Hooked (4 page)

In spite of her resolve, Meg pondered Grandma Nettie's words.
Our intentions are to ruin his meal by locking ourselves on the ornamental iron fence along the north facade.
By doing that, her grandmother was going to throw Washington into chaos. The operative
word was going to be
scandalous.
Meg hadn't done anything scandalous in far too long. She'd never thought about seeing the White House up close. Maybe she could . . .

No.
She couldn't possibly. She was through with misadventure.

Tamping the wayward thought, Meg walked toward the cabinet where she kept cigars. When she'd entered the lobby, she'd noticed the silver tray on the conversation table had been nearly empty of Pilsens. As her special touch, she'd purchased cigars for the men and a cuspidor, placed by the front door
on the outside
—Meg didn't abide indoor spitting. She'd arranged for tea and scones to be brought over in the afternoon for the ladies. Fresh flowers on the fireplace mantel brightened the area every day. And when she could manage it, a violinist for evening enjoyment.

Although Delbert Long was the only violinist she knew—and really, it wasn't a violin he played; it was a fiddle. But beggars couldn't be choosers.

Meg had gotten no farther than five or so paces when she heard an ominous rip. Wide-eyed, she stopped dead in her tracks and slowly looked down. She could feel the damage before she could actually see it.

A silky slippage of material passed her hips and thighs as the snapped elastic and torn waistband began to make its embarrassing descent.

She felt through the fabric of her skirt, grabbed what she could and sidled her way back to the counter. Reaching over the registry, she fumbled for the room keys that were kept on individual hooks. She took the first one her fingers touched, then lifted herself on tiptoe to view the inside of Grandma Nettie's sewing
basket. Spotting a safety pin, she stole that as well. With the loose gathers of her petticoat around her hips, and her skirt riding high above her calves, she shot up the stairs without a backward glance.

Knees knocking together, Meg half-walked, half-ran across the carpet runner in the hall. She glanced at the circular tag on the key ring. Room thirty-two. In her haste, she hadn't noticed if two keys had been on the desk hook. One meant the room was occupied and two meant it was vacant. The hotel would be full by this weekend when all the fly fishermen arrived in Harmony for the tournament. A few already had registered and were in residence now. Thankfully, none were in view.

Almost stumbling to keep her underskirt from falling past her knees, Meg started skimming the numbers on doors.

Coming to room thirty-two, she bunched her skirt in her left hand and inserted the key with her right. Before she turned the knob, she rapped twice on the door and waited to the count of fifteen.

No answer.

Letting her breath out, she slipped inside the room and shut the door behind her.

Meg made quick inspection of the furnishings. Not a single piece of luggage or any personal effects in sight. Thank goodness. Spring sunshine spilled in from the window and made a pattern on the floor that stretched to the closed bathroom door. After tossing the key onto the bed, she relaxed and her petticoat fell to her ankles. Opening the safety pin, she held it in her mouth, then wadded her Manchester cloth skirt to her waist and bent to hoist her petticoat over her ankles and knees to her hips.

With a wiggle, Meg brought the torn waistband to its proper place.

Not the best seamstress, Meg realized after the fact, her stitches were too far apart. Tightness and neatness her mother always said when making a seam. Well, Meg was too impatient for that. She'd revamped all five of her petticoats in under an hour flat, and was rather proud of herself for her speed.

Just as she matched the raveled edges of waistband, caught the elastic, and was about to take the pin from her mouth, the bathroom door opened and Meg's head shot up. Shock flew through her as a man—half
naked
—stood in the doorway.

“Oh my,” she exclaimed. The starched white muslin in her grasp fell, and the entire petticoat collapsed in a pile around her feet.

A towel was wrapped around his lean middle, and she couldn't help staring at his navel. Coarse black hair swirled there, very lightly sprinkled. And against a belly so flat she could iron a shirtwaist on it and not have a single wrinkle. Upward . . . a chest like a washboard and shoulders wider than she'd ever noticed on a man.

Tall and muscular, with wet hair the color of midnight, a slight growth of beard, bushy brows tapered just enough to be utterly handsome, a set of eyes too dreamy a green for words. And the nicest shaped mouth she'd ever seen.

“Where did you come from?” His voice, so manly and . . . deep, sent a delightful shiver through her body. Not to mention, his gaze ran over her hotter than her hair curler when she forgot about it on the lamp. She could almost feel the sizzle in the air, as he lowered his eyes to her stocking-clad legs.

Mortification shot through her like a dart and she dropped her skirt.

Other than that modest gesture, she couldn't move. She was too stunned to do anything more than keep her lips together in an effort not to swallow the safety pin.

“Hello,” she managed, through the pin in her teeth.

“Who are you?” Aside from his question and the furrow in his brow, the man seemed undaunted to find an uninvited female in his room.

“Ah . . . Miss Mah-eg Bah-rooks.” She spit the safety pin into her hand. “I'm Miss Meg Brooks.”
Uh-oh. She'd introduced herself wrong.
She should have said
Margaret,
not Meg. Flustered, she'd forgotten she'd changed her name to sound more sophisticated. But there was no taking it back now without looking like an idiot. So she just kept talking. “My father owns the hotel.”

He showed no outward discomfort—being nearly nude in front of her, and all. She, on the other hand, felt the onset of dizziness. For all her talk about wanting a man to notice her, here she was face-to-face with one, and she had an overwhelming urge to run and hide.

Only she was frozen to the spot.

Greenish-gold eyes narrowed. “What happened to you?”

Trying to keep a modicum of dignity, she said, “I had a bit of an . . . accident. You see my . . .” Her mother's stern warning sounded inside her head. She was told a young lady never mentioned an article of clothing to a man—ever. Even if he was her husband. So a straightforward explanation was out of the question. “I, that is my . . .” Meg's voice trailed. Why
couldn't she just say the word
petticoat
in front of him and explain what happened? Had all the lessons in deportment finally sunk in?

Meg gazed at the layers of petticoat covering her shoes that looked a lot like ripples of untoasted meringue, then lifted her eyes. At length, she took the coward's way out and hoped he wouldn't notice she didn't give him a definitive answer. “Are you finding your accommodations here sufficient? Is there anything you require?”

He took a few steps, and she noted his stomach never flinched in the least. It stayed just as taut and hard when he moved. Even though her skirts covered her legs, her petticoat stuck out like a red flag. He gave it a glance, then slowly lifted his eyes to her face. Studying her. Intently. Meg swallowed.

Giving her a crooked smile, he said, “Have you come to turn down my bed?”

Meg wasn't sure if she'd heard him correctly. “W-what?”

“You asked me if I needed anything.”

“Yes, well . . . I can have . . . Delbert . . .”

“I don't imagine Delbert is as pretty as you.”

Pretty?
He thought she was pretty.

Meg felt a warming shiver across her skin.

He took a step toward the bed and she got an eyeful of his broad back. Wide and rippling with muscles. Then he turned to face her and Meg's gaze fell on the tuck in his towel, thinking that it didn't look very secure and could fall off at any moment. Her throat went dry.

He said, “If you haven't come to turn the bed down, have you brought my bags?”

Guiltily flashing her gaze upward, she said in a rush,
“You have bags?”
Why hadn't he taken them up with him?

“When I left the train station, I did. All I have with me is my case.”

That explained it A haphazard check in.
“Oh . . . then I'm certain Delbert will get them for you.”

Think, Meg!
She had to get out of here. If anyone found out she was in a hotel room with a half-naked man, she would be ruined. The image of the cultivated lady she'd worked so hard to portray would fizzle. To think, she'd just been contemplating a scandal. Well, if this wasn't scandalous behavior, she didn't know what was.

Escape
was the operative word here. But not until she could walk without tripping on her unmentionables. How did one make herself look a lot more at ease and calm pulling up her muslin and pinning it while a man watched? She just couldn't. Not even the old Meg had that much nerve.

The heat on her cheeks burned hotter than a stove. It took every bit of self-reliance she could collect to plan her retreat—a retreat she wasn't sure she wanted to make. After all, he was gorgeous. Positively the most attractive man she'd ever seen nearly naked. Who was she fooling? He was the
only
man she'd ever seen nearly naked.

Miss Edwina's words drifted to her:
When a woman is approached by a man she hasn't been introduced to, she must ask for his calling card to ensure he has “Mr.” in front of his name and has listed his street and number.
Meg was certain her man in the towel didn't have one on him. Bother it anyway, she had to leave or else face consequences she couldn't repair.

Stepping out of her petticoat, she dipped down and
bunched it in her fists. “I have to be going now.” She pressed the stiff cloth against her breasts, keeping her arms crossed and covering as much fabric as she could.

“If you need anything . . . don't, ah, hesitate to ask at the front desk.” With a backward walk, she managed to get to the door and clutch the knob. Turning with what she hoped appeared to be a polished gracefulness, she opened the door. Checking first to see if the coast was clear, she hadn't taken a single step out of the room.

Grandma Nettie came down the hallway escorting the new arrival to his room while Delbert Long rolled the second-story bellman's cart right behind them
and
directly toward her.

Meg slammed the door and pressed her back against it, the petticoat still at her breasts—only one-handed now. The other hand was like a vise on the doorknob.

“Another accident?” the man queried. A single brow rose in a wry arch.

Panic welling in her throat, Meg couldn't reply.

The sharp reverberation against her shoulder blade as the wooden door panel was knocked on, made Meg jump away as if she'd been scorched.

More knocking. Then: “Porter, sir,” came Delbert's announcement.

Standing in the middle of the room, looking helplessly from one end of the bed to the bureau and fireplace and the bathroom door, she didn't know where to hide. And when the man proceeded toward her with that damp towel looking ready to fall off, she squeezed her eyes closed and took in a deep breath. Certainly no help for the situation, but if that towel unwrapped from his middle and exposed him, she
didn't want to see. On the other hand, she could look through the fringe of her lashes and he wouldn't be the wiser . . .

Precariously close to her ear, and in a whisper so deliciously low and baritone it caused her to literally gasp, he bade, “Go into the bathroom and close the door.”

Her bearings crashing in on her from the deepness of his voice, her eyes flew open. Through the repeated knock on the door, she said, “I can't hide in there. You don't know Delbert.”

Having no choice, she made a dash for the bed and scrambled down. She tucked herself beneath the mattress frame, making sure the full width of her skirt hem had been pulled in and hidden with her. Scooting into the middle, she roused the dust bunnies from the floor. The flying tufts of lint made her think she had to sneeze. She buried her nose in the wad of her petticoat and peered over the cloth.

She couldn't see the man's feet. He'd gone to the door. It opened and Delbert gave a hearty greeting.

“Good afternoon, sir. My apologies for the delay in fetching your luggage. As you can see, the matter has been rectified. I'll put them where you like.”

The porter entered the room and came straight to the bed and stopped. Meg stared at his shoes. Lace ups. Calf-skin bluchers. In need of polishing on the right heel.

“Criminy sakes alive,” the man declared in a put-out tone, “I wondered if my luggage had been left on the train and was headed for the nether parts of the region to be seized upon by vagabonds.”

Meg's mouth fell open.

“Not to worry, sir,” Delbert assured. “Where shall I put your things?”

“The bed will be fine, my good fellow,” the man directed. She couldn't see him. He must have remained by the door.

What happened to him?
His words had just shattered her illusion of his perfect manliness. Mr. Oh-So-Wonderful suddenly had the speech of a mildewed scholar.

Meg's nose itched. She rubbed it in the muslin.

Delbert walked away, then returned once more and set articles on the bed; it creaked some. The springs were slightly worn.

Two bare feet came close, then disappeared into the bathroom. He came back and stood by the bed once more. She studied his masculine toes. Nicely shaped. The nails clean with perfect trimmed whites. Some dark hairs over the tops of his knuckles. Low arches. She thought they were very beautiful for being feet.