Hooked (22 page)

But petticoats were neither here nor there. Cigars were the issue at hand.

Mr. Wilberforce's suggestion that she smoke his, even if he had been joshing, came with an implication on his part: He wasn't the pure gentleman he appeared. Because a true gentleman would
never
offer a woman a cigar.

Was it possible he could tell Meg wasn't a genuine lady? She never had admitted to having actually smoked a cigar, even though she had. Wayne had given her one. She'd lit up just to see what it was like, but she hadn't done very well with the Havana. The smoke in her lungs made her cough. But for the sake of being like the other college girls, she'd tried a few more puffs. And a few more. Until she'd been able to smoke half of the cigar. By the time she'd gotten the manner of puffing and rolling it in between her fingers down, she thought she was a regular spotted dog on a red wagon. A real in-the-know girl.

Of course she could never tell Mr. Wilberforce she'd enjoyed her cigar.

Turning around and placing her hands on her hips, she surveyed the lobby with a critical eye, then frowned and slumped into a plush velvet chair. The room was empty so there was no need to sit properly.

She checked the time on her chatelaine watch. A mere five minutes had passed since the last time she'd looked at the dial.

Sundays were slow.

Where had Mr. Wilberforce gone and why hadn't he returned yet? Meg vowed to wait for him to come back and ask him just exactly what he meant by giving her a cigar.

Absently, she put her fingertips on her lips.

She should have been angry he'd kissed her in plain view on a Sunday morning. But she wasn't. She'd wanted him to kiss her on a public boardwalk for anyone to see. She'd wanted him to tell her how he felt about her.

Heaven help her, she wanted him to be a part of her life.

*  *  *

Gage entered the lobby. Meg stood beside the check counter, as if she had been waiting for him. A worried smile curved her mouth, then fell into a fretful frown.

“Mr. Wilberforce,” she said in a rush, leaving the station behind as well as the weekend desk clerk, who watched them with interest. Meg navigated them toward the fireplace in the sitting area. “I was beginning to think you'd fallen by the roadside. I was just about to visit the police department and tell them to send out a search party for you.”

Nobody had ever worried about Gage before. In
fact, nobody had ever been waiting for him when he'd come home. God, it felt . . . nice.

Meg brushed the traveling dust from his coat arms with a quick swish of her fingertips. Genuine concern filled her eyes when she looked up at him, as well as a mixture of emotion Gage didn't care to define at the moment.

“My goodness, where have you been to sell those Bissells of yours?”

There was no reason to lie. Anyone could have seen him taking the road to Alder. “Alder.”

“All the way over there? I think some of the local ladies in town would have been receptive to a new carpet sweeper.”

“Sometimes a salesman has to stretch himself,” Gage remarked, noting the soft color of her hair beneath the room's overhead light. The orbs of glass sputtered quietly; the hiss of wicks whispered.

“Well, I'm glad you came back unscathed.” She stood taller. “It makes what I have to say easier. I couldn't exactly question you if you'd been hit over the head by a thug.”

What was she talking about?

Placing her hands on her hips, she asked, “Why did you give me your cigar?”

Gage caught his laugh before it left his mouth, but he was unable to stop his smile. “Did you smoke it?”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “That's not the issue.”

“Did you?”

A long pause separated them. She softly bit her lower lip, wrinkled her nose and exhaled. Then finally: “Yes. What of it?”

This time Gage did laugh. “I knew it.”

“You knew no such thing. I never told you I smoked cigars.”

“You didn't have to.”

“I suppose there are things,” she shot back, turning the tables, “that you haven't told me about
you.”

Gage stiffened. How could he tell her the truth when she didn't know what she was asking? She figured he was a slouch who gave women cigars because he liked to trifle with them. She had no idea who he really was. If he told her now—right here—she'd slap him for sure.

He had to return to his room, go over his notes, and figure out the best way to approach things with her. Do things slow and easy, without painful words.

“I would like to tell you about myself, Miss Brooks, but I'm tired. I've been gone all day with . . . no luck.”

At that, her eyes softened. “You didn't sell any Bissells?”

“Ah, no.”

“Not a one?”

“No.”

“Well, that's too bad.” Sincerity marked her voice and she lowered her hands from her hips. “But don't you worry. You'll do better. Selling things is very hard work. Not everyone has the talent for it. I know I don't. But you're very likable and you're honest, so you won't have trouble.”

Honest?
Gage bit back a grim curve of his lips.

“If you don't mind, Miss Brooks, I've had a long day. I'm going to retire to my room.”

“Yes, I know you've had a long day.” A sparkle glimmered in her eyes; her expression stilled and grew serious. She stood back, knitted her fingers together,
and rested them in front of her skirt gathers. “Have you eaten any supper, Mr. Wilberforce?”

“I was going to have an apple that's in my room.”

“An apple? That won't fill you up. You're invited to my house. Come and have Sunday supper with us.”

“Miss Brooks, the invitation is very thoughtful, but I have to decline.” He searched his mind for an excuse she could accept. “I can't come because I have to . . . map out some new territory. My supervisor won't be pleased that I haven't sold any carpet sweepers. I must do my work first. You understand, of course. Business.”

She solemnly nodded. “I do understand. Very much so, Mr. Wilberforce. But not to worry. I have an idea. You be at my house in one hour and everything will work out. You'll see.”

“Miss Brooks—”

“See you in one hour.”

One hour.
That would give him enough time to pour through his notes, see if there were any holes that would give Wayne an alibi. For Meg's sake, Gage wanted to vindicate him. But he couldn't see how.

“One hour,” she repeated. Her smile went straight to his heart. “And bring your traveling case.”

“My traveling case?”

“Yes. This one.” She pointed to the bag in his hand. “I want to look at all your Bissell catalogues. Pictures of carpet sweepers are so fascinating.”

He had no opportunity to deny her. She'd already rushed out the hotel doors.

*  *  *

Mr. Wilberforce sat in the Brookses' parlor with teacup and saucer resting on his bent knee. His large hands dwarfed the delicate china. With all her mother's
ferns and violets, and the soft furnishings, he seemed out of place. Yet she couldn't take her eyes off him.

He'd come.

She'd been able to plan everything in one hour, returning home just minutes before he'd turned the front bell. Barely enough time to go upstairs and freshen up.

Dinner had gone well. Grandma Nettie had joined them. Talk ranged from Grandma's hurrah and tambourine campaigns, to the upcoming fly fishing tournament. Mr. Finch sat at the table like he normally did; Meg wondered if Mr. Wilberforce would be put out by the “butler” eating with them. But he didn't appear uncomfortable, which made Meg love him all the more.

After dessert, they'd retired to the parlor. Grandma Nettie took her place in the sitting chair and worked on her needlepoint. Meg sat primly on the organ seat. Mr. Wilberforce occupied her father's chair, his case at his side. She'd taken it from him when he'd come through the door and put it in the parlor where the literature could be readily removed.

The tick-tock of the mantel clock with its fancy shaped case beat through the room—the only conversation. Meg nervously glanced at the hour. Nearly 7:00. The hands were never off; striking hours and half-hours on a cathedral gong. Her father oiled the mechanisms once a month with a chicken feather.

The crank of the doorbell startled Meg, even though she was expecting it to ring. All seven of them had agreed to come.

“Who could that be on a Sunday night?” Grandma Nettie inquired, lowering her stitchery.

“I'll get it,” Meg exclaimed, bolting from her seat.

Meg swept the door inward.

The ladies had arrived. Right on time.

Mrs. Grayce Kennison. Mrs. Olive Treber. Mrs. Lulu Calhoon. Mrs. Fanny Elward. Mrs. Prudence Plunkett. Mrs. Crescencia Dufresne. Mrs. Edwina Wolcott.

“Do come in,” Meg offered in her best hostess voice. “I'm charmed you could pay a call on us this evening.”

Mr. Finch took the appropriate hats and coats, then Meg paraded the ladies into the parlor.

On their entrance, Mr. Wilberforce rose from his chair, passing his gaze from her to the ladies. His eyes landed speculatively, and with puzzlement on her; she reassured him with a soft smile. She took great delight in formally introducing him to the mothers of her school friends, her former schoolmate who was married now, as well as her teacher. The women in turn, gave her Mr. Wilberforce their courteous nods of approval.

“Ladies, please sit down and we can begin right away.”

The seven of them took seats throughout the room. Meg remained standing, as did Mr. Wilberforce, the muscles in his jaw having tensed as if the ladies had stuck him with their hat pins.

“Mr. Wilberforce,” she said with excitement, “you have these ladies' undivided attention. They've come to hear your presentation on marvelous carpet sweepers and, by the end of the evening, I'll bet you'll have sold eight of your top of the line models.”

11

S
weet Christ.
She wanted him to sell carpet sweepers.

His gaze followed Meg's bright one, which was on his leather bag.

The case.
The only reason he'd brought it was because he believed Meg really wanted to look at the pictures in the Bissell catalogue. Didn't women like to do that sort of thing? Pour over photographs and make out their wish lists?

Hell and damnation. He could see now that she'd cooked this evening up to save his hide—
Wilberforce's
hide. His earlier words came back to haunt him. Meg had asked if he'd sold any carpet sweepers. For simplicity's sake, he'd said no. Never dreaming she'd go to such extremes to help him.

She thought he needed help.

If she only knew how badly. But for all the wrong reasons.

The gamut of emotions running through him went from leashed misery to a muted stirring deep inside his heart. Meg Brooks had found him worthy of helping.
Never mind she thought him Wilberforce. It was Gage who had shown defeat this afternoon. Gage who'd walked into the hotel feeling the pull of those loose threads in his investigation tightening around him.

She didn't know the real reason for his disquiet. That didn't matter. All she had seen was a man down in his spirits and she'd taken the initiative to try and put him back to rights.

The tenderness welling in his chest was so profound, Gage had the strongest urge to take her into his arms and kiss her with gratitude. But he couldn't. Not now. Nine pairs of eyes were leveled on him. Waiting.

Meg resumed her seat on the organ bench, folded her hands in her lap, and said, “We're ready, Mr. Wilberforce.”

With no choice but to go through with the ridiculous sales pitch—of which he knew squat—Gage withdrew the Bissell catalogue from his journal case. Absently, he flipped through the worn-edged pages as if he could draw inspiration from them.

One thing was on his side—he knew the company's history. He'd read the introduction in the bathtub. Four days ago he'd gone over his notes so many times he hadn't been able to think clearly. In an effort to sharpen his mind and rid it of fishing facts and notations about Wayne, he'd brought the Bissell catalogue into the bath and read all about Melville Bissell and how he had developed his sweepers.