The Sapphire Brooch Katherine Logan (best beach reads TXT) 📖

“You enjoy them, though,” she said.

“I do. But I don’t need Gordon to get an invitation.” Jack sat in the chair next to the door and stretched out his long legs. “Do you think it’s serious with Gordon? An unrequited love affair could get messy.”

She stopped primping and studied Jack’s face. On the surface he appeared relatively calm, but she sensed an undercurrent of concern. His tense neck and chin contradicted his relaxed posture.

“God, I hope not. I have no interest in him at all,” she said.

“Because you’re just not into him,” Jack said, using air quotes, “or because of the difference in time zones? You can’t have missed the way he looks at you.”

“I’ve noticed the lustful looks, but I ignore them.”

Jack smiled charmingly. The sort of smile that caused women to add their phone numbers and addresses to his contact list, then sneak a peek at his cell number in case he didn’t call them for a date within the next forty-eight hours.

“Would he fit the bill as a sperm donor?” he asked.

“Hmm.” She pulled her lower lip through her teeth. “He has the physique, intelligence, and voice. But there’s something missing. Chemistry, I guess.”

“What’s chemistry got to do with choosing a sperm donor?”

She scrunched her face, thinking. “It does seem odd, doesn’t it? I think I want my donor to be anonymous. Just a picture and facts on a piece of paper.” She patted the sides of her hair to herd stray wisps back into place. The current style of parting a woman’s hair in the middle, smoothing the sides over her ears, and then pinning a roll at the back of her neck, didn’t work for her natural curls.

“Whatever you decide to do about Gordon, please do be careful. I don’t want to have to beat him up because he misbehaves. Or you could fix him. Then he might give up painkillers…unless he’s already addicted.”

“The bullet presses on a nerve in his back. Riding horseback aggravates the injury, and he can’t get any relief from the pain. I wish I could help him, but I wouldn’t attempt the surgery even in our time. Neurosurgery isn’t my specialty.”

“Don’t worry about Gordon. Forget him. Braham’s my ideal brother-in-law. He’s a lawyer, he likes to hunt and fish, and he quotes Shakespeare, too.”

“Pshaw. Braham? Our elusive cousin?” She collected her white leather gloves and slapped them against her palm. “I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he’s back in town and trying to avoid us.”

Every moment her mind wasn’t otherwise occupied, it drifted toward him like smoke from a tipi-shaped fire, spiraling in one direction—his. Even during minor surgeries, the hospital had, out of necessity, allowed her to perform, her thoughts were of him—yearning to see him and wondering if he was well. The image she carried in her mind was of him sitting on a barstool in the kitchen at the mansion, drinking Jack’s coffee and laughing. His bright green eyes held a magical twinkle. The twinkle was what kept the pain of his betrayal manageable.

“By the way,” she said, dragging her attention back to the conversation, “did you finish your article on the inauguration? Gordon said he’d like to read it before it goes to print.”

Jack crossed his ankles and folded his arms across his belly. “It’s on my desk. I’m submitting it to the Daily National Intelligencer tomorrow. It was one of the hardest articles I’ve written.”

“You’re writing in the present tense. You have to back away from the historical Lincoln and write about him from today’s perspective. It has to be difficult. What’s the opening line?”

“Lincoln’s second inauguration isn’t taking place in a small country town startled by the arrival of a handful of soldiers, but in a city approaching triumph.”

“I like it,” she said. “You’d think with the scent of victory in the air, the sources you’ve cultivated would be freer with information. Someone has to know where Braham is. Have you tried John Nicolay or John Hay? They’re the president’s gatekeepers.”

“And they keep his secrets well. Believe me, I’ve tried both, so has everyone else. They don’t leak anything.”

“And one day the boys will be responsible for writing the president’s history and creating his legacy.”

“And they’re so young,” Jack said. “I wish I had information to trade. They know where Braham is. I’d bet on it.”

“Write a few good articles about the president and gain their trust. Might help.”

Jack rose and went toward the door. “The article I’m submitting tomorrow will be a good start. Certainly, won’t hurt.”

She returned the knitting basket to its place on the table and turned down the gas lamps in the bedroom. “Do you have plans tonight?”

“I’m dining at the National Hotel. Why don’t you and Gordon join me for a late dinner?”

“I’m not up for your rowdy crowd, but thanks.” She sashayed out of the bedroom, her skirt swishing in the quiet hall. “Come downstairs with me.”

“Why? Do you need protection from lover boy?”

“If I needed protection, you’d be going with us. I don’t yet trust myself on the stairs in a long dress with all these petticoats.”

“Ah, you do need my protection.”

She gave Jack a knuckle punch to his bicep. His arms were so muscular, her light punch bounced off like a penny on a desktop. “Your arms feel like punching bags filled with cement. No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend. Who’d want to snuggle up to those rocks?”

“You’d be surprised,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Egads. Get me out of here.” Jack had been her protector since childhood, and she depended on him far more than she’d admit. Although she gave him grief over having no soft edges, she appreciated how hard he worked to stay fit, saying nothing of how her pride was tickled when he dressed in a tux.

“You didn’t tell me about your meetings today. Did they go well?”

Jack looped her hand around his bent elbow and they started down the stairs. “Yes,