Free A Matter of Marriage by Ann Collins

announced his hunger.
    “What
do you think of the room?” she asked, the pride in her voice unmistakable.
    He
lifted his gaze to the high ceiling. Despite his protesting ribs, he leaned
back further to admire and examine the incredible workmanship. “Exceptional. Is
that sugar pine?”
    “You
know your woods, Mr. MacLean. As a carpenter, you’ll also appreciate the fact
that there are no nails in the ceiling. The panels are fitted together like a
puzzle.”
    “Tongue
and groove.” He nodded, then peered from one end of the room to the other in
awe. “There are no supports. What’re the dimensions?”
    She
laughed. “My father would have liked you. He never tired of discussing the
hotel’s design details with anyone. The Crown Room is sixty-six feet wide and a
hundred fifty-six feet long.”
    “Impressive.”
She impressed him as well. Very few women of his acquaintance had appreciated
architectural details the way he did. “Who was the architect?”
    “There
were three. The Reid brothers from Indiana—James, Merritt, and Watson. If you’d
like, I can try to dig out their plans and show them to you.”
    “I
would like that,” he said, feeling a familiar spark of creative excitement. He
had thought that spark long gone. “I’ve come across their work before. They’re
known for their railroad stations.”
    “Which
you have undoubtedly passed through in the course of your travels.”
    Her
teasing smile was so beguiling Alex felt as if he had just smacked into another
hitching post. This was not good. He ought to excuse himself and get back on
the road tonight, but he couldn’t tear himself away from her. She made him feel
things he had thought he would never feel again.
    “Traveling
is one way to see what others have done,” he said. “A picture postcard is what first
piqued my interest in the Hotel Grand Victoria. The job advertisement gave me a
practical reason for coming here.”
    “Then
I’m thankful for both of those items.” As she peered up at him, a sudden,
anxious intensity came into her eyes.
    Was
she remembering the danger that stalked her? He doubted she was experiencing the
same inappropriate feelings for him that he had for her. No woman wanted a man
with a face like his.
    Abruptly
she turned and motioned to the maitre d’, the tall, slim Frenchman who had
rudely interrupted them in the lobby earlier. “Good evening, Jacques. Would you
have a front window table available for Mr. MacLean and me?”
    He
gave her a courtly bow, his earlier irritation with her apparently appeased. “But
of course, mademoiselle. Follow me, please.” He folded his white-gloved hands
over his white satin cummerbund and strolled down one of the aisles.
    Alex
released her arm and motioned for her to go first. He was relieved they would
be seated in a section far from Alberta Hensley. He had spotted her at a table
near the string quartet. Just in case she looked over, he kept his face averted
so she wouldn’t see his good side and possibly remember him.
    Julia
strolled the length of the room, smiling and nodding to the guests who looked
their way. She was the ultimate hostess and obviously felt at home in her role.
The hotel would undoubtedly prosper under her guidance, provided the flowerpot
assassin did not make another attempt on her life.
    Jacques
seated them at a candlelit table where the menu awaited them, then he departed.
Outside the window, beyond the carriage drive and down an incline, lights
glimmered on the smooth surface of the bay.
    Before
Alex could bring up the job of bodyguard, a young man in a spotless white apron
arrived to fill their goblets with iced water. Next came a red-haired, freckly
faced waiter bearing a silver mesh basket of bread buried in white linen. Alex
hadn’t experienced this kind of service in, well, just over three and a half
years. Though he had not forgotten his manners, his hunger and the yeasty smell
of warm bread drove him to excavate a slice while the waiter