Steal Me, Sweet Thief Read online

She sighed, rifling her closet for something suitable to wear while entertaining a strange man in her rooms for dinner. The blue? No, too dull. The red? Too flamboyant.

  She might, had she been born to money or to a family with wisdom greater than her mother and father displayed, have had the immeasurable benefit of European training to recommend her. But as it was, she had only her looks, her voice, her nearly photographic memory and her God-given ability as a musician.

  And these assets had not been enough to gain her what she so desperately craved.

  In San Francisco, though, she might at last have an audience. After so much time and so many disappointments, she didn't dare allow herself to hope too much. And this shrewd attorney, old enough to know the way of the world yet still young enough to enjoy it, might very well hold the answer to her future. But she would have to be canny, play her cards close to her breast.

  Geneva smiled to herself, passing her hand over the dresses, selecting her green velvet dressing gown with gold braid at the collar and sleeves. It was magnificent and careless, and always made her feel regal and sensuous. Slipping her arms into its sleeves, she was invigorated, even anticipating the challenge before her. Her money was running out. Blaine's support would cease, and she had no prospect of legitimate work on the opera stage in New York for the remainder of the season. But she must not allow Mr. McAllister to suspect any of this: It might lessen her desirability to San Francisco, and it would certainly weaken her bargaining position.

  She allowed McAllister to wait for several minutes after his knock without even calling out in answer. She examined her reflection in the full mirror critically, hesitating only a moment before unbuttoning the collar at her throat, then another moment to release her chestnut hair from its severe pinnings. McAllister, she knew instinctively, found her attractive. Let him be as distracted as possible as they discussed their business. Caveat emptor.

  She opened the door. As it had last night, McAllister's sheer animal magnetism struck her like a tidal wave. He had not the least look of impatience or uncertainty about him. How she envied his confidence!

  "You are late, Mr. McAllister," she greeted him, watching his eyes as she ushered him into her foyer with a graceful sweep of a green velvet sleeve. "Dinner is cold."

  He offered her a ridiculously huge array of botanical wonders. His eyes, dark, penetrating yet impenetrable, yielded nothing but mild amusement at her rebuke.

  "But not the company, I hope?" was the bold reply that passed for an apology.

  She found herself smiling at him as she relieved him of his floral offering. She reigned herself in; she could not afford the luxury of so dangerous an attraction. Not yet, at least.

  "Do come in," she went on obliquely, leading the way into the parlor, where a cart set with white damask and silver-domed dishes waited like an idle but patient lover. "Sit down and pour the wine. I must find a vase for these. Or perhaps a bucket."

  Men, she had learned early, tended to follow simple, direct instructions when these orders were properly issued. Her practiced delivery was neither overbearing nor cajoling, and she was pleased to note, upon her return, that McAllister had, indeed, seated himself at the portable table and poured two goblets of the ruby beverage. He began to rise as she approached, but she waved him back, seating herself across from him, brushing her long, wavy hair from her neck with a quick gesture designed to attract attention without appearing obvious.

  "Your business detained you, and kept you from the matinee," she intoned, watching him.

  He pressed his lips together in what she took to be a shamed expression. It was far more attractive than any such look had a right to be. "Unfortunately, yes," he lamented. "I missed your performance. But I hope I'll have many more opportunities soon, in San Francisco." He lifted his glass in tribute, obliging her to do the same. She did not drink, though, but stared into the bowl of the goblet.

  "Mr. McAllister, your persistence is most disarming," she observed, setting her wineglass back upon the table. "You leave me with the distinct impression that you won't accept 'no' for an answer."

  McAllister's sensuous mouth widened to a smile.

  "Miss Lionwood, I assure you that if you make it necessary, I'll carry you off bodily."

  An interesting thought.

  "Let us hope that will not be necessary," she murmured, uncovering the dishes so that she did not have to meet his disconcerting, bright-eyed gaze. "I do hope you like pheasant."

  During dinner, McAllister outlined to her, in an unhurried fashion, the terms he was authorized to lay before her. She very nearly choked on her biscuit when he named the figure: one thousand dollars a week during the season, which ran from October through April. Combined with a suite in the Hotel San Francisco and five months out of the year to travel and to study, it was a queenly ransom. She removed her hands from view, clenching them as tightly as she could under cover of the table.

  "A persuasive offer," she congratulated him, managing her tone. "And a generous one. May I suggest, however, that monetary compensation alone is not what attracts an artist to a situation such as yours?"

  She was very aware of the many implications of her question, and she was curious to see how he would respond to them. She arranged her features into a carefully bland expression and watched him toy with the stem of his empty wineglass, his generous mouth slack and his dark eyes thoughtful.

  "I take it you refer to artistic discretion," he said smoothly. "Word your addendum any way you like, and we can debate the particulars at a later time. Does that answer your concern?"

  How very neatly he handled that, she thought, conscious of a twinge of admiration. He had left the innuendo entirely up to her without denying his own interest. She smiled.

  "Admirably," she replied. "Now there remains the matter of my relocation to San Francis—"

  She was interrupted by his indulgent laughter. Her cheeks, maddeningly, grew warm.

  "You are delightful, Miss Lionwood," he declared, his eyes twinkling. "Naturally, we'll handle all of the arrangements. And," he added, his gaze seeming to penetrate her very soul, "I would consider it an honor and a privilege to escort you personally."

  Her heart, ever rebellious, fluttered. She swallowed hard and looked away from him. "That—that won't be necessary." She toyed with her spoon.

  He cleared his throat. "Will your sponsor be traveling with you?" His inquiry was quiet, as though he was concerned that someone might overhear.

  How discreet he was! Of course, he was referring to Blame.

  "No." She examined the shell pattern on the silver. "He and I are…"

  What was it about R. Hastings McAllister that made her want to tell him everything?

  "I made my way from New York to New Orleans and back again; I'm sure I can find my way to San Francisco with little trouble," she wound up, hoping he would not pursue the subject of Elaine Atherton further.

  "But Miss Lionwood." Suddenly his hand was on hers, warm and strong. "I insist." His gentle, quiet tone compelled her gaze to his.

  "San Francisco is civilized enough." He went on as though he had not marked her sudden confusion. "But there're some pretty rough territories between the Mississippi and the Pacific. I feel personally responsible for your safety until I deliver you."

  Geneva's heart fluttered at the sound of that, but she nevertheless felt obliged to protest.

  "But surely on the train—"

  "There are train robbers," he remarked, settling back in his chair as he considered her.

  She laughed. "I should like to meet one. I find it hard to imagine that a handful of men could intimidate a whole trainload of people."

  McAllister's grin was enigmatic. "I daresay one would think twice before trying to intimidate you, Miss Lionwood," he murmured, shaking his head. "But you would be amazed."

  She was intrigued. "Have you ever witnessed a train robbery?" She realized that she would be surprised if he responded in the negative.

  He hesitated over his answer. "Ye
s," he said at last, cupping his hands before his mouth in a gesture approximating prayer. "A long time ago. I—"

  He was interrupted by a loud, sharp knock upon the door. Geneva's face grew warm, and she prevented herself from uttering an unladylike expletive.

  "Excuse me," she muttered, rising.

  If it was Blaine, she would kill him.

  It was. And worse: He had been drinking.

  "Geneva!" he bellowed beyond the door. "Damn you, let me in!"

  "Go away, Blaine!" she whispered through the door, mortified.

  "Go to hell, Geneva!" he shouted back. "I pay for this bloody room. If I want to shout, I'll bloody well shout! Open the door!"

  There was a warm rush of air, a ripple of power. McAllister was beside her. "Would you like me to—"

  "I'll handle this!" She interrupted his whisper fiercely, unable to look at him. "This is my affair."

  "Who's in there with you?" Blaine demanded, and the doorknob rattled as if tested by a ghost.

  "Blaine, I am not opening the door. I have nothing to say to—"

  "It's McAllister, isn't it?" he bellowed. Geneva closed her eyes. She might have expected Blaine to behave badly. San Francisco Opera and Light Theater Company stood inches away from her, and Blaine Atherton was stomping all over it with hobnailed boots. Tears stung her eyes.

  Damn it, not now! she thought, feeling a sob of despair rise in her throat. Not tsars, in front of McAllister!

  "Geneva, you bloody trollop! You'd better—"

  "Excuse me, Miss Lionwood." McAllister gently moved her aside. Geneva could not even protest as he opened the door.

  Elaine was a mess. His collar was open and his ascot loose. His shirtfront was stained and wrinkled, and his small gray eyes were red-rimmed and putty. Were she not so furious with him, she might even feel sorry for him.

  "Let's take a walk, Atherton." McAllister's baritone was soft and conciliatory as he clapped a heavy arm about the shorter man's shoulder.

  Elaine wrenched himself clumsily away from the younger man's grip.

  "Take your hands off of me!" he demanded. "And it's 'Lord Atherton' to you!"

  Elaine started back to Geneva's door, but McAllister kept his hand on his shoulder.

  "I wouldn't." The attorney's tone was light, but faintly warning.

  "I wouldn't' be damned to you, you bloody whoring Yankee bastard!" Elaine fairly spat.

  "This—" McAllister's baritone was almost pleasant—"is how we bloody whoring Yankee bastards handle rude drunks."

  With that, he dealt the peer an efficient blow to the side of the head with his fist, rendering him instantly unconscious. Geneva watched in wonder as McAllister caught the slumping figure of Elaine Atherton and hoisted him upon his shoulder with astonishing ease, like an oversized sack of produce.

  "I'll put him in a cab and send him around the park a few times." McAllister was laconic. "When he comes to, he'll have quite a headache, but he probably won't remember any of this." Geneva nodded mutely, unable to meet McAllister's pitying gaze.

  "I think it best if we leave New York as quickly as possible," he went on in a gentler tone, a tone that made her feel like crying again. "My business here is finished, and if you can be ready torn—"

  "I can be ready by morning." She made her voice hard to mask her emotions, but it shook once, and she suspected that McAllister was not fooled. "Early. I'd like to leave as soon as possible."

  McAllister was silent.

  "I'm sorry about all of this," he said finally in a husky voice. "But I enjoyed our evening. I look forward to many more. I'll make the arrangements, and we'll discuss them at breakfast. Say, eight o'clock?"

  "Seven would be better." Her eyes stung. She wished he would take Blaine and leave. She couldn't hold back much longer.

  "Seven, then." McAllister's voice was soft as a kiss, the kiss she might have had, if Blaine hadn't interrupted. Disappointment joined her other emotions. The gremlin would have a feast tonight.

  She nodded quickly, still unwilling to look at McAllister, unwilling to see the dissolute lump of humanity that was Blaine Atherton dangling down McAllister's broad back like a bulky black shawl. She did not wait for McAllister to carry him away, or even for a "goodnight." She escaped behind her door as quickly and quietly as she could, closing and locking it behind her. Finally, she allowed herself the dubious luxury of a flow of unrestrained tears.

  Macalester lost no time depositing his burden into a cab. It was nearly ten o'clock; he had much to do. But the evening had taken its toll on him, as well. He rejected the idea of starting the departure arrangements right away. He felt as though he needed to lie down.

  His room was dark. He lit a single lamp, unable to shake off a growing turmoil in his stomach. Dinner had gone so well. Better, even, than he had hoped. He had talked Geneva Lionwood into his trap so neatly that it had seemed almost too easy. Given her seductive behavior, he might even have talked her into bed, unless she talked him into it first. Atherton's untimely interruption could not have upset him so much as to unsettle his stomach. Or perhaps it was something else.

  After checking his pocket once again, he pulled off his tie and removed his coat, dropping both carelessly onto a chair. He closed his eyes, hoping to clear his brain, but saw only the distressingly lovely Geneva Lionwood Humble, her dark hair loose about her white neck, her dusky green eyes regarding him with a keen and sensuous intellect…

  He felt hot. He opened his eyes again, aware that he was breathing hard. His mouth watered, and he swallowed a lump in his throat. He brushed his arm across his forehead; he was sweating. He went to his washbasin and turned on the water. The sound of it rushing into the bowl was cooling and soothing. He looked up into the mirror before him at the man who had just engineered, brilliantly, a monumental deception that would alter at least one innocent life forever.

  He could not fight it any longer. Gripping the edges of the basin, he vomited.

  Chapter Seven

  The logical route to San Francisco would of course have been New York to Philadelphia to Chicago on the Pennsylvania Railroad, then the Central Pacific for the remainder of the trip. But Macalester was not going to San Francisco. He was taking Geneva Lionwood, without her knowledge or consent, to Fort Worth, Texas.

  The next lie in this elaborate scheme was to convince Humble's wife that he had urgent business in Memphis before they could continue to the coast. In the two days it would take to reach Memphis, he was sure he could devise further lies that would get them pleasantly by train to Little Rock. After that, he could lie no more. She would surely be suspicious, being so close to the home of her estranged husband, and might even try escaping from him. No, the train to Fort Worth was out of the question. The last leg of the journey would have to be undertaken by wagon or on horseback, probably under very unpleasant circumstances.

  He pretended to read his newspaper and willed his stomach to stop churning. Unlike Billy's capricious digestive system, which seemed to recover instantly, his own had not stopped nagging him since the night before, when he had acknowledged his monstrous deed to himself Across from him in the roomy first-class compartment sat the serene and trusting Geneva Lionwood, in a mauve traveling suit complete with parasol, picture-frame millinery and bone-colored kid gloves and shoes. She was reading a musical score, her face rapt with attention as her bewitching emerald eyes scanned the pages before her.

  Two days. Two days he had known her, and he had foolishly—stupidly—allowed himself to develop feelings for the woman. How had it happened? And when? Could it have been at Delmonico's, when she had boldly answered his challenge regarding the rival soprano? Or perhaps it had been later, when she'd accepted his cloak in the rain, wearing a woeful, waiflike expression that tugged upon his heart. Or maybe it had only been the night before, during their tantalizing verbal foreplay…

  Macalester shook his head hard. He had to admit to himself that his charade had been challenging, and yes, fun, but had at last become so real to him th
at he had to catch himself, every once in a while, and remind himself that they were not going to San Francisco. That he was not the emissary of the San Francisco Opera and Light Theater Company, and he was not here to make Geneva Lionwood the toast of the coast.

  He was the very worst thing that could happen to this woman. He literally had to shake himself and force himself to recall that she was Garland Humble's wife, that he was returning her to her husband, and that Billy Deal's future depended on his not forgetting these things.

  He sighed involuntarily. She looked up at him and he realized, abashed, that he had not even known that he had been staring at her. Her perceptive gaze sent a shiver along his spine.

  "You're very quiet, Mr. McAllister," she observed in her soft, melodious voice. "And I doubt you've said a dozen words to me since we left New York this morning. Is anything troubling you?"

  They had just pulled out of Pennsylvania Station in Philadelphia, where they had changed trains. Macalester had acquired the newspaper that now rested, open, upon his lap. He managed a smile in the face of those treacherously lovely verdant eyes and shook his head.

  "No." He breathed deeply, searching for a lie that was not too far from the truth. "I think I'm just tired." His celebrated silver tongue needed a serious polishing, if that was the best he could do.

  "Why do you do that?"

  He was startled. "Do what?"

  "Pat your lapel that way." She demonstrated with gloved fingers on her breast.

  He felt his face heat. She'd caught him checking for Humble's letter, probably more than once. She was too canny. Or he was becoming careless.

  "I—no reason," he hedged. "A habit, I suppose. Why? Does it bother you?" If he put her on the defensive, she might change the subject, or at least give him an answer that would give him more time to think up a plausible lie.

  "No," she replied, but the look in her green eyes told him she'd thought about it more than once. Damn. "I thought you kept the train tickets there, or perhaps some money pinned to the inside of your coat. Many people do that, in the city."