Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
JAKE CALLAHAN
Ipaid good money for this room, including some to the porter to keep nosy passengers at bay. And until now, he was doing a splendid job of it. I’ve had perfect solitude. Just me, my thoughts, and enough cigarettes to last till California.
Then the door slid open and now a woman with a hastily cut bob stands in my room. Her fur-trimmed coat is too big for her frame, and those shoes scream "wedding" louder than church bells.
She gives me a look down her nose. "I believe there's been a mistake. This is my compartment."
I take a long drag from my cigarette. "Afraid not, princess. This berth's been mine since New York."
"That's impossible. I have a ticket." She waves a slip of paper at me.
"So do I." I don't move to show my ticket. "And I was here first. Possession is nine-tenths of the law." My buddies would laugh at that considering I don’t hold the law in high regard.
"Perhaps we could fetch the conductor? Surely he can sort this out."
“Sure, he will. He’ll tell you I’ve been here for the last thousand miles. But maybe he can find you a new room.” I tap ash into the tiny brass tray.
She moves around me and I’m almost disappointed that she’s giving up so easily. But then she surprises me by shutting the door.
She turns back to me, chin lifted. "I'm not leaving. I've had a rather trying day, Mr...?"
"Callahan. Jake Callahan."
"Well, Mr. Callahan, I paid good money for this compartment, and I intend to use it."
"As did I, Miss…?”
We stare each other down. She's got good eyes. Determined. Shrewd. The kind that see too much, which is a problem for me.
"Evelyn Smith," she finally offers, extending a gloved hand.
I don't take it. "That's not your name."
Her hand falters. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your coat's too big and your hair's been cut with what looks like garden shears. I’d bet my life you’re on the run."
She withdraws her hand, face flushing. "How chivalrous of you to point that out."
"Chivalry's dead."
Her gaze drifts to the window and I wait until she figures out that I’m going to win this battle.
Finally, she huffs out a breath. “Since neither of us is leaving, we'll have to share."
"Now wait just a—"
"I'll take the upper bunk. You keep the lower. And I'd appreciate it if you'd extinguish that cigarette. It smells disgusting."
I stare at her for a long moment, caught between amusement and irritation.
"There ought to be a prohibition on smoking," she declares, waving away a cloud I just blew in her direction. "Especially in enclosed spaces."
"That so?" I tap my cigarette against the ashtray. "You a teetotaler too? One of those temperance ladies who smash up perfectly good barrels with little axes?"
A flicker of something crosses her face before she composes herself. "A lady doesn't discuss such matters."
"That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either." She busies herself, avoiding my eyes. "I simply believe some vices are more civilized than others."
"Smoking's uncivilized but drinking's just fine?" Who is this dame?
She glances up, a hint of mischief behind her proper facade. "I never said I approve of drinking."
"You never said you don't."
She jams her fists on her hips like my mother used to do. "Mr. Callahan, are you attempting to determine if I might be persuaded to break the law?"
"Just wondering what kind of person I'm sharing quarters with for the next three days."
"The kind who doesn’t go around exposing her dirty laundry," she counters, but there's a spark in her eyes that tells me Miss "Smith" has tasted her share of bathtub gin.
“Says the dame wearing a slip.”
Her face squinches up at me. “All I asked is you put out the cigarette.”
"It's Turkish tobacco."
"It's giving me a headache."
I stub out my cigarette, not entirely sure why I'm complying. "You're a real bearcat, you know that?"
"And you, Mr. Callahan, are exactly the sort of man I came on this train to avoid."
“The door is right there, lady.”
She gives me a sassy smile. “Tempting. But I’m starting to enjoy annoying you.”
Despite myself, my mouth twitches toward a smile. This is going to be a very long trip to San Francisco.
The kid with the newspaper cart stops outside our compartment. "Coppers on the train," he says in a hushed tone.
I open the door.
"Prohibition squad. Working their way back from the dining car." He nods in the direction the Feds are coming from.
I toss him a nickel that he catches mid-air. "Obliged."
Damn. Of all the rotten luck. I peer down the narrow corridor where other passengers’ heads poke out as well. The word "raid" drifts between nervous laughs.
"What's happening?" Miss Not-Smith asks from behind me.
"Nothing good." I slide the door shut, mind racing through options. I’ve got enough illegal hooch in my suitcase to land me in federal prison until 1950. "Prohibition agents."
Her eyes widen. "Looking for alcohol?"
"Maybe they took your idea and are looking for cigarettes. Of course, alcohol."
She purses her lips at me, clearly not humored by my answer.
I glance at my suitcase. I can toss it from the window, but I might as well toss myself out with it, as I’m a dead man if I don’t make my delivery.
"I imagine that's inconvenient for a man like you." She seems more amused than nervous about being caught with a bootlegger.
"A man like me?"
"Let's just say you don't strike me as someone who follows rules that don't suit him." She's got me pegged already. "Will they search the compartments?"
"Count on it." I run a hand through my hair. "Unless they've got reason to think they shouldn't."
I look at her makeshift disguise, her obvious last minute flight from whatever she’s running from. An idea forms. It’s terrible, desperate, and brilliant.
Footsteps approach.
"You want to stay hidden?" I ask quickly. "From whoever you're running from?"
She hesitates, then nods.
"Then help me." I step toward her. "Take off your coat."
"I beg your–"
"Now." I keep my voice low, urgent. "I won't touch you. But they need to think I am." I’m almost one hundred percent sure she’s high class and as such, has been sheltered, and doesn’t know the touch of a man. It’s quite possible she’ll go running and screaming from the room at my indecent proposal.
As much as I’d enjoy that, now isn’t the time.
Not with the feds about to knock on my door.
She hesitates, but then shrugs off the oversized coat, revealing a lace slip that makes my mouth go dry. I wasn't expecting quite so much...Evelyn.
"Trust me," I murmur, moving closer as a sharp knock rattles our door.
I tug her against me, one arm around her waist. Her scent fills my nostrils, something sweet with a hint of spice.
I give my head a shake, needing to focus. I don’t need some dame putting me off my game.
“Follow my lead and those agents won't look twice at us. You do that, and I swear I'll make sure whatever you're fleeing stays behind you."
Another knock. Louder.
"Coming!" I bark, mussing my hair before sliding the door open just enough to glare at the two stern-faced men in fedoras.
"Federal agents," the taller one announces.
"I'm on my honeymoon.” I growl. “Can't a man get some privacy on his wedding night?"