Wild Thunder

In the carriage, Em kept her face turned away from Veronica and her reticule clutched at her side until the hotel was in sight. The tall arches that led to the portico had once seemed so awe-inspiring; now the sight made her stomach ache with tension. Beyond the entrance was a lobby of grand scale with a marble floor strewn with thick, oriental-style rugs, yet the path to the stairs was all marble and the sound her shoes made when she walked it was ominous and hollow. She hated the sound. She swallowed hard, knowing she was nearly out of time, and something else had to he said. “I only wanted a breath of fresh air,” she said as tears sprang to her eyes.

“Not without my permission,” Veronica uttered through clenched teeth.

“It won’t happen again,” Em replied quietly. Beseechingly.

Seconds of agonizing silence passed before the older woman gave a stiff nod. “We will neither of us mention it,” she warned.

Em looked back out the window again, nearly light-headed with relief that the crisis had passed. Not only that, but, with the ticket in her possession, freedom had finally become a real possibility. All she needed now was a window of opportunity.

“Emeline,” a dry female voice said, startling her back to reality.

Em turned to Veronica, who stood in the doorway while Em went for her fan on the vanity table. As she started forward, Veronica raked her over from neckline to hemline, her gaze full of resentment. They walked without speaking, Em taking a slight lead as if she were in control of her destination. As always, Veronica followed nearly the entire way to the private salon on the second floor where Sonny and his guests had gathered.

The doors were opened for her and Em entered the salon, causing heads to turn and a chorus of accolades regarding how lovely she looked. She smiled and murmured her thanks with all the hypocrisy she could muster.

“You’re a lucky man, Sonny,” a man murmured, setting her teeth on edge.

As Sonny acknowledged the comment with a self-satisfied smile, Em took a breath and exhaled discreetly, forcing herself to relax. One day soon, very soon, she would be free of him, and once free, she would never allow a man to touch or control her ever again. It was a good thought.

Chapter 2

By ten o’clock, Em sat at her vanity wearing nothing but a white, silk dressing robe. She brushed her hair distractedly until she froze at the sound of the lock turning. Dread seized hold, but she focused on her face in the mirror. Her eyes were not the eyes of a doll. She was not a doll; she was pretending to be one, but with a mind he knew nothing of.

Sonny stepped in carrying a drink, having left his jacket, vest and cravat behind; he nudged the door shut behind him. He sauntered toward her, set his drink down on the vanity and pulled the front of her robe apart. Watching her mirror image, he cupped her breasts. “You looked mighty fine tonight,” he said, “but you look even better like this.”

She watched his hands so she didn’t have to see his face. A doll feels nothing. Nothing. A doll feels nothing.

He pulled her up and around to face him, untied the belt of her robe and looked hungrily at her body before he pulled her near and his mouth closed in on hers. There was no tenderness to the intrusive, alcohol-tinged tongue or the grip on the back of her neck. He tugged down the straps of his suspenders, his jaw set in anticipation, and she began unbuttoning his shirt with stiff, slightly trembling fingers. He liked things done in a specific way and she knew the order. She’d learned her cues. He stepped back and removed the long silver chain with the key to her room from around his neck and set it aside. Reaching for his drink, he said, “Middle of the bed. On your back.”

He swallowed the last of his bourbon, emptied his pockets and moved toward her. As always, she had to fight her instinct to turn away or close her eyes. He climbed atop her, pinned her hands and bent to kiss her neck, but a knock on the door surprised them both. He got up and moved toward the door, scowling with irritation, while she sat and tugged the robe together to cover herself, thankful for the distraction. But how foolish, she silently chided herself, when he would be right back.

He jerked open the door.

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Peterson,” a man said quickly, “but we ju

st learned the President was shot.”

Sonny drew back. “What?”

“Shot,” the man repeated. “Today. In Washington. The newspaper man, Harper, he received the telegram and came right over to tell you.”

“Is he dead?”

“No, sir. He was taken back to the White House. Least, that’s what the telegram said.”

“Who did it?”

“Uh, some lawyer. Funny last name. The telegram’s downstairs.”

“I’ll be right down,” Sonny replied, already shutting the door.

He turned and looked at Emeline, but his mind was obviously busy evaluating all possible aspects of the matter. Her head was spinning, and not just because the news was shocking. Sonny was a creature of habit, and his routine had just been interrupted. “It’s terrible,” she murmured. As he began to button his shirt, she experienced a chill at the irony that President Garfield had been in office just about the same amount of time she’d been Sonny’s prisoner, six months or so. Did it mean something? Her body and mind felt on sudden high alert. An animal ready to spring from a trap.

“I’ll be back,” he said, and then he turned and left, pulling up a suspender strap as he went.

The door closed and she held her breath, waiting for the sound of the lock, only it didn’t come. She looked at the vanity table and saw the key. He’d left without it. She looked at the door again, expecting it to open once he realized his mistake, but there was only silence. She got up quickly enough that blood rushed to her head. She moved to the vanity, staring down at the items left behind, his money bound by a monogrammed silver clip, the key and his pocketknife. She reached for the knife with a trembling hand, knowing she had to go. Now. This very minute. No! He’d realize his mistake and be back, and to be caught leaving—

She withdrew her hand, but continued to stare at the knife. She tied the belt on her robe and a tear slipped down her face. She swiped it away angrily and picked up the knife. Damn it, this was her opportunity and she was squandering it. She started toward the door, but stopped short when she heard the soft squeak of the doorknob twisting. Staring at the brass knob, she stuck the knife behind her, clutching it so hard that the mechanism sprung the blade. He would demand to know why she had the knife, and what would she say?