Olive shot to her feet. Her coiffure, which had barely survived its recent smushing, chose that moment to droop over her forehead and obscure her vision. She reached for it, then gaped in horror as the silver cake server launched from her sleeve. It bounced twice on the hardwood floor and landed at Emil Anderson’s feet.
They both stared at it.
“You certainly have everyone fooled,” he finally said. “I cannot decide if I’m impressed or disappointed.”
A flurry of her usual foolproof escape plans came to mind, only to be rejected just as quickly. There were no street wares to feign interest in, no urgent appointments to be suddenly remembered. In this small space—somehow shrinking with every second—it wasn’t possible to fade into the wallpaper or shrubbery. Even her boldest tactics, launching onto a streetcar as it pulled away from the curb, or claiming not to speak English, were moot. As if any of those strategies could have prepared her to stand before the imposing, divine man blocking her exit with a silver spoon tucked in her glove.
This was it; she was doomed.
Even if Emil Anderson took pity on her and didn’t drag her to the nearest police station, he would tell her friends what she’d done. He wouldn’t hesitate, not after they’d censured him for daring to call her a thief. His proof currently rested against the toe box of his boot, for pity’s sake. She’d have to admit to stealing meat like some sad little street urchin, and then it would be impossible for her to show her face at the suffrage meetings again.
Because once they knew her shame, things would never be the same. They’d recall how she never turned down an invitation for dinner. How she always took two of the proffered refreshments, sometimes three. The looks of pity would come. Perhaps even disgust. Even she knew that no suffrage society had room for an ill-fed, over-worked, cowardly girl who was a thief. They would oust her from their group, once and for all. The possibility made her stomach roll, but with it came a spark of indignation.
This was all Mr. Anderson’s fault. If it weren’t for him, her standing at the Society wouldn’t even be in question. And why was he picking on her anyway? Weren’t there worse villains at the party to harass? If only she had one iota of Winnie’s bravery, Rhoda’s boldness, or Clem’s cleverness, she’d tell him herself!
“I…”
Mr. Anderson sighed under his breath, the long-suffering sigh of a man who was bored by the incompetence before him. A fragile, strange defiance unfurled within her. Slowly, she lifted her gaze from his polished boots, observing him fully for the first time.
He didn’t simply stand; he inhabited space, the paragon of unflappable charm and self-assurance. His posture was relaxed, so confident was he that she posed no threat to him. He radiated vitality, that particular, almost dangerous energy that was so unsettling.
There was no other option but to unsettle him in return. Turn the tables, play on his reputation as an irresistible Casanova…and hope she came out unscathed. Staring steadily at his necktie, she strived to keep her voice steady.
“I’m flattered, but I am not interested in anything beyond friendship."
He made a noise like a bull snuffing at the wind. “Excuse me?”
“I already have a beau,” she continued faintly. “His name is Simon and he plays the cello.”
“What in the blazes are you blathering about?”
The harsh words should have rattled her composure—far less achieved it daily—but they were delivered with such bafflement that it had the opposite effect. She raised her gaze to his chin.
“It is you who should explain yourself.”
His arms crossed his broad chest, and she could tell by the slight tilt of his chin that he was studying her intently.
“All right.” He spoke briskly. “I entered the retiring salon, and you took one look at me and fled. I followed as soon as I could?—”
It must be so difficult to have hordes of admirers.
“—and I find you here, stuffing silver in your gown like a squirrel preparing for a long winter.”
A hysterical giggle rose in her throat at the image, but she swallowed it down and shook her head.
“No? Then please, explain.”
“I was tired after performing and needed a moment to recover.” She paused and sagged her shoulders a bit; if he were human, he might feel a morsel of guilt. “I heard a rattle at the door. Who knows what sort of l-l-libertine—” The word alone brought immense heat to her cheeks. “—wanders hotel corridors. I feared for my virtue. I had no idea it was you, but the cake server was in case you wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
There was a brief silence. “You meant to skewer me with a cake server?”
“It was the sharpest tool around.”
Who was she? She never strung so many sentences together the first time she met anyone, let alone a devastatingly handsome man. Seemed impending doom had its merits, after all.
“That was pure poppycock,” he declared, but Olive was shocked when his lips quirked upward. “And thoroughly entertaining. I confess, I didn’t expect that either.”
Oh no, had she intrigued him?
