then he saw her pause and pin up her hair. A moment later water lapped gently against the sides of the hip bath as she stepped inside. He closed his eyes again and wished that he had not drunk quite so much.
"I was told you wouldn't talk much," he said, "but I didn't expect complete silence." No comment was forthcoming. "Suits me." He unbuttoned his vest and checked his pocket watch. The realization that it was a few minutes shy of midnight gave rise to a soft groan.
It was not his usual manner to drink before dinner or during dinner or to have more than a shot sometime after dinner. He could only guess how badly he was going to feel in the morning and yet he acknowledged that he was not numb enough now.
Behind the screen the water stirred again. He noticed the towel at the foot of the bed. Sighing, he pushed himself out of the wing chair and scooped it up. Skirting the screen, he dangled it in front of the whore.
"Fetching," he drawled. His bored tone gave lie to the single word.
His eyes were flat, almost uninterested, as they skimmed her.
Splashing had dampened the curling ends of her hair and tendrils clung flatly against her neck and temples. Droplets beaded on her naked shoulders and her fine-boned and fragile features were shiny with mist.
He was blocking his own light from the oil lamp and he stepped aside, watching her sink a little lower in the bath. Only the line of her collarbones was visible above its dark, mirror-like surface.
"There's no reason to act like a shy maiden in front of me," he said.
"This is professional, not personal." He paused, watching her closely.
"Isn't it?"
She blinked, returned his stare, then nodded slowly.
He dropped the towel, which she managed to catch in one hand before it hit the water.
"Red," he said.
"Hmmm?" Grimacing, she touched her throat lightly with her fingertips.
"Pardon?" she said. This time she felt the vibration of her voice against the pads of her fingers.
"Your hair's red. There's not much light in here. I wasn't sure."
He wasn't a man given to impulse but it was exactly what moved him now.
He hunkered down beside the bath. He thought for a moment that she might flinch, then wondered why the notion would even cross his mind.
Still, he found himself asking, "May I?"
She looked at his raised hand, the fingertips just inches from her ear, and nodded.
The back of his fingers touched her cheek and rested there briefly.
He lifted a tendril. It was soft and silky and slightly damp. He frowned as he noticed faint bruises along her throat. He touched one lightly. "You've been treated roughly this evening."
She nodded.
"Good thing I 'm here then. We'll see what we can do about that."
Her skin was flushed. "You're warm," he said. "Out of the bath now."
He stood and turned away. There was hurried movement behind him, water splashing, and the sounds of the towel being drawn briskly against her skin. He slipped off his vest and laid it next to his evening jacket.
When she came into his line of vision again she was wearing her white cotton nightshift. He looked down at her bare feet and the trim ankles. "You'd better get back into bed. Even on the rug, the floor's cold. Do you want me to light a fire?"
Crawling back into bed, she shook her head.
His low laughter was deep and faintly dangerous as she pulled thethick down comforter around her shoulders. "Just the same," he said, "I think I'll do it." He had already decided he didn't want a quick poke under the covers. He fully intended to enjoy himself and that meant enjoying the whore's body with his eyes as well as his hands.
His decision vaguely surprised him. Thirty minutes ago a quick poke was all he had in mind. He could even admit that he wanted to hear her voice again. Her husky timbre was like a shot of good whiskey, something to be savored.
It took him a few minutes to get a fire started. Standing, he brushed his hands on his trousers. The streaks of gray ash on his black evening wear made him go to the porcelain basin by the bed and wash his hands. "It wouldn't do to leave fingerprints, would it?"
Her smile was tentative.
"I think you could use a drink."
The smile faded as her lips parted in surprise.
"Medicinal purposes only," he said encouragingly. He saw her immediate acceptance in the relaxation of her shoulders. Another quick look around the room convinced him he hadn't missed a liquor cabinet on his earlier survey. He shrugged. "Good thing I've come prepared." He crossed the room to his black bag. Opening it up, he retrieved a quarter-full bottle of Scotch nestled among stacks of bound bills. He turned, showing her the bottle. "Glasses?"
She shook her head.
"Then you'll have to tipple right out of the bottle." He shut the bag, left it on the table, and carried the bottle to the bed.
Sitting down on the edge, he handed it to her. When she hesitated he said, "It will make you feel better, I promise." He could have added that it had already done wonders for him.
She uncapped the bottle and raised it slowly to her lips. When she didn't drink immediately he put his fingertips under the bottom and tipped it. She took a large swallow, paused, and noting the amused challenge in his eyes, took another.
"That's better," he said. He found himself grinning as she made a face. "Obviously you have no appreciation for good Scotch."
The liquor eased the tightness in her throat but she still spoke in a husky whisper. "I don't drink much."
"I don't either much." He offered her another swallow which she accepted with hardly any prompting. He watched her for another reaction and when none came he raised both brows. "It seems to agree with you rather quickly." He took the bottle, put it on the bedside table, and touched her face again with the back of his fingers.
