It was the dreaded smile—brilliant and charming and perfectly false. The one he bestowed on silly women. Women who would fall, or had already fallen, for him.
Oh no.
She was one of those women. She’d lost herself in their game, lost count of the moves, forgotten whose turn it was to make the other leap. She’d dared to think she was winning, that he was the one jumping through hoops for her.
Yet there she was in his house. She’d sought him out. She’d thrown herself at him. Worse, she had let herself feel something for him—a man who didn’t know the meaning of commitment! And for what, a fleeting moment of heat? The false promise of something more?
The game had reached new heights. Dangerous heights. The kind where the risks were too great. Where the fall would hurt too much. And she couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.
“Thank you, that was most instructive.” She lurched to a seated position, speaking so quickly her words slurred. “I have to go. I have to go right now.”
Emil rose onto an elbow. “Right now?”
“Yes.” She jerked at the handcuffs, the metal digging into her skin and helping her focus. “Unlock me.”
“Slow down, give me a minute,” he said soothingly. But she could not be soothed. She wrapped her hands around the chain and tugged again. “Olive, stop. You’ll hurt yourself.”
And then the wretch lifted a hand—an unlocked hand—and dug into his back pocket for the keys.
“How long have your hands been free?” she whispered harshly, her throat aching with the urge to scream.
“Since before our first kiss.”
She gaped. Why hadn’t he said anything? Why would he let her think they were in the same position? What did it mean? Her thoughts careened, refusing to land on anything comforting. It was too much. It was all too much. The second she was free, she scrambled to her feet.
And ran away as fast as she could.
Chapter 14
Olive perched on the ivory settee in Longfellow House, clutching her Votes for Women sash and willing the gnawing pit in her stomach to subside. Fat chance, as the knot had only grown in the days since she’d humiliated herself by kissing Emil while in handcuffs and then fleeing his house as if chased by a band of wild dogs. The whole thing had dredged up her worst anxieties and set them squarely in her path. That had to be why, even now, while facing an entirely different danger, she was tempted to bolt.
Around her, Society members bustled between the tearoom and front hallway, adjusting hats and pinning sashes over their coats with a steady hum of chatter. Their excitement was palpable. After months of careful planning, the local suffragist clubs’ grand automobile procession was finally at hand. The event had been timed to coincide with two pivotal moments: the House vote in Olympia and the arrival of a renowned anti-suffragist, Reverend Roy Lipscomb. It was bold and newsworthy. And utterly terrifying.
“I could hardly sleep last night,” said Yuki, standing before the bay window. “I kept imagining the Reverend’s sour face when he heard the House passed the bill.”
“Seventy to eighteen,” Imogen crowed from her side. “Take that, you stodgy old turnip!”
“Turnip, indeed,” Yuki laughed. “I’m sure he was looking forward to applauding the House for upholding traditional society.”
“No doubt he’ll fall right back into his sermons on the natural order and the sacred duties of women,” Clem added with a snort. “At least now he’ll have to do it knowing we’re one step closer to winning.”
“And with close to a hundred suffragists glaring while he sermonizes on his train platform,” said Yuki, and they all laughed.
Winnie wandered into the tearoom, waving the morning edition of The Puget Sound Post in the air. “Apparently, the majority treated our measure as a joke, but the joke’s on them—the bill is now in the hands of the Senate.”
“The fight is going to be harder there,” Clem warned. “We mustn’t let up.”
Imogen groaned. “I still don’t understand why it’s such a fight. The bill isn’t even passing suffrage—it’s merely handing the responsibility over to the public—sorry, the men—and letting them decide if women should be able to vote.”
“It does seem backward,” Clem said. “But it lifts the burden from the legislators’ shoulders to decide themselves. The direct democracy carries heft for Progressives.”
“Meaning?” Yuki asked dryly.
“Meaning maybe it’ll work.”
“I hope so.” Imogen sighed. “But I’m not looking forward to an additional year and a half of badgering men.”
“You think one more year is bad?” Judith poked her head in the room. “Talk to me when you’ve been at it for decades.”
