mouth is bleeding. Here." She offered him a handkerchief with lace at the corner.
His dark head shook. The kick from O'Malley had knocked more wind from him than he realized. He removed a freshly ironed square of linen from his pocket and dabbed his lip. Kate Hinshaw looked surprised, whether at his having the handkerchief or at his gallantry at not soiling hers he wasn't sure. One point for the aunties, he thought with a grin.
They'd approve of this proper young woman with her respectable hemline and waves of golden hair just short enough to be fashionable. He'd been running through reasons that might bring her down here in her neat gray suit and pearls which were undoubtedly real. He couldn't think of a one. She wasn't a flapper taking some dare or hunting a bottle of hooch. If anything, she looked like a damned social worker traipsing around to annoy the poor.
The engine chugged to life. Kate Hinshaw let out the clutch and wrestled the Buick up the narrow street past two delivery trucks. She gripped the steering wheel so tightly Joe suspected she was holding onto it for courage. He'd never seen a woman's face look like hers did. Determined. Not over some passing whim, but as if she peered furiously at some vision. Unable to watch her tension a moment longer, he reached across, took control of the wheel and guided the car to a stop beneath a stalwart old chestnut tree.
The street they'd turned into had a church and a clinic and a shaded upholsterer's shop. It was almost quiet.
Kate Hinshaw looked at him uncertainly. The engine sputtered out.
"Maybe you ought to tell me why you were good enough to lie for me back there," he said. "I had nothing to do with a break-in, if there was one, by the way."
Relief touched her features before she could hide it. She folded her hands.
"Mr. Santayna, I have a business proposition. I have a seventy-nine foot boat and a load of whiskey waiting to be picked up in Canada. I need someone to make the trip with me. Billy says you're an experienced sailor and might be willing. If you are, I'll pay you one hundred dollars."
Joe opened his mouth. His impulse was to whoop with merriment. This girl who looked serious as a nun was asking him to have a run at bootlegging.
He squelched the laugh. A wholesome color had finally crept into her cheeks. She was embarrassed by what she was asking.
"This isn't some lark? Some bet you've made with a pack of bored friends?"
"Absolutely not!"
Joe lounged back against the door of the car. He studied her under lowered lids. This didn't make sense. Had her father, the respectable lawyer, augmented his fat fees by rum running?
"Why?" he asked bluntly. "Mix in something so chancy, I mean."
Stubbornness carved her jaw.
"That's no concern of yours."
Joe rubbed his chin. Though they were a mite too serious for his taste, the directness of her gray eyes held his interest. They looked full at him as she spoke. No fluttering. A blow to his vanity.
"Two hundred," he said at last as devilment nudged him. "I've got my family's good name to consider."
She hesitated for several seconds, then nodded.
Two hundred dollars. Holy Mother. It was nearly half a year's wages. A fair price, Joe figured, but she was either desperate or innocent — or both — not to haggle. The money tempted him. The challenge of the venture tempted him. And Kate Hinshaw, with her soft cheeks and odd scheme, was a package of fascination.
"When?" he asked.
"As soon as you can."
"We'd better go straight and look at the boat, then."
She seemed startled. Another clue she knew not the first thing about the rum-runner's trade.
"Two nights from now's the dark of the moon. Every night you wait past that makes you easier
His dark head shook. The kick from O'Malley had knocked more wind from him than he realized. He removed a freshly ironed square of linen from his pocket and dabbed his lip. Kate Hinshaw looked surprised, whether at his having the handkerchief or at his gallantry at not soiling hers he wasn't sure. One point for the aunties, he thought with a grin.
They'd approve of this proper young woman with her respectable hemline and waves of golden hair just short enough to be fashionable. He'd been running through reasons that might bring her down here in her neat gray suit and pearls which were undoubtedly real. He couldn't think of a one. She wasn't a flapper taking some dare or hunting a bottle of hooch. If anything, she looked like a damned social worker traipsing around to annoy the poor.
The engine chugged to life. Kate Hinshaw let out the clutch and wrestled the Buick up the narrow street past two delivery trucks. She gripped the steering wheel so tightly Joe suspected she was holding onto it for courage. He'd never seen a woman's face look like hers did. Determined. Not over some passing whim, but as if she peered furiously at some vision. Unable to watch her tension a moment longer, he reached across, took control of the wheel and guided the car to a stop beneath a stalwart old chestnut tree.
The street they'd turned into had a church and a clinic and a shaded upholsterer's shop. It was almost quiet.
Kate Hinshaw looked at him uncertainly. The engine sputtered out.
"Maybe you ought to tell me why you were good enough to lie for me back there," he said. "I had nothing to do with a break-in, if there was one, by the way."
Relief touched her features before she could hide it. She folded her hands.
"Mr. Santayna, I have a business proposition. I have a seventy-nine foot boat and a load of whiskey waiting to be picked up in Canada. I need someone to make the trip with me. Billy says you're an experienced sailor and might be willing. If you are, I'll pay you one hundred dollars."
Joe opened his mouth. His impulse was to whoop with merriment. This girl who looked serious as a nun was asking him to have a run at bootlegging.
He squelched the laugh. A wholesome color had finally crept into her cheeks. She was embarrassed by what she was asking.
"This isn't some lark? Some bet you've made with a pack of bored friends?"
"Absolutely not!"
Joe lounged back against the door of the car. He studied her under lowered lids. This didn't make sense. Had her father, the respectable lawyer, augmented his fat fees by rum running?
"Why?" he asked bluntly. "Mix in something so chancy, I mean."
Stubbornness carved her jaw.
"That's no concern of yours."
Joe rubbed his chin. Though they were a mite too serious for his taste, the directness of her gray eyes held his interest. They looked full at him as she spoke. No fluttering. A blow to his vanity.
"Two hundred," he said at last as devilment nudged him. "I've got my family's good name to consider."
She hesitated for several seconds, then nodded.
Two hundred dollars. Holy Mother. It was nearly half a year's wages. A fair price, Joe figured, but she was either desperate or innocent — or both — not to haggle. The money tempted him. The challenge of the venture tempted him. And Kate Hinshaw, with her soft cheeks and odd scheme, was a package of fascination.
"When?" he asked.
"As soon as you can."
"We'd better go straight and look at the boat, then."
She seemed startled. Another clue she knew not the first thing about the rum-runner's trade.
"Two nights from now's the dark of the moon. Every night you wait past that makes you easier
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