Page 7 of Daredevil Lady and the Mysterious Millionaire (The Hidden Hearts Collection #3)
It was a far cry from her own chipped enamel basin, where she sat with her knees practically tucked up to her chin. Rory fretted her lower lip.
No, she couldn’t. She should only be thinking of packing up her balloon and getting out of here. After the way she had wreaked havoc on Morrison’s lawn and then quarreled with him, it wasn’t right to be accepting any favors from him.
Yet what could a bath matter to him? He was clearly as rich as Diamond Jim Brady. He probably had tubs like this in every room. And who knew when Tony would get here? They could not get the balloon aloft anyway until the storm passed.
Rory inched nearer the tub, trailing her fingers in the water. The steaming hot liquid felt as seductive as a caress. Every one of her aching muscles seemed to cry out to her, urging her on.
“Oh, what the hell,” she muttered.
She permitted the maid to help her undress without further argument. The two girls gathered up her discarded clothing and left. But Rory hardly noticed their brisk departure as she eased herself down into the bathtub, closing her eyes in pure ecstasy.
“Ahhh!” Rory leaned her head back, resting it against the porcelain rim. She stretched out for a time, enjoying a blissful soak. Even her ankle began to feel better. With great reluctance, she forced her eyes open and reached for the bar of soap.
As she lathered her legs, she still marveled at the size of the tub. Her toes couldn’t even touch the other side. Morrison probably had everything in the house designed to fit his own towering proportions.
She had no difficulty picturing him sprawled in the depths of a tub like this one, the way the dark damp hair would curl on the expanse of his broad chest, the water lapping against the tautly honed muscles of his belly and lower?—
Rory checked her wayward imagination with a hot blush.
What was the matter with her? She didn’t usually go about conjuring up images of naked men.
She began to scrub herself more vigorously, attempting to blot all idea of Zeke Morrison from her mind.
But once she had allowed him to invade her thoughts, she couldn’t seem to be rid of the man.
What a strange fellow he was. He didn’t fit her notions of a millionaire, the kind Angelo was always reading about to her from the newspaper, who had a house on Fifth Avenue, racing yachts at Newport, a box at the Opera.
With his quick temper, his hearty laugh and his burly shoulders, Zeke reminded her more of a stevedore or a wagon driver, rubbing down his horses, hanging about Tony Pascal’s music hall, getting into fights of a Saturday night.
From his snapping dark eyes to that rock-hard jaw, the man bore an intensity about him that had made all those sedate guests of his seem as faded as last summer’s flowers. And what was his connection to that Van Hallsburg woman, an icicle if Rory had ever seen one?
Obviously some sort of intimacy existed between them. Could she possibly be his mistress? Rory found the thought disturbing, even more than that—repulsive.
But the woman must be well acquainted with Zeke to attempt handing out orders in his house.
Mrs. Van Hallsburg might be belowstairs even now arguing that Rory should be turned over to the police.
Perhaps Zeke might listen. No. Quick-tempered Morrison might be, but somehow Rory could tell there was nothing mean-spirited or vindictive about him.
On the other hand, that Mrs. Van Hallsburg?—
A shudder coursed through Rory and her bath no longer seemed quite so soothing. The water had grown tepid. Clambering out of the tub, she toweled herself dry. Gingerly she tested her ankle, putting her full weight on it. It was still sore, but at least somewhat better.
She reached for the satiny robe the maid had provided and shrugged herself into it, belting the sash about her waist. The garment, with its batwing sleeves, was in pristine condition, likely never worn and purchased solely for the intention of entertaining the casual overnight guest.
Imagine anyone being that rich they could hand out spare robes like bonbons.
For a moment, Rory felt a twinge of wistfulness.
Not that she envied Morrison the splendors of his mansion or even that fantastic bathtub.
But she bet what he had spent furnishing this one room alone would have been enough to save her company.
Morrison could probably finance a dozen balloon companies if he wanted to. Pity she had made such a terrible first impression on him. She could well imagine what his reaction would be if she attempted to sound him out as a possible investor in the Transcontinental Balloon Company.
Now that you have seen exactly what balloons can do, Mr. Morrison.
He would either laugh in her face or toss her into the street for sure. With a rueful grin, Rory banished the absurd notion from her mind.
Making certain the robe was secured, she crept out into the bedchamber. Neither of the maids had returned, but it was unreasonable to expect them to have dried out her gown so soon.
Still, as the minutes ticked by, Rory came to regret her decision to part with her clothes.
Being decked out in only the robe kept her a virtual prisoner in the bedchamber.
The waiting began to seem interminable, and she grew anxious, noting the deep hues of twilight gathering outside the window, the way the rain still pelted against the glass.
What if Tony couldn’t find her? No, she was being silly. Tony always managed to track the course of the balloon.
To occupy her time, Rory paced about studying the room’s pictures, furnishings and especially that mammoth bed beneath its canopy.
Lord almighty, how did anyone ever sleep on such a thing?
It would be like cuddling up for a nap inside of a museum.
Rory stole a half-guilty glance about her.
Although she felt like an urchin sneaking about in a palace, she couldn’t resist.
She boosted herself up onto the bed and sat down, testing the springs with a small bounce. The mattress was firm, much more so than her own bed, worn so comfortably to the contours of her body.
Rory stretched herself out flat, arms at her sides, the brocade coverlet stiff beneath her. She stared up at the canopy looming over her head. This bed would definitely not be conducive to a good night’s rest.
But having assured herself that it was a thoroughly wretched place to sleep, Rory was reluctant to move.
She hadn’t realized until this moment just how tired she was. What a horror the day had been. She would be lucky if Dutton still paid her for that disastrous balloon flight. She would be lucky if she could mend the Katie Moira. She would be lucky if she didn’t lose her balloon company after all.
Well, then, if luck was what it would take, so be it. If she believed hard enough, she would always find a way. The eternal optimism of the Kavanaughs. It was the one legacy Da had left her that would endure forever.
Smiling at the thought, Rory felt her eyes drifting closed and jerked them open. She really should stay awake. She would be embarrassed to death if anyone found her testing out the mattress. What if it should be Wellington or worse yet Morrison himself?
Here she would be curled up in bed, clad in nothing but this clinging robe. The thought disturbed her enough that she struggled into a sitting position. She remembered that that unexpected warmth in Morrison’s eyes when he had gazed at her earlier.
What if he had planned this whole thing, to get her upstairs and in bed undressed? What did she know about the man really? No more than the rest of the world. Even the newspapers had dubbed him a man of mystery.
But she knew plenty about Rory Kavanaugh.
For one thing, she couldn’t imagine herself the object of any man’s lust, especially not as she must have appeared to Morrison, about as desirable as a wet mongrel fished from the gutter.
And for another, she knew she could handle any masher.
Sometimes the lads who hung about her warehouse got a little fresh and she was quick to put them in their place.
Dismissing her fears as ridiculous, Rory yawned and lay back down.
The thought did surface that Zeke Morrison might not be so easy to handle as the dockside boys, but Rory gave it only brief and drowsy consideration.
Besides, it didn’t matter. Morrison wasn’t going to catch her in bed.
No one was. In another few minutes, she was going to move.
In another few minutes, she would thrust her head out into the hall and shout for the maid. In another few minutes...
In less time than that, Rory was fast asleep.