His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2) (14 page)

In spite of a plethora of actors and mistresses, the Chesterfield was first and foremost a place for families. The growing middle class, excluded by exorbitant real estate prices from private ownership in Manhattan, had found boarding hotels to be a satisfactory answer. The suites were generally spacious, attractively furnished, and the atmosphere, even in the enormous second floor dining room and the lobby reading room, was one of closeness, of family.

Katy's rooms were on the eighth floor. They were alternately known as the Blue Suite by the predominance of French blue, marine blue, cobalt and cerulean blue, cadet blue, midnight blue, periwinkle, and lapis lazuli. There were warm blues and cold blues, textured, shiny, and smooth blues, and they were offset perfectly by dark walnut wainscoting and cream-colored walls. The drapes were velvet, the seat covers satin brocade, and the fringed canopy above Katy's bed was silk.

Katy flicked at the surface of her bath water with her forefinger. Bubbles scattered. She reached over the side of the claw-footed tub, found the jar of bathing powder, and added a generous amount. Summing up enough energy to swish her hand back and forth, Katy made a thick mound of airy bubbles appear. The tops of her knees disappeared as well as the curves of her breasts. She dropped the jar on the floor, didn't even care that it tipped and spilled, and slipped a little lower in the water. The back of her neck rested against a folded towel on the tub's rim. Katy closed her eyes and a weary smile touched her lips. Wisps of hair that had fallen free of her pins lay damply against her cheeks and forehead. One tickled her throat and she let it be.

This peace was all she had wanted since finishing her performance. After the intrusion of Michael, Logan, and finally Victor, Katy felt as if she were one exposed nerve. And on lengthy reflection, which she could afford now that she was alone and safe from public eyes, it was Logan Marshall whose presence disturbed her the most. "Why shouldn't it?" she asked herself softy. "He looked furious enough to kill me."

That thought was so unsettling that Katy found herself suddenly cold in the warm water. The smile on her face changed from weary to nervous and finally faded altogether. The more she tried not to think of the way Logan had looked right through her, the sharper his image appeared in her mind. "Damn him," she whispered, angry with him, angry with herself. "I should have—"

She cut herself off, sitting up and turning her head to one side as a sound came from the sitting room. Alert, she waited quietly for some repetition of the sound. Nothing. Shaking her head slowly, amused by her own imagination, Katy picked up a bar of lavender soap and trailed it across her arm and shoulder. It slipped out of her hand, dropped like a stone, and water sloshed over the edge of the tub as Katy searched for it.

"I could help you find that," Logan said matter-of-factly. He was leaning against the door to Katy's bathing room, his arms crossed casually in front of him and a smile on his lips that did not quite reach his eyes. He was still in his evening clothes, and rather than appearing overdressed, he managed to make Katy feel underdressed in her own bathtub. "The soap," he said, pointing to where her hand had stilled beneath the water. "Do you require some assistance?"

"I certainly do," she said calmly, and then she opened her mouth to scream.

Just like that, Logan was kneeling beside the tub, his hand over her mouth, smothering her cry to a lamb's bleat. Above his hand, her eyes were wide and frightened. Logan saw it and was not moved to loosen his grip. When she began to struggle, he pressed tightly on the back of her neck. Her hands came up to claw at him, but he averted his face, protecting it from her tapered nails. She pried at his arms. Water splashed everywhere until Logan was kneeling in a puddle and his coat was soaked. "Have a care for your modesty," he said. His warning was dry and composed. "You are losing all your bubbles."

His laconic, caustic observation jangled that exposed nerve. Katy bit him. Hard.

Logan swore, yanked his injured hand away, and increased the pressure of his other hand on her neck. Katy was forced forward until her face hovered just above the surface of the water. She gasped for air, certain that Logan was going to push her under. She was surprised when she heard him speaking as calmly as he had a moment before.

"You have choices, Katy. You can settle down or you can scream all you want—under the water. You have five seconds."

"Bastard," she gritted.

"Two."

"Son of a—"

"Three."

"I should—"

"Four."

"What happened to one?"

"Five."

Katy sputtered as her face skimmed the water. "All right! Let me up! I won't scream again."

The words were garbled, but Logan had no trouble making them out. He eased up. "I'll hold you to that promise. Break it, and I'll put you under."

"Six feet?"

"What?"

She jerked her head away from him, and this time Logan let her go. Glaring at him as he sat back on his haunches, Katy repeated herself. "Six feet under. As in dead and buried."

"The idea has merit."

Katy jerked in reaction to his quiet, thoughtful answer.

She looked at him sharply, trying to assess how serious he was. He was giving nothing away. "You mean... you would actually..."

"I haven't decided."

So he had been considering it. Or was he still toying with her? Katy drew her knees up to her chest, conscious that all around her bubbles were evaporating. Thinking he was going to touch her, she pushed herself against one corner of the tub when Logan's fingers dipped into the water.

With a faint, cynical smile, he said, "Your bath's getting cold. You should get out of there."

"Go to hell."

Logan stood, chuckling under his breath. He stripped off his wet swallow-tailed coat, tossed it at a hook on the wall near the sink, and sat on the edge of the tub. He looked supremely confident, very relaxed. It was a pose guaranteed to raise Katy's ire and Logan was well aware of it. "Swear at me one more time," he said, "and I'll find that soap. You know where I'll use it."

Katy believed him. "Get out of here."

"In a minute." He looked around the bathing room. The floor was laid with white and black diamond-cut tiles. The fixtures were porcelain and brass. The towels, of course, were blue. "This suite reminds me of one of Maggie Bryant's parlor rooms. She runs one of the most exclusive bordellos in the city," he explained when he saw Katy didn't realize he was insulting her. The rosy flush that covered her chest, throat, and face assured him he had hit his mark. "She has a gold parlor, a red one, blue naturally, and, if memory serves me, I think one is emerald. Her place is almost as fancy as this. It seems Victor Donovan is doing well by you... or is it Michael?" He paused a beat. "Or both?"

Katy wanted to kick him off the edge of the tub or drown him in her bath water or choke him with one of the midnight blue towels.

As if reading her mind, he picked up one of the towels and drew it around his neck. He wiped at the dampness on his cheek and forehead. "No comment, is that it?" he asked.

"How did you get in here? I know I locked the door."

"You did. I got the extra key from the main desk."

"They would not have just given it to you."

"They didn't. I stole it while the clerk was otherwise occupied."

No doubt Logan had also provided the clerk's diversion. What had he done? she wondered. Started a fire in the lobby? Paraded whores in front of the main desk? "Will you leave now? I'm cold."

"And the bubbles are gone."

"That, too."

One of Logan's eyebrows inched upward. He scanned Katy's face, her hunched shoulders, the smooth tops of her knees. Below the water he could only make out the whiteness of her skin and the suggestion of her feet. "This water could be boiling and you'd still be too cool by half." He took the towel from around his neck and held it out for her. When she took it, he left, closing the door behind him.

Katy was almost as stunned by Logan's quick exit as she had been by his entrance. Shivering, she stood and stepped out of the tub. The tile floor was like ice on her bare feet. She dried hurriedly and slipped into a plain cotton nightshift and the green flannel robe that had been hanging on the back of the door. Afterward, she made straight for the parlor, intent on jamming a chair under the door handle so Logan could not possibly disturb her again.

She stopped short when she saw that he was sitting in the very chair she had planned to use. His wet trousers and shirt were making a water stain on the brocade fabric, but he looked comfortable, stretched out as he was, thumbing through a stack of newspapers on the table beside him. He glanced at her when she came into the room and smiled slowly as he took in her sleeping attire.

"Quite a change from that scarlet thing you were wearing earlier," he said. "You look almost virginal."

Her hand itched to slap his contemptuous smile.

Seeing her fingers twitch, Logan had no difficulty divining the thought that accompanied the movement. "Try it," he said.

Katy blinked, reined herself in. "You would like that. It would give you an excuse to slap me, something you've been itching to do all evening."

"Listening to you, I have to admire my restraint."

"Why are you doing this, Mr. Marshall?"

"Logan."

"Oh, for God's sake." Katy almost stamped one foot in frustration. Instead she shoved her hands into her pockets. He was not the only one who could practice restraint. "Why are you here at all? What purpose did it serve coming backstage this evening, and why follow me here from Delmonico's? I have been in New York for two years and you never bothered me. Why now?"

Logan's attention shifted to the stack of newspapers again. "I see you read the
Chronicle
."

"What does that have to do with anything?" But she knew, she knew. He was reminding her that she had always known he was here, while he had had no knowledge of her presence.

"You are a remarkable actress, Katy, quite remarkable, but you do not play stupid very well. There is simply too much intelligence in your eyes. Do not play stupid now; it is not your forte."

She breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. "There is no talking to you. You do not answer my questions; you do not even make any sense. Get out of here, Mr. Mar—Logan."

"Sit down, Katy," he directed gently. "You're riled, although you are doing a rather admirable imitation of containing it. Do you have a pair of dry trousers I could wear? Another shirt?"

Katy's hands came out of her pockets as she threw them up in the air. "Why would I have men's clothing here?"

"I thought perhaps Victor or Michael might have left something behind. I think Michael's would better suit."

Katy decided to show Logan the definition of 'riled.' Uncaring of the consequences, she crossed the room to stand in front of him. Her adversary was expecting a slap. Katy delivered a roundhouse punch that would have blackened his eye if he hadn't blocked it.

Grabbing Katy's wrist as he jerked his head out of the way, Logan pulled hard enough to force her off balance. She fell toward him. The chair rocked unsteadily as Katy collided with his chest, and Logan had to catch his breath before he could grapple with her again. Katy's arms and legs flailed, but she was unable to make any blows count. She was so intent on hurting him that it did not occur to her to scream. The sash to her robe loosened, the material parted, and his hand closed over her breast in the struggle. Her thin cotton nightshift was no barrier to the warmth, softness, or shape of her.

Logan's light touch stilled Katy as his strength never could. Afraid of what she might see, she would not meet his eyes. Sitting as she was now, on Logan's lap in her nightgown, his hand on her breast, brought back the clear memory of another time and another man's hand. It was not acting when Katy spoke in a voice that sounded much younger than her own. "Let me go, please."

Logan recognized the young girl speaking to him. He heard the strain and the scare. He released her.

Katy scrambled away and stood. She was trembling and pale, and she still could not look Logan in the eye. "I want you to leave," she said.

"No, that I won't do. Not yet."

Tears sprang to Katy's eyes. She turned around quickly so he wouldn't see and walked to the window. From eight floors up Katy's view of Manhattan was mostly unobstructed. There were lights in hundreds of windows, and they flickered like the stars she couldn't see. Below her, all along Broadway, gas lamps illuminated passersby as they hurried to their next destination. Even from this vantage point, Katy thought she saw purpose and direction in their movements. Why couldn't she divine Logan's?

Her composure gathered, she let the velvet drape fall back in place and turned away from the window. "Why did you come to Wallack's this evening?"

"Why does anyone go to Wallack's?" he asked rhetorically. "My sister-in-law enjoys the theatre, and she's been after Christian to take her since she read about Manners. Jenny and Christian are leaving for Europe soon and tickets to the play were in the way of a farewell gift from me to them. I had not planned to attend, but Jenny insisted I come along. I am afraid Jenny is extremely persuasive. I have no more luck refusing her than my brother."