Written In The Heart. Judith Stacy
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Caroline didn’t like the look of that smile. Something was behind it. Something calculating. She cautioned herself to be on guard.
“Come into the parlor, Mr. Monterey,” Aunt Eleanor said, guiding him to the room off the foyer.
Stephen folded himself onto the peach settee and tucked his long legs behind a marble-topped table. Caroline considered making a break for the door while she still could, but didn’t want to leave him at the mercy of her aunt; she didn’t dislike him that much.
Aunt Eleanor took the chair directly across from Stephen. “So, tell me, how did you two meet?” she asked.
Caroline perched on the piano stool, the farthest seat from Stephen. Now was when better lying skills would come in handy. Her brain spun, trying to invent some reasonable story that didn’t involve last night’s escapade, when she’d been mistaken for a prostitute. Nothing came to her.
She sighed, forced to tell the truth. At least an abbreviated version of it.
“Actually, Aunt Eleanor, I was at Mr. Monterey’s home last night,” Caroline said. “I stopped by to see a sick friend.”
Aunt Eleanor nodded. “Oh, yes, your cousin Sophie said that you’d gone to visit someone on West Adams Boulevard.”
Caroline seethed. Darn her cousin. She’d promised not to tell. Goodness, relatives were proving to be more than inconvenient—a downright pain in the neck.
“So, who did you visit?” Aunt Eleanor asked.
Caroline pressed her lips together. “Well, actually—”
“My aunt,” Stephen said.
A wave of profound gratitude washed over Caroline. Their gazes met and Stephen Monterey suddenly took on the look of a knight in the shiniest armor ever imagined.
“My aunt Delfina,” Stephen explained. “Perhaps you know her, Mrs. Markham?”
“I’ve never had the pleasure, but I’ve heard of her, of course.” Aunt Eleanor rose from her chair. “I’ll have Bessie prepare us some tea. Caroline, do make Mr. Monterey comfortable.”
Eleanor smiled knowingly and disappeared out of the parlor.
Caroline watched her leave, then turned to Stephen, and suddenly he didn’t look like a knight in shining anything. He was smirking. Actually smirking. Oh, he was trying very hard to hide it, but that was definitely a smirk she saw on his face.
Caroline rose from the piano stool. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here about the position we discussed,” he said.
The position on the desktop? Caroline bit into her lip, forcing the image out of her head. Goodness, why couldn’t she stop thinking about that?
“The position of graphologist,” Stephen said.
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“I’m here to convince you to accept my job offer,” Stephen said.
“I don’t want to work for you.”
“Everyone wants to work for me.”
He was pompous and arrogant…and devilishly good-looking. Caroline struggled to hold on to her anger against the onslaught of his masculine presence, which overwhelmed Aunt Eleanor’s delicately furnished parlor. He was far too rugged for doilies and lace.
“I, Mr. Monterey, am not everyone.” Caroline stared down at him, and it made her feel superior to do so.
That feeling lasted only a few more seconds, until Stephen rose from the settee and towered over her. He folded his arms across his chest.
“So, tell me, Miss Sommerfield, why do you refuse to come to work for me?”
There were a dozen reasons—and there were none. Caroline had lain awake most of the night reliving the short time she’d been in his house, in his presence. She’d tossed and turned, wrestling with emotions she’d never imagined before. Stephen had managed to take over most of her thoughts, somehow, and no one—not one single person—had ever done that.
He had consumed her, and the scary part was that he would continue to do so. Caroline had sensed that in him the first moment they met, even though she couldn’t put a name to the feeling at the time. He would devour her and all she believed in, until there was nothing left of herself.
Caroline eased away from him, needing the distance, hoping that space between them would ease the tension. It didn’t.
“I don’t need your job,” she said.
His brow creased. “You didn’t find work elsewhere?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I realized that if Richard Paxton, then you, would recognize my skills and offer me employment, so would someone else. It’s just a matter of time before another offer comes along.”
Stephen’s frown deepened. “Don’t be so sure about that, Miss Sommerfield. I know every businessman in the city. If the wrong type of rumor got out about you…”
Stunned, she faced him again. “You’d—you’d do that? You’d ruin me?” she demanded.
“The business world can be very ugly, Miss Sommerfield.”
“But that would be a lie! A bare-faced lie!”
Stephen glanced toward the parlor door. “Do you want your aunt back in here, asking questions?”
Caroline clamped her mouth shut, capping her anger but not stopping it.
“Won’t your aunt be surprised to learn that your real goal in coming to Los Angeles isn’t to find a husband?” he asked.
She felt violated. “How did you know that?”
“Don’t think I haven’t seen that look in her eye before, on the face of countless other aunts, mothers and grandmothers,” Stephen said. “And tell me this, Miss Sommerfield, what would your aunt say if she found out your true desire is to work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency?”
Caroline’s mouth flew open. “Who told you?”
He pressed on. “Would she be scandalized to learn that you want a job? I think she would be. In fact, she might even contact your father.”
Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you saying these things? Why are you doing this?” She spun away and stalked to the window, struggling to hold her temper down. “You’re a wicked man,” she said.
Yes, he was. Stephen knew that because at the moment he was having some very wicked thoughts.
He walked to the window and stood behind her, as close as he dared. Her hair was done up in a knot atop her head, with a few tendrils curling loose. He wanted to lean his head down and press his mouth against that lovely neck of hers. Ease himself closer until her soft body cushioned his. Loop his arms around her and cup her breasts in his palms.
Oh, yes, he was a very wicked man.
Caroline shifted, keeping her chin high and her shoulders straight. The movement rustled her clothing, and Stephen imagined peeling away all those layers. Lace, silk, bows, ribbons, all waiting there for him to discover…and discard.
“I’m glad I slapped you last night,” Caroline said, still refusing to turn away from the window.
He deserved that slap. And he could probably use another right now. Something to bring him back to reality and restore a little sanity to his thoughts. He’d been almost continuously aroused since he’d laid eyes on her last night, and he never did his best thinking in that state. In fact, he could hardly think at all. Except about one thing.
On the way over here this morning he’d planned what he’d say to her. Richard had told him how she wanted to work for Pinkerton, and that she’d been sent to Los Angeles to find a husband.