An Innocent Abroad: A Jazz Age Romance (12 page)

The
elevator lurched and stood still. Beyond the wood-paneled compartment, the
gears that operated the machinery fell ominously silent. Tom stared in
disbelief at the bronze hand on the elevator display above the doors, stuck
unmoving between two ornate roman numerals.

Could
this day possibly get any worse?

He
yanked at the elevator door, but to no avail. It was firmly shut. Which could
mean only one thing. He swore.

“It
appears we’re stuck between floors.” A cool, feminine voice broke through the
mist of anger wrapped around him. He turned, amazed to find he wasn’t alone in
the compartment.

“You
going to go screwy on me?” He eyed the young woman suspiciously.

She
arched an elegant eyebrow.

“Are
you going to have hysterics?”

“Do I
look hysterical?”

His gaze
swept over her. She wore her honey-colored hair drawn back in a twist at her
neck, making her look like a governess. As perhaps she was. Her drab tweed
skirt and blazer screamed prim and proper. Her classic oval face was pretty,
though not remarkable, their only outstanding feature a pair of dove-grey eyes
that appeared to be laughing rather than distressed.

“You
find this situation amusing?” he demanded.

“No.
But there really is no point getting worked up about something over which we
have no control. We should ring the alarm bell and wait to be rescued.”

Good
thinking. Calm thinking. It galled him he hadn’t thought of it first. In other
circumstances, without the shocking disclosure he’d just learned, he would
have.

He
pressed the alarm bell on the polished bronze panel. Nothing. He pressed it
again. No sound. He swore for a second time.

His
companion sat on the floor of the elevator, neatly tucking her skirt around her
knees. “Looks like we might have to wait a while.”

“Do you
get stuck in elevators often?” That would certainly explain her composure.

“This
is my first time in a lift. It’s taken me a full day to get up the nerve to
enter this one.”

Impressive.
First time trapped in a box with a stranger and instead of screaming like a
banshee or collapsing in his arms, she sat on the floor like a lady at a
picnic.

“Are
you in a hurry to get somewhere?” Her voice was coolly dispassionate and very
English. He was no expert in foreign accents, but he guessed she was well-born
and well-educated. Everything he wasn’t. Great. Just what he needed. Why
couldn’t he have been stuck in the elevator with a buxom brunette in need of
comfort, preferably a pliant young maid servant, to help him forget the
nightmare of the past hour?

“No
hurry.” Other than back to New York as fast as this damned liner could sail.
Not that he held out much hope of this ship setting any speed records if even
the elevators didn’t work.

“You’re
American.”

How
observant
. “And you’re British.”

“English,”
she corrected. “There is a difference.”

He
shrugged, beyond caring.

“I’m
Mrs. March.”

She was
being relentlessly good humored in the face of his irritation. He gave up
trying to get the alarm bell to respond and, with a sigh, forced aside his
temper and sank to the floor across from her. He held out his hand. “Tom
Gallagher.”

“It’s a
pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gallagher.” Her hand was as cool as her voice, but
the touch of her palm sent an unexpected and not unpleasant tingle up his arm.

“Are
you and your husband traveling on holiday to the States?” he asked politely.

Her
gaze clouded. She shook her head. “My husband was American. I’m going to visit
his family.”

Was
. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t
be.” She forced a smile. “We were very happy while it lasted.”

“You’re
traveling alone, then?”

“Hardly.
It seems even in these progressive times women are not allowed to do anything
on their own.” There was a touch of bitterness in her voice now, at odds with
the calm good humor of her expression. Interesting. “I’m traveling with my
sister-in-law. She has been visiting relatives in London, and I…” She shrugged,
as if shouldering aside an unpleasant thought. “My options were limited.”

He
frowned. “You’re not traveling out of choice?”

“It’s
not that simple.” She cleared her throat. “My situation is hardly a suitable
topic of conversation with a stranger.”

He
leaned back against the paneled wall. “Who better to divulge confidences to
than a complete stranger?” He sent her his most winning smile. “And since we
appear to be going nowhere for the foreseeable future, what harm can there
possibly be?”

She bit
her lip as she considered his words, drawing his gaze to her mouth. She wasn’t
the sort of woman he normally looked twice at. The white shirt buttoned up to
within an inch of her throat did not recommend her to a man who preferred women
a little less … restrained. Not that his preferences had been entirely
successful of late.

But
Mrs. March had a full and very kissable set of lips. And a pretty face and
figure, now that he bothered to look. Mr. March must have been a lucky man.
Until the death bit.

“There
are only two choices available to an unmarried woman, even a widow with the
means to support herself: to live with my parents or with his.”

“You’d
prefer to live alone?”

“Not so
much alone as I’d like to choose where I live. Robert and I were very happy in
London. We have friends there and a nice home. Now, because of his death, I’m
forced to give up the place where we were so happy and either return to a
sleepy country village full of old people or move to a foreign land.”

“Perhaps
you’ll like living in the States,” he suggested. “Perhaps you’ll even find
yourself a new husband. You’re young enough.” And attractive enough, in that
soft, sweet way he didn’t usually notice. It must be the after-effect of this
afternoon’s shock that he was even noticing now.

“Perhaps.
It’s what my family would like.”

“And
you don’t want to marry again?”

Her
smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I don’t want another husband.” She shook her
head. “I saw you on the dock at Southampton. I assume the young woman in the
ostrich plumes is your wife?” Mischief sparked in her eyes, transforming her
serious face, but gone far too quickly. “Or is she your lover?”

The
bitterness of his laugh echoed around the elevator compartment. Certainly not
the latter. “My wife.”

“And
you’ve been on holiday in England?”

“We
honeymooned in Europe.”

“How
lovely. Did you have a good time?”

He
pressed his lips together. “It was a profitable trip.”

“You
make it sound more like business than pleasure.”

She
noticed far too much. “Do you have a pack of cards?”

Her
eyes narrowed. “I don’t gamble.”

“Then
we shall have to find some other diversion to pass the time until we’re
rescued. How about charades?”

She
laughed, a low, melodic sound. “Tell me about America, Mr. Gallagher. What should
I expect of New York City?”

“Noise.
Filth. Excitement. Opportunity.”

“I hope
you don’t mind that I don’t find any of those attributes particularly
appealing.”

He
shrugged. “I expect your experience of the city will be very different from
mine. We’re not the same class of people.”

“Yet we
both travel first class.”

“That
only means I have money, Mrs. March, not that I have any class. I wasn’t always
rich, either.”

Her
cool gaze swept over him. “You don’t look much like someone raised in poverty.”

“And what
does someone raised in poverty look like?”

“Desperate.
There’s a look in the eyes that the destitute get. A hunger they never really
lose.”

“And in
your privileged life, you know this how?”

She
looked away, at a distant point over his shoulder. “I haven’t always led a
privileged life either. My father was a vicar. For many years we lived in a
seaside town where there was a great deal of poverty. He used to call those
years his ‘golden’ years. The years when he was really able to do some good in
the world.” She smiled, a poignant twist of her mouth. “Living in cozy country
villages might be a sinecure for most vicars, but Papa was happier when he
lived in a noisy dockyard. He wanted to do more with his life than give people
a pat on the back and tell them they were doing all right.”

“He
sounds like a man I know.”

She
raised an elegant eyebrow in inquiry.

“Father
Mick. Used to be Mick Dooley, hooligan and trouble-maker. These days he’s the
best-loved priest in the Lower East Side. And the best listener.” And as soon
as this wretched voyage was over, Tom intended to lay his troubles before
Father Mick. In the sanctity of the confessional he’d be able to finally admit
he’d made a mistake. That he’d married a woman for her looks and her sex
appeal, only to find both were a sham. And she had absolutely no intention of
consummating their marriage.

He ran
a hand around the inside of his collar and loosened his tie. Not that it made
much difference. The fan had stopped working along with the elevator machinery.
“I’m afraid we have now been in here long enough that your virtue may be
compromised.”

“I
hardly think a half hour spent in a malfunctioning lift would damage my
reputation. Unpleasant and undesirable, certainly, but hardly cause for
concern.”

That
was the second time in as many hours his presence had been labeled
undesirable
.
He attempted to keep his voice light as he swallowed the anger still simmering
beneath the surface. “Pity.”

Had he
imagined that spark of mischief light up her eyes? For a moment, she reminded
him of the first woman he’d ever fallen in love with. She’d been older than he,
wiser, more worldly wise, and with gentleness and a wicked sense of humor she’d
initiated him into pleasures previously undreamed of.

“I’m a
respectable widow, Mr. Gallagher, and you are a respectable married man. What
is there for us to fear?”

“I may
be married, but I haven’t been respectable for many years.” He grinned, the
charm spilling out as naturally as breathing. “Not since Father Thomas caught
me sampling the communion wine before mass.”

Her
mouth quirked. Or maybe it was a trick of the electric light overhead, which
had begun to flicker. “I’m sure you were a most angelic altar boy.”

“Looks
can be deceiving.”

“Indeed
they can.” Her damned cool eyes laughed at him.

The
urge to bait her, to shock her, overcame his common sense. “That was my first
taste of liquor, but certainly not my last.”

“Then
you’re not in favor of Prohibition, I assume?”

He
laughed. “I love the new laws. I’m making a fortune out of them.”

Her eyes
widened momentarily, then the cool amusement was back. “Are you a gangster?”

He
swept her a bow, as gallant as a bow could be when one was seated on the dusty
floor of an elevator cabin. “I own a nightclub in Manhattan. We distill our own
gin, and serve the finest champagne on our side of the Atlantic. Are you afraid
for your reputation now?”

“Not at
all. You may not be entirely law abiding, but you are a gentleman.”

He
shook his head. “I’m scarcely one generation removed from the potato fields of
Ireland. I’m no gentleman.”

“There’s
more to being a gentleman than a pedigree or an education, Mr. Gallagher. You
have nobility in your eyes.”

“You
said yourself that looks can be deceiving.”

“I’m
usually a good judge of character. I trust you.”

Until a
short half hour ago – or was it longer? Time had lost its meaning in this
elegantly paneled box – he’d thought himself a good judge of character too. Now
he no longer knew what to trust.

He
glanced upwards at the still unmoving dial above the doors. The letters were
barely visible. Sweat beaded on his brow and stuck his shirt to his back. He
removed his jacket and tried to sound casual as he folded it on the floor
beside him. “Tell me how you met your husband.”

“Are
you trying to distract me?”

“Is it
working?”

Her gaze
flicked up to the ceiling lamp, its sputter fading now along with the light.
“We met the usual way. We were introduced at a ball and we stood up to dance
together.”

“Was it
love at first sight?”

She
nodded. “Robert and I were friends from the moment we met. We talked and talked
that first night. And how did you meet your wife?”