Glancing at him over her shoulder as she flipped the sandwich, she said, “Don’t you have anything else to do?”
With a wry grin, he crossed his arms along his chest. “No.”
Ignoring him, she finished and plated the sandwiches. There was half a bottle of milk in the icebox also, and after a whiff to make sure it wasn’t sour, she poured it to accompany their meal.
When she returned to the table with the sandwiches, they sat and ate, but not in silence, much as she might have hoped. He was quite engaging, complimenting her on the sandwiches and her mother’s singing, which filtered in from the saloon. As they neared the end of the meal, he gestured to her journal again and said, “So what were you doing before I arrived?”
“I was writing while I waited for someone to bring me more glasses to wash.”
“Writing? A letter?” He reached for the journal again and she swatted his hand away, earning the challenging arch of one raven-dark brow. Not that she found it intimidating surprisingly. If anything, he was intriguing her in ways that she should not be thinking about. Her abuela had warned her about men like this.
“It’s nothing,” she answered, closing the book and sliding it closer toward her on the table.
“Oh, then you won’t mind if I take a look,” he said, as long, quick fingers snagged a corner of the journal and tugged it back toward him.
“No!” Josephine said, temper rising at his boldness. She slammed her hand down flat on the journal to stop him, afraid that his reading it would reveal too much about her. Aware she’d forgotten all manners and decorum (and lost her temper), she forced herself to relax and shrugged, even as she gently pulled the journal back and hugged it close. “It’s just silly scribbling, that’s all.” She’d gotten caught writing in class one day when she was supposed to be solving mathematic equations, and when the sister looked at it, that’s what she’d said.
“And do you do this ‘silly scribbling’ anywhere else?”
“Sometimes when I’m supposed to be taking classes at the convent,” she confessed.
He wrinkled his nose as if smelling something foul. “The convent? It would be a shame for a girl like you to become a nun.”
Was he flirting with her? she wondered as her heart beat a faster staccato. “No, not a nun. A tutor.”
“A tutor?” He wrinkled his nose again. “You don’t strike me as the kind to be happy with such an ordinary life.”
Intrigued that he saw something in her that others didn’t, she said, “So what do you think I should do?”
He gestured to the journal she still hugged to her chest. “Seems to me that whatever is in there is important to you.”
Josephine paused. She’d never shared her fondest dream with anyone before, not even her mother or abuela. But there was something…something in the way this man’s eyes sparkled, the way this stranger’s whole attention was fixed on her like she was the most interesting girl in the world.
“Maybe it is. I like to write,” she said, and at his questioning gaze, she reluctantly continued. “Stories. Maybe even a book someday.”
He grinned and leaned closer across the width of the table. Reaching out, he skimmed a finger along the edge of the journal and her heart skipped at his nearness. “Only maybe?” he said.
“Well, that depends. Am I being practical or brave?”
“Practical,” he said, smiling.
“A tutor.”
Then he leaned even closer, and his perfect smile widened and gleamed brightly. “Brave.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m a writer.” The words tumbled from Josephine’s lips, sounding more like a question than an answer, and she laughed nervously. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
“I’m honored to be the first, then,” he said, still staring at her with that impossibly warm expression. She could get lost in those eyes.
A beat stretched between them, long and full of promise. Then Josephine finally pulled back, shaking her head. “But I have to be practical, because being a writer is not an easy thing.”
He reached out again and twirled a piece of her hair around his finger. With a gentle tug, he drew her near, closed the distance between them, and whispered in her ear, “Don’t be practical, Josephine.”
Before she could protest or draw away, he skimmed a kiss along her cheek and said, “Be brave.”
He shifted those last final inches and kissed her, which was absolutely the last thing she had expected. And absolutely the last thing I should be doing, she thought as she returned the kiss.
In the kitchen at the Regal Sol, Josephine stared at Rake Solvino as he stood in the dim light. She didn’t think it possible, but he was even more handsome than he’d been when she’d first seen him years earlier. Shortly after their kiss, one of the waiters had entered the saloon’s kitchen and she hadn’t even gotten a chance to ask his name. She’d had no idea who he was, the interesting man who had dared her to follow her dream.
Until now.
He peered at her, his countenance inscrutable, and Josephine wondered if he had found her as memorable. He jammed his hands on his hips and said, “I’ve seen you before.”
You kissed me before, she thought, feeling satisfaction that he might remember their brief encounter, but then he quickly added, “You’re one of the hotel concierges, aren’t you?”
In her mind’s eye, dozens of fine crystal glasses hit the floor, shattering into millions of pieces, just like her illusions.
Crestfallen, she said, “I am. The night manager gave me a break so I could get something to eat. Would you like a sandwich?”
He paused for a moment.
“It wouldn’t take long. I was just about to make myself something.”
He seemed about to relent and sit down, but then shook his head. “Next time, perhaps. I was actually just on my way out.”
Out? At this hour? she thought, but before she could respond, he exited as stealthily as he had entered and it felt as if all light had left the room.
Feeling silly that she had expected something different, that he might actually remember her, she quickly made herself a grilled cheese sandwich. But unexpected disappointment lingered, making her favorite food utterly tasteless for the first time ever.
Unbeknownst to our dear Josephine, that first bump in the road was rapidly approaching as Rake Solvino hurried out of the hotel and down to his yacht in the marina, all the while wondering why the pretty concierge girl looked so familiar.
The bartender from the Golden Horseshoe glanced around nervously and backed deeper into the narrow alley as Martin and his new partner, Detective Nita Alvarez, peppered him with questions.
“You said the man who came in to offer you the contraband liquor was Richard Slayton?” Nita said.
The bartender nodded. “I’m pretty sure that’s him. I think he works in one of those fancy hotels.”
Martin’s adrenaline revved up as he recognized the name. If Slayton was dealing contraband liquor in a dry town like Miami, what else had the hotel concierge been up to? Could Slayton somehow be connected to the recent murders? And if he wasn’t involved in the illegal goings on, where was he now? “When was the last time you saw Slayton?” he asked. According to Martin’s investigations, Slayton had been missing for days and no one seemed to know where the man had gone.
The bartender shrugged. “It’s been a while.”
Nita looked over at Martin and tilted her head toward the man, prodding him to press for more. She always seemed to be pressing, but then again, as only the second woman to become a Pinkerton, she might feel that she had something to prove.
“You say that you saw Slayton with someone just before he came into the saloon the other day. Can you describe that other man?” he said.
With another shrug and shake of his head, the man said, “Can’t say. He kept to the shadows so I couldn’t see his face.”
His gut told him the man was being truthful, so he didn’t hound him. He handed the man his ca
rd and some monetary enticement. “If you hear or see anything else, you know where to come.”
He pivoted on his heel and headed out of the alley, Nita matching him stride for stride. She was a tall woman with a walk and attitude that said she could take care of herself. “You seemed very interested once he mentioned Slayton. You know that name?”
Martin nodded. “He’s one of the clerks at the Regal Sol. Josephine had to stay late because he didn’t show up for his shift earlier this week.”
Her eyes widened. “You think he could be our man?”
Martin thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “Not likely. He never struck me as much of a leader. If he’s selling alcohol or dealing in other contraband, he’s doing it on someone else’s orders.” He sighed in frustration. “How is it that no one seems to have seen this mysterious crime boss?”
“El hombre sin sombra. There was talk about a crime boss with that name when I was with the Palm Beach office,” Nita said.
“Sin sombra,” Martin said, mangling the pronunciation and obviously confused.
She explained. “The man with no shadow. You’re going to have to learn some Spanish if you’re marrying Josephine.”
“Sin sombra,” he repeated more clearly and smiled. “I like it.”
“And Josephine. I guess you like her a lot?” Nita said, a hint of hesitation in her tone.
He nodded as they walked to the next saloon to continue their investigation, his heart swelling with delight at the mere mention of his beloved. “Josephine is like no one else I’ve ever known. She’s smart and independent. Caring. When I’m with her everything just feels…right.” He was smiling, but then heaved a sigh. “I hope we can finish up this case before we get married.”
“Why is that?” Nita wondered aloud.
“Because I worry that by working at the hotel, she may be in danger the closer we get to this Sin Sombra character. As much as I want to catch him, I can’t let my work put her in jeopardy.”
Nita looked annoyed at that. “Maybe you’ve chosen the wrong line of work, Martin. Danger is the nature of our business. If you let emotion interfere, it just makes our job even more dangerous.”
Martin hated that on some level, Nita’s words hit too close to home. He couldn’t let emotion interfere, but he also couldn’t let his job touch his personal life. It was a tightrope that he would have to walk carefully because falling could cost him the most important thing in his life: Josephine.
Josephine walked around her family’s small kitchen table, laying down cutlery, plates, and glasses while her mother and abuela prepared dinner. She loved that they were able to dine together every other Sunday because the hotel owner insisted on the workers being able to spend time with their families on the Lord’s Day and made sure everyone received some time to do so with a rotating schedule. Perhaps Rake Solvino wasn’t as bad or unscrupulous as some of the rumors said. It also made her wonder if either her mother, who sang at the hotel lounge when she wasn’t at the saloon, or her grandmother had heard any gossip about him.
“I ran into the owner of the hotel the other night,” she said and walked toward where her mother was cooking arepas in a skillet while her grandmother put the finishing touches on a big pot of pabellón criollo that she had started earlier in the day. The savory shredded beef in tomato sauce would be even tastier once they stuffed it into the fresh arepas.
“He’s finally come back,” Zara said and flipped one of the arepas.
Her abuela glanced over her shoulder. “I hear he’s quite a handsome man.”
“I didn’t really get a good look at him,” Josephine said with a shrug.
Suddenly, her conscience pricked at her for the mistruth. That must be the devil’s pitchfork, her abuela would have said. Growing up, whenever Josephine had behaved badly, Alberta would say the devil must have made her do it, while good deeds meant a guardian angel was steering her path. In this moment, she imagined them both perching on her shoulders. On the right, her angel tsk-tsked and shook her head at the lie. Not to be left out, her devil arrived a moment later to stab her angel with a pitchfork and say, “It’s for you to know and them to find out.”
She hoped that her sharp-eyed grandmother would not detect her subterfuge. But as her abuela’s gaze narrowed and fixed on her, she realized she had failed. Little angel Josephine whispered in her ear, “You can never fool your abuela.”
With a wistful sigh, Zara said, “Well, I saw him in the lounge with some of the other railroad barons. He’s quite good-looking. I wouldn’t mind getting to know him better.”
Her little devil danced with amusement and said, “Now that’s a woman who goes after what she wants,” while she and her grandmother both chided her mother simultaneously.
“Mami,” Josephine warned.
“Mi’ja,” her abuela chastised.
Zara barked out a laugh. “Well, he is handsome, and what concern is it of yours, my dear Josephine? You have your Martin after all.”
“And a kinder, gentler, sweeter, more patient man you will not find,” her abuela said, almost as if to remind Josephine. “Except maybe your sainted abuelo,” she tacked on, looking heavenward as she made the sign of the cross.
“I know that, Abuela. It’s not that I’m interested in Mr. Solvino—”
Her little devil stabbed her with the pitchfork while her concerned angel lifted her hands in prayer for Josephine’s lying soul.
“Although it certainly sounds that way,” her mother singsonged playfully, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s just that I met him once before,” she confessed, and in the blink of an eye, the warring representatives of good and evil evaporated, but not before her angel gave a satisfied laugh.
Both her mother and grandmother whirled to face her and her grandmother said, “You did?”
“When?” her mother added.
Heat rose to her cheeks at their prolonged scrutiny and that very noticeable flush only escalated their interest.
“Josephine?” her mother urged, her voice rising in question.
“A long time ago at the Golden Horseshoe. He came into the back one day, and I made him some food. I didn’t know who he was, and he didn’t tell me.” Trying to draw the conversation away from their meeting, she said, “And now he’s back. So why did he go away? And why come back now?”
With a tsk, her grandmother shook her head and said, “What does it matter? You have your wonderful Martin, and that’s all that’s important.”
As her gaze collided with her mother’s, Josephine could see that Zara sensed there was more to her story. But the smell of burning arepas demanded her mother’s attention, and for that, Josephine was grateful.
For, in her heart of hearts, she knew her abuela’s words were wise and true: men like Rake Solvino were best forgotten. But as the days passed by, Josephine could not seem to forget the enigmatic man who’d once dared her to dream big.
Or perhaps it was just that she couldn’t forgive him for forgetting their epic first kiss…
Chapter Three
As he walked into the Regal Sol, Martin slid the note that Josephine had left behind for him last night in their secret drawer at the concierge desk back into his pocket. He’d been so busy trying to track down a new lead yesterday that he hadn’t been able to meet her to walk her home the night before. So he’d swung by the desk and left her a note, picking up the one she’d written for him. He’d reread it several times already this morning.
Martin smiled as he recalled her vibrant description of the arrival of another prominent guest who, in her words, “waddled like a penguin and had bushy muttonchops that extended so far below his jaw that they looked like walrus tusks.” His fiancée had an imagination like no other. It was one of the things he loved most about her.
Chuckling, he headed over to the concierge desk to see his beloved before he had to go back to work again tonight. Maybe he’d even ask her about Slayton’s mysterious disappearance. Adams had told him the man
still hadn’t turned up. As much as Martin hated to involve Josephine, he hoped she could give him a little more information about her fellow clerk.
She was at the desk, smiling at one of the hotel guests, and he held back, not wanting to interrupt her. When she finished getting the necessary details to book rail tickets for the man and his wife, the guest walked away and she shot a covert glance in his direction.
Martin walked over and dipped his head. “Miss Valencia. Are you ready to go home?”
She gave him a tight smile. “Unfortunately, I have to work just a little longer until Mr. Adams arrives. One of my colleagues didn’t come into work. Again.”
It had to be Slayton. But he was hesitant to ask, knowing that once he did so, Josephine might easily catch on that there were problems at the hotel.
“Are you okay, Martin?” Josephine asked, narrowing her gaze to examine him the way a schoolteacher might a guilty student.
“It’s nothing. It’s just this investigation that’s taking so much time away from seeing you.”
Tension crept into her features as she saw past his ruse. “It’s more than that, isn’t it?”
With a shrug, he said, “I can’t say, Josephine. You know I can’t talk about the investigation.”
“Which may or may not involve someone I work with,” she challenged.
Josephine was too clever by half, and Martin didn’t like secrets. He wished he could simply tell her everything, but he couldn’t put her in harm’s way. So he changed the subject slightly. “I’d feel better if you didn’t have to work late tonight. Can’t someone else watch the desk?”
“I can take care of myself, Detective Cadden. You don’t need to protect me,” she replied and tilted her delightful little chin up a defiant inch.
He chucked her under the chin playfully, trying to ease the tension. “I know you can. But I also hope that if there was anything…odd happening around here, you’d be sure to come to me.”
Snow Falling Page 3