To Dream Again Read online

  He reached out, putting his hand over hers, forcing her to stop and look at him. "Mara, half the fun of giving someone a gift is watching them open it, watching them excitedly tear the paper off. You're missing the point."

  "Oh," she murmured. When he leaned back in his chair, she hesitated a moment, then began ripping away the paper, and she had to admit it did make receiving a gift more exciting. She cast aside the shredded paper. "Is that better?" she asked, opening the box.

  "Much."

  She looked down into the box and frowned in puzzlement at what lay within. She lifted the odd item, studying its rectangular ebony frame, gold filigree trim, and jade beads, at a loss. "What is it?"

  "It's an abacus. I thought it might help you with your work."

  "I've heard of them." She ran one finger across the beads, listening to them click. "But I don't know how to use one."

  "I'll teach you. You'll understand how to use it in no time at all, and it'll make things much easier for you."

  She ran one finger along the gold trim. "It's very kind of you," she murmured. "Thank you, but your present's much too dear. I can't accept it."

  "Mara, I've had that abacus for years and I've never had the need to use it. You already know how I feel about accounts and balance sheets. If it would make your work easier, it makes sense for you to have it."

  She looked at him again, and found herself unable to refuse. "All right, if you insist. Thank you." She set the abacus back in the box. "But, if we are celebrating Christmas early, I should have a gift for you."

  "You do."

  His swift answer gave her pause. She looked up at him. "What?"

  "All I want is for you to be nice to me."

  She froze, her hands tightening around the box. Be nice to me. Everything in her turned to frigid stillness. She shoved the box across the desk toward him. "Of all the low, dishonorable, ungentlemanly ideas," she choked, rising to her feet, "that has to be the lowest. If you think you can give me gifts and obtain unspeakable favors of that sort—"

  "What?" He stared at her for a moment in astonishment as he listened to her angry words. Then as he understood, he felt an answering anger rising within him. "Is that what you think?"

  She slammed the lid back on the box, then grabbed her reticule. "I think you are an unforgivable cad."

  Nathaniel watched her walk to the door, and his own anger erupted. He followed, and when she jerked open the door, he reached over her and slammed it shut again. She yanked on the latch, but with his weight against it, she couldn't move it an inch.

  Forced to face him, she turned around and lifted her chin. "Let me go."

  He grabbed her around the waist and turned with her in his hands, lifting her as easily as if she were a bunch of flowers. In three short strides, he set her unceremoniously on top of the desk.

  "Listen to me, Mrs. Elliot, and listen carefully, because this may be the last time I ever speak to you." Nathaniel drew a deep breath, hating her for making him lose his temper, hating himself for letting her. "When I said nice, that is exactly what I meant. Nice, in the ordinary, commonplace definition of the term. Nice, as in polite, decent, and fair."

  "Oh." She stared up at him, comprehension dawning in her expression. "I didn't realize..."

  "No, of course you didn't," he said through clenched teeth. "How could you when you look at the world with such bitter eyes, when you mistrust everyone's motives and hurl your accusations and believe the worst possible things about everyone you meet."

  He placed one hand on the desk beside her hip and reached for the box behind her with the other, the movement bringing him so close that his thighs brushed her knees. He grabbed the abacus, then straightened, holding the gift between them.

  "I gave you this for two simple reasons. One, I wanted to let you know that I'm trying to make this partnership work, hoping you would find it within yourself to do the same. And two, I wanted to give you something that might make your job easier."

  She ducked her head, unable to meet his eyes. "I...it seems I misunderstood you."

  "You're damned right you did. You've also made me lose my temper, something no one has been able to do for a very long time."

  There was nothing she could say. Shame heated her cheeks.

  "Just the same," he went on, "I don't want you to lose any sleep worrying about my dishonorable intentions, so let me clarify this and put your mind at ease. If I intended to make you my mistress, I'd certainly have deemed you worth more than this," he said, dropping the abacus in her lap. "I've given my mistresses far more lavish gifts, I assure you. Furthermore, should I choose to seek a woman with whom to spend a pleasurable evening, it certainly wouldn't be you. I doubt pleasure of any sort lies within your experience."

  With that, he turned away and left her there, slamming the door behind him. Mara lifted the abacus in her hands and hugged it to her chest, feeling miserable and ashamed. She had misjudged him terribly, and she knew of no way to rectify her mistake.

  She slid off the desk and placed the abacus on her blotter. She then left her office, and walked down the corridor to the exit, thinking about what he'd said. The dishonorable intentions she'd assumed had never even occurred to him. She quickened her steps, trying not to think about the tiny little part of her deep down inside that wondered why.

  When she left the building, he was waiting to walk her home, and that made her feel even worse than before, especially since he obviously meant what he'd said. He didn't speak to her, not a single word.

  ***

  Apologies did not come easily to Mara, but she knew she owed one to Nathaniel Chase. The following morning, she waited until she knew he'd arrived at the factory, then she paid a visit to Mrs. O'Brien. The landlady willingly provided tenants with meals, provided they were willing to pay the exorbitant prices she charged. Normally, Mara would never dream of purchasing a meal from her, but today, she intended to do exactly that. Negotiating with the landlady took a quarter hour, but Mara eventually obtained an acceptable price.

  She carried the tray of scones and tea through the factory and up the stairs to Nathaniel's new office, wondering what she intended to say. A simple, succinct apology would be best, and she hoped he wouldn't be too smug about it. If he gloated as if he'd won a victory, she'd die of embarrassment. And if he repeated another of James's favorite phrases, such as "I knew you'd come to your senses," she'd dump the tea over his head and apologies could go hang.

  She reached the mezzanine and continued up the stairs, thinking about his suggestion to move her office. He'd only been teasing, but she took his words to heart. She did want to keep an eye on him, and she couldn't do it with two floors between them. He was determined to have his office up here. Perhaps she should move hers, too, though the thought made her feel slightly ill.

  She reached the top of the stairs and paused in the doorway. Most of Nathaniel's equipment had already been brought over from Mrs. O'Brien's and had been stacked at one end of the room. A few tables and chairs had been brought up from the storeroom below. She'd expected to find him alone, but he was not. A workman was standing beside him in the center of the huge room, and he was giving the man instructions.

  "Mr. Boggs, I need a worktable and some storage shelves back here. Also, I'll need you to make me some partitions. Half a dozen of them."

  The workman pulled off his cap and scratched his head. "Partitions?"

  "Yes, you know, partitions." He held his arms wide and made motions in the air as he explained. "You just make a standing frame out of wood and stretch fabric tight across it. About five feet high by about five feet wide. You use them to divide a room so that you don't have to build walls, and you can move them around and rearrange them to suit. Do you see?"

  As she watched Nathaniel, Mara sensed again the energy that seemed to emanate from him. Every move he made, every word he said, was quick and sure and confident. She wondered briefly if he ever felt uncertain about anything.

  As if he sensed her presence, he su
ddenly turned and caught sight of her standing in the doorway. He beckoned her forward, and she approached, setting the tray on a nearby table. "Mrs. Elliot, this is Mr. Boggs. He'll be doing some carpentry for me up here over the next week or so. Mr. Boggs, my partner, Mrs. Elliot."

  "Ma'am." The workman bobbed his head in her direction and turned back to Nathaniel. "I'll be gettin' started this afternoon," he said. "Will there be anything else, guv'nor?"

  Nathaniel shook his head. "No, I think that's about all for now."

  The workman started to walk away, and Nathaniel's

  words came back to her. I could find myself in all sorts of trouble. Mara bit her lip and reconsidered her decision again.

  "Mr. Boggs, wait," she cried impulsively. When Boggs paused and turned to look at her, she took a steadying breath, and pushed aside her misgivings. "I was wondering...could you have this room painted?"

  She glanced at Nathaniel, who was watching her in some surprise. She ignored the searching look he gave her.

  "Certainly. What color?"

  She glanced around at the peeling green paint on the walls. "A nice neutral color. Off-white perhaps. Once your remodeling and painting are done, please have my things moved up here as well."

  "I'll put the first coat on tomorrow." The workman nodded and took his leave. Mara watched him go, hoping she was doing the right thing.

  "What brought about this change of heart?"

  "I plan to keep an eye on you," she answered firmly. "I want the side with the windows."

  "Done," he agreed and gestured to the tray on the table. "What's this?"

  Suddenly she felt almost shy. She took a deep breath and looked up at him. "I...umm...had Mrs. O'Brien make a pot of tea and some scones. This is...umm...I thought about what you said. About being nice, you know...decent, honest, fair, and all that. And I...I thought perhaps, if you weren't terribly busy...you'd be...tea is very nice in the mornings..." She took a deep breath amid the tangle of words. "I'm terribly sorry!"

  The smile started at the corners of his eyes, moving slowly across his features, and Mara's agony of embarrassment faded away. Looking up at him, seeing that smile, she once again felt that odd reassurance, that feeling that everything in the world had come aright. It was a heady feeling. Heavens, Nathaniel Chase was a handsome man.

  "I accept your apology," he said, "and a very nice one it is, too. I love scones and cream." He pulled two chairs closer to the table, and when she sat down, he pushed hers in for her before taking the one opposite.

  He watched as she began to pour tea, remembering how vexed she'd been when he'd told her how much he'd paid for the sandwiches that first day. "Mrs. O'Brien, hmm?" he teased.

  "She wanted to charge me a shilling." Mara paused and looked over the teapot at him. "Can you imagine? A shilling for one pot of tea and four scones. But I managed to negotiate a much fairer price. I gave her sixpence plus tuppence for the cream."

  She sounded so pleased with herself, he laughed. "I'm glad. Perhaps we can have tea and scones more often then."

  "Sugar?"

  "Yes, a bit. Lemon, please, not milk."

  She fixed his tea as he'd requested, then poured a cup for herself, adding nothing to it, and leaned back in her chair.

  "Aside from the awful paint, what do you think of our office?" he asked.

  She looked around. "I think we need more furniture."

  "I've had the rest of my furniture shipped from San Francisco. It should arrive in a few weeks. We can put some of it in here." He paused, knowing this was the time to suggest his plan. "Actually, I thought I'd move in here."

  "What?" Startled, she set her cup down in its saucer. "Here?"

  "I like to be free to work anytime, and it would be

  convenient to be able to sleep here. You said yourself it's way too big for an office. Half the room could be my flat, and half could be our office."

  "Oh, no." She shook her head. "We couldn't possibly."

  "Why not?"

  He watched the blush color her cheeks. The feminine reaction was so unexpected, he stared in astonishment. Somehow, her face lost its hard edge in that blush, softened, became suddenly beautiful. His throat went dry.

  "It wouldn't be proper." She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, and the pink in her cheeks deepened.

  He was staring, and he forced himself to say something. "Mr. Boggs could build a wall between the two rooms."

  "People would..." Her voice faltered, and she ducked her head to hide her expression. Embarrassed, she shifted in the chair. "People would talk."

  He didn't point out to her that people would talk anyway. He knew gossiping tongues would be wagging soon, if they weren't already. He stared at the raven-colored crown of her hair, imagined it loose around her shoulders, and he knew what they would be saying. It wouldn't be too far removed from the assumptions she'd made the night before about his intentions, and he knew she would be the one to suffer for it. "I hadn't thought of that," he finally said. "You're right, of course."

  She gave him a tentative smile, then reached for one of the scones in the basket between them and the jam pot. As she spread jam on her scone, he studied her. He'd been too angry last night at having his gift thrown back in his face to consider what she'd thought he had proposed, but looking at her in the wash of morning light streaming through the windows, with the flush of pink in her cheeks, he considered it now, and suddenly he found it a rather pleasant notion, all in all.

  She looked up and a tiny frown appeared between her brows. "What are you smiling about?"

  He hastily assumed a serious expression, but he wondered what she'd do if he answered her question. Slap his face, probably. "Nothing," he said and reached for a scone. "Do you want any cream?" he asked, and when she shook her head, he slathered a generous portion on the pastry before him.

  "Wherever did you find that thing?"

  He looked up, licking a dab of cream from his thumb. "What?"

  She pointed to the statue of the Indian he'd brought over from his flat.

  "Oh, that. I picked it up in Kansas City."

  "Why?"

  He shrugged. "I liked it, I bought it. Simple as that."

  "Oh. I thought there might be some significance to it."

  "Well, in a way, there is, at least for me. When I went to America, I didn't know what I wanted to do. I traveled quite a bit, and I tried to pick up something from every city I visited. I found the statue in front of a general store in Kansas City, and the proprietor agreed to sell it to me."

  "So, when you kept traveling, you just carted that thing with you?"

  He grinned. "Not very practical, I admit. But I could afford to travel with all my excess baggage, so why should it matter?"

  She pulled another scone from the basket. "And the abacus?"

  "Chinatown. In San Francisco."

  "You don't have a need for it, yet you learned to use it. Why?"

  "I just like to know how things work. Curiosity, I suppose. Do you still want me to teach you how to use it?"

  She set down the scone and looked up at him, her gray eyes wide with a sudden vulnerability. "I've done nothing but fight with you since you came here. Why should you care about making my job easier?"

  "I told you before, things happen that we can't always handle by ourselves. Sometimes, we need a little help."

  She bit her lip and looked away. "What you said about me was true," she confessed. "I'm not very good at asking for help, and I don't trust people." Then, so softly that he barely heard her words, she added, "I didn't used to be that way."

  As if she suddenly regretted speaking so frankly, she abruptly lifted her pendant watch to check the time. With a vexed exclamation, she rose to her feet. "I'd better go down. It's nearly ten."

  He watched her head for the door. "Mara?"

  She stopped and glanced back at him.

  "Don't be afraid to ask for my help if you need it," he said quietly. "You can trust me. Think about that."

  C
hapter Eight

  Mara thought about it. She thought about it a great deal the following morning as she stared at the brawny wall of Calvin Styles's chest. Just now, if Nathaniel were there, she'd ask for his help without hesitation. "I gave you an order, Mr. Styles," she said through clenched teeth.

  The man folded his arms across his chest, unimpressed. "So?"

  Mara lifted her gaze from the man's sweat-stained shirt to his face. She pointed in the direction of the crates stacked against the wall by the open door leading from the warehouse into the alley. "You will load these motors onto those delivery carts, and you will do it now."

  "I don't take orders off no skirts."

  Styles took a step forward, closing the short distance between them, and Mara swallowed hard. She could feel the eyes of the other men watching her. "Very well, then." She took a deep breath. "You're fired."

  "You can't fire me," he sneered, lowering his head until his face was only inches from hers. "You're not the boss no more, Miss 'igh 'n' Mighty."

  His hot breath fanned her cheek, and the smell of onions made her want to retch. She could see the hostility in his eyes, and she felt sudden danger. Fear danced along her spine, but she had never backed down to an insubordinate employee before, and she wasn't about to start now.

  "Is there a problem here?"

  She turned her head to see Nathaniel striding toward them, the crowd of men falling back to let him through. She felt Styles step away, and she nearly sagged with relief as Nathaniel reached her side.

  He glanced at the man, then at her. "What is this about, Mrs. Elliot?"

  "I gave Mr. Styles an order to load those crates onto the delivery carts, but he doesn't seem inclined to do it." She met Nathaniel's eyes. "He says he doesn't have to follow my orders anymore, so I fired him."

  He glanced at the man again. "You fired him? But he's still here."

  "He refuses to leave."

  She held her breath, wondering if Nathaniel intended to countermand her decision. But he merely lifted his brows as if surprised. "You are the supervisor," he said, loud enough for all the men to hear his words clearly. "Doesn't he realize he has to follow your orders?"