Magnate Read online

  The waiter arrived with more food, this time a baked salmon with dill sauce. Emmett pretended to attend to his dinner while his thoughts churned.

  Elizabeth Sloane thoroughly confused him. Why wasn’t she uncomfortable dining with him? At the very least, she should have taken stock of the room to see who would be spreading gossip tomorrow. But she hadn’t assessed their fellow diners once that he’d noticed. Instead, she’d stared at his lips and peppered him with questions on his past. What the hell was happening here?

  He never misjudged people. The ability to read others, to know what they were thinking, had made him a millionaire many, many times over. He knew what investors needed to hear in order to hand over their money. Or what workers needed to hear in order to avoid labor strikes. So why couldn’t he figure out one high-society princess?

  He searched for an impersonal topic. “Would you care to discuss your progress on our wager? I’m curious as to how you’re doing after a few days.”

  “I haven’t invested the money yet. I have been working on a plan.”

  “Stocks take time to mature, so that must mean you’re hoping to capitalize on a one-day swing.” He whistled. “You are either very confident or very foolish.”

  “Time will tell.” She threw him an enigmatic smile and picked up a bite of salmon. He watched, mesmerized, as she slipped the piece in her mouth and then her pink tongue emerged to clean the dill sauce from the corner of her lips. His groin became heavy, his trousers growing tight. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Did she have any idea the eroticism of such a gesture?

  “What’s the largest amount of money you’ve made on the exchange in one day?” she asked, thankfully distracting him.

  “Almost five hundred thousand. But that was in the panic of ’73.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “That’s impressive. You must know quite a bit about stocks.”

  “I do.”

  “What was the injury?”

  Emmett frowned. “Pardon?”

  “The injury in the mill, the one that prompted the settlement. What was it?”

  “So curious,” he murmured. “Are you certain you aren’t aspiring to be another Nellie Bly?”

  She gave him a chagrined smile. “I suppose that’s a polite way of telling me it’s none of my business.”

  Better she find out now, to erase any misconceptions she had about him. He propped his elbows on the chair rest, steepled his fingers. “I was burned. Chains holding a steel pipe overhead broke because the pipe hadn’t been given time to properly cool. When it fell, the pipe landed on my back.”

  Her eyes rounded, filled with sympathy. Before she could say anything, he continued, “You see, I was rushing the other men. My shift was nearly over, and there was a brothel less than a mile from the mill. I was eager to get back to the girl I’d had a few nights before. So I convinced the other men that the chains would hold, to hurry up and move the pipe. And when the chains broke, two men died.”

  She stiffened, the sympathy in her expression now a memory, yet he had no intention of stopping. He lifted his flute and swirled the contents. “The union, assuming the company’s equipment to blame, fought to get me a small settlement. I took that money. I took it and never said a word about how the accident came to be, that it was my fault, because I wanted out of that steel mill more than I wanted my next breath.”

  He could still feel it sometimes, the sweat. Woke up at night drenched in it. No, he had absolutely no regrets about getting out of the steel mill or the things he’d done since.

  After downing the rest of his champagne, he placed his glass on the table with a thump. “Do not try and make me into something I’m not, Miss Sloane.”

  Her throat worked before she croaked, “And what is that, Mr. Cavanaugh? What exactly am I making you out to be?”

  He leaned in and held her startled gaze. “Nice.”

  * * *

  An awkward silence stretched, and the sounds of the dining room swirled around them. Lizzie concentrated on her food and tried to get Cavanaugh’s warning out of her head. No doubt he’d been trying to scare her with his story, but the opposite had occurred. There were many layers to the man, all of them fascinatingly complex. He was flawed, just like the rest of the mortals on earth, but it was the flaws she wanted to unwrap and study like the stock tables she loved.

  And that worried her. Her purpose was not to examine all the various facets of Emmett Cavanaugh, but to save her family’s finances.

  Her gaze bounced around the room as she tried to regain control of her emotions. Near the windows she spotted two older women who happened to be terrible gossips, their bold stares fixed on Cavanaugh as they whispered to one another. Both wore clear looks of disapproval, and Lizzie grew annoyed on his behalf. He’d done nothing untoward tonight to deserve their criticism.

  Then the ladies looked at her, and she could read the judgment from across the room. Is that Elizabeth Sloane? Why on earth is she dining with him? Notice how she isn’t even paying him attention, how uncomfortable she appears.

  She straightened her spine. She didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for her or believing she was here against her will. True, he hadn’t given her much choice in the matter, but no one need know that. Moreover, Cavanaugh had been a perfectly respectable dinner companion.

  She did what came naturally, from years of training by governesses and deportment tutors: she pasted a smile on her face and launched into conversation. “You have a brother, I understand.”

  That question seemed to snap Cavanaugh out of his thoughts. He relaxed in his chair, his mouth curving. “Yes, I do. Brendan. He’s a doctor.”

  “I can see you’re fond of him.”

  “I am. He’s annoyingly smart. Works himself to the bone nearly every day, practicing in the roughest parts the city.”

  “He must find it rewarding,” she offered.

  “I suppose, though I keep reminding him he needn’t work. Save himself the aggravation.”

  “He could, but some people prefer to work.”

  “I suspect you fall into that category as well.” He tapped his fingers on the edge of the table, his gaze shrewd. “Why stocks?”

  She shrugged. “I like the excitement, the risk involved. And I’ve always had a head for numbers. In fact, my best memories are of my father reading the stock tables to me during breakfast.”

  “How old were you when he died?”

  “Seven.” A familiar ache welled up in her chest. “I remember not believing it, that he was truly gone. Even when I saw his body, I kept waiting for him to get up and tell me it was a big joke. I’m afraid I was a handful for poor Will.”

  For some reason, that made Cavanaugh’s lips twitch. “I can only imagine. You’re smarter than other women, probably were even back then.”

  She inhaled sharply, drawing the unexpected compliment deep inside her, to where uncertainty and self-doubt thrived. No one had ever called her smart—no one other than her brother, though he used the word as a way of discouraging her ambitions. Will tended to say things such as, “You’re too smart to go into business,” and, “Let a husband appreciate your intelligence with money.”

  It meant something that Cavanaugh thought her smart.

  She picked up the full glass of cold champagne, tried not to let him see how he was affecting her. “I don’t know that I’m so clever. Perhaps just more reckless.”

  “Recklessness is never a bad thing.” Something about his tone, the way the low, husky words rumbled from his chest caused her body to heat. Was he flirting with her? No, she must be misreading him. He preferred actresses, as everyone knew.

  She tried to return them to safer waters. “In business, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

  “In everything. But there’s a difference between recklessness and stupidity.” He placed his fork and knife down carefully on his gold-rimmed plate. “And I think it’s safe for you to call me Emmett, at least during dinner.”

  “That would hardly be proper.”

  Cavanaugh
said nothing, merely reached one large hand toward his delicate champagne glass. His skin looked rough and tanned, with fine brown hairs on the knuckles. Strong, capable hands that were different from any she’d seen. She wondered what they would feel like, if they would be gentle.

  “Do you remember,” he said, “what happened when you Knickerbockers were determined to keep the new monied-types out of the Academy of Music?” He took a sip and leaned back in his chair. “Alva rallied everyone who’d ever been shut out, myself included, and raised the money to build the Metropolitan Opera House. And now what’s happened to your precious Academy? It’s become a vaudeville house.”

  “And your point?”

  “My point, Miss Sloane, is that your rules don’t stand a chance, no matter how fervently Mrs. Caroline Schermerhorn Astor wills it to be so. Money always wins, and too many of us undesirables have it now.”

  Lizzie bristled, resenting that he lumped her in with the rest of the old families so desperate to retain the status quo. “They are not my rules. I was never in favor of keeping the Vanderbilts out of the Academy, not that I had anything to do with it considering I was fifteen at the time. The world is changing, and if you think I’m not eager for it, then you don’t know me at all.”

  His eyes glittered, and he pressed his lips together, as if amused but desperate not to show it. “Is it so hard to admit I’m right?”

  “Fine. Emmett,” she snapped quietly.

  He let out a short noise, and she suspected it might be a laugh, albeit a rusty one. Sort of like the hinges on a door long gone unopened.

  “You wanted me to make a fool of myself.” She swallowed the rest of her champagne, and her head swam. How many times had her glass been refilled?

  “No,” he said. “I wanted to point out the absurdity of continuing to call me Mr. Cavanaugh.” His face softened, and her chest expanded with giddiness. Goodness, he was attractive. Little wonder why actresses fell at his feet.

  “I have another question for you.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Why hide behind a man’s name when you start your investment firm? You’re a Sloane. I’d think you could do anything you pleased and no one would deny you a thing.”

  The comment nearly caused her to chuckle bitterly. He’d be surprised how much she was denied, because of both her station and her gender. Even if women were welcome on Wall Street, none of them would be from the old families of New York society. Young unmarried ladies of Lizzie’s set could never do what they pleased. Nevertheless, this venture could not fail—the future of the Sloanes hinged on it—so if employing subterfuge for a short time helped her succeed, she would not hesitate.

  “Women with my background are not supposed to work. We’re bred to support a husband and run a household. It’s exactly as you first assumed, that my life has not prepared me for more than parties and dress fittings. But I need to do more—I can do more. Society will come to accept it, after I’ve proven myself.”

  “So the investors will believe the advice you’re dishing out is from me?”

  “Not quite,” she said. “They merely need to believe you’re invested in the financial success of the firm. That I have your ear. I’ll do the rest.”

  A shadow fell over their table. “Hello, Lizzie.”

  Lizzie drew back swiftly and found Henry Rutlidge standing unsteadily at her side. His eyes were rimmed red, and his slick, brown hair was mussed. Not to mention, he reeked of spirits. Was he inebriated? “Mr. Rutlidge. You know Mr. Cavanaugh, I assume.”

  “Evening, Cavanaugh.” Henry gave a jaunty salute.

  Emmett’s lip curled. “Rutlidge.”

  “Here I was at the Fifth Avenue Hotel,” Henry slurred, “having drinks, when my friends and I decided to pop over here for dinner. Could hardly believe it when I heard you were here, too—and with Cavanaugh, no less. I said, ‘I’ve got to go and save Lizzie from that bouncer! ’” He turned to Emmett. “No offense intended, Cavanaugh.”

  Emmett downed the remaining champagne in his glass. “Oh, no offense taken.”

  Lizzie frowned at both the insult from Henry and the barely restrained loathing from Emmett. This could be very bad, indeed. “I am fine,” she told Henry quietly. “I do not need rescuing. Mr. Cavanaugh and I are merely having dinner. Perhaps you should go home, Henry.”

  He suddenly clutched the table. “Whoa. The room has started to spin. Do you feel it, Lizzie?”

  “You’re drunk, Rutlidge,” Emmett enunciated slowly. “No one feels it but you.”

  “Come on, Cavanaugh. You’re no stranger to the drink.” Henry leaned close to Lizzie and spoke in a stage whisper. “He lived in the Old Brewery for a time, I heard. Ran with a gang. A regular b’hoy, he was.”

  “That would be a feat, considering the Methodists took over the building a few years before I was born,” Emmett said dryly. “But I’m certain I could remember a trick or two from my days downtown, if you’re interested in following me outside.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. The last thing they needed was a brawl in the middle of the Delmonico’s dining room. “Mr. Cavanaugh, thank you for dinner. I think it would be best if I saw Mr. Rutlidge home.”

  Emmett’s jaw clenched, and Lizzie pleaded with her eyes for him to understand. She had known Henry forever, yet she’d never seen him like this. Who knew how many more insults he would lob at Emmett before things took a disastrous turn?

  Emmett signaled a waiter. “I’ll take you both in my carriage.”

  “No, that is unnecessary,” she rushed out. “I am perfectly capable of getting him into a hack.”

  “Nevertheless, it would be my pleasure, Miss Sloane.” She opened her mouth to refuse, but his cold, dark gaze stopped her flat. His tone brooked no argument as he said, “And I insist.”

  Chapter Three

  Men will seek the essential principles, but all the nicety and elegance of polished manners must and do come through woman.

  —American Etiquette and Rules of Politeness, 1883

  Henry lapsed into unconsciousness on the ride home, thankfully preventing any further interaction between the two men, and Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief. Noting Emmett’s rigid jaw, she deduced he was still quite angry—not that she could blame him. Henry’s appearance and drunken, rude comments had upset her as well. For some reason, Henry had been determined to insult Emmett into a reaction, which made no sense.

  This new side of Henry worried her. He was usually so jovial and sweet. Of course, she’d never seen him inebriated before.

  Since Henry was sprawled on one side of the opulent carriage, Emmett and Lizzie had been forced to sit next to one another on the other side. With his huge shoulders and long limbs, Emmett took up a good amount of space. She tried to put distance between them, but there was no place to go.

  He stared out the small window, more remote, more untouchable than before. An incredible gulf had risen between them, and she found herself strangely eager to breach the distance.

  “I’m sorry our evening was cut short,” she said.

  “Are you?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t say the words if I didn’t mean them.”

  When he turned, his expression revealed nothing. His emotions were completely under control, and she couldn’t read him. “Are you truly considering marrying that imbecile?”

  “He is not an imbecile. And I have never seen him intoxicated before. He’s not a habitual drinker.”

  “Oh, yes,” Emmett remarked with a disbelieving roll of his eyes. “No doubt this was a celebration of some kind. There’s always one to be had for men like him.”

  She cast a glance at Henry’s sleeping form. He looked so boyish and young, like the Henry she remembered while growing up. “He’s not a bad sort.”

  “Undoubtedly—until the liquor kicks in. Elizabeth and Henry,” Emmett drawled dramatically, as if on the stage. “You should marry him. You’d be the darlings of New York society.”

  “That’s a terrible reason to marry someone.” The on
ly reason to marry was for love, in Lizzie’s opinion. And as fond as she was of Henry, she didn’t love him. That information, however, was none of Emmett Cavanaugh’s business.

  “I can’t think of one better, actually.”

  “You’re a cynic, then,” she returned.

  “Indeed, I am. Among other things.”

  “Such as?” He didn’t answer, just stared down at her. So she elbowed him in the ribs. “Come, now. I’ll trade you my faults for yours.”

  Even in the low light she could see his mouth quirk. “Did you just jab at me with your elbow, Miss Sloane?”

  She did it again. “No.” He jerked in surprise, and she had to bite her lip to keep from giggling.

  His focus settled on her mouth, where her bottom lip was currently caught between her teeth. “Have dinner with me again,” he said in the rough, husky tone that caused her stomach to flutter.

  “Why?”

  “To conclude the wager. We’ll either toast your success or drown your sorrows.”

  “Oh, I won’t fail.”

  “Is arrogance one of your faults, then?”

  “Says the man who believes only men to have the stomach for—what did you call it?—this ‘cutthroat, nasty business,’” she retorted.

  “I’m beginning to see why Rutlidge drinks,” Emmett said dryly.

  She elbowed him again, more seriously this time. “Take that back. Henry and I are merely friends.”

  “Miss Sloane, if you nudge me once more, I fear there will be consequences.”

  Lizzie didn’t believe a word of it. His dark eyes were twinkling, and he looked on the verge of actually smiling. Heaven help her if he actually laughed.

  “What sort of consequences?” she blurted before she thought better of it. She was goading him, pushing, without considering what might happen. Yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

  At that moment, their eyes locked, and all the available air left the carriage. Shadows played across the planes of his handsome face, highlighting the small delectable dent on the tip of his chin. A buzz of sensation broke out over her skin, and she could not look away. His lips were full when he wasn’t scowling or frowning, and she wondered how they would feel on hers. She’d kissed only two men in her life, Henry being one of them, but no kiss had caused her to lose her head, not like the novels promised would happen when a man embraced you.