The waiter had described Susan Wright as “average” looking
She wasn’t. “Damned pretty” was more accurate.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
He walked over to the desk. “Whitaker Lewis. We talked briefly at the restaurant last night.”
“Yes, I remember.” She cocked her head and smiled, changing from “damned pretty” to “beautiful.”
“Look, I apologize for barging in like this, but I have a confession to make. I asked the waiter about you. He said you’re no longer married.”
That statement seemed to fluster her. “No, my husband died several years ago. Why?”
“I was wondering—would you like to take a walk? I haven’t had much of a chance to look around the town. Seeing it with a beautiful woman would be better than seeing it on my own.”
She blushed. “Are you asking me out on a date, Mr. Lewis?”
“Trying to, Mrs. Wright, but apparently not doing a very good job of it.”
“I appreciate the compliment and the invitation, but I don’t really know you. I don’t go out with men I don’t know.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Fay Robinson lives in Alabama, where she enjoys gardening and playing with her Jack Russell terrier, Dex. Her first Superromance novel, A Man Like Mac, won the 2001 RITA® Award—the most prestigious award in romance publishing—for best first novel. Watch for her next book, Christmas on Snowbird Mountain, in November of this year.
You can e-mail Fay at [email protected] or write her at P.O. Box 240, Waverly, AL 36879-0240. She invites you to visit her Web site at http://www.fayrobinson.com or to check out the Friends and Links section at http://www.eHarlequin.com.
The Notorious Mrs. Wright
Fay Robinson
Dedication
For my mother, who was fearless.
And for my husband, Jackie,
who chauffeurs, supports and rarely complains.
Acknowledgment
My deepest appreciation to:
Steve Rose and other officials and residents of the City of St. Augustine, Florida, for their help and hospitality; Ms. Pat Barrett of the Renaissance Cleveland Hotel in Cleveland, Ohio, for helping me visualize the hotel and main entrance as they were in 1979; Dave Manelski, the Cleveland guide at About.com for his childhood recollections of the historic Public Square area at Christmastime; and Ms. Morgan Acker, lately of Hong Kong, for her help with Spanish translations. Any errors are mine and not theirs.
Dear Reader,
The Notorious Mrs. Wright, the story of former con artist Emma Webster, was great fun to write. First, I had the chance to bring back Emma’s unusual family from my last book, Mr. and Mrs. Wrong. Her brother, Jack, sister-in-law, Lucky, and father, Ray, are some of my favorite characters. Second, I was able to incorporate my love of great food, movies and archaeology into this plot.
On the following pages you’ll find romance, intrigue, drama and also a bit of comedy as two mismatched people fall in love. This story is about illusion, but also about the heroine looking beneath the facade she has created to understand who she really is. Love and happiness with handsome investigator Whitaker Lewis await Emma if she can forgive herself—and the thieving father who caused her to run away from home at fifteen.
The setting for The Notorious Mrs. Wright is St. Augustine, Florida, the oldest city of continuous residence in the United States and one of the most romantic places on earth. Having visited there a couple of times in the past ten years, I felt it was a fabulous place for Emma to set up her restaurant and display her remarkable talents with costumes and makeup.
I hope you enjoy learning what happened to Jack Cahill’s (aka J. T. Webster’s) big sister from my earlier book.
Sincerely,
Fay Robinson
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Cleveland, Ohio
December, 1979
I DIDN’T FEEL RIGHT doing it, but Ray said I had to if me and J.T. wanted to eat anytime soon. Ray was broke—again. All he had in his pocket was a couple of tens and some change. And he still owed last month’s rent on the rat hole we called an apartment.
“Please, Emma?” he asked, saying a couple hundred would be enough for groceries and to have the phone turned back on. “One pocket sting. Somethin’ to hold us over till I score big.”
Slouched next to me on the back seat of the beat-up Chevy, my kid brother let out a low snort and mumbled, “When pigs grow wings,” pretty much what I was thinking but was too chicken to say out loud. Like me, J.T.’s tired of all the bull. Ray’s been promising to pull a major scam as long as the two of us can remember, boasting he’ll get rich and find us a decent place to live, even quit thieving for good.
I gave up on “rich” years ago. These days I’d settle for just owning clothes that haven’t been worn by somebody else.
“C’mon, Princess,” Ray coaxed. “Ain’t nobody better than you at makin’ a drop.”
He smiled his thousand-watt smile, then reached back to pat me on the knee, a fatherly pat I guess you’d call it, but Ray Webster’s never been much of a father to me so I try not to think of him that way. Maybe once he could win me over with his syrupy talk. No more. I’m fifteen going on fifty, too old to fool.
Besides, I hate it when he calls me Princess. He only does that when he wants something.
Disgusted, I turned to the window where my breath fogged a circle on the cold glass and kept me from seeing out. I didn’t care. Nothing outside to see anyway except sad old buildings and dirty snow piled up on the curb.
We’d parked on Frankfort at the edge of the warehouse district, a place I wouldn’t be caught dead in after dark and don’t like visiting even in daylight. The area’s not any crappier than our neighborhood, but the old-lady disguise I had on made me an easy target for muggers.
That’s called irony, I think, but my grades in school suck, so I’m not sure.
The outfit is an old-timey dress, a coat with a fake fur collar and a hat with a big brim that sorta tilts back and has a short veil that dips across one side of my forehead. Pretty cool. The clothes came straight off the rack at the Salvation Army, but they’re