Page 15 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Emil propped an elbow on the top of the chest-high stack in the Central Library, patiently waiting for the elusive lamb to show her face and order him around.

A hushed but constant murmur of voices blended with the pleasant scent of varnished oak and fresh ink.

He thumbed through a dense volume of classical philology he’d plucked from the shelf at random.

He squinted at the article before him, an indecipherable exploration on the syllabification of Latin inscriptions.

Terminology swam before his eyes; the more he read, the less he understood.

It was as incomprehensible as his fixation with Olive Becket.

Three nights in a row, he’d dreamed of her.

Naked, back-arched, her slender, long legs wrapped around his hips.

Her agile fingers playing his cock like a master.

Her little gasps of oh, oh slipping through her lips as he thrust into her.

Three nights in a row, he’d awoken hard as steel, aching for release.

If that wasn’t confusing enough, for three nights in a row, the thought of finding another woman had filled his throat with dust.

What the hell did it mean?

He never obsessed over a woman. They obsessed over him. That was the way he liked it. It was easy, expected. But not Olive. No, she looked like she’d swallowed a toad whenever she saw him. Alternated between literally running away from him and scolding him like an errant schoolboy.

She’d had every right to be annoyed with him—he couldn’t explain why he’d continued his surveillance.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t have other ways to unearth a suffragist. But every time he’d tried, he’d found himself wondering where Olive was at that particular moment.

If she was cold or wet or tired. If she was being treated fairly.

If today would be the day she let him glimpse the quiet defiance that made her eyes crack and sparkle.

That made him want to peel back the layers she shoved between herself and the world.

“There you are.”

He started at the familiar hiss. Shut the philology book with a thud and glanced around the circulation room. Even at this early hour, most of the seats were occupied. But there was no sign of the speaker.

“Down here.”

The books at waist height shoved apart. Emil squatted and peered into the narrow gap, only to find Olive scowling back at him from the other side. Her gaze met and held his. His pulse skittered in response, inordinately pleased that today, she dared show him her fire.

“Well, aren’t we stealthy?”

Her plump lips pursed, and Emil was bombarded with details from his dreams. Fresh desire gusted in his lower abdomen like a mainsail on a windy day. Her lips were moving, but he had no idea what she was saying.

“Mr. Anderson, are you listening to me?”

“Emil,” he replied thickly. “My name is Emil.”

A deep blush bloomed from the small patch of skin visible beneath her chin to the roots of her honey blonde hair. He yanked his gaze back to hers, which, he noted with some pride, was still trained on him.

“Mr. Anderson,” she repeated firmly.

Stubbornness shouldn’t be so adorable, and yet, he smiled. “Have it your way, Olive.” A little oh slipped free at his impertinence, and there was that strange flutter in his stomach again. “Are you finally going to reveal your mysterious plan?”

“It’s only mysterious because you weren’t included in its design.”

“That’s fair,” he allowed. “But can we speed things along? My knees are starting to ache.”

“I’ve heard that too much imbibing can cause swelling of the joints.”

“I don’t drink enough for that to be a problem.”

“Then perhaps it’s gout. You do have a certain smell.”

He barked out a laugh and was immediately shushed by a passing librarian. He waited until the man was gone, then faced the gap again. “Tell me. What composer was celebrated at the Blount musicale?”

“Bach, of course. Why?”

“I’m simply ascertaining whether a changeling replaced you while you slept.”

“No changeling, I’m afraid. Only an Emil-shaped warlock who freed my tongue,” she replied sweetly. “My heartfelt congratulations.”

“Lucky me.” He crooked a finger and waited for her to press closer, her oval face filling the gap, her unblemished skin dewy and utterly strokable. Then, he whispered, “I knew you wanted to use my name.”

She pulled back with a grumble. Once again, he was tempted to laugh. Their repartee was so unexpected, so delightful, that he no longer cared he’d had to relinquish control over his case. Not if this was his payment.

“I was able to compile some information,” she finally whispered, “between my conversations with the musicians and several members of the Seattle Suffrage Society.”

“Excellent.”

“Apparently, there are a few locations where messages are passed.” She gave him a look. “Messages that the official state suffrage organ might not approve of.”

Not that was intriguing. It could explain why the anthem wasn’t published by WESA itself, or at least endorsed by it. “Very good, Olive.”

“Yes. Well.” She glanced down, cheeks aflame once more, and he heard the rattle of paper through the stacks, as if she were consulting a list. “Well.”

Her response fascinated him. One small compliment, and she practically melted. He filed the information away for later use.

“I take it the library is one such place?”

“It is.” She brightened considerably. “Hundreds of people pass through the doors on a daily basis. Materials circulate among the masses. It’s the perfect place to hide within plain sight!”

“Then let’s get started.”

He pushed himself up, but her hand shot through the gap, fisted the front of his coat, and yanked. He lurched forward, slamming into the stack with a dull thud. Books rattled as he blinked down at her, the hard edge of a dictionary wedged into his shoulder.

“Changeling,” he whispered.

“Slug,” she returned, doe-eyes gleaming. “One last thing.”

“What?”

“I won’t risk my reputation or that of the Society. You will pretend you don’t know me.”

“That part will be easy. This new side of you is terrifying.”

“Thank you.” Her smile was brilliant, as if he’d paid her another compliment, and she finally let him go. “Stay at least five feet behind me at all times.”

“I’ll make it ten.”

He eased to his feet, ducking his chin to surreptitiously sniff himself. Nothing out of the ordinary, so far as he could tell. He’d bathed after rowing that morning. Used aftershave. He sniffed again, caught a stale whiff of cigarettes. But how was that different than any other man in the room?

He shook his head and dutifully followed Olive, who was already making her way through the circulation room. No one paid her the slightest bit of attention, which frankly, boggled his mind. He couldn’t look away.

They crossed the ornate lobby, its elegant ochre, lemon, and cream hues clashing with the sea of dark winter coats and hats.

A swarm of children thundered across the mosaic floor to the stair landing, parting around Olive as effortlessly as a stream flowing past a rock.

Emil wasn’t so lucky. The tide surged against him, tiny elbows and wool-clad heads battering him like a surge of driftwood.

He bobbed and weaved his way after Olive, entering the Reference room with a sigh of relief.

Olive was already passing through one partition to the far end of the room. He hurried after her. She paused, consulted her list, and scanned the shelves. She found what she wanted in the corner of the room. He pretended to study the spines on a nearby shelf.

“The history section?” he asked dryly.

“Of course,” she whispered back. “To envision a new future, one must study what needs to be changed.” Hairs rose on the back of Emil’s neck at the gravity of her truth.

“I was told,” she continued quietly, “that messages are sometimes hidden in this nook. Where those who seek answers will find them.”

Emil craned his neck, the thrill of anticipation overriding the call for stealth. Excitement drummed up his spine, coiling in his chest. He knew the feeling well—it always heralded something momentous. This was it. The clue that would solve the case, earn the accolade, secure his position.

Her fingers brushed the crevice, then stopped. Brow furrowing, she dug deeper. Emil held his breath, silent. Then he heard it. A tell-tale crinkle of paper. Her head whipped toward him, her eyes sparkling.

“I found something—”

A blur of brown fur shot from the shadows.

Olive shrieked and stumbled backward, flinging her arm to rid herself of the creature clinging to her glove.

Emil lunged forward, arms instinctively catching her before she could topple over.

The force sent them both staggering, and the culprit—a tiny mouse—soared in a perfect arc before landing with an unceremonious plop at their feet.

It scuttled away, apparently none the worse for wear.

The scramble unbalanced them, and Emil grunted as the unyielding edge of the oak table sent a numbing spasm down his leg.

Yet the pain was nothing compared to the unsettling pleasure of Olive’s full weight against him—the press of her back against his chest, her trim waist beneath his hands, an errant curl tickling his ear.

It was nice.

Too nice.

Far too related to cuddling.

He quickly set her on her feet and put some inches between them. Even more frustrating was that she seemed entirely unaffected by his nearness. All her attention was trained on her finger.

“It bit me!”

“You’re wearing gloves,” he said gruffly. “I doubt it penetrated.”

“It bit me hard.”

“Let’s take a look, then.” He stilled her flapping hand and tugged at the glove, revealing long, tapered fingers. One of which bore teeth marks and a smearing of bright red blood. “Well, shit.”

“I told you!”

His head whipped up at the hysterical note in her voice. “It’s just a nip.”

“You’re only saying that because it isn’t your hand.” Her eyes widened. “Rabies.”