Chapter 2 #4
Madeline went down the hall to Mr. Scott’s office, her heart quickening as she approached the threshold.
The door was open, revealing his back as he sat at his massive mahogany desk.
His white linen shirt, once crisp and freshly pressed, was now creased as it clung to his broad shoulders.
He had discarded the pale gray waistcoat he had worn all day, as well as the black silk cravat.
It was odd to see Mr. Scott still and quiet when he had been so relentlessly active all day.
He seemed to have the energy of ten men, striding about his theater like the captain of a ship.
One moment he had been directing the actors during rehearsal, alternately cajoling and demanding until their performances satisfied him…
and the next he was in the scene painter’s shop, moving heavy set pieces and flats, explaining how he wanted them painted until it seemed that he might pick up a brush and do the job himself.
Every member of the company knew that his or her work would sooner or later come under his scrutiny, and they labored to please him.
When they were given a word or two of praise, they glowed with satisfaction.
Madeline longed to win similar attention from him, so that he would take notice of her as someone other than a troublesome employee.
As Madeline paused in the doorway, Mr. Scott stiffened, the heavy muscles moving across his back. Although she hadn’t made a sound, he turned in his chair and glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes questioning.
“Mr. Scott,” she said, “I thought I might be able to help with your correspondence. I noticed how much of it there was, and…I could write letters as you dictate.” She saw the lack of response on his face, and she added hopefully, “I have very good penmanship.”
It took him an unaccountably long time to reply. He contemplated the stack of unanswered mail on his desk before his gaze returned to her. Slowly he reached over to a nearby chair and removed a few books that had been piled on the seat. “Why not?” he muttered.
Madeline seated herself and took up a pen and paper, using the corner of his desk to write on.
Mr. Scott pulled a page of notes from the top of the pile and read silently, tugging at a forelock of his hair.
Madeline had never seen such beautiful hair on a man.
There must be many women who were tempted to smooth the rumpled locks.
Guiltily enjoying the novelty of being alone with him, Madeline continued her discreet inspection.
His long legs were taut beneath his gray trousers, the muscles long and well-honed.
Many of the roles he played required great athletic skill.
The rigors of fencing and fighting scenes, played night after night, kept him in superb physical condition.
“Direct this letter to Monsieur Jacques Daumier, rue des Beaux Arts, Paris.” To Madeline’s surprise, Scott began to dictate in French. She realized that he was testing her, to see if she really did know French. Rising to the challenge, she began to write diligently.
As Mr. Scott dictated, Madeline grasped that he was helping a manager of the Comedie Francaise to engage a London theater for a brief time, to showcase his performers for English audiences.
“Pardon, sir,” she interrupted in the middle of a sentence, “but I believe that verb should be conjugated in the past subjunctive—”
“Leave it.”
Madeline frowned. “Mr. Scott, I’m certain you understand, how particular the French are about their language—”
“I’m certain I know a hell of a lot more about the French than you do,” he shot back. “And I’m going to conjugate the damned verb any way I please.”
“Very well.” Madeline bent her head over the page. “But you’re still wrong,” she muttered.
Suddenly Logan’s annoyance was washed away in a rush of amusement.
Sternly he forced back the laughter that rose in his throat.
No one ever dared to speak to him so freely.
The aristocrats he associated with were usually patronizing, except on the occasions when they wanted something from him.
The people he employed were always telling him what they thought he wanted to hear.
The only one who spoke to him as an equal was Julia, but she had a title and a noble ancestry to lend her confidence.
This girl…Madeline…had nothing. Her well-being depended entirely on his goodwill, and still she dared to contradict him.
“Then change it,” he said, and continued to dictate before she had time to react. He was certain her hand was aching as the letter was concluded, but she didn’t ask him to adjust his speed.
They proceeded to the next missive, addressed to the manager of an insurance company.
Logan’s letter described a proposed fund for the support of retired performers as well as the benefit of actors’ widows and children.
The fund was to be padded with annual contributions from actors’ salaries and occasional benefit performances.
“That is very kind of you,” Madeline commented at the close of the letter. “I suspect most theater managers can’t be bothered with their former employees’ welfare.”
“I’m not kind,” he replied. “It’s a way of attracting the best people to the Capital and keeping them here. The higher the quality of my productions, the more money I make.”
“Then your only motive is profit?”
“Precisely.”
“I don’t believe that, Mr. Scott. You are kind…it’s just that you don’t want anyone to think of you so.”
He gave her a sardonic glance. “Why do you think that, Miss Ridley?”
Madeline met his gaze without blinking. “You didn’t fire me even when you were perfectly justified in doing so. And now it seems that you have made arrangements to take care of your employees when they are too old to work. Those are the actions of a kind man.”
“Miss Ridley…” He shook his head as if unable to comprehend the extent of her naivete.
“I never do anything out of kindness. My God, it’s a wonder you’ve made it this far unscathed.
You know nothing of what I’ve done in the past, or what I’m capable of.
For your own sake, don’t trust anyone—including me. ”
“What could I have to fear from you?”
His hands gathered into large fists that rested on the desk. His eyes were the color of blue-violet flame as he stared at her. A heavily charged silence filled the office, while Madeline’s heartbeat escalated to an alarming pace.
“Let’s hope you don’t find out,” he said softly.
With each word he said, Logan Scott was dispelling her girlish fancies. He was a flesh and blood man, complete with flaws. If she did manage to lure him into bed with her, the experience might change her forever, emotionally as well as physically. The thought sent a ripple of unease through her.
Breaking their shared gaze, Madeline stared into her lap until she heard his quiet, almost contemptuous laugh.
“That’s all for now,” he said.
“Shall I return tomorrow?” she asked.
A long silence passed, while Logan scowled at his overloaded desk. Julia, damn her, knew exactly how badly he needed secretarial assistance. For months Logan had intended to hire someone for that purpose, but he hadn’t yet found the time to interview appropriate candidates.
With Madeline’s help, he could clear the work from his desk in half the time it would take to do it alone.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad arrangement, having her work in his office an hour or two each day.
Except…he realized with a jolt of surprise that sitting so close to her had made him…
uncomfortable. Aroused. He frowned and shifted positions, staring at her with narrowed eyes.
It was inappropriate, having such a reaction to her.
She was too young and naive, and he wasn’t the kind of man to go about violating virginal girls, no matter how tempting they might be.
And Madeline was tempting, despite his efforts to ignore her. She had freshness and warmth that were unique in his experience. His hands itched to close over the nape of her neck and stroke the silken hairs that had slipped from their pins. Perturbed, he gestured impatiently to the door.
“Yes, come back in the morning,” he muttered.
Madeline smiled at him. “Good day, Mr. Scott.”
Gradually the sound of her footsteps faded, while Logan sat staring at the empty doorway.
The impatient, pulsing warmth in his loins faded very slowly.
It had been too long since he’d had a woman, he thought.
Months. He had been too busy to find a replacement for his last mistress, and no one had caught his interest… until now.
A wry, whimsical smile curved his lips. The idea of bedding an untried girl, or at least a very inexperienced one, had never appealed to him before.
However, he couldn’t help wondering about Madeline Ridley …
how she would feel in his arms, what she would look like naked in his bed, how it would feel to lose himself inside all that impetuous energy. …
Perhaps he would seduce her. It was only a matter of time before someone took advantage of her in this bawdy environment…why shouldn’t it be him? At least he would make certain she enjoyed it, and compensate her for it—
“Damn,” he said aloud, alarmed at the direction his thoughts had taken, and he forced himself to concentrate on his work.
Doggedly he read contracts, revised schedules, and made notes about musical selections and stage settings.
While he worked, he heard the sounds of employees leaving the theater.
Actors and musicians concluded their rehearsals, while carpenters and painters organized their shops in preparation for the morrow.
Logan took pleasure in the activity around him, knowing that were it not for his efforts, the Capital wouldn’t exist. It had been created from his own ambition, put together scrap by scrap, and painstakingly nurtured.
Failure had been out of the question—he had never allowed himself to consider the possibility.
Failure would have meant returning to the life he had been born to as the son of Paul and Mary Jennings.
Suddenly a familiar voice broke the silence. “Working at this late hour, Jimmy? You’ve made your fortune—why not enjoy it?”