Authors: Jo Goodman
She raised her head the merest fraction and touched her mouth to his.
Jarret's mouth followed her down. His lips nudged hers, tasting her sweetness, her tentative touch, as a hint of honey. Her mouth was warm and pliant, exploring. She slipped her hands out from under his grip and looped her arms around his neck. Jarret groaned as she opened her mouth under his. Her response to the entry of his tongue was hesitant, surprised at first, then curious, and finally eager. She mimicked his exploration, the foray along the ridge of her teeth, the teasing of her sensitive upper lip. He was made to feel those things in turn, and when the gentle thrusting gave way to something with more carnal intent, it was Jarret who drew back.
He rolled away and sat up. His fingers threaded through his hair. His sigh was audible. "I think I better go."
Rennie pushed herself upright. She leaned against the headboard and hugged a pillow to her chest. Her expression was watchful, her eyes wary. "I made you break your promise, didn't I?" she said quietly.
He shrugged. "You kissed me first. Did you release me or did I break?"
"Is it so important to you?"
"I've never mistaken business for anything but business. Nathaniel Houston is my business. Dee Kelly is my business." He turned his head to look at her.
"You're
my business."
"What if I don't want to be?" she asked boldly. "What if I want to be—"
"My pleasure?"
Her face flamed, but she didn't look away. "Yes," she said. "Your pleasure."
He shook his head and said coldly, "You don't have enough experience."
Rennie recoiled as if struck.
Jarret explained. "You wouldn't know how to walk away at the end, and it's not like I can pay you. Your heart would get all tangled in your expectations. You don't really want to be my pleasure anyway. You want me to make my business teaching you about it. I thought I might like that, but now I don't think so. If I gentle a filly, it's because I mean to ride her. I'm not breaking you in for Hollis Banks."
His crudity shocked her. Wounded, she raised her hand, not to slap him, but to stifle a sob. "Get out," she whispered.
Jarret stood. He walked to the door, took the key out of his pocket, and turned, showing it to her. "Just so you know, Rennie, in spite of what I just said, I'm locking this door as much to keep me out as keep you in."
Rennie watched him step into the hallway. She heard the key turn in the new lock he had installed on the outside of the door and then saw it being pushed under the door. He couldn't get in any more than she could get out. She leaped off the bed and ran to the door, pounding on it. "Who do you think you are anyway?" she yelled. "I wouldn't have you as a gift! You don't have enough money to pay me, you bastard! Do you hear me? You don't know anything about what I want! Not a thing!" She didn't know if he was standing on the other side of the door or not. It didn't matter. She raged until she was exhausted, and then she simply melted against the door, collapsing in the pool of her gown and her tears.
Downstairs, when the fury and thunder ceased, Jarret turned to Mrs. Cavanaugh. "She'll probably sleep for a little while," he said. "She hasn't even had breakfast yet. Perhaps you could take her something later."
The cook nodded. "It's no problem."
"She has the only key to the room. You'll have to get it from her to get in, and you'll need it back when you go. I can't keep chasing her down, Mrs. Cavanaugh. She has to be locked in. Can you do that?"
"I've never seen the like before," she said, raising her eyes heavenward.
"Can you do it?" Jarret asked again.
"If you think it's for the best."
"I do."
"Then, I can do it."
* * *
Rennie spent four days in her bedchamber. It didn't matter that her suite of rooms was bigger than the apartment her sister enjoyed at the St. Mark; Rennie felt caged. Mrs. Cavanaugh came and went, bringing food, fresh linens, and taking the trays. She always locked the door, sliding the key back before she left, and short of doing the cook harm, Rennie couldn't think of any means of stopping her or escaping. Rennie made halfhearted attempts to work on the Queen's Point project, but it was increasingly difficult to concentrate.
In truth, she didn't feel like doing much of anything. It was a chore to comb her hair or wash. She didn't bother making her bed or keeping things neat. The room was littered with books from the library and office work, none of which held her attention. The items on her vanity were scattered haphazardly. Oils and perfumes were left unattended. Fingerprints dotted a dusting of face powder.
Dressing was of no particular interest. Rennie abandoned her corset and wore only a chemise and underskirt, sometimes not bothering with her silk wrapper at all. She either sat for hours in a straight-backed chair by the window, watching the traffic on Broadway, never attracting attention to herself, or napped intermittently. She drifted from her bedchamber to the connecting rooms like a wraith, her face nearly expressionless, her mind almost devoid of conscious thought.
"I'm worried about her," Mrs. Cavanaugh said to Jarret. "It's not natural, I'm telling you. She occupies those rooms as though she's haunting them. She doesn't say more than a few words to me comin' or goin'. The mister sees the same thing when he takes up a tray. And she's not even shamed by her state of dress."
Jarret was worried, too, but he didn't have any answers. Mrs. Cavanaugh had made similar complaints the day before. He couldn't let Rennie go on as she was. "Has she asked to see Hollis?"
"Not a word about him."
"I'll let her out as soon as it's safe. I haven't heard anything in days. I don't know what's happening at the St. Mark any more than the rest of you." He sat down heavily in one of the kitchen chairs. Mrs. Cavanaugh pushed a mug of hot coffee toward him. "Maybe I should go over there."
"Wouldn't Marshal Stone send for you?"
Jarret had been asking himself the same question. What if Ethan was too sick to ask for assistance? Would Michael call on him for help or would she want him to protect her sister? He was used to taking the initiative, not waiting for direction. He was as uncomfortable as Rennie when it came to being holed up in the house. The only difference between them was the size of the hole. "Perhaps we should send your husband to bring Dr. Turner here. He can look after Rennie, and I can hear first hand what's happening to Ethan." Jarret raised his mug and smiled at the cook. It sounded like a plan with merit.
* * *
It was late that same evening when Jarret knocked at Rennie's room. The key was pushed under the door a few seconds later. By the time Jarret entered, Rennie was once again sitting on the marble apron of the fireplace, drying her hair near the small fire she'd laid there. She gave no indication that she was surprised by his appearance in her room. Her fingers wove in and out of her auburn hair, separating copper strands so that they curled individually in the orange light behind her.
"I've brought you some dinner," he said, raising the tray in front of him. "Mrs. Cavanaugh warmed your meal before she went to the carriage house. She said you didn't eat anything earlier." In fact, he'd been told she hadn't eaten all day. It was a damned Irish rebellion, that's what it was. She was going to starve herself. "Is that right?" he asked.
Rennie didn't answer.
"Where do you want me to put it?"
She didn't acknowledge his presence either by looking at him or responding.
Jarret approached and set the tray beside her on the apron. Her naked white shoulders reflected the flames at her back. Color caressed her skin while her fingers continued to sift languidly through her hair. The plain white underskirt she was wearing revealed bare feet and calves and bones that were somehow more prominent than they'd been a week ago. Her wrapper lay discarded over the back of the armchair. Jarret picked it up and tossed it at her. She made no move to catch it, and when part of the sleeve fell into the fire she let it burn.
Jarret yanked it out, took it to the adjoining bathing room and doused the smoldering sleeve in cold water. He laid it across the straight-backed chair to dry when he returned. "Your lunatic act doesn't inspire any sympathy," he said, sitting down in the armchair. He stretched his legs toward the fire and folded his hands on his lap. The heat was welcome; there was a damp chill in the night air that had already pervaded the room. "You may have fooled Mrs. Cavanaugh with your antics, but now that I see them myself, I'm not impressed."
"You may think as you like, Mr. Sullivan. You always do."
He was encouraged more by her second sentence than her first. The dull flatness of her voice was worrisome, but the little gibe showed signs of a certain liveliness. "I was going to send for Dr. Turner today," he said. "But a little over an hour ago his wife came 'round again. She'll have the doctor visit you tomorrow if I think it's necessary. I told her I'd let her know."
Rennie's fingers stilled in her hair. "Is there news of Ethan? Michael?"
"Your sister was ill the other night, but she's completely recovered now. Apparently she was struck down by the same thing that leveled Ethan."
It was impossible to quell her interest. "Oh?"
Jarret leaned his head against the curved back of the chair. He studied the array of photographs on the mantel. Most were formed portraits of the entire family, including Jay Mac. Some showed Rennie with her sisters, a few were of Rennie and Michael together. There was only one of Rennie alone. The quality of the most recent photographs was especially good. In contrast to Rennie's solemn expression, her fair skin was luminescent, her eyes radiant.
He pointed to it. "Was that taken to commemorate any special occasion?"
She followed the direction of his eyes and hand. "My engagement to Hollis. Jenny Marshall took it."
"Logan's wife? I thought her name was Katy."
"His sister-in-law. Christian's wife."
"Christian Marshall the painter?"
"I think he'd prefer the term artist," she said dryly, "but, yes, the very same."
"He's another of your neighbors?" Jarret realized he could cover a hundred square miles west of the Mississippi and never meet anyone with a pedigree. They rubbed shoulders with each other in Manhattan. He and Rennie really did come from different worlds. "Did we tramp through his yard the other night?"
Rennie tilted her head to one side and gently rubbed the damp, curling ends of her hair with a towel. "I'm not discussing this with you any longer."
Jarret realized he was too long at playing his hand. He was losing her. "Ethan was being poisoned," he said. "It may have been meant for Michael. No one's really sure. She only ingested a little of it. That's when she got sick, taking it in her tea. Afterward she complained to Dr. Turner that she was craving a cigarette. That's what tipped him off."
Agitated that he would not come straight to the point or fill in all the details at once, Rennie's feathery brows came together. "Tipped him how?"
"The poison was nicotine, in doses large enough to cause Ethan's cramping and retching. Michael got some in her tea. Enough to make her ill but with no long-range effects except for the desire to start smoking again."
"That's what," Rennie said. "Now tell me who."
"It appears as if we've been concentrating too hard on coming face-to-face with Houston, and haven't given enough thought to Detra. It's been rumored for years that Dee Kelly used drugs to kill her first husband. Her father owned a medicine shop in St. Louis. She grew up around powders and poisons."
"She's been caught, then? The danger's past?"
He shook his head. "No. Nothing's certain. She's probably working as an employee at the hotel. That's the only way she could be managing to poison the food that goes to their suite. Dr. and Mrs. Turner are going to dine at the St. Mark tomorrow. If Dee's there, they'll be able to identify her now that they have a description."
"And have her arrested."
"No. Only identify her. If we show our cards too early, we'll miss Houston. She can lead us to him, but only if she doesn't know we're watching. She'd never give him up willingly."
"How did she locate Michael?"
"From the newspaper. Someone gave out her address at the St. Mark before the order was given to the contrary."
Rennie came to her feet. Suddenly she regretted she hadn't put on the wrapper. She took an afghan from the foot of her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. "You'll be going, then," she said. "There's no danger here. Houston and Kelly found the right targets after all."
"They may have found the right targets, but I don't trust you not to get in the way. Neither does your sister. She wasn't even certain that I should be telling you any of this."
"I don't believe you. Michael wouldn't want this kept from me."
Jarret sighed. "Your sister is far more aware of the danger than you are. She spent weeks as Houston and Dee's prisoner. They tried to kill her and Ethan once before and very nearly succeeded. This isn't an adventure where any of us know the outcome. Detra hasn't been positively identified, and there's still the matter of finding Houston. I'm afraid that nothing's really changed as far as you're concerned, though you may want to consider cleaning this room and wearing more clothes than a two-dollar whore."