“I’m not using you as bait to catch criminals. You’re not a federal agent.”

“I’m not a federal agent—yet.”

“Chasing criminals is not the perfect job for you if that’s what you’re thinking.”

They certainly have female detectives and private investigators. Why shouldn’t I join their ranks? The engagement ring I pawned back in Miami will go a long way to helping out financially, but it’s hardly enough.

I smile, no point in arguing with him. He’ll learn eventually that it’s easier to agree with me than to bother protesting. I am nothing if not tenacious. After all, I made it all the way down here by myself.

“Tell me the truth—if you hadn’t been on the train looking for me, if you weren’t working for Frank, would you have noticed me?” I ask Sam, changing tack. “Would you have approached me?”

“The truth? I noticed you the moment I boarded the train. I could have sat anywhere in the car, but I sat across from you because you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The most interesting, too. And I thought I’d be close by in case that poor boy had heart troubles with the way you were flirting.”

“I was trying to get you to notice me,” I confess. “You were staring at your folder like it was the most important thing in the world.”

“I was staring at my folder because I’d realized who you were a few minutes after I realized you were fascinating.”

“And trouble.”

He smiles. “It turns out I like a bit of trouble. More than a bit,” he amends.

“It’s a long trip to New York.”

“It is. Are you going to practice some of those infamous flirting skills on me?”

I laugh. “You might be too easy of a conquest—after all, you’re already smitten with me.”

“Confident, aren’t you?”

“Always.” I lean forward, my lips brushing his.

“I might be falling in love with you, Elizabeth Preston,” he murmurs against my mouth, his words sending a thrill through me.

The funny thing is, I was just thinking the same thing about him.

For the first time in a long time, the future is bright.

Thirty-Six

Mirta

I shudder as I scan the cover of Sunday’s edition of the Miami Beach Daily Tribune.

The headline screams of an estimated death toll of one thousand people, and the photos are more gruesome than the headline. By the images of the hurricane’s mighty impact, it seems impossible to believe we survived. It’s as though it happened to someone else, and I suppose, in a manner it did. We are safely ensconced in the plush surroundings of the Florida East Coast Railway car, headed home to Anthony’s apartment in New York. For the locals, their homes have been utterly destroyed, the island they called home likely uninhabitable for some time.

“Interesting reading?”

I glance up at a man dressed in a suit standing over me. His clothes lack the flashiness of Anthony’s, the suit more serviceable than extravagant, the tailoring not quite so fine. After the attack during the hurricane, I’m more cautious than I was, and I glance around the train car for Anthony, who left to fetch me a drink.

“I prefer the New York papers, myself,” the man adds, his tone friendly, conversational, but for the knowing gleam in his eyes, his focus wholly upon me.

He slides a newspaper toward me, folded to a story on the front page.

Mob Boss Frank Morgan Gunned Down

A picture of the infamous Mr. Morgan stares back at me, his expression unsmiling. He appears considerably older than Anthony, his eyes dark and cold. I recognize the name instantly, of course. A thing like that tends to stick with you when a man tries to have you killed.

I glance up at the man, handing him the newspaper. “Who are you?”

“My apologies. I should have introduced myself earlier.” He pulls a badge out of his jacket pocket. “Sam Watson. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

I swallow, lifting my chin a notch, injecting a thread of steel in my voice. I am my mother, I am my aunts, all of the women of my acquaintance who can set a man down with a shift in the tone of their voice.

“And what are you investigating, Mr. Watson?”

“Mr. Morgan had many enemies.”

I glance down at the headline once more, heart pounding.

“That probably comes with the territory in his line of work,” I reply, careful to keep my voice neutral.

“I bet you’re right. Morgan wanted to carve out more of New York for his own territory, but someone stood in his way. Can you guess who that someone was, Mrs. Cordero?”

“Are you bothering my wife, Agent?”

Anthony stands behind the agent, his dark eyes flashing with anger, an unmistakable threat contained in the words “my wife.”

“He wasn’t,” I say, rising from my seat. I move beside my husband, linking my arm with his. Anthony doesn’t seem the sort of man given to fits of temper, but there is entirely too much male aggression in the car for my liking.

Agent Watson’s gaze darts from me to Anthony and back again.

“Congratulations on your marriage, Mr. Cordero. I confess we were surprised at the Bureau to hear you’d decided to marry, but seeing how lovely she is, I can’t say I blame you.”

Anthony stiffens beside me, his hand resting protectively on my waist. “Is that all?”

It takes a great deal of restraint to refrain from jabbing Anthony in the side. Male ego notwithstanding, it seems foolish to goad a federal agent investigating a murder you’re likely responsible for.

Agent Watson smiles. “No, it isn’t, actually. There will be a void in New York now that Morgan’s gone. Makes a man wonder who will step in to fill it.”

“I confess, I hadn’t given it much thought.”

“I heard rumors about more than your marriage. There were those in the Bureau who speculated you were going legitimate. That you’d scheduled a meeting with some of Mr. Morgan’s representatives to smooth over the transition. Strange that he should turn up dead shortly after this proposed meeting was scheduled.”

“Life is full of unusual coincidences,” Anthony replies. “Not that I know anything about any meeting, of course. I came down here on my honeymoon. Nothing more.”

“Of course,” Agent Watson replies, his tone of voice as smooth as Anthony’s. “You can’t predict what men will do when they’re greedy and reckless. But you wouldn’t know a thing about that, would you? You’re a family man now. I bet you’d do anything to keep that lovely wife of yours safe.”