Her gaze fell on the handkerchief, ignored in all the hubbub. She snatched it up and stuck it in her pocket.
“You better be the best meat I’ve ever eaten.”
Chapter 5
Chase General Music Store was to Emil what quicksand was to an unlucky traveler: inescapable and suffocating. He had no doubt Olive Becket had known precisely what she was doing when she sent him there. How smug she must be, knowing he was stuck navigating unkempt aisles lined with gleaming horns and battered guitar cases, knowing how horrible it was to laboriously search sagging shelves of sheet music beneath a solitary, flickering gas lamp. When the unforgiving edge of a metal music stand jabbed into his hip, he let out a startled yelp and rubbed the throbbing ache.
Damn that little troublemaker.
Despite catching her red-handed—twice—she had emerged the victor–twice. But how could he have known she’d respond to his heavy-handed tactics with a trip to a basement store hell?
“About time you bought something, wouldn’t you say, sonny?”
Emil pasted on a smile and faced the store proprietor, a wizened gargoyle perched on her stool behind the cash register. She puffed steadily on a fat cigar and watched him with unblinking eyes.
“Still looking. Are you certain any suffrage anthems would be found on this shelf?”
“I reckon.” The gargoyle shrugged. “But then, my husband’s the one who orders the music scores.”
“And do you expect him back soon?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” She exhaled, the noxious plume of smoke adding to the pervasive, metallic tang of brass polish. “He stepped out for some milk in aught seven.”
Two years ago.
“So probably not.”
“Probably not,” she agreed.
“It’s only that I was told this store would have–”
“Who told you?”
“A Miss Olive Becket. She’s a pianist, a–”
“I know her. Nice girl. Good head on her shoulders, unlike some.”
Emil ignored her pointed look and strove for patience. “She mentioned–”
“You stay away from her.”
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“She’s not for you.”
“I never said–”
“If you want to learn piano, you find a different instructor. Miss Becket is far too gentle. You’ll walk all over her.”
“I don’t need lessons,” he cut in before the gargoyle could insult him further. “And I treat all women with resp–”
“She has enough worries. Doesn’t need you sniffing around.”
Emil blew out a breath. He wasn’t used to being interrupted so mercilessly. But not only that, he could not fathom why everyone seemed to think Olive Becket wore a halo and could do no wrong. Had they met her?
It must be her eyes. Brown irises as common as hers should be inconsequential, especially when she rarely directed them at anyone. Oh, but when she did…it was a punch to the chest. He still couldn’t shake the strange feeling that had overtaken him when she’d finally turned those wide, soft eyes on him. It was like she’d briefly peeled back the layers of herself, exposing something raw, something sacred. In that instant, he’d wanted nothing more than to hold her, protect her, do whatever she wanted. His reaction had been all the more strange because he never noticed eyes.
“Trust me,” he finally muttered. “She’s the last person I’d be interested in.”
