CHAPTER 2
The next afternoon, Araminta slipped into the spare room off the kitchen. As she changed into her plain navy walking skirt and matching overdress, her nervous fingers fumbled on the pearl buttons of the bodice. She poked her finger with the hatpin while she pinned the matching blue felt hat to the bun at the back of her head. Silly of her to be rattled by a man like Calverson. He was a businessman. She would speak to him in a businesslike manner and ignore the fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach.
She told her kitchen staff she would return in an hour, and set off on her errands. She’d stop in and set up deliveries from the new butcher and then go in search of help for Olivia.
As the streetcar rolled downtown, Araminta considered why Griffin Calverson had caused an internal uproar in her from the first time she’d set eyes on him two years earlier. Not even the man. His image. She’d surreptitiously studied a portrait of him that his sister, a talented photographer, had taken.
The picture by Timona, her friend and former employer, revealed a glimpse of Calverson’s personality. Anyone glancing at the image would see a typical prosperous entrepreneur: his full mustache trimmed, his clothes fitting as if he’d been born to wear the wealthy businessman’s suit, complete with gold watch chain across the midriff. Yet even that small portrait showed more: the cleverness and the arrogant authority. In the eyes, perhaps, or the angle of the clean-shaven chin. The strength was there, too.
Strength she’d need for Olivia.
The Calverson Company offices were housed in a towering granite building in the financial district. How appropriate, she thought, amused, that her potential knight in shining armor worked in this castle-like structure. Or perhaps he was more of a feudal lord—a capricious tyrant who’d lop off her head.
The brisk wind tugged at her dress and her hat, yet the air held more than a hint of spring, a hint of hope that braced her for the challenge of facing him again.
The company occupied two floors of the building. Araminta walked up the large staircase to the door that had a gold-plated plaque with “Calverson Company” etched on it.
A supercilious clerk immediately approached. “Pardon me. What do you need?”
When she said she wished to speak to Mr. Calverson, the clerk sniffed and studied her for a few seconds before he disappeared. A few minutes later, he emerged from somewhere in the back and, looking almost chastened, led her into Mr. Calverson’s private office. He left, shutting the door behind him.
Alone in the cavernous office, Araminta distracted herself by studying her surroundings. Disappointing, really, that she found nothing quirky about the room. She’d hoped for something odd, such as a stuffed crocodile, a mummy’s sarcophagus or perhaps a butterfly collection. She’d settle for something personal, perhaps evidence of Calverson’s wide travels.
Like the man, the room was cool and polished. A large, uncluttered desk, nearly devoid of any decoration, stood near the window. A few tasteful landscapes hung on the wall. A thick Turkish rug covered the polished wood floor. No hint of the occupant’s character—other than the obvious facts that he had a great deal of money and simple taste—showed in the furnishings or decorationn>
For fifteen minutes she sat in the overstuffed armless chair designed for lady visitors, twisting the gloves in her hand into shapeless wrecks, staring out the window at the splendid view and regretting her blasted tendency to act first and think later. Rushing over here had to be a mistake.
She could easily imagine his cold amusement as he turned her down. How many other women had come to Griffin Calverson for aid, for money—or for needs her body understood, but her mind refused to contemplate.
Surely he was no different from the other men who prowled Kane’s gaming parlor. Griffin Calverson was not a knight in shining armor.
Just as she convinced herself she was on a fool’s errand and rose to leave, the door to the office opened, and he strolled into the room.
His splendid green gaze rested on her, and he stood as motionless as a gravestone. Of course he would show no emotion.
The man hadn’t changed and—Araminta halted her ungracious thoughts. After all, she wanted a favor from him.
She reminded herself it was not truly his fault she had trouble breathing or behaving sensibly in his presence.
For a very long minute he inspected her. “Good afternoon, Miss Woodhall. Please, sit down.” His strong, clear voice startled her. She half expected the soft murmur she’d heard in the hallway the night before.
She sat and smoothed her skirts over her knees. “Good afternoon, Mr. Calverson.” Fine—she sounded normal. “Er. I hope you are well?”
He took a seat behind the desk, his commanding air nicely adding to her image of him as lord of all he surveyed. He leaned back, the better to scrutinize her down that patrician nose of his. “I hope I didn’t startle you too badly last night? You seemed rather breathless.”
She shook her head, uncertain. Did he know the reason she’d been so rattled? If he guessed at her idiotic attraction to him, she would have to leave at once.
He tilted his head as he scrutinized her, as if viewing a questionable work of art. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
She straightened her already poker-straight back when she heard the hint of sarcasm. Honor of this visit—by his sister’s ex-cook. All thoughts of asking directly for aid for Olivia dissolved like smoke. She would take an indirect route, feel him out. “I thought perhaps you could give me some advice. I’ve come seeking a favor.”
How on earth could she explain to Griffin Calverson that she wanted a man who could act as threatening and remorseless as . . . well, as Griffin Calverson?
“A favor that your employer, Mr. Kane, cannot grant?”
She grimaced. “No.”
“Tell me, what will happen if I don’t help you?”
His slow voice insinuated some sinister meaning. She pulled on her gloves and tried to smooth the wrinkles from them, stalling for time. Calverson waited, as tranquil as someone with all the time in the world.
“I don’t know. Nothing, I suppose,” she admitted. “But a dreadful wrong won’t be corrected.”
“A wrong against whom?”
“I can’t tell you.” Olivia was Kane’s mistress. What if Griffin’s anger toward Kane encompassed those in Kane’s immediate circle?
“Yet you come to bargain on this person’s behalf?”
When he put it like that, it seemed absurd, bshe would still say nothing more. Araminta nodded.
“And if I don’t do as you ask, you will tell Mr. Kane that you saw me in the corridor when—”
“Oh! You thought I was threatening you?” She felt absurd and wished she had not come. She despised feeling foolish in front of him.
Olivia’s safety was paramount, she reminded herself, worth suffering some uneasiness. “Of course I won’t tell him, even if you choose not to help me. I came today because I am worried about a friend of mine. And I thought . . .”
She clamped her lips tight rather than blurt out the request she’d considered.
I thought you might convince the horrible Mr. Kane to go to the devil.
He wore his usual rigidly bland expression, but he could not hide the striking details. His skin was tanned almost to the same soft golden-brown color as his hair—not so much lighter than her own skin, really. Perhaps the reason he appeared too vivid was the sheer energy of the man, an icy glow to him.
His eyebrows raised slightly. “It appears you are agitated, Miss Woodhall. Perhaps you might take a moment to catch your breath before telling me what you thought. And this, ah, friend. What sort of trouble is she in?”
She heard mocking amusement, or perhaps mere scorn. The tone of a man who knows his effect on a woman. Good heavens—perhaps the scorn was for her friend because he assumed a woman in trouble could mean only one thing.
Reckless Araminta, her mother had fondly called her. And in Griff in’s vivid presence she could see now that this was yet another ridiculous impulse. She did not want to be in debt to this man for anything, particularly if he sensed her reaction to him.
There had to be another answer for Olivia’s plight. She could ask Timona for another name. Her sociable friend had many acquaintances in this city.
“Please excuse me, sir. I don’t think you can help me after all. I was wrong to bother you. I bid you a good day.” She picked up her beaded bag and made ready to stand.
He held up a hand in an imperious gesture. “Not yet.”
Araminta, normally not a dithering weakling, found herself sitting down again.
“I interrupted a meeting to see you,” he said. “I expect you might at least tell me what it is you require.”
She scowled, but did not answer.
“When we met in Minnesota, Miss Woodhall, you had no trouble telling me my family’s business. You expressed your opinions on any number of issues. And yet you will not tell me now what you want? Why is that?”
He was as imperious as Kane, as certain he knew best as her blasted grandfather. Good God, Araminta despised tyrants. But she still managed to hold back her temper. She clenched her fingers around the padded edge of her chair’s seat. “Thank you for your concern. I merely changed my mind.”
His mouth tightened. “You were inclined to reject my help when you decided to come to New York, I recall.”
She would leave before she said anything she’d regret. “Thank you, yes, I also recall that time, and I didn’t need your help. I found employment on my own.”
“You could have done better. I know a great deal about Mr. Kane. None of it good.”
“Then why did you visit him last night?”
“He has requested money from this office for his help in keeping various business contracts and associats, ah, secure.”
Araminta stared, momentarily diverted. “Do you mean he’s threatening you?”
“Yes. And I will not tolerate this behavior.” His voice was sedate, quiet and entirely bloodcurdling.
It struck her that asking the ruthless man for help with Kane might be the equivalent of unleashing a hurricane to deal with a load of hot air.
Another reason to leave as soon as possible. Not enough that the man’s self-contained presence gave a sharper blow to her sense than she’d expected—there was the matter of protecting her beastly job.
The work she did for Kane paid better than any position she’d held before. And she needed only a few more months of salary in her savings to realize her dream. She’d have enough time to convince Olivia to leave. Four months more should cover a half-year’s rent for an establishment, though not in one of the best locations.
His voice, even icier now, broke into her calculations. “Miss Woodhall. You are quite silent, yet I see that you appear to be in distress. Let me assure you that I would feel a need to assist anyone who’s been in service to my family.”
Araminta had had enough. The man couldn’t bother to be polite but believed that because he had once paid her salary, she should allow him to decide what was best for her. And, of course, he expected her to feel gratitude for his effrontery.
She jerked to her feet, her heart beating fast as the anger built. “Ah, then you need not bother with me. I worked for your sister.”
He rose from his chair, too, far more smoothly, of course. “No doubt Timona would require me to help her friend.”
The bored tone, his horrible spirit of noblesse oblige, choked her breathing. And the dam holding back her temper broke.
“
You
owe me nothing. I thought I made myself clear, I was not in your employment.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s an understatement. I recall that in Minnesota you would not relay a message from my sister without first subjecting me to your opinions. You clearly consider yourself above taking orders from me.”
“If you mean I would never be one of the unctuous toad-eating sycophants with whom you surround yourself, you are right.” The appalling words seemed to tumble out on their own.
His face showed no emotion, although she noticed that his hands, which had rested palms flat on the desk, closed into tight fists at his side.
“No, you wouldn’t. I prefer to surround myself with people who treat me with basic respect.”
She had taken two steps toward the door, but now she turned back and leaned across the desk toward him. “Respect breeds respect, Mr. Calverson. You obviously recall our meeting a year ago.”
His hands relaxed, as did the set of his jaw. “Vividly.”
The way he examined her now made her skin feel warm, but she could not stop to consider it. “Do you recall that when you came into that house in Minnesota, you did not bother to return my salutations? Not so much as a ‘good morning’ passed your lips. And when I offered you refreshment you never bothered with a please or thank you. And rather than bidding me a simple hello last night you lurked in the hallway—”