The Pleasure Chest. Jule McBride

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ tried to look calm and collected. “Is that a threat?”

      “A request.”

      Somehow, she doubted it. Then again, she’d fainted and he hadn’t harmed her. Thoughts raged through her mind with the speed of a brushfire, and when her gaze meshed with his, everything felt just as hot, too. When she’d come to, she’d thought an extra button of her shirt had come undone, but that could have happened during their tussle. And he hadn’t tried to trap her upstairs, where she’d have been more vulnerable, which gave her some relief. Yes, if he was going to try anything physical, he’d have taken the opportunity already. And if James and Eduardo had hired him, the guy must have had a key to the place. No windows were open, and like the front door, they had alarms.

      For a second, upstairs, she’d believed he was really Stede O’Flannery, and that he’d stepped out of one of his own paintings, but now, her head was clearing. James had even told him where to find the whiskey. That’s what must have happened. Yes, James knew all about this. So, soon enough, she’d get a reasonable explanation. Biting back a sudden gasp, she wondered if Eduardo had asked one of his restoration experts to produce a facsimile painting, exactly like the one upstairs, sans the man standing in front of her.

      “A shekel,” he said.

      “Shekel?”

      “For your thoughts.”

      “I thought it was a penny,” she murmured, then raised her voice, assuring, “too many to enumerate.” Whatever the case regarding his identity, curiosity was getting the better of her, and she wanted to play along. As least for a few more minutes. Pushing aside a visceral memory of how his warm, strong body had covered hers, trapping her on the floor, she slowly scanned the street—taking in the café, dry cleaner’s, and a pretzel vendor—then she studied her strange houseguest again.

      In turn, he glanced quickly away, like the proverbial kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. Maybe he, too, was suddenly remembering the body heat they’d generated. Inhaling sharply, she found herself recalling how hard and inviting he’d felt, with those long, muscular, tight-encased legs trailing between hers. As if reading her thoughts, he made a soft rumbling sound. Ignoring a shot glass he’d already used, he took two highball glasses from a wire rack, then raised the bottle of whiskey and read the label.

      “Aye. I found the stash as you call it, indeed,” he finally began, speaking in a throaty voice that sent another unwanted vibration careening through her already jangling system. “And this didn’t taste too bad a’tall for being so recently bottled.”

      Was he crazy? “Recently bottled?”

      “Nineteen fifteen. The newest bottle I could find.” Before she could respond, he added, “There’s nearly as many spirits down in that cellar as I buried in Killman’s cave.”

      Spirits? For a second, her mind was catching at threads again, all of which seemed to be strangely elusive. She’d thought he was chattering about ghosts, since he, himself, might be one. At least if he was really Stede O’Flannery, which he wasn’t, she assured herself for the umpteenth time. Then she realized he’d been talking about alcohol, not spirits of the netherworld variety. “Killman’s cave?”

      “Aye. That’s one place where I put some of my own stash. My spirits, and treasures, and paintings, and such.” Before she could question him about that, he rushed on, “And James? He’d be your…”

      “Employer.”

      Something unreadable crossed his features. “Not a suitor, then?”

      “Uh…no.”

      “And Eduardo? Is he a ’wooin’ ya, miss?”

      She felt a moment’s pique at how he was interrogating her, then almost burst out laughing at the idea of she and Eduardo as a couple. He was a real shark, not one of James’s favorite clients. “He’s a buyer at Weatherby’s.”

      “The auction house? In London?”

      “They have a business in New York, too,” she informed him, realizing something was going terribly wrong, since it hadn’t been her intention to start a normal conversation.

      “Sweet Betsy Ross. So, I really am in New York?”

      “Uh…yes.” Definitely she needed to regain the upper hand before the odd direction of this encounter moved along much further. She was getting her bearings, and she still wanted to wrest a confession from him, regarding who he really was.

      But he pressed on. “So, Eduardo’s not a suitor?”

      “No,” she managed to say. “Um…I think he might be gay, but I’m not really sure.”

      “I do hope he is gay!” the man exclaimed. “It’s a world full o’remarkable inventions, and despite my own sad and sorry circumstances, I still count myself as lucky as any four-leaf clover! There’s no excuse for a man bein’glum.” He paused a split second. “Well, whatever the fellow’s disposition, you’re not a’courtin’?”

      She shook her head, trying to tell herself he didn’t look relieved to hear it, but she saw interest in his gaze, and a quick thrill zinged through her, taking her by complete surprise. It was as unwanted as it was undeniable, especially under these bizarre circumstances, but her eyes drifted over his frame again. He seemed to be one of those people who seemed blessed with…a little something extra. Call it what you would, charm, magnetism or charisma.

      Due to his looks alone, he shouldn’t have been so heart-stopping, although he was about six feet tall, with a loose-limbed, rangy body that was moving on the other side of the island bar as if his bones had been oiled from within. He was squinting hard in her direction, his dark, bushy eyebrows arched like hoods over sparkling gems of eyes that were fringed by a spray of equally inky eyelashes, and barely visible in the shadowy room. Abruptly, as if he’d just gotten extremely thirsty, he tilted the whiskey bottle and began to pour.

      “I see you’re no stranger to a bar,” she said, anxious to shift the subject from her romantic life.

      He took in the excellently appointed countertop, with its high-end corkscrews, crystal glasses and cocktail shakers. “I used to live in a room above such an establishment, went by the name o’ McMulligans. Saw it built from the ground up in 1786.”

      The words carried a ring of veracity, and suddenly, everything seemed as surreal as when she’d first seen the painting. Once more, she visualized it, hanging upstairs, sans the dark figure, and she fought the urge to run up and look again. Surely her eyes had been deceiving her. Maybe she was even dreaming. Besides, the figure had been about three inches tall, the size of a toy soldier. Maybe this man just seemed to be his spitting image, due to the change in scale. Still, every single nuance was the same, right down to the breeches and boots.

      Her throat went bone-dry. “Are you going to pour?” she managed, realizing there wasn’t enough whiskey in the basement, much less the world, to offset what was happening.

      “Quite right. We don’t have all day, now, do we? Time’s of the essence, especially in my case, miss.” Before filling her glass, he lifted his own, downed a healthy gulp of warm whiskey, then prepared to fill both glasses again, giving himself a double portion.

      She drew a deep, steadying breath. It was strange enough that he was here, but if he wound up drunk, she’d be in hot water. Worse, СКАЧАТЬ