Zeke was no longer a man on the run, but J. E. Morrison, the millionaire, respected, soothed and patronized by the chief of police.
"Don't you worry about any of these rogues, Mr. Morrison," the chief had said. "The law will deal with them now."
Zeke had had no choice but to retreat. He supposed that was the price one paid for becoming rich and respectable. One lost the luxury of settling one's own scores.
He ought to be grateful it was all over, out of his hands, yet he felt as deflated as one of Rory's balloons. He held Rory close, comforting her with words he didn't believe himself.
"I guess what we have to do now, my dear, is just forget the whole thing ever happened."
A difficult task. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could still see Addison's youthful features contorted with the rigor of death. Obviously it was difficult for Rory too. She still seemed troubled, more edgy now than when they had been on the run.
When someone rapped the knocker at his front door, she started in his arms.
"Relax." He smiled. "We know it can't be the police."
She tried to return the smile, but she still looked tense when the knocking sounded again. "Aren't you going to answer that?"
"No, that's what I pay Wellington for. Come on." Guiding her gently, he had her precede him up the curving stair. They were about midway when he heard the butler answering the door.
Zeke didn't bother to look back, sure that Wellington would say he was not at home. To his annoyance, he heard the caller being admitted, the sound of a well-bred feminine accent carrying up the stairs.
Rory appeared too tired to pay any heed. She continued on, but Zeke froze, turning back. He nearly cursed aloud.
Cynthia Van Hallsburg was the last person he wanted to see. He couldn't imagine what she was doing here so late. Garbed in a flowing opera cape of silvery satin, her diamonds winking in the foyer's chandelier light, she appeared to have just returned from some party.
Zeke wished he had had the wit to keep on going, but now it was too late. Mrs. Van Hallsburg had seen him. She stepped to the foot of the stairs, glancing up.
"John," she said softly.
He had no choice but to descend. "Good evening, Mrs. Van H."
For once she made no effort to maintain formality between them. She extended both her hands, which he took. It was the warmest gesture she had ever made toward him, yet still her fingers were cold.
"I am so relieved to see you home safe. I have been through agonies since you disappeared, ringing your house every few hours. When Wellington told me you were returning, I just had to come over despite the lateness of the how."
Zeke shot Wellington a glare over her head. The butler beat a hasty retreat. Zeke turned back to Mrs. Van Hallsburg, summoning up a stiff smile.
"It's very good of you to be so concerned, Cynthia. I have been through a hell— have had a bad time of it. I was just about to collapse."
"I know that, poor boy, and I won't detain you long. I only had to see for myself that you were unharmed and to apologize."
"For what?"
"Why, for the ungentlemanly behavior of my old friend, Charles Decker."
Ungentlemanly? Zeke nearly choked. "Yes, I suppose murder does tend to place a man beyond the pale. I daresay he would never have received an invite from the Vanderbilts again."
"There is no need for you to be sarcastic, John. You cannot imagine how shocked I was when I heard the things Charles had done. I felt as though he had betrayed my trust as well. When I think of how I introduced him to you, insisting he was an honorable man!"
"I guess he fooled a good many people besides you."
"But I knew him such a long time," she murmured, "I should feel more at his death, the way he took his own life, but I can't help thinking that it was better that way."
Zeke had difficulty agreeing with that, but he said, "His suicide was rather unexpected."
"I suppose when you escaped he knew you would return to expose him and couldn't face it."
"The man was such a coward, he seemed to me more likely to bolt than to kill himself."
She gave an eloquent shrug. "Desperate men do the most inexplicable things. I always--"
She broke off, staring past Zeke, her face going rigid. She dropped Zeke's hands. Glancing behind him, Zeke realized Rory had come back down, emerging from the shadows of the upper stairwell.
Rory paused a few steps above Zeke, unable to tear her eyes from that woman. It was only the second time in her life she had ever seen Mrs. Van Hallsburg, but her first impression held good. No wonder she had dreamed of her as the banshee. The woman's eyes were like her diamonds, cold, brilliant and hard.
After her initial unnerving stare, Mrs. Van Hallsburg's gaze roved over Rory in a disparaging fashion, making Rory aware that she was still garbed in Annie's old gown. Rory had never given much thought or care to what she wore. But at the moment, she felt as though she would have sold her soul to be dressed in a gown as regally elegant as Mrs. Van Hallsburg's, to appear before Zeke just as beautiful, just as sophisticated. Facing that woman this way was like confronting an enemy knight without a suit of armor.
For too many moments, none of them said anything. Rory experienced a kind of fierce triumph when Mrs. Van Hallsburg was the first to look away.
"What is this person doing here?" she asked Zeke.
Zeke replied with barely restrained civility. "Miss Kavanaugh is my guest."
"I see." Never had two words been so fraught with icy scorn and insult. Rory felt her cheeks burn.
"Not that it's any concern of yours," Rory blurted out. Her retort sounded childish by comparison with Mrs. Van Hallsburg's rigid self-possession. Zeke stepped hastily in between them.
"Miss Kavanaugh is tired. She was just on her way upstairs." Turning to Rory, he touched her cheek, his eyes alight with tenderness and reassurance. He said in a low voice, "Go on, Rory. Don't worry about her. I'll get rid of her."
Although Rory reluctantly complied, she was worried. She had an urge to remain at Zeke's side, to protect him. A strange notion indeed, for what sort of protection could Zeke possibly need, he such a huge strapping man and Mrs. Van H. such a thin blade of a woman?
All the same, Rosy lingered, her troubled gaze following the pair of them until they vanished into the study.
Zeke would just as soon have showed Mrs. Van Hallsburg the front door, but he could tell that she would not be so easily dismissed. Nor did she intend to enact any scenes within hearing of the servants. It was she who selected the study, obliging him to follow her.
As Zeke lit the gas jets, he flinched at the sight of the room he would connect forever with what he now thought of as that fatal confrontation with Decker. If only he had known, he could have throttled the little weasel then. Maybe Addison would still be alive.
It didn't seem fair that the room remained so unchanged, so mundanely normal. Hell, even the Joseph Riis book with its stark images of life on the East Side remained on his desk, right where he'd left it. The text seemed to stare up at him, a grim reminder of Addison and all his dreams, his vows to do something to change all those harsh realities.
Zeke thrust the book to one side, having no desire to linger in the study, so thick with memories that seemed to hang like the dust in the air. He wished Mrs. Van Hallsburg would say her piece and be gone. He knew it was going to be about Rory and he wasn't going to like it.
She paced off a few steps as though seeking just the right words to convey her displeasure. "This was not exactly the reception I had hoped for, John."
"No? Well, if I had more notice I could have arranged for the Astors to be here. Hell, madam, I have been on the run for my life."
"Yet you still found time to be seeking your pleasure with that young female that you assured me meant nothing to you." Her lips pinched in a taut line. "Even my brother, Stephen, never fouled his own house by taking his harlots there."
"Rory is no harlot. I owe her my life. If not for her risking everyt
hing to get me away in one of her balloons, I would be stretched out in the morgue beside Addison."
"The balloon? So that's how you managed it. I had wondered." A fleeting smile touched her lips, but it never altered the hardness in her eyes. "I suppose that gives me reason to be grateful to your little circus girl myself. So buy her something pretty, John. Then send her on her way."
"I'm afraid I can't do that. I plan to marry her."
Zeke would have wagered that nothing was capable of shocking Mrs. Van Hallsburg, but she paled, gripping the back of his desk chair.
"You- you can't mean that."
“I assure you I do.”
She almost sagged into the chair, then straightened, struggling to recover herself. "Of course I understand your gratitude to the girl, but—"
"It's not gratitude that I feel for Miss Kavanaugh," he interrupted. Mrs. Van Halisburg's reaction was rendering him acutely uncomfortable. He had expected scorn, perhaps a flash of her icy anger, but nothing like this. Good lord, the woman was actually close to indulging in a display of genuine emotion.
She moistened her lips. –These these passing fancies sometimes happen to a man of your age John. My brother, Stephen, for instance. Once there was this actress he insisted he loved and wanted to marry, simply because she was carrying his child. Your circus girl—she's not pregnant, is she?"
"No," Zeke snapped.
She seemed to find some relief in that. "Good. That will make it easier for you to reconsider. A girl like that would only drag you down, back to the coarse life you used to know. Is that what you want, John?"
"What I want is to end this conversation before I forget all those fancy manners you taught me."
"Yes, I have taught you, far too much to see you throw it all away on some circus girl."
"All what?" Zeke asked, frowning. "I don't really know what the hell you are talking about, Mrs. Van H. Sure, you polished me up a bit, opened a few doors for me, but—"
"There's been more than that between us and you know it!" To his astonishment and discomfort, she flushed, her face turning a mottled red, her eyes almost feverish. "All my life I have been surrounded by pale imitations of men. I singled you out because I saw something different in you, something hard, strong and ambitious."
As she stalked around the desk toward him, Zeke took an involuntary step backward, too stunned to say anything. He had never been backed into a corner by any woman before, but then he had never seen such an expression on one. He was familiar with the look of naked desire, but there was something unsettling about the passion firing Cynthia's eyes, something unwholesome that made his flesh crawl.
Resting her fingertips against his chest, she said, "There is a power in you, John Morrison, that matches the spirit in me. I have been watching and waiting for you a long time."
He wanted to thrust her away, but he felt frozen, almost mesmerized. She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his.
It was like kissing cold steel. Revulsion rippled through him. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he pushed her from him.
A guttural cry escaped her. She stared, her eyes burning into his, and for a moment Zeke felt as though he'd caught a glimpse of hell, knew what it must be like to be damned.
She turned aside, walking to the window, her back to him. As she drew in steadying breaths, her shoulders trembled. God above, she couldn't be crying, could she? Not Cynthia Van Hallsburg!
He didn't have the damnedest notion what to do. If it had been any other female, he would have tried to offer some comfort. But the mere thought of touching her again made his gut wrench, and he scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth.
"I am sorry, Mrs. Van Hallsburg," he said. "If I ever led you to believe— That is I never had any notion what you were coming to feel—" Hell! Exactly what was it she did feel for him? One could hardly call it love.
She drew herself up and came slowly around. To Zeke's intense relief, she had composed herself, her features settled into those familiar well-bred lines. One glimpse beneath that icy mask had been enough. He had no desire to ever see her lift it again.
"It is quite all right, John. You needn't apologize. I have done acting like a fool. I only wish you would do me the courtesy of forgetting this ever happened."
"Sure," he agreed. But he knew he couldn't, and from the expression in her eyes, he sensed she never would either. Drawing her cape more closely around her, she moved with dignity toward the door. Zeke was too swift in his alacrity to open it for her.
"You needn't trouble yourself to show me out," she said, sweeping past him. She paused in the shadows just beyond
the door. "About your decision to marry that girl, I suppose I should wish you joy. All I can do is hope that you never have cause to regret it."
Without looking back, she walked on, and soon Zeke heard his front door open and close. But her words lingered on like the disturbing scent of her perfume, like a chill in the air.
The old woman down at the fish market where Sadie had shopped was fond of wagging her head, quoting all the trite maxims. Zeke had never paid much heed, but one now stuck in his mind.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
But there had been no fury in Cynthia Van Hallsburg's voice as she'd left, only a cold resignation. The entire incident had been unpleasant, but it was over. He didn't doubt but what the next time he saw Mrs. Van H. riding in the park, she'd snub him most royally and that would be that- the end of their acquaintance.
He blew out the lamp, trying to dismiss the whole ugly scene. But he was beset by a strong urge to seek out Rory, hold her in his arms and make passionate love to her. He suddenly needed it as badly as a man near frozen to death needed fire.
Rory had been left alone in Zeke's bed too long, given too much time to fret and think. She tried to examine her feelings regarding Mrs. Van Hallsburg. Why she so loathed and feared the woman, she didn't even know. Maybe the fear stemmed from the fact that Cynthia Van Hallsburg served as a reminder that Zeke was part of a world that Rory couldn't and didn’t even want to share.
Her eyes roved about the bedchamber, the expensive paintings, the costly bed hangings, the gilt trim, all the ostentatious display of wealth, and Rory felt little more at ease here than she had the first time. Being back in Zeke's mansion only seemed to point out all the differences between them.
Perhaps at one time, they had come from a similar background, but their dreams, the things they valued were not the same. All Rory had ever desired with her balloon company was to keep it solvent. Never had she viewed her business as an end to riches, but rather as a challenge. Even if someday she were to conquer the skies, she knew it would not change who she was, make her want to forget that little corner of the world she came from. But it seemed to have been different for Zeke. He had struggled to become rich enough to shut out that part of his life, which had given him pain. Sadly he appeared to have also set aside the happiness he had once known as well.
It had been easier to think of marrying him when they both had been on the run, possessing scarce a dime between them, only the clothes on their backs and borrowed ones at that. All they had had to depend upon was each other.
But back in New York, it was just as she had feared. Life again became complicated. Despite the doubts tormenting Rory, her heartbeat quickened when the door to Zeke's room opened. Somehow she had known he would never spend the night in the guest chamber as he had said. He slipped inside, clad only in a satin dressing gown, belted at the waist.
"Rory," he called in a soft voice. "Are you asleep?"
"No," she whispered, sitting up and drawing the bedclothes around her. As he approached, his lamp cast flickering shadows up the wall. Zeke appeared unusually solemn.
As he set the lamp down on the bedside table, she asked, "Is anything wrong?"
"No, I just needed to look at you." The longing in his eyes told her that he needed far more than that. "I have been pacing my own room, trying not to come and disturb you, knowin
g how exhausted you must be."
At one time she had thought she was, but that feeling seemed to have disappeared. She extended her hand to him, drawing him down to sit beside her on the edge of the bed.
He smiled suddenly, and Rory realized that he had noticed that she was wearing one of his nightshirts, the cotton gaping open at the neckline.
"Funny. It looks much better on you," he murmured, tracing the column of her throat with his fingertips, moving down to caress the swell of her breast, setting her skin a-tingle.
In spite of the delicious sensations he was rousing in her, she couldn't help asking, "Is your friend gone?"
"Friend?" He gave a puzzled frown, then grimace as he realized whom she meant. "Yes, a long time ago, thank God."
She heard nothing but relief in his voice. All the same she was beset by a stirring of apprehension, almost jealousy.
"Mrs. Van H. looked very beautiful tonight." She fingered one of the wild tangles of her own hair. "Very different from me."
“The difference between winter and spring," Zeke said.
“I suppose I am much younger and unsophisticated," she said.
"And you always will be, even when you are eighty years old." Zeke caressed her cheek. "Just as fresh as an April morning. I don't ever want you to change from what you are, Rory. Always be springtime for me.'
She thought she would be anything he wanted when he looked at her that way. He leaned forward, grazing her lips with the warmth of his own. He pulled her into his arm and she was content to lose everything, all her doubts, even her very self, in his loving.
When she lay naked in his embrace, there seemed no room for any qualms, any questionings between them. Their loving was just as wondrous as the previous night, their bodies melding together in a passionate flame. No matter how soul-weary she might be, his kiss, his touch seemed to gift her with a sensation of renewal. Nothing else in the world mattered but Zeke, the way he could make her feel.
It was only when she lay spent, curled up beside him, her head tucked in the lee of his shoulder, that Rory felt the lack of that afterglow of complete satisfaction. She tried to tell herself that perhaps the difference was in this museum piece of a bedchamber; not near as cozy as the one in Annie's cottage. All their whispered intimacies seemed to echo off that vault of a ceiling.