Amanda’s shoes tapped on the marble floor of city hall’s lobby. This early on a Monday, suits in various shades of navy and black darted in and out, the smell of bay rum aftershave and determination thick in the air.
Skirting the large information desk at center, she proceeded up the grand staircase that opened onto a gallery of offices. The heart of the city beat here. She sped past the mayor’s door, cringing at the raised voices inside, bypassed the next two doors, and finally stopped in front of the fourth, Joseph’s name painted in golden ink on the frosted-glass pane. Twisting the knob, she entered a small reception room. After a fruitless week of trying to find out who held the Grigg title, she couldn’t wait any longer to enlist Joseph’s help.
“Why, Miss Carston!” Joseph’s secretary, Mary Garber, more mouse than woman, twitched her lips into a smile. “Good morning.”
“Morning, Mary.” She smiled back. “Is Mr. Blake in?”
“He is, but …” If the woman had whiskers, they’d be quivering. She ran a slim finger down a column on a sheet of paper. “Your name isn’t on the schedule. Is he expecting you?”
“No.” She leaned over the desk, cupped a hand to her mouth, and lowered her voice. “This is a secret ambush.”
“Such intrigue. Perfect for a Monday morning.” Mary popped up from her chair and scurried to the door leading into Joseph’s office.
“Mary? What’s …” Joseph’s question stalled as Amanda stepped over the threshold.
For a moment, her breath hitched. She’d never tire of the way he looked at her. More than love simmered in that gaze. More than desire. The warmth of his brown eyes reached out and held her, cherishing her as the most valuable of God’s creations. Her. The sole focus of such tenderness. She wished she could package it up and carry it around with her all day.
In four long strides, he wove around his desk and pulled her into his arms. “This is a nice surprise.” His lips pressed against her cheek, then slid like a whisper across her jaw toward her ear. “Would that I could kiss more than propriety allows.”
A tingle settled low in her tummy. If she turned her face, his mouth would be on hers. But if Mary were to walk in and find them so entwined—
She pulled from his embrace. “Soon.”
“Not soon enough.” He cocked his head to a rakish angle. “You know there’ll be no stopping me once you’re my wife.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the open door leading to the reception room then frowned back at him.
He grinned. “Don’t worry. If nothing else, Mary is discreet.” He swept out his arm. “Have a seat. I’m pleased you’re here, but surely you’ve not taken a sudden interest in legal briefings?”
She sank onto the leather chair while he leaned back against his desk in front of her.
“No, not briefings,” she began, “but I do have a legal matter with which I could use your help.”
“Oh?” He folded his arms, one of his professional stances. Good. Hopefully he’d take her seriously.
“I mentioned my interest in the Grigg house yesterday, but then there was the matter with the newsboys, and Mr. Rafferty’s incessant chattering.” She averted her gaze. Her words would be embarrassing enough. “Nor did you make conversation easy on the drive home with the way you …” Her face heated.
“The way I what?” His sultry tone, edged with laughter, challenged her to look at him.
She refused, but it was hard to fight down a small smile. “You know I cannot think when you hold my hand and rub little circles on my wrist.”
He said nothing.
She dared a peek. La! What a mistake. The heat in his gaze was enough to singe her modesty—which was likely the exact effect he hoped for. She squared her shoulders. “Regardless, I am here now, making my request today. I need to acquire the title to the old Grigg house by the end of the month, yet I’ve been shuffled from office to office with no success. I thought you might be able to get it for me.”
Unfolding his arms, he retreated to the other side of his desk. For a while, he didn’t say anything, just tapped a finger on the mahogany.
“You’ll need to go to the deed’s office,” he finally answered.
“I’ve been there. No luck.” She leaned forward in her seat. “Surely you can hasten the process.”
He shook his head, his brown gaze completely unreadable. “I am sorry, Amanda. I cannot help with this project of yours.”
“Cannot?” She sank against the cushion. The word made no sense. Without his help to speed along her search for the title, she’d never make Lillian’s appointed deadline. Her first project proposal would be a dismal failure—one that wouldn’t improve her father’s opinion of her, either. No, she simply couldn’t accept either outcome.
She straightened, folding her hands in her lap. “I am sure it won’t take long.”
He sighed. “With the mayor’s upcoming election, I don’t have the time.”
The rejection stung—but only for a heartbeat. She’d learned long ago that determination fed off rejection and grew the larger for it.
She stood. “I understand. I should get busy as well, then. Good day, Joseph.”
She strode to the door, but a strong hand on her shoulder turned her back.
“Please, Amanda, don’t take this personally.” He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close, the nearness of him melting some of her resolve. “You know I’d do anything for you, but not this. Not now. Save the Grigg project for another time.”
She couldn’t help but run her hands up and down his back, loving the feel of strength beneath his suit coat. “I do understand, and I should not add to your burdens.”
He crooked a finger, lifting her chin with his knuckle. “Then we are agreed?”
“Of course.” She quirked her lips into a saucy smirk.
Of course she wouldn’t add to his burdens—but that didn’t mean she’d give up getting that deed on her own.
Joseph waited until the outer office door closed behind Amanda before letting his smile slide off. Tenacious woman! A trait he admired—but not this time.
He strode to his secretary’s desk, flexing out the tension in his fingers. “A telegram, if you please, Mary.”
“Yes, sir.” She pulled out the form, pencil poised.
“To the Rev. Robert Bond, Chicago, Morse Park, Number Twelve.” He paused as her fingers flew. “Urgent, Stop. Transfer title, Stop. Must be your name, Stop. Only yours, Stop.”
Just as her pencil caught up to his words, the outer door opened once again, followed by a booming voice. “Hey Blake, the mayor wants to see you, and he’s in one devilish mood.”
Joseph turned. His friend and fellow attorney Henry Wainwright stood on the threshold. Waggling his eyebrows, he mocked, “Devilish. Devilish. Devilish.”
A smirk twisted his lips. “Been prodding you with his pitchfork so early in the week, has he?”
Henry opened the lapels of his suit coat, revealing the vest beneath. “Got the holes to prove it.”
“I best not keep him waiting, then.” He glanced back at Mary as he headed for the corridor. “Send that telegram immediately, please. And thank you.”
“Yes, sir.” Mary’s voice followed him out into the hall.
Henry already was striding off in the opposite direction. “Good luck, Blake.”
Blowing out a long breath, Joseph advanced down the corridor. Was this a death march? Not that he hadn’t expected it. Still, a man on his way to the gallows couldn’t help but have his throat burn.
Both of the mayor’s office doors were open, outer and inner. A bad omen. The old lion likely sat on his haunches, ready to strike as soon as Joseph entered his lair. He nodded at the matron manning the secretary desk, a drill-sergeant compared to his mousy Mary.
“Good morning, Miss Strafing. Mayor Smith is expecting me?”
Her lips puckered, a perpetual look for her. Either the woman sucked on lemons to keep in practice or the sourness inside her refused to be held in. “He is.”
“Thank you.” He stalked into the mayor’s den and stood at attention. Better to be on the offensive, for weak prey attracted rather than repelled. “Good morning, Mayor Smith.”
“Blake. Blake. Blake.” The man shoved back in his chair and stood, planting his hands on his desk. A strategic position to launch an attack—one Joseph often employed on the accused.
“Do you know what day it is, Blake?” the mayor asked.
He’d learned long ago never to look directly at the man. To do so jumbled his thoughts. One could not help but stare at the collection of tiny growths dotting the mayor’s face. Oh, the fellow tried to hide the things with whiskers, but the sparse, white hairs only magnified the darkened moles. Truly, only a mother could love that face, which explained why Mrs. Smith’s portrait hung on the wall behind the man’s desk—and that’s exactly where Joseph pinned his gaze. “Today is October thirteenth, sir.”
“Not the date, man. The day.”
He hesitated. What kind of trickery was this? “It is Monday, sir.”
“Ah … Monday. Monday. Monday. Yet you told me Hannah Crow’s brothel would be shut down by Friday.” The mayor’s voice sharpened. “A week ago Friday. I’ve since heard otherwise. Is that true?”
The turn of conversation and the mayor’s annoying quirk of repetition left a nasty taste at the back of Joseph’s throat. He swallowed. “True, sir. The zoning commission—”
“Enough!” The mayor’s eyes narrowed. “Do I need to remind you the general election is less than a month away?”
So that was to be the man’s game, eh? Wielding his future employment as a scythe to his neck. He gritted his teeth, then finally ground out, “No, sir.”
“What’s my slogan?”
Rage burned a trail up from his gut. Pandering to the pompous fellow never came easy—but for now, with only three months until the wedding, he’d have to take it for Amanda’s sake. After New Year’s, though, all bets were off. He’d find a different position, maybe even open up his own practice.
“I’m waiting, Blake.”
“‘A clean city is a strong city,’ sir.” He clipped out the slogan, direct and sharp.
“Clean. Clean. Clean.” The man stepped away from his desk and crossed to the front of it, emphasizing the rest of his words with an index finger on Joseph’s chest. “Do you think a brothel in the center of St. Paul upholds the image of cleanliness?”
He stifled the urge to shove the man back a step. “No, sir.”
“My reelection hinges on this.” His tone lowered to a growl. “So does your job.”
The muscles in his legs hardened, the restraint of lunging forward almost unbearable. Bullies came in all sizes, from the ragged, young news-seller, to this well-dressed power broker. He forced a calm tone to his voice—barely. “Trust me. I want to see Crow shut down as much, if not more, than you. I assure you I am working on it.”
“Working. Working. Working.” A chuckle rumbled in the mayor’s chest. “See that you are, or you’ll be lucky to be working as the city dog catcher. Dismissed!”
He wheeled about and strode from the office—and there sat Willard Craven. Judging by the man’s leer, he’d heard everything. Joseph’s hands curled into fists. Ah, but he’d love to punch that smug look off Craven’s face.
Ignoring the man, he stomped back to his office. What a day. Lifting his gaze to the ceiling, he silently prayed—for truly, what else could he do?
Help me find a way to shut down that brothel, Lord, and thwart Craven. And soon.