Hooked (11 page)

She should have known.

Meg grew dismayed. She wondered if Mr. Farley had also told him about the ensuing outrage surrounding the Brooks name. Oh, what had she expected? Her brother's name was bound to resurface this year, but she would never say anything sordid against him or about his winning all that money.

“Yes . . . Wayne won.”

“You must have been proud of him.”

“Very.” She wouldn't cower if Mr. Wilberforce pursued the matter in a less than flattering way to her brother.

But Mr. Wilberforce remained quiet.

A long moment later, he was kind enough to let the subject go. “Go on about the fish, Miss Brooks.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “You're a true pillar of knowledge on this subject.”

Relieved, Meg settled against the tree trunk for a long chat, unmindful to the fact that she was wet, her hair in a mess, and her hat waterlogged. And in spite of all that, she had Mr. Wilberforce rapt. Imagine that.

All this time she had been honing her feminine qualities and playing the modest lady to hook a man, when all it took was to talk about fish.

5

T
he following day in his hotel room, Gage was distracted by a kiss that should never have happened. But seeing Meg Brooks, her hair falling freely to her waist, her bodice molded softly against her breasts, and the curve of her hips as they flared from her wet skirt—they had all gotten the better of him.

He'd wanted to kiss her, actually, from the first moment he'd laid eyes on her in his room. And even when she'd stood in the doorway of her house wearing that ridiculous freckle cream.

He had to remind himself that she was just part of his job. A source of information; not a source of temptation.

This morning, his thoughts should have been hammered by questions.

Was Meg Brooks protecting her brother? Did she know what exactly had happened? Had she helped him cheat? Did he in fact rig the contest?

She hadn't mentioned Wayne on her own. He'd had to lead her to the question of his win by discussing
the contest, hoping she'd brag about her brother. She hadn't. When he brought Wayne up, she hadn't been anxious to talk about him.

In Gage's racket, silence more often than not meant wrongdoing.

The next logical thing he needed to know was what kind of fish had Wayne Brooks caught the most of. Rainbows would be in his favor; brown trout would be condemning. The latter could possibly be traced by a visit to the hatchery in Waverly.

Gage flipped through his notepad and read the notations he'd made when he'd returned to his hotel late yesterday. With irritation, he squinted at several places trying to decipher what he'd written. Gage didn't have the neatest penmanship. Normally, he immediately sat at his typewriter and transcribed his notes. That wasn't the case now since he was without his Rightwriter.

He'd seen a Smith Premier II in the window of the second hand shop. One of the newer models, not but four years old. The price had been reasonable. Hell, he should go buy it. He needed to get out of this hotel room. He couldn't keep his thoughts together.

Leaning back in his chair so that the two front legs lifted, Gage thumped his stockinged feet on the desk's edge and cradled the base of his head in his hands. He could go for a cigar; a smoke made him think better. But Mrs. Rothman had spelled out the hotel rules clearly when he'd checked in. No smoking in the rooms. Only in the lobby.

He mulled over the idea of going downstairs. The possibility of finding Meg there was enough to make him seriously contemplate the action. And not for reasons Gage would have assumed.

Yesterday's rowboat ride had been unlike any he'd ever had. Gage knew a lot of beautiful women. Some would say they flocked to him because it was safer to be on his good side than his bad; a person never knew when they'd become the subject of one of his articles. Better to be painted in a flattering light than slandered.

But to be fair, Gage only slandered those who deserved it.

Leaning forward to make out his words on a jagged piece of paper by his knee, Gage read:
Holding water. High water. Low water.

Beneath each heading were descriptions.

Gage's mind wandered from streams to the woman who'd given him the flood of information on them.

He liked her strong sense of purpose. Though that staunch purpose had some conflict to it. Gage wondered if she was pretending to be somebody she wasn't. Usually he could sum up a person's personality in one conversation. Meg Brooks somewhat baffled him.

One minute, poised and polished. The next minute, slouching on a log giving Gage the distinct impression she wanted to prop her chin on her hands. Refinement and informality. They seemed to be clashing within her.

Gage understood that. He wanted to be a good journalist, but many of the things he did to get his stories went against the grain. A grain that was becoming rough and hard for Gage to continuously repeat.

Everyone thought Matthew Gage didn't have a conscience. But he did. It ate away at his stomach—literally. He couldn't remember the last time he ate a meal without it burning up his insides. He'd seen a doctor
once. More like a castor oil artist who'd suggested Gage give up the cause of his ailment: the evils of his occupation.

An occupation he was hard-pressed to stay focused on yesterday when kissing Meg Brooks. She seemed to like him. Hell and back. It wasn't
him.
It was Wilberforce. Or what parts of Wilberforce he showed her. With Meg, he hated to use that stodgy vernacular of “Indeed” and “Splendid.”

Gage never used words like that. He was too savage.

Give him a piece of paper, put a pen into his hand, and tell him to write out five character attributes he had and he would draw a blank. Tell him to write up five faults, and he could easily fill the amusements and entertainments column of
The Chronicle.

Lowering his feet, Gage walked toward the bed with disgust. His trouble was he wasn't thinking rationally. And that annoyed him. He prided himself on having a mind that thought with absolute clarity morning, noon, and night.

He sat on the bed's edge and shoved his feet into his shoes, laced them, then stood and grabbed his hat and coat. Snagging the key from the dresser, he pocketed it and let himself out.

Taking the stairs down to the lobby, he was struck by the festive decorations. He even had to pause a moment to make sure he was seeing things right. But there was no mistake.

In spite of spring having been ushered in for nearly two weeks, the lobby was decorated with mistletoe and imitation holly. Banners of red and green and gold. Holiday candles and paper snowflakes.

Gage left the banister and headed toward the registry
desk. Mrs. Rothman greeted him with, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Wilberforce.”

His gaze fell on the garland of evergreens swagged over the front edge of the desk—right below the heavy length of chain. “Is it?”

“Not really,” the elderly woman replied with a helpless lift of her hands.

He gave her an easy smile.

“It's Margaret's idea,” Mrs. Rothman said, then pointed to the invitation on the desk counter.

Gage read the script that was painstakingly capped with ink-drawn snow:

Gazing at Mrs. Rothman over the paper's edge, he hated to admit that Meg had pulled one over on him. He'd forgotten today was April Fool's. “Very clever.”

“I thought so,” she replied, then said: “She's a lot like me.”

Gage couldn't readily match up Meg Brooks to Mrs. Rothman, who, with her bicycle chain and quick wit, was clearly a rebel. “Is she?”

“Yes. But she doesn't want anyone to know.” The elder woman leaned forward, lowering her tone. “Much like yourself, Mr. Wilberforce.”

Going still, Gage said nothing. He merely arched his brows and waited for her to elaborate.

“I find it interesting that you change your vocabulary to talk with the porter, Delbert, and the house maid, yet you don't put on nearly as colorful a display for me. I know how you talk to them because I overheard you once when I was walking down the hallway. You and I have conversed twice now—once when I checked you in, and this our second encounter. You may drop a few words here and there, but only when you remember.” She tapped a weathered fingertip on the registry book in the exact place he had signed
Vernon Wilberforce.
“Who exactly are you, Mr. Wilberforce?”

Gage would have laughed if he wasn't smarting from the woman's keen insight. He looked into her eyes. Deceiving her wasn't easy, but he would never reveal to her his true identity. “I'm a Bissell salesman,” he remarked in an even tone, “who is good at what he does.”

“You are good at something, Mr. Wilberforce,” Mrs. Rothman said while straightening. “But I have yet to determine what that is.” Her clear blue eyes filled with speculation, then a protective devotion. “My granddaughter is very special.”

“I know that.”

“She told me about your rowboat ride yesterday.”

Gage wondered if Meg had told her about their kiss. He couldn't tell by the expression on the woman's face.

He took a moment to fully appraise the lobby, scanning the few patrons who sat in chairs. A cluster of gentlemen smoked, while several ladies sat near the window and drank tea.

Mrs. Rothman intruded on his search. “She's not here.”

“But she will be.”

“Of course.” Then in a pondering voice, she mentioned, “It's not just any man who'll jump into an icy lake to save a woman from water not much deeper than a bathtub.”

On that, he frowned. “Are you suggesting that I should have left her to her own devices?”

“Nothing of the sort. I like a chivalrous man. But he should know when to use his gallantry and when to let a woman save herself.”

Gage thought with a wry smile:
Just like a reporter should know when he's met his match.

*  *  *

Meg stared into the teacup in front of her. She, Ruth, and Hildegarde sat in Rosemarie's Tearoom. A lace tablecloth covered the round table and chintz seat covers made up the chairs. They were quite uncomfortable; made more unbearable by having to sit stiffly in her straight-fronted corset.

Looking at the untouched tea once more, Meg noted tea leaf sediments had settled on the cup's bottom. In an effort to make the bitter brew more palatable, she reached for the cubes of sugar and creamer. Dumping five lumps in with a healthy amount of cream, she stirred. And stirred.

She would have preferred a sarsparilla.

But their days sitting on the stools at Durbin's Ice Cream parlor were long gone.

The hour neared three in the afternoon. Muted sunlight came in through the big windows; crocheted lace curtains covered the glass giving the teahouse a matronly feel. Meg had met up with Ruth and Hildegarde
when they'd been let out of Mrs. Wolcott's class for the day. Meg had waited for them at the school and given Mrs. Wolcott her essay on outdoor spittoons. Her next assignment was to write about the April Fool's party and how one's imagination could be used as a benefit in business.

“You should have come five minutes earlier, Margaret,” Ruth said stirring her soda with her straw. “Doctor Teeter came for Johannah.”

Meg took a polite sip of her tea and squelched a grimace. “I've seen him before.”

Ruth enlightened, “He wore opera-toed alligator shoes.”

Hildegarde added, “They looked ghastly.”

“They were so new, the leather squeaked when he walked.” Ruth daintily put her napkin to the corners of her mouth. “We all tried not to notice, but we couldn't help staring at his feet.”

“He's got big feet, too,” Hildegarde commented after a small taste of her tea. “Bigger than mine. My mother says that I've practically got the biggest feet of anyone in all of Harmony. If I were a man, I'd wear a size eleven.”