The Marshal's Pursuit

by Gina Welborn

  No one spoke.

  Malia took the paper—ripped it, actually—from him. How could anyone think she and Mr. Daly were a couple by this photograph? He faced the camera, posing, but she stood off to the side, clearly talking to someone else. She drew in a calming breath. There was no need to panic. This was a good thing. It had to be, right? That Daly was offering a reward meant the mafiosi still had no idea where she was. Irene and those at the special prosecutor’s office who helped her were still safe. No one had been beaten into confessing where she was.

  Mrs. Grahame touched Malia’s arm. “Darling, you don’t look well.”

  Malia wet her lips nervously and swallowed. “It, uh...I think, uh—” She cut herself off. A panicked chuckle threatened to burst from her throat. Frank would know what to do. She didn’t have to worry. He would keep her safe. She waited for him to look her way, for him to tell her everything would be fine, that he had a plan. The seconds stretched, it seemed, into hours.

  Malia willed him to look at her. To hold and comfort her. Please.

  His hand moved toward hers, then fisted and drew back.

  “What do we do now?” Mr. Grahame put in.

  “Frank,” prodded his grandmother.

  “I need—” His jaw shifted. He ran a hand through his hair. “I need to call Henkel.” His gaze settled on his grandfather, whose blue eyes mirrored the gravity in his own. “He needs to convince the judge to move up the deposition date. Every day now is one closer to the mafiosi finding her. More than ever, we need to keep Malia hidden.” And he strode from the room.

  In good news, Worth still sat where Malia had ordered him.

  Grahame Kitchen

  Day sixteen of twenty-one

  10:08 a.m.

  Frank leaned against the door frame and looked past his grandfather, the chef and the kitchen maid to the person he desired most to see. Her back to him, Malia stood at the counter cradling a metal bowl. She scraped a wooden spoon around its sides. Since learning of her photo in the papers yesterday, she had said little to him, even while they’d played bridge last night with his grandparents. She seemed sad. No, that wasn’t it. Pensive.

  He’d leave her alone, but they needed to talk.

  He gently tapped the wrapped book he held against his thigh. “You are a hard person to find, when you don’t want to be found.”

  Her gaze stayed on the mixing bowl. “Who said I didn’t want to be found?”

  “Grandmother.”

  “Oh.”

  Grandfather rose from the table by the window. He nodded at Frank then motioned to the chef and kitchen maid at the stove. They left through the serving door. Grandfather walked to Frank, patted his shoulder then left too.

  When Malia said no more, Frank put in, “What are you making?”

  “Italian cookies. Mr. Grahame didn’t believe me when I told him I knew how to cook.” Her arm paused in stirring. She drew in a breath then resumed the motion. “Nonna insisted on teaching me all her recipes. She’d say—” her voice pitched higher “—Someday, little Malia, I may not have servants and live in a fine house, and then who will cook for me? And I would yell, I will. She never expected Nonno’s good fortune in America to last.”

  Frank pushed himself away from the door frame and strolled to the counter. “I’m sorry.”

  That got her attention. She looked up. “For what?”

  “I’m sorry they died and left you alone.” Frank slid the paper-wrapped book onto the stacked tin baking sheets on the counter. He watched as the pensive thoughts she’d had for the past twenty-four hours collided in a fury that brightened her eyes. Liquid amber. He’d seen her cry over her circumstances. It was high time for her to get angry.

  She dropped the wooden spoon in the bowl that contained a creamy mixture he guessed to be butter, sugar and maybe an egg or two. She then smacked the bowl onto the counter.

  “I have my brother who is a notorious gangster and, likely, a murderer.” She spoke in a voice colder than he’d ever heard from her. “Nonno and Papà were criminals too, so some would say I am better off with them dead. Don’t feel sorry for me, Mr. Louden.” She took a step to leave, but he grabbed her wrist and held firm.

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because they loved you.” It was all he could do not to grab her shoulders and shake sense into her. “Something’s been nagging at me for the past two weeks. Van Kelly didn’t survive in the shadows on his own cleverness. He needed minions to do his dirty work, connections to protect his identity.”

  Her gaze shifted to his grip.

  Frank let go. To his relief she didn’t flee.

  He rested his hand on a gun hilt. Since they’d arrived in Tuxedo, he hadn’t felt the need to be armed. Until this morning. Gut instinct, Holy Spirit impression, he wasn’t sure which, but neither was he ignoring the feeling. “Why do you think Van Kelly sent his precious sister to do something that put her directly in danger?”

  Her mouth opened, jaw shifted as she tried to form words, to find words. “I—I don’t know,” she said curtly.

  Frank knew, or at least he thought he had her brother’s motives figured out. After discussing it earlier that morning with his grandfather, he felt more confident that his hunch—that what he hoped was true—was on target. “He did it because he trusted you more than anyone else.”

  She blanched. Her gaze fell to the mixing bowl, and a wry chuckle came forth. “There, you’re wrong. Giovanni doesn’t trust me any more than Papà or Nonno did. He told me about the safe because I’m the only Vaccarelli left alive to help him. Vaccarellis always help one another.”

  “He could have sent his lawyer.”

  “No,” she countered. “Giovanni insisted he needed him with him at the jail.”

  “He could have sent one of the coppers he buys off. He could have sent a score of others, but he didn’t, Malia.” Frank rested his hands gently on her shoulders. She stiffened. “He sent you, the sister he swore to protect, because he loves you and—” He stopped at the spark of pain in her eyes.

  But he couldn’t stop.

  He cared for her too much to not help her see the truth.

  He gave her shoulders a little squeeze then lowered his hands. “Giovanni knew exactly what you would do when you found the sourdough.”

  She looked at him in disbelief. “He knew I would call Irene?”

  “Who else in your life will help you without qualms?”

  She hesitated. “No one.”

  I will, Frank wanted to yell. She could come to him and he would help her. If he loved her—if she were his—he would cross mountains and deserts and streams for her. “Your brother knew you had no one but your close friend Irene, who just so happens to be a lawyer. When a girl finds counterfeit bills in a family safe in her home, the first thing she needs is a lawyer.”

  With her fingertips, she rubbed her eyes, shaking her head. “It doesn’t make sense. What is it you see and I don’t?”

  “Tell me what you did after you found the sourdough.”

  While her look was peeved, it held none of the earlier anger. She drew the wooden spoon back and forth in the butter mixture. “Well, I called Irene because I knew I couldn’t go to the family lawyers. I didn’t—I couldn’t—trust them.”

  “Then what?”

  “Irene suggested we turn the money over to the special prosecutor because I don’t trust coppers.”

  He raised his brows in false indignation. “You don’t trust me?”

  Another peeved look. “You’re different.”

  “Thank you.” Then before she could respond, he added, “I know. It wasn’t a compliment.”

  She tried not to smile.

  He didn’t smile either. At first.

  Frank refocused
on his mission. “You didn’t know Irene had called the marshal service, so what were you planning on doing next?”

  A blush stole across her cheeks. “It was naive of me to think that I could, but, if I hadn’t mentioned the list, I would’ve walked out of that office and returned—” The spoon slid from her hand and banged against the side of the metal bowl.

  “Home,” he finished. He reached to her cheek. “Eyelash,” he said, brushing it off with the side of his thumb. “If you had done that, the mafiosi would have snatched you before you could have made it inside the Waldorf.”

  She blinked. “I would be in their protective custody.”

  Or dead. Likely dead, considering she could connect her brother and four other mafiosi bosses with Mad Dog Miller’s death. She wasn’t significant enough to keep alive.

  “Malia, every action you made that day was you being the good Christian girl you are.”

  “And you think Giovanni counted on that?”

  “You aren’t a complex woman.”

  She dumped the premeasured flour mixture into the mixing bowl. “Your flattery has no bounds.”

  He loved every ounce of her sarcasm. “Giovanni also counted on a lawyer doing what she should by getting her client protection. Despite how much he hates coppers, he had to know you would be safer with the marshals.”

  She gripped the bowl with one hand and stirred the mixture, combining the flour with the cream. “Let’s say this is true, and I did exactly what Giovanni counted on me doing.”

  Her head tilted ever so much to the side as she looked at him. And she said something. Or not. Frank wasn’t sure beyond that her lips moved. He stared. He couldn’t stop. It wasn’t her lips or her perfectly shaped face or the sun-kissed glow to her skin. It wasn’t even her wit or ability to laugh with abandon, or how she honored and respected his grandparents with no pretense, manipulative flattery or self-interested deception.

  He couldn’t stop because it was how she looked at him. How she looked at everyone on the Grahame estate. Unveiled.

  Who Malia Vaccarelli was was there in her eyes. No mysteries. No secrets. Yes, she was beautiful, gloriously beautiful, but it wasn’t her beauty that drew people to her, drew him to her. She loved and served and treated others with kindness because doing so was as natural to her as breathing. A woman like her invited a man to love. Invited him to put down his sword and rest. He adored her. He loved—

  His breath literally whooshed from his body.

  Frank leaned back against the edge of the counter. Two things. That’s all he had to do—keep her safe and guard his heart—and he couldn’t even accomplish the easiest one.

  She touched his arm, concerned. “Frank?”

  She looked up at him with such tenderness, such...

  Love.

  He didn’t move. Their bodies weren’t touching—thank God for that—but he could feel her warmth radiating off her skin, breathe her simple clean scent from the Ivory soap his grandmother insisted be placed in every washroom. She was so close he could reach out and pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. His mind raced with images of it. He growled under his breath. His duty was to protect her, not compromise her.

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth, an innocent action stemming from her sincere concern, yet it only made him want her more. Frank grabbed the counter with both hands, his palms pressing down onto the cold soapstone. He pressed his eyes closed.

  He tried to keep his tone light. “You were saying?” He didn’t have to open his eyes to know she was watching him.

  “You sound odd.”

  “I’m fine,” he ground out.

  After a soft “hmmph,” she said, “I asked, ‘What is his motive?’”

  “You, Malia,” he snapped. “You are his motive.” He knew because he felt the same. Like Giovanni, he would do anything to protect her, even if it cost him his life. And she wasn’t even his; she would never be his. Frank grimaced at what he had to say next.

  The truth was going to hurt.

  He opened his eyes, met her confused gaze. “This is all part of Giovanni’s plan to force you out of his life because he knows you won’t go willingly.”

  * * *

  Malia shook her head, unable to breathe from his verbal punch. She refused to believe Giovanni wanted her out of his life. He loved her. They were family. They had only each other.

  “Giovanni would never—” She growled under her breath. She wasn’t even going to argue the point. “You’re wrong, Frank, and I’m not leaving my brother. Ever.”

  He didn’t answer.

  He didn’t look right. He certainly hadn’t sounded normal. Although, he wouldn’t have said what he had if his intentions hadn’t been good. Frank was the type of person to point out food in your teeth, not to embarrass you, but to spare you from a worse embarrassment of knowing thirty other people saw you. He was considerate like that. Because he cared.

  “Maybe you should sit down,” she suggested. “Take the weight off your foot.”

  The stubborn man didn’t move. Fine. He could stand there all day, if it made him happy, or miserable. To each his own. She had cookies to bake.

  Malia reached around him to grab one of the baking sheets. On top was a package wrapped in butcher paper and tied with twine, and with a comedic pencil drawing of an ice-cream bowl filled with colorful, smiling hearts with faces. “What’s this?”

  His gaze shifted to the package. “Oh that...ehrm. It’s for you.”

  She blinked. “You bought me a gift. How sweet.” And then, because of his sassy words yesterday when she’d been giving her first dog training lesson to his grandmother, she teased, “You did say you were in love. Is this a token of your affection?”

  “No,” he blurted. His face reddened. “While you were being Grandfather’s social secretary this morning, Grandmother asked me to drive her to Wren’s Ice Cream Parlor and Sweet Shoppe. It’s in the village. The owner is collecting books and donations for the new library. I saw—” he nodded to the package “—that in the box and thought you might like to read it before you leave.”

  Malia wasn’t sure if she should laugh or be mortified. “You stole a book from a donation box? Frank!”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t steal it, all right? I explained to Mr. Wren that a friend of mine was visiting and liked the book, so I asked permission to borrow it. Mr. Wren said it’d be fine. The wrapping was his idea. He likes to draw,” he said, tapping the quirky drawing. “I have to give the book back before we leave. In five days. Maybe sooner. You should read quickly.”

  She looked up at him, assessing his rambling comments. Something ailed him, because...this awkwardness wasn’t Frank.

  She rested the baking pan atop her mixing bowl. From the corner of her eye, she could see him. He looked everywhere but at her as she untied twine and removed the paper to expose the green cover:

  The WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ

  She pressed her lips together, still looking down at the cover. She brushed her hand across the image of the Scarecrow and Tin Woodman, and the red Lion behind OZ. Frank borrowed this because he’d been thinking about her. And it embarrassed him for her to know. Such a simple gift, and yet she couldn’t think of one she treasured more, despite that she had to give it back.

  Malia felt herself warming inside. “I don’t know what to say.”

  He shrugged. “A mere ‘You are the most considerate man who has ever lived’ will suffice.”

  “Oh, will it?” She couldn’t school her smile. “In light of the thoughtfulness of your gift, Mr. Louden, I must confess my reading skills are...well, they aren’t expeditious.” With both hands, she held the book out to him. “Perchance the most considerate man who has ever lived would read it to me as I finish baking? Chapter four, please.”

  His head
was shaking, but he was grinning. “Sometimes you make me want to—”

  “To what?”

  Frank snatched the book. Without a hitch in his stride, he walked to the table under the kitchen’s middle window. Whatever had been bothering him hadn’t been his splinted toe. He took a seat and opened the book.

  Malia set the baking pan on the counter as he loudly flipped through pages like a ten-year-old boy being forced to read in front of the class. Giggles bubbled inside. She wouldn’t laugh, and risk ruining the moment. In five days, she would return to New York and walk out of Frank’s life. Until then, she was going to enjoy every second they had left together.

  Using a spoon, she scooped out walnut-size pieces of cookie dough. She rolled each piece of dough into a rope then shaped it into a loop. She laid it on the pan.

  “Finally!” he exclaimed. “I was about to think this book was missing a chapter.” He cleared his throat. “When Dorothy awoke the sun was shining through the trees and Toto had long been out chasing birds around him and squirrels.” Something between a snort and a chuckle burst from his chest.

  She scooped and formed another cookie. “Care to tell me what’s so amusing?”

  “Squirrels aren’t worth chasing. Toto should have known better.”

  “Would you have known better?”

  He just looked at her.

  She looked at him back. “Of course you wouldn’t have known better.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s inherent in a male’s nature to pursue.” She smirked. “Just as it is a female’s to want to be caught. Didn’t you know birds and squirrels are all female?”

  Of all he muttered, she caught only one word: “Women.” He resumed reading.

  Malia finished rolling the cookies as she listened to Dorothy and the Scarecrow meeting the Tin Woodsman. While the cookies baked during chapter five, the chef and Mary, the kitchen maid, returned to prepare lunch. Malia made coffee and joined Frank at the table for chapter six.

  “‘That is a first-rate idea,’ said the Lion,” read Frank. “One would almost suspect you had brains in your head, instead of straw.”