Judith Stacy - Written In The Heart

Across the desk, Stephen straightened. “You may as well get…comfortable.”

“Comfortable?” Caroline asked.

“Yes.” He nodded quickly. “Do you need anything?”

A cup of tea, laced with a shot of brandy, suddenly seemed appealing.

“No, let’s proceed,” Caroline said. “Where would you like to start?”

He circled the desk and looked her up and down, taking his time in doing so. His gaze traveled from the tips of her shoes to her skirt, to her face, to her hat.

Caroline flushed. Her skin tingled beneath her dress. A heat flowed from him, wafting over her.

Finally he nodded. “Your dress,” he said softly. “Take it off.”

Breath left her lungs in a frightful huff. Caroline froze to the floor, staring at him. Had she heard him right? Had he told her to undress?

“But wear the hat,” Stephen said. “And your shoes.”

Indignant outrage surged through Caroline, stiffening her arms at her sides. “I will do no such thing.”

“Oh.” He looked disappointed. “All right, then take everything off.”

Her mouth flew open. “How dare you suggest such a thing?”

Stephen stepped closer. “You’d prefer I undressed you myself?”

“I can’t believe you have the gall to speak to me that way!” She faced him squarely, too angry to back away. “How could you say such a thing?”

He spread his arms. “Because you’re a whore.”

Caroline slapped him—an openhanded, roundhouse swing that landed against his cheek so hard it knocked him back a step.

“You bastard! You shameless, conniving bastard!” Caroline trembled with outrage.

Stephen pressed his fingers against his cheek. “If you think I’ll pay you extra for the rough stuff—”

“Shut your filthy mouth!” Caroline yanked her satchel off the desk. “You horrible, disgusting man! You lured me here pretending—”

“Lured you? Richard Paxton arranged this—”

“So, you’re both in on it.”

“I’m not in on anything,” Stephen insisted.

The office door opened and Richard Paxton walked into the room. Caroline saw him and her anger turned to rage.

“You!”

She drew back her hand and slapped his face, just as hard as she’d slapped Stephen. Stunned, he plastered his palm to his cheek, staring at her, completely lost.

“You’re both disgusting,” Caroline said. Anger, humiliation, hurt coursed through her as she backed toward the door. “I hope you two are proud of yourselves. Tricking me. Luring me here with empty promises. Making me think I could really have a—a…”

She burst into tears. Big, gut-wrenching sobs. Both men stared, holding their cheeks. Caroline pressed her palm to her lips and ran out the door.

They just stood there for a few seconds, staring at the empty space Caroline had occupied. Finally, Stephen turned away.

“Great birthday present,” he grumbled. “Thanks a whole hell of a lot.”

Bewildered, Richard held out his hands. “What did you do to her?”

“Does it look like I had time to do anything?” he demanded. He stalked back to his desk. “Next year just send me a box of handkerchiefs.”

“You can’t let her leave,” Richard said. “You need her.”

Stephen knelt, gathering ledgers into his arms. “The next time you decide to send me a whore, make it one that will—”

“A whore? She’s not a whore.”

Stephen stopped. 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.