Jo Goodman (14 page)

Grey watched her yank the lapels closed, denying him even a hint of her rosy skin. "I mean your breasts," he said.

Berkeley's mouth twisted to one side. Her expression was disapproving. "I know the circumstances of our meeting were unusual, Mr. Janeway, and I haven't given you reason to think highly of me, but I'm unaccustomed to vulgarities. I do wish you'd refrain from—"

"They're
your
breasts, Miss Shaw, and you pressed them flat against my back. You may want to refrain from doing that in the future or bringing them into conversation at all."

"But I didn't," she defended. "You're the one who—"

He interrupted her. "You're the one who wanted to know how I knew you weren't a boy. I remember giving you the opportunity to take back your question. You didn't, and I politely answered it. In any event, breasts are not vulgar at all."

"I liked it better when I was a boy," she muttered.

Grey cleared his throat to cover his short laugh. "If it will be a small comfort, Miss Shaw, I shall try to choose my words more carefully and not give offense."

Berkeley wondered if he was serious. His eyes were solemn, and there was no amused slant to his mouth. She decided to believe him. He was not entirely without manners, and his treatment of her, though brusque at times, had been far short of abominable.

Grey pushed away from the wall as Berkeley resumed combing her hair. "So how do we go on from here?" he asked.

"I expect I shall have to find employment," she said.

"Can you cook?"

"No," she said regretfully. "Not so that I could earn my way."

"That's unfortunate. The last woman who got off one of the packet boats and could cook is now earning a thousand dollars a month at the El Dorado. I know because I bid for her services. I drove the price up so they didn't get her cheaply, but I would have liked to have hired her here."

"A thousand dollars." Berkeley's tone was awed. "Perhaps I could learn."

Grey shook his head. "Not in the Phoenix's kitchen. This city has enough problems with fires." He noticed she didn't appear hurt by his refusal. He remembered she had mentioned a talent earlier. "Do you sing? Dance? Play an instrument?"

"Not so that I could earn my way," she repeated.

"Do you know anything about gaming? Faro? Dice? Poker?"

"No."

"Needlework?"

"No."

"And you don't want to whore."

"No!"

It was the answer Grey had expected, but her vehemence made it difficult to keep his smile in check. "Well then, what is it you
can
do, Miss Shaw?"

Berkeley set down the comb. "Give me your hand, Mr. Janeway, and I'll show you."

Chapter 4

Berkeley's request brought the full force of Grey's skeptical gaze. "You know some parlor trick with palms and fortunes?" he asked incredulously.
"That's
your talent?"

"Please," she said, nudging the cat aside. "Sit down. I don't believe you'll be disappointed."

His short laugh scoffed her. "I can't be. I have absolutely no expectations."

She noticed that in spite of his words he still hadn't moved. One of her eyebrows arched, and she patted the space beside her. "Come," she said. "You're not afraid, are you?"

It hadn't occurred to Grey that he might be hesitating because of fear. "Now you're being absurd," he told her. But he was staring at her deeply green eyes and wondering suddenly if she sensed something he was denying. Grey walked to the window bench and sat. He held out his left hand.

Berkeley only glanced at it. "Your right one, please. You're right-handed."

"How did you know?" Then he remembered she had seen him writing at his desk. This
was
just a parlor trick, he reminded himself.

"There are signs in your palm," she said.

"Yes, of course." His tone was clearly disbelieving, but he dutifully raised his right hand.

Berkeley took his hand in both of hers and turned it palm up. She supported the back of it with her left hand and laid her right one over the top. Her fingers trailed lightly across his skin, and her head lowered in the same motion. She inched closer.

She no longer smelled of fish. It was the wayward thought that occurred to Grey as he stared at her bent head. The faint scent of his soap clung to her skin and pale hair. Then there was something else, another fragrance, more subtle and vaguely tantalizing, one he couldn't define but that might have been just her.

Her fingertips were cool, her touch like threads of silk crossing his palm. The hand that supported his was strong. She seemed unaware of how close she held him to her breast.

"How peculiar," she said softly.

Grey waited, but she didn't enlighten him. She probably had no idea what to say, he realized. She was making this up as she went along. It didn't really matter. Berkeley Shaw could say most anything. The men who came to gamble in his house would put down gold just to have her hold their hand—especially if she took it directly to her breast.

Unaware of Grey's straying thoughts, Berkeley began to tell him what his palm revealed. "You're quite intelligent," she said quietly. "And clever. They're not the same thing at all, you know, and you're both. You're a kind man, though perhaps it is not something you wish others to know. I do not even think you permit yourself to believe it." She glanced up at him, but his expression was guarded in a way his palm could not be. The implacable blue-gray eyes were mirror-like, drawing in her gaze, then reflecting it back. She did not see kindness there.

Berkeley's eyes dropped away. Her finger traced his heart line. "It is in your nature to help others even though you resist the notion. You have given a great deal of thought to your beliefs, and you act on them, in spite of what those close to you may think."

Grey permitted himself a small, archly satisfied smile. There
was
no one close to him.

"You are rather an insular man," Berkeley went on. "There is a certain amount of pride in your self-sufficiency. The secrets that you keep in your heart keep others away, and that's important to you. It has become a way of life." She paused, retracing the line lightly. "It has been this way for a very long time."

"Do you know my secrets, Miss Shaw?" Grey asked.

She shook her head. "Only that you have them."

"What man doesn't?"

Berkeley's smile was gentle. "Just so, Mr. Janeway. Do you want to know more?"

"Please, by all means."

Ignoring the challenge in his invitation, Berkeley studied the marks of his life again. His hand was large, capable. The fingers were lean and strong, and the tips were rough from hard, physical labor. There was evidence of a callus on the heel of his hand. "You have no difficulty giving orders. Other men look to you for leadership, and you take on that responsibility somewhat reluctantly. You prefer to provide it by example, working alongside those you lead."

Berkeley's fingers drew over his palm again. A small shiver passed through her. The response was so unexpected that she almost dropped his hand. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not certain what—"

"It's a good effect," Grey said. "You should keep it in. Adds an authentic touch."

Berkeley didn't defend herself or try to explain what had just occurred. The truth was, she didn't know. "You've had one love in your life," she said, keeping her voice steady. "But not a true love."

"What makes you say that?"

She pointed to the small lines on the side of his hand just below his little finger. "This first one is weak and only faintly traced," she said. "It's shallow and without purpose. Perhaps you imagined yourself in love."

"Don't all men do that?"

"I don't know," she said. Her glance was curious. "Did you?"

Grey didn't know either. He often wondered if there was a woman his damaged memory had left behind, but he had never felt compelled to find out. He had imagined that if there had been someone—a true love, as Berkeley named her—then he would have known somehow, and been moved by forces beyond reason and past explanation to find her. "Yes," Grey said at last. He found himself not wanting to disappoint Berkeley. She obviously believed what she was telling him. "There was a love, just as you said."

Berkeley nodded. "But nothing came of it."

"No," he said, smiling. "Not a thing."

"I wasn't entirely certain," she admitted now. "You see, your lines are quite odd. It's almost as if you have two lives. Or have had two. I can't get any sense of the time of it all. It can be interpreted in different ways, I suppose. This lifeline is broken right here." She pointed to the distinct unmarked space in his palm.

Grey found himself bending his own head. "What does it mean?"

"What it means doesn't make sense," she said. Berkeley looked up and found herself directly in the line of his gaze, his face very close to hers.

"How do you mean?" Grey asked.

"By all rights, Mr. Janeway, you should be dead."

Grey simply stared at her. It took considerable effort not to show that she had struck him this time. "As you said, it doesn't make sense. I'm quite alive."

"Yes, I know." Berkeley pulled back a little, uncomfortable with the narrowing space between them. His posture hadn't changed at all. He gave the appearance of being relaxed, even slightly amused, but there was a tension in his hand that he couldn't hide from her now. She was aware of the potential strength in his fingers and the grip he could make around her own wrist. She had a sense suddenly that she held him only because he permitted it, and that it could easily have been the other way around, that perhaps he even wished now that it was.

Feeling trapped, Berkeley tore her eyes away from his and willed herself to breathe evenly. "It's only one possible interpretation," she said. "It easily could be explained by a separation of your public and private self. Two faces. Two lives. Or just that you've put some important part of your past behind you. You've obviously experienced a great deal of turmoil. There have been enormous hardships and losses. A betrayal. You're very much alone, Mr. Janeway, but it's by your own choice."

Grey frowned slightly. Intrigued in spite of himself, he said, "Explain yourself."

"Here," she said, pointing to the beginning of his lifeline. "This cluster of lines. Your family roots."

"I don't have any family."

"You don't recognize them," she corrected, watching him closely. "There's a difference."

Grey's remote eyes didn't flicker. "If you say so, Miss Shaw."

Berkeley lowered his hand. "You're a rather lucky man," she said. "Though it may be more accurate to say that you have the ability to recognize a change in your fortunes and use it to your advantage."

"Yes," he said dryly. "That would be more accurate."

She ignored his tone. "You can depend on a long life, though not one that will be without its difficulties. I suspect you will marry."

"You only suspect?"

"It's clear that you will have children, Mr. Janeway." She held up four fingers, paused, and then extended her thumb. "Five." Berkeley looked at him. "Do you already have a child?"

He didn't know. "No."

She frowned. "I don't know what to make of that. It's clearly there."

"I would know if I had a child, Miss Shaw." But he wouldn't, he thought, and he didn't.

"I think the child isn't yours."

That made no sense to Grey. "Do I have a child or not?" he demanded.

Berkeley started at his tone. "I can't really say. You've said you don't, and that's probably true, but your palm says one of your children won't be yours." Agitation made her voice rise a notch. "I can't do any better than that, Mr. Janeway. It's up to you to make some sense of it. I can only tell you what I see."

"You can't say whether I'll marry or not. That shouldn't be so difficult to make out."

"It has everything to do with you," she said tartly. "You could always choose not to marry the mother of your children."

"And perhaps I'll choose to marry the mother of the child who isn't mine. That should nicely twist my life."