Written In The Heart

A cup of tea, laced with a shot of brandy, suddenly seemed appealing.

“No, let’s proceed,” Caroline said. “Where would you like to start?”

He circled the desk and looked her up and down, taking his time in doing so. His gaze traveled from the tips of her shoes to her skirt, to her face, to her hat.

Caroline flushed. Her skin tingled beneath her dress. A heat flowed from him, wafting over her.

Finally he nodded. “Your dress,” he said softly. “Take it off.”

Breath left her lungs in a frightful huff. Caroline froze to the floor, staring at him. Had she heard him right? Had he told her to undress?

“But wear the hat,” Stephen said. “And your shoes.”

Indignant outrage surged through Caroline, stiffening her arms at her sides. “I will do no such thing.”

“Oh.” He looked disappointed. “All right, then take everything off.”

Her mouth flew open. “How dare you suggest such a thing?”

Stephen stepped closer. “You’d prefer I undressed you myself?”

“I can’t believe you have the gall to speak to me that way!” She faced him squarely, too angry to back away. “How could you say such a thing?”

He spread his arms. “Because you’re a whore.”

Caroline slapped him—an openhanded, roundhouse swing that landed against his cheek so hard it knocked him back a step.

“You bastard! You shameless, conniving bastard!” Caroline trembled with outrage.

Stephen pressed his fingers against his cheek. “If you think I’ll pay you extra for the rough stuff—”

“Shut your filthy mouth!” Caroline yanked her satchel off the desk. “You horrible, disgusting man! You lured me here pretending—”

“Lured you? Richard Paxton arranged this—”

“So, you’re both in on it.”

“I’m not in on anything,” Stephen insisted.

The office door opened and Richard Paxton walked into the room. Caroline saw him and her anger turned to rage.

“You!”

She drew back her hand and slapped his face, just as hard as she’d slapped Stephen. Stunned, he plastered his palm to his cheek, staring at her, completely lost.

“You’re both disgusting,” Caroline said. Anger, humiliation, hurt coursed through her as she backed toward the door. “I hope you two are proud of yourselves. Tricking me. Luring me here with empty promises. Making me think I could really have a—a…”

She burst into tears. Big, gut-wrenching sobs. Both men stared, holding their cheeks. Caroline pressed her palm to her lips and ran out the door.

They just stood there for a few seconds, staring at the empty space Caroline had occupied. Finally, Stephen turned away.

“Great birthday present,” he grumbled. “Thanks a whole hell of a lot.”

Bewildered, Richard held out his hands. “What did you do to her?”

“Does it look like I had time to do anything?” he demanded. He stalked back to his desk. “Next year just send me a box of handkerchiefs.”

“You can’t let her leave,” Richard said. “You need her.”

Stephen knelt, gathering ledgers into his arms. “The next time you decide to send me a whore, make it one that will—”

“A whore? She’s not a whore.”

Stephen stopped. He glanced up. “She’s not?”

“No. Where did you get that idea?”

“From you.”

“Me?”

Stephen fished the folded note card from his pocket. He thrust it at Richard.

“See? Right there. Your gift was just what I need.”

Richard looked at the note. “Just what you need to prove Pickette is a fraud.”

“What?” Stephen shot to his feet, dumping his ledgers onto the floor.

“Caroline Sommerfield is a graphologist. A handwriting expert. She can prove that Pickette’s document was forged.”

Stephen gnashed his teeth together, spitting out curses. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the note?”

“Because it was your present. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Stephen cursed again. “Go get her back.”

“Oh, no.” Richard held up his hands and backed away. “I’m not getting slapped again. You made this mess, you’ll have to deal with it.”

“Damn…” Stephen paced back and forth, rubbing the back of his neck. He stopped. “Are you sure she’s a—what is she?”

“A graphologist. And yes, I’m sure. I saw her at a party last Saturday and her skills are unbelievable. One look at someone’s handwriting and she can size up their personality in a snap. She can compare samples and tell who wrote what.” Richard shook his head. “I’m telling you, Stephen, she can prove Russell Pickette forged that document.”

Stephen cursed again and ran out of the office.

Damn this city.

Caroline stumbled down the street, sniffling, wiping away tears, hopelessly lost. She had no idea where she was, no idea which way was home.

Home.

A wave of fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Home was with her father, not here in this dreadful place. Even though she’d been born in America, as had her parents, they’d migrated to Europe when she was just a child. The Continent had been her home ever since.

Caroline gulped back a sob, willing herself to calm down. She couldn’t think while crying. She deserved to cry, no doubt about it. But right now she needed to get to her aunt’s house, and for that she needed to think.

Instead, the vision of Stephen Monterey leaped into her mind. He’d intended to have his way with her tonight, deflower her. Right there on his desk. Wearing only her hat and shoes.

Caroline’s cheeks burned at the thought, spreading a strange heat through her. She’d been kissed before, and she knew about men and such. After all, she’d lived in France for quite a while. But no man had ever suggested making love to her—certainly not on a desktop. It was scandalous. Outrageous.

Intriguing and a little titillating.

Caroline’s cheeks burned hotter. What had Stephen intended to wear?

She gasped aloud at her unladylike thought and the mental image it conjured up. Stephen was a big man. If the whispered gossip she’d heard were true, that meant he—

Caroline pinched the bridge of her nose, forbidding herself to think any further. At least on the subject of Stephen Monterey. Right now she had pressing problems to deal with.

She looked around the neighborhood at all the beautiful homes and knew she was still on West Adams Boulevard. She hadn’t gotten very far. A block or two, maybe. She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t measure distance well through tear-blurred eyes.

Drawing in a fresh breath, Caroline considered her options. She could approach one of the houses and ask for directions. That, surely, would raise questions about why a woman was alone on the streets at this late hour. She’d already been mistaken for a prostitute once tonight and didn’t want to go through that again.

If she knew where a police station was she could go there. They could take her home. But what would Aunt Eleanor say when she arrived under police escort? Caroline wasn’t anxious to explain her circumstances to anyone, particularly her aunt.

Well, she had to do something. She gazed up and down the street in both directions. Maybe if she—

A man appeared under a streetlamp down the block. Caroline’s breath caught. Good gracious, it was that Stephen Monterey. He’d come after her.

Caroline hitched up her satchel and took off.

Running footsteps sounded on the pavement behind her, spurring her to move faster. She heard his voice shouting.

Her high buttoned shoes and whalebone corset didn’t make the best athletic attire, and her satchel dragged like an anchor, bumping against her thigh. But she couldn’t face that man. Not after what had happened at his house, and certainly not so soon after the thoughts she’d just been entertaining about him.

“Stop, Miss Sommerfield.”

He appeared at her side, jogging along with her. Caroline’s heart jumped into her throat.

“Go away!”

“No, wait. Stop.”

“Leave me alone!” Breathless, she hugged her free hand to her stomach. She could hardly keep going.

“Just stop,” he said. “Please.”

She slowed simply because she couldn’t take another step. Stephen stopped, too, and it annoyed her that he wasn’t even breathing hard, while she was panting like a steam engine.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“I came to see if you still wanted the job.”

“Oh! Of all the nerve!” Caroline headed off down the street again.

“And—” he blocked her path “—and to…apologize.”

Caroline put her nose in the air and turned her head away.

“Look, Miss Sommerfield, I was misinformed about your…purpose for coming to my home tonight,” Stephen said. “Richard told me you were just what I needed, so when I saw you I thought—”

“—that I looked like a common streetwalker?” Caroline tossed her head. “Well, thank you very much.”

She whirled away and started off again.

Stephen caught up with her and put himself in front of her, forcing her to stop.

“No, that is not what I thought,” he said. “It’s just that it’s been a long time since I—”

Stephen curled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his forehead. “Let me start again. You see, Miss Sommerfield—”

“Oh, never mind.” Caroline dropped her satchel, finally catching her breath. “It’s my fault, anyway. Not yours.”

“Your fault?”

“Yes, mine. Mine, for trusting Mr. Paxton. For being foolish enough to come to your house at night. For thinking you were an upstanding, decent businessman.” Caroline nodded emphatically. “Believe me, I will not make any of those mistakes again.”

Stephen pushed his fingers through his hair, watching her, obviously holding in words that itched to be spoken. Finally, he said, “Regardless of all that’s happened, Miss Sommerfield, I am in need of a—What are you again?”

“A graphologist.”

He waved expansively. “The position is still available. Are you interested in discussing it?”

Her eyes widened. “You expect me to work for you? Now? After all that’s happened?”

“Richard thinks you’re good at what you do,” Stephen told her. “But, frankly, that remains to be seen.”

“You won’t find a better graphologist than me,” Caroline said.

He doubted he’d find a graphologist at all, actually. But he didn’t want to go hunting for one. Not when he had this one standing in front of him, who was exactly what he needed.

“Well, are you interested or not?” he asked.

Caroline pressed her lips together, thinking. Was she being a fool twice in the same night to even consider going back to his house?

Here in the soft light of the streetlamps, Stephen Monterey didn’t look so intimidating. The breeze had blown his hair over his forehead and his chase after her had disheveled his tuxedo.

He had apologized. Mix-ups happened; she understood that.

And she did need the job. Aunt Eleanor had more parties, teas and dinners scheduled, more eligible bachelors to parade her in front of. If one of them actually took an interest in her she’d never fulfill her dream of working for the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

“I don’t have all night to stand around out here, Miss Sommerfield. Are you interested in discussing the job or not?”

There was something dangerous about Stephen Monterey. Not because of what had nearly happened at his house just now. She wasn’t frightened of him, not in a physical sense. If he’d wanted to hurt her, or force himself on her, he’d had opportunity to do so in his office, and there was nothing to stop him from taking what he wanted at this moment.

No, the danger in Stephen Monterey was something deeper. Something that could seep into her soul. Caroline couldn’t put a name to it. But it tugged at her, nibbled at her already, though she’d only just met him.

“All right, look,” Stephen said. “Come back to the house. We’ll discuss the position there.”

Caroline shook her head. “No, I don’t think I should.”

She felt his stare bore into her, and she could see he was displeased that she’d turned him down so easily. Stephen Monterey was a man used to getting his way.

“You can’t stand out here on the street all night.” The tiniest hint of a smile twisted his lips. “Somebody might get the wrong idea.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Even if Stephen went on his way and left her here, she still needed to get back to Aunt Eleanor’s.

“Come back to the house,” Stephen said again. “I’ll have my driver take you home.”

She’d be wiser to leave now, at this moment. To walk the streets until dawn, if that’s what it took to get home—and away from this man.

They gazed at each other in the dim light of the streetlamp, until Caroline felt herself being drawn to him so intensely it startled her.

But Stephen broke eye contact first and shuffled his feet. “Well, Miss Sommerfield?”

“All right,” she finally said. “I’ll come to your house for a ride home. But nothing more. No talk of hats and shoes and…desktops.”

Stephen pulled in a quick breath and looked pained for a second or two. Then he grabbed up her satchel and held it in front of him.

“Certainly. Go ahead, Miss Sommerfield. I’ll follow you.”

Chapter Three

She found Richard Paxton pacing the office when she returned to the house, with Stephen maintaining a discreet distance behind her.

“Miss Sommerfield, I’m terribly sorry about what happened,” Richard said, coming forward.

He was a pleasant-looking man, nearly as tall as Stephen and close to the same age. He had dark hair, and blue eyes that at the moment reflected the sincerity in his words.

“I’m to blame,” Richard said. “I didn’t make clear to Stephen exactly what my gift was.”

“Gift?” Caroline looked back and forth between the two men.

“Yes,” Richard said. “Today is Stephen’s birthday.”

“Your birthday?” She turned to him.

“Yes, and so far it’s been a hell of a disappointment,” Stephen grumbled. “Miss Sommerfield is going home. I instructed Charles to have the carriage brought around for her.”

Caroline stood across the room from the two men as an awkward silence enveloped them all. She willed herself not to look at Stephen, but her gaze darted his way just the same. He watched her. Studied her, actually, like a cat waiting at a mouse hole.

“Can I offer you some refreshment?” Richard asked.

“No, thank you,” Caroline replied.

Another silence stretched in the office. Stephen began pacing behind his desk. She tried to ignore him. In fact, she wanted desperately to ignore him, but he kept looking at her, making her uncomfortable.

After a few moments he stopped.

“You may as well go ahead and show me what this graphology is all about, Miss Sommerfield,” Stephen said. “You’re already here and have to wait for the carriage, anyway.”

It was a reasonable suggestion and, in a way, she was almost relieved to have something to focus on, rather than endure Stephen’s stares.

“Well, all right,” Caroline said. “I guess I may as well.”

Richard picked up her satchel, which Stephen had left by the door. “Where would you like to work, Miss Sommerfield? The desk?”

Caroline’s gaze collided with Stephen’s.

“No!” they said in unison.

Stephen groaned softly and sank into a wing chair in the corner.

“How about this table?” Richard suggested.

He led her to a round table with four chairs in the corner opposite Stephen. Caroline assembled her tools—several magnifying glasses, straightedges, papers and pencils—while Richard fetched several handwriting samples from a cabinet.

“You can use these, Miss Sommerfield.” He presented them to her and smiled. “Can I get you anything else?”

She glanced past him to Stephen fidgeting in the chair. He crossed one leg, then the other, then the first again.

“No, thank you, Mr. Paxton,” she said.

“Is there any way I can make you more comfortable?” Richard asked.

The question brought Stephen’s gaze around to Caroline, his face drawn in tight lines. Only a few minutes ago he had offered to make her more comfortable by undressing her.

Caroline refused to let herself blush, and deliberately turned back to the papers spread out in front of her.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

“All right, then.” Richard smiled. “Just take your time. There’s no rush.”

It was more than a little unnerving being in Stephen’s office again. Caroline wasn’t sure she could concentrate. A strange sensation vibrated through her, stirring her senses to a sharper awareness, making everything seem more intense.

She glanced across the room once more and found Stephen staring at her again. He looked away sharply. Caroline drew in a calming breath. She got out her magnifying glass and went to work.

Faint strains of music drifted from upstairs and a clock ticked somewhere in the house, then chimed the hour. Caroline lost herself in her work, as she usually did.

She wasn’t so absorbed, though, that she didn’t notice Stephen every time he moved. He seemed agitated. He squirmed in his chair, then paced, then sat again. Beside him in the matching wing back, Richard read a stack of papers, oblivious to them both.

Caroline worked steadily, and when she was finished she looked over her notes one final time, then rose from her chair.

“All done?” Richard asked, coming to where she stood, smiling at her again.

He was a nice man and Caroline felt at ease with him. Like a brother, she guessed, though she didn’t actually have a brother to compare him to. But Richard had been equally pleasant at last Saturday’s party where she’d met him, and so far, he’d been the only amiable thing about tonight. She was sorry she’d slapped him.

“Yes, all done,” she said.

“Maybe you could tell Stephen a little about graphology?” Richard suggested.

He was in the chair now, his legs crossed, his fingers propped together in front of his chest. When he looked up at her a little ripple of something passed through Caroline. Nerves, she decided. What else could it be?

“Graphology is the study of handwriting,” she said. “It’s been researched primarily in Germany and France. That’s where I learned the skill.”

Stephen rose from his chair and began pacing, hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, eyes studying the tips of his black shoes.

Caroline went on. “Handwriting is unique. Because there are so many different writing styles, it’s unlikely that any two people would write precisely the same. By studying an individual’s style, many things about the writer can be determined.”

“Like what?” Richard asked.

“Personality traits, mostly,” Caroline said. “Age can be determined to some degree. But no absolute distinguishing style can differentiate a man’s and woman’s handwriting. Sometimes samples indicate if a writer is left- or right-handed. It can’t, however, tell things like nationality or race.”

“Miss Sommerfield,” Richard said, “at the party last week you mentioned that graphology is being used in Europe for criminal investigations.”

Caroline nodded. “Yes, it’s used for verification of signatures, for example, and in forgery cases.”

Richard’s smile broadened. “Come over here, Stephen. Let’s see what she’s come up with.”

Stephen ventured closer, looking over Caroline’s shoulder as she sorted through the handwriting samples Richard had given her. Heat from him caused her heart to thump a little faster.

She held up the first one. “This writer, I would say, is unimaginative, rather boring and preoccupied with money matters.”

“Jenkins wrote this. He’s Stephen’s head accountant,” Richard said. He turned to Stephen. “Dead accurate analysis, I’d say.”

Caroline was pleased with herself, though Stephen only grunted noncommittally. She turned to the second sample.

“This person is a worrier,” she said. “Indecisive, I’d imagine, and a little materialistic.”

She glanced up at Richard, who smiled.

“Aunt Delfina,” he said.

Stephen’s eyebrows drew together, and Caroline guessed that analysis was correct as well, whoever Aunt Delfina was.

“The writer of this,” she said, turning to the final sample, “is confident, enterprising and ambitious. But also obstinate, pigheaded and…sexually frustrated.”

Stephen glared over her shoulder. “That’s my handwriting.”

He jerked the paper away from her and crumpled it up. Caroline saw crimson creep up from his shirt collar as her own cheeks warmed.

“Excellent demonstration, Miss Sommerfield,” Richard said. “I think it’s obvious that you have extraordinary talent in this field.”

Stephen mumbled something and shoved the ball of paper into his pocket.

“Excuse me, sir.” Charles spoke from the doorway. “Your carriage is at your disposal.”

A little pang of disappointment thumped in Caroline’s stomach. She hadn’t wanted to be here, had been on edge since arriving, yet now was reluctant to go.

But it was for the best. She chanced another look at Stephen. He was again watching her. Yes, she decided, it was for the best that she leave.

She loaded her tools into her satchel.

“I’ll walk you out,” Richard said.

At the doorway, Caroline glanced at Stephen one last time. He stood staring out the dark window, his back to her.

“Happy birthday,” she said.

He spun around, obviously surprised.

“Sorry you didn’t get the gift you wanted.” She glanced at the desk. “But the day’s not over.”

Stephen leaned forward slightly, then plopped into his chair.

How was he ever going to work in his office again?

Stephen stepped behind his desk and squared the ledgers and stacks of papers Richard had replaced while he was chasing down Caroline. But he didn’t see the work that awaited him. He saw a naked woman. On his desk. His two favorite things in the whole world, together.

Stephen sank into his chair. Of course, the naked woman he imagined on his desk wasn’t just any woman. It was Caroline Sommerfield.

He pulled loose his tie and popped open his collar. What a hell of a birthday.

“So, what do you think?” Richard asked, striding back into the office. “Isn’t she wonderful? Isn’t she everything I said she was?”

That and more. If only Richard knew.

Stephen leaned back in his chair. Richard was his assistant, and would have been a partner if he’d had the required financial backing. Still, he was indispensable. Stephen listened to him, trusted him, confided in him. And Richard had never let him down.

“I don’t know…” Stephen said.

“You saw her evaluation of those handwriting samples,” Richard said. “She had old Jenkins cold.”

“That’s true.”

“And Delfina?” Richard grinned. “I like your dear, sweet aunt Delfi as much as anyone, but you have to admit that she is indecisive, just as Caroline said.”

Stephen shrugged. He couldn’t argue with Caroline’s assessment of his aunt.

Richard chuckled. “She did a good job on you, too, Steve.”

He sat forward, not the least amused by Caroline Sommerfield’s determination of his own personality. Not that she wasn’t accurate. He just didn’t like being analyzed like a bug in a jar.

“Sexually frustrated.” Richard laughed again. “Maybe I should have sent you a whore for your birthday.”

“I can find my own women.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Stephen shifted in the chair. “I don’t have time.”

“Yes, you do,” Richard said. “You have plenty of time. But you spend all of it working.”

“I have a lot to do,” Stephen grumbled.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” Richard said softly.

Stephen glanced up at him, then looked away.

“No one equates you with your father and what he did,” Richard said.

Stephen dismissed his words with a wave of his hand. “Let’s stick to business.”

Richard just looked at him for a moment, then went on. “As I see it, Caroline can analyze the handwriting on Pickette’s document and prove that it’s fraudulent,” he said. “The agreement he claims is genuine will be exposed as a hoax. Pickette will be gone, out of your hair, and should consider himself lucky if he doesn’t end up in prison. Your problem will be solved.”