Escapade (9781301744510) by Susan Carroll Read Free Book Online Page B

like
the kind of snob he despised only added to his annoyance.
    As Zeke yanked open the massive front door,
Duffy made one last desperate plea. "Aw, come on, Morrison. Do a
fellow a favor. Give me a leg up in my career. Just one little
interview."
    He tossed out a spate of breathless
questions. "Is it true you made your money running a gambling
establishment in Chicago? What about the rumor that you were once a
New York boy? How about the gossip that you were involved with
gangs on the East Side like the Dead Rabbits?"
    "You're going to be a dead duck if I ever
catch you trespassing again." Zeke started to shove him out, but
Duffy clung to the door jamb.
    "It's raining buckets out there. You wouldn't
throw a fellow creature out into a storm, would you?"
    Zeke would and did.
    Duffy went flying, but managed to regain his
balance before he fell. Turning back, he glanced toward Zeke, his
grin undiminished by the rain beating down on his head.
    "Never mind, Morrison. I'll get my story
somehow."
    Turning up his collar, Duffy bounded down the
steps, his cheerful exuberance quite unimpaired. As irritated as he
was, a half-smile escaped Zeke. Duffy might be as annoying as a
green-head fly on a hot day, but brashness and persistence were
qualities that Zeke had always admired, perhaps because he
possessed a measure of both himself.
    Zeke watched until he made sure that Duffy
did actually exit from his property, going through the iron gate
and down the street. He eased the door closed. Just as the latch
clicked into place, he heard a cool feminine voice calling from
behind him.
    "John ?"
    He swiveled to observe the woman haloed in
the light of the hall chandelier. Everyone else might be damp and
disheveled, but Cynthia Van Hallsburg was still a vision of
perfection in her silvery-blue frock, the color in tune with her
white-blond hair, the pale blue of her eyes. The Ice Goddess—that
was the name the society columns had dubbed one who had long been a
reigning beauty among New York's upper set.
    There was definitely winter in the stare that
she now turned upon Zeke. "What is the matter now?"
    "Nothing," Zeke replied, coming away from the
door. "I was merely convincing Mr. William Duffy that I am not at
home to callers."
    "That reporter! I suppose this whole
unfortunate affair will end up in the papers tomorrow. Exactly the
sort of publicity one most deplores."
    "Oh, I don't know. With a little digging,
Duffy could find far worse things to print about me."
    Mrs. Van Hallsburg frowned. Zeke had learned
early on in their acquaintance that the one sure way of ruffling
her ice-like serenity was to hint that some elements in his past
were less than sterling.
    This time she chose to ignore his comment.
"You should go in now and attempt to placate your guests. Some of
them are still very upset and demanding their carriages be sent
for."
    "Well, let them. I take no prisoners."
    When his quip caused her lips to thin, Zeke
relented somewhat, adopting a milder tone. "I'm sorry the party got
spoiled. I know you worked damned hard to help me bring it off. But
you can hardly blame me for what happened."
    "I don't hold you responsible for what
happened, merely how you dealt with it. I think you could have
found far better employment for those policemen than having them
gorge themselves in your kitchen."
    So she was still harping on that. Zeke rolled
his eyes. "Believe me, there are far more desperate criminals in
this city for the police to arrest than a bunch of circus people in
a runaway balloon."
    "Then what do you plan on doing with that
circus girl?"
    "She's already gone I sent her off with her
husband, booked them into the bridal suite at the Waldorf for a
wedding present."
    "I don't mean her. I mean the other one, the
one you had Wellington take upstairs."
    Oh, her. Miss Aurora Rose Kavanaugh. Just
thinking of her was enough to make Zeke want to chuckle. He could
picture her so clearly, a little slip of a thing, barely up to his
shoulder, yet