It was as incomprehensible as his fixation with Olive Becket.
Three nights in a row, he’d dreamed of her. Naked, back-arched, her slender, long legs wrapped around his hips. Her agile fingers playing his cock like a master. Her little gasps of oh, oh slipping through her lips as he thrust into her. Three nights in a row, he’d awoken hard as steel, aching for release. If that wasn’t confusing enough, for three nights in a row, the thought of finding another woman had filled his throat with dust.
What the hell did it mean?
He never obsessed over a woman. They obsessed over him. That was the way he liked it. It was easy, expected. But not Olive. No, she looked like she’d swallowed a toad whenever she saw him. Alternated between literally running away from him and scolding him like an errant schoolboy.
She’d had every right to be annoyed with him—he couldn’t explain why he’d continued his surveillance. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have other ways to unearth a suffragist. But every time he’d tried, he’d found himself wondering where Olive was at that particular moment. If she was cold or wet or tired. If she was being treated fairly. If today would be the day she let him glimpse the quiet defiance that made her eyes crack and sparkle. That made him want to peel back the layers she shoved between herself and the world.
“There you are.”
He started at the familiar hiss. Shut the philology book with a thud and glanced around the circulation room. Even at this early hour, most of the seats were occupied. But there was no sign of the speaker.
“Down here.”
The books at waist height shoved apart. Emil squatted and peered into the narrow gap, only to find Olive scowling back at him from the other side. Her gaze met and held his. His pulse skittered in response, inordinately pleased that today, she dared show him her fire.
“Well, aren’t we stealthy?”
Her plump lips pursed, and Emil was bombarded with details from his dreams. Fresh desire gusted in his lower abdomen like a mainsail on a windy day. Her lips were moving, but he had no idea what she was saying.
“Mr. Anderson, are you listening to me?”
“Emil,” he replied thickly. “My name is Emil.”
A deep blush bloomed from the small patch of skin visible beneath her chin to the roots of her honey blonde hair. He yanked his gaze back to hers, which, he noted with some pride, was still trained on him.
“Mr. Anderson,” she repeated firmly.
Stubbornness shouldn’t be so adorable, and yet, he smiled. “Have it your way, Olive.” A little oh slipped free at his impertinence, and there was that strange flutter in his stomach again. “Are you finally going to reveal your mysterious plan?”
“It’s only mysterious because you weren’t included in its design.”
“That’s fair,” he allowed. “But can we speed things along? My knees are starting to ache.”
“I’ve heard that too much imbibing can cause swelling of the joints.”
“I don’t drink enough for that to be a problem.”
“Then perhaps it’s gout. You do have a certain smell.”
He barked out a laugh and was immediately shushed by a passing librarian. He waited until the man was gone, then faced the gap again. “Tell me. What composer was celebrated at the Blount musicale?”
“Bach, of course. Why?”
“I’m simply ascertaining whether a changeling replaced you while you slept.”
“No changeling, I’m afraid. Only an Emil-shaped warlock who freed my tongue,” she replied sweetly. “My heartfelt congratulations.”
“Lucky me.” He crooked a finger and waited for her to press closer, her oval face filling the gap, her unblemished skin dewy and utterly strokable. Then, he whispered, “I knew you wanted to use my name.”
She pulled back with a grumble. Once again, he was tempted to laugh. Their repartee was so unexpected, so delightful, that he no longer cared he’d had to relinquish control over his case. Not if this was his payment.
“I was able to compile some information,” she finally whispered, “between my conversations with the musicians and several members of the Seattle Suffrage Society.”
“Excellent.”
“Apparently, there are a few locations where messages are passed.” She gave him a look. “Messages that the official state suffrage organ might not approve of.”
