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  “Hello,” she said, climbing inside and sliding onto the empty bench.

  Both girls grinned. “You’re pretty,” one of them said.

  “Very pretty. I love your dress,” the other girl said, gesturing to Lizzie’s outfit. It was one of Lizzie’s favorite day dresses, a French silk of blue stripes paired with a pointed basque trimmed with lace. The skirt had two deep ruffles and pannier drapery. She had wanted to look her best when meeting Cavanaugh.

  “Thank you. I am curious who you are, though.”

  “We’re Emmett’s half sisters. I’m Kathleen,” the older-looking one said. “But everyone calls me Katie.”

  “I’m Claire. May I touch your hat?”

  Cavanaugh’s . . . half sisters? Lizzie quickly recovered from her shock and leaned forward, bending her head toward the girl. “Yes, of course. That’s an ostrich feather. What do you think?”

  “It’s so soft,” the girl whispered. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I like it, too.” Lizzie straightened. “So how old are you, Katie and Claire?”

  “I’m thirteen. Claire’s fourteen months younger than me.”

  “Oh,” Lizzie said. “That must be nice, having a sister so close to your own age.”

  While Lizzie appreciated her older brother, she’d always wished for a sister. Borrowing clothes, sharing stories, discussing young men . . . A sister would have been a friend and confidante to help ease the lonely years of adolescence. Will had done so much for her, but his responsibilities at the company and finishing his schooling hadn’t left much time for his younger sister.

  “It is, especially since Mama died when I was born,” Claire said.

  Lizzie’s chest tightened. She knew all too well the hole a mother’s absence left in a little girl’s heart. “I’m sorry. My mother died when I was young as well.”

  Both girls gazed at her with solemn understanding. “Do you remember her?” Katie asked.

  “Very little, I’m afraid.” Lizzie had been four when Caroline Sloane died in childbirth, along with the baby. She could recall brushing her mother’s long, blond hair at night. The ghosts of a few other brief moments existed—a kind word or a kiss on the forehead—but never as many as she’d wished. Will had provided Lizzie with most of the memories, often telling her stories of her parents. Did Emmett do the same for his half sisters?

  Lizzie refocused on the young girls. “I’m sure your mother loved you both very much.”

  Katie smiled. “Brendan tells us about her all the time.”

  “Brendan?”

  “Our other half brother,” Katie said. “We all had the same father. Emmett’s the oldest, then Brendan, then us. Emmett and Brendan’s mother died, too. Before our father married our mother.”

  “We spend a lot of time with Brendan. Emmett’s usually too busy for us.” Claire swung her booted feet, her legs too short to reach the carriage floor. “He works all the time.”

  Lizzie could well imagine, considering Will’s hectic schedule. Empires did not run themselves. “How long have you lived with your brothers?”

  “I was almost three. Claire had just turned one.”

  So Emmett, then only a young man himself, had taken in the small girls and assumed responsibility for them. What had happened to their father?

  “Where do you live?” Claire asked Lizzie. “We used to live near Union Square, but Emmett had this big house built a few years ago, and we came to stay here. This house is so gigamtic. It has seventy-eight rooms.”

  “Gigantic,” Lizzie corrected. A short conversation with these two little girls had provided more information about Cavanaugh than a year’s worth of newspapers. “That is very big. It must be fun, though, having all that space. I live on Washington Square with my brother.”

  Katie’s eyes went big. “The park there used to be a graveyard. Do you have ghosts? We’ve always wanted to see a ghost.”

  “I haven’t seen any ghosts, but I’ve never really searched for one. Perhaps you’d like to visit sometime and we could go ghost hunting.”

  Both girls grinned, their expressions hopeful. “Truly?” Katie asked. “Do you mean it, Miss Sloane?”

  “Absolutely,” she said, and realized she meant it. A ghost-hunting excursion with two adorable young girls sounded like fun. Perhaps she could convince her friend Edith to join them. “I’ll speak with your brother about it. By the way, do you girls have a governess? If so, I imagine she’s looking for you.”

  “Yes. But we snuck out,” the older girl said.

  “She thinks we’re practicing our music. I play piano, and Katie plays the clarinet.” Claire mimicked piano keys with her fingers.

  “Won’t she be worried if she discovers you missing?”

  Katie lifted a shoulder. “Probably, but we had to come down to see what you looked like.”

  “Ladies never call on Emmett,” Claire elaborated, fingering the satin bow on her dress.

  “Well, not ladies like you,” Katie said, and they both giggled.

  “Girls,” Lizzie admonished, though she tried not to laugh. “Your brother’s private life is his own business. You should not know what sort of ladies he sees.”

  Katie rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows Emmett only sees actresses. We read the gossip columns every day. Brendan says it’s because—”

  The door was flung open, and the imposing figure of Emmett Cavanaugh came into view. With a fierce frown directed at his younger half sisters, he crossed his arms. A tense silence descended, and Katie and Claire shrank into the velvet seats. “Girls, get back inside,” he finally said, his words tiny white clouds in the frigid air.

  “But Emmett—” Katie started until her brother’s hard voice interrupted.

  “Now, Katie.”

  “Does this mean you won’t give us a swimming lesson this afternoon?” Claire asked. “Please don’t take away our lesson, Emmett.”

  Lizzie’s mouth nearly fell open. Cavanaugh was teaching his sisters how to swim?

  He held up a finger and pointed at his sisters. “If you do as Mrs. Thomas says and do not escape her again today, we’ll still have a lesson. Deal?”

  “Deal!” the girls said quickly. Then they murmured polite responses to Lizzie and scurried out of the carriage. “Good-bye, girls,” Lizzie called as they descended.

  They disappeared behind his broad back, yet Cavanaugh kept his cool, flat gaze riveted on Lizzie. “I apologize for my sisters.”

  “I didn’t mind. They were curious about me.” She couldn’t resist adding, “They said ladies never call on you.”

  A cold wind blew at that moment, ruffling his dark hair and suit coat. He didn’t move, just stood tall and broad like an impenetrable force of nature. One too strong to ever bend or break. She shivered.

  “That is because most ladies know better.” Without giving her a chance to respond, he stepped back. “Until Friday, Miss Sloane.”

  Chapter Two

  Riches are desirable, but many a one who has had money at his command has been entirely unable to find ingress to good society.

  —American Etiquette and Rules of Politeness, 1883

  On Friday evening, Lizzie entered Delmonico’s at eight o’clock, as per Cavanaugh’s terse instructions delivered yesterday. Charlie Delmonico met her at the door and greeted her warmly.

  “Miss Sloane.” The young man beamed. “Welcome back.”

  “Hello, Charlie. I am having dinner with—”

  “Mr. Cavanaugh, yes,” he said. “Everything has been prepared, and Mr. Cavanaugh has arrived. I will escort you to your table.”

  Lizzie nodded, trying to calm the nerves fluttering in her stomach. It’s merely dinner, she told herself. Though she still couldn’t figure out why Cavanaugh wanted to dine with her. What did he hope to gain?

  Something told her he never did anything without a purpose.

  Lizzie had spent the past three days with her nose buried in stock reports, plotting a strategy on how to double Cavanaugh’s mo
ney. She needed more time, but there was no chance Cavanaugh would extend their bet. The man was reputed to be as malleable as granite, and she suspected she’d have an easier time moving Grand Central Depot to Weehawken than getting him to change his mind.

  Charlie led her deeper into the familiar dining room, a space designed to appeal to the most sophisticated New Yorkers. Dark mahogany furniture gleamed in the soft light of crystal chandeliers, the ceiling decorated with impressive frescoes worthy of an Italian master. Tall windows framed the swaying trees and yellow gas lamps of Madison Square, a view unlike any other in the city.

  In the center of the room, a man rose to his feet and Lizzie’s heart began to race. She’d forgotten the impact of Emmett Cavanaugh, the sheer impressiveness of his towering frame and handsome face. His wide shoulders were framed in the newest style, that of a black tailless dinner jacket. A white single-breasted vest stretched over his immense chest, while his white bow tie and shirt collar contrasted with his tan skin. This was not a man who lived for ponies and pleasure, idling at his club while the world awaited his whim. Here was a man unafraid of hard work, who snatched what he wanted and forged it with his own bare hands. She admired that. Even envied him, a little.

  Her eyes locked with Cavanaugh’s obsidian gaze. He never glanced away, just watched her with an unreadable intensity that sucked all the air from the room. She nearly stumbled, but somehow remained on her feet as they arrived at the most coveted table, one in the center of the room next to the elaborate marble fountain. Where everyone would see them.

  “Miss Sloane,” Cavanaugh greeted and moved to pull out her chair. Did she detect a bit of relief on his face? She couldn’t be sure, but that hint of vulnerability made him more . . . human. If he ever smiled she might faint dead away.

  “Mr. Cavanaugh.”

  She lowered and arranged herself on the seat, careful not to crush her bustle, as he pushed her chair toward the table.

  “I didn’t think you’d come.” He signaled to a waiter hovering nearby.

  She liked his deep voice. It was huskier than Will’s, each word pronounced with authoritative precision.

  “Why wouldn’t I? I said I’d have dinner with you. I keep my promises.”

  “Surprising for a Sloane,” he muttered, so softly she was certain he hadn’t meant for her to hear.

  “What does that—”

  “Champagne, miss?” A waiter holding an expensive bottle appeared, and Lizzie had to bite off her questions as their glasses were filled.

  When they were alone, Cavanaugh lifted his flute. “To possibilities.” The words, combined with his fierce expression, caused her mouth to dry out. Was he speaking of their business venture?

  She raised her glass. “To possibilities.” She took a hasty sip, focusing on the far wall instead of him.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I’ve gone ahead and ordered our meal. I thought it would save time.”

  “I suppose that makes sense, but what would you have done if I’d stayed home?”

  “Eaten alone, most likely. Did you consider not coming?”

  “Of course not.” A lie. She’d considered backing out at least a dozen times over the last few days.

  The side of his mouth hitched, a simple gesture that softened his hard features, making him even more striking. “If you plan to join the world of business, Miss Sloane, you must learn to lie.”

  The suggestion bothered her. First, he was surprised she’d kept her word to dine with him this evening. Now he was encouraging her to lie. Was he so cynical, then? “You might believe that to be true, but I prefer to practice honesty in all things.”

  “Is that so?” When she nodded, he leaned in and lowered his voice. “Did you tell your brother you were meeting me tonight? Or Rutlidge, for that matter?”

  “As it happens, Will has been away this week, and I have not seen Mr. Rutlidge.”

  “And all forms of communication at your disposal are . . .” He waved his hand, as if searching for the right word. “Broken?”

  Her cheeks grew warm, and irritation swept through her. “Why did you want to have dinner with me, Mr. Cavanaugh? What do you hope to gain?”

  “Companionship?”

  “Because you are lacking in feminine attention?” She finished her champagne and placed the glass on the table. A waiter instantly materialized to refill it. “I find that hard to believe.”

  Had that sounded like a compliment? She nearly winced. Champagne tended to loosen her tongue, unfortunately.

  He tilted his head, studied her. “And here I thought you’d be too busy reading the stock reports to pay attention to the gossip columns.”

  “I don’t read them. The gossip columns, I mean. But one does hear rumors.”

  “Rumors are often untrue—whether it’s on the exchange or in print.”

  “So you’re not seeing that actress, Mrs. Rose?”

  His face slackened, mouth parting slightly, but he quickly recovered. “I’m obviously at a disadvantage. It seems you know quite a bit about me, but I know nothing about you. Other than your family and your interest in the stock exchange, of course.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Are you going to marry Henry Rutlidge?”

  She took a deep breath and reached for her champagne. It was crisp and sweet on her tongue, the bubbly liquid giving her courage. “There are many who think I should.”

  “Yes, but what do you think, Miss Sloane?” His eyes, nearly black in the soft light, gave nothing away, no hint as to what he was thinking.

  She shifted in her seat. “I’ll need a lot more champagne before I answer that question.”

  The first course arrived, a plate of fresh Blue Point oysters. After everything was arranged, the waiter asked, “Will there be anything else at the moment?”

  Cavanaugh held her gaze. “Yes. We’ll need another bottle of champagne.”

  * * *

  Emmett threw back more of the sickeningly sweet drink and tried to rein in his lustful thoughts. Sitting across from Elizabeth Sloane had evolved into the worst kind of torture. She wasn’t even the type of woman he preferred; he liked earthy, raw, lusty women who gave as good as they got. But watching her eat oysters, then lick the salty flavor from her plump lips, was so innocently erotic that he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

  Foolish, the idea to sit in the main room. He’d thought the more people who witnessed them together, the better. But now he wished they were alone.

  Where you would . . . what? You’ll never have her, Cavanaugh.

  She wore dark green velvet this evening, the cut high on her neck to contrast with the beautiful pale gold of her hair. They drew stares from all across the room—patrons no doubt curious about why the two were dining together. The golden beauty and the guttersnipe. Let them talk; word would reach Sloane’s ears faster that way. Emmett nearly grinned. What he wouldn’t give to see her brother’s face upon learning the news.

  Everyone came out ahead in this plan. Sloane would be annoyed, Emmett would relish annoying him, and Miss Sloane gained a chance to start her investment firm. Not to mention, Emmett would learn more about the financial stability of Northeast Railroad. There was no drawback, unless one counted his perplexing physical reaction to her presence. He hadn’t expected to feel anything for her, but every time he saw her gray eyes twinkle, every time she smiled at him, it was like a club to the gut.

  He just needed to try harder to ignore his body’s response. There had been an attraction to various unsuitable ladies over the years, and he’d successfully fought it. This one should be no different.

  He forked an oyster into his mouth, enjoying the slick, briny taste as it slid down his throat. When he went to wipe his mouth, he noticed her gaze transfixed on his lips, a flush staining her cheeks. Good Christ, was that . . . for him? His body tightened, pulse pounding in his groin. The room could have been on fire for all he knew because everything had ceased to exist. Everything except her.
/>   She broke the contact first, lowering her head to stare at her plate, and Emmett gulped the rest of his drink, desperate to cool himself down. What was this woman doing to him?

  She cleared her throat. “Is it true you bought the steel mill where you once worked?”

  Finally, a topic that would squash any interest in him. His past was not normally up for discussion, but she needed to hear it, obviously. “Yes, I did. Does that shock you?”

  “No.” She delicately dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin. “I find it fascinating. Will you tell me the whole story? No doubt there’s more to it than what I’ve heard.”

  Fascinating? “I’m not certain this is suitable dinner conversation.”

  She cocked her head. “Would you rather discuss the weather? Or perhaps the latest fashions on the Ladies’ Mile?”

  “God, no,” he murmured. “I was twelve when I left for Pittsburgh.”

  “And you grew up downtown?”

  “Yes.” He clamped his jaw shut. That portion of his life was closed off for good, no matter who asked.

  “And you found work in a mill. What was it like?”

  He thought for a moment. “Grueling. Twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week. No breaks or even time to eat. What I remember most is the sweat. You’ve never imagined anything like the heat inside a steel mill. I lost twenty pounds in the first three months I worked there, which is quite a bit on a paper-thin twelve-year-old boy.” All day long the sweat had run down his arms, his legs, and collected in his boots. Emmett hated to feel that way now, with perspiration clinging to his clothes and skin.

  “How did you come to purchase it, then?”

  “I was injured, and the company gave me a small settlement, which I successfully invested a few times over. Came to New York, started playing the market. In four years, I had enough to buy the mill.”

  “And East Coast Steel was born.”

  The tone of her voice, it sounded like admiration . . . when it should have been revulsion. She’d romanticized something truly awful and hideous in his past. If she had any idea of the things he’d done in his life, the things he’d seen . . .