Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
EVELYN
What was I thinking to suggest we share the room? I was thinking he’d be a gentleman and leave. Instead,
My heart hammers much like it was when I made my escape from my wedding hours earlier. Except now I'm trapped in an entirely different predicament, pressed against a stranger's side, a stocking bunched around my ankle, and my silk slip leaving very little to the imagination.
"Sorry for the disturbance," the taller agent mumbles, his eyes darting away from me. His partner isn't quite as gentlemanly, his gaze lingering until Jake shifts to block his view.
"You got your look. Now beat it," Jake growls, playing the protective husband with conviction. Maybe he could make it in the moving pictures.
I manage a convincing giggle, channeling every silly newlywed I've ever witnessed at Mother's garden parties.
"Darling, don't be cross.” I rest my palm against his half-exposed chest. The solid warmth beneath my fingers sends an unexpected jolt through me.
The shorter agent clears his throat. "We're conducting routine—"
"We'll try the next car," his partner interrupts, already backing away. "Congratulations on your nuptials."
Jake's arm remains wrapped possessively around my waist, my body still pressed against his. It’s scandalous and…nice.
The shorter agent pauses, eyes narrowing as he studies my face. Something flickers in his gaze that I fear is recognition. Chances are my family has called the police and perhaps the F.B.I. to report me missing.
I press closer to Jake, partly to maintain the ruse, and partly because if this goes wrong, I hope he’ll help me.
"Say, don't I know you from somewhere, ma'am?"
I swallow hard. My photograph has been in the society pages more times than I care to remember. The Whitmore heiress. Chicago's most eligible debutante. I’m sure the news about a runaway bride is probably splashed across every newspaper from here to New York by now.
I summon every lesson my mother taught me about poise under pressure. Tilting my head just so, chin down, eyes up, I flash my most polished debutante smile. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure."
"You mind? My wife isn't dressed for company." Jake’s voice has a dangerous edge that sounds authentic.
The agent's eyes drift down my slip-clad body again, lingering where they shouldn't. "There's something about you..."
"Stop ogling my wife," Jake snaps, pulling me tighter against him. "She gets enough of that already."
I melt against him, playing the besotted bride. "Darling, he's just doing his job." I turn back to the agent. "My husband gets so jealous. It's why we're heading to California—Hollywood. They say I have a face for pictures."
"Is that right?" The agent doesn't seem convinced.
I laugh, the one I use to appear amused at parties when I’m actually bored to death. "Well, that's what Jake tells me, anyway. Don't you, darling?"
"Every day since I met her," Jake agrees. "Now, if you don't mind, we'd like to get back to our honeymoon."
The agent hesitates, then reluctantly tips his hat. "Enjoy your trip, Mr. and Mrs..."
"Taylor," Jake provides smoothly. Not Callahan, which reinforces my impression that he’s as much on the run as I am.
"Taylor," the agent repeats, his suspicious gaze lingering on me one last time before he backs out.
This time when the door closes, Jake continues to hold me for several long seconds until the footsteps fade completely down the corridor. I should pull away. Any proper lady would.
Instead, I continue to lean into him wondering what exactly I've gotten myself into.
Finally, Jake steps away. "You're welcome."
"I'm welcome?” The gall of him. “How about you’re welcome. I’m the one who convinced them of your story.”
His mouth quirks in a maddening half-smile. “It was my idea. Face it, doll, I saved your skin. Or should I say Mrs. Taylor. Pretty sure that agent recognized you. Who are you really?”
“None of your business.” I grab Margaret’s coat and rethink this situation. My carefully constructed escape plan has veered wildly off course. There must be another compartment somewhere on this train.
“Leave now and our cover is blown.” Apparently, he reads minds too. “For the next few days, you’re Mrs. Taylor.”
“Just until we reach the next station." I’ll disembark and get a bus ticket instead.
Jake's smile widens, knowing and wicked. "Whatever you say, wife."
Wife?
The worst part? Some traitorous part of me doesn't hate the sound of that nearly as much as it should. I didn’t run from Charles because I’m against marriage. I ran because I’m against living a life of boredom. Life with Charles would have copious amounts of it.
Jake’s idea of pretending to be a married couple isn’t a bad one. As newlyweds, we’ll be left alone. And it’s only three days.
“If I continue to go along with this charade, there are terms.”
"So, wife." Jake's drawl drips with amusement as he slouches onto the lower berth. "What are your terms?"
I tighten my coat around me and sit primly on the small chair opposite him. "First, don't call me 'wife.'"
"Seems a touch cold for newlyweds, don't you think?" His eyes sparkle with mischief.
"Second, this arrangement is purely practical. No touching."
"Touched you plenty already.”
My cheeks burn. "That was extenuating circumstances."
"Is that what they call it in your fancy circles?" His dark eyes scan over me, but it doesn’t feel invasive the way the prohibition agent’s did. "What else?"
"No snooping." I glance pointedly at his mysterious case. "Your business is yours, and mine is mine."
Jake follows my gaze. "Agreed."
"And absolutely no..." I falter, searching for the right words.
"Consummating our union?" He offers with a wicked grin. “I think you covered that with the no touching rule.”
"Emotional entanglements. This is simply marriage by manners. A convenient ruse."
He barks out a laugh. "Marriage by manners. You society girls and your pretty phrases." He stands abruptly, reaching for a silver flask from his inner coat pocket. "Well, I call it hell."
"It was your idea!"
"To save both our skins." He unscrews the cap but doesn't drink. "What are you running from anyway? Cold feet or something worse?"
I stiffen. "Rule three. No personal questions."
"That wasn't one of your rules, princess."
"I'm amending them."
Jake studies me for a long moment. "Fine." He takes a drink and then offers me the flask. “Shall we drink on it?”
“You always carry liquor?”
“Only when I expect trouble. Or company.”
“Which am I?”
“I’m still working on that.” He winks.
I know he’s testing me. Wanting to be amused at my delicate sensibilities. Well, I’m not Evelyn Whitmore, Chicago society girl anymore. I’m Evelyn Taylor, married to a…well, I don’t know what Jake is except perhaps trouble.
I swipe the flask from his grip, and bring it to my lips, taking a long swig. The liquid burns as it goes down. My eyes water and I want to cough, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“Hey. Don’t tell me I married a lush.” He reaches for the flask, but I twist away.
A bit of the booze drips down my chin, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand like a man would. I want to say something clever, but the burn sliding down my throat into my gut won’t allow me to do anything but cough.
His lips twitch up in amusement, as he pats my back and reclaims his flask. “Don’t worry, wife, I’ll teach you how to drink properly.”
I huff out a breath and straighten Margaret’s coat, as Jake reseals the flask and puts it in his coat pocket again.
He sits on the lower berth. “So, what’s your story?”
I close my eyes trying to settle my nerves.
“Hey, are you in danger? Is that why you ran without getting dressed?”
At first, I think he’s still poking fun at me, but when I open my eyes, I see genuine concern. “I was suffocating.”
He arches his brow. “Is that code for something? I’m just a regular guy here, wife. Barely an eighth-grade education.”
“My life. The expectations. The rules. My future planned including my burial plot—”
“How macabre.”
“No one asked me what I wanted. It didn’t matter.”
"So, you chose the unknown instead." Something shifts in his expression, almost like he understands, sympathizes even.
"I chose myself." The words feel powerful, and help settled me. "What about you? What are you running toward or away from?"
He smirks. "Rule three. No personal questions."
"I'm amending that too."
Jake glances out the window, his fingers toying with the curtain. "Let's just say I'm in a transitional phase."
"How delightfully vague."
"I deliver things people want but can't legally have."
My lips quirk. "Ah. A merchant of forbidden pleasures."
His eyes meet mine. "Something like that."
The air between us changes, charged with something that thrills and terrifies me at the same time.
His brow furrows as he studies me. "You're not what I expected.”
"An heiress, you mean?"
"A society girl." He shrugs. "Figured you'd be all complaints and vapors by now."
"And you're not what I expected either."
"A criminal, you mean?"
"A gentleman. Underneath all—”
He tenses and looks away again. "Don't get it twisted. I'm no gentleman."
The warm energy radiating between us cools. It’s like a wall has gone up. I sigh, grab my purse, and head to the bathroom.
When I look in the mirror, I can see why the Prohibition Agents bought our story. My hair is messy, lipstick smeared. I look like a wanton woman or one on her honeymoon.
I comb my bad haircut and fix my lipstick.
I try to re-attach my stocking, but the garter is broken.
It’s only then that I realize with horror that I don’t have any other clothes.
As I’d studied myself in my wedding dress as I prepared to walk down the aisle, dread grew until I couldn’t breathe.
Escape was all I could think of. I’d had enough wits to cut my hair, and grab my purse and Margaret’s coat, but that was all.
What have I done? I have nothing. No prospects in San Francisco. My education is how to be a wife, not a vocation.
I stumble from the bathroom, sinking down onto the lower bunk opposite Jake, my gaze out the window, but seeing nothing.
“Hey, wife? You okay? You’re looking a little green around the gills.”
He wouldn’t understand. Even if he did, he wouldn’t care.
A porter walks down the hall announcing the next stop in five minutes.
Jake sniffs and then rises. “Look. If you really want the room, you can have it.” He buttons his shirt, pulls his suspenders over his shoulders, and puts on his coat.
“Where are you going?” I have the strangest surge of panic at the idea of him leaving.
“If the agents don’t get off at the next stop, I do.”
“You’re leaving me?”
He stops mid-grabbing his bag to look at me. “Not so long ago you wanted me gone.”
“Yes, well…that was before we were married.” Goodness, did I just say that.?
His brow arches. “It’s just pretend—”
“I’m aware of that!” This situation has gone from bad to complete mortification. “Go if you must.”
The train jerks to a stop. Jake doesn’t move. He just watches out the window.
“What now?” I ask, a little too tersely. Something about him twists my emotions up worse than they already are.
Before he can answer, a knock on the door interrupts. “It’s Lang, your porter.”
Jake slides the door open.
“Afternoon,” he says to Jake, eyes flicking to me briefly. “Figured you’d want to know, the agents just got off the train. You’re in the clear.”
Jake nods, reaching into his pocket and handing the porter a bill. “Thanks for keeping an eye out.”
“Sure thing Mr. Callahan.”
“It’s Taylor…for now.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Taylor.”
The door shuts and the train lurches back into motion.
“You’ve missed your stop,” I say, trying not to sound relieved.
He takes off his coat, hanging it up, and then he sits on the lower berth, giving me a wicked smile. “Why would I leave? I’m on my honeymoon.”