The Pleasure Chest. Jule McBride
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, a rumble sounded, as if to point out he was imbibing on an empty stomach, too. “Maybe you’d better eat first,” she found herself saying, aware that there were countless issues to discuss, and that she was doing her best to avoid them, while secretly deciding what she thought of his odd appearance in her home.
“I am so hungry I could eat pig-slop,” he admitted.
“No need to go that far,” she managed. “What do you want? I eat mostly vegan.”
There was something off-center about his facial features, just as in the painting, she decided. Whatever it was, it added rather than detracted from his good looks. He had high cheekbones, but a tapered chin where one might have expected to find a square jaw, and a prominent nose. A dusting of dark hair served as a mustache and goatee. He was real enough. But there was no way he could be Stede O’Flannery.
He was staring at her. Finally he said, “Virgin?”
She squinted. “Excuse me?”
“You eat virgin?”
She almost choked on her whiskey. “Vegan.”
“Meanin’?”
Was he for real? “I don’t eat meat or cheese.”
He looked confused. “What’s left to eat then, other than the plate?”
He looked so appalled that she admitted it was only a passing fad. “I’m watching my cholesterol.”
“Yer what?”
This conversation was going nowhere. “Never mind. For you,” she promised. “The Atkins Diet.”
“Atkins?”
“All meat.”
“I’ll eat whatever you’re having, miss,” he conceded politely. “As Poor Richard always says, ‘Hunger never saw bad bread.’” With that, he lifted a highball glass, clinked it to hers and vowed, “I’d be happy to eat pure lard on pine wood, I swear I would.” He paused. “It’s just good to be back in the world.”
“Hear, hear,” she said, her fingers curling more tightly around her glass. It felt unexpectedly comforting. Cool to the touch. The whiskey was better, tangy on her lips, warm in her mouth, hotter as it traveled down her throat and curled in her belly. For just a second, she shut her eyes, sure she was dreaming. And yet, just now, when he’d said it was good to be back, she was sure she’d seen a tear of gratitude in his eye.
Only when she opened her eyes did she realize she’d been half expecting him to disappear. But he was standing in the same place, dressed in the antiquated outfit. She watched him swirl the amber liquid in his glass, as if mesmerized, then he knocked back another healthy gulp and released a sigh of ecstasy, as if he’d never tasted anything quite so wonderful. “King George the Third never got a taste of this whiskey,” he announced with relish.
She wasn’t exactly the world’s greatest history buff. “I think this was bottled after his time, right?”
“And he never saw a television or a telephone, or all the things Julius Royle showed me,” he continued.
“Guess you’re one up on King George the Third, then.”
Suddenly he grinned, making her heart do crazy flip-flops. His smile was over-the-top. Captivating. Dazzling. His voice was as warm as the whiskey when he said, “Indeed I am, miss!” He sighed deeply. “Despite my misfortune, indeed I am.”
She barely heard. With the smile, he’d gone from being merely charismatic in a bad-boy sort of way, to being downright dangerous. And she hated guys who looked like this. She always wound up doing far too many old-fashioned girly-girl type things for them, such as cooking, cleaning and laundry. Already, she’d offered to feed him. ’Fess up, Tanya, she thought. Already, she was on the road to ruin. Upstairs, the paint was drying on work she was supposed to display next week. She had her career to worry about. Very studiously, she forced herself not to smile back at him.
Not that he noticed. “Hope you don’t mind my explorin’, miss,” he pressed on, sounding as if he hadn’t much time. “But I knew you’d not wish to be awakened. Besides the whiskey, I found plenty o’ maps, too. I take it this employer of yours, James…he’d be a sailor, then?”
Spinning on the bar stool, she looked behind her, and gasped when she saw James’s maps spread on a drafting table. She rose to her feet and strode toward the mess. James might forgive one bottle of whiskey, especially if he’d told the guy he could have it, but any damage to his precious maps would result in an irreparable rift. She’d lose her job and apartment in one fell swoop.
“You didn’t get to the ones in the safe, did you?” she asked, anxiety making her heart pound.
“Oh, good. A safe. That means there’s more.”
“Only for customers,” she managed. “This is a map shop.”
“Treasured Maps,” he agreed. “Saw it printed on the door.”
“Rare maps,” she added. Buyers came from all over the world just to look at them. Surely he knew that, at least if he knew James. Relief flooded her as she looked down at the drafting table. The top map was undamaged. No rings from a shot glass. No fingerprints. No spittle. After pinching the edges, she carefully carried the map toward a metal cabinet, specially designed to keep large maps flat and dust-free.
“Mind telling me what I’ve done, miss?”
Miss. She liked that he was calling her that, more than she wanted to admit, but the thought was fleeting. Whatever equilibrium she’d regained, she lost when she returned to the drafting table. “Oh no,” she muttered. Under the top map was a glazed lithograph dated 1879. Beneath that was a hand-colored engraving by Elisha Robinson.
“Sorry, miss, but I…”
“These are very valuable.” Her heart hammering, she glanced at him, her mind reeling. Those dangerously sexy eyes were sparkling with confusion and emotion that was hard to deny, and the fact that he looked so genuinely sorry made her heart soften. Silently she cursed herself for being so weak when it came to gorgeous men. “They really are collector’s items,” she added. In case he still didn’t understand, she continued, “Some aren’t even for sale, and James lends them to museums.”
He looked utterly taken aback, and he’d gone a shade paler. “Well, I