Love in Disguise

by Barbara Baldwin

  “I love you, Abby. I know my heart would stop beating if anything happened to you.”

  She gave him a smile, her hands on his cheeks forcing his gaze to meet hers.

  “You are my husband, my hero, my life. Do you think I would let anything happen and have you wandering around this earth without me to look after you?”

  Laughing, he picked her up and dropped her on the bed, following her down. Their lovemaking escalated quickly as she tore off his clothes. Only when he was deep inside her did she finally quiet, holding him tight in a tangle of arms and legs. He savored the throbbing feel of her sheath surrounding him.

  “I want your baby, Max. I want to feel a child of yours growing inside me. Think of it—creating a new life from the love we share.”

  Max’s passion-soaked brain took a minute to process Abby’s words. Suddenly, the seed he released into her body took on new meaning. When she hugged him to her, he escalated the rhythm, pulling back only slightly before sinking into her again and again. His climax came quickly. Together they reached the summit and soared among the clouds.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Later that afternoon, Max took Abby to Woodward’s Gardens. They walked among the extended series of conservatories and then around the ponds.

  “It’s lovely,” she said, sinking to a bench to watch a pair of sea lions on the rockwork in the center of the pond. Their noses were close together, like they were kissing. Or maybe it just seemed that love was everywhere, she thought, since she was seeing the world through different eyes. She looked at Max. He had forgone a disguise today, and his dark hair shone in the sunlight. One booted foot rested on the bench beside her skirts, his arms crossed on his thigh. His forehead wrinkled slightly, his gaze on the horizon.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  His startling blue gaze met hers.

  “I’m sorry for the hurried way we married.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I didn’t allow you any say in the matter, and now here we are, in the middle of this dilemma with Dillon, and you didn’t even get a proper honeymoon.”

  “Oh, Max.” She felt tears in her eyes. “Do you think that matters to me as long as I’m with you?” She reached to clasp his hand.

  “Somehow I thought you would say that,” he replied with a smile. He lowered himself to one knee in front of her. From his coat pocket, he took an emerald ring, sliding it onto her finger with her wedding band.

  “Abby, will you marry me once I can get you back to Boston?”

  “Oh, my, how romantic.”

  Abby heard the whisper and twittering from two old ladies who walked by.

  The devil in her came out.

  “I will, sir, and I only hope our baby doesn’t arrive before the minister.”

  Identical gasps from the eavesdropping old women had Abby near to bursting with giggles. She watched them hurry away on the gravel path. Max’s head came up, eyes alight with laughter.

  “You are an imp,” he chuckled.

  “They shouldn’t have been listening to a private conversation.”

  He looked from side to side.

  “Hardly that, being in the middle of Woodward’s Gardens where the entirety of San Francisco appears to be having an outing today.”

  “Well, it’s not like we will ever see them again. San Francisco is entirely too large a city for that encounter.”

  * * *

  On Friday, Abby carried her own sheet music with her, secured in a small leather portfolio. Max would have liked something larger in case he found incriminating papers, but she insisted they must not appear as though they were thieves ready to cart off the family sterling. She reminded him that Phoenix would be posted outside and he would be able to pass off the information to his agent if necessary.

  He found Winifred Dillon likeable, for she reminded him of Aunt Elizabeth. That fleeting thought almost made him stop snooping, until he reminded himself that parents didn’t necessarily control the way their children turned out. Just look at him. While Abby and Mrs. Dillon conversed prior to the arrival of the other guests, he politely requested a look through the late Mr. Dillon’s library. He gave Mrs. Dillon his most charming smile. She could hardly refuse, especially since his smile was directly above his cleric’s collar.

  He’d just located the safe behind a picture in the library when the front knocker announced the arrival of guests. He knew he would have to make an appearance and would not be able to investigate further until the recital began. Abby hadn’t said much about playing before a large group of people. In fact, she hadn’t said much about her musical ability at all except that her mother tried to use it to make her more marriageable. Funny, but he hadn’t needed to know whether Abby was versed in any of the womanly arts before he married her. He did count among her attributes handling a knife and dealing a mean hand of poker. He quit the room, chuckling. Their marriage would definitely not be dull. When he entered the salon, the look on Abby’s face should have warned him something was amiss. Instead, he was thinking of how quickly he would be able to open the safe.

  “Ladies, my husband, Reverend Jonas Fishbone.”

  He started to bow, but their gasps brought his head back up.

  “Oh, my word, a man of the cloth no less!”

  “Why, I never!”

  He found Abby’s gaze, his question clear when he narrowed his eyes.

  “I was just trying to explain to Mrs. Greenleaf and Miss Marsley about yesterday.”

  He shrugged helplessly.

  “In the park,” she prompted.

  Ah, it made sense now. These must be the ladies from Woodward’s Gardens. He should let Abby stew in her own juices, but from the embarrassed look on her face, he knew he would have to rescue her yet again. He graced the ladies with a smile.

  “My wife is a prankster, I’m afraid. I already married her in haste in Denver, but then solely to make a train schedule. I was proposing in the Gardens so that we could marry again before her family in Boston.”

  Mrs. Greenleaf gave a sigh.

  “That is so very romantic, Reverend Fishbone.”

  He was saved from having to reply when Mrs. Dillon called her guests to be seated.

  All the ladies fluttered to the arranged chairs and settees, reminding him of a field of butterflies. Pastel dresses swirled and flowers bobbed atop stylish spring hats. He glanced at Abby, modestly attired in a pale blue dress with a high neck and long sleeves. There were no frills and lace, and she wore no jewelry except his ring. And yet he thought her more beautiful than any other woman in the room—or in San Francisco, he was sure. He decided he would usher her to the piano before taking a stand in the back of the room. It would not seem inappropriate of him and it would allow him to slip away to search the house.

  “Ready?”

  He took her elbow and walked her to the front. He heard Mrs. Dillon drone on about discovering Abby, but paid little heed. He felt a small shudder course through her.

  “You would think I would be used to this. Mother constantly put me on display.”

  “Don’t you like to play?”

  “Oh, yes, I love to play. In fact, my dream is to—” She stopped abruptly.

  “Dream is to…” he prompted.

  She smiled.

  “It doesn’t matter, Max. I found you.”

  As always, she made him feel like a knight willing to slay dragons for his lady. He bowed low after seating her before the grand piano.

  “Play well and long, sweetheart. We need to keep these good people occupied so I have a chance to search.”

  She smiled as though without a care in the world, but he saw concern in her eyes.

  “Be careful, Max. I love you.”

  His heart thumped and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her delectable lips. He settled for kissing her hand. A collective sigh hummed through the audience.

  Minister or not, these women found Max romantic, Abby thought with a smile. She rather thought he could ask them to help him search the house and
they would gladly comply. He had them eating from the palm of his hand. Carefully she placed her music on the stand in front of her. Wasn’t this where she wanted to be—in front of an audience with applause ringing in her ears? She gazed longingly to the back of the room where her husband stood. After leaving home to be independent, she now found herself pointed in quite the opposite direction. The reason for that smiled and winked at her.

  In order to relax, she gently caressed the keys, flexed her fingers, then began Handel’s Water Music, which she had played since childhood. She closed her eyes and let the music flow over her, blocking all else from her mind—except Star. This piece, which reminded her of springtime and beautiful days, she mentally sent to Star, that her days now might be filled with beauty and joy. Abby continued playing for the better part of an hour. Between selections, she would bow from her seat while the audience politely applauded, which also gave her the chance to glance toward the back of the room where the door to the salon remained closed. She’d run through her repertoire and still Max hadn’t returned. She was just about to begin again, when Mrs. Dillon stood.

  “Thank you, my dear, for the lovely afternoon. We do so appreciate you gracing us with your presence and your music.”

  She smiled at her friends before continuing.

  “I know you will appreciate our generosity, too, when it comes to your orphanage.”

  Abby felt guilty deceiving the woman about the orphans, but knew it was necessary.

  Now though she began to panic, for Mrs. Dillon appeared to be done with her, but Max wasn’t back.

  “Ah, Mrs. Dillon?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  She stood, nervously wiping her hands down the front of her dress.

  “I thank all of you very much for your generosity. If you don’t mind, I would love to do one more selection for you.”

  While Mrs. Dillon looked hesitant, her close circle of friends began to applaud enthusiastically. Abby seated herself and shuffled her music. The only piece she hadn’t played was her own composition, and her hands shook when she began. Though she reminded herself the audience didn’t know it wasn’t by a real composer, it was the first time she would hear her composition in its entirety, rather than by measures in her head. Within the first dozen measures, Abby began to relax and enjoy her music. In fact, she became so engrossed that when the door at the back of the room slammed shut, it startled her so much she missed a note. She completely quit playing when her gaze locked with John Dillon’s. His mouth was a slash of anger. His eyes burned first into her, then quickly swept the room.

  “John?”

  Abby heard fear in Mrs. Dillon’s voice. The woman moved closer to the other ladies, away from Abby.

  “Mother.” John spat, storming to the front of the salon.

  Abby had never heard so much contempt in a single word. She jumped to her feet, but Dillon was too quick. He reached across the piano, scattering her music when he grabbed her arm in a bruising grip. He swiftly dragged her to the back of the room. He made no excuses to his mother or the other ladies in the room.

  “Let go!”

  She wished she still carried her knife, but she’d given it to Max as a wedding gift to show her complete trust in his ability to protect her. Now she pulled back, but her heel caught on the leg of a chair and she tripped. Not missing a step, Dillon yanked her along behind him into the foyer.

  “Where is he?”

  The menace in his voice was unmistakable.

  Abby trembled, a mental image of Star, battered and bruised, forming in her head, but she refused to give Dillon the satisfaction of knowing he scared her.

  “Who?”

  He slapped her. She cried out as the brute force of his anger focused on her.

  “You’re a dead man.”

  Dillon spun toward the deceptively calm voice, drawing Abby in front of him. She felt the cold steel of his revolver pressed against her temple. Until the day she died, she hoped she never again saw the lethal look that masked Max’s face. It was a death warrant for Dillon.

  “You invaded my house,” Dillon hissed, “you and your whore, and now you expect me to just stand by and let you destroy me?”

  “You destroyed yourself when you chose to cheat my family.” The deadly click of Max’s gun echoed in the silence. “Now let go of her.”

  “Go to hell!”

  Dillon backed through a door to his left, dragging her with him. He slammed it shut, threw the bolt and moved toward the terrace doors. Abby once again tried to slow him down by swinging her foot out to trip him.

  “You’re not going to win,” he jeered, pushing her away as he swung the door wide.

  Abby tried to catch herself, flailing her arms to counteract Dillon’s violent shove.

  She fell, hitting her head on the wooden arm of a chair and pain exploded in her brain.

  * * *

  Max watched in agony as Dillon dragged Abby through the door. The terror in her eyes took ten years off his life. But when her gaze met his, something even more frightening happened. She looked at him with total trust and love, confident he would save her from danger. He only hoped to live up to her expectations. He slammed a shoulder against the door. It didn’t budge. He knew Phoenix and the San Francisco police surrounded the house, but he had no patience. He pulled his gun and shot at the lock. His heart stopped when the door swung open. Dillon was nowhere to be seen, but Abby lay in a crumpled heap near the hearth.

  “Abby.”

  He knelt beside her, feeling for a pulse. The steady beat did little to soothe his nerves, and his hands itched to strangle Dillon.

  “Max?” Her eyes fluttered open; then a groan escaped. “Did you catch him?”

  “Shh, don’t worry.”

  He gently lifted her from the floor and laid her on the settee.

  “But Max…your fortunes, the money.”

  She struggled to rise, then groaned and fell back against the cushions. He bent and kissed her sweet mouth. She was banged and bruised and she still worried about him.

  “Phoenix will take care of it.”

  There was a knock on the door. His contact entered, followed by Mrs. Dillon.

  “Done?”

  Max didn’t ask for details, not wanting to distress the ladies. There had been no shots, so he assumed Dillon was apprehended without gunfire. Phoenix nodded once, then left. Mrs. Dillon fluttered around the back of the settee, wringing her hands and tsking.

  “I just don’t understand.”

  Max hated to be the one to explain, but it had to be done.

  “Your son was responsible for the theft of a fortune in cash and merchandise from a company in Boston.”

  There was no sense in telling her it also involved murder. The lady’s hand went to her throat.

  “Oh, dear.”

  With a sigh, she appeared to resign herself to her son’s disgrace.

  “It has been so hard, since Mr. Dillon died. I did my best by John, but he was such an angry, destructive child. He was never able to handle money, so I refused to turn over the family businesses to him. I see now that the allowance I gave him didn’t compensate for his self-esteem. I fear by indulging him, I only made it worse.”

  She glanced between Abby and Max.

  “Is there anything I can do to make amends?”

  Max stood.

  “I would like your permission to go through the contents of his safe and see that it is all returned to its rightful owners.”

  He turned to help Abby from the settee.

  “If you don’t mind, though, I would like to take my wife back to our hotel first. She’s had quite a scare.”

  “Of course.”

  Mrs. Dillon looked regrettably at Abby.

  “I am so sorry. I tried my best by that boy.”

  * * *

  Max spent the better part of two days sorting through Dillon’s personal papers, finances and crooked dealings. Though the paper trail led him to most of his father’s merchandise, there was n
o way to collect any compensation since everything had passed through several hands. He found the majority of the money, though, secure in an account at Sutro & Co. and it had since been forwarded through draft back to Boston.

  Max wired Monty and his father, then Keven O’Brien, Abby’s father, knowing that they all would be waiting word, although for different reasons. He signed off on the last of his correspondence and slid his portfolio into the desk compartment. He’d been working aboard the Pullman so Abby could rest at the hotel. He wanted her away from any more of his problems. With this latest case closed, they would leave for Boston in the morning. It would be good to return to the coast and settle into a routine with his bride. His gaze fell on the shaft of papers tucked into one corner of the desk. Abby’s music.

  Mrs. Dillon had sent it over by special messenger. He carefully smoothed the crumpled sheets, sorting the penciled scores from the printed ones. He recalled the music that filtered through the doors while he was searching Dillon’s study. His wife was a virtuoso. While he recognized many of the pieces she played, the energy she gave the concertos moved her well beyond the normal parlor soiree.

  And this music…he thumbed through the penciled score. In addition to fingers befitting an angel playing a harp, she apparently had the mind of a Beethoven or Bach. With sudden inspiration, he jotted a note on a slip of paper, grabbed the sheets of music and headed for the hotel. He didn’t know a lot about music other than that he appreciated it. Among his many contacts, however, was a man who knew the conductor of the Washington Symphony. He hopped onto a cable car that would take him to his hotel, plotting what he hoped would be a grand surprise for his beautiful bride.