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Amalia’s mind stuttered and churned. A Pinkerton? A radical, anti-tradition, anti-marriage rag peddler turned soldier turned...detective?
“I’m protecting you from this person.” David dropped his voice a little and leaned closer, as if shielding her from...something. He pulled a paper from his pocket and slid it into Amalia’s hands. She studied the familiar words, ones she’d read and managed to ignore. It was part of a series mailed to her lawyer’s office—her charity’s office—in Indianapolis.
Jezebel. You should be taken out and stoned. Judgment is coming for you and your wicked ways.
An apricot-sized lump cut off her air and tears of frustration prickled the back of Amalia’s eyes. Why was her brother doing this to her? He could have sent a dozen different former soldiers he served with, but he had to pick David Zisskind? Absolute humiliation on all fronts.
Clutching the paper so tight it crumpled, she sank into her armchair once more and tossed the offensive page on a table. She needed a drink. Posthaste.
“I know this wasn’t the first. Or the last.” David’s voice was gentle, but he wrinkled his nose as if he caught a whiff of something foul. As if he could detect the truth of the words by scent or had already judged them meritorious. When she caught his eye, he glanced away and he dropped to his knee so he could lift the gold-fringed skirt of the table.
“True. I found this one better, at least more topical, than the ‘sneaky, underhanded, meddlesome Jew’ ones. But if you get someone mad enough, it always devolves into that.” Amalia crossed her ankles hard enough that her boot near tore. And many of her relatives had received worse, yet no one hired minders for them. The pressure inside her head grew fierce. David continued his search, in silence.
“Are you married?” The question—apropos of nothing—popped out of Amalia’s mouth of its own accord, leaving her to gape like a flounder ready to be stuffed in its wake. Probably not the most flattering facial expression.
“What?” David shot up so fast he nicked his head. He rubbed the spot, his full lips a stern pout. “I—” He blinked a few times before leaning against the edge of an armchair. “No, I’m not married. Never have been. I don’t believe in it, remember? Even if I did, there’s too much work that needs to be done in the world. I certainly couldn’t concern myself with such things, especially as I’m up for a promotion now. I’ll be head of the Philadelphia office.”
Amalia’s cheeks heated as she sank back against the velour cushioning. Score one for him—two actually, quite the impressive backhanded self-adulation. Had he always been this self-important? And since when did titles matter to him? Weren’t they inherently “unequal”? Or did he no longer care about the ideals that once made him so passionate?
“You should be pleased. You’re in good hands.” David stood again, those same hands in his pockets, his head cocked to the side with an abashed smile playing on his lips. “You’ll be safe. And I promise, you won’t even know we’re here.”
Indeed.
She returned his expression with her own tight-lipped grimace. An uninvited guest intruding on her solitude. The last thing she needed. Amalia smoothed her taffeta skirts and frowned. We? “What do you mean by ‘we’? I only see you.”
“My team.” David strolled to the door and peeked outside before closing it again. “There are just three of us here. I’m leader for this mission.”
Congratulations to him. Amalia rolled her eyes. How wonderful that her putting up with strangers—plural—would yield him such a prize. She tugged at the fingers of her gloves. No. She wasn’t anxious. She was calm and ready to face her parents and save her charity. No matter what.
With another flip of her hair, she turned back to him. “Is this really necessary? I mean it’s only words. And delivered to one of my lawyers’ offices. In Indiana.”
“Still addressed to you, specifically.” A steeliness enveloped David’s tone, so different than the bookish, philosophical boy he once was, that she sat a bit straighter despite herself.
Fiddlesticks. Amalia twisted her brooch. The letters couldn’t mean actual danger. Still, a chill ran down her neck, making the hairs beneath her collar prickle.
“We aren’t leaving until you’re safe in Centerville. There’s a whole other team scouring Indianapolis, searching for the sender. They’ll keep me apprised and once he’s apprehended you’ll never hear from us again.” David knit his hands, his eyes somber, churning the echoes of their shared past once more. He glanced into the hall. “My partners should be finished their sweep soon and we can all settle in for the night.”
The night? A pounding drummed in Amalia’s skull. “You’re all sleeping here?”
“I’d be pretty poor protection if I left you for several hours each day.” A smirk cross
ed David’s face and his eyes lit with that hint of shy mischief that used to make her body quiver, but did nothing of the sort anymore. Not a mite.
The arrangement was improper. She did not need a nanny. Especially one she’d kissed—well, more than kissed—before ending the relationship with a lie. Or two. And a few well-designed verbal stabs, which he’d certainly forgotten. Amalia clutched at her own hands.
Nope, no guilt. Not a smidge. No lingering hurt on her part either. Because she’d found a new purpose and Mr. I’m-up-for-a-Promotion was clearly doing just fine himself.
“I have work to do.” She toyed with a curl. A decent point if she didn’t say so herself. Deadline. Less than a week away and she didn’t even have a concept for her column. And focusing would be a great deal easier without any ill-advised affair haunting her. In the flesh.
David gestured to the expansive area. “You have multiple rooms—full servants’ quarters and a sitting area. I don’t believe you need that much privacy. A closed door should suffice. It’ll only be for a few days. Besides, if you refuse, I’ll tell your brother.”
Who’d tell her parents, who’d see it as a sign of immaturity and use it as an excuse to deny her request. She was stuck.
With a huff, Amalia slouched into the chair. Not the most auspicious start to her journey, but she’d get her mental fortitude back. After all, a great many people depended on her. She might be “vapid, vacuous, and verbose,” but she was loyal and a survivor too. She’d deliver. No matter what. David Zisskind was just a small delay on the tracks.
Chapter Two
The ratta-tat-tat of the wheels blocked out the sounds of David’s rumbling stomach, but not Amalia’s rather dramatic flop into the chair next to the window. She gave him her entire stiff-set back, as if she was the one who had any right to be angry. As if she wasn’t the one who turned up her nose at him all those years ago.
