Hooked (9 page)

She'd put Mr. Wilberforce from her mind and she was actually enjoying herself with a good book and a box of caramels that was just shy of heaven. Of course the curl papers in her hair and liberal application of Secret de Ninon on the bridge of her nose for freckles weren't all that great. But a woman had to do what a woman had to do.

The tips of her felt slippers dangled off her stockinged toes. As she turned the page, she plucked another candy and popped it into her mouth.

In the kitchen, Mr. Finch was finishing for the evening. Dishes rattled every now and then as he stacked them. Grandma Nettie had retired to a bath.

Letting the caramel slide over her tongue, Meg absorbed the words that were leaping out at her from the novel. This was an especially juicy story, one where the heroine had been swept away by a band of thieves in the Arabian desert. She was just about to be saved by the hero, a dashing sheik astride a black charger. His tan face scowling down at the rogues . . . he raised his sword—

“Miss Margaret!”

Meg crinkled her nose. “Huh?”

Mr. Finch's stern British voice bellowed from the kitchen once more. “Miss Margaret, somebody is ringing the bell. Aren't you going to answer it?”

Brrrrinnnggggg!

The door chime cranked, jolting Meg from the chair. The book plopped onto the floor. She shoved the caramel into her cheek, keeping it from her tongue with her teeth so that she could say in a mumble, “I'm coming.”

Then a distasteful thought wrinkled her nose:
Harold Adam's Apple.

But he wouldn't come this late. Nobody would unless there was something wrong at the hotel.

Meg opened the door with the expectation of finding the night manager, Mr. Beasley, on the stoop.

Instead, she instantly froze.

“M-Mr. W-Wilberforce!” she squeaked, nearly choking on the candy.

He took a step backward, his gaze wide as it traveled across her in a very brief examination, but she hardly noticed as she took in his towering presence.

The cigar clenched in his teeth was so masculine. His block-crowned derby rested atop his head in a debonair manner. The arm cuts of his coat were filled out perfectly with his broad shoulders, and his vest was red—a dashing contrast to the white of his shirt. His shoes were the latest fashion—black calfskin stitched with celluloid eyelet. He'd really spruced himself up to come calling.

He'd come to call!

Automatically, both hands rose to her hair—all those horrid curl papers. She patted her head as if
that would make everything disappear. Then she remembered her freckle cream.

With a mortified gasp, Meg slammed the door in his face.

Think!

The vestibule grew deadly quiet; then the bell rang. She jumped. There was no help for it. She simply had to answer the door and pretend that nothing was out of the ordinary. A lesson that Mrs. Wolcott taught her popped into her mind.

A lady never lets a man know he has caught her at a disadvantage.

Very well.

The door rang a third time. Meg swallowed her caramel.

With a regal grace, she swept the door inward.

“Mr. Wilberforce,” she greeted.

He stared at her face.

The cream!

Before she realized what was happening, he'd reached into his pocket, produced a handkerchief, and began to wipe off the white lotion. Gently. With small strokes. Very slowly. Very deliberately. So much so, that Meg shivered.

“I like a woman with freckles,” he said close to her ear, evoking a gasp from her.

Meg didn't move when he came closer to rub the last traces of Secret de Ninon from her nose. She could smell his cologne, quite subtle. So subtle, she could still detect his coconut bath soap. “You do . . .? Really like a woman with freckles?”

Leaning toward her, he replied in a low voice, “I really do.”

That did it. She was going to throw away that jar of expensive cosmetic.

When he'd removed the freckle cream, he took a step backward and looked at her. “Much better.”

Much better? Even with her hair curlers?
But she wasn't going to remind him of that. He might want to take them out . . . and she just couldn't stand here while he did. She'd faint. Yes, faint This was the “a lot” she'd told Grandma Nettie it took to make her faint.

“Why, this is such a surprise.” That was all she could manage until he said something else.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

“No. Of course not.”

“I would have come at a more appropriate hour, but I was detained,” he said, then added, “Business.”

The unlit cigar clamped in Mr. Wilberforce's teeth caused him to talk from the corner of his mouth, drawing further attention to his lips. His voice came across in a bourbon-smooth drawl. “I was wondering if you'd be able to accompany me tomorrow for a row on the lake.”

Meg's stomach flip-flopped. “I'd be delighted.”

“Splendid,” he replied. “I'll be by at one. Is that all right?”

“It's perfect.”

“Good.” He put his fingers to his hat. “I'll see you then.”

With a smooth turn, he left the verandah and disappeared into the night, leaving Meg breathless with anticipation.

*  *  *

Sunshine filtered through the network of treetops, while songbirds called from the branches of cottonwoods knobby with swollen buds. A brilliant blue sky
stretched high and cloudless. The temperature was slightly cool, but was made comfortable by the warming rays of sun.

A woodsy scent floated on the air, a smell unfamiliar to Gage. In his world, life stunk—almost to an overwhelming literal sense. It was his job to reveal the garbage to his readers. Few of his assignments took him out into nature. He was used to the cloying density of population, choking automobile exhaust, the corrupt odor of ink amid volumes of court documents, and the tarnished taste of political brass.

As a detective journalist, his state of mind usually bordered on being cynical, suspicious, and nongullible. But right now, with a light wind skipping over Fish Lake and stirring the fragrance of wildflowers he couldn't name, he found his basic distrust of life less heightened. There was a certain tranquility here that seeped through his citified clothing and relaxed him.

His motives had been to bring Meg to the scene of the supposed crime her brother had committed.

As Gage dug the paddle into the water, the lake's surface rippled. He glanced at the woman across from him. Her face was partially shaded by a flounced white sun parasol—the kind with an orange duck bill for the handle and a dangling gold tassel. She wore one of those long-waisted dresses in pale pink. The front panel, which stretched from throat to hem, had a lot of tucks and the entire dress was lace-trimmed.

Her hat of choice today was what Minnie Abbott, who wrote the fashion column in
The Chronicle,
called a turban. This one was braided straw with a rosette and two wings—both flying toward the left, leaving the right side appearing cockeyed. Appearing . . . more alluring than it should to him.

Gage forced himself to disregard the fact that he'd asked Meg to join him under false pretexts. There was no room in a journalist's life for guilt. Nerve. He had a lot of it. He produced stories that disturbed the accepted view of things. Many people were angry at him at any given day.

Someone had to expose the seamier side of life, and he did the job well. Reporters weren't necessarily objective truth-seekers. Gage certainly wasn't. He had definite opinions as to what was right and what was wrong. Without that ability to make sharp judgments, he would never be able to suspect that the official story was inaccurate.

In this case: Wayne Brooks winning a thousand dollar purse away from Ollie Stratton of Alder when Stratton had clearly been better qualified at fly-fishing.

This story had all the necessary elements. From L. Farley, Gage had found out where the young man lived. Worse yet, Stratton cared for an aged mother. A heart-tugger. Before Gage went to Alder, he had to learn all he could about Wayne. And Meg was his best source.

“Miss Brooks, you must tell me all about yourself,” Gage suggested, steering them toward a small dock.

“I'm completing a term at Mrs. Wolcott's Finishing School,” she said. “I've learned a lot of things, mostly how to be a lady.” With an arch of her brows, she hastily added, “Not that I wasn't one before.”

“I can't imagine you not being a genteel lady, Miss Brooks.”

“Thank you.”

She straightened and rested the parasol against her shoulder. “Tell me about you, Mr. Wilberforce. Where are you from?”

Without thought he said, “Battlefield, North Dakota.”
A far cry from San Francisco
. “Do you like small towns, Miss Brooks?”

“Do you?” she returned.

“It all depends on the town.” Gage couldn't let up. “Have you lived here all your life?”

“Uh-huh.” She cringed. “I mean,” then in a refined voice, “yes.”

“Your family?”

“Since my parents married. They used to live in Des Moines. That's where my Grandma Nettie's from.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“One. A brother. Wayne. I mentioned him before. He's at the university. Cornell,” she said with a fair amount of pride.

“Attending Cornell is ambitious.”

“Yes, well, Wayne can have his good points and ambition is one of them.”

Ambition enough to rig a contest?
Gage wondered. It took brains and a lot of dough to be admitted to the prestigious New York State campus. One thousand dollars in prize money could see a person go far.

“What kind of ambition does he have, Miss Brooks?”

She frowned. “He doesn't write to me very much. He's very busy on campus. You know how it is. There's so much going on at any given day.”

Gage sensed she didn't really know what her brother wanted out of Cornell.

“Do you have plans to go to college, Miss Brooks?”

“Me? Why, nobody's ever asked me that before.”

“Is it something you've thought about?” This didn't mean squat to his line of questioning. Gage was purely curious. More than he ought to be.

“Not really. The requirements for a hotel proprietress
don't include a college education. I had a mind to manage a small establishment, much like my father's, but things didn't work out.”

“How so?”

“My father wouldn't hire me.”

“Why not?”

“He said I lacked experience.”

“How could you get experience unless he hired you?”

“Exactly.” She smiled at him, quite becoming. “I tried to get a position at another hotel, but I wasn't successful. I found out nobody takes a ‘Miss' seriously. If you're a woman, you have to have ‘Mrs.' in front of your name and your husband be dead in order for you to gain any respect.”

Gage cracked a smile at her unintended humor. “So now what?”

Her brown eyes grew soft as she gazed at him. “So now my plans have changed.”

“How so?”

“I'll do what ladies my age are doing. Follow my mother's footsteps and get married.” She said the words with certainty. “What about you? Do you have designs to marry?”

Gage abruptly cut the motion of the oars and rested the handles in his lap atop the black and brown suit coat he'd shrugged out of earlier. The boat coasted on its own, but he didn't readily notice the course.

Marriage?
He never thought about getting married. Frankly, because he'd make a wretched husband. What woman would want him?

He kept abominable hours. He had a passion to exploit crime, scandal, and shocking circumstances
with the spirit of a crusade. Then he delivered his clever words in a way that some called sensationalist.

“I haven't devoted much thought to the subject.”

Without further ado, Gage prodded himself into action and rowed the boat toward the shady side of the lake where a covered mooring was located.

The dockage's roof had been recently repaired. Last year's fall leaves dusted the older section, but the new gave off the pungency of fresh wood with its caramel-colored lumber. Lattice made up the sides, while the lower part of the housing was boarded with a platform that ran in a half square.

Gage bumped the edge of the boat on the dock ramp. Clutching his suit coat, he stood and got out. With a careless toss, he discarded the expensive coat onto one of the boathouse benches.

“Hand me that rope, would you, Miss Brooks?”

Meg plucked the damp hemp between two fingers as if she were picking up a dead cat's tail. Holding just enough to remain “delicate” as she stretched her arm out to him. He took the rope and secured the rowboat to the docks, then extended his hand to help her up.

She kept her decorous manner as she rose, and he could have sworn he heard her murmur, “Mrs. Wolcott would be proud.”

Then she moved in a fluid way filled with deliberateness—as if she weren't used to such a maneuver. Lifting her foot to the boat's bench seat so that she could step up, her modest air lasted just long enough for her to snag the bottom of her petticoat with the tip of her shoe. Her eyes widened as she swiftly looked down, then yanked her hand out of his with such a
jerk, she went reeling backward before he could prevent her from falling overboard.

The last thing he saw were two drawer-covered legs sailing upward amid a festoon of white petticoat ruffles.

Then the bob of hat feathers—minus the head that the hat should have been on. In that instant, Gage dove into the cold lake.

*  *  *

At least she hadn't lost her petticoat.

As soon as she'd stepped on her hem by accident, she'd pulled away from Mr. Wilberforce so she could feel her waistband and make sure the elastic was still in place. Everything had been as it should, but in her attempt to keep appearances she'd fallen overboard in the most unbecoming fashion.