An Heiress to Remember (The Gilded Age Girls Club #3) - Maya Rodale Page 0,40
this wasn’t just about vengeance or employees. It was about the unfinished business between them.
Dalton’s Department Store
Moments later
Dalton slammed the door to his office behind him. Connor followed a moment later.
“Let me guess. She complicated things,” Connor said. His voice conveyed a distinct lack of shock. His eyes betrayed a glimmer of amusement though.
Dalton was not amused.
The whole situation was no laughing matter. Everything he’d worked toward for his entire life was under threat and all he could think about was wanting to kiss her.
“I almost kissed her.” Dalton said the words out loud as if it might make the unbelievable more believable. But he was practically vibrating with unsatisfied wanting and his heart was still racing, so it must have been true.
“Circumstances?”
“In the throes of a fight about her poaching our employees.”
“So you almost kissed her during the heat of an argument. Interesting strategy.” Connor nodded. “You know, it happens. Particularly when discussing business. I mean, think of all the times you almost kissed Macy, Fields, Wanamaker . . .”
It wasn’t a strategy.
“It’s her,” Dalton admitted as he poured himself a whiskey. “And it wasn’t entirely about business.”
She wasn’t a business problem, much as he may wish to relegate her to one. She was so much more; a personal problem. The crash and burn of young love, his wounded heart and bruised feelings. She was foolish dreams crashing into reality. She was messy feelings and complicated desires. She was a choice between what he wanted and what he had once upon a time sworn to do.
She was a challenge. It was her voice he imagined, asking him the most provoking questions: Oh hello, Dalton what do you really want?
He wanted power, prestige, and a fortune.
Why do you want that?
He wanted her to choose him. He never wanted to be cast out of paradise again.
But can you admit that?
No.
Dalton took a swallow of whiskey.
“I told you she would complicate things,” Connor said.
“If you’re such a know-it-all fortune-teller, maybe you can tell me what I should do?”
“You should probably apologize.”
“Flowers?”
Connor rubbed his eyes, weary. He took the bottle and poured a small amount for himself.
“Are you trying to woo her or destroy her life’s work and the thing that brings her joy? Because I’m confused.”
“That makes two of us.”
“You should probably decide. Do you want her, or her store?”
“I’m curious to see what she does. But I cannot let her wreck my life’s work, either.”
“Is your life’s work revenge? Or has it always been to amass enough of a fortune so that you feel worthy of her?”
They went way back, him and Connor. They had grown up in the tenements together, stealing every chance and seizing every opportunity that came their way. The empire Dalton built was his—his risk, his vision—but he never would have accomplished it without Connor by his side.
But sometimes such good friends were annoying. Like when they distilled a lifetime into one neat little question.
Did he really want the store? Or had he always just wanted her?
In trying to be worthy of her he was putting them at odds. It made them together an impossibility.
She was impossible.
Since when did duchesses get divorced? Since when did they sail back into a man’s life and start competing with him for his place in the world?
“I don’t know,” Dalton said, a rare admission.
“Well, either way, you can’t go around kissing your business competitors or colleagues. It’s a recipe for disaster,” Connor said. “You should apologize—without flowers. And then you have to decide. Give it all up for the girl or go all out and try to win it all—but at the expense of the girl.”
Chapter Seventeen
Goodwin’s Department Store
The next day
In the wreckage of one of Manhattan’s once great department stores, two women stood with heads bowed together, surveying the laborers, consulting the architectural plans, and reviewing the handwritten lists of things to do. Beatrice’s divorce settlement, family money, and an investment from the Ladies of Liberty had provided the capital to make some strategic improvements to the store. There were pages and pages of lists in hand, most of them in Beatrice’s elegant writing.
Nothing soothed her like making lists and after yesterday’s encounter with Dalton she was in need of soothing. She was also resolved to fight for her store, even if that meant fighting him.
“My mother is threatening to send the invitations on Thursday,” Beatrice said. “She is determined for the debut party to take place in three weeks’ time.”
“We’re not ready,” Margaret replied, eyes wide in horror. In