Page 37 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Plunking her hands on her hips, she took in the scene. The kitchen was a disaster. Plates were piled high in the sink, and the amount of crumbs sprinkled on the counter led her to believe he’d been subsisting entirely on bread. Shaking her head with a smile, she followed him into the dining room.

“Emil, what’s going on? Have you taken leave of your—"

Her eyes widened. The table was strewn with messy piles of paper, a mountain of old newspapers took up an entire corner of the room, and stained mugs dotted every surface. Emil was already leaning over one bulky stack of paper, scanning figures with a pen and circling something.

It was the workspace of a man obsessed.

“My word,” she said faintly. She took a step forward and picked up the nearest piece of paper.

It was a facsimile of a property deed, the real estate agency’s name underlined three times.

She picked up a second. Another name was underlined, beneath that a scrawled note: Wingate’s associate?

Confirm with Post, Nov. ‘07. She set it down and examined the piles more closely.

“Is this all about Mr. Wingate?”

“Partially.” He sat back and rubbed his chin absently. “I’ve been a bit busy the last few days.”

“So I see.”

He pulled out the high-backed chair beside him and patted the seat in invitation before getting lost in the papers again. She settled into the chair and studied him.

His skin had a sheen, as if he’d touched his face after handling something greasy. His under-eyes were swollen and shadowed, as if he’d spent the night tossing, or perhaps not sleeping at all. And the room carried a faint, unmistakable odor, like he hadn’t taken the time to bathe.

No woman should be aroused by negligence, but Olive was.

He had set aside his own needs for her.

When he looked up a short while later and gave her his beautiful, crooked grin, her heart thudded in her chest.

“How are you?” she asked softly.

“Tired. Hungry. Thirsty.” He stretched his arms over his head, drawing her eyes to the sleek lines of his torso. “But I’m close to figuring it out. I know I am.”

“Tell me,” she invited.

He blew out a breath, then nodded. She listened carefully as he explained how Wingate had hired him to investigate Harvey Gunn.

A man she’d never heard of before that day, but one whose impact was soon evident.

Though his methods of buying prime lots on the wharves and docks were not the most genteel, none violated the law.

“Turns out a large percentage of the lots were owned by Wingate’s friends. His cigar buddies. The ones he deigns to associate with in Seattle’s upper echelon. And so far, all of them have had a hand in managing the city’s interests.”

“And you think Gunn is disrupting how they run things?”

“That’s exactly what I think. But that’s not all, Olive. Most of these pals support a traditional agenda. The Scotsman threatens their vision, and they’re looking for ways to take him out.”

“I sure wouldn’t want to be in Mr. Gunn’s shoes.” Her brow furrowed. “Do I…do I threaten Mr. Wingate’s vision? Is that why he wants to find me so badly?”

Emil’s lips flattened. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.

I’ve hounded the clerks at the public records office, made them cough up all the names they could find connected to city planning, public donations, and political endorsements.

Hell, I even cross-referenced the names with the newspaper society pages, just to see how far Wingate’s connections go. ”

Olive listened to him go on, awestruck. He was meticulous and relentless, and he lit up with excitement as he described the past week’s pursuit.

This was his world—the chase, the puzzle, the exhilaration of solving it all.

And he was brilliant at it. No wonder he’d tracked her so effectively.

She was lucky he hadn’t turned this full intensity on her from the start; she wouldn’t have stood a chance.

And now he wanted her help? That he trusted her, included her, wanted her advice—it undid her.

Made her feel like she was part of the process. Like she really and truly belonged.

“What did you find?”

“Publicly, Wingate is a staunch supporter. Half a dozen articles over the past few months paint him as a model progressive. Hosting lectures, shaking the right hands, you name it. But then it gets interesting. I also found old invoices and records linking him to men with anti-suffrage leanings. A fundraiser he backed years ago. A discreet donation. Things that don’t match his new image.

” He exhaled hard. “I can’t tell if he’s had a change of heart, or if it’s all a performance. ”

Olive frowned, scanning the stack. “When did he change?”

“About a year ago, shortly before he announced his engagement. Seems he’s quite eager to impress the suffragist from Nantucket. She’s the reason he hired me to find the composer—says he wants to impress her with a performance from Seattle’s infamous anthem writer at her arrival party next month.”

Those were details Emil hadn’t mentioned before. Important details. Details that sparked something in her memory. “A suffragist from Nantucket?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I heard the same phrase a week ago. That can’t be a coincidence.

” She sat back, remembering. “I was leaving the Robinsons’ house when I paused to fix my heel.

Mr. Robinson and his friend passed me in the corridor.

I don’t think they saw me. They were too busy laughing about their friends’ predicament.

I wouldn’t have paid attention except that they used the word suffrage. Naturally, I perked up at that.”

“Naturally.”

“Well, it turns out their friend is desperately waiting for the arrival of his suffrage fiancée from Nantucket. Not because he believes in her cause, but because her dowry will bankroll his next venture. They also said that once he had his ring on her finger, he could stop pretending. I remember because it made me sad. That poor woman, not knowing the man she’s about to marry plans to silence her. ”

Emil stood and rifled through some papers, dragging a finger down a scrawled list. “Michael Robinson’s name was found six times in concert with Wingate’s.

And he owns one of the lots Gunn recently took over.

” He fell back into his chair. “Goddamn. So it was never a change of heart. He’s been anti-suffrage all along. Olive, you solved it.”

She barely heard the compliment over her thundering heartbeat. “His bride-to-be is nothing but a purse to him. And I am merely the bait to bring her here. What do you think he’ll do with my name once he’s finished using it?”

A fierce expression crossed Emil’s face. “I won’t let anything bad happen, Olive. I’ll confront him—”

She shook her head at once. “Absolutely not. With what irrefutable proof?”

The man pouted. “I’ll figure something out.”

“I know. But it has to be another way.”

“All right,” he relented, making a sour face. “Maybe I should have a nap first.”

She clucked her tongue in sympathy. “When did you last sleep?”

“I got two or three hours last night.”

“Then I’m amazed you can think at all.” She stood, picked up a half-filled notebook and pencil, then held out her free hand. “Come with me to the sofa.” He trailed behind her to the living room, obedient as a sleepy child. She sat on the sofa, then patted her lap. “Lay your head here.”

“What will you do while I sleep?”

“Sort out my thoughts. Come on, now.”

Kicking off his slippers with a shrug, he curled onto the sofa with a drawn-out sigh of pleasure. His cheek nuzzled against her thigh, and one arm draped across her lap. She waited for his weight to settle against her, his warmth a comfortable heaviness, and brushed his hair back from his forehead.

“God, that’s good,” he said through a yawn. A moment later, he was snoring softly against her leg.

Olive shook her head with a small smile.

Funny to think the same sofa where she had received pleasure could also be one of domestic bliss.

Her fingers threaded through the oily tangle of his dark hair, brushing over the rasp of stubble.

She followed the steady rise and fall of his chest, each breath rumbling like a distant purr.

He’d run himself ragged—on the case, yes, but also for her.

A ripple of emotion stirred in her chest, and this time, she let it rise.

Because now she knew for certain it was the stirrings of love.

It was fresh-born, tender. It would need to be coddled. Protected. But it no longer frightened her. It was no longer foolish. For now, it was enough to savor the wonder of beginnings and to marvel at the fragile, growing thing inside her.

She gave herself a few more minutes to soak in the new feelings, then turned her attention to the notebook. Her thoughts needed sorting, and she would do it while Emil slept. She turned over everything he’d told her, analyzing it from every angle, trying to find safe passage through.

If Emil confronted Wingate without proof, the news could spread through the city and end his career before it began.

That wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want him to throw everything away for her.

There had to be a way that protected them both.

Heart heavy but mind sharp, she began to write.

One page soon filled, then another. Her fingers began to ache, but she wasn’t finished.

It was calming to pin down all the reasons this case upset her.

It was healing to put into writing all the things she’d been too afraid to say aloud.

And it was liberating to know, without a doubt, that she could weather this storm.

When the clock chimed sometime later, Emil roused. He peered up at her with one eye still shut. “Hello,” he said, his voice gruff with sleep.

She set the pencil down and smiled at him. “Hello. Feel better?”

“I do. You’re very comfortable. You should stay here all the time.”