“Gladly.” Olive dropped his hand, swiped the watch from the counter, and ran for the entrance. The bell jangled as she threw open the door. Emil sent the man one last glare and followed her to the street.
“You sure picked a winner with this pile of bricks,” he began, then huffed when Olive merely held out her hand expectantly. “I don’t have the money on me.” She shook her head and reached for the door handle once more. He blocked her path, his nostrils flaring with exasperation. “I’ll give you what I have now, Madame Opportunist, and the rest at the musicale on Sunday.” She nodded once, and he squashed the strange thrill that swept through him at the confirmation he’d be seeing her again. “And you’ll return the watch as soon as you can.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Good.”
He reached into his coat for his wallet and extracted a few bills, which she tucked carefully into her pocket. When she looked up, her gaze settled on his chin.
“Are you going to follow me home?”
His lips quirked. “No. I suppose my surveillance is over.”
“Good,” she echoed. “Stalking women is a curious pastime, Mr. Anderson.”
He snorted. “I’ll collect you from home on Sunday at half past one.”
“How do you know my…oh. Never mind.” Her cheeks flushed, and her nose wrinkled. The sight was surprisingly adorable. But anything was better than timidness. “Once I do this…you’ll leave me alone?”
“All I need is for you to find the next likely lead,” he assured her, “and I’ll take it from there. By Sunday evening, I’ll be out of your hair. The only man you’ll have to glower at is your cello-playing beau.”
“Stephen is much preferable to your company.”
He leaned in close, savoring the way she sucked in a breath, her composure faltering just enough to betray her. This close, beneath the lamplight, her eyes gleamed like still lake waters at dawn. He lingered, allowing the soft plumes of their breath to collide. For whatever had begun to simmer between them to take shape. She shivered, but she held her ground. The corner of his mouth twitched. He liked knowing he had that effect on her. But he loved being one step ahead.
“Thought you said his name was Simon.” With a smirk, he turned on his heel and sauntered into the grey twilight.
He was back on top.
Chapter 8
Olive really should have asked more questions before accepting Emil’s conditions. Questions like: Where would the musicale be? Who would be attending? Would she be better off skipping the event altogether and joining a potato-worshipping cult instead? But she hadn’t, and now she was face-to-face with a former rival.
“Oh,” said Trudy Blount.
Incredible how one little word, more of a disappointed sigh, really, was enough to make Olive long for a sinkhole to open beneath her feet. Enough to reopen the wounds inflicted years ago when Trudy had decided the Beckets’ loss of stature meant they could no longer perform duets together. When rising responsibilities had forced Olive to give up her coveted junior performer position in the Pacific Northwest Ladies’ Musical Society. When life as she’d known it had changed forever, and not for the better.
“May I present my guest, Miss Olive Becket,” Emil said.
Olive flicked him a glance, uncertain if he had noticed Trudy’s pout or simply didn’t care. The former, she decided, when she found him busy acknowledging the other guests crowding the entryway, white teeth gleaming.
“Mr. Anderson,” Trudy began, her tone measured, polite, and, to Olive’s ear, reeking of dismay. “When I extended your invitation, I had hoped you would see fit to bring another gentleman who appreciates the arts.”
“No one appreciates the arts as much as Miss Becket,” he assured her.
Then he flashed a grin that was bright and effortless…yet perfectly hollow. It was the kind of smile meant to disarm, to persuade. To make the recipient feel special, even if it had already been offered a hundred times before to a hundred different people. Olive wanted to elbow him, to berate him for being so gauche that any woman would see right through it. Instead, she watched with mounting confusion as Trudy’s brittle smile softened, her fingers fluttering at the pearl buttons on her sleeve.
Olive was suddenly relieved Emil had never smiled at her like that.
Her thoughts orbited around that peculiar thought as she entered the Blount residence, murmuring greetings like an automaton. Emil had brought her nothing but trouble, so what did she care how he smiled or didn’t smile? At best, he viewed her as a convenient source, a conduit into a world he knew little about. At worst, she was a common—if somewhat bungling—criminal in need of reform.
Yet Emil was also the reason her father’s pocket watch sat in its usual place on the mantle beside the family portrait and the album of photographs. What sort of detective aided his suspect? Who witnessed their supposed perfidy with pity in their gaze? Who traded their own funds for an impossible-to-prove promise?
The incongruity needled at her composure. It made her want to run and hide. Pretend it wasn’t happening. But that was impossible when his surveillance, as he’d so bluntly called it, had yet to cease, as he’d so falsely promised it would.
Oh, she had spotted him more than once. It wasn’t so hard, now that she knew what to look for. A tall man with broad shoulders, his neck always wrapped in splendid knit scarves. Gifts from his admirers, no doubt.
But it wasn’t just his dashing good looks or the way his body unfurled from whatever post he leaned against while he waited for her. It was something else—something harder to define. She’d developed a prickling awareness, almost as if there was a shift in the atmosphere when he was near. A silent pressure against her skin, warning her of his presence before she even turned to look. She’d never experienced that kind of awareness before, and she certainly had no idea what it meant.
