He pulled out the high-backed chair beside him and patted the seat in invitation before getting lost in the papers again. She settled into the chair and studied him.
His skin had a sheen, as if he’d touched his face after handling something greasy. His under-eyes were swollen and shadowed, as if he’d spent the night tossing, or perhaps not sleeping at all. And the room carried a faint, unmistakable odor, like he hadn’t taken the time to bathe.
No woman should be aroused by negligence, but Olive was.
He had set aside his own needs for her.
When he looked up a short while later and gave her his beautiful, crooked grin, her heart thudded in her chest.
“How are you?” she asked softly.
“Tired. Hungry. Thirsty.” He stretched his arms over his head, drawing her eyes to the sleek lines of his torso. “But I’m close to figuring it out. I know I am.”
“Tell me,” she invited.
He blew out a breath, then nodded. She listened carefully as he explained how Wingate had hired him to investigate Harvey Gunn. A man she’d never heard of before that day, but one whose impact was soon evident. Though his methods of buying prime lots on the wharves and docks were not the most genteel, none violated the law.
“Turns out a large percentage of the lots were owned by Wingate’s friends. His cigar buddies. The ones he deigns to associate with in Seattle’s upper echelon. And so far, all of them have had a hand in managing the city’s interests.”
“And you think Gunn is disrupting how they run things?”
“That’s exactly what I think. But that’s not all, Olive. Most of these pals support a traditional agenda. The Scotsman threatens their vision, and they’re looking for ways to take him out.”
“I sure wouldn’t want to be in Mr. Gunn’s shoes.” Her brow furrowed. “Do I…do I threaten Mr. Wingate’s vision? Is that why he wants to find me so badly?”
Emil’s lips flattened. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. I’ve hounded the clerks at the public records office, made them cough up all the names they could find connected to city planning, public donations, and political endorsements. Hell, I even cross-referenced the names with the newspaper society pages, just to see how far Wingate’s connections go.”
Olive listened to him go on, awestruck. He was meticulous and relentless, and he lit up with excitement as he described the past week’s pursuit. This was his world—the chase, the puzzle, the exhilaration of solving it all. And he was brilliant at it. No wonder he’d tracked her so effectively. She was lucky he hadn’t turned this full intensity on her from the start; she wouldn’t have stood a chance. And now he wanted her help? That he trusted her, included her, wanted her advice—it undid her. Made her feel like she was part of the process. Like she really and truly belonged.
“What did you find?”
“Publicly, Wingate is a staunch supporter. Half a dozen articles over the past few months paint him as a model progressive. Hosting lectures, shaking the right hands, you name it. But then it gets interesting. I also found old invoices and records linking him to men with anti-suffrage leanings. A fundraiser he backed years ago. A discreet donation. Things that don’t match his new image.” He exhaled hard. “I can’t tell if he’s had a change of heart, or if it’s all a performance.”
Olive frowned, scanning the stack. “When did he change?”
“About a year ago, shortly before he announced his engagement. Seems he’s quite eager to impress the suffragist from Nantucket. She’s the reason he hired me to find the composer—says he wants to impress her with a performance from Seattle’s infamous anthem writer at her arrival party next month.”
Those were details Emil hadn’t mentioned before. Important details. Details that sparked something in her memory. “A suffragist from Nantucket?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I heard the same phrase a week ago. That can’t be a coincidence.” She sat back, remembering. “I was leaving the Robinsons’ house when I paused to fix my heel. Mr. Robinson and his friend passed me in the corridor. I don’t think they saw me. They were too busy laughing about their friends’ predicament. I wouldn’t have paid attention except that they used the word suffrage. Naturally, I perked up at that.”
“Naturally.”
“Well, it turns out their friend is desperately waiting for the arrival of his suffrage fiancée from Nantucket. Not because he believes in her cause, but because her dowry will bankroll his next venture. They also said that once he had his ring on her finger, he could stop pretending. I remember because it made me sad. That poor woman, not knowing the man she’s about to marry plans to silence her.”
Emil stood and rifled through some papers, dragging a finger down a scrawled list. “Michael Robinson’s name was found six times in concert with Wingate’s. And he owns one of the lots Gunn recently took over.” He fell back into his chair. “Goddamn. So it was never a change of heart. He’s been anti-suffrage all along. Olive, you solved it.”
She barely heard the compliment over her thundering heartbeat. “His bride-to-be is nothing but a purse to him. And I am merely the bait to bring her here. What do you think he’ll do with my name once he’s finished using it?”
A fierce expression crossed Emil’s face. “I won’t let anything bad happen, Olive. I’ll confront him?—”
She shook her head at once. “Absolutely not. With what irrefutable proof?”
The man pouted. “I’ll figure something out.”
“I know. But it has to be another way.”
