The Pleasure Chest. Jule McBride
shapely legs into pants of stretch material that showed every curve. “I found a bottle of good whiskey, and I could use another shot.”
Her eyes darted to the painting once more, and she studied the empty space where Stede had once painted himself into the landscape. It was days after the duel, and he’d been on the deck of a privateer vessel, sailing out of town. He’d wanted to leave a painted account of what had really happened that morning, just for the record. Then, everything had become hazy. At first he thought he’d died. And then he simply felt as if he were…drifting.
Her voice brought him back to the present. “A shot of whiskey?” she said, her voice scarcely audible. Then she added something that was music to his ears. “I think I could use one, too.”
3
“MIND IF I POUR?” he asked, once they were downstairs.
“Please do.” Tanya managed, nodding as she slid onto a stool at the island-style bar and looked at him. Her hands were shaking, and if she tried to fix their drinks, she knew she’d spill what had turned out to be one of James’s prized bottles of aged whiskey. Reading the label, she winced. How was she going to explain the raid on his liquor supply when he got back from vacation? Surely he hadn’t told this guy to help himself….
As much as she was determined not to remove her gaze from the intruder, in case he made any sudden moves, she glanced toward the open door leading to the basement James loftily called his wine cellar. When she found her voice again, she murmured dryly, “I see you found James’s stash.”
She was surprised to find that she hadn’t sounded as unsettled as she felt, which was good. In fact, she’d sounded extremely calm. Maybe too calm, since her pulse was ticking like a stopwatch. When her gaze darted through the windows, she relaxed somewhat. Just past the autumnal wreaths she’d helped James put up, she could see people in the street. The outdoor tables at a sidewalk café across from them were packed, and a tourist even had a camera pointed in her direction.
Adrenaline surged through her. She should bolt for the door again, but something kept her on the stool. Maybe the fact that he’d stopped her from running once before. Or maybe curiosity. Or lust. That suggestion came unbidden, and she submerged quickly. The important thing was that if she started screaming bloody murder, someone might hear.
He seemed to read her mind. “Don’t you be running scared again,” he warned.
She 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