Olive becket plays the r.., p.14
Olive Becket Plays the Rake, page 14
part #1 of Advanced Reader Copy Series
“Good.” He beamed. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Wait—what?” Emil demanded.
“I have important police business outside.” He spun on his heel and darted through the living room.
“Robbie, the keys!”
“Olive, get him!”
She sprang forward just as Emil hurled himself toward the mischievous wretch. They both missed—and slammed into each other. They went down hard in a tangle of limbs and muffled yelps, upending the settee before hitting the floor in a heap. He grunted when her elbow jammed into something firm. His ribs? His arm? Hard to tell, considering she was now half on top of him, her cheek smushed awkwardly against his shoulder. She twisted one way, and he wiggled the other. But it was futile—they were firmly wedged between the settee and the wall. In the next room, the door slammed shut, followed by footsteps pounding down the boardwalk.
A laugh bubbled up before she could stop it, tearing free in an undignified, breathless wheeze. Emil’s chest vibrated with his laughter, and the movement was so startling that it sent her into peals of laughter. Their mirth fed off each other until she could hardly breathe, tears prickling at her eyes.
Oh, how marvelous it was to laugh with someone.
“We were hoodwinked,” she managed between snorts.
“He’s craftier than I expected, but luckily, I kept the extra set of keys in my pocket.”
“Thank goodness.”
He contorted his body, then froze. “Uh oh.”
“What?”
“The keys…they’re in my back pocket.”
She shoved her hands against his chest. “I am not putting my hand in your pants!”
“Then it looks like we’re stuck. Forever.”
She dissolved into giggles once more. “Stop it. I’m getting a cramp in my side.”
“I can’t help it. You bring out my best jokes.”
She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing at all. Simply met his gaze and smiled. And for once, it felt natural. Simple. As she watched, his breath slowed and his expression softened. His eyes—those deep blue wells—held so much more depth than she’d previously thought. Desire, held in check. But desire for her. Suddenly, she was all too aware of their compromising position—their legs tangled together, her hands pressed to his chest, and his against her stomach. Their faces mere inches apart.
“Olive,” he whispered, his voice a silky caress. “Why are you really here?”
She inhaled his confidence, his solidness, and exhaled the words longing to be free.
“I was thinking about you. I wanted to see you.”
The smile he gave her was lopsided. Genuine. Beautiful. “I’m glad, because I can’t stop thinking about you, either.”
“Really?”
“You occupy my thoughts during the day, and when I close my eyes at night, you’re waiting for me in my dreams. It’s madness.”
She nodded, dazed. It was madness.
“I can’t stop wondering where you are. What you’re doing. Whether you’re tired or hungry. If you’re laughing.” His gaze fell to her lips, and his voice deepened. “And God help me, I can’t stop thinking about your sweet lips. How they’ll taste beneath mine when I finally claim them.” Desire pooled between her legs at the thought, and her back arched toward him unconsciously. “Would you like that, Olive?”
“Yes.” It was more whimper than word, but she didn’t care. Couldn’t care about anything other than the spell Emil wove around her.
“I’ve thought of this moment a dozen times a day for the last few weeks,” he said. “I’ve kissed you a hundred ways. But first, I need to know. Have you ever been kissed?” Her cheeks heating, she shook her head. “What about in your dreams? Your imagination?”
“All the time.”
Her whisper wrenched a growl from his lips, and his hand splayed across her stomach. “Tell me. How does your first kiss make you feel?”
“It’s soft. Patient.” She lifted one shoulder in a self-conscious shrug. “It makes me hear music.”
“You deserve music, Olive,” he said, and she tensed, half-fearing her request was too high. Too demanding. Too strange. But all he did was lean so close that his next words could have been her own. “I’ll do my best to make that happen.”
His lips brushed against hers, soft and warm and damp. She longed to raise her hands, to wind one through his dark locks, to have his hand cup her jaw. But somehow, the restraints made every touch more vivid. She fell into the kiss. Embraced the gentle cadence of their lips meeting, parting, and returning. She gasped. He sighed. And their breath intertwined in a new melody. When he pulled back, she was trembling.
“Did you hear music?”
She nodded. And then, as if she were someone else entirely, she rocked forward, her nose bumping against his, and demanded in a voice raw with need, “More.”
“I’ll give you anything you want,” he said gruffly. His hands moved across her belly, her hips, holding her tightly to him. “But a second kiss isn’t gentle. Not ours, anyway.”
“Not ours,” she agreed, her knee pushing restlessly between his.
“Tell me what it is.”
“It gives everything. And it takes everything. It is passion incarnate.”
“God, you undo me.”
His mouth descended on hers, and coherent thoughts vanished. This was not merely a kiss. It was a declaration. A claiming. He nipped at her bottom lip, then soothed it with his tongue. He teased her lips apart, then thrust his tongue inside her mouth to stroke hers. He took what he wanted, and she gave everything she had. Then it was her turn.
She wrapped her fingers in the front of his sweater, demanding he close the small gap between them. She rocked against the iron bulge pressing into her thigh. He wanted her. He wanted her. She let herself fall even deeper into the kiss, craving more, always more, more.
At last, he tore his mouth away and pressed his forehead to hers, muttering something in Swedish. His breath was as harsh and ragged as hers. She was still dizzy with his taste when she felt the shift.
It was subtle. Not unkind. But it was there, in the gentle way he pried her fingers from his sweater. How he eased his legs from between hers and put as much space between them as their position would allow.
“Passion incarnate, indeed,” he finally said, leaning back to look at her. The words were correct, but the tone was wrong—the rough edges of want had gone brittle. Then she saw his smile.
A chill swept over her.
It was the dreaded smile—brilliant and charming and perfectly false. The one he bestowed on silly women. Women who would fall, or had already fallen, for him.
Oh no.
She was one of those women. She’d lost herself in their game, lost count of the moves, forgotten whose turn it was to make the other leap. She’d dared to think she was winning, that he was the one jumping through hoops for her.
Yet there she was in his house. She’d sought him out. She’d thrown herself at him. Worse, she had let herself feel something for him—a man who didn’t know the meaning of commitment! And for what, a fleeting moment of heat? The false promise of something more?
The game had reached new heights. Dangerous heights. The kind where the risks were too great. Where the fall would hurt too much. And she couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.
“Thank you, that was most instructive.” She lurched to a seated position, speaking so quickly her words slurred. “I have to go. I have to go right now.”
Emil rose onto an elbow. “Right now?”
“Yes.” She jerked at the handcuffs, the metal digging into her skin and helping her focus. “Unlock me.”
“Slow down, give me a minute,” he said soothingly. But she could not be soothed. She wrapped her hands around the chain and tugged again. “Olive, stop. You’ll hurt yourself.”
And then the wretch lifted a hand—an unlocked hand—and dug into his back pocket for the keys.
“How long have your hands been free?” she whispered harshly, her throat aching with the urge to scream.
“Since before our first kiss.”
She gaped. Why hadn’t he said anything? Why would he let her think they were in the same position? What did it mean? Her thoughts careened, refusing to land on anything comforting. It was too much. It was all too much. The second she was free, she scrambled to her feet.
And ran away as fast as she could.
Chapter 14
Olive perched on the ivory settee in Longfellow House, clutching her Votes for Women sash and willing the gnawing pit in her stomach to subside. Fat chance, as the knot had only grown in the days since she’d humiliated herself by kissing Emil while in handcuffs and then fleeing his house as if chased by a band of wild dogs. The whole thing had dredged up her worst anxieties and set them squarely in her path. That had to be why, even now, while facing an entirely different danger, she was tempted to bolt.
Around her, Society members bustled between the tearoom and front hallway, adjusting hats and pinning sashes over their coats with a steady hum of chatter. Their excitement was palpable. After months of careful planning, the local suffragist clubs’ grand automobile procession was finally at hand. The event had been timed to coincide with two pivotal moments: the House vote in Olympia and the arrival of a renowned anti-suffragist, Reverend Roy Lipscomb. It was bold and newsworthy. And utterly terrifying.
“I could hardly sleep last night,” said Yuki, standing before the bay window. “I kept imagining the Reverend’s sour face when he heard the House passed the bill.”
“Seventy to eighteen,” Imogen crowed from her side. “Take that, you stodgy old turnip!”
“Turnip, indeed,” Yuki laughed. “I’m sure he was looking forward to applauding the House for upholding traditional society.”
“No doubt he’ll fall right back into his sermons on the natural order and the sacred duties of women,” Clem added with a snort. “At least now he’ll have to do it knowing we’re one step closer to winning.”
“And with close to a hundred suffragists glaring while he sermonizes on his train platform,” said Yuki, and they all laughed.
Winnie wandered into the tearoom, waving the morning edition of The Puget Sound Post in the air. “Apparently, the majority treated our measure as a joke, but the joke’s on them—the bill is now in the hands of the Senate.”
“The fight is going to be harder there,” Clem warned. “We mustn’t let up.”
Imogen groaned. “I still don’t understand why it’s such a fight. The bill isn’t even passing suffrage—it’s merely handing the responsibility over to the public—sorry, the men—and letting them decide if women should be able to vote.”
“It does seem backward,” Clem said. “But it lifts the burden from the legislators’ shoulders to decide themselves. The direct democracy carries heft for Progressives.”
“Meaning?” Yuki asked dryly.
“Meaning maybe it’ll work.”
“I hope so.” Imogen sighed. “But I’m not looking forward to an additional year and a half of badgering men.”
“You think one more year is bad?” Judith poked her head in the room. “Talk to me when you’ve been at it for decades.”
“Sorry, Aunt Judith. You’re a pillar of patience.”
“It’s running thinner with each passing moment. Now, where is Rhoda and the automobile she promised us? She’s half an hour late!”
“She’ll be here,” Clem said.
The discussion carried on, but Olive barely heard it over the pounding of her heart. Why wasn’t anyone else as worried as she was? How could they stay so optimistic when the risks loomed so large? She felt like an outsider, stranded in her own unease while they moved forward without hesitation. But then, maybe that was the difference—she had more to lose than most. Her thoughts ricocheted between Emil Anderson, Mrs. Drake, and the man with the silver-tipped cane. Was she making a terrible mistake?
Just then, Winnie sank onto the settee beside her. “You’re awfully quiet today.”
Olive tried to smile. “I’m just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About whether or not I should go on the procession,” she whispered. “It’s just…I’m not sure if it’s a good idea…” She trailed off when Winnie’s brows knitted together. She looked down at her hands and waited for Winnie to scold her cowardice.
“I don’t understand. What could go wrong?”
With her? Everything.
“I’m having some trouble with my landlord,” she said in a low rush. “She’s an anti. If she finds out…”
“I see.” Winnie tapped her fingers on her knees. “What if you borrow Della’s motoring hat? It’s enormous—the brim alone will cover half of you. The veil will manage the rest, especially if we tie it over the top of the hat.”
“That could work,” she admitted. It wasn’t so different than her widow’s veil disguise, which had protected her well enough. “Thank you, Winnie.”
“Of course. This, at least, has a solution. Unlike Rhoda’s situation.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
Winnie darted a glance around the room before replying in a much more subdued tone. “Clem has been worried about her ever since their trip to Olympia.”
“But I thought the trip was a success.”
“Clem said Rhoda was out of sorts the whole time. Barely sleeping, impatient with everyone. And then she harangued a Senator on the streets so forcefully that the man called her father to complain. And you know how strained Rhoda’s relationship with her father is. He went to Olympia and dragged her home. Apparently, it was quite the row.”
“That’s terrible.” Olive’s heart hurt for her friend. It was becoming clearer by the day that all was not well in the Carlisle household. “Do you think she’ll show up?”
“I don’t know. Honestly, it might be better if she doesn’t.”
Before Olive could press further, the front door burst open with a bang. Rhoda stood in the entryway, her arms thrown wide in triumph.
"Your chariot awaits!" she declared.
Her voice was loud and bright, but it didn’t distract Olive from noticing the shadowy crescents beneath her eyes, nor the tightness in her smile, as if it took effort to keep it in place. A prickle of unease ran down her spine, and she exchanged a quick glance with Winnie, who only lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug before rising to her feet. Olive did the same, hurrying to Della’s side to make her request.
By the time she had secured the motoring hat, the others crowded the entryway. Imogen, closest to the door, reached for the handle and swung it open. She stepped outside, then let out a gasp.
“Oh, Rhoda, it’s wonderful!”
“What is it? What did she do?” Della called, but Imogen was already dashing down the steps with her characteristic lack of restraint.
“Hurry,” Yuki encouraged. “I want to see!”
The ladies surged forward, breathless laughter escorting them out the door. Olive followed with Clem at a more cautious pace, crossing the portico to the stone steps. When they reached the front yard, Olive came to an abrupt halt.
Two grand automobiles idled at the curb. It wasn’t the glossy shine or the luxurious craftsmanship that halted her, but the bold cloth banners decorating them. Rhoda’s hand-painted slogans were unmistakable. Votes for Women stretched proudly across the hood in purple and gold, while The Seattle Suffrage Society ran the length of the body in striking green.
“Rhoda, my auto has never looked better,” Judith declared, striding toward the first automobile. “Della, Imogen, and Yuki, with me!”
The women piled inside the decorated auto, Judith in the driver’s seat, Della beside her, and the young ladies in the back seat. Rhoda was already following suit, pulling open the driver’s seat of the second auto and giving them an impatient look over one shoulder.
“Let’s go, already,” she said with a huff. “We can’t be left behind.”
This was the moment to commit or run away.
If she climbed into the second auto, she would be seen—albeit in shadowy form—by anyone watching from the sidewalks, the street corners, or the railroad terminal. Of course, she could go further. She could be a true suffragist. She could remove the motoring hat and lift her chin in defiance for all the world to see. She could be the kind of woman who didn’t hesitate, who wasn’t held back by what ifs.
Oh, who was she kidding?
She couldn’t. She absolutely, positively could not.
Anonymous participation was all she was meant to have. Hidden behind veils, tucked among the stronger women like a weak lamb needing protection. She hated it, but it was her lot in life. Her consolation prize. She tucked her chin and climbed into the rear seat. Winnie gave her a wide grin from the front seat, but Clem remained on the sidewalk, studying Rhoda suspiciously.
“What’s the problem?” Rhoda asked, her voice colored with an annoyance that shocked Olive into stillness.
“Does your father know you took his automobile?”
“Yes.” Two bright spots appeared on Rhoda’s pale cheeks. “Stop worrying so much.”
“I’m worried about you,” Clem retorted. “Did you tell him what you’re using it for? Or will this come as much of a surprise to him as to why you were in the Capitol?”
“My father is my problem.” Rhoda’s hand moved to the handbrake. “Are you in or out? Because I’m leaving.”
“There’s no need to be testy,” Winnie said, staying Rhoda’s movements with a hand. “Clem has every right to ask. Our actions today will reflect directly on her leadership. A confrontation with your father would greatly disturb our goals.”
Rhoda was silent, her jaw ticking. Olive exchanged a worried glance with Clem, but dared not speak. She had no idea how to help.
“He won’t be a problem,” Rhoda finally said, her tone noticeably less defensive. “I’m sorry to be such a pain.”
Clem pulled herself into the back seat, then leaned forward and wrapped her arm around Rhoda’s shoulders. “It’s already forgotten. Let’s redirect our energy toward the deplorable Reverend, what do you say?”
