David gazed at the becoming flush of pink highlighting her cheeks, then at the hollow of her throat revealed by the collar of her green calico dress. He could almost see the rapid beat of her pulse. “I apologize, Miss Roarke. In my rush to get you out of jail before nightfall, find a suitable place for you to stay, and get some decent clothes for you to wear, I gave little thought to the mundane necessities like flour, sugar, potatoes, and tea.” He looked her straight in the eyes.
Tessa swiped at a lock of red hair that had fallen from her tidy bun. “Well, you should’ve. You have food for that cat,” she said, pointing to the ugly tomcat missing part of one ear. “Is he any better than we are?” She knew she was being unreasonable, but she hated feeling so awkward.
“He lives here.” David set the mug of coffee on the desktop, turned, and started for the door.
“Not if you don’t get him off my table.” Tessa stood with her hands on her hips, the spoon clutched in her left fist. “Where are you going?”
“Out.” David caught Horace Greeley before he stepped on one of the plates, lifted him from the table, then set him on the floor.
“When will you be back?” She knew she didn’t have a right to demand answers, but she couldn’t help herself. She didn’t want him to leave, but she wasn’t going to ask him to stay. “I can set another place,” she offered, “but I’ll need to know how long to hold supper.”
“You and Coalie go on with your meal,” David told her.
“What about you?”
David smiled his most devastating smile as he opened the front door. “Me, Miss Roarke? Don’t worry about me. I’m just needin’ a drink o’ somethin’ stronger than coffee,” he said in a thick brogue that was a perfect imitation of hers. He tipped an imaginary hat in her direction and stepped back out into the cold night air.
Tessa watched him go, then flung the wooden spoon to the floor in frustration as she suddenly remembered the way Myra Brennan had traced the contours of David Alexander’s lips with the tip of her painted fingernail. Tessa wouldn’t have been at all surprised to learn he intended to spend the night in the woman’s bed.
Bending down, Tessa picked up the spoon and walked back to the storeroom to call Coalie to supper. Returning to the sink, she rinsed off the spoon, then ladled beans onto the two plates she’d set on the table. Well, Myra was in for a big surprise. She wasn’t going to have everything her way. She wasn’t going to get away with keeping Tessa’s belongings. Tessa would go to the Satin Slipper to get what was hers. David Alexander didn’t want trouble, but that was just what the man would get if he dared to stand in her way.
Tessa sat down at the table and began to mindlessly shove forkfuls of beans into her mouth. She could plan her strategy while she ate.
* * *
“Lee, I’ve got to take another look at Tessa’s room.” David Alexander sat at the bar of the Satin Slipper Saloon, nursing a shot of whiskey.
“There’s no way Myra’s gonna let you in there to snoop around,” Liam Kincaid replied.
“Have you been in there since the murder?” David asked.
Lee shook his head. “Myra kept me busy all day counting beer kegs and whiskey bottles. Too busy to look around.”
David grinned. “Then you are working on a case.”
Lee glanced around, studying the other patrons at the bar. Most of the regulars were too drunk to remember overhearing his conversation with the lawyer. “What gave you that idea?” His gray eyes were wide with feigned innocence.
“I think it was when you pretended not to know me,” David replied dryly. “We’ve only been friends for ten years. And colleagues as well.”
“Former colleagues,” Lee reminded him. “You quit working for our Scottish friend aft
er the war, remember?”
“But you’re still with him, aren’t you, Lee?” David pinned his buddy with a knowing look. “Or should I say Liam?”
“It’s Liam,” Lee acknowledged, giving his friend a meaningful glance.
“For now.” They spoke simultaneously.
It had been a joke among the three of them—David, Lee, and David’s cousin Reese Jordan—when they worked for the famous detective, Allan Pinkerton. Any name they used for work was always temporary. David had met Lee several times over the years since the war, and each time he’d been using a different name.
“Liam Kincaid is my real name,” Lee said. “At least, part of it.”
“You’re really Irish?” David was clearly surprised. In the years he’d known him, David always assumed Lee’s Irish brogue was part of his disguise.
“Only on me father’s side.” The thick brogue was in evidence when Lee spoke. He leaned over the bar closer to David and busied himself by wiping spilled beer off the polished mahogany surface.
“How long have you been here?”