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Stephen caught up with her and put himself in front of her, forcing her to stop.
“No, that is not what I thought,” he said. “It’s just that it’s been a long time since I—”
Stephen curled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his forehead. “Let me start again. You see, Miss Sommerfield—”
“Oh, never mind.” Caroline dropped her satchel, finally catching her breath. “It’s my fault, anyway. Not yours.”
“Your fault?”
“Yes, mine. Mine, for trusting Mr. Paxton. For being foolish enough to come to your house at night. For thinking you were an upstanding, decent businessman.” Caroline nodded emphatically. “Believe me, I will not make any of those mistakes again.”
Stephen pushed his fingers through his hair, watching her, obviously holding in words that itched to be spoken. Finally, he said, “Regardless of all that’s happened, Miss Sommerfield, I am in need of a—What are you again?”
“A graphologist.”
He waved expansively. “The position is still available. Are you interested in discussing it?”
Her eyes widened. “You expect me to work for you? Now? After all that’s happened?”
“Richard thinks you’re good at what you do,” Stephen told her. “But, frankly, that remains to be seen.”
“You won’t find a better graphologist than me,” Caroline said.
He doubted he’d find a graphologist at all, actually. But he didn’t want to go hunting for one. Not when he had this one standing in front of him, who was exactly what he needed.
“Well, are you interested or not?” he asked.
Caroline pressed her lips together, thinking. Was she being a fool twice in the same night to even consider going back to his house?
Here in the soft light of the streetlamps, Stephen Monterey didn’t look so intimidating. The breeze had blown his hair over his forehead and his chase after her had disheveled his tuxedo.
He had apologized. Mix-ups happened; she understood that.
And she did need the job. Aunt Eleanor had more parties, teas and dinners scheduled, more eligible bachelors to parade her in front of. If one of them actually took an interest in her she’d never fulfill her dream of working for the Pinkerton Detective Agency.
“I don’t have all night to stand around out here, Miss Sommerfield. Are you interested in discussing the job or not?”
There was something dangerous about Stephen Monterey. Not because of what had nearly happened at his house just now. She wasn’t frightened of him, not in a physical sense. If he’d wanted to hurt her, or force himself on her, he’d had opportunity to do so in his office, and there was nothing to stop him from taking what he wanted at this moment.
No, the danger in Stephen Monterey was something deeper. Something that could seep into her soul. Caroline couldn’t put a name to it. But it tugged at her, nibbled at her already, though she’d only just met him.
“All right, look,” Stephen said. “Come back to the house. We’ll discuss the position there.”
Caroline shook her head. “No, I don’t think I should.”
She felt his stare bore into her, and she could see he was displeased that she’d turned him down so easily. Stephen Monterey was a man used to getting his way.
“You can’t stand out here on the street all night.” The tiniest hint of a smile twisted his lips. “Somebody might get the wrong idea.”
She couldn’t argue with that. Even if Stephen went on his way and left her here, she still needed to get back to Aunt Eleanor’s.
“Come back to the house,” Stephen said again. “I’ll have my driver take you home.”
She’d be wiser to leave now, at this moment. To walk the streets until dawn, if that’s what it took to get home—and away from this man.
They gazed at each other in the dim light of the streetlamp, until Caroline felt herself being drawn to him so intensely it startled her.
But Stephen broke eye contact first and shuffled his feet. “Well, Miss Sommerfield?”
“All right,” she finally said. “I’ll come to your house for a ride home. But nothing more. No talk of hats and shoes and…desktops.”
Stephen pulled in a quick breath and looked pained for a second or two. Then he grabbed up her satchel and held it in front of him.
“Certainly. Go ahead, Miss Sommerfield. I’ll follow you.”
Chapter Three
She found Richard Paxton pacing the office when she returned to the house, with Stephen maintaining a discreet distance behind her.
“Miss Sommerfield, I’m terribly sorry about what happened,” Richard said, coming forward.
He was a pleasant-looking man, nearly as tall as Stephen and close to the same age. He had dark hair, and blue eyes that at the moment reflected the sincerity in his words.
“I’m to blame,” Richard said. “I didn’t make clear to Stephen exactly what my gift was.”
“Gift?” Caroline looked back and forth between the two men.
“Yes,” Richard said. “Today is Stephen’s birthday.”
“Your birthday?” She turned to him.
“Yes, and so far it’s been a hell of a disappointment,” Stephen grumbled. “Miss Sommerfield is going home. I instructed Charles to have the carriage brought around for her.”
Caroline stood across the room from the two men as an awkward silence enveloped them all. She willed herself not to look at Stephen, but her gaze darted his way just the same. He watched her. Studied her, actually, like a cat waiting at a mouse hole.
“Can I offer you some refreshment?” Richard asked.
“No, thank you,” Caroline replied.
Another silence stretched in the office. Stephen began pacing behind his desk. She tried to ignore him. In fact, she wanted desperately to ignore him, but he kept looking at her, making her uncomfortable.
After a few moments he stopped.
“You may as well go ahead and show me what this graphology is all about, Miss Sommerfield,” Stephen said. “You’re already here and have to wait for the carriage, anyway.”
It was a reasonable suggestion and, in a way, she was almost relieved to have something to focus on, rather than endure Stephen’s stares.
“Well, all right,” Caroline said. “I guess I may as well.”
Richard picked up her satchel, which Stephen had left by the door. “Where would you like to work, Miss Sommerfield? The desk?”
Caroline’s gaze collided with Stephen’s.
“No!” they said in unison.
Stephen groaned softly and sank into a wing chair in the corner.
“How about this table?” Richard suggested.
He led her to a round table with four chairs in the corner opposite Stephen. Caroline assembled her tools—several magnifying glasses, straightedges, papers and pencils—while Richard fetched several handwriting samples from a cabinet.
“You can use these, Miss Sommerfield.” He presented them to her and smiled. “Can I get you anything else?”
She glanced past him to Stephen fidgeting in the chair. He crossed one leg, then the other, then the first again.
“No, thank you, Mr. Paxton,” she said.
“Is there any way I can make you more comfortable?” Richard asked.
The question brought Stephen’s gaze around to Caroline, his face drawn in tight lines. Only a few minutes ago he had offered to make her more comfortable by undressing her.
Caroline refused to let herself blush, and deliberately turned back to the papers spread out in front of her.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“All right, then.” Richard smiled. “Just take your time. There’s no rush.”
It was more than a little unnerving being in Stephen’s office again. Caroline wasn’t sure she could concentrate. A strange sensation vibrated through her, stirring her senses to a sharper awareness, making everything seem more intense.
She glanced across the room once more and found Stephen staring at her again. He looked away sharply. Caroline drew in a calming breath. She got out her magnifying glass and went to work.
Faint strains of music drifted from upstairs and a clock ticked somewhere in the house, then chimed the hour. Caroline lost herself in her work, as she usually did.
She wasn’t so absorbed, though, that she didn’t notice Stephen every time he moved. He seemed agitated. He squirmed in his chair, then paced, then sat again. Beside him in the matching wing back, Richard read a stack of papers, oblivious to them both.
Caroline worked steadily, and when she was finished she looked over her notes one final time, then rose from her chair.
“All done?” Richard asked, coming to where she stood, smiling at her again.
He was a nice man and Caroline felt at ease with him. Like a brother, she guessed, though she didn’t actually have a brother to compare him to. But Richard had been equally pleasant at last Saturday’s party where she’d met him, and so far, he’d been the only amiable thing about tonight. She was sorry she’d slapped him.
“Yes, all done,” she said.
“Maybe you could tell Stephen a little about graphology?” Richard suggested.
He was in the chair now, his legs crossed, his fingers propped together in front of his chest. When he looked up at her a little ripple of something passed through Caroline. Nerves, she decided. What else could it be?
“Graphology is the study of handwriting,” she said. “It’s been researched primarily in Germany and France. That’s where I learned the skill.”
Stephen rose from his chair and began pacing, hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, eyes studying the tips of his black shoes.
Caroline went on. “Handwriting is unique. Because there are so many different writing styles, it’s unlikely that any two people would write precisely the same. By studying an individual’s style, many things about the writer can be determined.”
“Like what?” Richard asked.
“Personality traits, mostly,” Caroline said. “Age can be determined to some degree. But no absolute distinguishing style can differentiate a man’s and woman’s handwriting. Sometimes samples indicate if a writer is left- or right-handed. It can’t, however, tell things like nationality or race.”
“Miss Sommerfield,” Richard said, “at the party last week you mentioned that graphology is being used in Europe for criminal investigations.”
Caroline nodded. “Yes, it’s used for verification of signatures, for example, and in forgery cases.”
Richard’s smile broadened. “Come over here, Stephen. Let’s see what she’s come up with.”
Stephen ventured closer, looking over Caroline’s shoulder as she sorted through the handwriting samples Richard had given her. Heat from him caused her heart to thump a little faster.
She held up the first one. “This writer, I would say, is unimaginative, rather boring and preoccupied with money matters.”
“Jenkins wrote this. He’s Stephen’s head accountant,” Richard said. He turned to Stephen. “Dead accurate analysis, I’d say.”
Caroline was pleased with herself, though Stephen only grunted noncommittally. She turned to the second sample.
“This person is a worrier,” she said. “Indecisive, I’d imagine, and a little materialistic.”
She glanced up at Richard, who smiled.
“Aunt Delfina,” he said.
Stephen’s eyebrows drew together, and Caroline guessed that analysis was correct as well, whoever Aunt Delfina was.
“The writer of this,” she said, turning to the final sample, “is confident, enterprising and ambitious. But also obstinate, pigheaded and…sexually frustrated.”
Stephen glared over her shoulder. “That’s my handwriting.”
He jerked the paper away from her and crumpled it up. Caroline saw crimson creep up from his shirt collar as her own cheeks warmed.
“Excellent demonstration, Miss Sommerfield,” Richard said. “I think it’s obvious that you have extraordinary talent in this field.”
Stephen mumbled something and shoved the ball of paper into his pocket.
“Excuse me, sir.” Charles spoke from the doorway. “Your carriage is at your disposal.”
A little pang of disappointment thumped in Caroline’s stomach. She hadn’t wanted to be here, had been on edge since arriving, yet now was reluctant to go.
But it was for the best. She chanced another look at Stephen. He was again watching her. Yes, she decided, it was for the best that she leave.
She loaded her tools into her satchel.
“I’ll walk you out,” Richard said.
