Jo Goodman (26 page)

"Brock," he told her. He started to come toward her but halted when Berkeley pushed herself back. Hank reached for the basin on her washstand and held it out to her. "Be sick in this."

Berkeley accepted the basin but did not move any closer. "You can go now." Her voice reverberated eerily as she bent over the porcelain bowl. She closed her eyes.

"If you don't mind, Miss Shaw, I'll wait right here. Mr. Brannan was insistent that I tend to your needs."

Berkeley's knuckles were almost as white as the basin she held on to. She suspected her face was approaching that color. She wanted nothing more than to be sick right now, to clear her stomach and perhaps her head.

"Maybe you're not so ill after all," Hank said. He tugged on the basin and removed it from her hands, noticing the faint trembling in her fingers as he did so. "Do you want a damp cloth for your head? No? What if you lie down?"

Berkeley avoided the hand he extended toward her shoulder by pushing even farther back on the bed. Her back was pressed solidly against the headboard when she finally stopped. "Leave, please," she told him. "I want you to leave."

"You didn't seem to mind Reade's presence," he said musingly. "Now, why is that?"

"Mr. Reade wasn't carrying a gun."

Hank Brock mentally gave her full marks for being aware of what others often missed. He opened his jacket slowly and took out the pistol that was tucked into the waistband of his trousers. He laid it on the nightstand beside the unused basin. "Now neither am I."

"I'm feeling better," Berkeley said. In fact, she was feeling worse. Crowded by his nearness and panicked by his size, she thought she might actually faint.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said pleasantly. One of his knees depressed the edge of the bed as he moved closer. "Then you won't mind answering a question I've had since I first saw you this evening. I'm real curious to hear where you came by that gown."

Berkeley looked down at herself. The glass beads sewn into the bodice were struck by a combination of moonlight and lamplight, one cool, one warm. "It was a gift."

"Is that right?" he said as if the answer was only of mild interest now. One of his hands brushed the hem. He felt Berkeley try to retract her leg, but she wasn't fast enough for him. Brock caught her ankle and yanked her toward him. Her head bumped the headboard, not hard enough to hurt her seriously but more than enough to stun her. Her instinctive struggle stopped, and he had her trapped, his arms braced on either side of her shoulders and one of his heavy legs securing both of hers. "Tell me about the gown, Miss Shaw. I'll warn you, though. I've seen it before."

Berkeley put her hands on his chest and shoved. It was like pushing on a boulder. Her hands dropped to her sides and she drew a ragged breath.

"You were eager to get out of this gown before," Brock said. "I heard you ask Reade to help you. Shall I?" His knee nudged the hem higher. He glanced down at the exposed length of her legs. "Very nice. What else do you have to show me?"

Berkeley opened her mouth to scream and abruptly shut it again. There was only one person on the floor who might hear her, and Mike was in no condition to mount a rescue. Berkeley quieted because she knew he would try, and then most assuredly, she would be responsible for his death. One of Brock's hands slipped under the small of her back. When he started to turn her over Berkeley jammed her fist into her mouth to keep from crying out.

It was Brock's gun settled firmly against his temple that gave him pause. He knew it was his own weapon because the moment he felt the cold steel on his skin his eyes strayed to the wash-stand.

"Back away, Brock," Grey said. "Easy. Keep your hands very still." Grey pulled the pistol back so Hank Brock could move. There was already a red crescent where Grey had jammed the barrel against his skin. Brock was lucky, Grey thought. There should have been a hole. He noticed that Brock had raised his hands to shoulder height. The man knew how to position himself for surrender. "Turn around slowly. Face the door and start walking." Grey followed the bodyguard in the hallway and as far as the top of the back stairs. "Get out," he said. "And don't return here with Brannan again. You'd do well to find a replacement when Sam decides to come around."

Hank Brock's broad features were stoic. He did not offer any explanation for what Grey had seen in Berkeley's bedroom. The fact that he was still alive was proof enough that Grey had singled out his mistress for most of the blame. Hank was not going to say anything that might alter that opinion. "I need my gun, Mr. Janeway."

"Get out," Grey repeated. He kept the pistol level. Brock's barrel chest made a large target, and the distance between them meant Grey couldn't miss placing his shot. He watched Brock consider his options, then decide on the one that would mean his life could continue. The bodyguard turned slowly and headed down the stairs. Grey lowered the weapon when Hank Brock left by the back door.

Berkeley was kneeling on the floor hovering over the basin when Grey returned. She had finally managed to empty the contents of her stomach. There wasn't much. Most of what she did was heave dryly, wrenching her diaphragm and throat. Her shoulders and head sagged weakly. She didn't look up as he walked past her.

Grey put the gun on the washstand and poured Berkeley a glass of water. He hunkered beside her and handed her the glass. "Rinse and spit. Do you have any liquor?"

She shook her head but didn't raise it. "The water's fine." She gave him back the glass when she was finished. "Thank you."

Grey replaced it then hauled Berkeley to her feet as he stood. "Come on."

Berkeley stumbled after him, almost knocking the basin over. "Where are we going?"

"You don't just leave your guests," he said coldly. "You certainly don't sneak out on them towing your lover."

"My what?" she said weakly. "You mean Mr. Reade?"

"What has he to do with anything?" Grey jerked her along.

"Oh, please," Berkeley said as she was pulled into the hallway. "Don't make me go back there. I can't. I really can't. Mr. Janeway... Grey... please... I need to get out of this gown. Oh, God." She was shaking now and tears hovered at the edge of her lower lashes. "You don't understand. I need... you're hurting me. My arm..." She tried to wrest herself away from him. His grip was exactly the same as the one he had used earlier in the day. She could feel his fingertips pressing on her bruised flesh.

Grey stopped long enough to turn her in his arms. His hold on her eased marginally, but he didn't let her go. "You can explain what you think I don't understand in a moment. Right now you're going to come with me and bid your guests good night. Don't you dare cry in front of them, and don't you dare affect that fey, wounded look of yours. I haven't done a thing to you. Yet. And I don't want you looking contrite. The point of this exercise is to show them that nothing happened, that nothing is wrong. You can't convince them if you look repentant."

Grey took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. He pinched color in her pale cheeks, smoothed back several loose tendrils of hair, and studied her critically. "Pretend you're hurling fish at them. That should see you through."

Somehow it did. Berkeley stood on the curved landing at Grey's side while he thanked his guests for graciously helping him open the Phoenix. He thanked them also for the warm welcome they extended his gaming hall's hostess and spoke for both of them when he said he hoped they would return soon. The gambling, he told them, could continue until dawn, but he and his lady were retiring. He raised Berekely's hand then, almost as if he were offering her to the crowd, but after holding it up just long enough to make them wonder at his intention, Grey smiled wickedly and drew it back to his lips.

Only Berkeley Shaw knew how cold those lips were.

Grey did not return Berkeley to her own suite. At the top of the stairs he steered her in the direction of his own rooms. Once inside he locked the door, dropped the key on a table, and gave her a small push toward the long sofa. Grey went immediately to his newest acquisition, an ornately carved walnut sideboard. He opened the cabinet on the left and took out a decanter of bourbon and two tumblers. He splashed both with liquor and gave one to Berkeley.

"Now
you can look apologetic," he said. "A certain amount of contrition would serve you well."

Berkeley was too miserable to be angry. "I don't know what you think I've done. I felt ill. I asked Mr. Reade to escort me to the stairs."

"Reade? Martin Reade?"

"Yes."

"What about Hank Brock?"

Berkeley used both hands to lift her drink to her mouth. She sipped it carefully. "I was light-headed," she continued, staring at her drink rather than at Grey. "I didn't want to create a scene if I fainted, so I showed Mr. Reade to the back. We went through Annie's kitchen. You can ask her if you'd like."

"I will."

Berkeley knew he would. "Mr. Reade brought me to my room. I asked him inside." Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. "I required some assistance to remove my gown."

"What's that?" Grey asked. He knocked back his drink and poured another. "It sounded as if you said you invited him to undress you."

Berkeley knew he didn't really require confirmation. She went on. "I don't know where Mr. Brannan's man came from. I didn't hear the outer door open."

"But it wasn't locked," said Grey.

"No, I didn't think it was necessary. There's only—"

"I mean you didn't lock it when you invited Reade inside."

"No!" Berkeley's head came up. "It wasn't like that. Please let me return to my room. I want to get out of this gown. You don't—"

Grey held up his hand, stopping her. "Finish your story. What about Hank Brock?"

"I don't know. He was just there. Perhaps he was waiting for me. I tell you, I don't know anything else."

"You're lying. You've been teasing the men all night. You put Sam Brannan to a blush. Bottoms, too. Didn't you listen to yourself?"

"It wasn't me." Berkeley pressed one side of the tumbler to her temple. Her head was pounding, and a dark curtain was being drawn across the corners of her vision.

"Not you? Did I hear you right? Brock was in your bed. You weren't struggling. You weren't pushing him away."

"I tried. You just didn't see me." She closed her eyes. "I'm not lying," she whispered. "I'm not."

"You never called for help."

"I was afraid Mike would be the only one to hear me. I couldn't risk that."

"He was starting to undress you."

Berkeley's agitation became impossible for her to contain. She stood. The glass fell through her nerveless fingers and thudded on the carpet. "He wanted this gown," she told him, pulling at the tight sleeves and bodice. Dozens of blue glass beads were torn free. They scattered at her feet like icy raindrops. Almost frantic now with her need to be out of the evening dress, Berkeley yanked one shoulder seam and rent it. Jerking harder, she managed to free one arm as Grey crossed the room to stop her. She warded him off, her breath coming on the back of a sob. "He knew it was Ivory's!" She was suddenly pulled into Grey's arms and held there. She couldn't move, couldn't fight, and the very strength of him was her undoing. Berkeley pressed her face against his shoulder. Her body trembled with the intensity of the emotion coursing through her. She closed her eyes and held on, her fingers curling around his jacket. "This is the gown she was wearing when he raped her!"

Berkeley would only ever have a hazy recollection of what happened after that. She knew the floor slid away from her feet, and there was a sense of floating. Something cool and damp touched her face. Hands, gentle hands this time, saw to her comfort. She lay very still in a warm cocoon and dreamed of emerging as a gossamer winged fairy.

"You're awake."

It was Grey's voice. Berkeley searched the shadowed corners of the room for the source. She saw him when he shifted in the wing chair, swinging his leg from the curved arm to the floor. Something slid from his lap and landed heavily on the floor. He ignored it and lit the lamp on the table beside him. He turned back the wick so only a thin flame flickered. Berkeley saw it was a book that had fallen.

She wondered how he had known she was awake. Surely his eyes were no keener in the dark than hers, yet he had seemed to be aware of the precise moment she opened hers. "Have I been sleeping long?"

Grey shrugged. He didn't know himself. He had drifted off while reading and let the lamp burn itself out. "As long as you needed to," he said. "How are you feeling?"

Berkeley pushed herself upright. The sheet and blanket that covered her shoulders fell to her waist. She was no longer wearing the hateful beaded blue gown. It had been replaced, along with her corset and camisole and half a dozen petticoats, by a fine, sheer linen nightshift. The lawn fabric could have been gossamer wings. She leaned against the headboard and drew her knees toward her chest.

"Berkeley?"

"I'm better, I think."

"Perhaps you should take inventory."

She didn't smile. Her features remained grave. "I'm fine."

Grey nodded. He could see for himself that she had a measure of natural color in her cheeks. Her eyes were clear, and if she was still suffering from a headache, then it had at least become tolerable. He looked at the clock on his mantel. It was after five. The musicians had stopped playing downstairs more than two hours ago. The last of the revelers had left shortly afterward.