Starlight (5 page)

Before he could remember his mind, his manners, his office full of strangers, he strode toward the little woman. Standing over her made him feel like a towering giant, powerful and strong. That feeling did not dim when she jerked up her chin. If anything, the blood in his heart raged even faster.

The shaky, eager way his body took note of her soap-fresh scent and trim waist was only going to complicate matters. Already he knew that he’d take thoughts of her to bed that evening. Pick over them. Analyze them. Relish them.

She wrenched her arm away from the brute who held her captive. But she didn’t run or flinch or weep. Her bright green gaze collided with his. She stared him down with as much force and certainty as any man. Alex fisted his hands against a rush of pure, primal excitement. Sudden combustion.

He had never felt its like.

That she was a suspect only added an edge of violence to his body’s dizzying response.

“Who are you?” he snapped. His voice was so low and curt as to sound wholly unfamiliar. “And what the hell did you do to my mill?”

P
olly
stared up at the man Constable Andrews had referred to as Mr. Christie. She had expected some equivalent of a desk clerk, stooped and thin. Or just the opposite—a fat man with heavy jowls and a pocket watch worth more than her parents’ tenement flat. Instead, Mr. Christie was the worst sort of challenge. He had caught her off guard.

Where was his coat? And his neckcloth? She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a gentleman so informally dressed—if ever. The shock of finding a hint of chest hair poking out from the collar of such a fine, expensive shirt was dangerously distracting. The contrast of wild and civilized was as pronounced as the stark white cloth lying against his tanned neck.

And despite her indignant temper, she had to admit that Agnes was right: he was a man born of Calton stock. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had a
hard jaw designed to absorb life’s toughest punches.

That didn’t mean he knew how to fight. Could he bully, cheat, terrorize? Oh, yes. Of that she had no doubt. No one became a mill master without some sort of underhanded ambition and trickery.

But to win against her? She wouldn’t allow it.

“I’m Polly Gowan. The policeman in your pocket said as much. And I sure as hell didn’t try to burn down the place where my family’s worked for three generations.” She lifted her brows. “I believe that’s longer than the Christies.”

He scowled. Good. She enjoyed her victory if only to distract herself from his coloring. Tanned skin, yes. Hair like aged gold with bright tips the shade of ripe wheat—just the length to invite a woman’s eager hands. His eyes were amber and green swirled together in a permanent whirlpool, deep and wild. The perfect hazel.

She crossed her arms, disgusted with herself, especially when the sting of her injured shoulder reminded her exactly which interests he represented. The distress of the day’s events had tossed her concentration to the four winds.

“You’d be right,” he said, his words clipped. “But the Christie name hangs above the front door.”

“Thanks only to your workers. Without the men manning the buckets, you’d have lost the entire mill today.”

For the first time since striding toward her like a bull charging a red cape, he broke eye contact. “Is that right, Constables?”

“Save your breath,” Polly said. “They won’t take a piss without Livingstone’s say-so.” She hooked a thumb back toward the man’s looming bulk.

Mr. Christie raised his brows. Was that nearly . . . amusement? Of course not—not under those circumstances. She was looking for hope where there was none to find.

The constable named Utley threw Polly a sharp glare, then replied with a shrug that proved her right. “No telling, sir.”

“All very helpful,” Mr. Christie said dryly. Maybe he realized how little he’d pry from their useless mouths, because he quickly returned his attention to her. “You must be a union girl. I’ve heard of your father.”

“No accomplishment there, master. Even a man who’s been in textiles but a few weeks must’ve heard his name.”

A whisper of a smile tipped his mouth. Again, she felt a shiver of something unexpected. His obvious anger was tinged with a strange humor, like that of a conspirator rather than an enemy. “Don’t make that mistake, Miss Gowan.”

“What mistake is that?”

“You seem to believe that I need more than a few weeks to know my business.”

She leaned in, chin still raised. From that proximity, she could smell him—all warm, freshly bathed skin and downy cotton cloth. “If you knew anything, you’d realize Graham Gowan has never advocated violence, nor does anyone who stands with the union he leads.”

Except Tommy,
whispered a niggling voice in her mind. She pushed it away. No sense telling men with such deeply held prejudices about her suspicions. She would deal with Tommy soon enough.

“You sound proud of your father’s reputation,” he said.

“Rightly so. And I plan to surpass it.”

“Freak she-devil,” Livingstone muttered at her back. “She needs a husband, not explosives and a grudge. A firm hand would keep you in line, girl.”

Les and Hamish cursed his churlish accusations, but Polly found herself curiously unaffected. Quite the wizardry Mr. Christie’s eyes could produce. He needed a haircut, although to tamper with those sandy-blond strands would be an injustice. They added just enough softness to a hard, sturdy face. Brow, cheekbones, nose—all as precise as an architect’s lines, but with the burly toughness she’d expect of a workingman.

He was a deadly handsome man. Her need to suck in a quick gulp of air proved as much.

Polly forced her attention to him. “So, Livingstone, you would be the one to—what was it? Keep me in line? Apply a firm hand?”

“Bet on it,” the overseer said coldly.

“Not a bet I’d take, actually. Odds are I’d have your skin for curtains before sunup.” Polly smiled sweetly, still watching her real opponent. “Now, then, Mr. Christie, you seem ready to act as judge and jury. Shall I fetch an ax and reveal my neck?”

He blinked so hard it was nearly a flinch. “Excuse me?”

“You might as well be my executioner, too.”

And, good Lord, he could be. A quick glance down revealed hands bunched into fists like mallet heads. He wore that beautiful white shirt and finely tailored woolen trousers, yet the simmering anger pulsing from his robust body was anything but elegant. More like . . . brutal. There was no mistaking how his baser instincts would resolve matters.

How odd. Most masters left their dirty work to men like Livingstone. This Mr. Christie looked ready to knock heads. Polly shivered and returned her gaze to his face. But that was no help either. Breathtaking hazel eyes stared back at her, narrowed, fierce in his disconcerting blend of ire and intelligence.

She cocked a hand on her hip. “No bloodshed today, then? No beheading? Just rampant accusations and brute force, instead of a proper investigation. Typical, I say. If this is how you do business with your workers, especially after an emergency, I’ve all I need to know about what sort of master you are.”

His deep assessment was nearly more than she could endure. She would’ve rather suffered more of Livingstone’s jabs and pinches. At least she knew how to deal with that slimy creature. Standing before Mr. Christie, waiting, holding her breath, with the whole room silent after her taunt, she felt terribly exposed, as if he could peer past her bravado to the place where she hid moments of doubt.

But they were just that. Moments. She never let her doubts last long.

He broke eye contact again, releasing her from his magnetic hold. “Who are the rest of you?”

The constables introduced themselves straightaway, but the hired muscle remained silent. “I’m Rand Livingstone, overseer at Winchester Fabrics. And these are the suspects we brought in.”

“Let me get this straight,” Mr. Christie said quietly. But something warm and exciting shivered up Polly’s backbone. The new master was anything but calm. “You’re the overseer at
Winchester
. Yet you’re handling the apparent detention of
my
workers. Under the authority of these constables?”

Livingstone exchanged a furtive glance with Andrews. Hamish, Les, and the others offered sharp protests. Their voices layered over one another until all that remained was the blurred sound of accusations and masculine shouts. Polly would’ve joined the fray, but she was too busy watching Mr. Christie. His eyes flicked back and forth between Livingstone, the constables, the workers, the brutes, and finally to Polly.

“He has personal reasons for ensuring I learn my place,” she said evenly, although she felt no such ease beneath her breast. “Even after these accusations, he could have left the matter to the authorities. But I have no doubt he relishes the opportunity to see me punished. Personally.”

His gaze stayed, but it did not rest. She could feel his attention like a touch. His expression shifted. Apparently all that searching and probing led to a conclusion, but his features did not soften. If anything, he appeared even harder. He unfurled those big hands, shook them as if to return the blood to his fingers, and turned away from everyone. Beneath
his fine white shirt, the taut line of his back seemed hewn of iron.

Briefly, he stood at the lone, wide window and looked out to the darkening sky. Gray shadows and the blue light of a fading afternoon competed for dominance over his strong brow and sharp cheekbones. Only then did Polly notice the coat he should have been wearing, tossed over the back of his chair. Her rebel mind insisted on playing out that moment. How had his body moved as he shed an encumbering layer of civility? Even now, poised in that tense moment, she admired how the revealing cotton stretched between his shoulders. Her gaze followed where twin shirttails disappeared into the snug waistband of his trousers.

She shut her eyes. Not that closing them would stem the rush of images. She feared what her mind would conjure come nighttime. Although she secretly led the union in her father’s stead, she was still a young woman in the presence of a stranger who fired her blood. He was the master of Christie Textiles. Her adversary, if not her outright enemy. But he was also a precious novelty in her tiny world: a strong, handsome, intelligent gentleman.

“I want all of you out,” he said at last. His odd American accent, so low and rough, invaded her darkness.

Polly opened her eyes on a shiver, oddly disappointed that their introduction was already at an end. She had hoped to glean much more about his character.

“Pardon, sir?” asked Constable Andrews.

Mr. Christie swiveled away from the window. “Out of my office. I’m going to chat with Miss Gowan.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” Livingstone snarled. “She bats her green eyes and wraps every Calton man around her finger.”

“You are radically out of place by speaking to me in such a tone. I’m no Calton man, Mr. Livingstone, and I’ll manage just fine.” At another bare syllable of protest, Mr. Christie strode around his desk. Polly shrank back, out of his way and nearer to Agnes, as he went straight for his target. He stabbed an angry finger against Livingstone’s sternum. “I don’t want to see you in my building ever again. If you interfere with business that relates to Christie Textiles, I will have you arrested for trespassing and harassment.”

“The law doesn’t work for you.”

A callous smile shaped Mr. Christie’s firm, wide mouth. Polly hadn’t been able to imagine him smiling, and that cold expression did little to help. It was too . . . calculating. “No, I suspect the law works for the highest bidder. I will ensure they’re well compensated for putting you in your place. Get out.”

Raw hatred flickered through the overseer’s eyes, but Mr. Christie stood his ground. His big fists were back, curled and primed for a fight. Polly covered her mouth with unsteady fingers. To see Livingstone get his comeuppance at the hands of this new master would be the making of her wildest fantasies.

Hit him,
she found herself chanting.
Hit him
.

But the coward didn’t give him a chance. Livingstone took a step back, his expression still twisting around powerless fury. “I won’t forget this.”

“I should hope not,” he said. “Now, Constables, keep the other workers in the clerk’s office down the hall. I’ll meet with them later.”

After Agnes and the various men filed out, Mr. Christie shut the door behind them. The tension around his shoulders and neck had eased. Truly, he had been ready to brawl. Only now did his body relax, having won the round with words and threats. She released a breath laced with an esteem he didn’t yet deserve.

Once again, Polly found herself pinned by his unerring attention. “Sit,” he said.

“I’d rather stand.”

“I suspect you’d argue with the door if the mood suited you.”

She said nothing, so as not to prove him right. Instead she lifted her eyes.
Challenge them,
her father had always instructed.
Men never expect a direct challenge from a woman.