Steal Me, Sweet Thief Read online

  He felt there must be more, but when he thought about it, he'd really said it all. The only thing he'd left out was the woman's name.

  From the next room came the cascade of a prolonged obligate, followed by a peal of melodious laughter.

  "Ordinarily I'd say you weren't asking much," Billy opined, and Macalester avoided his bright blue eyes. "But to put Miss Geneva Lionwood into that picture… It's a little like lockin' a puma in a henhouse, if you take my meaning. I guess you'll either have to change those dreams, or find somebody else to share 'em."

  Restless, Macalester got up from the cot again. The room seemed to have shrunk, suddenly, to the size of a cigar box. He felt Billy's eyes upon his back as he took three steps to the window, staring out through the gauze curtains. The sun was shining, even though it had drizzled all morning, the raw, chilly mist of the gulf in November. From next door, the sound of scales, ascending and descending, in a soft, even soprano, could be heard.

  "I think you're right, Billy," Macalester said slowly, at the end of a breath. There was a long time, then, when neither of them spoke. "So what're you gonna do?"

  The very question he'd been asking himself ever since he'd first discovered he was in love with Geneva. And, he realized grimly, his jaw clenched like a sprung bear trap, he wasn't any closer to an answer now than he had been in Memphis.

  You're a fool, Mac, if you think you could ever have had her for very long. He heard Garland Humble's voice echoing in his memory like the rebuke of a stem patriarch. Maybe he was a fool. Maybe Geneva was, as Garland had declared, a spoiled and selfish trollop with staggeringly expensive tastes. But even if both were true, and he had his doubts, that did not change the hard fact that he loved her more than his liberty. More, even, than his own life.

  He drew in a big breath and allowed an answer to Billy's thoughtful question. "I'm going to escort Miss Lionwood to the Hotel St. Pierre this afternoon and let her tell them whatever she pleases. You're welcome to stay behind, if you like."

  Behind him, he heard Billy sigh heavily. "Promise me, Senator: If I ever fall in love with a woman like you fell for Humble's wife, you'll shoot me in the head and put me out of my misery."

  "I don't think your friend Mr. Deal likes me very much." Geneva adjusted the brim of her black hat trimmed with lace and netting. Kieran sat across from her in the hired carnage, pleased by the results of his shopping excursions with Camilla Brooks. Geneva looked ravishing in the midnight-blue satin gown, and she wore its accompanying black velvet cape with regal élan. She was looking out of the window, her face still pale and thin, her features utterly devoid of expression.

  Mac laughed once, softly. Her green eyes questioned.

  He couldn't take his eyes from her. He could be quite contented, he realized as the carnage took them across town to the French Quarter, simply to look at her just as she was today for the remainder of his life.

  "Billy?" he asked. "Sure he does."

  Geneva did not appear convinced by his words. "Then why didn't he come with us?" There was no hint of a smile on her heartbreakingly lovely face.

  Mac studied her. Of course Geneva would prefer, if it was her intention, to turn them both in at once. After all, the reward for such a coup would be manifestly greater, and she would not then have to concern herself about retribution from the party who had avoided capture. He shook himself His imagination was getting the better of him.

  "Billy thinks," he began lightly, still watching her, "that you might decide to turn me in for kidnapping you when we get to the hotel."

  Her expression did not change. "Oh? And what do you think?"

  Kieran weighed her question. "I think if you did, you'd be perfectly justified," he said finally. Then he said nothing more. She had already made up her mind, he knew, as to whether or not she was going to report him to the authorities. And he had made up his, as well: If she did turn him in, which he tended to doubt, he deserved it, surely. He would accept his fate and spend the remainder of his life at hard labor doing penance for his lie, and for being foolish enough to have fallen in love with her in the first place.

  "That doesn't answer my question." A smile tugged briefly at the corners of her pretty pink mouth.

  He traced, in his mind, the outline of her curved lips with the very tip of his index finger. "I guess it doesn't," he agreed, a grin of his own making its way slowly across his face. She considered him, her smile fading again. "You don't know what I intend to do, do you, Kieran?" she said softly, and he was taken aback at the bold perceptiveness of her observation. He shook his head.

  "No, I don't, Gen." He was unwilling to dissemble further. "All I know is I've learned enough about you in the last six weeks not to be surprised by anything you do."

  "And you're willing to escort me into the St. Pierre, knowing all of this?"

  Mac bit his lower lip, weighing her words against her tone. "I made a promise to myself," he began, after allowing a reflective moment, "when we got to New Or-leans. I swore I'd stand by you no matter what, for as long as you wanted. Maybe longer, if I thought you might come to harm. I figure I owe you at least that much."

  She stared, and he did not avert his gaze. It was Geneva, finally, who looked away, her green eyes moist. "Pretty words," she offered, a faint trace of pink tinting her otherwise pale cheeks becomingly. "But what do they really mean, coming from a liar?"

  It was Mac's turn to look away. Her words cut him deeper than any blade. He supposed it was because he had earned them.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The St. Pierre was not a fine old New Orleans establishment. It was new, sumptuous almost to the point of garishness, and not the least bit charming. From its white marble columns and floors to its gold leaf and Irish crystal chandeliers, the St. Pierre looked its part: an architectural monstrosity built with carpetbagger money. It had been purchased from its financially strapped owner by Horace Tabor, a Denver mining millionaire, and its lavishly appointed suites could be had for a fraction of their worth until the new management took over. Kieran had learned of this through the newspaper and other sources, and it was for this very reason that he had selected the St. Pierre as their new home.

  He watched Geneva from the corner of his eye as, her arm linked in his, they moved through the bright foyer toward the front desk. Mac felt her fingers tighten upon his arm, and he pictured himself, for a fleeting moment, walking up thirteen steps to the gallows. He found the image amusing in a macabre sort of way and realized that he was, oddly, experiencing otherwise no emotion whatsoever.

  Geneva's steps faltered slightly, but no one except him could have noticed, even though he perceived that every eye in the place was on her. She recovered at once, not looking at him, and they completed their journey to the desk.

  "M'sieur, M'dame." The young clerk addressed them. "How may I serve you?"

  "Rooms for McAllister," Mac heard himself say, his voice sure and steady.

  The clerk's plain, scrubbed face brightened. "Of course, M'sieur McAllister," he murmured, his eyes straying to Geneva with an expression of unabashed admiration that made Mac want to throttle the fellow.

  With a quick, practiced gesture, the clerk presented them with the register, a pen and an inkwell. Mac watched Geneva reach for it, bewitched by her graceful and deliberate movements. She handed him the pen when she was through, meeting his gaze for an instant. As he signed, he noticed she had written, on the line above, "Geneva Lionwood." Kieran returned the young man's pen and the register book, waiting for the next thing to happen. Beside him, Geneva made no remark.

  "Very good, M'sieur, Ma—"

  Mac watched in amusement as the man's eyes, staring at the book, grew wide.

  "Mademoiselle." The clerk's lips moved several times before the quivering sound actually came forth.

  Geneva's smile was beatific.

  There followed a commotion as the clerk loudly beckoned an absurd number of porters for the purpose of carrying their comparatively few belongings. The clerk him
self then presumed to see them to the staircase with an unceasing stream of flattery and gush directed at Geneva, who said nothing. As they started up the stairs, Kieran noticed, lazing against a white marble pillar beside the stair, a lone figure in a dove-gray wool suit. He realized, staring into a pair of cobalt-blue eyes, that it was the sartorially splendid Billy Deal, his gray derby set at a rakish angle, grinning at him, and offering a conspiratorial salute.

  Telegraph messages began arriving with impressive regularity, along with flowers and gifts and visitors. The manager of Opera New Orleans was among the first, after a news reporter, offering Geneva the lead in the season finale. He had scheduled Il Trovatore, but informed her that he would be happy to accommodate her with whatever role she cared to name. He left her suite without a signed contract, however: Geneva preferred to make New Orleans squirm for its slights to her in the past.

  Blaine sent a breathtaking diamond choker, which she promptly assigned Mac to pawn. It commanded a handsome price, and she was able to hire herself a personal maid and a private secretary. She was quickly turning the St. Pierre into her headquarters, and its willing staff into her private army. This was Mac's laconic assessment, and she had laughed with delight at it.

  She saw little of the outlaw in the maelstrom of days following their arrival at the hotel; she was too busy with practice, interviewing vocal coaches and responding to the many new demands upon her time. Camilla and Dr. Beaumarche were the only visitors allowed complete access to her, although she was certain the hotel only tolerated this circumstance because of her position. The St. Pierre's business could only profit by her presence, and it was to their dubious credit that they were wise enough to recognize that fact. Their indiligence meant increased revenue, even if it was a direct contradiction of their unwritten policy against Negroes in any but a menial capacity.

  Dr. Beaumarche exhorted her to rest and to take in fresh air. It was too soon after her ordeals, he cautioned her, to overture herself with so frenetic a schedule as she had begun to keep. She heeded him with one ear, making a mental note to ask Mac to take her for a drive through the park that very afternoon. That is, after she had interviewed Maestro Durand.

  They drove half a dozen blocks in the hired buggy in the November sunshine, and Kieran had spoken barely as many words to her. He was pretending to concentrate on his driving, but she knew he was sulking. She could tell. His very square jaw was set in a hard line, and his dark eyes stared determinedly at the cobblestone street before them, even though Geneva had worn her most fetching new gown of emerald-green taffeta with a matching picture hat and a plaid jacket.

  The afternoon was bright and almost warm. It reminded her, wistfully, of a September afternoon in New York not long ago. She'd been driving with Elaine, who was angry at the attentions she'd recently lavished upon a young Italian tenor understudying Maesetto at the Academy. Elaine's jealousy had amused her and had made her feel powerful. It was a sensation not unlike the one she was experiencing at this moment. Only somehow, with Kieran Macalester cast in the role of the jealous, possessive lover, it was a far more satisfying one.

  "It is a lovely afternoon," she observed contentedly, resting her head against the back of the cushioned seat. "I'm glad I decided to take Dr. Beaumarche's advice. I've been working too hard these last few days. What about you, Mac? How have you been passing the time?"

  "Mostly wondering what you've been doing that kept you holed up in your sanctuary like a hermit," he retorted, his strong hands tightening perceptibly on the reins.

  He still did not look at her. Geneva smiled to herself It seemed so long since she had last flirted, and it was a glorious sensation.

  "Oh." She waved a hand and contrived to sound bored. "My troubles aren't really worth telling. But at last I've found a suitable vocal coach and rehearsal pianist, and Adele has gotten my correspondence well in hand. Now I can concentrate on the business of singing again."

  "That's great, Gen," Mac remarked, as though it was anything but. "You'll excuse me if I don't dance a jig for you."

  "My, aren't we surly!" she exclaimed petulantly. "Perhaps you should just turn around and take me back to the hotel."

  "Perhaps I should." He faintly mimicked her.

  But he continued on his course away from the St. Pierre. Geneva was pleased, but not surprised, that he did not call her on her gambit. She wanted to play, and he was such fun. Such a long time had passed since she'd had any fun.

  "You know, you really should tuck in your lower lip. Your pout is very unbecoming."

  Mac reined the buggy to an abrupt halt, jolting Geneva and causing her to cry out, holding her hat with one hand.

  "Damn it, Geneva!" he snapped, turning to her at last, his imposing features dark with anger. "Do I look like that fancy-assed Lord Atherton who showed up drunk on your doorstep at the Biltmore?"

  Someone behind them shouted an assault of French invective. Geneva could not hear all of it, but she did recognize an exhortation to move their vehicle, among other choice remarks.

  "No, you don't," she replied coolly. "Nor do you look like Garland Humble. But you are starting to behave like him."

  The day darkened even as she mentioned her estranged husband's name. She hoped she had hurt Macalester by her simile. He pursed his wide mouth, but seemed determined to maintain her gaze. She tried again for a reaction.

  "Forgive me. I forget, occasionally, that you are not a gentleman, and that you have no schooling in the art of flirtation!"

  Without waiting for him to reply, she gathered her skirt in her hands and began to climb down from the buggy. "Geneva, get back in here!"

  His tone, luckily for him, was more in the nature of a request than an order. She leveled a hurt look at him, already half-outside of the buggy, her hands gripping the sides. He held his arm out to her. Behind them, more disgruntled drivers voiced their irritation.

  "Please?" he added, with an inclination of his head that caused a lock of sable hair to tumble into his eyes. The combination was irresistible to Geneva. Without undue haste, she resumed her seat. Mac, apparently satisfied, picked up the reins again and chucked to the dapple-gray gelding. Geneva pressed her lips tightly together, determined to force him to speak next.

  Mac guided the buggy hack onto the park drive. The magnolias clung valiantly to their leaves and the chrysanthemums obliged with a glorious golden display. The park was quiet this weekday afternoon, and Kieran managed to find an even quieter corner of it, where four swans glided regally among the lilypads on a small pond. He reined the hack to a gentle halt and applied the brake. Geneva still did not speak, although the beautiful surroundings sorely tempted her to do so. She stared at the swans, envying them their idyllic, uncomplicated existence.

  Presently she felt a warm, gentle pressure on her gloved hands, folded demurely in her lap. Startled, she looked down to see that Mac had placed his own hand on top of hers. This intimate and unexpected gesture caused her to look up at his face. His dark eyes were sober and compelling, and she felt trapped by their sincerity. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, clinging to her determination to remain silent until he spoke.

  "I've missed you," he said simply.

  I've missed you, too, she realized, but could not bring forth the words. Her desire to tease and to flirt had vanished with that one simple, earnest phrase.

  "Oh." She was unable to confront his penetrating gaze any longer. She felt as though something was tugging her in two different directions at the same time, and for some reason it made looking at him painful.

  "Gen, there's so much I need to say to you." His baritone was a gentle, soothing accompaniment to the peaceful autumn afternoon. "I feel as if a hundred years have gone by since I first saw you in New York, and yet it seems right now as though I hardly know you."

  The long-necked swans preened themselves like vain young girls.

  "We're not running anymore," she observed, wondering at the conflicting emotions that realization wrought in her. For weeks the
y had lived in isolation, with only one another to turn to for comfort and help in times of peril. It had been the natural thing to do. But now they were back among civilization again, and nature would, perhaps, demand that they behave in an entirely different fashion.

  "That's true," he agreed at the end of a long breath. "At least, you aren't. You know, I've lost count of the number of apologies I've made to you since that day in Little Rock."

  She felt a lump in her throat, and her eyes filled with unshed tears. She swallowed the lump, but the tears remained, waiting. "So have I." She recalled, painfully, one occasion in particular when she'd called him the sorriest man she'd ever met.

  A pair of young lovers strolled into view along the far bank of the pond. Geneva watched as the young man, no more than a boy, really, slipped his hand shyly into the girl's. She, in turn, looked about, mortified, but ultimately yielded to both of their desires.

  "To my knowledge, you never accepted a one of them."

  Mac's words were soft. Wistful. His hand was still on hers, and she felt his fingers tighten around her own. "I didn't know it was that important to you." She tried for a natural tone, but managed only a whisper. "It—" He paused, clearing his throat. "It is, Gen. I—it is."

  She was afraid to look at him. She was afraid of the emotion she might at last see revealed in his dark eyes, an emotion she'd long wished for but suddenly dreaded to name.

  "Then I accept them."

  She had stopped short of forgiving him. She did not know if she could ever do that, even though he had followed her from Irving to Galveston and beyond. Even though he had rescued her from the fire and from slavery, or worse. After all, he had been largely responsible for her troubles, he and Garland Humble.

  "Does that mean you'll have time for me now?" Mac's voice was as quiet as the swans' graceful ballet on the pond.

  She searched for an easy answer to his question and discovered there wasn't one. Her schedule, her very life, if the past week was any indication, was shortly to become more full than at any other time during her brief career. Her disappearance had created, to her amazement, a sensation. A demand for her. She needed to capitalize on that demand to ensure her future in opera. His apologies, and her acceptances thereof, added not one iota to her time, not, especially, having lost precious weeks of practice. The demand for her celebrity would quickly fade, she realized, if she could not support it with vocal and musical excellence. She withdrew her hands from his, and he pulled away as well, seeming to sense that the time for retreat was upon them.