“What business?”

“I’ll tell you about it on the drive. Are you coming?”

Suspicion fills me.

“If you were headed to Matecumbe Key anyway, why didn’t you get off at the station in Islamorada? Why come all the way down to Key West to turn back around and go north?”

“For one, because my car was down here. Secondly, I was told a man I needed to see would be down here. I missed him. He’s headed up to Matecumbe Key. I don’t want to miss him again, so I can’t exactly sit around and wait. Leave or stay, it’s no matter to me, but if you’re coming with me, you better tell me now.”

“Fine. Thank you.”

He smiles. “Smart choice.”

Infuriating man.

Sam takes my bag without a word, carrying it toward the Studebaker. He opens the door for me with one hand, and once I’m settled in the creamy leather seat, he lifts my suitcase into the car’s trunk before coming around back and climbing into the driver’s seat.

He starts the car, and we head on our way.

Does Frank realize I’ve left New York? Has he sent his men after me? He probably doesn’t lose much, and I shudder to think of his reaction when he realizes he’s lost a fiancée.

If Frank’s people do figure out that I bought a train ticket to come down here, at least their search will be contained to Key West and not where I’m truly headed. Unless, of course, he realizes who I’m looking for. Hopefully, by then, though, we’ll be long gone.

It’s good to put some distance between Key West and me, to fall off the map.

“Where are you from?” I ask when Sam maneuvers the car onto the road.

“Are we to make small talk now? I thought we were fellow passengers by necessity—yours—rather than choice.”

“True, but you already know I bore easily. Besides, I figure I should know a thing or two about the man with whom I am to share a car—and ferry—for several hours.”

He sighs. “I’m from Jacksonville, Florida. Born and bred.”

I wrinkle my nose as I remember the tiny town Mr. Flagler’s railroad passed through, the scenery offering little to recommend it.

I lean closer. “And what does a man like you do in Jacksonville?”

“You can stop the femme fatale act, you know. You aren’t very good at it, and now hardly seems the time.”

“Not very good at it—” My cheeks heat.

“Relax, gorgeous. I’m not saying you’re not a stunner; but I’m not a boy, and I haven’t fallen at a woman’s feet in a very long time. I have no intention of doing so anytime soon. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, do you? Or is it your way of getting the upper hand when you’re nervous?”

That wretched man.

“Fine. What do you do for the FBI?” I ask, my tone flat, the purr removed, my body language infinitely less inviting.

A smile tugs at his mouth. “I investigate things.”

“What sorts of things?”

A pause. “Criminal things.”

“Bank robbers, and the like?”

“No, not bank robbers.”

“Gangsters, then,” I guess.

He doesn’t confirm or deny it, which I take as confirmation enough.

“Are there many gangsters in Key West?”

We certainly have them in New York, but I confess, I’d always envisioned the Keys as a sleepy little place, hardly a hotbed of criminal activity.

“There are several worrying smuggling routes.”

“So you’re here on business, then? Not pleasure.”

“Yes.”

“That sounds dangerous—chasing gangsters.”

“Sometimes. Most of the time, it’s fairly tame—a lot of desk work.”

“Do you like it?”

The men of my acquaintance devote their lives to business, to making money, and I can’t imagine one of them choosing such a path. They’re more inclined to skirt the law than defend it.

“It’s a job.” He pauses. “Yes, I like it.”

“There must be a measure of certainty in it. People will always commit crimes.”

“Yes, they will.”

It might not be the most glamorous job, but in this climate even I can appreciate the benefits of such security.

“And you like catching them?”

“I like bringing them to justice. Enjoy knowing there is one less danger on the streets. There’s a sense of relief that they will answer for their crimes.”

He has that look about him, the straitlaced do-gooder. There’s a slight edge, though, and I suppose you cannot spend your days pursuing criminals without getting down in the muck and mire, too.

“And what do you do with your time?” he asks me, turning the tables quite neatly.

I shrug. “The same as anyone else, I suppose.”

“And what’s life like in New York City?”

Which answer should I give? The “before” answer—when life was parties, and laughter, and fun—or the “after” answer—when we were as desperate as everyone else?

“These days, likely very similar to what the rest of the country experiences. Not enough jobs to go around; not enough money, either.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

Had the question been posed to me a few years ago, I would have laughed. Now, it brings a tinge of embarrassment.

“I marched myself down to the employment bureau a couple times. Tried to get a job.”

“And what did you find there?”

“Far too many women in the same desperate straits. Women with experience, women with children to feed.” I shrug. “They offered me a position working the counter of one of the department stores because I was pretty.”

Even in a depression, it seems there’s some sort of work for beautiful women.

“I tried my hand at it, but to tell you the truth, I was terrible.”

“You don’t say.”

“I didn’t have the patience for it. All that standing around and waiting for someone to approach you. And the money wasn’t nearly enough to improve our situation. There are always other things a pretty girl can do.”

“I can imagine,” he replies, not a drop of humor in his voice.