Chapter 12

This afternoon, though, an uneasy feeling crept up his spine—a few hours earlier, when he’d been going in the opposite direction, she’d been sitting on the same bench, with a portmanteau at her feet.

Now she had a piece of paper in her hands, twisting it between her white-gloved fingers, and there was tension in the way she held her shoulders.

In spite of being off duty, he pulled up Outlaw and called, “Cab, miss?”

She seemed to be lost in thought, and he tried again.

“Cab, miss?”

She gave a start, but this time she looked up. “Yes, please.” The girl rose, and now that he could see her figure, it became obvious she was actually a young woman, at least twenty. She walked toward the cab, and he hopped down from the seat behind the vehicle and opened the door. She came to stand before him. She was petite—what men called a pocket Venus—the top of her head coming not even as high as his heart.

“Your portmanteau?

“Oh, yes. Of course.” But she left it there.