LAYLAH ROBERTS
CONTENTS
Let’s keep in touch!
Books by Laylah Roberts
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Laylah Roberts
Reveal Me, Sir
© 2019, Laylah Roberts
Laylah.roberts@gmail.com
laylahroberts.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
Cover Design by: EDH Graphics
Editing: Eve Arroyo
Created with Vellum
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BOOKS BY LAYLAH ROBERTS
Doms of Decadence
Just for You, Sir
Forever Yours, Sir
For the Love of Sir Sinfully Yours, Sir Make me, Sir
A Taste of Sir To Save Sir
Sir’s Redemption
Reveal Me, Sir
Men of Orion Worlds Apart
Cavan Gang
Rectify Redemption
Redemption Valley
Audra’s Awakening
Old-Fashioned Series
An Old-Fashioned Man
Two Old-Fashioned Men
Her Old-Fashioned Husband
Her Old-Fashioned Boss
His Old-Fashioned Love
An Old-Fashioned Christmas
Haven, Texas Series
Lila’s Loves
Laken’s Surrender
Saving Savannah
Molly’s Man
Saxon’s Soul
WildeSide
Wilde
Sinclair
Luke
The Hunters
A Mate to Cherish A Mate to Sacrifice
Trouble liked to follow her around.
And right now, trouble had taken the form of a six-foottwo Dom with dark hair and gorgeous blue eyes. And he was sitting in her section. Again.
“You’re staring at him.”
She jumped with a gasp and turned to glare at Sophie. “Are you trying to scare me to death?”
Sophie just snorted.
“And I’m not staring, I’m watching.”
“There’s a difference?” Sophie asked, arching a perfect eyebrow.
Sophie could have graced the cover of any magazine, and they wouldn’t have to airbrush a thing. Standing next to her, Ria felt ordinary. And pudgy. She just couldn’t move those extra ten pounds she carried even if she starved herself.
“Yes, there is. Staring sounds rude. Watching means I’m simply paying attention.”
“Paying attention to what? He’s just sitting there, working on his computer.”
“Who works in a bar?” she asked.
“Maybe someone who likes to go play after he finishes work?”
Yeah. Well. That was a good point but she was still suspicious.
“Maybe. But why does he always choose my section to sit in?”
“Perhaps he likes you.”
It was Ria’s turn to snort. People didn’t like her.
There were waitresses who were prettier than she was. There were definitely waitresses who were nicer than she was. She wasn’t exactly known for her perky personality. Which meant she’d probably have made pretty crap tips if there weren’t weirdos out there who liked grouchy and blunt. Her section was usually the first to fill up each night. Some idiots thought she was a Domme. She had no desire to dominate anyone. But, whatever. She didn’t have to pretend to be nice and she was making more tips than any other waitress.
However, she was pretty sure Connor Jones wasn’t sitting in her section because he enjoyed her special brand of waitressing.
“I doubt it’s that. Come on, Sophie, don’t you think it’s weird that he was made a club Dom straight away?”
Club Dom’s weren’t just members. They had extra responsibilities, like monitoring scenes and teaching. The unattached subs could go to the club Doms if they had a problem or wanted help finding or vetting a play partner. He could also dish out punishment when needed.
“Ajax trusts him,” Sophie said confidently. And Sophie trusted Ajax, even though she probably wouldn’t admit to it. Or how attracted she was to him.
She studied him. He was dressed to blend in with an ugly, loose, gray shirt and dark jeans. He kept his shoulders slightly hunched, but his gaze was never still. He didn’t have the hard look of an undercover cop, but then she’d been fooled by one of them before, so she couldn’t rule it out. Private investigator? Her stomach danced with nerves.
Could Freddy have sent him? Possible but not very likely. Freddy’s crew were pure muscle. Testosterone-filled, macho men whose brains were mostly located in their dicks.
Connor wasn’t that. He had a leaner build. His slightly long, dark hair, which curled at the ends, could do with a cut. Hard to tell what he looked like under the scruff on his face. She liked a five o’clock shadow but anything beyond that just became a man-bib. She shuddered. Gross.
No, if Freddy had found her, he wouldn’t have sent this guy in. He’d come by force. The place would be filled with muscle. Freddy didn’t know how to do subtle. The ass.
God, she missed him.
She took a deep breath to calm herself. She couldn’t have anyone catching a hint of vulnerability. People exploited weaknesses, and Ria wasn’t going to be used ever again.
“He seems nice. Really quiet. Almost shy.” Sophie sounded a bit sorry for him. “Maybe he comes here to work because he’s lonely. Perhaps I should introduce him around, help him find a sub to play with.”
He didn’t really act like a Dom. She’d worked as a waitress at Indulgence for five months now, and the Doms here tended to roughly fall into three categories.
Newbie Doms. Generally hesitant and unsure. Although sometimes they went too far the other way and were filled with overconfidence and arrogance.
Jerk Doms. The ones who got off on being in charge but didn’t really care about those under their care. Luckily, they didn’t usually last long at Indulgence because Ajax and the club Doms didn’t put up with that shit.
Alpha Doms. These were the Doms that were the shit and they knew it, but they didn’t ram it down your throat. They knew what they were doing, they took charge without having to be a jerk about it and they genuinely cared about those under their care. These Doms wore their dominance like a cloak. They stood tall, their confidence out in full-force, and their protectiveness often over-thetop.
Ajax was one of them. He’d only been the manager here for a few months, and he was a huge step-up from the last dick, Jeremiah, who’d been a Jerk Dom.
“I don’t trust him,” Ria told her. “Stay away from him.”
“Ria—”
“Soph, my instincts are screaming that something is going on. Please.”
Sophie shot her a worried look then she patted her arm. “Okay, honey. I’ll be careful around him. You’re good at reading people. Wish you’d been my friend when I met Jerry. You’d have seen right through him.”
Ria wrapped her arm around her friend. “I wish I had been too.”
“I’ve made a new policy with men. No more big guys. Next time, I’m going for someone small and gentle.”
Ria didn’t bother telling her that small guys could be assholes too. Sophie knew that. She also didn’t point out that there were some big guys who were good, like Ajax.
“Ria, please don’t take offence, but I worry you’re becoming suspicious of everyone.”
Funny, she worried about Sophie for the opposite reason. Her friend was too trusting.
“My policy is everyone is a dick until proven otherwise,” Ria admitted. She didn’t think that was a bad way to be. Meant she wasn’t let down. It also meant she wouldn’t be taken advantage of again.
Sophie bit her lip and Ria knew she wanted to say something. “Spit it out, Soph.”
“I’m just worried that if you never trust anyone and let them in, you’re never going to find someone. It seems kind of a lonely way to live.”
Lonely was good. Lonely meant there was no one in her life to hurt her. And, truth was, she wasn’t looking for anyone to share her life with. She knew that was Sophie’s goal. Find a good man, apparently one who was short and skinny, and settle down.
“I won’t be lonely, because I’ll have you,” Ria told her. “You’ll find that perfect guy, have a bunch of little kids and I’ll be crazy Aunt Ria who buys them inappropriate toys and feeds them too much sugar then drops them home for you to deal with.”
Sophie rolled her eyes, but Ria could see the longing in her face. That was the life Sophie wanted. Despite everything, she still believed. She still wanted that happy ever after.
That kind of life wasn’t for Ria.
Connor made her nervous. She’d have to do her best to stay off his radar. Shouldn’t be too hard. He didn’t seem all that interested in engaging with anyone. Female or male.
As far as he knew she was just one of the waitresses. Not a sub. Not anyone of interest. Nothing to see here.
THE LITTLE WAITRESS was watching him again.
She had good instincts. When he wanted to, he could fade into the background. People didn’t tend to see him as a threat, and he used that to his advantage. Little did they know.
Boy, just because someone dresses poorly don’t make them a pauper. He smiled as he remembered his grandfather telling him that. He hadn’t understood it at the time. Couldn’t understand why someone with money would dress in rags, but he got it now.
He wondered if her wary nature was due to a guilty conscience. He’d run standard background checks on all the staff at Indulgence. There were seven waitresses and three bar staff on the books. Nothing had jumped out as suspicious in hers.
Connor deliberately didn’t look her way; he didn’t want her to know he was aware of her scrutiny.
She was beautiful. Lush and curvy, with wavy, dark-blonde hair that probably fell past her shoulders when it wasn’t pulled back into a hideous bun at the nape of her neck, a plump little mouth, and exotic hazel eyes.
When she walked into the room, she turned heads. She was completely out of his league. And she had trouble written all over her. It was an almost irresistible pull.
He really was a sucker for punishment. He glanced into the mirrors behind the bar, watching her with Sophie. They were a strange pair to be friends. Almost complete opposites. Yet he saw the way Ria watched over her friend.
Sophie moved away, walking over to a customer, and Ria glanced around the room. His glass had been empty for about ten minutes. A
good waitress would have been back already to ask him if he wanted a refill.
Ria wasn’t a good waitress. From what he’d seen, she treated everyone with an equal dose of impatience and for some strange reason the people in the bar lapped it up.
“Ria!” Someone called out from behind him. “You gonna get me a refill or what?”
“Why don’t you get off your fat ass and get it yourself,” Ria yelled back.
He turned slightly to look at the man. He was skinny as a beanpole and laughing. He leaned over to say something to the woman next to him.
The other night, she’d told one of her customers that he should go crying back to his mama if he didn’t like the way his drink was mixed. Connor had tensed, expecting trouble. He’d been ready to go to her aid.
He hadn’t expected the man to laugh so hard tears dripped down his face.
Ria was known for her sarcasm and bad manners, and it had become a draw card. He wasn’t certain he liked it. If she were his, he’d put a stop to it. It was disrespectful. Which is what he intended to tell Ajax before he left. He guessed Roarke and Dylan had no idea what was going on; surely, they would have put a stop to it by now.
Indulgence was different from Roarke’s other clubs. Waco was a smaller town. The BDSM crowd wasn’t large and it would be hard to make much of a profit from a small membership. So, the bar at the front was open to the public. The dungeon beyond had a small bar area that members could use if they didn’t want to come out here.
As far as assignments went, this was a pretty tame one. Most people wouldn’t bother hiring an investigator for something this small, not when the cameras he’d secretly installed should catch the thief in the act. However, Roarke had had a lot of trouble with this club when the old manager had been in place. He’d only just cleaned this place up then this happened. Club Indulgence was fast becoming more trouble that it was worth. Roarke wanted this person caught quickly. Plus, Connor’s boss owed Roarke a big favor, so he’d
given Connor to Roarke for a few weeks to make sure this was nipped in the bud.
Ria stomped over to the other table and practically slammed the drink down. “Here ya go.”
“About time.”
Connor turned and gave the man a glare. Bad manners were never acceptable. The other man ignored him. Connor was used to that. He made a note to find out his name. Perhaps it was time for him to be audited. Or have a few parking tickets turn up on his record.
Fun. He hadn’t messed around with anyone since the last time he’d fucked with Hunter. Not that his boss had found it that amusing.
Nope, the boss didn’t have much of a sense of humor unless he was the one pulling shit.
She approached his table. Finally. “Want another?”
He stared at her for a moment. She stared back at him for a good fifteen seconds before her gaze dropped. She’d lasted longer than he’d thought she would. Gratification filled him when he realized he’d been right.
She was a sub. He wondered why he hadn’t seen her in the club. She’d look gorgeous in a fiery red corset to match her personality. And finding a way to control all that sarcastic energy without losing her spark would be a challenge. He hadn’t had one of those in a long, long time.
That’s because you go for sweet, uncomplicated subs. Topping Ria, would be like trying to tame a volcano, never certain when an explosion was coming. He’d rather have solid earth under his feet. Wouldn’t he?
“Yes, I would. Thank you.”
She blinked. As though she wasn’t used to good manners. “Yeah, good.”
“Ria.” He reached out to lightly touch her arm, and she flinched. He frowned. That seemed an overreaction.
“Don’t touch me.” She took a step back, her gaze wary.
Okay. What was that about? There was cautious and then there was jumpy.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You didn’t frighten me.” She raised her chin up. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He narrowed his gaze. As a club Dom, she should be showing him respect. That tone didn’t have the slightest hint of respect. Before he could reprimand her, though, her attention shifted beyond him. He followed her gaze, stiffening as he saw Sophie being roughly grabbed by one of the men in the large crowd across the room. She tried to pull away, but the guy was big, and, obviously, a complete idiot as he tugged her close, toppling her into his lap.
He turned to tell Ria to stay put when he spotted a blonde whirlwind hurtle across the room.
Shit!
How had she moved without him seeing her? And what on Earth did she think she was doing? Besides him, there was another other club Dom in the room, as well as the bartender that the five-foot nothing spitfire could have called on to deal with that asshole and his buddies.
He’d never met anyone who needed a spanking a more and his hand itched to deliver it.
R
IA STORMED towards the group of dickheads. She didn’t know them. They’d never been in here before, but she’d only had to look at them to know they were going to be trouble. All in their early twenties, swaggering in like they owned the place, drinking too much.
What had Lenny been thinking, letting them in?
“Hey, asshole! Let her up. Now!” Ria demanded. She reached out to grab hold of Sophie, but the big jerk held her tighter. Sophie was pulling at his arm and she could see she was starting to panic.
“Fuck off!” he told her. “She’s down for a bit of a fun, aren’t ya, sweetheart?”
“Let me go!” Sophie said fearfully.
“Either you let her go or I’ll make sure your doctor thinks your balls are another set of tonsils,” Ria snarled at him.
Everyone at the table erupted into laughter. Dickface jerks.
“You wanna come sit on my lap, sweetheart?” one of the other guys called out to her. “I wouldn’t mind burying my face in those sugar tits.”
“Aren’t you worried she’ll bite off your dick, George?” another one called out. “Oh, wait, she’d have to be able to find it first.”
George, who was a huge fucking beast, stood up and swung out his meaty fist at the guy who’d insulted the size of his cock. She used the distraction to reach for Sophie.
“Let her go. I’m done playing nice.”
The man just smiled at her, showing off a set of yellowed teeth.
“You’ve got some spinach in your teeth,” she told him. She drew back her fist, ready to let rip, but someone grabbed her arm, stilling her.
“Hey!” She turned, then froze as she saw who stood behind her. Connor. Although he was nearly unrecognizable. His face was cold, his gaze almost cruel, and there was a confidence in the way he held himself. As though he had no doubts that he could take on this whole pack of douchebags and come out on top.
“Let her go. Now,” he demanded quietly as he pulled Ria to his side. What did he think he was doing?
The drunk idiot looked him up and down dismissively. “Just having some fun here, boy. Go on back to your table before you get hurt.”
Had he really just called Connor a boy? Damn, he was more of an idiot than she’d thought.
“Ria, go back to the bar and wait there,” Connor said quietly.
She hesitated. He didn’t look worried. But it was eight against one. She glanced around and saw Master Rhett coming towards them.
“Ria. Go. Before you get yourself in more trouble.” There was a note of steely disapproval in his voice.
Trouble? What trouble? She wasn’t the one who’d started things.
The guy holding Sophie suddenly stood, a cruel grin crossing his face. “You want the girl? Fight me for her!”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He was even bigger than she’d first realized. Why hadn’t she tried to defuse the situation instead of escalating it? Dumb,Ria.Dumb.
And now Connor and Rhett were about to get the shit kicked out of them. She looked around for help and saw Trevor, the bartender on the phone. Hopefully to the bouncers out front. It would be too much to hope that dipshit would help. Coward.
Instead of backing away like any sane person might have, Connor just smiled. “Bring it on.”
Ria reached around him and grabbed hold of Sophie, pulling her out of the way. She drew her over to towards the bar.
“Stay here, Soph,” she said frantically. “Trevor, watch her.”
Trevor just gave her a disgusted look. Yeah, he’d be a great help.
“Ria, wait—” Sophie reached out for her, but Ria dodged away. She couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. She reached the brawl and looked quickly around for something to help even the odds. Connor was fighting off two guys and a third one was closing in behind him.
Oh, hell, no. She wasn’t going to let some coward sneak up on him. She picked up a chair and stepped forward, raising it above her head. Determination filled her.
A wide arm reached around her waist, lifting her into the air. She kicked her legs. “Hey, what the fuck!”
The chair was plucked from her hands as the person holding her let out a loud roar. She winced, rubbing her ear and looked up with trepidation. There was only one man she knew who could make a noise like that. His big, beefy arm remained around her waist, her feet swinging. She felt like a complete idiot.
“Everyone, quiet the fuck down. Now!”
Two men jumped into the fray, pulling back some of the unruly group who hadn’t heeded Ajax’s command. Not surprisingly, everyone else turned to look at him. Ajax had once commanded a team of SEALs. He had an air of authority about him you just couldn’t ignore. He might act like a laidback cowboy sometimes, but
that was just a disguise. Only an idiot would willingly go up against him.
“Who the fuck are you?” the dick who’d grabbed Sophie asked. He wiped at his bleeding nose. Case in point. This guy’s elevator didn’t reach the top floor.
“I’m the guy who’s going to make it difficult for you to keep solids down for the next thirty years if you don’t get the fuck out of my club. Now.”
The other guy swallowed heavily. Then he pushed his chest out. “Yeah? You and who’s army, fucker?”
“Jesus, Andy, that’s Ajax Born.” One of the other guys tugged at the idiot’s arm. “You can’t go up against him. He’s a fucking legend.”
“Don’t care,” Andy blustered although she saw the way he paled slightly.
“Ajax, let me down.” She tugged at his arm. She was done being held like an unruly toddler.
“Stay still,” he growled down at her. “I’m not happy with you right now.”
“What did I do?”
He just growled softly. “Lenny and Shane,” he called out to the bouncers who’d jumped in to help Connor and Rhett. “Take out the trash and make certain they know they’re not welcome back. Rhett, can you help them?” The other Dom nodded. Ajax turned to the rest of the bar. “Everyone else, see Trevor for a drink. On the house.”
Then he turned back. Still holding her. She sighed. Seemed like she wasn’t going anywhere for the moment.
“Sophie, Connor, you’re with me.”
Ria looked up at Ajax. “If you’ll just put me down, boss, I’ll help —”
He just turned away and walked towards the stairs, still carrying her.
“Ajax.” She wiggled in his hold, aware of how ridiculous she probably looked. Fuck, this was embarrassing—and he knew it.
He set her down by the stairs then gestured for her to go first. “Up. Office. Now.”
She gave him a wary look and wisely bit back her protest. Sophie came up behind her, slipping her hand into Ria’s. She was trembling softly and Ria immediately let go of her hand and wrapped her arm around her friend’s waist.
They moved up the stairs and into Ajax’s office. It was a masculine space, filled with a big, wooden desk, some cupboards against one wall and a large one-way window that looked out on the dungeon. There was a monitor set up on the wall displaying camera views of the bar, the foyer, and both entrances.
Ajax’s chair was huge and comfy-looking but across the other side of the desk sat two straight-backed, hard chairs. She guessed he didn’t want people sticking around too long in his space.
She led Sophie over to one of the chairs and leaned over her. “You okay, Soph? He hurt you?”
The other woman shook her head, but she could see the way she trembled. She crouched down and reached for Sophie’s hands. “It’s okay. You’re all right now.”
“Here,” Ajax said gruffly. Moving to the cupboards, he drew out a soft, fluffy blanket. Then he walked over and wrapped it around Sophie. “That better, sweetheart?”
“Yes. Thanks,” Sophie replied quietly.
“You sure you’re not hurt anywhere?” Ajax asked her.
She shook her head.
“Maybe we should call for a medic.”
Sometimes he still sounded like he was in the Special Forces.
“No, really. I’m fine.”
Ajax studied her for a moment, as though trying to figure out if she were telling the truth then he nodded and moved over to look out the window at the dungeon below.
Tension filled the room. Ria snuck a glance over at Connor. If he was worried about Ajax’s reaction to what just happened, he wasn’t showing it. Aside from a rip at his collar, he didn’t even look like he’d been in a fight. He was leaning back against the door, arms crossed over his chest, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.
She wished she could say the same.
“Ajax—”
“Hush, Ria,” Ajax told her, his voice gentle. She forced herself to stand, even though her legs protested having to support her.
Finally, Ajax turned, but he didn’t look over to her and Sophie. Instead his gaze moved to Connor. “You want to tell me how one of my waitresses was attacked and the other one very nearly ended up in a bar brawl?”
It wasn’t so much the words as the tone of his voice. Low and calm, like the eye of a storm. With no way of knowing when the calm was going to end and shit was going to fly.
Ria opened her mouth and both Connor and Ajax shot her a look.
“It was my fault,” Sophie whispered. “Not Connor’s.”
“How you figure that?” Ria asked. “That dick grabbed you.”
“I thought they were just having fun. Being friendly. Must have flirted too much with him. Gave him the wrong idea.”
Oh, hell no.
She leaned in so Sophie could see her. Could see how serious she was. “I don’t care how much you fucking flirted with that shit for brains. He had no right to grab you. He certainly had no right to keep holding you after you told him to let you go. That’s not on you. It’s on him.” She straightened and glared at Ajax. “They should never have been allowed in here.”
Ajax nodded. “Lenny was on the door. I’ll be talking to him.”
“Good,” she muttered. “When I saw Sophie was in trouble, I went to her aid. Connor and Rhett stepped in to help, and that’s when the fight broke out. You know the rest. Now if that’s all, I’m going to take Sophie home.”
“No, that is not all,” Ajax told her in a low voice. “I saw what happened with Sophie. By the time I got down there, she was behind the bar, with Vienna and the other subs. What I’m not clear on is why you weren’t there too.”
“That was where she was told to go,” Connor told him. Suddenly, he didn’t look so relaxed. In fact, he was glaring at her like she was at fault.
Ria crossed her arms over her chest defensively. She deliberately didn’t look at Connor. “I was going back to help.”
“Armed with a bad attitude and a chair?” Ajax asked. “I’m sure that would have gone well.”
“What did you want me to do? Stand by and watch while Connor and Rhett got beaten up?”
“Yes,” both men snapped in unison.
She huffed out a breath. “I’m no coward.”
“That wasn’t brave. It was foolish.” Ajax took a deep breath. “You should have waited with the other subs, Ria. You’re not indestructible.”
“I know that.”
Ajax just stared at her for a long moment. It was easy to see the frustration on his face.
“Don’t be mad at Ria, she was just trying to help me.” Sophie stood, moving her gaze from Ajax to Connor. Ajax turned to her and the look on his face softened.
“Don’t look so worried, sweetheart. You’re not in trouble.”
She bit her lip. “I’d really like to go home.”
“I’ll get Shane to drive you both home,” Ajax told them.
“I’ll drive her home,” Ria told him.
“Not sure that’s a good idea,” Connor said.
She moved her gaze to him. “Not sure it’s any of your business.”
The look of disapproval he gave her made her wish she’d bitten back the snarky words. But she was at the end of her patience. She didn’t appreciate being taken to task like a teenager who’d snuck out after curfew.
She put her arm around Sophie’s waist and led her to the door. The sooner she got out of here, the better. And not just because she was tired of being scolded. She started shaking. The adrenaline that had flooded her body during the confrontation was now dying off, leaving her upset and drained. She might act tough but the truth was, she wasn’t all that used to violence.
Connor opened the door as they grew close. He leaned in towards her. “Maybe I’m going to make it my business.”
She stared up at him, eyes wide, mouth open slightly in shock.
Saysomething,Ria.
“Good luck with that,” she told him. As a comeback, it was pretty pathetic but it was the best she could come up with.
“Oh, I don’t need luck, baby. Come along now. I’ll get you both safely home.”
“I said I could handle it.”
“You’re both shaking and upset. Can you imagine how Ajax and I will feel if you get into an accident on the way home? Knowing we could have prevented it?”
SHE GLARED UP AT HIM.
Suspicious little thing. He wasn’t sure why she intrigued him. Maybe it was that she was so refreshingly honest. Even if there was plenty of snark injected into that honesty.
Hell, maybe he’d just worked for Hunter Black so long that he now thought sarcastic and prickly was normal behavior.
Jesus. That was a scary thought.
He could just imagine what his mother would say if he were to bring Ria home. She’d have a heart attack at her attitude. She’d end up in church, praying for both their souls.
Where had those thoughts come from? He had no intention of taking Ria home to meet his mother.
His forever girl was going to be sweet, soft-spoken. Honest. And she would follow the rules he gave her. Okay, so lots of people would probably brand him as an old-fashioned asshole for those views, but he knew that nobody would be as loved or cherished as his woman.
He’d already experienced one fucked-up relationship. Never again.
“He’s right, Ria,” Ajax told her. “Let him take you both home.”
She shot a look over her shoulder.
“I can’t get away or I’d take you myself,” Ajax explained. “I can get Shane or Joe to take you if you’d rather.”
“I will take them,” Connor said firmly. “And there will be no more arguments.”
“Just because you say something doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen,” she grumbled.
He smiled. “That hasn’t been my experience.”
“You might want to check the ego.”
“And you might want to check the attitude before you end up over my knee for being disrespectful.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Ria, please.” Sophie placed her hand on her shoulder. “I’m tired. I just want to go home.”
Ria continued to glare up at him. Then she turned away. “Fine. Whatever. You can drive us home. You got nothing better to do than be our chauffeur then who am I to complain?”
He stepped aside and opened the door, letting them both go first. “I’ll be back soon,” he told Ajax.
“I’ll be here.”
What was she doing? Why had she let him bring them both home? Stupid move, Ria, she berated herself as she hugged Sophie.
“Sure, you’re okay, Soph?” she asked as they stood outside her apartment.
Sophie nodded tiredly. “I just want to take a shower and go to bed. I’ll be fine.”
“Call me if you’re not.”
“Make sure you lock that door as soon as you get inside,” Connor bossed. “We’ll wait out here until I hear it engage.”
“Thank you, Connor. I appreciate you bringing me home.” Sophie gave him a soft smile.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” he told her gently.
Why was he so kind to Sophie and a pushy ass with her? Shit. She wasn’t jealous, was she?
Course not.
The door shut and when they heard the lock click, Connor turned to her. That softness had disappeared. The look he gave Ria was hard to describe. It was like he was trying to figure her out.
Goodluckwiththat.
“Let’s get you to your apartment,” he said.
“I know the way.” She shoved out her hand, determined to put some distance between them. “Thanks for driving us home.”
He looked down at her hand and smiled. Then he grabbed it. But instead of shaking it, he pulled it up to his mouth and kissed the back of it.
She stared at him for a moment. “What . . . what the fuck was that?”
She tried to tug her hand out of his hold, but he didn’t let go, instead he pulled her close. She fell into him, and he gently wrapped his arms around her. “That was a prelude to this.”
HE DROPPED his mouth to hers, kissing her gently. She murmured something, probably telling him what a prick he was, but he used the opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth, and she melted against him.
He kissed her softly, slowly. When he wrapped his arms around her and she snuggled closer. Then she sealed things when she hugged him back. Oh, yeah, he’d known this attraction wasn’t all one-sided.
He cupped the side of her face and drew his mouth back. He stared down into her beautiful hazel-colored eyes. “Damn, you’re gorgeous.”
Her gaze narrowed. She pulled back. He let her go. Reluctantly.
“You don’t have to make up lines just to get in my pants.”
“I don’t?”
“Nope. I’d prefer you didn’t. It turns me off.”
It didn’t surprise him she didn’t know how beautiful she was. If he’d had the time, he might have worked to address her misconceptions.
But he didn’t have time. He’d finish this job and head back to Dallas.
Fuck. This was not where the night was meant to go. He’d intended to drive her home, lay down the law about following orders and not running towards trouble. He wasn’t supposed to be kissing her. He certainly wasn’t supposed to be thinking about where things could go from there.
“And what if it was the truth?”
She snorted. “Yeah, right. Whatever. I’m going home now. Do not follow me.”
He fell into step beside her. She sighed—loudly. He grinned. She was damn funny.
“You’re not going to let me go home on my own, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Have you always had these stalker urges? You should really see someone about them.”
Oh, no. He wasn’t going to put up with that. He reached out and grabbed her arm.
“What did you just say to me?” He lowered his voice, the disapproval in it clear.
She glanced up into his face then looked down.
“Do you really believe I would stalk you? Follow you around without your permission? Are you trying to tell me I forced that kiss on you? That you didn’t want it?”
He’d soon find out if she was a liar. Like Greta.
“Damn you. Of course, I’m not. But that doesn’t mean that it was a good idea. Or that it will happen again.”
It was pretty much the same thing he’d just been thinking. Yet he felt the ridiculous urge to argue with her. Instead he just followed her down to her apartment. “Also doesn’t mean I’m comfortable with you knowing where I live. I don’t know you.”
“Very wise of you.”
He could tell he’d surprised her.
“You shouldn’t trust a stranger with where you live, shouldn’t invite him into your home, shouldn’t open the door to him.”
“I know that,” she said with exasperation.
“But I’m not a stranger. I’m a club Dom. You know I’ve been well vetted. And part of my job is to look after you.”
She shook her head. “It’s not. I look after myself. You seem to be under the mistaken impression that I—”
“Ria, I just kissed you. I held you in my arms. You snuggled in like you belonged there—”
“I don’t snuggle,” she grumbled.
He grinned at her. “Fine, you didn’t snuggle, you cuddled.”
“That’s just as bad.”
“A rose by any other name . . . ”
She sighed. “Your point? Because I’m hoping this long-winded explanation has one.”
He tilted his head to one side. “Is that attitude because you’re afraid of me? Worried about letting me get close?”
“The attitude is because you’re annoying me.”
Yeah, he was. He could see that. Her gaze was wary. Definitely worried. He guessed she didn’t let many men get as close as he had tonight. Something big had happened to her to make her so guarded.
And he wasn’t looking for problems. Maybe if she just wanted to play for a night or two, he might indulge. But nothing beyond that. And he shouldn’t even be doing that until he’d ruled her out as the thief. Not that she was at the top of his list. Her background check hadn’t raised any red flags.
So why didn’t he want to say goodbye? Why was he hoping she’d invite him inside for a drink?
He needed to back off. Put some distance between them.
“My point is that I didn’t mistake the way you just reacted to me. You enjoyed that kiss as much as I did.” He reached out and tucked some of her hair behind her ear. She flinched slightly. He a feeling she wasn’t used to being touched.
And he hoped like hell no one had ever hurt her physically. He made a low, rumbling noise of displeasure at the thought.
Her eyes widened. “You’re acting really odd for a guy who doesn’t know me.”
“I think we can agree that we’re no longer strangers.”
“Just because you’ve had your tongue down my throat doesn’t mean you know me. It just means I had a lapse of sanity.”
He sighed. “Ria—”
“I’m tired. I want to go to bed. Let’s just agree that what happened before was due to a rush of hormones from left over adrenaline and leave it at that, okay?”
A rush of hormones? His lips twitched. Fine, she could think that, but he knew better. And he also knew it was probably best to put some distance between them.
“Fine.”
“Good.” She nodded, staring up at him.
“You going to unlock your door now?”
“Uh-huh.” She turned around and pulled her keys out of her bag right away. That surprised him. His experience was that women had a pile of crap in their bags and their keys were usually right at the bottom.
She unlocked the door and walked in. “Bye.” She swung the door closed without even looking back at him. He reached out and grabbed hold of it before it could slam shut.
She whirled around. “What are you doing?”
“I wasn’t quite finished yet. First, when you close this door, I want to hear it lock. Understand?”
“I always lock my door. I’m not stupid.”
“Didn’t think you were. Some of your actions tonight were pretty stupid though, so I thought I better make certain.”
“Excuse me? What was so stupid?”
“Racing over to help Sophie by yourself.”
“What did you expect me to do?”
“I expected you to leave it to someone who was more equipped to handle the situation.”
She narrowed her gaze. “And what sort of equipment do you think I needed to handle the situation? A penis? News flash, a penis is not a weapon.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.” He grinned.
She rolled her eyes.
“I’m not talking about you being a woman, Ria. Although, yeah, that is part of it. But you also weren’t prepared to handle those guys. They were gunning for a fight. They weren’t gonna be reasonable. And if Rhett and I hadn’t stepped in, you’d have been in the same position as Sophie.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah? Got some martial arts training under your belt?”
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of silence. Oh! the tragedy of it!
He looked his gratitude. It was strange how perfectly he seemed to know what she had said; for he had not watched her lips: he had watched her dimples.
It was so slow and difficult putting things down that soon he devised ways of conversing more readily. He formed swift letters in the air with one forefinger, or scratched them in the dirt with her parasol.
Five o’clock found them still in the square. Agatha was surprised when she discovered how late it was. She signalled a passing taxicab, and they were whirled home together.
“Aren’t we going somewhere to-night?” he asked as they neared the end of their ride.
She looked rueful. “I’m—afraid—I—can’t,” she said. Her face was lifted. His head was lowered attentively, so that his hat-brim touch the fluff of her hair. “I’ve—promised—to—see—a—play—with— Auntie. But—after—this—I—shan’t—make—engagements—that— will—conflict—with—my work.”
When they entered the library Miss Connaughton had fresh tea brought. “I trust,” said she, “that nothing unpleasant happened today.”
Agatha pondered, the tip of her teaspoon against the tip of her chin. “No,” she said. “Only, we met a friend of Mr. McVicar’s. But he was not d— and d—.”
“D— and d—!” Miss Connaughton was horrified. “Hush, Agatha! It sounds profane.”
But Agatha was smiling into her cup. There was a “to-morrow’s visitor” floating in it—a tall visitor. She lifted it to the back of one hand and struck it smartly with the back of the other. It transferred itself. She gave Mr. McVicar a swift glance.
He was holding his cup aloft. Across its rim his grey eyes were watching her
She held up the “visitor” triumphantly.
He nodded.
The following day the “tall visitor” came again, and he and Agatha took their second walk down the avenue. Agatha had on a blue linen. It enhanced her colour charmingly. Mr. McVicar carried her parasol, a new one with a brass tip. She was in the best of humour, and stood on her toes now and then while she said something. He was in the best of humour, too. But of a sudden his face became very sober, even anxious. He began to take longer steps.
Agatha remarked his nervousness. She looked round. There were three young men close at hand who seemed to be observing Mr McVicar. They were well-groomed young men. “Collegy,” was Agatha’s verdict.
Just then a young man approached them, going the other way. He took off his hat politely with one hand; with the fingers of the other he signed the escort an elaborate good-day.
Mr. McVicar gave him a cold stare.
Scarcely half a block farther on, a second young man lifted his hat with a bow and—wiggled his fingers!
Mr. McVicar glared.
When a third young man passed them, with a well-bred smile, a bared head, and a mute greeting, Mr. McVicar’s face became almost distorted. Agatha heard him gurgle.
Not a minute later, a fourth young man advanced toward them, one hand rising to his hat as he came on. Mr. McVicar, guiding Agatha, abruptly stepped aside into a shop and made a quick purchase. When they had gained the street again by a side exit, he wrote: “I have a headache. Do you mind if I wear these?” “These” were coloured glasses.
“Not—in—the—least,” she declared.
The morning was given over to tenement-house inspection, and Agatha was a fairy-figure amid the sordid gloom of it all. Mr McVicar kept beside her (the inspector led), helping her up long, dark stairways, and down into pit-like cellars, and through dank halls full
of poor, little gaping children. When noon came they sought a nearby café.
It was while they were here that an extraordinary thing happened. They had gotten comfortably placed, both on the same side of a table—so that he could understand what she was saying (his glasses were off now)—when there entered, in single file, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven well-dressed young men. They seated themselves opposite Agatha and the escort. And, presently, after each had given the menu a casual glance, all began to talk at once —on their fingers!
Agatha opened her eyes. “Everyone of them d— and d—!” she said to herself. “Is this a d— and d— café?” Her eyes roved from waiter to waiter.
But the seven young men were evidently from Mr. McVicar’s institution, for they caught sight of him a moment later, bowed to him in great surprise, and began to make him finger-signs.
He bowed in return, but he regarded them darkly and made no return signs.
Agatha reflected that there were more d— and d— people in the world than she had ever imagined. Presently she noticed that Mr. McVicar was not eating. “Don’t you like the goulash?” she wrote.
“I have a headache,” he answered.
“You must go home, then.”
“But the Amalgamated Shirt-Makers?”
At this juncture the seven young men opposite got up and filed slowly out, each working a right hand in what seemed to be a friendly adieu.
When Mr. McVicar rose his lips were pressed together as if he were striving to master himself. He refrained from looking at Agatha and fiddled with his hat.
She saw how ill he was. Her expression grew troubled and wistful. “A hansom,” she said to the head waiter. But she did not send Mr.
McVicar home. She let him drive to her aunt’s with her
On the way, for some reason or other, Mr. McVicar grew much brighter. “Where do we go to-morrow?” he asked.
Agatha stole a glance toward him. “To-morrow,” she said, “I—shall— devote—to—automorphic—deductions—and—to—the—correlation —of—all—the—new—concrete—examples—I—have—noted.”
“Then you’ll need me,” he declared.
“Will—you—be—well—enough?” asked Agatha.
“Why, I’m well now.”
“Come—then—in—case—I’ve—forgotten—any—of—the— examples.”
The following morning they did not go down the avenue, but turned into Central Park at the Sherman statue instead, and out of it again at the West Seventy-second Street entrance. Then they headed toward the Hudson.
It was a day even more perfect than the last. The wide topaz river sparkled in the sun. The shaded walks wound invitingly between leaf-strewn stretches of green. There were children at play along the smooth crescents of the drive, and sparrows darted to and fro, chirping.
Thus far Agatha had walked, head down and brows puckered— evidently concerned with “automorphic deductions.” (They had gone, in all, some twenty blocks, which was a sufficient distance for any number of deductions.) But now she roused from her thoughts and looked up at Mr. McVicar. His chin was on his breast, his eyes were lowered, and his manner was undisguisedly dejected.
She touched his arm. Then she stopped and stood on tiptoe. “Aren’t —you—well—to-day—either?” she inquired, her red mouth very close, so that he would be sure to understand.
He looked down at her for a long moment. Then he wrote, “I never felt better or happier in all my life.” When he took the pad again his
hand covered hers for a second. Of a sudden her manner became distinctly reserved.
Presently they reached a shaded bench. He dusted a seat for her, and they sat down, when he wrote: “But I know my happiness can’t last. I meant to tell you last night. You see, I have an uncle—a lawyer —who thinks I’m wasting my time. I must quit.”
Agatha coloured painfully. Mr. Avery had driven a close bargain with him! She hastened to write in return, “You shall get what your uncle thinks is fair.”
“There’s another reason, little woman. You saw my friends yesterday. They’re inquisitive. I’m afraid they’ll annoy you. So this is my last day.” He gazed across at the New Jersey shore.
She moved nearer, touching his arm ever so lightly. “Is—that—the— real—reason?” she asked.
He watched her red mouth frame each word, and his face lowered, as if irresistibly drawn toward hers. Then his head sank to a hand. He studied the path. Soon, “No,” he wrote, “it isn’t. The real reason involves a great happiness that I daren’t hope for.”
Agatha leaned even closer. “There—is—a—possibility—of—your— speech—returning?” she guessed. She held her breath at the very thought of it.
He nodded. “Yes, it’s very likely that my speech will come back.”
Agatha turned away, and glad tears swam beneath the black lashes. He would speak again! He would be like other people! Oh, how good! Presently, she blinked the tears away. “You—haven’t always— been—this—way?” she said.
“Not always.”
“When—did—it—happen?”
“Quite recently.”
Her face was sweet with pity. “Were—you—struck—dumb?” she asked.
He observed her steadily for a moment. “I was terribly hard hit,” he wrote.
“It—affected—your—hearing—too?”
“It even affected my heart.”
“Will—these—both—improve?”
“It depends on just one person.”
She gave him a smile full of cheer “Doctors—do—wonderful—things —these—days. Is—this—one—homeopathic?”
“No, magnetic—awfully.” His grey eyes searched hers again. “Would you advise me to hope?”
“Oh—yes! Just—hope—has—wrought marvels.” Her face shone with earnestness.
“Bless you. But you don’t know that this is all the result of my own wickedness.”
“You—have—been—more—than—punished—then.”
He clenched his two hands. “Yes, I have been punished,” he wrote. “If you ever have to pass judgment upon me, remember that.”
“Was—it—so—dreadful—what—you—did?”
He thought a moment. “Not when you consider the temptation.”
“What—was—the—temptation?”
He hesitated so long that she believed he had not understood her So she wrote the question, “What was the temptation?”
“A girl.”
Agatha shrank back in sudden, inexplicable indignation. Then she rose abruptly. She had meant to tell him that if he were to regain both speech and hearing it would make no difference in their arrangements. But now——
He rose, also, and dropped the pad into a pocket. Then he handed her the parasol. His attitude was one of resignation.
Walking homeward, Agatha looked straight ahead, and two bright, red spots burned in a circle about her dimples. At the bottom of the Connaughton flight, she gave him a dignified good-morning. He held out a card to her. Then he raised his hat.
All that afternoon Agatha wandered about the library. She felt a surprising indifference toward her thesis. Every little while she drew forth Mr. McVicar’s card. It contained, in addition to his name, a line written in pencil, “Telephone, River 0630.” Why had he written that? She had no further need of him!
But as tea-time neared she remembered a place that she felt absolutely called upon to visit in connection with her work: a narrow down-town street, with its hosts of children all a-dance on the gaslighted pavement. Could she visit the crowded block alone? And was Mr. McVicar’s time up for that day before, say, ten or eleven o’clock? Certainly not. And if she paid for his time was she not entitled to his company She asked central for River o-six-three-o.
A maid’s voice answered the telephone. “Tell Mr. McVicar,” said Agatha, “that Miss Kerr will want him this evening at eight.”
“Very well, miss.”
Agatha, smiling and rosy faced, made her way tunefully up the staircase.
“What! Going out at night?” demanded Miss Connaughton, from the drawing-room.
“Of course,” said Agatha; “what have I an escort for? Oh, tra-la-la, tra-la-la,” and, singing, she disappeared.
Agatha had promised to telephone Miss Connaughton, so she rang up directly they stepped from the cars at the down-town station. “I can’t possibly get home till eleven, Auntie dear,” she announced. “It took us forty minutes to come just this far.”
“Oh, Agatha!” came back the reply “Come home—awful news—Mr Avery——”
“I can’t hear you,” cried Agatha. “The elevated is making such a noise. Rattle your ’phone.”
“Insolent trick,” went on Miss Connaughton. The remainder was a jumble.
Agatha told Mr McVicar about it. “I—can’t—go—home,” she said. “This—evening—is—dreadfully—important. Don’t—you—think—so?”
“YES,” he wrote—all in capitals. Offering her his arm, he hurried her away.
It was not an ideal evening for Jones Street. There were clouds overhead in massive motion before a hot wind. The gas-jets leaped and hissed down the narrow streets, which looked particularly dark and forbidding. Perhaps the children would not dance on the pavement that night. Agatha did not care.
Mr. McVicar obviously did not feel as cheerful as she. It was as if all the heart had gone out of him. And he kept looking back. It made Agatha nervous. She took to glancing behind also. What was he expecting?
They approached the lone figure of a man—a forlorn figure that slouched into the entrance of a building just ahead. Mr. McVicar crossed the street. They passed other figures. He looked each over keenly. She shivered a little. Oh, she was glad he was so big!
They hurried forward. Each thoroughfare seemed to grow narrower and gloomier than the last. They turned innumerable corners, Agatha clinging to his arm with increasing timidity. All at once, on turning another corner into a street that looked very much like one they had already traversed, they came face to face with two swarthy-skinned persons, a man and a woman. The pair were evidently gipsies, for the woman wore a red handkerchief upon her head, while big, gold earrings swung against the neck of the man. The latter carried a monkey. He did not get out of the way. Instead, leering, he held out a hand.
“Give me da mon for da monk!” he cried.
“Hurry!” Agatha entreated. Oh, for Auntie’s brougham now!
Instead of hastening, Mr. McVicar faced the man and gave him a resounding cuff upon the ear. Agatha, the sociologist, became that moment just a normal, terror-stricken girl. She screamed. With her cry mingled the raucous protests of the man and the hoarse commands of the woman, for Mr. McVicar now had the former by the shoulders and was shaking him fiercely.
The hubbub brought aid. Around the nearest corner came a welldressed young man, piloting a policeman on the run. A moment, and around another corner came another well-dressed young man with another policeman.
Next, “Cut for it!” Agatha heard a voice exclaim—a deep voice. But, strangely enough, the gipsies did not attempt to get away They stood and grinned at the little crowd that had gathered.
Mr McVicar sprang to Agatha’s side. He was panting and—could it be true?—gurgling what sounded like words!
Agatha smiled at him through the dim light. He had protected her Her hand crept into his. Then she gave a fresh cry of fear. His fingers were wet—with blood.
“Oh, he’s wounded!” she called.
“Did he bite you?” demanded one of the policemen—the one who had the man-gipsy by the coat. “Well, here—bite him back! The dog!”
“I did not bite him,” protested the man-gipsy. “It was the monkey.”
“Where is that monkey?” shouted the woman-gipsy. “Say, you fellows, hunt him up. If we lose him we’re out twenty plunks.”
Three or four of the onlookers scattered in different directions, searching.
“Shut up, you she-devil!” ordered the second officer.
“How can we thank you?” said Agatha.
“No thanks, miss,” said officer number one. “Just come along, please, for to testify.”
At that Mr McVicar took one of the little fingers that were resting between his and deliberately pinched it! Agatha understood. To go with the officers meant a police station; a police station meant publicity, sniffy servants, hysterical aunt.
Agatha was, at times, a girl of resources. She knew they must get away, and she was quick to devise how. “I must help find that poor, little monkey,” she said. “You go on. We’ll follow.”
But the officer shook his head. “If you was to miss the station,” said he, “we’d have a poor case. Forget the monkey, miss.”
Agatha grew desperate. She resolved on flight, so she seized her skirts in her two hands, turned like a flash, and with her escort fleeing beside her, and almost carrying her along, she raced away
The officers were in a predicament. They yelled, they whistled, they beat on the pavement. Then one handed over his prisoner to the other and gave chase. After them, in loose order, came the onlookers.
Up one street went Agatha and her escort, turned a corner, rushed down another, turned another corner. Luck was against them. A third officer met them squarely as they came. His arms were out, made longer by his leather-bound stick. Gasping, they fell into them.
The next moment the pursuing officer had them in his grasp. “Thank you, Sheehan,” said he. “Face about, you!” This to Mr. McVicar. They began the return march, everyone panting. Counting the onlookers, they made quite a procession.
The other officer met them half-way, a gipsy in either hand. “Say, Flynn,” said he, “they’s something crooked about that young couple.”
“Crooked!” burst forth Agatha, with sudden rage. “I ran because I don’t want to be dragged into a police station. Please let go of my sleeve.” She could hear the onlookers whispering among themselves. Oh, it was too mortifying!
She clung to the representative of the law, and began to sob. Her tears had instant effect upon the little crowd. “Oh, let the young lady go, officer,” said one voice. “Yes,” chorused others. “But pinch the tall gentleman,” added the man-gipsy.
The inexorable officers moved forward. Presently they all trooped into a police station, and the principals came short in an uneven line before a battered desk.
A blowzy Celtic visage was lifted to regard them. Beneath that visage was a wide, open book. It seemed the very Book of Judgment to poor Agatha. She glanced at Mr McVicar He was watching her sorrowfully, his face startlingly pale, his whole attitude woeful.
“Hello!” said he of the wide book. For Mr. McVicar, his look was casual; for Agatha, it was more prolonged, yet not unkind—though the buff-and-crocus confection was tipped rakishly to one side; for the gipsy twain, however, it was condemnatory.
The gipsies smiled up at him. “Hello, Lieutenant!” returned they audaciously.
At this there was some small commotion and a general giggling in the rear of the room. Agatha peered swiftly round, and beheld five young men who were ranged against the rear wall. They were well dressed. They were grinning. They all wore coloured glasses.
Officer Flynn was talking. “I was comin’ along my beat,” said he, whereat there began an astonishingly truthful account of the late mêlée. It was interrupted by wild yowlings from a room evidently near at hand.
“Ah!” said the man-gipsy; “the monkey!”
“Th’ dhrunks in Noomber 3,” explained the lieutenant.
Officer Flynn continued, “And we was ready to run the gipsies in when the young gent up and skedaddled.”
“So did I,” protested Agatha, but the lieutenant scowled only at Mr. McVicar “I made him,” added Agatha stoutly, after which she resolved into tears again.
“Now, now,” comforted the lieutenant. “Till me, how come y’ t’ be down in this ind of th’ town, anyhow?”
“I am concerned,” sobbed Agatha, “with the phenomena of social evolution.”
“Ah!” said the lieutenant; “sittlements.”
“So—so,” she struggled on, “to-night I started for Jones Street——”
“Jones Street!” said the lieutenant. Again his scowl was fixed upon the escort. “Young man, phwat was y’ doin’ in Greene?”
All eyes were upon Mr. McVicar—the lieutenant’s with suspicion, the gipsies’ with bold delight, the policemen’s curiously, Agatha’s in appeal. Mr. McVicar was now all tints—even those uncertain, elusive ones that are so much affected in nouveau art. His lips moved spasmodically, uttering inaudible words.
“SPEAK!” thundered the lieutenant impatiently.
“Yes, speak.” This from the grinning gipsies, sotto voce.
Agatha stepped forward. “Officer,” she said, “he’s deaf and dumb, but he reads the lips.”
“And writes with his toes,” announced the man-gipsy.
Agatha cast him a withering glance. Then she lifted her face to the escort. “Why—were—we—in Greene—Street?”
He was now startlingly scarlet. After a little indecision he took out his pad and wrote, “I was trying to shake the gipsies.” He showed the page to Agatha.
“Of course,” said she. Then, to the lieutenant, “He was trying to shake the gipsies.”
“He succeeded,” cried the man-gipsy. “He shook loose my four-dollar earrings and a twenty-dollar monkey.”
This statement was hailed with mirth from the rear. The maudlin occupants of Number 3 joined in noisily. Even the policemen smiled.
The next moment one of the latter gave a shout of triumph. “Lieutenant,” he announced excitedly, “this dago is wearin’ a wig!” He pointed at the black mop of hair that hung down over the temples of the man-gipsy.
The man-gipsy drew himself up haughtily. “I am not a dago,” said he, with dignity. Then, to the lieutenant, “Your eminence, he insults me.”
Agatha’s eyes were keen. “The other one, too,” she whispered.
Officer Flynn seized the wide, scarlet kerchief on the gipsy woman’s head and gave it a jerk. It came away—with it a full and ropy coiffure.
“Stung!” cried the woman.
Now, shorn of its late protection, her head was masculine in appearance, the short, brown hair showing itself to be well cut and carefully kept. When Officer Flynn had plucked off the man-gipsy’s wig there was disclosed another head no less modishly barbered.
The lieutenant was a man of long experience.
“College,” said he.
The woman-gipsy bowed. “You are inspired.”
From behind them came sounds of suffering—the five gentlemen in the rear were bent to the floor. Seeing them, the gipsies fell to chortling shrilly.
The lieutenant was turning the leaves of the book. “Inspired nothin’,” said he. “Whin Oi see a youngster makin’ a jackass of himself——”
And it was then that something dawned upon Agatha: these were all friends of Mr McVicar’s, and this was what he had meant when he spoke of their “annoying” her. But she was a college girl, and knew just how much fun could be gotten out of a lark—even a silly, sophomoric lark. She glanced over at Mr. McVicar and dimpled.
“An’, mebbe,” went on the lieutenant, almost agreeably, “this is a’ inittyaytion?”
“Something on that order,” said the woman-gipsy.
“It was all in the interest of science,” added the man-gipsy “We were endeavouring to make the dumb speak.” Here he began to make finger-signs at Agatha’s escort.
Agatha, shocked by the cruelty of the jest, fairly whirled round upon the offender. Her reproof, however, remained unspoken; for there, between the gipsies and the door, advancing on quick foot, was an open-faced, shrewd-eyed young man. This person halted at the lieutenant’s elbow, and took the company in with swift comprehension. At the same time he drew a pencil from a breast pocket and a yellow pad from a sagging pocket lower down.
Agatha had only a second in which to wonder if he, too, were d— and d— when, “Aloysius,” said he to the lieutenant, “what’s doing?” He pointed at the wigs.
It was then that Agatha realised that she was in the presence of the danger that she (and Auntie) so much feared. The shrewd-eyed young man was a reporter! She turned helplessly to Mr. McVicar.
“But he sha’n’t have my picture,” she muttered.
Mr. McVicar looked down at her quickly—almost as if he had heard. Then his grey eyes went back to the lieutenant and the newspaper man. His hands were twitching.
The lieutenant glanced up. “Aw,” he said disgustedly, “it’s only a fool thrick.” Then, to the waiting line, “Ye kin all go.”
At this the reporter became excited. “But it ought to make a story. Have you got their names?” He sprang to the side of the womangipsy
It was now that Mr. McVicar did an extraordinary thing. Without a moment’s hesitation he stepped between the reporter and the woman-gipsy and gave the latter a shove that sent her spinning backward. Then he turned to the desk.
“It is a trick,” he declared, “a mean, contemptible trick, and I am mostly to blame for it. But it has gone far enough.”
Agatha gave a cry of amazement. It was the deep voice she had heard when the officers were approaching. And it was his! This was
not gurgling: this was speech! She sank upon a bench, her face hidden in the crook of one trembling arm, and began to sob wildly.
“Lieutenant,” went on the deep voice, “I ask you to save this young lady from notoriety.”
The lieutenant promptly leaned far over and addressed the womangipsy. “Ye git,” said he harshly, “an’ yer gang wid ye. An’ if Oi hear of y’ givin’ anny names——”
The woman-gipsy held up a defensive hand. “Now that the dumb hath spoken,” said she, “far be it from me to bring grief——”
“Hike!” interrupted the lieutenant.
The gipsies stole out, after them the five well-dressed young men. Next the officers saluted the desk and passed Agatha with pitying glances. Only the reporter remained.
“Say,” said the lieutenant to him, “Oi’ve give y’ manny a scoop, ain’t Oi?”
“Yes,” said the reporter, “you have.”
“Wull, thin. An’ d’ye know yere missin’ th’ story of yer loife this siccond?”
“For heaven’s sake! What is it?”
The lieutenant leaned toward him, dropping his voice dramatically. “Hist!” he exclaimed. “They’s a man dead in Brooklyn!” He gave a prodigious wink.
“Oh, I see. All right,” said the reporter. He waved a hand and went out.
Then Mr. McVicar began to speak again—to Agatha, and so quaveringly that the lieutenant knew the tears were close there, too. The lieutenant turned his back and fell to studying a map.
“I’ve been a coward and a cad,” said that quavering voice, “and you’ll never forgive me. But, honestly, I did it all because I—I wanted to be with you. So I pretended I was—was—uncle that morning that I telephoned. Every day I thought the truth would come out. And lots
of times I came near skipping town. The fellows wouldn’t let me alone a minute—from the time I had to tell one of ’em (you remember) that I was deaf and dumb. The fiends! Oh, don’t cry so! I’d—I’d die if it’d do any good.”
Agatha raised her tear-wet face. “I’m not c-r-crying because I’m angry,” she sobbed, putting out her two hands to him. “I’m c-c-crying because you’re not d— and d—.”
His strong arms caught her up then and held her close, and for all the silent, pent-up hours he had spent with her there now gushed forth a thousand whispered words of rapturous endearment. And he kissed her poor, trembling lips, her chin, her black-lashed eyelids— even the fluff of her hair.
“Dearest,” he whispered, “I loved you the second I spied you from behind that reference table.”
Agatha suddenly stopped her sobbing. Then she leaned away from him—and looked down. The plaid she saw above his half-shoes was red and brown at right angles upon a French-knotted ground of blue. It was not exactly the plaid that had been displayed that other day, but it was a full cousin to it.
The sun broke through the clouds then, for as she looked up once more a smile lit all that scarlet rounding of her cheeks where her dimples were. “Then, d-dear,” she began, both gloved hands creeping up to rest on his shoulders, “wh-what is your tr-truly name?”
A YELLOW MAN AND A WHITE
FONG WU sat on the porch of his little square-fronted house, chanting into the twilight. Across his padded blouse of purple lay his sam-yen banjo. And as, from time to time, his hymn to the Three Pure Ones was prolonged in high, fine quavers, like the uneven, squeaky notes of a woman’s voice, he ran his left hand up the slender neck of the instrument, rested a long nail of his right on its taut, snake’s-skin head, and lightly touched the strings; then, in quick, thin tones, they followed the song to Sang-Ching.
The warm shadows of a California summer night were settling down over the wooded hills and rocky gulches about Fong Wu’s, and there was little but his music to break the silence. Long since, the chickens had sleepily sought perches in the hen yard, with its high wall of rooty stumps and shakes, and on the branches of the Digger pine that towered beside it. Up the dry creek bed, a mile away, twinkled the lights of Whiskeytown; but no sounds from the homes of the white people came down to the lonely Chinese. If his clear treble was interrupted, it was by the cracking of a dry branch as a cottontail sped past on its way to a stagnant pool, or it was by a darkemboldened coyote, howling, dog-like, at the moon which, white as the snow that eternally coifs the Sierras, was just rising above their distant cobalt line.
One year before, Fong Wu, heavily laden with his effects, had slipped out of the stage from Redding and found his way to a forsaken, ramshackle building below Whiskeytown. His coming had proved of no small interest. When the news finally got about that “a monkey” was living in “Sam Kennedy’s old place,” it was thought, for a while, that laundrying, thereafter, would be cheaply done. This hope, however, was soon dispelled. For, shortly after his arrival, as Fong Wu asked at the grocery store for mail, he met Radigan’s inquiry of “You do my washee, John?” with a grave shake of the head. Similar questions from others were met, later, in a similar way.
Soon it became generally known that the “monkey at Sam Kennedy’s” did not do washing; so he was troubled no further.
Yet if Fong Wu did not work for the people of Whiskeytown, he was not, therefore, idle. Many a sunrise found him wandering through the chaparral thickets back of his house, digging here and there in the red soil for roots and herbs. These he took home, washed, tasted, and, perhaps, dried. His mornings were mainly spent in cooking for his abundantly supplied table, tending his fowls and house, and in making spotless and ironing smooth various undergarments— generous of sleeve and leg.
But of an afternoon, all petty duties were laid aside, and he sorted carefully into place upon his shelves numerous little bunches and boxes of dried herbs and numerous tiny phials of pungent liquid that had come to him by post; he filled wide sheets of foolscap with vertical lines of queer characters and consigned them to big, plainly addressed, well-stamped envelopes; he scanned closely the last newspapers from San Francisco, and read from volumes in divers tongues; and he pored over the treasured Taoist book, “The Road to Virtue.”
Sunday was his one break in the week’s routine. Then, the coolies who panned or cradled for gold in the tailings of near-by abandoned mines, gathered at Fong Wu’s. On such occasions, there was endless, lively chatter, a steady exchange of barbering—one man scraping another clean, to be, in turn, made hairless in a broad band about the poll and on cheek and chin—and much consuming of tasty chicken, dried fish, pork, rice, and melon seeds. To supplement all this, Fong Wu recounted the news: the arrival of a consul in San Francisco, the raid on a slave- or gambling-den, the progress of a tong war under the very noses of the baffled police, and the growth of Coast feeling against the continued, quiet immigration of Chinese. But of the social or political affairs of the Flowery Kingdom—of his own land beyond the sea, Fong Wu was consistently silent.
Added to his Sunday responsibilities as host and purveyor of news, Fong Wu had others. An ailing countryman, whether seized with malaria or suffering from an injury, found ready and efficient
attention. The bark of dogwood, properly cooked, gave a liquid that killed the ague; and oil from a diminutive bottle, or a red powder whetted upon the skin with a silver piece, brought out the soreness of a bruise.
Thus, keeping his house, herb-hunting, writing, studying, entertaining, doctoring, Fong Wu lived on at Whiskeytown. Each evening, daintily manipulating ivory chopsticks, he ate his supper of rice out of a dragon-bordered bowl. Then, when he had poured tea from a pot, all gold-encrusted—a cluster of blossoms nodding in a vase at his shoulder, the while—he went out upon the porch of the square-fronted house.
And there, as now, a scarlet-buttoned cap on his head, his black eyes soft with dreaming, his richly wrought sandals tapping the floor in time, his long queue—a smooth, shining serpent—in thick coils about his tawny neck, Fong Wu thrummed gently upon the threestringed banjo, and, in peace, chanted into the twilight.
Flying hoofs scattered the gravel on the strip of road before Fong Wu’s. He looked through the gloom and saw a horse flash past, carrying a skirted rider toward Whiskeytown. His song died out. He let his banjo slip down until its round head rested between his feet. Then, he turned his face up the gulch.
Despite the dusk, he knew the traveller: Mrs. Anthony Barrett, who, with her husband, had recently come to live in a house near Stillwater. Every evening, when the heat was over, she went by, bound for the day’s mail at the post-office. Every evening, in the cool, Fong Wu saw her go, and sometimes she gave him a friendly nod.
Her mount was a spirited, mouse-dun mustang, with crop-ears, a roached mane, and the back markings of an Arab horse. She always rode at a run, sitting with easy erectness. A wide army hat rested snugly on her fair hair, and shaded a white forehead and level-
looking eyes. But notwithstanding the sheltering brim, on her girlish face were set the glowing scarlet seals of wind and sun.
As he peered townward after her, Fong Wu heard the hurrying hoof beats grow gradually fainter and fainter—and cease. Presently the moon topped the pines on the foothills behind him, bathing the gulch in light. The road down which she would come sprang into view. He watched its farthest open point. In a few moments the hoof beats began again. Soon the glint of a light waist showed through the trees. Next, horse and rider rounded a curve at hand. Fong Wu leaned far forward.
And then, just as the mustang gained the strip of road before the square-fronted house, it gave a sudden, unlooked-for, outward leap, reared with a wild snort, and, whirling, dashed past the porch— riderless.
With an exclamation, Fong Wu flung his banjo aside and ran to the road. There under a manzanita bush, huddled and still, lay a figure. He caught it up, bore it to the porch, and put it gently down.
A brief examination, made with the deftness practice gives, showed him that no bones were broken. Squatting beside the unconscious woman, he next played slowly with his long-nailed fingers upon her pulse. Its beat reassured him. He lighted a lamp and held it above her. The scarlet of her cheeks was returning.
The sight of her, who was so strong and active, stretched weak and fainting, compelled Fong Wu into spoken comment. “The petal of a plum blossom,” he said compassionately, in his own tongue.
She stirred a little. He moved back. As, reviving, she opened her eyes, they fell upon him. But he was half-turned away, his face as blank and lifeless as a mask.
She gave a startled cry and sat up. “Me hurtee?” she asked him, adopting pidgin-English. “Me fallee off?”
Fong Wu rose. “You were thrown,” he answered gravely.
She coloured in confusion. “Pardon me,” she said, “for speaking to you as if you were a coolie.” Then, as she got feebly to her feet—“I
