to get started, that’s all.” He dashed past her and closed the office door. “Key. I need the key.”
He hurried back to his desk and began pawing through the drawers.
Caroline took a step away. “I’d prefer you didn’t lock the door.”
He looked up. “But someone might walk in.”
She glanced around. “So?”
He sank forward, bracing himself on the desktop, and drew in a huge breath. He let it out slowly. “Miss Sommerfield, you’re one hell of a woman.”
All right, she’d never been on a job interview before, but this was decidedly strange. She wished Mr. Paxton would arrive.
Caroline dropped her satchel onto the desk, anxious to get this over with. During the hansom ride over she’d been thrilled at the prospect of securing a job. In the sitting room she’d been a little intimidated by the opulence of the house, a home well beyond that of her aunt Eleanor. Now Caroline sensed a spark in the air, radiating from Stephen. It caused something to flicker within herself, and unnerve her.
Across the desk, Stephen straightened. “You may as well get…comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” Caroline asked.
“Yes.” He nodded quickly. “Do you need anything?”
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
