“So I’m going to give you a chance to return it before anyone realizes it’s missing.”
“What if I need the money more than I need your magnanimity?”
“Then I’ll buy it.”
She looked at him like he’d grown another head. “Why would you purchase it?”
“Yes, why?” The proprietor scowled. “Is this not my place of business?”
“Why not?” He replied, ignoring the man for now. The offer had passed his lips before he could think twice. But once uttered, he realized he meant it. For some nebulous reason, he was determined to keep this woman from getting herself into trouble. And who was to say he couldn’t still wring some usefulness out of this ill-fated relationship they’d formed? “This way, you get the money for whatever you need so badly, and I gain the satisfaction of knowing I prevented you from extending your crime ring.”
“I don’t have a crime ring!”
“I’m not yet convinced,” he couldn’t help but taunt. “And my deal comes with two conditions.”
“Of course there’s a catch,” she muttered. “Go on.”
“First, you must return the watch to its rightful owner. Agreed?”
“That can be arranged. And second?”
“Attend a musicale this weekend as my guest.”
Her brows knitted together. “Why?”
“As a musician, you’ll fit right in. Hell, you might already know some of them. It’s a simple favor, really. Listen to music, mingle?—”
“Mingle?”
Was he mistaken, or had her cheeks paled? “Yes, mingle. And of course, subtly ask around if anyone knows the authorship of She’s a Suffragette.”
She sighed. “It’s still about the anthem?”
“I must know who wrote it.”
“Why?”
“It’s my job. Now, any other questions?”
“Won’t people wonder why you brought me?”
“I’m not known for my discrimination. One pretty face is as good as another.”
The proprietor guffawed. “Ain’t he a peach?”
“He’s something,” said Olive, a mottled flush replacing the worrisome pallor.
“Don’t fall for it, miss. I’ve got a two-dollar bill with your name on it.”
“A railroad watch is worth ten times that,” Emil retorted, glaring at the unscrupulous man.
“Mr. Anderson, it’s a deal,” Olive declared.
“No, that’s not what I meant?—”
But Olive’s slender hand was already pumping his up and down, her light grip sending a tingling up his arm. He stared down at their hands.
“Will the both of you,” the proprietor growled, his knuckles pressed hard into the scuffed counter, “get out.”
