Written In The Heart. Judith Stacy
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He glanced up. “She’s not?”
“No. Where did you get that idea?”
“From you.”
“Me?”
Stephen fished the folded note card from his pocket. He thrust it at Richard.
“See? Right there. Your gift was just what I need.”
Richard looked at the note. “Just what you need to prove Pickette is a fraud.”
“What?” Stephen shot to his feet, dumping his ledgers onto the floor.
“Caroline Sommerfield is a graphologist. A handwriting expert. She can prove that Pickette’s document was forged.”
Stephen gnashed his teeth together, spitting out curses. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the note?”
“Because it was your present. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
Stephen cursed again. “Go get her back.”
“Oh, no.” Richard held up his hands and backed away. “I’m not getting slapped again. You made this mess, you’ll have to deal with it.”
“Damn…” Stephen paced back and forth, rubbing the back of his neck. He stopped. “Are you sure she’s a—what is she?”
“A graphologist. And yes, I’m sure. I saw her at a party last Saturday and her skills are unbelievable. One look at someone’s handwriting and she can size up their personality in a snap. She can compare samples and tell who wrote what.” Richard shook his head. “I’m telling you, Stephen, she can prove Russell Pickette forged that document.”
Stephen cursed again and ran out of the office.
Damn this city.
Caroline stumbled down the street, sniffling, wiping away tears, hopelessly lost. She had no idea where she was, no idea which way was home.
Home.
A wave of fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Home was with her father, not here in this dreadful place. Even though she’d been born in America, as had her parents, they’d migrated to Europe when she was just a child. The Continent had been her home ever since.
Caroline gulped back a sob, willing herself to calm down. She couldn’t think while crying. She deserved to cry, no doubt about it. But right now she needed to get to her aunt’s house, and for that she needed to think.
Instead, the vision of Stephen Monterey leaped into her mind. He’d intended to have his way with her tonight, deflower her. Right there on his desk. Wearing only her hat and shoes.
Caroline’s cheeks burned at the thought, spreading a strange heat through her. She’d been kissed before, and she knew about men and such. After all, she’d lived in France for quite a while. But no man had ever suggested making love to her—certainly not on a desktop. It was scandalous. Outrageous.
Intriguing and a little titillating.
Caroline’s cheeks burned hotter. What had Stephen intended to wear?
She gasped aloud at her unladylike thought and the mental image it conjured up. Stephen was a big man. If the whispered gossip she’d heard were true, that meant he—
Caroline pinched the bridge of her nose, forbidding herself to think any further. At least on the subject of Stephen Monterey. Right now she had pressing problems to deal with.
She looked around the neighborhood at all the beautiful homes and knew she was still on West Adams Boulevard. She hadn’t gotten very far. A block or two, maybe. She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t measure distance well through tear-blurred eyes.
Drawing in a fresh breath, Caroline considered her options. She could approach one of the houses and ask for directions. That, surely, would raise questions about why a woman was alone on the streets at this late hour. She’d already been mistaken for a prostitute once tonight and didn’t want to go through that again.
If she knew where a police station was she could go there. They could take her home. But what would Aunt Eleanor say when she arrived under police escort? Caroline wasn’t anxious to explain her circumstances to anyone, particularly her aunt.
Well, she had to do something. She gazed up and down the street in both directions. Maybe if she—
A man appeared under a streetlamp down the block. Caroline’s breath caught. Good gracious, it was that Stephen Monterey. He’d come after her.
Caroline hitched up her satchel and took off.
Running footsteps sounded on the pavement behind her, spurring her to move faster. She heard his voice shouting.
Her high buttoned shoes and whalebone corset didn’t make the best athletic attire, and her satchel dragged like an anchor, bumping against her thigh. But she couldn’t face that man. Not after what had happened at his house, and certainly not so soon after the thoughts she’d just been entertaining about him.
“Stop, Miss Sommerfield.”
He appeared at her side, jogging along with her. Caroline’s heart jumped into her throat.
“Go away!”
“No, wait. Stop.”
“Leave me alone!” Breathless, she hugged her free hand to her stomach. She could hardly keep going.
“Just stop,” he said. “Please.”
She slowed simply because she couldn’t take another step. Stephen stopped, too, and it annoyed her that he wasn’t even breathing hard, while she was panting like a steam engine.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“I came to see if you still wanted the job.”
“Oh! Of all the nerve!” Caroline headed off down the street again.
“And—” he blocked her path “—and to…apologize.”
Caroline put her nose in the air and turned her head away.
“Look, Miss Sommerfield, I was misinformed about your…purpose for coming to my home tonight,” Stephen said. “Richard told me you were just what I needed, so when I saw you I thought—”
“—that I looked like a common streetwalker?” Caroline tossed her head. “Well, thank you very much.”
She whirled away and started off again.
Stephen caught up with her and put himself in front of her, forcing her to stop.
“No, that is not what I thought,” he said. “It’s just that it’s been a long time since I—”
Stephen curled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his forehead. “Let me start again. You see, Miss Sommerfield—”
“Oh, never mind.” Caroline dropped her satchel, finally catching her breath. “It’s my fault, anyway. Not yours.”
“Your fault?”
“Yes, mine. Mine, for trusting Mr. Paxton. For being foolish enough to come to your house at night. For thinking you were an upstanding, decent businessman.” Caroline nodded emphatically. “Believe me, I will not make any of those mistakes again.”
Stephen pushed his fingers through his hair, watching her, obviously holding in words that itched to be spoken. Finally, he said, “Regardless of all that’s happened, Miss Sommerfield, I am in need of a—What are you again?”
“A graphologist.”
He waved expansively. “The position is still available. Are you interested in discussing it?”
Her eyes widened. “You expect me to work for you? Now? After all that’s happened?”
“Richard thinks you’re good at what you do,” Stephen told her. “But, frankly,