Kady Cross - The Girl in the Clockwork Collar

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind as she stepped back to allow him inside. It was set up much like his own, only with a different view, as her windows overlooked 34th Street.

“I thought maybe you might be interested in taking a walk,” he said, glancing around the room. She had already opened her luggage and begun unpacking. It was a little disconcerting, seeing her underthings, even though they were stacked in an open drawer. He looked away. “Those are lovely flowers.”

Finley glanced at the bouquet of cream tea roses on the dresser. “They were here when I came in. I assumed they were part of the décor.”

“I don’t have any in my room.” He took a closer look. “There’s a card.” He plucked the folded card stock from the blooms and offered it to her.

Frowning, Finley took it. “Perhaps it will tell us who they belong to.” But as soon as she opened the card, Griffin knew the answer. She looked surprised, pleased and perturbed, all at once.

“They’re from Dandy, aren’t they?” He didn’t really need her to respond. Who else would send her flowers? Not him, obviously.

She nodded, clearly bewildered. “How did he even know where to find me?”

Griffin shrugged and tried to look as though he didn’t care. “It would be easy to ascertain that we had left and for where. Then all he had to do was contact hotels.”

“Still, I don’t know why he’d bother wasting the time.”

“Don’t you?” Griff studied her face closely. “Surely you know he has feelings for you.”

Finley blushed. “We’re friends.”

As he ran one of his fingers along the petal of a rose, Griffin’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Perhaps you ought to enlighten Mr. Dandy as to that.”

“Do you believe I’ve led him on?”

He choked on a bark of laughter. “You spent the night at his house. Could you blame him for making assumptions?”

Hands fisted on her hips, Finley glared at him. “And I live with you. What assumptions have you made, Your High and Mightiness?”

He should have stayed in his room. “None. I know better then to assume anything where you are concerned.”

Instead of placating her, it only made her frown deepen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Griffin shrugged. He couldn’t win. “Nothing, Finley. It means nothing. I’m sorry I bothered you. Good night.”

He moved to the exit and had just wrapped his hand around the brass knob when a hand slapped flat against the door. He turned the knob and pulled, but the door refused to budge—she was that strong.

Slowly, Griffin turned his head toward her, his temper and his power rising. The runes tattooed on his neck and shoulders to help him focus his abilities warmed and tingled. Only Finley had the ability to get under his skin like this. She made him think and act like an idiot. “Don’t make me blow this thing off its hinges,” he said, voice low.

Her eyes sparkled with disbelief, taunting him. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Not like I can’t afford to replace it.”

“Where would you expect me to sleep in the meanwhile?”

“I’m sure I can think of someplace.” Yes, he could. As soon as he said it, he wished he could take it back. Heat crept up his cheeks.

Finley’s lips parted on a soft gasp, and he noted with some pleasure that her cheeks darkened, as well. He also noticed that she did not immediately drop her hand from the door.

Her other hand, however, came up to touch his face. Her fingers were cool against his cheek. It took all of his strength, but he wrapped his hand around hers and pulled it away. “I care about you, Fin. More than I should probably admit, but I’m not going to share you or fight for your affection.” Then—because he couldn’t help himself—he kissed her fingers.

“Good night, Finley.” He opened the door and stepped over the threshold. When the door clicked shut behind him, Griffin tried not to be too disappointed that she hadn’t tried to stop him.

It was a good thing Dalton’s men had taken his guns, because Jasper would have shot the rat between his eyes without much of a thought—he was that angry. Angry and helpless.

He was still angry hours later, standing alone at one of the windows in his “cell.” It was well past midnight, but if he went to bed, he’d only stare at the ceiling.

Of all the secrets and weapons his former friend could have used against him, why did it have to be Mei? He knew why—because Dalton knew Mei was the best weapon to use against him, his guarantee that Jasper wouldn’t try to escape.

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window and breathed deep through his nose, but it didn’t make him any less angry. He hadn’t seen Mei since he left San Francisco a year ago. He’d left to protect her. And he had hidden Dalton’s blasted stolen contraption not only to ensure his own life, but to keep Dalton from becoming an even snakier rascal.

He should have known better than to leave her alone. If he had just washed his hands of the situation, let Dalton have his contraption before escaping to England, he wouldn’t be in this mess and Mei would still be safe. He should have taken her with him. But she hadn’t wanted to leave.

When he thought of all the things that could have happened to her in Dalton’s clutches ...

The sound of a key in a lock brought his head up. Slowly, he turned as the hinges creaked and the door eased open.

He expected to see Little Hank, his knuckles wrapped to deliver another beating, but the person who entered was more than a foot shorter than the thug.

“Mei.” To say he was surprised to see her was an understatement. “How ... What are you doing here?”

She set a finger to her lips, telling him to be quiet as she closed the door. She was dressed as she had been earlier that evening, and the Western style seemed odd on her, even though the fabric was Chinese. He was so used to seeing her in more traditional clothing. When they were shut in, she locked the door once more from the inside. Gracefully, she moved toward him, her hair shining in the lamplight. “I had to come see you,” she explained.

“How did you escape your quarters to get the key?”

“The key is on a hook outside the door.” Delicate hands went to the collar around her throat but didn’t quite touch it. “This is my prison. I can move about the house however I wish, but if I try to leave, it tightens.”

Jasper reached out to touch it. “Can’t you just take it off?”

She stepped back, avoiding his hand. “Don’t. If anyone else touches it, it sets off the tightening mechanism. It will strangle me, and you will have to ring for Dalton. I do not want him to know I am here.”

Damn Dalton. Jasper’s jaw tightened. “How long has he had you?”

“Only a few months. He found me in Chinatown. I had gone back to the house.”

By “the house,” she meant Ms. Cameron’s. Donaldina Cameron had been helping girls and women brought over from China for more than twenty years. A lot of the females were sold into domestic slavery or prostitution once they arrived in the city, as they were illegal immigrants. Jasper had worked for Ms. Cameron as a rescuer and, on occasion, a protector. That’s how he had first met Mei—when he rescued her from being sold to a merchant.

The same merchant for whose death he was wanted.

Dalton hadn’t liked that Jasper helped the house. He thought Jasper should talk Mei into convincing some of the girls to work for him instead. He referred to it as “diversifying his business practices.” Jasper had never been above helping relieve a few richies of a little pocket change—he had to eat—but he drew the line at profiting from another’s pain.