style="font-size:15px;"> No. No. She couldn’t give up. Not with nearly three weeks left to formulate a plan. Surely Laney could find the extra fifty dollars in the allotted timeframe. She could go to the children’s mothers, again, or even Mattie Silks herself. Laney could cut costs to the bare bone, or maybe find a job.
What sort of job would pay that kind of money?
Something...anything...
Please, Lord, show me the way.
“All right, Mr. Prescott. I accept your terms.” As if she had any other choice. “You will have the additional fifty dollars by the end of the month.”
“Good enough.”
Not by half. Laney had learned her lesson. She knew better than to walk out of this office with only a verbal agreement between them. Not this time. Not ever again.
“Before I go,” she said, “I want the new conditions of my loan in writing, spelled out in clear language, signed by us both with at least two witnesses present.”
Owl-eyed and motionless, he blinked up at her.
Laney held his stare, boldly, fearlessly, silently calling his bluff as though they were in a high-stakes poker game with both their livelihoods on the line. “I’ll wait while you draw up the document.”
* * *
Hours of walking countless streets and alleyways in the wee hours of the morning had helped Marc’s anger simmer to a low boil. He’d searched the length of The Row—Denver’s notorious red-light district—but had not discovered Miss O’Connor’s brothel or her alternate place of business.
The slippery woman had vanished completely and the suspicion that she was not what she seemed thrashed to life all over again.
Where was she? And more importantly, what could have possibly birthed that look of desperation in those beautiful, expressive eyes? Had she incurred a sizable debt that required quick payment?
A possibility, to be sure.
Perhaps that shifty banker Prescott would have some answers. Not long after moving to Denver, Marc had discovered the man’s uncanny knack for asserting himself into almost every major financial transaction in the city. If Laney O’Connor owed money to someone in town, there was a high possibility Prescott would know the particulars. Or worse, had involved himself in the matter personally.
Marc wouldn’t wish that cruelty on anyone, not even Miss O’Connor.
When he entered the bank, the clerk told him he would have to wait his turn to speak with Prescott. The owner was already conducting business with another customer.
None too happy, Marc thrust aside his impatience and sat in a chair facing the glass-encased office split into three sections by polished wooden planks. The elegant interior of the bank called to mind his youthful days in New Orleans, before the war had destroyed the opulence in which he’d been born. He knew it was a time that could never be regained. Yet the soothing memories of that simpler life flooded his mind, sending a sharp homesickness for family, and what might have been.
He’d lost so much, not just the only way of life he’d ever known, but far too many loved ones as well. Perhaps that explained why he’d been fooled into thinking he could reclaim some of his joy with Pearl by his side.
Pearl. What a debacle their marriage had been.
If only he’d caught up with her before she’d died in that train wreck, he wouldn’t feel such regret, or such disgrace. But after three arduous years of searching, the last two conducted by an overpaid Pinkerton agent, Marc still didn’t know where his wife had hidden the remaining portion of his fortune. All he knew was that she’d spent the bulk of the money in Cripple Creek during the first few months after she’d left him.
Unwilling to allow the melancholy he’d banished years ago to return this morning, he diverted his attention back to Prescott’s office. At the sight of the woman jerking her chin at the banker, Marc straightened in his chair.
He knew that particular gesture, and that defiant angle of delicate female shoulders. The familiar prickling on the back of his neck confirmed her identity more surely than if she’d turned around to face him. “Laney O’Connor.”
Outfitted in a pale pink, really very homely dress, she still managed to catch his attention and hold it fast.
The moment she squared her tiny shoulders and jutted her nose in the air, Marc stood.
No wonder he hadn’t located the woman on The Row. The little con had been conducting affairs of a very different nature this morning. Was she starting her own brothel? That would explain the odd, hushed-mouthed reticence of the madams he’d questioned throughout the night and early-morning hours.
How he wished it weren’t true, but what else would explain the need for such a large sum of money, money she was using to conduct business with the shadiest banker in town? Marc could hardly bear the thread of disappointment braiding through him.
Surprisingly heavyhearted, he continued to watch Miss O’Connor deal with Prescott. She shrugged in response to something the man said, and then turned to look out the office windows. Her gaze roamed the bank in the same cool, calculating manner she’d used to survey Marc’s hotel last night.
He took a step forward, ensuring she saw him when her gaze crossed in his direction. The instant those amber eyes met his, he nodded. Her wide-eyed flush prompted him to add a bit of sarcasm to the moment. He delivered a two-finger salute.
She shifted her stance, shot him a frown and then purposely turned her back to him. Her slight tremble told the true story of her reaction to his presence in the bank. She should be worried.
The time had come to finish their conversation from last night, with Marc the ultimate victor. And he knew just how to orchestrate his triumph.
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