Tycoon (7 page)

He'd curled her toes. Moreover, she'd seen stars. How could she walk away from that, pretend it never happened? More than anything, she wanted to give him pleasure. To affect him as he had affected her. She needed this to be equal, not some exercise he performed out of pity for her.

She sat and rolled up onto her knees. As she moved closer, he held up his hands to stop her.

“You're right,” he told her. “I don't know what you want. But you'll regret being intimate with a man you just met.”

“Why, because I'm some silly girl who can't possibly know what she wants? I may be a shop girl,” she said, her hands now within reach of his vest buttons, “but I've been taking care of myself for a long time.”

She slipped a button free.

“I don't think you're silly,” he said quietly.

“But you do think you know what's better for me than I do.” Another button.

“No, but this is hardly appropriate.”

“
Life
is hardly appropriate.” She rapidly dealt with the remaining buttons and pushed the vest over his shoulders. “That is why we must grab moments of happiness when we can. For example, if that policeman were to catch up with me tomorrow, I might never have a chance—”

“Do not even say it. I won't allow that to happen.”

While his protectiveness warmed her insides, what could a bank executive do against the New York City police? She smiled and slipped his suspenders down his arms. While he didn't complain, he didn't help, either.

“Your concern for my well-being is quite sweet, Ted, but no one knows what the future may bring. I'd rather live for
now
.”

Necktie removed, his shirt collar came off next. Then she started on his shirt buttons. His big hand covered hers.

“Are you certain? Because once it's done, there's no going back.”

She bit her lip but nodded. Her fingers went to the hem of her chemise and lifted it over her head. She heard him suck in a breath—and then he pounced.

He claimed her mouth in a hot, blistering kiss. From there, remaining clothes were pushed aside until there was just warm, rough skin. He stretched her out beneath him on the bed and started kissing her again. His erection poked her thigh, and she squirmed against him, ready for something
more
.

“Wrap your legs around my hips.”

She eagerly complied and he reached between them to fit his shaft to her opening. Bracing himself on his arms, he eased in farther, his sharp breaths teasing the skin of her neck, and then he drove down with a thrust that pierced her straight through.

The air left her lungs and she blinked. Dimly, she noticed as he threw his head back and let out a long groan. She focused on the base of his throat, where his pulse pounded just under the skin, instead of the intense fullness between her legs. It didn't help.

“Breathe,” he panted. “It will get better. At least I'm told it will.”

“Have you never . . .”

“No, never.”

Without waiting for an answer, he dipped his head and kissed her. His tongue distracted her with long licks before his lips moved to nibble her throat. He gave her time, whispering words of her beauty, her bravery, how he'd never met another woman like her. Her body soon relaxed, softening beneath him as the uncomfortable sensation receded, which prompted her to give an experimental rock of her hips.... They both moaned, the slight jolt a tantalizing hint of what lay ahead.

“That felt . . . nice,” she breathed, though it had been so much more than
nice
.

He gave a strangled chuckle. “Yes, I thought so, too.”

He started moving, slowly at first, then picked up speed as the pleasure built. There was none of the pain and all of the desire, so much that she didn't think her skin could contain all of the sensation. She loved that they shared this, that he was inside her body, the two of them moving together, straining, racing toward the peak, and when her climax hit, she clutched him, her muscles drawn tight as she convulsed. Soon after, Ted withdrew from her body, his hand shooting down between them. He held her gaze, never looking away, his blue eyes dark and wild, as undone as she'd ever seen him—and her heart turned inside out. A wide, encompassing depth of feeling for him expanded in her chest and she almost blurted out three little words to express it. But before she could, he gave a shout and strands of hot liquid splashed onto her belly.

She tried to catch her breath. That had been . . . extraordinary. Better than she'd ever imagined. And she knew nothing would ever be the same. Not after this.

Ted's chest heaved as he sat on his heels, giving her the first opportunity to truly study him. She liked the way his skin stretched tight over his lean muscles. A thin coat of brown hair covered his chest. Broad shoulders and flat stomach. His thighs also had the same dusting of crisp hair, as did his groin. And then she saw his softening erection—

He shifted and climbed off the mattress, taking the exceptional view with him. Oh, then she saw him from behind.
My heavens.
Naked, he was lovely. “Do you exercise?” she called to his back.

“Not often. Why?” He disappeared into the water closet. She heard water running and then he returned with a cloth, sitting on the bed by her hip.

“I was just wondering because you seem very fit.”

He reached out with the cloth and she soon understood his intention.

“I'll do that,” she said and tried to grab the cloth from his hands.

“No.” He covered her hands. “Allow me to take care of you, Clara.”

There was a tenderness in his voice that hadn't been there before, and she relaxed. Embarrassing though it was, she liked having him look after her. He didn't speak, just cleaned her. She shivered and waited, not knowing what to say. Did he regret what happened?

“Are you sorry?” she blurted out.

He stood up and returned to the water closet, not answering her, and Clara's stomach tumbled, the curtain of contentment falling from before her eyes. Of course he regretted it. Ted was handsome and successful. No doubt women threw themselves at him every which way he turned, and here she'd done the very same thing.
Men don't respect cheap women,
her mother had often said.

But she wasn't cheap. Yes, she and Ted had just met, yet she felt truly connected to him, as if he was the one person on earth who understood her. She cared about him, and had thought he cared in return. How could she have been so wrong?

She bit her lip and started to sit up. Ted returned and knelt on the bed by her hip, but she wouldn't meet his eye. “I should—”

“Actually”—he drew his hand up her thigh—“I was thinking how very not sorry I am. Shameful of me, but there it is.”

He wasn't sorry.
A giddy buoyancy filled her chest, like the tiny bubbles in the champagne she'd imbibed last evening. She grinned. “Shameful of me as well, but I'm not sorry, either.”

“Good.” The side of his mouth hitched. “Then we can be not sorry together for all else that I plan to do to you tonight.”

He wanted to do it again.
Her limbs grew heavy and she dropped back onto the mattress. He stretched out beside her, the heat radiating from his body seeping into her bones. She never, ever wanted to move, not for anything, especially not when he gazed at her as if she'd just invented perfume. A quiet hope flooded her veins, one she barely dared to name . . . one that sounded a lot like “forever.”

Chapter Seven

Despite the ungodly early hour, Ted found himself whistling during his shave the next morning. He'd awoken next to Clara, something he never, ever did with a woman. His lovers tended to be married, so there wasn't an opportunity for nighttime cuddles. To be honest, he'd never cared before. But after having Clara once more last night, he'd fallen into a deeper sleep than he'd enjoyed in years.

They'd made love through Bellefontaine, shared a private dinner in Muncie, and then went back to bed again in Indianapolis. Finally, as the train pulled into Terre Haute, they'd both fallen asleep.

Her presence on this train felt like a gift, a reward after years of solitude, or the first bright, sunny day after weeks of rain. In addition to clever and beautiful, Clara was brave. Not many women would still be standing after what she'd been through the past few days. He admired her for that. And he was again reminded of how brilliant she'd been with the Webbers.

Hard to admit, considering his de facto stance on relationships, but he liked her. Quite a lot, actually. She hadn't pressed for more after they'd slept together, though he'd taken her virginity. In fact, she'd said very little, just snuggled against his side, her soft red hair spilling over his shoulder and her unique, flowery scent enveloping him, and he'd wondered if he'd ever been so happy.

He suspected that somehow this young, vibrant woman had affected him as no other woman had.
You're falling for her.

After two days? No, he wasn't . . . was he?

And what was so wrong if he had? Perhaps the time had come to get serious with a woman. Moreover, he could see himself happy with Clara. Strolls in Central Park. Trips to Newport. Smelling the scent on her wrist each night, trying to guess her mood.

Yes, he liked the idea of the two of them very much. One thing was for certain—he sure as hell didn't plan on letting her go.

He wiped the remaining cream from his face. Rapidly, he donned a fresh suit. He wanted to speak with Clara this morning, see if he couldn't convince her to return to New York with him. First, he had to explain who he was and how he could help keep her safe. Now that he knew she had told the truth about what happened to her, he could cable the police commissioner and get to the bottom of it. At the very least, he'd demand that the policeman chasing her be stopped and held accountable. Terrorizing a young woman halfway across the country was utterly uncalled for.

Now dressed, he eased open the water closet door. Clara was still asleep, sprawled across the mattress. He smiled. As much as he'd like to crawl in next to her, he could use the time to get some cables drafted before they reached St. Louis.

A knock on the door surprised him and he hurried to answer before the noise awoke Clara. He closed the sleeping area door and then went to the end of the car.

The porter stood there, a bundle of clothing in his hands. “Good morning, Mr. Harper. I brought your wife's dress and coat as soon as they were cleaned.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” Ted reached into his pocket and started to withdraw a small tip.

“Also, they found this in your wife's coat.” He presented an envelope to Ted. “They always check the pockets, just in case, and sure enough, that was in there.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” He handed over the tip and accepted both garments and the envelope. “Will you have some breakfast brought for us? A few plates of whatever's on hand in the dining car. And some coffee.”

“Yes, sir.” The porter tipped his hat and disappeared into the main part of the train.

Once in the sitting area, Ted placed her clean things on the back of a chair. He hadn't asked if she wanted her coat and dress cleaned, but he'd noticed how dirty they were. He hoped she liked the surprise.

Ready to locate his satchel and get to work, he tossed Clara's envelope on the low table.

The top must not have been properly closed because the envelope opened—and a stack of bills emerged.

Was that . . . money? Hadn't she admitted to being without funds on the trip? He picked up the stack. Sure enough, they were fifty-dollar bills. About twelve hundred dollars, if he didn't miss his guess—and considering he handled money every day, he was certain of it.

What was a shop girl doing carrying around twelve hundred dollars in her pocket?

Flipping through the bills, something felt off. He repeated the motion. The quality of the paper was different. Removing his eyeglasses from his suit coat, he slipped them on and studied the bills. These were based on the 1880 design, with the portrait of Benjamin Franklin on the left and Lady Liberty on the right. Serial numbers beginning with capital A, the sequence ending with a “greater than” symbol. The small red scalloped seal and the signatures of Rosecrans and Hyatt.

And there was the mistake.

In the 1880 series, Rosecrans and Hyatt were signees of the large scalloped red seal and the large spiked red seal—not the small red seal. Those bills would have signatures by Roberts and either Lyons or Bruce. The forgers had used the wrong seal.

Counterfeit money. Clara had counterfeit money. A knot formed in his stomach, dread twisting his insides. He stared at the closed bedroom door, beginning to understand. The whole thing had been a sham, as he'd suspected from the start. Starting with the kiss on the platform, then attaching herself to his side, the policeman chasing her, the fall she'd obviously faked in Cleveland . . . She really was a swindler.

How could he have been so goddamn stupid?

He'd come to believe she was honest, that she didn't know him or what he did for a living. No wonder she'd been so good with the Webbers. All confidence men—or women—were experts in reading people, using their perceptive skills to twist people into trusting them. Had she planned to get him in bed as well? God only knew her game.

As if she could sense his growing fury, the bedroom door opened. Clara, her red hair mussed and tangled, emerged in his dressing gown. She started to smile but must've read the expression on his face because her lips fell flat. “Ted?”

He held up the money. “Looking for this?”

A hell of an actress, because she schooled her features into a perfectly confused expression, one he would've bought until five minutes ago. “What is it? Is that money?”

“Yes. Does it look familiar?”

“No. Is it yours?”

“No. If it were mine, it wouldn't be fake.”

“Fake?” She clutched the lapels of the dressing gown tighter and came closer. “I don't understand. Are you saying that's my money and that it's . . . counterfeit?”

“Yes, that's precisely what I'm saying.”

She searched his face, her brows pinched. “I've never seen that stack before in my life. It can't be mine. Where did you find it?”

“I sent your dress and coat to be cleaned. The porter just delivered it. He informed me they found an envelope in your coat pocket and handed that over as well. When I put the envelope down, your money spilled out.”

“But that can't be mine! I don't have that kind of money, and even if I did, I wouldn't carry it around.”

“You might if you were trying to pass off counterfeit bills as real ones.”

“Which is crazy. How do you even know they're counterfeit?”

“You still insist on playing this game?”

“Yes, because I don't have any idea what you're talking about.”

“Clara, you can drop the act. Do you even have family in Missouri, or was that a lie, too?”

“That was not a lie! My family lives on a farm in Columbia and I haven't seen them in almost a year.”

He didn't have a clue as to what to believe at this point. “I know you're not some sweet, innocent, perfume-counter girl. You can admit you know who I am.”

“Oh, I can?” She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head. “Seems I was innocent until about four o'clock yesterday afternoon.” He winced, but she continued. “But that's really not what you meant, is it? Since you're so sure of yourself, why don't you go on and inform me?”

“Ever heard of the New American Bank?” he sneered.

“Of course. Everyone knows that bank, and I've seen the advertisements. Why?”

“It's mine. I own it.”

* * *

Clara tried to reconcile the pieces together in her mind, but the information didn't fit. “You . . . own the bank. What does that mean? You hold the deed to the building?”

“No, Clara. I own the entire bank, every branch and office. All of the employees work for me.”

Her lips formed a tiny O, the only reaction she seemed capable of at the moment. A dozen thoughts swirled inside her mind. The owner. Ted Harper. She'd heard of the millionaire financier Theodore Harper—

Her stomach sank. How could she have not known? He must've had a good laugh at her expense, especially when she'd asked if he were a salesman. She could hear her father's voice now.
You never know when to keep your mouth shut, Clara.

“You're Theodore Harper.”

“Yes,” he confirmed with an authoritative nod. “So you can come clean. Tell me, what was the game? The long con? The badger? Pig in a poke? Or maybe plain old blackmail?”

She rocked back on her heels, the words affecting her like a physical blow. After everything between them, after letting this man claim her body, he still believed the worst of her, that she was some scheming, counterfeit-happy swindler.

And he'd allowed her to believe he was someone else.

The insensitive, hypocritical horse's behind. “I am not a swindler,” she said, her spine straightening. “And other than not revealing details about what I saw in New York—which, I might add, was for your protection—I have been completely honest with you. While you led me to believe you're a simple bank executive instead of one of the richest men in the country!”

“I never lied,” he growled, his usual calm countenance a thing of the past. “And let's not try to pretend this was anything other than a job for you. Who put you up to it? A friend? Your father? The fictional Mr. Ross?”

The derision in his tone set her teeth on edge. She opened her mouth to tell him to go to hell . . . when something he'd said sunk in.
Mr. Ross.
That letter had been for Mr. Ross, the one delivered at the perfume counter that started this whole business. She must've tucked it in her coat pocket when she ran from Ross's office, then forgotten about it. After all, twelve pieces of paper didn't weigh all that much.

Why was Mr. Ross receiving counterfeit money?

She could inform Ted of this realization, but pride held her tongue. Yes, even she could keep her mouth shut when the need arose. He hadn't trusted her from the start, so why try and convince him now?

“I am not trying to fleece you, no matter who you are. That is not my money, counterfeit or not, and if you don't believe me then there's not much more I can say. The train pulls into St. Louis in a little over an hour.” She stalked to her old dress, now cleaned, and scooped it up. “You'll find me dressed and out of your car before then.”

As she started for the bedroom, sadness took hold of her heart, the tightness in her chest nearly unbearable. Before she met Ted, she had believed anything was within reach.
If you work hard enough, Clara, there's nothing you can't accomplish,
her mother had said. What a lie. Girls like her could never have what they wanted, not when the object of their desire stood determined to believe the worst.

“You're not going anywhere until you explain where this money came from,” he said directly behind her. She whirled to see him shake the stack of bills. “Who are you working with to manufacture these? McNally?”

“I have no idea who that is! Moreover, I have no idea where that money came from. Why don't you believe me?”

“You could go to prison, Clara. It's that or flee the country. Are you prepared to leave everything behind just to make a quick buck?”

“I am not a criminal. That money is not mine, nor do I know who it belongs to.”
Other than Mr. Ross, who was clearly into something illegal.
“But since you've already made up your mind, I guess there's nothing more to say.”

“Yes, no doubt you think that's true. Why bother to continue the ruse when I've finally caught on to your scheme?”

“You've caught on to nothing,” she snapped, anger and misery constricting her lungs. “I'm the one who has realized something. I thought people were decent by nature, that we're all more alike than different—but I was wrong. Some people are cruel and suspicious, even when they ought not to be.”

He remained silent, and Clara, beyond heartsick, carried her dress to the sleeping area, shutting and locking the door behind her. She placed the garment on the bed and focused on finding her underclothes instead of the hot, prickling sensation building under her eyelids.
I will not cry. Not over someone so undeserving.
It took a few minutes to gather her things, and she dressed as quickly as her shaking hands would allow.

When she finally emerged, Ted was in a chair, rubbing his jaw and staring out the window. Breakfast had been delivered, the china plates resting on the table, untouched, silverware gleaming in the early-morning sunlight.

Chin high, Clara swept toward the door that led to the main part of the train. She'd arrived with nothing, she would leave with nothing.

And Ted would receive nothing from her. Not gratitude, nor tears. Not even a “farewell.”

“Clara, wait.”

She paused. “Yes, Mr. Harper?”