A Race to Splendor (35 page)

“Ah, remorse… remorse the morning after.”

“I merely dread the complications of the ‘morning after.’” She combed her hair with her fingers and then secured her topknot with two hairpins she retrieved from the floor, along with her gored skirt, which she draped over her arm. “It may surprise you to hear this, but I do not regret one instant of last evening—although it pains me to note it merely took two nights—sleeping under one roof—for this to happen.

J.D. shook his head with an amused expression.

“Well, the one thing I know for a certainty about you, Amelia, is that I never know what you’ll say next.”

“It’s a new century, J.D. Women speak their minds, and besides, coyness never was my strong suit. But in the cold light of day we both know that we mustn’t allow this to happen again while we both are still working to build this hotel.”

“If we are discreet—”

She shook her head and then winced as her temple throbbed. “No. I know our brains are addled right now, but
think
! Liaisons like this always leak out. The workers won’t respect me if they consider me some floozy whose principal occupation is warming your bed. We have an obligation to everyone, including ourselves, to get this hotel finished as quickly as possible.” She paused. “And, of course, there’s Angus to consider.” They exchanged guilty looks.

“Even if he’s still a bit sweet on you, darling, Angus is a big boy—”

Darling…

But that almost made it worse, she thought.

“He’s been a wonderful friend to us both,” she said, “and it just adds another layer to everything. I may not be working for Julia Morgan any longer, but if I were my own employer,
I’d
discharge me for allowing an intimate relationship to develop with a client. I might not regret one moment of what happened in this bedroom, J.D., but the possible repercussions could be lethal. It’s the most unprofessional thing I could possibly do, and here I’ve gone and done it and—”

“Am
I
allowed to say why continuing this liaison, at this particular moment, is a foolhardy idea?”

Brought up short, Amelia put her hands on her hips. “Of course. Please do.”

“I’m supposed to be courting Matilda Kemp.”

“You’re
what
?”

“Shhh!” He pointed toward the other end of the building. “Courting two women simultaneously, especially when one is Ezra Kemp’s daughter, is extremely inadvisable, wouldn’t you agree?”

Amelia could only stare at him, dumbfounded. Then with an arch look she said, “I don’t think what you and I did last night could—in the wildest stretch of the imagination—be called ‘courting.’ I can’t
believe
you’re telling me this after… after…”

“Ah… I’m pleased to see that got your dander up. You’ve been sounding so cool and collected about everything.” He rose from the bed and stood naked in front of her, trying unsuccessfully to grasp her hand. “I only told Kemp I’d
consider
courting the poor creature when he tried to blackmail me even after I’d paid my share of the cost of building the gambling club by demanding I pay past due lumber bills for the hotel that burned. When I confronted him about sending his bullyboys, he said his next step would be to get his union hall cronies to cut off supplies for the current hotel that we can’t get elsewhere and prove we’ve been using Chinese labor right along. I have no doubt he could still attempt to make good on either of those threats, plus he also said he’d blackball me with the Committee of Fifty, including my father, so they’d call in the first loan. You must admit, the circumstances
were
rather dire.”

“My, my…” Amelia murmured, avoiding everything but J.D.’s dark eyes. “You know, in the heat of the moment, I’d really forgotten how convoluted your life is.”

The chickens in J.D.’s rather sordid life were definitely coming home to roast, she thought glumly. Here was a man who partnered with Ezra Kemp in a gambling and wenching establishment, no doubt trading on the charms of Chinese women to fill their coffers. If that weren’t enough, he’d consigned little Wing Lee to Donaldina Cameron’s care even before her mother had died, and now he was acknowledging that he was courting a young woman he wasn’t partial to as a means of paying past due bills for
lumber
!

She glanced down at his bare feet. Oh yes… James Diaz Thayer had certainly proved himself an exciting, inventive lover, but who
was
this man, really?

A cad and a cardsharp?

Possibly.

Yet, she had known this fact full well before she’d allowed him to take her to bed.

Have I lost my mind?

She remembered J.D. suggesting that plain, ordinary
lust
might be a factor in their unholy attraction. Lust and champagne and the excitement of finding a trunk full of treasure that would provide the funds to finish their dream hotel.

“Well, at least now you have funds to pay Kemp for the wood used in the hotel that burned. You won’t have to court Matilda Kemp—unless you want to…”

“Want to? Have you had a
look
at the poor woman?” J.D. shook his head. “You were right, all along, Amelia. Ezra Kemp and his cronies haven’t given up on attempting to wrest ownership of the Bay View from me.”

But J.D. himself had been one of Kemp’s cronies…

With a man like J.D. Thayer, a woman would be foolish, indeed, to assume she understood everything that was going on between the two men or to make more of the events of last night than were merited.

“Can he do that?” she asked, suddenly worried. “Get our sand and lime suppliers to refuse to sell to us? Most of them have never done business with Ezra Kemp.”

J.D. reached for his trousers that lay in a heap on the floor. “Let’s not concern ourselves with something that hasn’t happened yet. What say I make the coffee?”

She quickly finished tying the laces on her boots. “I’ll make the coffee. Take your time.”

“Wait, Amelia.” He buttoned his waist belt while she paused at the door. “Before you go, I’d just like to say—” Then he hesitated.

“Yes?”

She tried not to look at his bare chest or remember how the warm scent of him felt against her cheek. She wondered if she would now hear a full confession of his sins or a tardy acknowledgement of how much his late lover still meant to him. Amelia had the uneasy sensation that he was attempting to read her mood like an opponent’s hand of cards.

“Last night,” he began, “was… more than wonderful. But, now that I’m fully awake, I do agree with you that circumstances and that champagne bear part of the blame for what happened between us. Everything at the moment
is
rather complicated. The gold and jewels we’ve found will sort out things considerably, but I think you’re right.”

“About?”

“That we must be extremely careful not to let anyone else know you and I—”

“I absolutely agree,” she cut in.

But I hate it…

“There are a number of dangerous forces lined up against us,” he said.

“Against
us
? What forces?”

“Let’s just say there are people who are not my champions—nor yours—and who’d prefer someone else be in control of the Bay View Hotel.”

“Which people? Kemp? Who else?”

J.D. shook his head. “It would only be a guess on my part.”

He knows, but he’s not telling me…

“Well, as a first step, “ she proposed, “let’s agree—no more champagne.”

He strode to the door, leaned forward, and kissed her on the cheek. “Sadly, Miss Bradshaw, no more champagne.” Then, he kissed her again, although this time, the tip of his tongue invaded her lips just long enough to remind them both of the intoxicating night they’d spent together. At length, he pulled back and gave her a steady look. “And, unfortunately, I agree with you about something else.” He placed a fingertip on her lips and she had to steel herself not to take it into her mouth. “No more of
these
delights. At least, until I can officially disengage from any association with the Kemps—father and daughter.”

She gave him a brief nod of agreement and walked swiftly away from his bedroom toward the kitchen, hoping to discover that she was the first in the household to be up and dressed. Julia had been right to dismiss her, she thought. She was impulsive and willful and occasionally did not understand herself at all.

***

Amelia forced herself to ignore all thoughts of the previous night and turned her complete attention to the difficult job of completing the roof. By midday, the Pigati cousins and their fellow workers swarmed over the top floor to cut to her specifications the last of the massive timbers and joists. Franco Pigati led the rest of the “Italian contingent” in the risky task of fastening the cross beams to the vertical concrete walls, open to the sky.

Meanwhile, Amelia sat at the table in the kitchen hunched over plans for the exterior landscaping. Further distracting her concentration and aggravating her persistent headache was the staccato sound of hammers hitting nails, although she took comfort that the steady din overhead meant progress was being made.

About forty minutes later, the site suddenly went quiet. J.D. had driven off on a mission to search for a source of wooden roof shingles since the slate ones they planned had never arrived by boat from Europe. She didn’t ask where he planned to obtain this scarce commodity, as the less she was involved with the Kemps—the better.

He’s courting Miss Kemp… how insane can this get?

Franco Pigati poked his head in through the doorway. “Miss Bradshaw?”

His worried expression hinted there was trouble.

“What is it?”

“A bunch of men are here to see Mr. Thayer. They say they’re from the hiring hall.”

A sense of alarm shot through her. “I’ll speak with them.”

Pigati looked at Amelia uncertainly, but then turned and led the way outside.

“Good morning, gentlemen, or is it nearly noon?” A cluster of four burly men in ill-fitting business suits and porkpie hats greeted her with nods. Across the street she recognized Dick Spitz, Jake Kelly, and Joe Kavanaugh lounging against a tree. “What can I do for you?”

“You the missus?”

“No, I’m the architect and construction supervisor. And who might you be?”

“Mark Desso,” replied the spokesman for the quartet, staring at her skeptically. “Down at the carpenters’ hiring hall, we got a report you’re using Chinks on this site.”

She met Desso’s malevolent gaze. “I can tell you without hesitation there are no Chinese laborers being employed as carpenters here.” She pointed to Joe Kavanaugh, who immediately pushed away from the tree and slunk around the corner. “I think you should know, sir, that Mr. Kavanaugh was discharged recently for unacceptable work habits and insubordination. Kelly and Spitz were not rehired after a fire destroyed the rebuilding of this hotel due to their incompetence. If any of them brought this accusation regarding Chinese carpenters at this hotel, it is simply untrue and offered in spite.” She gestured to the Pigatis. “You must know Franco Pigati? And his cousins, Nico, Aldo, Dominic, and Roman?” She pointed to the circle of men standing behind her, all of them wearing uneasy expressions.

“You work for her?” Mark Desso asked Franco.

“Her and Mr. Thayer. Yeah. They pay fair and on time, Mr. Desso. The only Chinese I’ve seen around here are the houseboy, his wife, and a little kid.”

Franco Pigati was speaking the truth, as far as he knew it. Amelia was grateful that his crew had never laid eyes on the night shift. True, Loy Chen’s men were not employed as
carpenters
, but she was just as glad the day workers had no idea there was a night crew being paid ten cents an hour to dig the cisterns and clear the remaining wreckage on the fenced-off back lot and cart it down to the landfill along the waterfront. She wasn’t actually lying, she told herself. Just misleading a bunch of bullies.

“May I offer you men some refreshment?” Amelia volunteered. “Lemonade, perhaps?”

Mark Desso looked as if a beverage as mild as lemonade might poison him.

“Don’t have time,” he said gruffly. He turned to Franco Pigati. “Tell Mr. Thayer that if we hear he’s violatin’ the rules, here, he’ll be brought to task, right and proper.” He gazed belligerently at Amelia. “Never heard of no woman doin’ this kinda work.”

“Some of your members are working on the restoration of the Fairmont Hotel,” she informed him coolly. “Julia Morgan is in charge there and I was formerly a member of her team.”

“Last I heard, they had some fancy architect from New York on that job,” Desso countered.

“Stanford White was shot dead by his mistress’s husband,” Amelia parried. She enjoyed the startled look on Desso’s face in reaction to her blunt language. “Didn’t you read about it in the paper?” she asked with an innocent air, of a man she was certain was illiterate. “The Morgan firm took over from McKim, Mead, & White and are doing the entire job now—on time and on budget. Now if you’ll excuse me, my men aren’t being paid to stand around.”