The Marshal's Pursuit (11 page)

Frank looked to his grandfather.

“I may have said that.”

“May?”

Grandfather drank his coffee. His beard hid any possible grin.

Malia grunted, drawing Frank’s attention again. Her nails scraped at the book’s spine, yet it didn’t ease free of its close-knit neighbors. “Almost...got...it.”

“You could ask for help,” Frank offered before sipping his coffee. He’d move to help her, but the library chair was a leather-covered cloud, and she appeared to have it under control. “Or you could move the ladder, since you are quite determined to do this yourself.”

“Yes,” she said gravely, “I could.”

Frank drank his coffee and waited for her to say more. She didn’t.

Grandfather placed his mug on the table. “She has a point there.”

“How is that a point?” Frank asked.

Neither his grandfather nor Malia proposed an answer.

“Sir, pardon me,” the parlor maid said in a low voice. “Worth is licking my hands. Does this mean something?”

Grandfather looked to Malia. “Well, Governess?”

She released a loud sigh. “I’ve decided it is his means of communicating his desire to go outside. Let me get this book, Ernestina, and then I’ll take him.” Her fingertips continued to scrape against the spine.

“He could want a drink,” Frank supplied. “Or one of Grandfather’s socks.”

Grandfather gave him a look, the one that said
don’t argue with the governess.

“I should take him.” The parlor maid scooped the dog up into her arms. “Madam’s guests won’t notice me.”

Grandfather put down his book, claimed his mug then grabbed his cane, standing. “I’ll walk with you. Josie is sure to be serving cake, and her lady friends are sure to not be eating any.” He stepped around the table. “I’ll return shortly. With cake.”

Frank stared at him. This was the same man who had complained over breakfast of the aching in his knee. “You can have food brought to you.”

“Yes. I could,” he said in the same monotone Malia had used. He continued to the opened door, a step in front of the parlor maid. “Don’t let her fall.”

Frank looked from the departing back of his grandfather to Malia shooting ocular daggers at the wedged book. He put his mug down then walked over. “What’s this book you’re so desperate for?”

“It’s called
Practical Dog Training.
”

A chuckle burst forth. “Grandfather has pulled the wool over you. There isn’t a book in this room with that title.” If there were one, Frank would know because...well, he’d know.

After another scrape of her nails failed to gain purchase of the book, she straightened on the ladder. She grabbed the shelf with both hands and rested her forehead against it, sighing. “I should have just moved the ladder.”

He raised his hands in the air. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Yes, why didn’t you?” With a droll sideways glance, she started down a step.

“Wait,” he rushed out. “Allow me to be of assistance.” He placed his hands on her waist. “I’ll steady you, and you grab the Book That Doesn’t Actually Exist.”

For the longest moment, he didn’t think she was going to move. He didn’t mind. With her tobacco-brown hair piled atop her head, nothing obscured the smooth line of her neck or the soft golden tone to her skin. After a week of shared meals, dog walks, chess and domino matches, and lots of conversations during, after, and in between, he knew her political and religious leanings (same as his), favorite books (not the same as his) and worst childhood experience involving a sibling and scissors (could have been the same if his mother hadn’t rescued him).

His fascination with her had only been compounded upon discovering that Malia Vaccarelli had a sense of humor and wicked competitive streak. The woman had to be his twin. Shadow. Match.

A loss,
she’d repeatedly said,
is only one attempt closer to a win.
And that had been her means of consoling him. Him!

Frank grinned, even though she wasn’t looking at him. Even more so because she wasn’t looking at him. If he managed it right—and he knew how to manage it right—with a little shift in his hold, she would be in his arms. He could do it. He wanted to do it.

His fingers flinched, and that jolted her.

Malia leaned to the side, putting her weight literally in his hands. She snatched the book off the shelf then settled, feet flat, onto the ladder step before dropping down to the bottom step, at eye level. “Voilà.” She held the book before her rising and falling chest, the blue cover facing forward.

Sure enough, in white embossed lettering were the words—

Practical Dog Training:

Or, Training Vs.

Breaking

Stephen Tillinghast Hammond

He met her gaze. “Is this where you gloat?”

Her brows raised a fraction, chin dipped. “Frank Louden, I would have you know,” she lectured in a stern voice that reminded him of his sisters’ old governess, “gloating is, um—” Her lips pinched, trembled. Her face reddened, and he wasn’t too sure she was breathing. She burst out laughing. A lovely, throaty sound, it was elegant yet unrestrained to the proper mores of Society. Nothing could capture her spirit more.

Frank did the only logical thing a situation like this dictated. He moved close. He placed his shoe on the lower step, against hers, and gripped the ladder frame so that in no way could she descend without tripping over him. Unless she was, say, a kangaroo. Or a frog.

He leaned forward a touch. “I believe you’re laughing at me.”

She moistened her lips, schooled her smile, amusement gone. Then her brows rose dubiously. “Is that so?” She glanced around. “Peculiar that you say so, for I hear no laughter.”

“Now who’s too smart for her own good?”

A little hmmph. A little shrug. Then her lashes lowered over her eyes, lips curved mischievously. She met his gaze and—

The ladder, the books, the walls floated away, and all there was, was him and her and this moment. Frank stopped breathing. He wanted to kiss her. He needed to kiss her. From the way she was looking at him, he knew she wanted it too. She wouldn’t instigate it; she was too proper to do anything so bold. Yet her lips parted. A little sigh escaped on her sweet breath. All he had to do was lean forward and draw her achingly close to him. One kiss. One. One touch of his lips to her pink, moist and not particularly unique ones until her Creator, like a master artiste, had added the dot above her lip. Ordinary into extraordinary. But one kiss wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough.

A kiss wasn’t his to have. If he did kiss her, he wouldn’t be able to let her go. He was a marshal. She was a witness. She had to leave New York and start a new life, which meant he had to do the best thing for both of them, even if it meant dying to all he’d wanted. There wasn’t anything more he wanted in this moment than her.

Jesus, I am weak. Be strong in me.

Frank stepped back. He assisted her to the floor. “Why the book?” he said and found solace in the superficiality of the question.

* * *

Malia nipped at her bottom lip. She turned from Mr. Louden and walked to the chairs by the table. He’d almost kissed her. Her heart was still flittering about from the way he’d been looking at her mouth. And she’d done nothing but stand there in hopeful anticipation, practically begging for him to kiss her. Which he didn’t because he wasn’t weak as she was. Splendid. How embarrassing.

With a sigh, she sat in the chair that Mr. Grahame had vacated. Her mind sought what it was that Mr. Louden had asked her, and her gaze fell to the book she clenched to her chest.

Mr. Louden reclaimed his seat and his coffee.

“Your grandmother adores Worth.” She silently cheered that her voice sounded normal. “In gratitude to her, I feel I should at least attempt to teach him proper etiquette, even if it is only to sit upon command. I went to your grandfather for advice, and he said he’d look into finding me a book.”

He relaxed against the back of his chair, his left leg stretched out before him. “He did train his hunting dogs.” Instead of looking at her, he stared absently at the window across from them. He seemed distracted, maybe a bit unsure. And from what she knew of Frank Louden, he wasn’t a man to wallow in self-doubt.

Since he said no more, Malia opened the book and forced her mind to focus on the words.

The minutes passed slowly. With each turn of the page, her pulse returned to normal, and she forgot about what could have happened and the awkward aftermath. Mr. Louden found a book to read too.

Eventually Mr. Grahame returned with Ernestina and Worth, and without any cake. Malia insisted he take the nicer chair. After settling on the window seat, and in the warm rays of the sun, she resumed reading. The occasional turning of a page was the only sound in the room. Her pupil was a bit older than the puppy age recommended best for training, but for the first time since being volunteered to be his “governess,” she felt more equipped for the task.

Minutes passed in companionable silence.

“Oh, Mr. Louden, listen to this.” Malia held the book to chin level. “
You should also speak to him using intelligent, rational language, such as you would use in talking to a ten-year-old boy, and you will be surprised at how soon he will understand your conversation.
Why ten? Why not nine or eleven or fifteen? Shouldn’t one talk to a dog as one does to any age boy? Or a man for that matter?”

She turned to him. His eyes were closed, head resting against the back of the chair, open book flat on his chest. She could imagine him just like that except with a wheat-blond child asleep on his lap. His wife would replace the book with a blanket and then caress the child’s cheek before leaving a kiss on his. Her heart ached.

“Are you asleep?” she asked.

An easy grin returned to Mr. Louden’s face. “Woof. Woof, woof.”

Chapter 11

[The perfect guest] has merely acquired a habit, born of many years of arduous practise, of turning everything that looks like a dark cloud as quickly as possible for the glimmer of a silver lining.

—Emily Price Post,
Etiquette

Day fifteen of twenty-one
9:16 a.m.

M
alia’s fingers nipped at the bits of jerky and crackers in her apron pocket as she stood just inside the entrance to the French drawing room. A week’s worth of study and training prepared her for adding a second pupil. “Madam, before we begin, it is imperative you understand that Worth is cunning and obstinate.”

Mrs. Grahame in a teal day dress sat with her back turned to her desk. She said nothing, nor did her stately expression communicate any emotion except unabashed interest in what Malia had to say next.

Mr. Louden, sitting in a chair next to her, though, leaned against his grandmother’s shoulder. In a loud whispered voice, he said, “You’re paying her
how much
to tell you something everyone in this house already knows?”

She shushed him. “Go on, Miss Carr.”

Malia dipped her head. “Thank you, madam. Being that he is cunning and obstinate, Worth will persistently refuse to obey, which is why it is imperative that you exercise firmness, patience and kindness.”

She glanced down at Worth, who still sat as she’d commanded him. After seven days of lessons, he had one trick down.

“Good sit,” she said sweetly and gave him a treat. She looked to her human pupil. “Dogs do not by instinct understand the English language.”

Mr. Louden held a hand up. “How about French? Grandmother knows French.”

For all his sassy looks, alluring cedar cologne and fine-tailored suit, Malia ignored him. “A dog obeys a certain command given by a particular person because he has learned that sounds uttered are to be followed by some act of his own. When a dog loves his master, his greatest pleasure will be the sense that he is pleasing you.” She looked to Worth, sweetly repeated, “Good sit,” and then gave him another jerky.

“Is it necessary I carry treats on me?” Mrs. Grahame inquired.

Mr. Louden opened his mouth, and Malia cut him off with a look.

“No, madam,” she answered. “While you are training Worth, be unstinting with your praise. When he has behaved creditably, your adulation will be his chief reward.” She paused. She needed to be serious. Indeed, she did. This was, after all, a serious moment of instruction for Mrs. Grahame’s benefit. But a minute in Frank’s presence brought out her cheekiness.

She kept her voice level. “Although, common to those of the male sex, a bit of some food he likes should often accompany the kind words, and you will win his devotion.”

Mr. Louden’s smile turned positively serene. “I’m in love.”

Mrs. Grahame gave him a look, one Malia didn’t find hard to interpret:
Oh, Frank, hush.

“Lessons,” Malia continued, “should be given two to three times a day, and should be short. Madam, if you would please approach—”

“Frank!” Mr. Grahame’s deep-chested voice came from the foyer behind her.

Malia looked over her shoulder as he strode into the drawing room, gripping an unfolded newspaper, another in the hand that maneuvered his cane. He looked unnerved.

“A photograph finally made the dailies.” He handed a paper to his grandson.

Malia hurried to Frank’s side. Her eyes widened. Sure enough, on the front page was a black-and-white image she’d never seen before or even remembered being taken. Edwin Daly in a dress jacket. Her in the yellow-and-black Jeanne Paquin gown, the one she’d worn to the fund-raiser for the Museum of Art. That was ten months ago. The headline—

Oh, she felt sick.

It said—

ASSISTANT D.A. FIANCÉE MISSING

Mr. Louden’s fingers tightened around the paper. “A $1,000 reward is offered for anyone with information leading to her whereabouts.”

No one spoke.

Malia took the paper—ripped it, actually—from him. How could anyone think she and Mr. Daly were a couple by this photograph? He faced the camera, posing, but she stood off to the side, clearly talking to someone else. She drew in a calming breath. There was no need to panic. This was a good thing. It had to be, right? That Daly was offering a reward meant the mafiosi
still had no idea where she was. Irene and those at the special prosecutor’s office who helped her were still safe. No one had been beaten into confessing where she was.

Mrs. Grahame touched Malia’s arm. “Darling, you don’t look well.”

Malia wet her lips nervously and swallowed. “It, uh...I think, uh—” She cut herself off. A panicked chuckle threatened to burst from her throat. Frank would know what to do. She didn’t have to worry. He would keep her safe. She waited for him to look her way, for him to tell her everything would be fine, that he had a plan. The seconds stretched, it seemed, into hours.

Malia willed him to look at her. To hold and comfort her. Please.

His hand moved toward hers, then fisted and drew back.

“What do we do now?” Mr. Grahame put in.

“Frank,” prodded his grandmother.

“I need—” His jaw shifted. He ran a hand through his hair. “I need to call Henkel.” His gaze settled on his grandfather, whose blue eyes mirrored the gravity in his own. “He needs to convince the judge to move up the deposition date. Every day now is one closer to the mafiosi
finding her. More than ever, we need to keep Malia hidden.” And he strode from the room.

In good news, Worth still sat where Malia had ordered him.

Grahame Kitchen
Day sixteen of twenty-one
10:08 a.m.

Frank leaned against the door frame and looked past his grandfather, the chef and the kitchen maid to the person he desired most to see. Her back to him, Malia stood at the counter cradling a metal bowl. She scraped a wooden spoon around its sides. Since learning of her photo in the papers yesterday, she had said little to him, even while they’d played bridge last night with his grandparents. She seemed sad. No, that wasn’t it. Pensive.

He’d leave her alone, but they needed to talk.

He gently tapped the wrapped book he held against his thigh. “You are a hard person to find, when you don’t want to be found.”

Her gaze stayed on the mixing bowl. “Who said I didn’t want to be found?”

“Grandmother.”

“Oh.”

Grandfather rose from the table by the window. He nodded at Frank then motioned to the chef and kitchen maid at the stove. They left through the serving door. Grandfather walked to Frank, patted his shoulder then left too.

When Malia said no more, Frank put in, “What are you making?”

“Italian cookies. Mr. Grahame didn’t believe me when I told him I knew how to cook.” Her arm paused in stirring. She drew in a breath then resumed the motion. “Nonna insisted on teaching me all her recipes. She’d say—” her voice pitched higher “—
Someday, little Malia, I may not have servants and live in a fine house, and then who will cook for me?
And I would yell,
I will.
She never expected Nonno’s good fortune in America to last.”

Frank pushed himself away from the door frame and strolled to the counter. “I’m sorry.”

That got her attention. She looked up. “For what?”

“I’m sorry they died and left you alone.” Frank slid the paper-wrapped book onto the stacked tin baking sheets on the counter. He watched as the pensive thoughts she’d had for the past twenty-four hours collided in a fury that brightened her eyes. Liquid amber. He’d seen her cry over her circumstances. It was high time for her to get angry.

She dropped the wooden spoon in the bowl that contained a creamy mixture he guessed to be butter, sugar and maybe an egg or two. She then smacked the bowl onto the counter.

“I have my brother who is a notorious gangster and, likely, a murderer.” She spoke in a voice colder than he’d ever heard from her. “Nonno and Papà were criminals too, so some would say I am better off with them dead. Don’t feel sorry for me, Mr. Louden.” She took a step to leave, but he grabbed her wrist and held firm.

“You don’t believe that.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because they loved you.” It was all he could do not to grab her shoulders and shake sense into her. “Something’s been nagging at me for the past two weeks. Van Kelly didn’t survive in the shadows on his own cleverness. He needed minions to do his dirty work, connections to protect his identity.”

Her gaze shifted to his grip.

Frank let go. To his relief she didn’t flee.

He rested his hand on a gun hilt. Since they’d arrived in Tuxedo, he hadn’t felt the need to be armed. Until this morning. Gut instinct, Holy Spirit impression, he wasn’t sure which, but neither was he ignoring the feeling. “Why do you think Van Kelly sent his precious sister to do something that put her directly in danger?”

Her mouth opened, jaw shifted as she tried to form words, to find words. “I—I don’t know,” she said curtly.

Frank knew, or at least he thought he had her brother’s motives figured out. After discussing it earlier that morning with his grandfather, he felt more confident that his hunch—that what he hoped was true—was on target. “He did it because he trusted you more than anyone else.”

She blanched. Her gaze fell to the mixing bowl, and a wry chuckle came forth. “There, you’re wrong. Giovanni doesn’t trust me any more than Papà or Nonno did. He told me about the safe because I’m the only Vaccarelli left alive to help him. Vaccarellis always help one another.”

“He could have sent his lawyer.”

“No,” she countered. “Giovanni insisted he needed him with him at the jail.”

“He could have sent one of the coppers he buys off. He could have sent a score of others, but he didn’t, Malia.” Frank rested his hands gently on her shoulders. She stiffened. “He sent you, the sister he swore to protect, because he loves you and—” He stopped at the spark of pain in her eyes.

But he couldn’t stop.

He cared for her too much to not help her see the truth.

He gave her shoulders a little squeeze then lowered his hands. “Giovanni knew exactly what you would do when you found the sourdough.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “He knew I would call Irene?”

“Who else in your life will help you without qualms?”

She hesitated. “No one.”

I will,
Frank wanted to yell. She could come to him and he would help her. If he loved her—if she were his—he would cross mountains and deserts and streams for her. “Your brother knew you had no one but your close friend Irene, who just so happens to be a lawyer. When a girl finds counterfeit bills in a family safe in her home, the first thing she needs is a lawyer.”

With her fingertips, she rubbed her eyes, shaking her head. “It doesn’t make sense. What is it you see and I don’t?”

“Tell me what you did after you found the sourdough.”

While her look was peeved, it held none of the earlier anger. She drew the wooden spoon back and forth in the butter mixture. “Well, I called Irene because I knew I couldn’t go to the family lawyers. I didn’t—I couldn’t—trust them.”

“Then what?”

“Irene suggested we turn the money over to the special prosecutor because I don’t trust coppers.”

He raised his brows in false indignation. “You don’t trust me?”

Another peeved look. “You’re different.”

“Thank you.” Then before she could respond, he added, “I know. It wasn’t a compliment.”

She tried not to smile.

He didn’t smile either. At first.

Frank refocused on his mission. “You didn’t know Irene had called the marshal service, so what were you planning on doing next?”

A blush stole across her cheeks. “It was naive of me to think that I could, but, if I hadn’t mentioned the list, I would’ve walked out of that office and returned—” The spoon slid from her hand and banged against the side of the metal bowl.

“Home,” he finished. He reached to her cheek. “Eyelash,” he said, brushing it off with the side of his thumb. “If you had done that, the mafiosi
would have snatched you before you could have made it inside the Waldorf.”

She blinked. “I would be in their protective custody.”

Or dead. Likely dead, considering she could connect her brother and four other mafiosi
bosses with Mad Dog Miller’s death. She wasn’t significant enough to keep alive.

“Malia, every action you made that day was you being the good Christian girl you are.”

“And you think Giovanni counted on that?”

“You aren’t a complex woman.”

She dumped the premeasured flour mixture into the mixing bowl. “Your flattery has no bounds.”

He loved every ounce of her sarcasm. “Giovanni also counted on a lawyer doing what she should by getting her client protection. Despite how much he hates coppers, he had to know you would be safer with the marshals.”

She gripped the bowl with one hand and stirred the mixture, combining the flour with the cream. “Let’s say this is true, and I did exactly what Giovanni counted on me doing.”

Her head tilted ever so much to the side as she looked at him. And she said something. Or not. Frank wasn’t sure beyond that her lips moved. He stared. He couldn’t stop. It wasn’t her lips or her perfectly shaped face or the sun-kissed glow to her skin. It wasn’t even her wit or ability to laugh with abandon, or how she honored and respected his grandparents with no pretense, manipulative flattery or self-interested deception.

He couldn’t stop because it was
how
she looked at him. How she looked at everyone on the Grahame estate. Unveiled.

Who Malia Vaccarelli was was there in her eyes. No mysteries. No secrets. Yes, she was beautiful, gloriously beautiful, but it wasn’t her beauty that drew people to her, drew him to her. She loved and served and treated others with kindness because doing so was as natural to her as breathing. A woman like her invited a man to love. Invited him to put down his sword and rest. He adored her. He loved—

His breath literally whooshed from his body.

Frank leaned back against the edge of the counter. Two things. That’s all he had to do—keep her safe and guard his heart—and he couldn’t even accomplish the easiest one.