Up Against the Wall

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COM-The Commodore. Had to be.

The wolf is at the door, her father had written on another page. “Teddy Wolfe,” she mouthed out loud, underlining the name she had written. “Or someone else at Wolfe International.”

“

,” she read out loud. “I’ll figure it out, Dad. I promise.”

Rereading her father’s words centered her around her purpose again, and the distractions of Seth Cartwright’s scent, strength and surly attitude receded beneath a surge of renewed confidence. She’d already made an introduction to almost every major player at the Riverboat. She’d be back tomorrow night to ask more questions and poke her nose into the original parts of the ship. With luck, she could acquaint herself with Daniel Kelleher and anyone else who had stood to gain from Reuben Page’s death.

With a solid plan firmly in mind, Rebecca saved herself the indignity of climbing across the front seats again and got out of the car.

“Oh, damn.” As she walked around the hood to the driver’s side, she realized she still wore the short black apron from the Cotton Blossom. As much as she wanted to stay off Seth Cartwright’s radar screen for the rest of the night, she knew she had to venture back inside the Riverboat to return it. She could go straight to the bar and show Tom that she was serious about the job by returning the apron and asking him what time he expected her to report for work. She could avoid the main lobby altogether by circling around the outer deck to the bar’s outside entrance.

But her aching feet balked at the long row of cars separating her from the Riverboat’s gangplank.

“Has to be done.” She coaxed her energy to return by repeating the phrase her father had often used when she’d turned her nose up at some unpleasant task.

So Rebecca pulled off her high heels and tossed them into the car before locking it behind her. As long as she didn’t step into any unidentified gooey substances, the walk actually felt good. The pavement was still warm and just rough enough to soothe her aching feet without scratching them. Tomorrow, she’d trade a little sex appeal for the comfort of more sensible shoes.