by Gina Welborn
Safe? From whom?
Perhaps people wanted to harm her—Mr. Maranzano sprang to mind—but she’d yet to feel any danger, except that coming from the marshal. She was a socialite, an heiress, an art patron whose life was so dull and ordinary that reading in the Times about a traffic block near the Brooklyn Bridge was the most excitement she experienced during any given week. She wasn’t worth killing. She just wasn’t worth it.
Her eyes blurred.
Something between a cough and a chuckle—yet completely hysterical—burst from between her pressed lips, breaking the stalwart composure she’d held for hours in the name of good behavior. While the marshal and engineer continued to speak outside, she ran to the back of the coach. The door handle rattled. Locked. Pinching her eyes closed, she clenched her lips until the need to scream passed.
Malia slowly drew in a breath, crossing her arms, rubbing her sleeves. She couldn’t escape. Not from the coach. Not from her family. Not from him. Even if she did get free, the marshal would find her. He’d pursue her to the last place on earth she tried to hide. Because he knew what he was doing. Because she was naive. But mostly—she sighed—mostly because she was weak and powerless and afraid. Her arms fell limp to her side, the sour taste of defeat growing in her mouth.
Malia flicked on the lights in the extravagant Pullman car. Brass and crystal lamps. Rosewood-paneled walls. Gold velvet chairs with fringed trim that matched the heavy drapes.
She removed the ankle-length traveling coat and straw hat of her “disguise.” Soot dusted the tan leather, which meant she had soot on her. She certainly couldn’t lay the coat on one of the chair seats. She found a closet. Inside were numerous wooden hangers. Malia then stepped to the lavatory. After hanging up the coat, she opened cabinets, found a cloth and dampened it. She then washed her face and neck before pulling the pins from her chignon and shaking the soot from her hair.
She sought her exhausted reflection in the mirror. Tears welling again, she drew her waist-length hair back from her face, twisted it to form a rope then coiled it into an Apollo knot atop her head. She pinned the knot in place. Her enlarged pupils made her eyes look like a spooked owl’s; her skin was the color of a corpse. Following a slow exhale, she turned to the coat and began to brush the soot off the surface.
She had to focus on something—anything—and give her hands something to do to keep her mind from replaying the day’s events. The monotonous repetition of cleaning brought comfort, silence amid the solitude, soothing her erratic pulse.
She had both sleeves cleaned when the marshal’s imposing presence appeared in the doorway, two feet from her, soot-dusted and looking uncharacteristically amused. Of course, his amusement could be native and the scowls she’d received uncharacteristic, but until she knew him better—and she never intended to—an oddity his amusement would be. He didn’t say anything right away. Instead his gaze shifted from the coat to the damp and soiled cloth in her left hand. Her soot-tinged fingers flinched. Her heart gave a tight, panicky squeeze.
Tossed by a wave of embarrassment, she fought the urge to hide her hands behind her back. She had no reason to feel ashamed, but that look in his eyes when he’d walked into the law library—
As if her soul was tainted. Dishonorable. Unforgivable.
Unclean.
That’s not me, she wanted to scream. You have me pegged all wrong.
“May I be of service?” he said in a helpful tone, which she didn’t buy for a second.
A woman could tell when a man had ill feelings toward her, not that she would be so rude as to tell him she knew. Her feelings for him grew in the same field. Nevertheless, they were stuck together by request of her lawyer and the insistence of the special prosecutor. She ought to be cordial. Good form dictated it.
Malia inclined her head to the soot ring around the marble sink. “Are you certain you wish to help?”
“I insist.”
“Yes, you would,” she murmured.
He chuckled at that.
She couldn’t imagine how anyone enjoyed his company; he was an odd sort. His moods shifted like the winds from the Atlantic. Serious then jovial. Noble then inconsiderate. Yet there was one consistent thing about him—
“You always like to have your way, don’t you?” she asked, gripping one of the coat’s wooden buttons.
“Yes.” He leaned a little closer, enough that she caught a whiff of his cedar-and-spice cologne. Although he didn’t grin, he clearly looked as though he wanted to. “I suspect you do, too.”
She clamped her mouth shut—most would say a wise decision, considering the lack of polite responses milling about her mind. Giovanni was the selfish one in the family. She was the one who made the sacrifices to keep him happy. She’d always earned compliments from their parents and nonni on her ability to always be kind to others.
The train shifted forward; Malia hit the sink with her hip before grabbing the brass towel rack to steady herself. The marshal wobbled yet held his balance.
He gave her a strange look, as if he were actually concerned. “Are you all right?”
Though her hip throbbed, she nodded then stopped at the sudden dizziness. She clung to the towel rack until the spinning stopped.
“Miss Vaccarelli, when did you last eat or drink something?”
The sincere concern in his inquiry gave her pause.
You can’t trust a copper. Ever. They’re all corrupt.
Giovanni hadn’t had to repeat what she had heard all her life for her to remember Nonno’s warning. She’d also believed the Vaccarellis were a law-abiding family, and now the evidence pointed in the opposite direction. She didn’t always have to have her way, but she hated being wrong. She didn’t want to be wrong about the marshal too.
She needed a constant.
She needed him to be corrupt.
The marshal looked at her with a brazenness that reminded her of Edwin Daly. Not brazenness. Chutzpah—yes, that’s what the marshal had. For all his flaws, Mr. Daly knew art, loved it more than his job. What did this man love, know and breathe? What gave the marshal personal confidence and courage? What reigned in the core of his soul to give him that assured serenity he wore like a cloak? What—?
Stop! Who he was didn’t matter to her. No more pondering him. In three weeks, she would walk, to her delight, out of his life and never see him again.
Malia shook the soot off the damp cloth into the sink and resumed wiping the coat. “I ate earlier with Irene. Tuesdays are our weekly lunch date at Delmonico’s. Fridays we have dinner. Instead of eating at the restaurant for lunch, she had it delivered to—” She cut herself off upon realizing her chattiness. He didn’t care to know this. She was insignificant to him.
She didn’t have to turn her head to know he continued to study her. The man had perfected the art of thinking before speaking.
Then he broke the silence with, “The next twenty-one days will be more pleasant if you would start trusting me.”
“You’re a stranger to me.” Malia kept her attention on the coat. She wiped the collar. “I have no cause to trust you.”
“Neither do you have cause to distrust.”
“You. Are. A. Copper.”
“I’m a marshal. Not all coppers are corrupt.”
She turned to him. “Then tell me what you’re hiding.”
“Hiding?” His eyes widened, stunned. “I am not hiding anything. You, on the other hand, have already proved you will withhold information,” he pointed out.
“I didn’t—” With a grumble under her breath, she tossed the cloth into the sink and gave him her full attention. “What were you doing at the art exhibit this morning?”
“Following a lead.”
“Me?”
“No.”
“Then who was it?”
“That
’s not information you need to know.”
Then what did he think she needed to know? Nothing? Shield her because she was a woman, therefore too fragile to handle the truth. Shield her as the Vaccarelli men had because they didn’t— Her chest flinched as if it’d been pierced, which it had, figuratively, by her family, and she was realizing the depth of it only now. Her family hadn’t trusted her with the truth about them.
“What you are saying,” she said with deliberateness, “is that you don’t trust me with information because you don’t believe I can be discreet. Or loyal. Why should I extend to you what you are unwilling to extend to me?”
* * *
Frank ran a hand through his hair, soot dust sprinkling to the carpeted floor. She was a witness. What he was doing at the exhibit was classified information. But the woman was neck deep in the mafiosi, the government needed her testimony and, realistically thinking, this was an extraordinary circumstance. He needed a truce between them, so it made sense to do whatever necessary to tear down her wall of animosity. And considering his plan for getting her somewhere safe meant having a plan separate from the one he’d arranged with the special prosecutor and her lawyer, he needed that truce within the hour.
He leaned against the doorframe in order to take some weight off his sore foot. “Edwin Daly is a mafiosi informant.”
“He’s an assistant district attorney. He prosecutes gangsters.”
Prosecution and conviction weren’t the same thing, and Edwin Daly’s conviction record of gangsters was small.
“I have enough evidence to arrest him, but I also want the man who has been padding his pockets.”
She nodded, just nodded.
“Billy O’Flaherty.”
She frowned.
“His photograph was the second in the binder. You didn’t recognize him.”
“Oh. Why wasn’t Mr. Daly in the binder?”
“Until he’s brought up on charges, he’s still an assistant district attorney.”
She nodded as if that made sense to her.
She was rather nice to look at, with the contrast between her amber eyes and tobacco-colored hair worn piled on top of her head like a crown. A few strands grazed the part of her collarbone exposed by the wide neckline of her gown. Frank swallowed and returned his attention to her face. But it wasn’t merely those details that he found attractive. She didn’t lower her lids like a coquette. He’d noticed how she met Cady’s gaze with the same boldness as she met his, which was how she had also looked at Edwin Daly. Malia Vaccarelli wasn’t timid and insecure, which some men wouldn’t admire, but he did. He liked confident women, and when they were in lacy gowns that accentuated every feminine curve...
Frank cleared his throat. “I’m sorry you are caught up in this.”
She nodded again, just nodded.
“I’m not what you think I am,” he insisted. “Give me the benefit of the doubt.”
“And put my life at risk?”
“If I wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be speaking now.”
She opened her mouth then closed it.
Frank sighed. It’d been a long day, his foot was aching, he’d missed lunch and he didn’t care much for the musty smell inside the train car from the last passengers, but this conversation needed to happen now. “May I ask how it is you have such a negative view of law enforcement personnel?”
Her eyes flared. “Coppers beat my grandfather until he learned to speak to them in English,” she snapped, her beauty unblemished by the accusatory edge in her words. “Coppers beat my father until he paid for their protection. Weekly they collected donations from his businesses.”
“Is it possible,” he said softly, “that your father and grandfather did not share the whole truth regarding those events? That maybe they were beaten for mafiosi involvement? The donations were really payoffs?”
She shifted uncomfortably, and when she spoke, her jaw barely moved. “Yes.”
He didn’t fault her for resenting his question. Nor did her animosity bother him. If he were in her shoes, he’d be as suspicious, angry and embarrassed as she was. Not to mention exhausted. But he couldn’t leave his questioning there. He had to push her into reevaluating what she’d been taught, so that she would open her mind to viewing him as her protector.
He ensured his tone stayed gentle. “In light of that, is it possible they were erroneous about all police being corrupt?” When she didn’t answer, he asked again, “Could they have been?”
“Yes,” she bit off. “Is that what you want to hear? You’re right, I’m wrong. You’re honorable, I’m debased. You’re—” Her voice broke; eyes welled with tears. She turned to the mirror, gripped the sink, her shoulders shaking as she cried. “I don’t know what...is wrong with...me. This isn’t— I don’t cry. I don’t yell at strangers...or friends...or family...or anyone at all.”
That didn’t surprise him. Anne Morgan had, indeed, described Miss Vaccarelli as a kindhearted soul, without an enemy in the world, someone able to put the most unfriendly sort at ease. Yet she looked battle-weary.
“You’ve had a rough day,” he offered.
She wiped her eyes, smearing the soot from her fingers onto her skin. “Oh, splendid.”
The train’s whistle blew and the train started to move forward to where they would pick up passengers. That meant he had only a specific amount of time in his metaphorical hourglass to reach that truce. Or else she wouldn’t get off the train with him. That then would mean he would have to toss her over his shoulder and carry her off, literally speaking.
Frank withdrew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and offered it to her. “Here.”
She took it with a whispered, “Thank you.”
He wasn’t one to take advantage of an injury, but he suspected she needed an excuse to sit down. Only her need to look strong would never admit it.
“My broken toe is screaming for me to give it a rest.” Not necessarily a lie because his foot was aching. He took a step back then motioned to the seating area. “Would you mind if we continued this conversation over there? Please?”
Chapter 6
One might say the perfect traveler is one whose digestion is perfect, whose disposition is cheerful, who can be enthusiastic under the most discouraging circumstances.
—Emily Price Post, Etiquette
Frank waited until Miss Vaccarelli passed him, then he followed her to the seating area near the front of the car. She sat on the edge of the sofa, clutching a fringed velvet pillow to her stomach as if it were a shield, leaving him the chairs to choose from. Frank sank into the chair to her left, the better of the two to give him a view of the locked door. No one was expected to enter, at least not until they made it to New Rochelle. Still, he kept a gun within easy reach. If he were at home, he’d prop his foot up on the table; at his office, up on a stool. Here he had to make do with extending his leg in front of him.
“How’s your arm?” It was an abrupt restart to their conversation, but it was superficial, inoffensive and, now that Frank thought of it, something he actually wanted to know.
She looked from one arm to the other then back at him. “They’re fine. Why do you ask?”
“Cady grabbed you pretty hard.”
Her lips formed an O. She touched the spot where Cady’s fist had clenched. “It doesn’t feel bruised.”
“Good. If it bruises, let me know.”
“And what will you do about it if it does? Demand a duel with the special prosecutor?”
That her expression was as serious as her tone caused Frank pause. So far in their short acquaintance, she’d shown no predilection toward sarcasm or a dry wit. Yet...
“I was thinking ice pack.” And then, because he couldn’t help himself: “But if a duel would please you more, milady, I’ll have one arranged.”
“I’m Van Kelly’s sister.” She said it in the same manner one would say, I’m King Herod’s wife. I deserve neither pity nor mercy.
He touched the arm of the sofa, leaning forward. “No woman deserves a bruise.” He stared at her long enough for her to see he was deathly serious.
Something flickered in her eyes. A hint of gratitude, perhaps, but he hoped it was something more, such as the bud of an epiphany that he wasn’t the heathen she’d presumed him to be. Or something resembling a simple You’re a good man, Frank Louden.
The train slowed, brakes squealing, and the whistle blew again. They were approaching the loading platform, where hundreds would pile into the Shore Line Express for the multitude of stops between here and Boston.
Frank eased back in his chair to give her needed space. Making her nervy would counter his progress, and he didn’t have time to tear down that wall a second time. “When people marry,” he said, “they don’t inherently trust one another.”
Her head tilted, and he could practically see the interest she had in what he would say next. Not all women were like that. Some didn’t want to spend an evening by the fire, just the two of them and a conversation. Some didn’t enjoy conversation...or, at least, not conversation with him. Some despised watching those stupid baseball games at the Polo Grounds. They wanted to go only to operas, symphonies and balls, which he didn’t mind attending. Relationships should be give-and-take, not all take.
“You were saying?” she put in.
Frank started at her voice, so lost in his thoughts. “Saying?”
“When people marry...?”
The train continued to slow, brakes squealing; tracks rattled underneath them, vibrating the floor. The whistle repeatedly blew. With the private coach still in the tunnel, no one could see them, no one would know they were here, unless someone came looking.
Frank shifted on his seat as his mind scrambled to remember his point. “When people marry, both partners choose to give the other the benefit of the doubt because they’re in love. As long as the benefit of the doubt is not destroyed, time and experience allow trust to grow. Our situation is similar even though the relationship is platonic.”