The man at her back made an indistinct sound of disapproval, and Rose’s already frantic pulse ratcheted even higher. “How much does she owe?”
He blushed and looked towards the now rat-free street. “Five cents.”
“Five cents?” The man’s voice dripped with sarcasm, a low thrum that spoke of barely contained anger. “And that’s worth manhandling a lady?”
The driver stiffened, and the fingers around her forearm loosened infinitesimally. “She weren’t gonna pay, and I got kids—”
“You still can’t touch a lady,” her rescuer interrupted, and a tanned hand passed over her shoulder to drop several coins in her captor’s palm. “Now get out of Brooklyn, yeah?”
Scowling like a chastised child, the driver dropped her arm. “Got it.”
Rose turned from the departing driver to see the man behind her, the man who had saved her.
But he was across the street and turning the corner, about to disappear from view.
Rose screwed up her courage. She was alone in a strange city, and in the wrong part of it. She needed help, and her mysterious rescuer was making his way out of her life as quickly as he’d entered it. “Sir,” she called, setting off in a run. “Wait!”
Chapter 2
Theprincerodethroughthe forest until he came upon a damsel in distress, locked away in a tall tower. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen…
Ben’s boots slapped against the pavement as he pulled his cap lower on his head. Running from a damsel in distress was cowardly, but he didn’t have time for this woman’s trouble, fairy tale be damned. He remembered how Rapunzel’s story ended, with the prince tumbling to be torn apart by the thorns guarding the tower. He was no prince, after all.
“Wait!” she called, her cultured accent as out of place in Brooklyn as, well,culture.“Sir, please!”
Despite his best efforts, the woman was gaining on him, and a modicum of pride and memory of proper manners forced him to swing around to face her.
She came to a screeching halt a few feet from him, her fine leather boots skidding across the damp street as her eyes widened, her lips parting as she took him in.
Ben grimaced; her reaction was not unusual, even if it was unpleasant. He doubted a society lady had many interactions with a half-Japanese man, let alone needed their help for anything further than tailoring her clothing.
Her pause gave him time to take stock of her, and the details of her appearance confirmed his initial impression that this woman did not belong. She wore a white—white!—dress trimmed in delicate lace, the hem already browning from the dirty street. A pale pink sweater lay buttoned over a frothy blouse, a string of gleaming pearls hung from her neck, and a wide-brimmed hat seemingly constructed of only pink ribbon shaded her brow. A perfect princess locked away in the tower of the slums.
She was beautiful in a manner belonging to artistic masterpieces, the type of beauty one doesn’t encounter often in real life. Hair the color of polished chestnut framed her heart-shaped face, and thick lashes fluttered as she blinked at him with her head tilted to the side. Her eyes made Ben’s breath catch in his throat. Green, beyond the luster of the most brilliant emeralds, a hue that took him back to his time in the Pacific Northwest, where the constant precipitation turned everything lush and verdant. Her gaze spoke of nature, of growth, and something wild and untamed.
Something unwelcome in Brooklyn Heights.
“You’re lost,” he said, shaking her from her slow perusal of his exotic looks.
She exhaled in relief. “Yes, I believe I am. Is this the Upper West Side?”
Ben huffed. “Lady, you’re way far off.”
“I’mnota lady, I’m Miss Waverly, so no honorifics are necessary.”
He raised one eyebrow. English, clearly monied, visibly confused, and horribly lost. “You need to go—” Ben pointed behind him, “—five miles that way. Watch out for the East River.” Tapping his fingers to the brim of his cap, Ben turned on his heel and continued striding away.
“But sir, please!”
Again, Miss Waverly’s footsteps echoed his, and guilt flared in his gut. With a sigh, he turned to face her and crossed his arms over his chest.
Miss Waverly stopped, her flushed cheeks making her look even more angelic. Ben fought a sudden urge to protect this precious creature, to save her from the harm that could befall her in his own backyard. He pulled a coin from his pocket and rolled it over his knuckles. The cold metal against his warm skin soothed him, the predictable weight and texture grounding him. “What is it?” he grumbled, wishing he had waited until the next day to stop by the post office and avoided her altogether.
Her nose wrinkled as she considered him, then pulled a card from her ludicrous, impractical bag. “I’m here to visit my cousin and I must have the wrong address. Is 138 Willow Street nearby?”
Ice ran through Ben’s veins and the coin stilled, then fell to the pavement. 138 Willow was a haven,hiscastle, and if this woman knew about it—
“Who is your cousin?” He gave as few words as he could, unwilling to expose his rising unease.
