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CHAPTER I
 Colorado,
June, 1907
JAKE ROLLED OFF his mistress, stepped down from the high
poster bed and reached for his clothes.
"So soon?" protested Marguerite with a
glance at her crystal bedside clock. "Why, I was having lunch not
thirty minutes ago."
"Told you," he said over his shoulder.
"I have to meet a train. I need some lunch, too."
Marguerite pursed her lips in a pretend pout.
"That sounds as if you prefer food over me. It's not very
flattering. Especially--" She stretched in languid invitation.
"--at a time like this."
Refusing the bait, Jake plucked his shirt off
the bedpost and shrugged into it. "Seems like ever since I got back
from Detroit, it's 'a time like this.' Not that I mind," he added,
grinning. "But if I'm going to keep you happy, I better keep up my
strength."
In a lessened show of pique, Marguerite plumped
her pillow. "I know it's bad form to delay a busy vice-president,
darling, but I can't help being attracted to you."
"Good." He pulled on his trousers
under her bold appraisal. "I'll do my best to keep it that
way."
Buttoning up, he gazed down with fond
appreciation at Marguerite's exotic, naked beauty--curling black hair,
lustrous dark eyes and fair skin belied by the high color of her full
lips, flushed cheeks and rosy nipples. She claimed Irish and Creole
ancestry, but he suspected it might be more complicated than that. Not
that it mattered. Except for his good-hearted ma, his own family back in
Arkansas wasn't something to brag about. In any case, a man was what he
was, not what somebody thought he was, and the same went for a woman.
"I forgot to tell you something," he
said, which was a wicked lie. Repressing another grin, he took the
carefully folded telegram from the inner pocket of his suit coat and
handed it to her. He'd found the message waiting when he arrived at his
office that morning and silently repeated it as she read:
New Vice President arriving Thursday two
thirteen STOP Congratulations Mister President STOP Keefe CEO
"Mister President!"
Marguerite scrambled to her knees in the middle of the bed, waving the
telegram like a banner. "This is wonderful!"
"I think so, too."
Even for Jake, it was a modest understatement.
After reading the telegram the first time, he'd groped behind him for a
chair, and finding none, sat down on his new secretary's desk, much to
Anthony's astonishment. Keefe hadn't even hinted at this before
leaving with Tara and the youngsters on the first leg of their Grand
Tour of Europe.
Still it was typical of the generous and
sometimes secretive controlling shareholder of Schyuler Enterprises.
Their privately held corporation had undergone a
good many changes in the twenty-two years since Keefe, Tara, and a
green, seventeen-year-old backwoods boy named Jake Livingston had made
their cumbersome way from Arkansas to Boulder, Colorado. Today, their
initial source of capital, the Fallen Star silver mine, was all but
petered out, and Sapphire Jackson now owned Tara's modest orchard and
truck garden west of town. Their original mile-and-a-half rail spur,
however, now crept around the sides of nearby mountains in a spidery
eight-mile network, connecting the Fallen Star and five other mines to
the smelter in Candletop, as well as to the Colorado and Northwestern
line running east to Boulder. Even Tara's School for Women was beginning
to show a profit. And groundwork for a Ford automobile dealership was
being laid.
As for their private plans--well, Jake looked
forward to every minute of every day, just like he had for the past
twenty-two years.
"--but darling," Marguerite was
saying, "Keefe doesn't say how much he plans to pay you. Or whether
it's to be in money or stock."
Jake smoothed his vest over his lean belly and
consulted his pocket watch. Nearly one o'clock. "I don't think we
have to worry about that."
"Oh, I wasn't worried--"
His kiss and quick fondling took her by
surprise. She gasped, her eyes lighting as, relying on what Keefe called
the best poker-face this side of the Capitol, he drew out the moment of
sensual pleasure. "I have a little favor to ask...before the dinner
party tonight."
She reached for him, her eyes darkly brilliant.
"What can I do for you, darling?"
Catching both of her hands in his, he dropped to
one knee on the bed stool. "Marguerite Desmond, will you marry
me?"
JAKE'S GRIN OF self-satisfaction remained in place while
he cranked the Packard and climbed into its tufted leather seat.
Proposing marriage hadn't been nearly as terrifying as he'd expected,
and Marguerite's enthusiastic "Yes!" had erased the last
vestige of fear.
Widowed at twenty-one, his new fiancée at
twenty-four was not only a lush, sophisticated beauty, but an
intelligent conversationalist, an astute manager of the modest monthly
income bequeathed by her late husband, and as passionate as any man
could wish. Following their meeting two years ago, it was she who'd
sought him out--first as a dinner companion and then as a lover.
Innately wary, Jake had enjoyed her favors for
months before suggesting she devote herself exclusively to him, an
arrangement to which she'd readily agreed. He supposed they should've
married a year ago. By now there could be a child on the way. As it was,
they'd have to wait until the Schuylers--his family--returned to Boulder
in the fall. Keefe, Tara, Emilee and the twins, Nels and Erin, were to
set sail for London at four this morning. He'd send a wire today, but it
would be two or three weeks before they received confirmation of his
engagement.
He had planned to propose a couple of months
ago, before the trip to Chicago and Detroit, but he'd been so busy
concentrating on the contacts he needed to make, there wasn't time to do
it properly. Since his return two weeks ago, he'd been enmeshed in
meetings with Keefe, their lawyers, investors, bankers and employees.
Even the evenings were filled with coordinating schedules and
connections for the Schuyler trip and ironing out arrangements for
Jake's oversight of the enterprises.
Thank God for Anthony Parmenter, who'd come
along and rescued him soon after their poor secretary, Charles, was
trampled to death by a runaway horse and buggy.
Jake's mind raced as he guided the Packard from
the dusty road onto the hard-packed street leading into the business
heart of Boulder. It wouldn't take long to transfer Marguerite's
furnishings from her apartment to his house in town, but for propriety's
sake, they'd wait until after the wedding. Marguerite was ambitious for
him--as a wife should be. She'd promised to see to all of the
arrangements for the ceremony and reception--billing the delightful
expenses to him, of course--thereby allowing him time to concentrate on
his new position and responsibilities.
President of Schuyler Enterprises! President
of anything, for that matter, considering where he'd come from.
From where I'd come, he mentally corrected.
Through Keefe's rough and Tara's polite correction, he'd overcome most
of his rural Ozark speech patterns. Listening to Emilee and the twins
learn to talk had helped him, too. The Schuylers never made a fuss about
it, but it hadn't taken long for him to realize the importance of
approved speech and behavior in social and financial circles. An
occasional 'ain't' or 'he don't' still slipped out when he was upset,
but most people accepted him as a Western gentleman, and Emilee had
stopped teasing him about his lapses.
Emilee... What was the little scamp doing right
now? Nothing good he'd bet, with a smile of pity for whatever poor
sailor had snagged her attention. Now nineteen--three years since he'd
seen her--she'd have grown up, matured. Still, it was going to
take some man to master that sass and sparkle. If he lived to be a
hundred, he'd never forget his first sight of her--red and yelling, mad
as a wet hen. A moment later, she'd grabbed his finger with her tiny
fist, and never let go of his heart.
Swerving the heavy machine to avoid three geese
making their arrogant, unruffled way across the road, he grinned. The
poultry trio better enjoy such triumphs while they can.
Keefe and Tara, whose incredible claims
always proved correct, swore that in a few years, automobiles would rule
the streets and back roads, displacing not only geese, but horse-drawn
vehicles.
They also said it wouldn't be long before
ordinary men like himself soared through the air in those incredible
flying machines. Damn! He could hardly wait!
He parked across the street from the rail depot
and stopped the engine, his mind canting to the new vice-president of
Schuyler Enterprises. Keefe, the sly fox, must've planned this latest
surprise weeks ago in order to send the man west as soon as the
Schuylers reached Boston.
"Afternoon, Mr. Livingston," said
George, the station master, his dark eyes as sharp as a sparrow
nestling. "You lookin' to meet somebody special? Seein' it's you
and the Packard."
"Can't tell you who, though," Jake
replied with a grin. "I don't know myself."
They chatted amiably about the Schuyler
trip--everyone in the surrounding counties seemed to know of it--until
George cocked his balding red head. "Rails hummin'," he
declared, and turned to go inside. "Six minutes, fifteen seconds,
reckon you'll be lookin' at your mystery fella."
Jake timed him by his pocket watch. Six minutes
and ten seconds later the first arrival stepped down from the single U.
P. Brighton-to-Boulder passenger car onto the wooden platform. A
salesman, sample case in hand. Then came a frail, elderly matron aided
by a young woman, quills springing from the brown hat perched on her
reddish-blonde curls. Next, a harried-looking young couple tried to
organize five or six children swirling about them like minnows. Two
working class men in caps followed. Finally, a man in business attire
descended and paused at the foot of the steps. Jake started toward him,
only to halt as another business man hailed the target, and together the
pair walked toward the baggage cart and its growing heap of trunks,
boxes and suitcases.
Puzzled, Jake stalked the length of the
platform. Where the devil was the fellow? He wanted to get him
settled in the hotel and visit the jeweler before heading back to the
office.
"Fat Jake!"
He froze, then swung around in disbelief. It
couldn't be!
But it was.
"Poison Ivy!" The old nickname slipped
out in automatic retaliation to Emilee's teasing salutation. "What
are you doing here?"
The sharp demand brightened Emilee's vivid smile
as she raced into his arms, smoky-blue eyes sassy and the color high in
her dewy cheeks. Bracing himself, he caught, lifted and swung her around
like he'd done hundreds of times, her skirt fluttering like a drunken
butterfly.
"My God--" He squeezed her to him and
smacked a kiss on her cheek. "--I didn't know how much I missed
you!"
"Then it's a good thing I came home,"
she said, backing out of his arms and primly resettling her hat, knocked
askew in their lusty greeting. "Somebody in the family has
to look after you."
Jake felt his grin widen to near foolishness.
Damned if Miss Emilee Schuyler wasn't a sight for sore eyes! All grown
up and pretty as a speckled pup in her saucy brown hat and stylish suit,
she was enough to catch any man's attention. Just looking at her made
him feel every day of his thirty-nine years.
"Well?" She eyed him, squinting in the
slanted sunlight. "Aren't you going to ask why I'm here?"
"I just did. As usual, you weren't
listening." Jake shook his head in wonderment. "God, has it
really been three years?"
"Huh." She sniffed, crinkling her
nose. "It seems like a hundred! If Mother, Father and the bratlings
hadn't come east twice a year, I'd have told Miss Agatha to go
stuff--"
"Emilee! Remember you're in public!"
"Oh, I know," she simpered, forgetting
he'd learned long ago never to trust that pretty, apologetic tone.
"I'll be good." The familiar impish smile quirked the corners
of her mouth in response to his skeptical raised eyebrow. "Most of
the time."
Before he could retort, she tucked her arm in
his, all business. "Now, we'd better locate my baggage--Mother and
I shopped like whirlwinds last week and there's a tremendous amount of
it--and arrange for a man to cart it to your house."
Yanking free of her clutch, he stared down
incredulously at her. "My house? Emilee, you can't stay
there!"
"Why not?" she asked without breaking
stride. "I can't stay in the big house by myself, and I'm not made
of money, you know."
"You're supposed to be on your way to
London."
She halted and peered up at him, her creamy
young brow marred by creases of adult displeasure. "Didn't Father
wire you that I was coming?"
He shook his head. "All his telegram said
was that I'd been promoted to president, and that the new vice-president
would be on this...train..." The words trailed away, displaced by a
terrifying thought.
"Poor Jake." Emilee's
everything's-right-with-my-world smile accompanied her soothing words.
"No doubt he was too concerned with the cost of the wire to spell
out every little detail."
Jake felt like he'd swallowed a live frog.
"Are you saying--?"
Blue sparks of mischief danced in his darling's
sunlit eyes. "Now don't fuss, Jakey. I'm far too democratic to
expect you to address me as Miss Vice-President."
His heart sank to his knees. Stifling a groan,
he said, "No. Keefe wouldn't do that to me."
"We-ll..." Emilee smoothed a travel
wrinkle from her skirt. "I suppose I did have a little help
from Mother."
This time Jake did groan, causing the baggage
man to shoot a startled glance in his direction. "I should've known
it was too good to be true."
Emilee, however, had switched her attention to
her baggage, pointing out ten or fifteen cases, hat boxes and trunks to
the attendant. A mountainous heap grew on the platform as Jake stood by,
his thoughts in a whirl. Just what he needed--a pampered, totally
inexperienced child-woman as his next-in-command! And tonight of all
nights, when he'd need all his negotiating wits about him. A potential
buyer for a defunct silver mine didn't come around every day, and Emilee
wasn't only aggressive, she was inclined to speak her mind whether she
knew anything about a subject or not.
Then there was Marguerite, looking forward to
her first dinner party as Jake's fiancée and official hostess.
What rotten timing for this disaster!
Emilee dismissed the baggage handler with a
coin, instructions about safeguarding her possessions, and the assurance
that Mr. Livingston would see to having her things picked up later. At
last she turned to Jake and with the pleasant air of visiting royalty
said, "I'll explain everything tonight over dinner."
Three years ago he'd have laughed at such
pretension and told her to remember to wash behind her ears before she
went to bed.
"No, Emilee Ivy! You'll explain everything now."
Hearing the frustration in his voice, he willed himself to add tightly,
"I'm giving a dinner party tonight. It's important business. I also
have a dozen things to do this afternoon."
"Well, since it's business, you'll
want your new vice-president in attendance. Now--" She surveyed her
pile of luggage with a critical eye. "--what shall I wear?" |
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