Steal Me, Sweet Thief Page 27

  "My time," she began slowly, searching for words that would not hurt either of them, "is not my own to give right now, Kieran. I have an obligation to my art. I study. I practice. I perform. I negotiate my engagements, since I have no manager yet. Opera is my life. My very essence. It is who I am. It's the one thing, the only thing in this life that I can't live without."

  "Garland didn't understand that. He was attracted to me for my voice, and my talent, and yet when he married me he meant to keep me all to himself A prisoner to his devotion. A bird in a gilded cage, just like the song. I knew I'd made a mistake from the moment I married him."

  "You didn't love him, then?"

  Kieran's question was unapologetically direct. She could not help smiling, still not trusting herself to look at him.

  "He was the first man to have shown me kindness without placing expectations upon it. I know this sounds silly, but I did love him, in a way, for that. But I was young, and I couldn't see that the expectations would come later. I spent six months trying to correct my error, but neither of us would compromise. The more I tried to break away, the tighter he held on."

  She stopped herself. Why was she telling him these things? Kieran Macalester had not asked her to marry him. Mired in sudden confusion, she fell silent. On the pond, the largest swan rose up, flapping his great white wings in a menacing display against a common stray goose that had intruded upon the tableau. The goose quickly retreated.

  "So he never hurt you?" Kieran sounded surprised. And, strangely, very far away.

  "Not in the physical sense, no," she replied with greater calm than she felt. "I never said he did. What he did was more on the order of locking me away, like a criminal. Or a madwoman."

  "There are some women who wouldn't have minded being locked in such a prison."

  "Not this woman," she declared in a soft breath.

  She felt, all at once, his gentle fingers caressing the back of her neck. The sensation caught her unawares and caused a stirring along her spine, into her loins.

  "I'm having a little trouble with that picture myself," he averred, his laugh quiet and thoughtful.

  She barely heard him. The motion of his fingers on her neck was both soothing and exciting, and she closed her eyes to allow herself the full enjoyment of it. She heard the creak of well-oiled leather, and she knew he was going to kiss her. The notion filled her with giddy anticipation.

  His mouth found its fit over hers in an instant. It had been so long, it seemed to her, even though it had been but two weeks, at most, that it was like the very first time. He tasted each lip, tugging gently upon them with his own, and the strength of his wide mouth was tempered by his restrained passion. She wished, as her hand found the hair curled over his collar, that he would not stop. That his kiss would go on and on just as it was, neither deepening nor receding. It was a kiss that promised unnamed pleasures, the promise in itself being as much pleasure as her body could handle decently.

  Presently his kiss ceased. She waited, eyes closed, for another. When he did not renew his activity, she opened her eyes, undeniably disappointed. She found him studying her intently. His face, unsmiling, was inches from her own.

  "I just want a little corner, Gen," he whispered, his dark eyes commanding her gaze even as his urgent words turned her inside out. "A little room of my own in your busy life."

  She would have promised him anything if he would only kiss her once more. And she was not sure she wanted to promise. A corner, he said. How could she even yield a corner, when she had no idea which one he would demand? And which she was prepared to part with?

  She sat up, directing her stare to the pond again. "I can't, Kieran. I can't promise anything. And I don't know if I would even if I could. Please don't ask me. I can't exactly explain it to myself, much less to you or to anyone else. But I can't. Please, take me home now."

  "Is it Humble?" His voice had a hard edge to it. "Or Atherton?" She resisted an urge to plant her face in her hands.

  "Yes." She groaned. "No. I mean… It's more than all of that, Kieran. How can I make you understand? It's Mozart and Verdi and Gounod. It's the Metropolitan, and Covent Garden, and La Scala. It's things I couldn't possibly begin to explain to you, if I had a lifetime to do it! Please, just—just take me back now. It's best if we forget we ever had this conversation. It's best if we never discuss it again, at all."

  "I have the feeling it's even simpler than that." All of the softness was gone from his address. "I think it's Memphis and Little Rock and R. Hastings McAllister. It's Camden and Galveston and Lennox. I can't change what's happened between us, Geneva. Not the bad, or the good. But just remember: Neither can you."

  The sterling November afternoon was tarnished beyond reclamation. He did not speak again during the half-hour drive back to the St. Pierre, and Geneva was unable to do so because of the great weight in her chest pressing painfully into her heart. He was right in a way, she knew. But far from simplifying matters, those names he mentioned evoked a far more complex series of emotions in her than any she herself had uttered.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The price of the New Orleans Times-Picayune had gone up a penny. Macalester found the additional coin in his pocket and accepted the twelve-page tabloid from the newsboy outside of the St. Pierre, folding it under his arm without looking at it. Geneva had gone directly inside without further remark, and he was glad. He did not have the strength to exchange further words with her.

  Billy was getting ready to go out as Macalester returned to their room. He was whistling off-key, the only way he knew how, a tune resembling "Little Brown Jug" more than any other as he tied a crooked knot about his collar. He had been seeing an actress and was no doubt preparing for another of his romps. The lighthearted anticipation he never failed to exhibit on such occasions normally amused Macalester, but this evening he found it intolerably annoying. Billy took one look at Macalester in the mirror, his blue eyes merry.

  "How was the funeral?"

  Macalester sent him a look he hoped was withering and tossed the newspaper on the bureau.

  "Very funny."

  He had intended to say nothing to his friend about the dismal climax to his afternoon. He had every intention of carrying on with his activities as though nothing was bothering him. But somehow, seeing Billy so cheerfully involved in his toilette for a night of sparking robbed him of his self-control. His fingers pulled clumsily at the buttons of his jacket and he nearly ripped the garment, turning it completely inside out as he tore it off and flung it on the bed. Billy was watching, but Macalester didn't care. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He shoved his hands into his pants pockets to prevent himself from throwing something else. Maybe Billy. He stared at the floor, unwilling to look at his friend.

  "When are you going out?" he asked finally, in a hostile voice.

  "Damn, Senator, I'm sorry all over hell, whatever it was I did!" the younger man declared in a mockingly contrite tone. "I'm leavin' here just as soon as I can. I guess you applied your usual charm to Mrs. Humble, and that's why you're back here so early, grouchin' like a grizzly bear?"

  Macalester did look angrily at Billy then, angrier than he had a right to be. Knowing that didn't make it any easier, especially when his friend called Geneva by her married name, which Billy knew he hated. And worst of all, he could not even contrive a response to his annoying friend, except to continue glaring.

  Billy's lips pursed in a thoughtful expression. "You wanna tell me about it?"

  "No."

  "Fine."

  Billy continued fiddling with his tie and resumed his whistling. Macalester watched him, not moving from his place. His fists were clenched so hard that his fingernails were digging painfully into the hardened palms of his hands.

  "She doesn't want me, Billy," he heard himself say dully, before he'd even intended to speak. "Smart woman."

  "Thanks!" Macalester snapped, looking up sharply. "Thanks a lot, Billy! I'll remember your kind words, the next time you're
puking your guts out after some pour sap calls you out!"

  Billy Deal faced him at last, his blue eyes like ice. "Well, damn it, Mac, at least I wasn't stupid enough to—"

  He stopped abruptly, as though someone had shouted "Enough!" The room was still for a full minute. Macalester could hear his heart thumping as if each beat were its last. Finally, he could no longer sustain Billy's unswerving, annoyed gaze.

  "Did she turn you down?" Billy inquired finally, judging, apparently, that Macalester's temper had been mitigated, at least for a time.

  Macalester felt as though the words were going to pour forth whether he wanted them to or not, so he decided to let them come out a little at a time, hoping to stem a gushing tide.

  "Not exactly." He shook his head.

  Billy made a face.

  "What the hell does that mean?" he demanded. "Did she slap you?"

  "No," Macalester retorted, feeling a little uncomfortable about the conversation.

  "Did she let you kiss her?"

  He felt himself blush, and he wondered why. Billy had seen him in bed with whores, and he Billy. Why should Billy's comparatively mild question cause him embarrassment this time? "Yes," he answered, unwillingly remembering her sweet, reciprocating mouth. Billy, to his surprise and chagrin, chuckled.

  "If she hasn't said 'no,' it probably means 'yes,' Senator." Billy sounded so sure of himself that Macalester stared in wonder. "You just have to find the right way, and the right time, to ask, that's all."

  Macalester considered his friend, who was cleaning his even, white teeth with a cedar splint. Billy, unquestionably, had had a great many more liaisons than he, but there had not been a serious attachment in the lot. Ladies—women, really—came and went in Billy's life like daily bread. Satisfying meals, soon forgotten. Macalester had sat at that table a few times himself, but this was different. It wasn't so much that Geneva was like a banquet to which he had not been invited. It was more like she was a well, and he hadn't even known he was dying of thirst until he'd met her. He had the feeling that Billy was still way out in the desert somewhere, looking for his own oasis.

  "I don't know," Kieran said at last, shaking his head. "It's like I took something from her without permission, Billy. Just when I feel like she's within my reach, she slips away from me again."

  Billy appeared puzzled. "Come again?"

  Macalester grimaced. His own emotions were in such a morass that he wasn't at all sure he could explain them, not even to himself.

  "Forget it, Billy," he said dismissively, sitting, then reclining on the bed, aware of a sudden profound and overwhelming weariness. "Go out. Have a high old time. Just toss me that newspaper so I don't have to move again."

  Billy considered him, placing his hand on the folded tabloid on the dresser. "Why don't you come with me, Mac?" he urged presently, sounding pleased by his sudden inspiration. "I'll bet Andrea can dig up a friend for you, and we can all light up this old town together. Just like old times. How 'bout it?"

  Billy's idea held no appeal for Macalester, but he did not want to hurt his friend's feelings.

  "Not tonight." He leaned back against the pillows, crooking his arm behind his head. "I'd be lousy company. Go on out and have a good time. I'll work things out. It may take me some time, but—I'll do it."

  "Suit yourself." Billy shrugged his arms into the sleeves of his jacket and tossed the paper to the bed, looking about the room. "Where the hell is my billfold?"

  Macalester knew Billy was not asking him. With one hand he picked up the newspaper and flipped open the fold. The words on the front page leaped out at him.

  "God, Billy!" he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright again as he stared in disbelief at the paper before his eyes. "Roberts has pardoned us!"

  "What!"

  Billy sprang forward, seizing the tabloid from his partner's grasp. As his blue eyes scanned the paper, Macalester got up from the bed and moved beside him, reading:

  Governor Oren Roberts of Texas signed a proclamation granting amnesty to notorious outlaws Kieran Macalester and Billy Deal on Thursday, a controversial move rumored to have been instigated by his political cronies. Roberts, whose term expires next November, said his decision was motivated by pleas from lawmen around the state who have encountered violence, and numerous false claims from countless bounty hunters for the five thousand dollar reward previously offered for each man. The move was designed, he said, to save lives and the taxpayers' money.

  The article went on, but Macalester stopped reading. The rest of it was unimportant to him, and was probably a lie, anyway. Some men who made a career of lying, he reflected bitterly, were called politicians.

  "Well, what do you think of that?" he said softly, feeling as though an immense yoke had been taken from his shoulders.

  "I think I want a drink," Billy replied hoarsely, sounding completely serious for once "Join me, Mac?"

  Macalester felt the younger man's hand upon his shoulder.

  "I want to go tell her," he heard himself say, even though he'd had every intention of accepting the invitation when he'd opened his mouth.

  Billy met his stare with a look of such profound understanding that Macalester was stunned.

  "Go ahead, Mac," he told him, nodding slowly. "You and me have had a lot of drinks together, and we'll sure have plenty more. Go on. Go tell Geneva. And good luck."

  To his surprise, Billy stuck his hand out. Macalester accepted it with a firm shake. Then Billy was gone.

  It was with some reservation that Geneva accepted Kieran's unexpected invitation to dinner, after the dismal result of that afternoon's outing. She ignored her secretary's disapproving look, though, and accepted his arm as he escorted her down to the hotel dining room. They were seated at once at a secluded table in an alcove surrounded by huge bromeliads in terra cotta pots. Geneva took the chair offered her by Macalester, wondering why she was there. It had been her intention to keep her distance from the outlaw, and two feet of white damask was not quite the distance she had envisioned.

  He took his place across from her, and it was very obvious by the deep, appealing clefts in his cheeks that he was trying to suppress a smile. She admired, as always, the easy grace of his movements and the air of self-assurance he never failed to exhibit. He was, she admitted to herself, allowing a small spark of pride, a commanding presence. What a pity that fate should have decreed him an outcast.

  "I had an interesting piece of news waiting for me when we got back to the hotel this afternoon," he began after ordering an expensive bottle of Champagne from an approving waiter.

  He was not even trying to suppress his smile, now. His wide mouth displayed his fine teeth and the dimples with which she was by now achingly familiar. She had not the faintest idea what he was talking about.

  "Oh?" she offered politely, looking about the room at the other patrons, unable, for some reason, to maintain his scrutiny. "Have you seen the Times today?" he questioned her, drawing her attention again. "No. What have I missed?"

  In reply, he reached into the inside breast pocket of his black dinner jacket and withdrew a piece of newsprint, torn at the edges and folded into a small rectangle. He held it out to her, seeming to monitor her every move. Curious, she took it from his fingers and unfolded it.

  The import of the article struck her like a blow with a silken glove.

  "I—" She folded the paper again and handed it back to him, feeling a strange fluttering in her breast. "I'm happy for you, Kieran," she said, hoping she sounded natural to him. "I'm happy for you and Billy."

  Kieran reached across the table, but took her hand instead of the paper she offered to him. His firm gesture startled her into meeting his gaze.

  "Do you know what this means, Gen?" His fingers massaged hers in a most distracting manner.

  She could not answer him. Her voice had fled.

  "Miss Geneva Lionwood."

  It was an abrupt, raspy tenor voice that distracted her from Kieran's urgent question. There appeared at once
beside her a short, impeccably dressed man of perhaps fifty. She withdrew her hand from Kieran's quickly, not sure whether she was annoyed by the intrusion or grateful for it.

  "My name is Horace Tabor, Miss Lionwood," the man proclaimed, bowing. "I own this hotel. And one or two other things." He laughed at his remark, as though he thought it a good jest. "May I join you and your escort?"

  With an odd sense that this had all happened before, Geneva glanced at Kieran. The former outlaw was scowling.

  Horace Austin "Warner Tabor did not wait for her permission. An eager waiter brought him a chair and another bottle of Champagne, an even more expensive one than Kieran had selected. "Within moments, their secluded little table became the focus of attention throughout the crowded dining room.

  Horace Tabor wanted to talk opera, and when the diminutive, stocky millionaire spoke, one had no choice but to listen, or flee. The subject being opera, Geneva chose to listen. Macalester also opted to remain, but he chose to scowl, as well, reminding her sharply of Blaine Atherton at Delmonico's when a certain R. Hastings McAllister had intruded upon their evening.

  Geneva found herself fascinated by the older man's knowledge of and devotion to the art, and by his casual talk of his connections in Chicago, St. Louis and Philadelphia. He was building the newest and most fabulous opera house in all of the country, bar none, in Denver. It was his intention, he assured her, to concoct an offer that would result in her leading an ensemble of the finest singers ever assembled to perform in, and to fill, that facility. And Horace Tabor spoke with such bold authority that it was impossible for her to doubt him.