An Heiress to Remember (The Gilded Age Girls Club #3) - Maya Rodale Page 0,48

longing when they could have had this. But any thoughts of what if and why not and what had she been thinking vanished like items on sale. In a frenzied rush. Here one moment and just gone the next.

Dalton’s hands slid down, tugging the sleeves of her dress down in a slow caress of his bare palms against her bare skin, then skimming over her breasts, and she thought, Stay, and then they finally settled on her waist and held her against him. She felt his arousal for her. The promise of it. The warning of it.

He wasn’t here to play.

Neither was she.

Beatrice wrapped her arms around his neck and let her head fall back as they kissed and kissed and the world was reduced to nothing but him and her and this long-overdue kiss tasting of desire and regrets and no promises whatsoever, but this was definitely not enough.

“I thought I remembered.” She gasped. Breathing. What was breathing and how did one do it?

“This is better.”

“You remember.”

“Kissing you, Beatrice, is not something a man forgets.”

“Stop. I might swoon.” He pressed a kiss against the soft skin of her neck, his fingers urging the strap of her gown off its perch on her shoulder. “Truly. I might faint.”

“No. You won’t. Because you don’t want to miss a thing. And I’m only just getting started.”

Oh, hell yes, this was going to complicate everything.

Chapter Twenty

Dalton’s Department Store

The next day

“Do you think we can get an automobile up here?” Dalton asked Connor, whose immediate expression was not one of enthusiasm for Dalton’s latest mad idea. “Up here” was the roof of the department store.

It offered an impressive, bird’s-eye view of the line wrapped around the block—for Goodwin’s.

Dalton was not surprised at Beatrice’s obvious success; he saw the store, he understood what she was building, and he knew women. He knew how they would show up in droves for what she was selling—and what she was selling wasn’t just gloves.

It was a damned shame he hadn’t anticipated this and done it first. But he’d been distracted by ideas of revenge and seeing Goodwin’s suffer, not making Dalton’s even better. He sure as hell wasn’t going to sit back and let her remake Goodwin’s into a bigger, better, more successful department store, either. Not without some competition.

The ruthless, competitive streak that had made him a millionaire didn’t just end because she made a brilliant move in their battle.

Not even if she kissed him like he was the only man in the world she wanted.

“Why do we need an automobile on the roof?” Connor asked. “They’re just noisy, smoky death traps. And they go on roads not roofs.”

“The noisy, smoky death traps of the future, yes,” Dalton corrected, stepping back from the ledge and prowling around the expanse of roof. Presently, automobiles were an unreliable novelty that only the richest of the rich would consider having and only then as a toy. “We’ll put it on display. We’ll let people get up close. Touch it. Experience it. It will get everyone talking about the hot new thing of the future and Dalton’s.”

“The roof though?”

“They put on entire theatrical productions on the roof of the Casino, so why can’t I put an automobile on the roof of my store?” Dalton was getting excited now. “Can’t you just see it, Connor? One of those gleaming black automobiles parked up here, so one could get the sense of this new, dangerous creature out in the wild. To help them imagine the wind in their hair, the sun on their faces. It’s perfect—customers will have to go through the entire store to get to it. I bet they’ll buy something on the way in. And out.”

Dalton grinned, imaging the spectacle. And all the souvenirs and carefully curated and stunningly displayed merchandise. He imagined the sales, the profits, the rush of people crowded into the space because of his vision. He imagined Beatrice watching the lines around his store from her office window.

Connor turned from looking out at the city to his friend.

“I haven’t seen you on fire like this since you launched this store. I’m going to conclude it’s her.”

“It’s not her. But it’s her. Completely. But only somewhat.”

“We need drinks for this,” Connor muttered, pushing his fingers through his hair.

“Perhaps we should serve refreshments up here, as well . . .” Dalton continued. Honestly, the possibilities were endless. He was rich and not afraid of risk—so why not?

Connor dropped his face into his hands.

“She’s competition, Connor. Serious competition. We