Page 14 of Daredevil Lady and the Mysterious Millionaire (The Hidden Hearts Collection #3)
Five
T he soft glow of incandescent lamps illuminated pristine white tablecloths, gleaming silver, sparkling crystal—all the elegance that marked Delmonico’s, New York’s premiere dining establishment.
Here the fashionable set gathered nightly to sample the excellent cuisine, millionaires rubbing elbows with actors and politicians.
No matter what newer, smarter salons opened their doors, it still was considered a matter of social necessity to be seen dining at “Del’s. ”
Or so Cynthia Van Hallsburg had informed Zeke upon many occasions, advice that Zeke for the most part ignored. Delmonico’s was a shade too fancy and sedate for his tastes, the food good but overpriced. So he could scarce say why he had chosen to bring Miss Kavanaugh here tonight.
As they crossed the plush carpeted foyer, she hung back a little, her pert nose crinkling in doubtful fashion. “Are you sure we should— I mean, don’t you have to have reservations to get into this place?”
“No,” he assured her. “Del’s doesn’t take reservations after six. They would keep you waiting even if you were the President of the United States.”
With that, he caught the attention of the headwaiter, Phillipe.
“Ah, Monsieur Morrison.” Phillipe made a smart bow. “So good to see you this evening.”
“Good evening, Phillipe. Table for two, the best in the house.”
“But of course, monsieur.” The man flattered him with an unctuous smile that was at the same time a little insolent.
It was at this instant Zeke realized to his chagrin what he was doing at Delmonico’s. He was showing off. Hell! He hadn’t done that since the time he had nearly impaled himself on the schoolyard fence, doing handstands to impress Mary Lou Grosvenor.
Mary Lou had been suitably awed, but then it was easy to dazzle a girl when you were both only ten. Not so easy now. Had he managed to impress Miss Kavanaugh? He stole a glance down at her as they followed Phillipe to their table.
Those remarkable quicksilver eyes of hers registered curiosity as she made a study of Delmonico’s main dining salon. It was a curiosity that was returned, although the occupants of the other tables were too craven to stare as frankly as she did.
The room was already thronged with black dinner jackets and females sporting more diamonds than could be found in the display case at Tiffany’s.
Although the hum of polite chatter and the sedate chink of forks against china never ceased, Zeke could sense his progress across the room being followed by a myriad of eyes.
“It’s that Morrison fellow,” he heard someone mutter. “Who’s he got with him? One of the chorus girls from Casino’s?”
The speculation didn’t bother Zeke. By now he was accustomed to the interest he aroused wherever he went, but as she became aware of the whispers, Miss Kavanaugh appeared disconcerted.
Phillipe showed them to a table at the front, quite close to the large plate glass window. It was an excellent location, giving them not only a view of the square outside, but also most of the rest of the room. Yet Miss Kavanaugh looked flushed and distinctly uncomfortable as they took their seats.
As Phillipe bustled off to send a waiter to fill their water glasses and bring menus, Zeke leaned forward. “You know if you don’t like this, Miss Kavanaugh, I could ask to be shown to a private room.”
“Oh, no, this is just fine.” She snatched up the linen napkin and spread it on her lap, as though by laying claim to the spot she would resist any attempts to dislodge her.
Zeke suppressed a smile. So she was still skittish at the notion of being alone with him. She needn’t have worried. At Del’s, they didn’t let you close the doors of the private rooms, not even if you were married. But Zeke let the matter drop.
Settling back in his chair, he appreciated the scene unfolding beyond the window.
Outside hansom cabs jostled for position at the curb, trying to deposit their passengers.
The trees across the way in Madison Square Park cast rustling shadows, and beyond them, the lights twinkled, reflections of the great hotels, the theaters and the cafés.
He noted that Aurora had begun to relax, enjoying the view with him.
“This is much better than Del’s old location, isn’t it?” he said.
She laughed a little at that. “I wouldn’t know, Mr. Morrison. Where I come from, we don’t mention Delmonico’s for fear we might be charged for just saying the name.”
“And just where do you come from, Aurora Rose Kavanaugh?”
“Certainly not from Fifth Avenue.”
“Where then? I want to know all about you. It’s not every day a beautiful woman drops from the heavens onto my lawn.”
Both his interest and the compliment seemed to fluster her.
“We probably should place our order,” she said, retreating behind her menu. This resembled the thickness of a pamphlet, with page after page of entrées listed in French and mercifully translated into American.
Miss Kavanaugh appeared capable of employing the menu as a shield for an indefinite length of time, so Zeke took matters into his own hands.
He beckoned to the waiter and ordered for both of them, his own appetite dictating a list comprising vegetable soup, lobster salad, oysters scalloped in the shell and for the main course tenderloin with Madeira sauce, Lyonnaise potatoes, green peas and stuffed eggplant, with apple fritters for dessert.
“That sound all right to you, Miss Kavanaugh?” he asked, belatedly consulting Rory. From behind the menu, he could just see her nod.
Zeke quickly dispatched the task of selecting a wine, choosing not only a red Bordeaux, but also a bumper of champagne to be served beforehand. With that the waiter retrieved the menus and Miss Kavanaugh was obliged to come out of hiding.
Zeke shifted a small vase of flowers out of his way so that he had a more clear view of her face. Resting his elbows on the table, he glanced across at her and smiled. “Now where were we? Oh, yes, we were talking about you.”
“I thought we came here to discuss my balloons.”
“Balloons?” he murmured, his eyes tracing the curve of her lips. She had the most delectably shaped mouth, perfect for kissing. When that same delectable mouth pursed into an expression of impatience, he forced himself to snap to attention.
“Oh, yes, your balloons. Tell me, have you been with the circus long?”
She heaved a deep sigh. “Only for one afternoon. I told you before, Mr. Morrison, I am not a circus performer. I have my own balloon company.”
As a waiter trundled the ice bucket with champagne forward and began to discreetly fill their glasses, she reached for her beaded purse.
The reticule had been retrieved for her from the balloon’s soggy depths, Consequently both the purse and the business card she proceeded to hand Zeke were a little damp.
Zeke was more interested in watching the way the lamp’s glow played against the silken curls of her hair, highlighting that sheen of red he was sure gave the spice to her temper. But he wrenched his gaze away long enough to glance at the card.
Transcontinental Balloon Company
The name meant nothing to him, sounding like mere fanciful nonsense. But the address of the company startled him. It was located not far from the dockside where he had once worked in his youth. He passed quickly over that, moving on to the last printed line on the card.
“Seamus Kavanaugh, President,” he read aloud with an inquiring glance at Aurora.
“My father,” she said, the word laden with a mixture of sadness and fierce pride. “I never had the cards changed after his death last year.”
“I’m sorry,” Zeke said awkwardly. “Not about the cards. I mean about your?—”
“I know.” She cut him off quickly as though she did not want her grief touched upon. He could understand that. He had more than a few painful memories of his own he didn’t like paraded in the sunlight.
She continued in a brisk businesslike manner. “I am the president of the company now. We have been manufacturing and flying balloons for nearly seven years.”
“How interesting.” Zeke tucked the card carelessly away in his coat pocket. “But do we have to keep on being so formal? Why don’t you call me Zeke?”
“Well, I—” She had seemed so self-assured a moment ago discussing her balloons, but his request had discomposed her again. While she fortified herself with a gulp of champagne, Zeke pressed his advantage.
“And wouldn’t it be all right if I called you Aurora?”
She made a face. “Good heavens, no! If you must—that is, I am usually called Rory.”
“But I think Aurora is a lovely name.”
“You wouldn’t if you had had to endure years of the neighborhood kids teasing and chanting ‘Aurora Borealis.’”
Zeke grinned. “I will admit it doesn’t sound very Irish. How did you ever come to receive such a moniker?”
“It was all my Da’s idea.” Rory paused and stole another sip of her champagne.
This was not what she had come here to talk about tonight.
The waiter was already serving the soup, and hardly a word had been said about her balloon company.
Still, she supposed she must engage in some polite conversation, so she permitted Zeke to coax from her the story of her birth and christening, of how long her parents had waited for a child, of the pain and disappointment of so many miscarriages, of how her coming had been awaited with so much hope, so much fear.
Her father’s worst dread had been realized when it appeared she had been stillborn.
Then she had taken her first breath and let out a lusty cry.
At that moment, her Da had always told her, the dawn had been breaking over the city, the sunlight flooding his heart as well.
She would be called Rose after the grandmother she would never know, left resting beneath the peaceful hills of Kilarney, but as for her first name, it could be nothing else but Aurora.