Hooked (34 page)

“Yes, it is,” Ruth remarked in a cultured voice.

“Quite nice,” Hildegarde agreed.

“What number did you draw in the lottery?” Meg asked, trying to keep the immediacy from her tone. It wouldn't help to have Hildegarde and Ruth wonder why she cared so much. But she was concerned. Matthew had to get a five or better to draw one of the best spots.

Putting his hat back on, he held up his hand for her to read his card, his eyes meeting hers.

“Six,” Ruth verbally supplied. Then with a coquettish smile, added, “Six is my lucky number.”

Meg ignored Ruth and asked, “What spot did you pick?”

“Marker twenty-two.” He looked at her in silent question.

A fair spot from which to fish. Not the greatest, but it could have been worse.

She gave a quick nod of her head. He nodded in return. They looked at each other without speaking. Emotions she didn't understand skimmed across his face.

“Six is my lucky number,” Ruth repeated, interrupting the moment.

“Is it now, Miss Elward?” he responded in that way of his that was deep and dusty at the same time. “By thunder, I hope it brings me luck.”

That was all the encouragement Ruth needed. She went on in a blushing rush, “I could bring you a picnic lunch today while you're fishing and keep you company.”

Meg stiffened, waiting for his answer. She stared at his mouth long enough for him to be aware of what she was staring at. And if the truth be told, she wasn't staring in wait for his answer. She was staring because he had the nicest lips she'd ever had the fortune of kissing. And that skunk knew it. Because he cracked a slight smile. Just enough to get her heartbeat skipping.

“Miss Elward, that's a gracious offer. And a very tempting one.” Matthew tucked the number card into his trouser pocket. “But I'm afraid I have to decline. You see, I'm meeting Mr. Bascomb and we'll be discussing business while we're fishing.”

Meg flinched involuntarily.

“Mr. Bascomb,” Hildegarde blurted, forgetting herself. “You're fishing with Mr. Bascomb?”

“Yes I am.” Matthew's snowy white shirt sleeves ruffled a little as he better aligned his coat on his
shoulder. The move caused a tautness over his chest, shirt buttons pulling tight and defining the contours of his rock solid physique. “As a matter of fact, I've got to be getting back to the hotel.”

“He's at the hotel? Right now?” Hildegarde's cheeks grew as red as apples.

Matthew looked at Meg when replying, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “No, I don't suppose he's there yet.” After his answer, his gaze lifted to her hat. Whatever his opinion, she couldn't tell what it was.

Hildegarde breathlessly rambled, “My mother is going to introduce Mr. Bascomb to me.”

Matthew seemed to force his attention back to Hildegarde and replied, “Is that so?”

“Yes. She's inviting him over for supper.”

“Really?” he asked, his lips quirking as he turned back to Meg. “I'm sure he'd be delighted.”

Meg would have kicked Matthew in the shin if she thought she could get away with it. The very idea. He knew good and well Arliss Bascomb couldn't go to the Plunketts' for dinner.

“You honestly think he would be delighted?” Hildegarde nervously asked.

“Quite.” With a nod to Ruth and Hildegarde, then to Meg, he offered, “Miss Brooks, I believe your grandmother is expecting you back at the hotel right about now. I can walk you back.”

Ruth had the bad taste to invite herself. “I can come, too.”

Meg began walking without so much as a word. She was cross as two sticks. The nerve of her dearest friend thinking she could waltz into Matthew's affections as if he welcomed them.

Did he?

She took a quick glance over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of the pair side-by-side behind her. A passionate yearning was slathered on Ruth's expression like jam on a baby's cheeks. All gooey and revolting.

Yes, revolting!

The very idea of the two of them together was ridiculous. Ruth didn't know a thing about Matthew Gage. But Meg did. And she didn't like him. Not at all.

Why then, did her heart swell every time she looked at him?

*  *  *

“What's the matter with you?” Meg fired at Gage as soon as they were out of town, she in her Bascomb get-up and he toting their poles and gear to the creek. “Saying that I—
Mr. Bascomb
—would be delighted to go to Hildegarde's for dinner. It's as if you want me to be found out.”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” he replied with an innocence she clearly didn't buy. He couldn't quite hide his smile as she frowned.

On one hand, he wanted her to be found out because then they could quit this game and start being honest with one another. And honest with the whole town. But on the other hand, if she was found out, how could he clear her brother without her help?

Did her brother really need redeeming?

Gage didn't know.

Ham Beauregarde complicated things. First Ham's trip to Doolin's, then today's attempt at buying Gage's lottery card. Two strikes against him. But did two strikes mean guilt?

So as much as Gage didn't want to admit, he was back to Wayne Brooks being his prime suspect.

“I'll just have to avoid Mrs. Plunkett,” Meg announced,
drawing Gage from his thoughts. “That should be easy enough.”

Meg knocked a branch out of her path and Gage ducked beneath it as they went to the northern side of Evergreen Creek—a spot they'd yet to fish. Today she was going to show him how to use a hare's ear nymph while fishing upstream.

Once Meg reached the location, she set her lunch tin down. “Right here will do.”

Gage deposited their things and began to put his rod together. He'd gotten a lot better in the assembly, actually being able to string his line and be ready to go not all that long after Meg.

Removing that farcical red beard of hers, Meg brought out her own tackle and readied her line. After several minutes passing without a word between them, her question threw him off.

“What is it you like about your writing?”

His hands stilled and Gage looked up at her. The set of her mouth and the wonder in her brown eyes said she was deadly serious. Nobody had ever asked him what pleased him about his articles. Managing editors usually pointed out the parts that needed to be redone because they lacked luster or definition. Rarely, if ever, was praise given—it would be an invitation for him to ask for a raise in his salary—or so the newspapers thought.

Gage would write for free. He enjoyed it that much. It was his passion, his life. He could communicate to thousands and impress upon them his views and make them see things differently. The good; the bad. Mostly the bad. Which had been nagging at Gage more and more lately.

“Well?” she queried. “Do you have an opinion?”

“The best thing anyone ever said about my writing was it wasn't breezy.”

“You viewed that as a compliment?”

“I did.”

Her brows knit together. “I think that if I were a writer, I'd want people to be moved by my words. Inspired or motivated to do something different about their lives.”

“I believe I do that.”

“Do you really?” Her tone clearly implied the opposite.

“I do.”

“Hmm.” Meg went back to arranging her four-weight line and tying on a longer tippet with many fine knots.

“You've never read anything I've written,” Gage responded, his ego out of joint, “so how can you form an opinion on what I do and don't do for my readers?”

“I'm going by what I've seen in the newspapers. No stunt reporter has ever written a piece that isn't slanderous to somebody or something. And, clearly, you anger people. Why else would you carry a gun? Has anybody ever tried to shoot you?”

Gage laughed. “No.”

“Then why do you have to arm yourself?” She brought the line to her mouth. Gage watched straight white teeth bite the fragile thread, his whole consciousness focused on what she was doing. “I never figured reporters as needing to defend themselves. But I guess it all depends on the type.”

Gage gazed down into Meg's upturned face, her lashes shadowing her cheeks like lace fringe as she
worked on her line. It would have been easy to lie, but he couldn't.

“I've kept men at bay with it on a few occasions.”

“How come?”

He thought through all the times he'd palmed the grip to his revolver.

“I once drew it on a guy in the Golden Gate Park for getting a policeman drunk so that his cohort could ride around and pick up girls new to the city and lure them into prostitution.”

Her hands stilled, and she lifted her eyes to his. “Really?”

“Yes. My exposé busted the story wide open.”

“Well . . . I guess that was one time you did a good thing.”

Gage's nostrils flared.
One time?
Hell, he'd done a lot of good things. “I held a senator at bay while he was served a warrant. They charged him with skimming city funds. He was as corrupt as a dice joint. He got out of jail after only serving five days. I might have been tempted to shoot him if I hadn't nailed him in print. Front page news. He was voted out of office last election.”

She stared at him a long while. “You don't think you're ever wrong, do you?”

“I am wrong. But not often.” He rested his fishing rod on his shoulder. “There was that one time when I posed as a private detective to trail a man, only it turned out my informant's wife really did have herself a lover and my story on fidelity went flat. The informant had the nerve to wave at me from his apartment window while he was—” Gage didn't finish the explanation. “Anyway, I figured out the couple liked an audience and I fell for it.”

Riding the trolley home that night, he'd thought about going back and drawing his gun on the man just to scare him. Instead, he'd gone to his fourth floor loft on Long Wharf. Drinking a bottle of beer, he'd sat in the open window frame until well after midnight, pondering the angle of his next article while vowing not to be taken in again.

Meg's soft laugh pulled him from his thoughts. “I'm glad to hear that you are as gullible as the rest of us.” Then as if the implication of her words sunk in, her cheeks flushed.

He held her with his eyes.

Even while wearing a man's shirt and trousers, a lumpy hat that hid her hair, and knowing her way around a fishing box, he was more attracted to her than he ever had been to another woman. He admired her for going to such lengths to prove to him that her brother was innocent.

She tamped down her blush and said, “Since I seem not to understand the function of your type of reporting, enlighten me.”

“A stunt reporter is hired to increase newspaper circulation.” He didn't get into the fact that
The Chronicle
combined a taste for the lurid and grisly sensations, and crusaded after scandals of the day to capture in its provocative headlines. Hell, that sounded low-down even to him. In lieu of the reality, he said, “We can't do that with articles on tea parties and who's who columns.”

“So instead you'll slander my brother's good name.”

His jaw went tight. “I have never slandered anyone's
good
name. Only people who are dishonest. As to your brother, that remains to be seen. And
only then
will I know if there is an article to be written.”

She frowned with obvious displeasure. “But you intend to if you think you have enough evidence against him.”

“Meg, you're trying me without jury and judge.”

She stood, breath hitching in her throat and a hand at her temple. “I am not. But Ruth Elward would if she knew the real you.”

Gage sat stunned a long moment, then gave a low laugh. “You're jealous.”

“I am not.”

Standing as well, Gage said in a low voice, “Sure you are, darling.”

Meg's eyes widened. “Don't you dare to call me
darling.”

Gage took a step closer to her, the light hint of her hair soap teasing his senses, fresh and sweet. “I can dare to call you whatever endearment I want.”

A mere whisper now separated them. He took the fishing pole from her hand and tossed it on the ground. He could hear her suck in her breath as he lifted his fingertip to her face and slipped it down the curve of her cheek. Catching her chin in his fingers and tilting her mouth up to his, he lowered his head toward hers. “Darling, I've been wanting to kiss you again for the longest time.”

Then he brought her mouth to his in a kiss that wasn't demanding or trying to prove a point. Just a slow and lazy, lingering kiss that coaxed her out of her anger and had her leaning into him with a moan.

Gage liked knowing he could melt her resolve. That he could make her feel woozy, wanted, cherished—desired.

He ached to feel her hair, sift it between his fingers. Its silkiness the day he'd untangled her from his bed
was a lucid memory he couldn't shake. Sliding one arm around her to pull her close, he knocked her hat off with his right hand.

Her protest caught on his lips.

“Right now, you're going to be a woman,” he said against the cry that tore from her mouth.

With a few tugs on hairpins, that satiny hair of hers fell down in the softest cloud he'd ever had the pleasure of delving his fingers into. Her hair came to her waist, thick and coiled with soft curls.

Closing his eyes, he deepened the kiss, breathing her in and feeling the softness of her hair and her body as he ran his hand up the nape of her neck. Gage put his hands around her shoulders and pulled her to him, pressing her breasts into his chest. He stroked the column of her neck with his thumb, then the base of her ear with gentle swirls.

“I don't even like you,” she murmured as she surrendered.