Hooked (7 page)

M
atthew Gage had a weakness for a good cigar and chewing gum.

In the time it took for him to smoke a Havana and read through his notes, he organized his thoughts for a story and pulled together a summation of what he wanted to say before he sat at the typewriter.

He felt lost without his beat up Williams Right-writer. The curved keyboard was worn by his fingertips, and some of the letters were undecipherable, but he knew where to find them in order to hunt and peck the words with his large fingers. He could make that typewriter sing while his stories came to life; when he got going, the typebar looked like a gang of grasshoppers were attacking the page.

The model he had, had a top platen so he could always see what he was writing—not like that ancient American II he used to type on. Five years ago, he won a Silver Press award for his series of articles on corrupt lobbyists and used part of the prize money to buy a new writing machine.

As he walked Sycamore Drive, he felt the lightweight small tablet in his breast pocket. He was a tried and true list maker. Lists for what he knew. Lists for what he wanted to know.

On his arrival into town, the stationmaster had made a comment about the fishing gear in Gage's grasp.

“So, you're going to try your luck,” he'd stated while adjusting the visored cap on his head.

“Yes, sir,” Gage replied in his Wilberforce voice. “I most surely am.”

The stationmaster had nodded. “The best to you. Hopefully this year's competition won't be tarnished.”

“You know,” Gage said scratching his temple, “I did hear about some sort of trouble. Just who won last year?”

Gage's knowledge about last year's tournament was like a puzzle without all the border pieces connecting. He had some of the filler parts matching up, but there were too many small fragments missing to make up a readable whole.

In the jailhouse, Wilberforce had talked up a blue streak about Stratton and the relevant facts about him: He was eighteen last year and a ditch digger for the gasworks in a town outside of Harmony; Wilberforce didn't know which one. He'd also rambled on with his opinions on the various entrants he'd heard were competing this year. Another subject that had him flapping his gums was his fishing prowess. He'd gone on so much about everything else, that he hadn't told Gage who the scoundrel was who'd won.

Just when Gage's patience had been sapped and he'd asked him, Deputy Tweedy had inconveniently
chosen that moment to unlock Gage's cell and release him.

So it wasn't until Gage was standing on the Harmony train platform that he had another chance to ask.

“Last year's winner is somebody I don't like to talk about, mister,” the stationmaster had replied. “He was a good boy. Nobody saw him doing anything wrong. In fact, ask anybody at his fishing spot and they'll attest to the fact that they saw him catch all those fish. So I'd rather not aid the speculation of foul play by speaking his name.”

Gage had left things at that.

No sense stirring up suspicion by pushing for an answer. Somebody would tell him who'd won. In a town this size, names and conversations about them were things people constantly tripped over.

Gripping the doorknob to the tobacconist shop, Gage let himself inside. The store was filled by the rich scent of exotic leaves, some delicate, almost floral. The mix of tobacco flavors in the air were those only a true cigar connoisseur could appreciate.

Gage strolled to the glass counter and leisurely gazed into the case. He had the outward appearance of being in no particular hurry. Like he was the chatting sort of fellow who had all the time in the world, when in reality, if he didn't find out what he wanted to know here, he'd be antsy to move on to the next business.

With a cultivated eye, he skimmed the names on the decorative and colorful boxes, and waited for the clerk to finish with a customer. He was surprised by the variety of smokes. From Sumatras to Te-Amo to Upmann red bands.

As he took in an engraved silver holder, the door opened behind him.

Being a newspaper man, he was naturally curious. He had an innate ability to see news and story potential in everything around him. The best place to start a column was by getting to know people, making himself real friendly and approachable. So he turned to see who had entered the store.

The moment he did, Gage's false smile froze and he was struck with an invisible punch to his gut.
It was her.

Meg Brooks.

He'd spent a long night with his mind wandering to her instead of staying focused on fishing manifests.

She looked exactly as he remembered her. Pretty was too simple a word for her. Tantalizing was more like it. Sunlight from the window came in to illuminate the dress that hugged her every curve.

Yesterday, he'd used the better part of his thoughts on the provocative nature of her stockinged legs—even after she'd put her skirt down. Today, she had her hair done up in a smooth roll, anchored beneath a large hat that tilted at an alluring angle. If he didn't already know the color of her eyes, he wouldn't have been able to make them out. The brim of her hat kept part of her face in shadow; her rose-colored mouth remained in full view. Such an unwittingly seductive appearance had Gage's every nerve ending focused on her.

“Why, Mr. Wilberforce,” Meg declared. “Imagine my running into you here.”

“Imagine.” The word sounded rough to his ears, with the promise that “imagine” could be a whole lot more. Then he remembered he was supposed to be
Wilberforce and he inwardly cursed. “I'll be a ringtailed polecat What a coincidence.” He cringed at his ridiculous speech. But Meg didn't seem to notice he sounded as stale as week-old bread. She beamed as bright as the sunshine outside.

“Yes, this certainly
is
a coincidence.”

If only for his perverse amusement, Gage said, “Great Scott. Don't tell me you smoke cigars, Miss Brooks.”

“Goodness, no.” Then her delicate brows furrowed with inward panic. “Why do you ask?” A stain of pink colored her cheeks with an obvious implication:
She'd tried smoking cigars before.

In a lowered tone, she ventured, “You don't think it's sophisticated for a woman to smoke cigars, do you?”

Gage spoke before he thought. “I think anything a woman does that's daring can be highly alluring.” Then he caught himself before he went too far with
his
opinion. Wilberforce had his own ideas. So Gage grew equally as hushed and added, “But it all depends on the woman. Hussies smoke cigars, or so I've been told. I did hear of a woman who was called Madame Cigar by her customers. Of course I've never met her.”

“No. Certainly not. I'd never imply that you had.” Clearly nonplused, the dash of nutmeg in her brown eyes lightened. “It's just that my brother, Wayne—he's in college—he wrote me a letter and said it's all the go for the ladies on campus to smoke cigars. Well, not all of them. Just some. Those who aren't stuffy. So there might not be anything wrong with a lady smoking a cigar.”

Unable to help himself, Gage commented, “Then you really are here buying yourself a box of cigars.”

“Oh, no. I should clarify. Yes, I'm in the store to buy cigars but
not
to smoke them. Why, my goodness, if it looks like I'm here for personal enjoyment, I'll have to have Delbert purchase the cigars from now on.” Then she grew contemplative. “If you had seen this Madame Cigar—which you haven't—you don't suppose I would look like the type of woman who smokes cigars, do you, Mr. Wilberforce? Without being cheap, I mean.”

Taken aback by her rationale to be an accepted cigar smoker, he took in the fit of her dress: the white blouse waist that clung softly to her small bosom and the narrow nip of her waist in a fashionable skirt. An edge of petticoat lace showed. Her attire said she considered herself à la mode—a real modern woman. And she was. He recognized the cut of her clothing as being the rage. The only reason he was up to date on the current state of fashions was because he always read
The Chronicle
from cover to back.

He could picture her with a cigar between her fingers and her mane of copper hair down, wearing nothing but that petticoat she liked to tease the boardwalks with and a pink satin corset.

After a moment, he lied. “No. I don't believe you do.”

She grew crestfallen, as if disappointed by his answer. But her reply voiced the opposite. “Oh, thank goodness.”

Gage couldn't help saying, “You could always defy appearances and take the habit up.” He gave her a slight smile. “I'd even recommend my personal favorite.”

“You would?” Then she blinked. “I mean, you shouldn't. I couldn't consider smoking.”

“Why not?” he drawled.

She stared at him, and for a few seconds, he allowed himself to explore the many facets of her gaze: the feminine length and curl of her eyelashes, the arch of her curved brows, the soft glint of expectation in her eyes, and the slightly expanded pupils that were a dark contrast.

“Because I . . .” She gave him no concrete reason why. “But even though I don't smoke, I do know about cigars.” She added, “I have to. I'm a businesswoman.”

“Indeed?”

Her gloved hands clutched her pocketbook handle quite primly. “I buy three boxes a week. And not those Jamaican brands, but real Cubans. Pilsens. Four dollars and thirty-five cents a box.”

Gage couldn't resist removing his square-crowned hat with its short brim like a derby's, and tucking it beneath his arm while nodding. “By gum, you do know your cigars, Miss Brooks. My apologies.”

She looped her handbag through her arm, then fidgeted with the buttons on her gloves. “Tell me, Mr. Wilberforce, are you a jewelry salesman?”

However she got that notion, he couldn't guess. “No.”

“Are you a traveling man? Do you sell things?”

He sold human interest stories. Articles that got a rise out of readers. Pieces that made him the hot topic of the day and the words of his column on the mouths of people—whether they agreed with him or not. He couldn't recall what it was like not to be a journalist; he couldn't imagine doing anything else.

But she wasn't asking about him. She was asking about Wilberforce.

Gage knew enough generalities about Wilberforce to fill a scrapbook. He'd had to memorize everything he could about the man he was impersonating.

Biting back an oath, Gage revealed, “Bissell carpet sweepers.” He'd cursed more than once that Wilberforce sold Bissells. Why couldn't he have had another occupation?

“Carpet sweepers?”

“The whole line,” he said without so much as a pause. “Baby sweeper, child sweeper, grand rapids, prize and regular grand.”

They didn't have the chance to say anything further, as the clerk came over to them just as the other customer exited the store.

“I'm sorry for the delay, sir.” A large handlebar mustache took up his entire upper lip like one of the many cigars he sold, but his voice was pleasant. Not too gravely. Gage noted his fingernails as he slipped currency into the cash register tray. They were clean; suit and tie hands. Gage noticed everything. Always. A habit too old to break.

Then to Meg, the clerk nodded his recognition. “Miss Brooks.”

“Mr. Farley.”

Farley tossed his glance from Meg to Gage. “Do you two know each other?”

Gage observed her hesitation; a slight gnawing on her lip. He could all but read her thoughts:
How did a lady confess that she'd met a gentleman in his hotel room without her petticoat on?

“Yes, we do,” Gage supplied when Meg remained stone silent. “We met yesterday. Quite by accident.”
Then to her, he gave her a smile bordering on wickedness. “I hope you haven't lost your handkerchief again.”

“My what?”

Gage let his gaze slide down her breasts, waist, and hips . . . straight to her toes where a tease of petticoat dusted the tops of her shoes. He almost could have sworn she shivered. “Your handkerchief.”

Her eyes followed his; then she let out a nervous laugh. Raising her gaze she put a hand to her throat. “Oh, my . . . yes. My handkerchief. No, I haven't lost it today. Thank you again for helping me . . . um, find it.”

He fought the temptation to burst out laughing, but it had been so long since he had laughed, the effort was too rusty to release. He fit his hat back on his head and gave it a tap on the brim for good measure. Such a ridiculous gesture, but it went with the act.

Turning toward Farley, he extended his hand. “How do you do? Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Wilberforce. But call me,” the word gritted past his teeth, “Vernon. I'll be in Harmony for the next few weeks. I'm here for the fly-fishing competition.”

Farley took his offering. Strong and sure grip. A regular fellow. “L. Farley. I own the store.” He broke away and tucked one hand into his vest pocket. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you sell Ybor's?”

“Yes I do.”

“I'll take five.”

Farley nodded. “And for you, Miss Brooks? The usual?”

“Yes, Mr. Farley,” she replied in a voice that was self-assured. “And I also need a cigar clipper.”

While Farley put up their orders, Gage remembered something. “You said you were a businesswoman in need of cigars. Could you elaborate for me, Miss Brooks? I find few women in business for themselves.”

She flushed. “Why, I'm not exactly the owner of my own business. As I said, my father owns the hotel and I'm helping out in his absence.”

Farley came to the counter with three boxes of Pilsens, then set off again for the Ybor's.

“The cigars are for the gentlemen,” she said without so much as a blink of an eye.

He shouldn't have cared who she was buying the cigars for. But she said “gentlemen” so casually, he couldn't dispel the wryness from his tone. “The gentlemen?”