Rags to Rubies (11 page)

The last few days in Chicago had been an emotional roller coaster. He knew he wanted Grace with a passion he had once thought dead or at least comatose. His need for a woman had always been one-dimensional. When a female got his attention, his approach was direct, swift, his attention short-lived.

He wanted to leave Grace alone, but he knew he wouldn’t. He liked how she felt in his arms, liked the taste of her kisses, liked the smell of her hair. He wanted to make love to her and knew he would not have the strength to turn away from her even though his conscience would demand it. He had never felt this way about a woman. A need to possess her and cherish her at the same time.

Faced with a choice, he knew which way he would go. And he deserved to pay for what he would take from her.

“And you?” she asked. “Any summer romances?”

“Are you fishing for a body count?”

“No. Just the ones that got close.”

There was no sense fabricating a response. She’d read the society page’s version of his love life and the numerous women who would jump at the chance to pick out a ring and veil if he snapped his fingers.

“What makes you sure there were any?” he said looking down at fingers that had never worn a gold band.

“Oh, just speculation on my part.”

Jared gave her question some thought. “There hasn’t been anyone.”

“Why not?” she asked boldly.

He considered the question for the first time. For years he’d enjoyed himself by being involved with the most sought-after, beautiful women, the more unobtainable the better.

Then he’d been drafted. In the destruction of the battlefield, he learned the value of life. A transient commodity too valuable to waste in meaningless endeavors. After the brutal images faded, he returned to his businesses with a dedicated vengeance. He still found his pleasures, but from behind a wall he’d built carefully to maintain a safe distance. So in answer to her question he gave the standard trite response, “I guess I never met the right woman.” Then he added, “She probably doesn’t exist.”

“Like the woman in the portrait,” Grace murmured.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Grace twirled the silver spoon in her tea. “If she did exist, what would she be like?”

A Pullman porter in his white coat, gloves, and red cap approached and began to clear the table, refilling Grace’s teapot with hot water.

“What’s your name?” Jared asked the man.

“Ya’ll know dat we all named George, sir.” The old porter’s black eyes twinkled, lighting up skin as smooth as chocolate. “But my mama calls me William, sir.”

“Thank you, William, for taking such good care of us. I know the hour is late.”

“Yessum, sir.” The man scraped a few crumbs from the table into a silver salver and snapped the lid shut, bowing as he backed away.

Jared waited for the porter to leave. Normally, he would have used the interruption to avoid Grace’s question. It was too personal, the answer would be too revealing, but the words tumbled out haltingly as if being summoned from a place so deep in his psyche they were emerging for the first time to paint a picture of a dream.

“Strong...with a kind heart,” he said. “Someone I can talk to about anything, someone who can laugh.” He shifted in his seat. “Faithful, someone I could count on. Someone who would always be there...who wouldn’t give up on me. On us. And passionate.”

“About what?”

“About life. About me.”

“You forgot beautiful.”

“If she were all those things, she would be beautiful,” he said softly.

“That criteria isn’t hard to meet. I know a dozen women who fit.”

“And I’ve known dozens, and none fit.”

“You’ll get old waiting.”

“So will you.”

They stared at each other. Then she laughed unexpectedly, a tiny laugh that began in the back of her throat and grew until the firm set of Jared’s mouth curved upward into a grin and he joined her with a masculine chuckle.

Grace sobered and wiped a bit of moisture from her eyes. “Well, there is only one thing left to do. If we’re both still single at sixty, we’ll get married, okay? Tie the knot. Take the plunge. Jump the broomstick.”

The light moment turned serious as she held out her small hand to him. “Deal?”

“Deal.” Tugging her fingers to his lips, he kissed her knuckles and felt the shudder that always seemed to accompany their coming together. He was driving himself crazy trying to figure it out.

Even now, as he walked with her toward the drawing car, he didn’t want the evening to end until he’d had her, even if it was only a little taste. “Nightcap?” Jared asked as he opened the door of his sleeping compartment and produced a silver flask from the coat pocket of his jacket.

Chapter Fifteen

Grace smiled and stepped into the drawing room compartment. She knew she probably shouldn’t be here with him, but she wanted—no, needed—his presence.

She had been running on adrenaline for a week now, and it had finally taken a toll. Grace glanced at the luxurious surroundings. The Pullman car had thick carpeting, heavy draperies, French plate glass mirrors, black walnut woodwork, and oil chandeliers. A bowl of fresh fruit graced a round table. If not for the lulling sound of traveling over train tracks, one would think they were in a luxurious parlor. She sat in a comfortable overstuffed chair and crossed her legs.

Taking a glass from the small credenza near the door, Jared poured a measure of the liquor from his flask and held it out to her.

She took it and leaned back, expelling a sigh. The Remy Martin Old Pale warmed her, and she closed her eyes for a soothing moment.

Through her lashes she saw Jared watching her. His features were softened by a smile, the dark brows no longer furled in his normal scowl, but the familiar prowling hunger was there in his gaze.

Different from Adam. Handsome, charming Adam and his sweet words had been so convincing, lies she’d been eager to believe. She considered herself an intelligent woman, so why had she overlooked the obvious signs?

The answer formed in her mind. Because she wanted to believe in the kind of love her parents had shared. She wanted to believe that happiness was not found only in fleeting moments. She wanted to believe men were noble and honorable, capable of great depth of feeling and true to the vows they uttered before God and the women they professed to love. Even now, she still wanted to believe.

As the Tuscan-red Pullman car raced toward New York and all the painful memories, she became more determined to put the past behind her. Surely not all men were alike, and Jared was not Adam. Surprisingly, she had put her safety and her faith in him easily. He inspired the sort of confidence that said he would deliver whatever he promised. She raised the glass to her lips, assessing him over the rim.

Why did he have to be so handsome? And what were these crazy, mixed-up feelings about? Feelings so primitive and wanton they frightened her. Jared could make her tingle from across the room, and she didn’t want to be caught in any man’s power ever again. Though she felt a dangerous attraction to him, she was tired of being afraid. Afraid to live fully. Afraid of being hurt again.

Of course, that would only happen if she allowed it, and this time her eyes were open wide.

Jared broke into her musings by speaking ever so softly. “Grace, sometimes when I’m with you, I get the impression you are waiting for me to do something wrong, to make a mistake.” He moved toward her now. She wanted to hear a promise, a promise he wouldn’t ever intentionally hurt her, but instead he said, “Trust me, Grace.”

Pulling her to her feet and into his arms, he kissed her—gently at first, and then his lips became more demanding and intimate. He crushed her against his chest and kissed her deeply and urgently.

“Incomparable,” he whispered before sliding his tongue into her mouth. Shyly, she met his thrusts, touching her tongue to his in a seductive dance.

She knew she shouldn’t encourage this man, knew with this man she was malleable and pliant. Knew in her heart she could care for this man who would never cherish love as she did, but she couldn’t bring herself to pull free from his arms.

A myriad of feelings swelled within her. She was afraid of surrendering. Of being rejected. Afraid he would seduce her. Afraid he wouldn’t. She moaned, unable to put the feelings, the fear, into words and unable to deny the urgings of her own body. She pressed against him, opening herself, offering herself to him.

Her arms stole around his neck, stroking the hair curling softly at his nape. She moaned into his mouth, a breathless little moan that came from the back of her throat.

“Jared.”

“Shh...I won’t hurt you, Grace. I promise.”

“Yes, but I feel strange,” she murmured into his shoulder. She had never been on this particular journey before. She had given herself over to him, to his touch.

Suddenly several sharp raps on the wall between the compartments cut through.

Grace’s eyes fluttered open.

Jared took a deep, calming breath then emitted a small chuckle. He leaned his forehead against hers.

Grace grinned. “Sorry,” she said using the untimely interruption to bring her breathing back to normal.

Leaning a broad shoulder against the wall, he reached over and opened the door. When she touched his cheek, he put his hand atop hers and drew her fingers to his lips, gently kissing her palm. Then, with a slight bow and a wave of his hand, he released her to return to Zia Bruna.

****

The cabin door closed behind Grace. Jared took a liberal sip of the Old Pale. The liquor wound a warm path to his stomach. Leaning back against the door, he closed his eyes and rolled the cool glass over his forehead.

He’d felt her quiet surrender, the very moment she had come willingly to his embrace. Out of nowhere, a feeling of contentment had eased over him, a quiet warmth he relished after he recognized it. Had it not been so pleasurable, it would have been unnerving. Instead, he was bewitched.

As he undressed, he leaned back on the sleeping berth, staring blindly at the darkened window, only to see his grim reflection. The rhythmic clatter of the train combined with the potent brandy had the welcome effect of rendering his recent insomnia cured.

He yawned, contemplating the dilemma he faced. Another day had passed, and he was no closer to solving this mystery. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to unravel it.

He rubbed his eyes, yawned again, and scratched the stubble on his chin.

Sallie had checked out a few leads for him. While he had faith in his friend, there wasn’t much to go on. So few clues. The jewels Grace appraised had not been stolen. The only lead had been Quigley, and he was dead. A camera, a matchbook, and a dead thief who hadn’t stolen anything. It didn’t add up to much.

Sallie had also checked the local hardware stores where keys could be made. The person who had broken in to Grace’s home had been in and out fast. No time to pick an old lock. Even a professional would have been spotted by Sallie’s men if he’d taken any time at all to pick the lock. Either the man was a ghost, or he’d had a key.

He took Grace’s sketches out of the manila envelope. He’d only given them a cursory look before, but now he studied them. The sketches were intricately detailed, almost photographic. No, better than a photograph would have been. The black and white of a photograph would never bring the exquisite gems to life the way Grace’s drawings did. The works were vibrant and painstakingly detailed, handcrafted with a steadfast eye for accuracy.

Each beautiful facet of the gemstones and setting sparkled. Around the border of the sketch were insets of each stone with degreed measurements of the individual facet cut. The quality of colour, freedom from internal flaws, and carat weight determined the commercial value.

Grace’s detailed report discussed gem density, rarity, crystal structure, light dispersion, and several other gem qualities Jared didn’t recognize. The center gem, an exquisite ruby, was cut into a cabochon—one of the oldest, simplest cuts, used to enhance the color of the stone.

The sketches were pen-and-ink, colored to mimic the depth of each gem’s hue. The drawings were works of art in themselves, he thought, much like the botanicals of Fitch or Thornton.

Jared put the silver flask to his lips, draining the last of the brandy and inhaling the subtle scent of Grace’s perfume that still lingered in the compartment.

Would she regret the loss of her virginity—taken by the likes of him? Instinctively, he knew she would. Contentment for Grace could only come from giving her precious gift to a husband who understood its meaning. He suspected anything short of that would level her.

He thought of other women who would be more than willing to please him without any demands. But Grace didn’t demand anything of him, so why did he always feel like a heel? The rags called him a sheik, though he didn’t see himself that way. But neither was he an innocent. An innocent like Grace.

He scowled, jammed the sketches back into the envelope, and tossed it along with the empty flask onto the dresser.

It had been a long time since he’d been this intrigued by a woman, and he didn’t want to let the delicious sensations disappear, but he was getting too close.

Over the past few weeks, he had gotten to know her, and she was transforming from a sensual woman into a real person. He didn’t want the burden of that knowledge. He thought of his feelings as simple lust. Feeling anything else would complicate—no, compromise—his life.

Damn it to hell! He hated how he felt. No matter how innocent, she was an adult. He had never forced himself on any woman, but he knew he had the ability to charm his way between a woman’s thighs. And what he felt for Grace was far from honorable. He flicked off the light and rolled onto his side.

Then he remembered Bruna’s words.
You will fare how you please. I cannot stop you… Her weakness is her goodness.
Damn it all to hell!

****

The compartment was dark when Grace let herself in. She knew Bruna was awake because she had just pounded on the wall of the drawing room with a vengeance, but now her aunt had turned away, giving Grace her back.