The Pleasure Chest

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“Employer.”

Something unreadable crossed his features. “Not a suitor, then?”

“Uh…no.”

“And Eduardo? Is he a ’wooin’ ya, miss?”

She felt a moment’s pique at how he was interrogating her, then almost burst out laughing at the idea of she and Eduardo as a couple. He was a real shark, not one of James’s favorite clients. “He’s a buyer at Weatherby’s.”

“The auction house? In London?”

“They have a business in New York, too,” she informed him, realizing something was going terribly wrong, since it hadn’t been her intention to start a normal conversation.

“Sweet Betsy Ross. So, I really am in New York?”

“Uh…yes.” Definitely she needed to regain the upper hand before the odd direction of this encounter moved along much further. She was getting her bearings, and she still wanted to wrest a confession from him, regarding who he really was.

But he pressed on. “So, Eduardo’s not a suitor?”

“No,” she managed to say. “Um…I think he might be gay, but I’m not really sure.”

“I do hope he is gay!” the man exclaimed. “It’s a world full o’remarkable inventions, and despite my own sad and sorry circumstances, I still count myself as lucky as any four-leaf clover! There’s no excuse for a man bein’glum.” He paused a split second. “Well, whatever the fellow’s disposition, you’re not a’courtin’?”

She shook her head, trying to tell herself he didn’t look relieved to hear it, but she saw interest in his gaze, and a quick thrill zinged through her, taking her by complete surprise. It was as unwanted as it was undeniable, especially under these bizarre circumstances, but her eyes drifted over his frame again. He seemed to be one of those people who seemed blessed with…a little something extra. Call it what you would, charm, magnetism or charisma.

Due to his looks alone, he shouldn’t have been so heart-stopping, although he was about six feet tall, with a loose-limbed, rangy body that was moving on the other side of the island bar as if his bones had been oiled from within. He was squinting hard in her direction, his dark, bushy eyebrows arched like hoods over sparkling gems of eyes that were fringed by a spray of equally inky eyelashes, and barely visible in the shadowy room. Abruptly, as if he’d just gotten extremely thirsty, he tilted the whiskey bottle and began to pour.

“I see you’re no stranger to a bar,” she said, anxious to shift the subject from her romantic life.

He took in the excellently appointed countertop, with its high-end corkscrews, crystal glasses and cocktail shakers. “I used to live in a room above such an establishment, went by the name o’ McMulligans. Saw it built from the ground up in 1786.”

The words carried a ring of veracity, and suddenly, everything seemed as surreal as when she’d first seen the painting. Once more, she visualized it, hanging upstairs, sans the dark figure, and she fought the urge to run up and look again. Surely her eyes had been deceiving her. Maybe she was even dreaming. Besides, the figure had been about three inches tall, the size of a toy soldier. Maybe this man just seemed to be his spitting image, due to the change in scale. Still, every single nuance was the same, right down to the breeches and boots.

Her throat went bone-dry. “Are you going to pour?” she managed, realizing there wasn’t enough whiskey in the basement, much less the world, to offset what was happening.

“Quite right. We don’t have all day, now, do we? Time’s of the essence, especially in my case, miss.” Before filling her glass, he lifted his own, downed a healthy gulp of warm whiskey, then prepared to fill both glasses again, giving himself a double portion.

She drew a deep, steadying breath. It was strange enough that he was here, but if he wound up drunk, she’d be in hot water. Worse, a rumble sounded, as if to point out he was imbibing on an empty stomach, too. “Maybe you’d better eat first,” she found herself saying, aware that there were countless issues to discuss, and that she was doing her best to avoid them, while secretly deciding what she thought of his odd appearance in her home.

“I am so hungry I could eat pig-slop,” he admitted.

“No need to go that far,” she managed. “What do you want? I eat mostly vegan.”

There was something off-center about his facial features, just as in the painting, she decided. Whatever it was, it added rather than detracted from his good looks. He had high cheekbones, but a tapered chin where one might have expected to find a square jaw, and a prominent nose. A dusting of dark hair served as a mustache and goatee. He was real enough. But there was no way he could be Stede O’Flannery.

He was staring at her. Finally he said, “Virgin?”

She squinted. “Excuse me?”

“You eat virgin?”

She almost choked on her whiskey. “Vegan.”

“Meanin’?”

Was he for real? “I don’t eat meat or cheese.”

He looked confused. “What’s left to eat then, other than the plate?”

He looked so appalled that she admitted it was only a passing fad. “I’m watching my cholesterol.”

“Yer what?”

This conversation was going nowhere. “Never mind. For you,” she promised. “The Atkins Diet.”

“Atkins?”

“All meat.”

“I’ll eat whatever you’re having, miss,” he conceded politely. “As Poor Richard always says, ‘Hunger never saw bad bread.’” With that, he lifted a highball glass, clinked it to hers and vowed, “I’d be happy to eat pure lard on pine wood, I swear I would.” He paused. “It’s just good to be back in the world.”

“Hear, hear,” she said, her fingers curling more tightly around her glass. It felt unexpectedly comforting. Cool to the touch. The whiskey was better, tangy on her lips, warm in her mouth, hotter as it traveled down her throat and curled in her belly. For just a second, she shut her eyes, sure she was dreaming. And yet, just now, when he’d said it was good to be back, she was sure she’d seen a tear of gratitude in his eye.

Only when she opened her eyes did she realize she’d been half expecting him to disappear. But he was standing in the same place, dressed in the antiquated outfit. She watched him swirl the amber liquid in his glass, as if mesmerized, then he knocked back another healthy gulp and released a sigh of ecstasy, as if he’d never tasted anything quite so wonderful. “King George the Third never got a taste of this whiskey,” he announced with relish.

She wasn’t exactly the world’s greatest history buff. “I think this was bottled after his time, right?”

“And he never saw a television or a telephone, or all the things Julius Royle showed me,” he continued.

“Guess you’re one up on King George the Third, then.”

Suddenly he grinned, making her heart do crazy flip-flops. His smile was over-the-top. Captivating. Dazzling. His voice was as warm as the whiskey when he said, “Indeed I am, miss!” He sighed deeply. “Despite my misfortune, indeed I am.”

She barely heard. With the smile, he’d gone from being merely charismatic in a bad-boy sort of way, to being downright dangerous. And she hated guys who looked like this. She always wound up doing far too many old-fashioned girly-girl type things for them, such as cooking, cleaning and laundry. Already, she’d offered to feed him. ’Fess up, Tanya, she thought. Already, she was on the road to ruin. Upstairs, the paint was drying on work she was supposed to display next week. She had her career to worry about. Very studiously, she forced herself not to smile back at him.

Not that he noticed. “Hope you don’t mind my explorin’, miss,” he pressed on, sounding as if he hadn’t much time. “But I knew you’d not wish to be awakened. Besides the whiskey, I found plenty o’ maps, too. I take it this employer of yours, James…he’d be a sailor, then?”

Spinning on the bar stool, she looked behind her, and gasped when she saw James’s maps spread on a drafting table. She rose to her feet and strode toward the mess. James might forgive one bottle of whiskey, especially if he’d told the guy he could have it, but any damage to his precious maps would result in an irreparable rift. She’d lose her job and apartment in one fell swoop.

“You didn’t get to the ones in the safe, did you?” she asked, anxiety making her heart pound.

“Oh, good. A safe. That means there’s more.”

“Only for customers,” she managed. “This is a map shop.”

“Treasured Maps,” he agreed. “Saw it printed on the door.”

“Rare maps,” she added. Buyers came from all over the world just to look at them. Surely he knew that, at least if he knew James. Relief flooded her as she looked down at the drafting table. The top map was undamaged. No rings from a shot glass. No fingerprints. No spittle. After pinching the edges, she carefully carried the map toward a metal cabinet, specially designed to keep large maps flat and dust-free.

“Mind telling me what I’ve done, miss?”

Miss. She liked that he was calling her that, more than she wanted to admit, but the thought was fleeting. Whatever equilibrium she’d regained, she lost when she returned to the drafting table. “Oh no,” she muttered. Under the top map was a glazed lithograph dated 1879. Beneath that was a hand-colored engraving by Elisha Robinson.

“Sorry, miss, but I…”

“These are very valuable.” Her heart hammering, she glanced at him, her mind reeling. Those dangerously sexy eyes were sparkling with confusion and emotion that was hard to deny, and the fact that he looked so genuinely sorry made her heart soften. Silently she cursed herself for being so weak when it came to gorgeous men. “They really are collector’s items,” she added. In case he still didn’t understand, she continued, “Some aren’t even for sale, and James lends them to museums.”

He looked utterly taken aback, and he’d gone a shade paler. “Well, I guess they would be collector’s items,” he conceded. Tilting his head, he seemed to be doing mental calculations. “Right you are, miss. They’d be years younger than me, and yet they’re old. This is all stranger than a cold day in June, now, isn’t it? I’d only hoped to adjust my inner compass and get my bearings,” he explained. “Since I have a few wee days to undo a hex and retrieve my treasure, as I’ve been tryin’ to tell ya.”

Truly, talking to him was unsettling. Disorienting. “Treasure?” It was the second time he mentioned it. She racked her brain. “The treasure in Killman’s cave?”

He nodded quickly, as if pleased to see she was finally getting on page. “War booty mostly. And I’ve got some more buried near the city wall.”

“Good,” she managed to return. “Because if you destroy James’s maps, you’re going to have to pay him for them. And that’ll cost you a fortune. For your sake, I hope it’s a lot of war booty.”

“I’d never destroy a man’s property and not pay,” he assured, looking offended. “What do you take me for? A low-down scoundrel like Basil Drake?”

Rather than answer, she took a very deep breath and simply headed for the whiskey again. Staring at him pointedly, she took a sip, and suddenly, her head swum. For a second, she was sure she’d faint again. Once more, she silently cursed herself for eating so much chocolate after her breakup. Without foregoing food the past few days, she’d never get into the dress she was to wear tonight.

“If I’d o’found one, I would have used one of your televisions to get my bearings,” he added helpfully.

Lifting a remote from the bar, she pressed a button. Behind him, a wall partition rolled back to expose a flat-screen television. “There,” she said.

He was eyeing the remote, like a boy eyeing candy. Quickly gliding his hand over hers, he took it, and an electric jolt from his touch skated up her arm to her elbow, then fizzled into something warm that exploded in her tummy. Toying with the buttons, he found CNN, stared a moment, then studied the buttons and lowered the sound. “Are ya still in Vietnam?” he asked, making her lips part in surprise.

“Uh…I think the U.S. left there in 1975.”

Feeling a definite need to keep moving, if only to escape the gaze that was following her every move, she headed for the small refrigerator behind him and pressed her glass against the ice dispenser.

When ice tumbled down, he uttered another sound of surprise. “Sons of liberty,” he murmured. Following suit, he edged her out of the way, pressed his glass against the dispenser, then flinched as the ice came down, as if it might burn him. “Now, this must be new. Julius didn’t have one of these.”

“An ice dispenser?”

“Ice dispenser,” he repeated, as if trying on the words for size.

There wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to help her through this bizarre encounter. She skedaddled back to the bar, thinking that James and Eduardo both knew costume designers in the city. The waistcoat didn’t look like part of a Broadway costume, though, nor did the musket, or the strange, dusty leather thong the man retrieved from the floor now, to tie back his hair. Her eyes lingered on the strands. She’d felt them brush against her cheek, and even now, her skin was burning from the softest thing she’d ever felt.

“Look,” she suddenly said. “I admit it. I’ve been playing along for the past few minutes. And I really don’t understand why James or Eduardo went to such lengths to produce this elaborate ruse, but…”

He looked appalled. “Your employer and the gay man,” he said. “Do you think they’re somehow foolin’ya, miss?”

The worst thing was, the man looked entirely ready to defend her honor. “I don’t know how the figure who looks like you vanished from the painting upstairs,” she began.

“That was me!” he exploded, leaping to his feet.

“Please stop,” she said. Already, she could tell this guy was a real steamroller.

His emerald eyes were flashing fire. “I thought you believed me, miss! There’s a hex on me! A curse I tell you! And I need your help until I find Julius Royle. He’s my only true friend. Unless of course, he’s dead, which he might well be!” He paused. “Not that you care a wit, miss!”

He’d said the last as if she were the most heartless woman to ever walk the planet. “Sorry,” she began. “I don’t want to make you mad, really I don’t. But you’ve got to admit—”

“I admit nothing! I’ve done nothing!”

“Maybe not, but you’re in my apartment—”

“I gave away my fire, but Basil came gunning for me, anyway,” he vowed righteously, his wounded gaze piercing hers, imploringly. “The man came to kill me in cold blood, he did!”

The events to which he was referring seemed very present to him, as if they’d happened yesterday. “Gave away your fire?”

“A delope!” he exclaimed, his eyes searching hers as if he believed she might be lacking in intelligence. “What exact part can’t you understand, miss?”

“Don’t start insulting my mental acumen.”

He huffed a sigh. “Sweet sons of liberty, woman! As sure as my name’s Stede O’Flannery, I’ve got but a wee week to reverse the hex Missus Llassa put on me, or I’ll be back inside that fool paintin’ again. Next Friday night, at seven-fifteen on the dot, I’ll…disappear.” His voice broke. “Please, miss. It’s no fun livin’ inside yer own paintin’.”

All at once, she realized history really was repeating itself. Her head swam, her knees buckled, her eyes were wide-open, but she saw nothing at all. And then she set her glass quickly on the bar and fainted again.

When she came to, she was lying on the floor once more, stretched on her back, as if for her own wake. She half expected to see even more sexy Irishmen dancing jigs around her, while finishing off the rest of James’s aged whiskey. But there was only one. He was hovering over her, wielding a container of Morton Salt.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, her voice sounding strangled to her own ears. “You think that’s full of smelling salts, don’t you?”

Looking uncertain, he surveyed the container. “They didn’t smell like it,” he admitted.

Shakily she sat up, pressing her hand to her forehead. Her palm was sweating. And now she felt a trickle of perspiration drip from her nape down her spine. She shivered, then heard him mutter, “Are ya cold, miss?”

Before she could answer, he’d shrugged, divesting himself of the waistcoat and slinging it around her. It was heavy, the fabric like nothing she’d felt before, the buttons seemingly of real silver. Clutching an edge of it, she realized her heart was beating out of control. She still didn’t believe him, not really.

“Maybe you’d better start from the beginning and tell me everything,” she finally said, barely realizing she’d slipped a hand into his. As he helped her to her feet, she felt that strange, unexpected tingle once more. This one entered her bloodstream and danced a jig of it’s own. Still dizzy, she slipped onto the bar stool again.

“I do have some papers about Stede O’Flannery’s history that might be of use to you,” she found herself continuing, barely able to believe she was saying the words. “Eduardo copied them for me when I took the painting to Weatherby’s for appraisal.”

He looked mortified. “You have a dossier on me?”

“It doesn’t say exactly what the curse is,” she defended. She had a fleeting fantasy that James and Eduardo were taping this on the shop’s security cameras. Surely they’d jump out from behind the furniture soon, shouting, “Surprise!” But yesterday, she placed a business call to James, and he really had been on vacation, in his hotel. “According to the information Eduardo gave me, Stede O’Flannery has to fall in love in order to end the curse.”