by Caroline Lee
And then they bustled off, leaving Andrew trying to control his laughter at their obvious abandonment.
“Well, Miss Christa, it appears it’s just you and—”
When she lifted her head and met his eyes, Andrew forgot whatever it was he had been about to say.
It was her.
The woman he’d played poker against Tuesday night. The woman he’d been making discrete inquiries about all over town. She’d just been handed to him, and now they were alone.
God deserved an extra little prayer of thanks for that, Andrew figured.
Her pale eyes held worry again, and from the way she stood, her gloved hands clasped in front of her, looking as if she’d run at the least provocation, he could tell she was concerned.
Concerned he would recognize her?
Slowly, a grin spread across his face. “Christa, was it? Is that short for something?”
Christopher, maybe?
He saw the exact moment she realized he was teasing her, and her expression turned to annoyance in a blink. He decided he liked that better than the worry.
“It is short for something, Mr. Prince, but I see no need to burden you with my full name.”
Impulsively, he reached for her hand, so quickly, she couldn’t dodge him. She wore a set of gloves—for propriety and the cold—but he could still cradle her hand in his and could still feel the warmth seeping up his arm.
“Miss—” No. This was no miss. This woman was well past youth’s first bloom, although likely not reaching his age yet. He’d put her in her late thirties. “Madam Christa, might I assume your last name isn’t O’Hare?”
Her nostrils flared, and he found his gaze dropping to her lips just in time to see them quirk into a wry grin.
“It’s Harrington. Christa Harrington,” she admitted with a sigh, as if acknowledging defeat.
Defeat? No. Not that.
Andrew lifted her hand, not quite to his lips, but close enough he saw her suck in a harsh breath at the prospect. Though he couldn’t tell if it had been from fear or anticipation, he offered a charming grin. “Madam Harrington, it is my absolute honor and delight to meet you at last. I recently lost quite a bit of money in a poker game to a gentleman who looked remarkably like you. Do you have a brother running around town perhaps?”
He could tell from her smile—which matched his own—she knew he was playing a game. Still, she lifted a brow and offered, “I do have several brothers, but I can’t know their whereabouts at all times, Mr. Prince.”
“Please, call me Andrew. I am determined we will be friends.”
She flushed becomingly, dropping her gaze slightly. “Then you should call me Christa.”
Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and suddenly, he was struck by how lovely she appeared.
Not lovely in the conventional sense, but lovely just the same. She was old enough not to need to flirt with him, and the lines of her jaw spoke of strength. The hair which had swung free under her cowboy hat during the poker game was now pulled back in a simple bun atop her head, which accentuated the long lines of her neck. Her gown was made of blue wool, nothing fancy, but on her, the simplicity was striking.
Now that he’d seen her dressed as a woman, there’s no way he could mistake her for a man again.
Suddenly struck by inspiration, he cleared his throat. “You’d like to know more about my friend, Max?”
Her gaze was slightly suspicious as she peeked up at him from under her lashes. “Yes?” she offered.
He had to tamp down the flash of jealousy at the thought of her being interested in Max DeVille. She was older than his friend by a decade at least, but Max was a good-natured charmer.
Still, Andrew had every intention of using this information. “I would be happy to share everything I know of him and perhaps introduce the two of you, on one condition.”
Slowly, her chin came up until she was meeting his gaze squarely. He didn’t elaborate, thereby forcing her to ask him the condition. But it seemed she understood his game, and refused to play it, because she lifted one brow in challenge, and he had to chuckle.
Admitting defeat, he nodded gracefully and squeezed her fingers between his. “Have dinner with me, Christa. Tomorrow evening, perhaps? Allow me to spend time with you as Christa, please.”
For the first time in a very long while, Andrew Prince—well-traveled millionaire, inventor extraordinaire—found himself holding his breath, waiting for a woman’s response to his invite.
He watched her expression change from surprise to disbelief to consideration and took heart in the fact she hadn’t pulled her hand from him.
Finally—finally—she slowly nodded. “I think, Andrew”—damn, but he loved how his name sounded on her lips, in that husky tone—“ I would like that very much.”
Joy—sudden and profound—hit him so quickly, he could hardly contain himself. He smiled, and she smiled in return.
Chapter 4
Christa nervously smoothed down the front of her blue dress and stepped into the kitchen. Helga was bustling about, preparing dinner and humming happily, while Doc sat at the table, reading the paper.
Well, Helga appeared to be making dinner, but Christa admitted there was a lot of bustling and less cooking, though food always appeared on time and tasted wonderful, so who was she to complain?
She took a deep breath, prepared to face scrutiny.
“I won’t be joining you for dinner this evening,” she announced firmly.
To her surprise, Helga looked up with a cheerful grin, not at all hurt or confused. “Of course, dearie, you look lovely. Have plans with a handsome gentleman, do you?”
It hadn’t been said in a mocking tone, but still, Christa felt her hackles rise. “Yes,” she said stiffly, challenging either of them to protest.
You can’t be a godmother if you’re going to be entertaining gentlemen callers. She could just hear Doc’s biting tone.
But instead, the oldest godmother slowly pulled her spectacles off and wiped them with a handkerchief, very definitely not looking at Christa when she hummed and asked, “I heard you spent some time with Mr. Prince after church yesterday.”
“Yes,” Christa repeated, resisting the urge to clench her skirts in her fists, knowing she’d just smoothed the darn things. “He’s very nice and has offered to help me meet Max DeVille.”
There. There. That made it sound like this dinner was strictly business. See? I’m hard at work trying to find a match for Sibyl Miller. I’ll make a good godmother.
And if she thought Mr. Prince was a bit more than very nice, or if she was looking forward to spending time with him alone, which had nothing to do with Max DeVille…well, that was her own business.
Doc hummed again and slipped her spectacles back on her nose. “Max DeVille, eh? That’s a good candidate. He’s a fine man.”
She was…agreeing with Christa? Hmm. “Thank you.”
The older woman’s lips curled into a faint smile, and she picked up her paper once more. “Good luck, Christmas.”
“Have fun, dearie!” Helga called out.
It was perfect timing, because at that moment, Suzy called from the front foyer, “Christa! You have a caller!”
Murmuring her goodbyes, Christa escaped the kitchen, certain she could hear muffled conversation behind her, and hurried for the foyer. When she saw Andrew—and it felt divine to think of him as simply Andrew—she almost skidded to a stop. He looked positively dashing in that tall hat, tailored overcoat with a dusting of snow on the shoulders, and gray gloves.
But best of all, was the way his face broke into a smile when he saw her, and her insides went all squishy.
“Miss Harrington— Christa,” he corrected himself with a little bow, offering his arm. “You look delightful this evening.”
Self-consciously, she glanced down at herself, knowing she was wearing the same gown he’d seen her in the day before. She only had two dresses, plus an assorted collection of skirts and shirts for everyda
y wear. For that matter, she only had a few pairs of men’s trousers and shirts, and always preferred to wear her poncho when she played poker, no matter the weather.
What a strange life she led.
Her lips tugged into a rueful smile, and Andrew’s expression, which had been bordering on worried as he waited for her response, cleared once more.
Belatedly, she murmured, “Thank you,” as she reached for her coat hanging beside the door.
Suzy sneezed.
Andrew jerked and turned, having obviously forgotten she was standing there.
“Forgive me,” she sniffled, then sighed and waved her hand. “Oh, go on and have fun, you two. I look forward to hearing about it tomorrow, Christa.” Then she turned and fled.
Shrugging apologetically, Christa offered, “Snee—Suzy—has terrible allergies, she claims. But she’s very sweet, I’ve found.”
As he helped her into her coat, Andrew hummed. “Is she another tenant? I confess, until you told me where you were staying, I hadn’t realized there was a boardinghouse on Perrault Street. Funny how I’ve never noticed it.”
“Yes, it is,” was all Christa could offer, reaching for the doorknob. “I’ve heard it catches many people that way. Where are we going this evening?”
As they stepped onto the porch, he offered his arm, and it felt natural to slip her hand into the crook of his elbow.
“There’s limited options,” he said with a chuckle, as he led them down the steps, “although Everland is growing quickly. I’m a regular customer of MacKinnon’s. I thought we might dine there this evening.”
A real restaurant? Christa couldn’t recall the last time she’d dined someplace like that, at least while wearing a dress. When she traveled about, dressed as a man, she’d often buy food at places like Spratt’s Eatery, where the meals were bland, plentiful, and without many options. But that was just eating, it still wasn’t dining.
Dining, especially with Andrew Prince, sounded like a true experience.
Since he was waiting for her response, she tilted her head slightly to watch him out of the corner of her eye. “I think that sounds very nice, thank you.”
He chuckled dryly. “Thank you, Christa. I hope you don’t mind I call you that. I feel—forgive me if this is too forward—that you’re not quite young enough to be a miss, and I confess myself confused as to whether I should call you Harrington or O’Hare. Christa seems easiest.”
His reasoning was sound, and she wasn’t at all offended. “Not at all. I myself often wince when I’m referred to as Miss Harrington. I am somewhat past the bloom of youth, as they say, but not quite relegated to the roll of elderly aunt.”
They stepped down off the sidewalk to cross the street, and he tightened her hold as they crossed a potentially slippery patch. The places where he touched her—held her—were wonderfully warm, and she knew she’d come to no harm while he was watching out for her.
“You are nowhere near elderly,” he assured her with a wry grin. “I myself celebrated my fiftieth birthday last year, and you’re nowhere near as decrepit as I am!”
She had to laugh at that, and it felt good, because whatever Andrew Prince was, it wasn’t decrepit. “You sound as if you’re a grandfather, tottering around with two canes and a hearing cone!”
“Eh? What was that?” he teased, helping her up the steps to the restaurant.
“I said—” When she realized he was teasing her, her laughter burst out of her, just as he opened the door and tugged her inside.
But once there, he didn’t immediately turn to the host. She got a hold of herself and realized he was staring down at her, his hand still cupping hers. Blinking, she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, wondered if she had spinach in her teeth, and finally demanded, “What?”
Andrew just shook his head a little bemusedly. “You’re a handsome woman, Christa Harrington, but when you laugh…? You’re lovely.”
He whispered the last part, almost reverently, and she felt a blush begin to work its way up her cheeks. Lovely? No man since Bobby had called her lovely, and that had been back when she’d been young enough to be considered thus.
But when Andrew said it like that, she could almost believe him.
Thank goodness he didn’t wait for an answer but turned to greet the host instead. Soon they were being led to a small table along the back wall, which he called his usual spot. It was set for two people, and as he took her coat and held the chair for her, the waiter bustled over with wine for their glasses.
“You know,” Andrew began conversationally, as he finally settled into his seat and picked up the menu, “I am a grandfather.”
It took a moment to connect the comment to their teasing out in the cold, but Christa found herself distracted by how he’d said it: Shy, almost proud.
Ignoring her menu, she leaned forward, resisting the urge to prop her chin up on her hand, and smiled. “Tell me about your grandchildren.”
It was the almost nervous way he glanced at her which endeared him to her. Had he expected her to be alienated by the news he was a real grandfather?
“I have a son, Michael—Micah. He married last year to a lovely young woman in my employ.”
“How did they meet?”
“Are you really curious, or are you just making conversation to make an old man feel better?”
If she were, she certainly couldn’t tell him that, could she? But luckily, she didn’t have to lie, so she shook her head. “You’re not old, and I do want to know. I’m…” How to say it? “I’m something of a matchmaker myself, and I’m curious to hear other’s stories of how they found love.”
His eyes lit up, and suddenly, the restaurant became quite warm.
Before he could reply though, the waiter bustled back over, and they spent a few minutes discussing dinner options before settling on the same orders of steak, potatoes, and buttered beans.
“You’ll enjoy their breads too, of course. Gordon MacKinnon’s wife, Briar Rose, is the most brilliant baker I’ve ever met. Wait until you taste dessert!” Andrew raved. “And before you ask, I don’t know how they met, madam matchmaker.”
She had to chuckle at his teasing. “I’m still waiting to hear Micah’s story!”
Reaching for his wineglass, he settled back in his chair. “I was married as a young man. She was a beautiful socialite, and our fathers were friends. She died when Michael was quite young, and I always regretted spending so much time at the armory and less with her.”
“The armory?” Ignoring propriety, she stacked her elbows on the table and leaned in.
His gaze was on the wine in his glass, but it was clear he wasn’t seeing it. “I own Prince Armory and Gunworks. I’m an inventor, and I create one-of-a-kind, very expensive, custom firearms. There are some who consider my brand the best in the world, but it meant long hours away from my family, and then suddenly, there was just Michael.”
“One of a kind” and “very expensive” would explain the way he dressed, and the way he held himself. And also the amount of cash she’d seen in his wallet the first night they’d met. But that wasn’t why he was telling her this.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, thinking briefly of the boy she’d loved years ago before his death. “I know time heals wounds, but…”
He blinked, then flashed a rueful grin her way. “In this case, my wounds had only just begun. When he was a child, my son and his nurse were traveling alone in the carriage, and there was an explosion—an accident. She was killed, and he lost his memory. He was taken to an orphanage, where he met”—his smile turned fond, even as his free hand tightened into a fist on the table—“a rather bossy little girl he nicknamed Pea. She called him Micah, since there was so many Michaels already, and they became friends. When he was chosen to be taken westward, they lost touch.”
He was smiling still, but there was pain lacing those words.
“I’m sorry,” Christa said again, impulsively reaching across the table and covering his fist with her
hand. “All the while, you must’ve been looking frantically for him.”
“All the money in the world, and I couldn’t find my only child.”
He was turning blurry. Why was he—?
Oh, it was her. Her eyes were filling with tears, imagining his frantic fear, the way the weeks must’ve turned to years without word.
“What happened?” she whispered.
“I grew richer, and more bitter, and much more jaded. Without a family to distract me, I threw myself into my work, but I never gave up hope. I hired bounty hunters and trackers, and assistants to help me run the business, and the reward grew. And then one day, one of my assistants—a bossy young lady named Penelope—recognized my son as her childhood friend.”
“Micah,” Christa whispered in recognition.
“Indeed.” This time, when his lips curled upward, the expression was more at ease, and she knew he’d come to peace with his past. “I’m not quite certain what passed between the two of them, but when Penelope returned to resign from my employ, I knew she loved him. I followed them here to Everland, where I met their family.”
She still hadn’t released his hand, and he didn’t seem to mind. “You have grandchildren, you said?”
Now he sat up, placing his untouched wine beside his plate and covering her hand in his, so that it was sandwiched between his larger, warmer ones. His smile made her warmer still.
“Micah was raised in an orphanage by an elderly couple, the Zapatos. They were a family more than anything else, and Micah still refers to them as his grandparents, and the other orphans as his siblings. Rojita is his older sister and still lives here in Everland, although I haven’t met the others who’d left before I arrived. It’s the younger ones whom I consider part of my family.”
And as they waited for their food, he told her about Jack and Tom, the twins and little Blue, and Rojita’s son, Freddy. The way he beamed proudly at their accomplishments told her he was proud of them and loved them all as fiercely as if they were his own blood.
