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From so far away, the people on the grandstand looked like miniatures, but Parker made out Judson’s bald head. “My uncle designed the bridge,” he said, pointing. “He’s the one with the bald head. He must have taken off his top hat in the wind.”
She squinted into the spray. “It’s hard to see. I should have put two and two together and realized Judson Cullen was a relative of yours. You must be proud.”
“I suppose I am,” he agreed, not willing to get into a conversation about his uncle’s lack of social graces. “He’s designed many famous bridges.”
“I read that inThe Times,” she replied.
“I’m just hoping today’s opening goes off without a hitch,” he added, wishing he hadn’t when she turned to look him in the eyes. He might drown in those brown depths.
“Why wouldn’t it?”
He tried to put the lid back on the can of worms he’d opened. “I’m a policeman. We have suspicious minds.”
She didn’t look away. “ But I can tell you’re worried.”
“Not overly,” he lied.
* * *
For Darren, the minutes before a grand plan came to fruition were the most nerve-wracking, though he freely admitted it was the part of his job he relished above all. Willing his right leg to stop its infernal dancing, he considered the people around him. Little did they know the power he alone held. Months of meticulous planning would soon result in the destruction of the magnificent structure they admired. It was a pity in many ways, but a well-designed engineering marvel couldn’t stand in the way of Ireland’s independence. He could hardly wait to claim responsibility on behalf of the Fenian Brotherhood. Anonymously, of course.
He fidgeted with the top hat in his lap. The nigh-on gale force wind had forced the men to remove their headgear, but it was a blessing as far as Darren was concerned. People were already of the opinion the winds of the Bristol Channel would present a problem for the bridge. Two men had drowned after being blown off it during construction. The verdict of any inquiry would be that the wind had caused the bridge to collapse—if Daffyd and his cohort had done their jobs properly. Relying on others, especially Welshmen, was what Darren hated the most.
He took out his timepiece as the speeches came to an end and the train whistle blew. Several men and women left the stage and the grandstand to make their way to the station platform.
“Any time now, Daffyd,” Darren muttered. “Any time now.”
He braced himself, preparing to appear as shocked as anyone when the structure collapsed. The minutes ticked by. He gripped his hat, swearing in Gaelic when the whistle blew again and the train slowly chuffed its way out of the station. A loud cheer and the jubilant notes of the local brass band heralded the engine’s approach onto the doomed bridge.
“Ifreann agus damnú,” he swore between gritted teeth.
DISASTER
“We’ll slow down here,” Samantha’s father announced when the boat was midway across the channel. “You can watch the first train to cross the new Severn River Railway Bridge. An historic moment, to be sure, and one we’ll all remember for years to come.”
Samantha shivered in the icy wind, grateful when Parker edged closer to shield her. His big body exuded warmth. A subtle hint of spicy cologne drifted to her nostrils. She took a deep breath, hoping her next words wouldn’t sound too forward. “I’m excited to share this moment with you,” she said. “I’m glad you came.”
He put his hands on the railing on either side of her and opened his cloak to cover her shoulders, making her feel protected, safe. “So am I,” he replied.
As the boat tossed, they watched the engine chug onto the bridge, its whistle sounding. Though they were far from the grandstand, they heard the cheering and the triumphant homage of the brass band.
“Two carriages,” Parker observed, his breath tickling her ear.
“Brock’s a junior barrister. He’s probably in the second one,” she replied, glad she wasn’t in one of the compartments now nearing the center of the bridge high above the river.
“I’m happy you’re here with me,” he said huskily, “and not up there with him.”
She tugged at the edges of his cloak, bringing him closer. She turned within the circle of his arms pinning her against the railing, awed by the longing in his gaze. “Me too.”
“May I kiss you, Samantha?” he asked.
Her mother would be scandalized if she allowed a man she barely knew to kiss her in such a public place. “Yes,” she whispered, parting her lips slightly.
She realized as Parker’s mouth came down on hers that Brock had never kissed her on the lips. If he had, she was certain his kiss wouldn’t remotely resemble Parker’s gentle assault on her senses. Cocooned in his cloak, she reached to put her arms around his neck, pressing her body against him as his tongue coaxed open her lips.
The historic event going on above them suddenly held no meaning. All that mattered was Parker’s tongue mating with hers, the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his skin, the strength in his arms holding her tightly.
“Samantha,” he growled, resting his forehead against hers.
