The Escort Read online

  The Escort

  Gina Robinson

  Copyright 2013 Gina Robinson

  Kindle Edition

  The Escort

  True love runs deep.

  ON THE WAY TO MEET HER HUSBAND

  Young, beautiful Italian mail-order bride Angelina D’Alessandro is married by proxy to an older man she’s never met—her only chance to escape the poverty of Italy for the hope of a new life in America. But to join him in the wilderness of Idaho in 1899 she’s not allowed to travel alone. Now she’s torn between duty and desire as she fights her growing attraction to her handsome and enigmatic escort.

  SHE FELL IN LOVE WITH HER ESCORT

  Mine owner and explosives expert Tonio Domani prefers to travel alone. In his line of work he can’t afford distractions. Against his better judgment he’s coerced into playing chaperone to a beautiful and tempting bride. The dangers he faces daily in his mine are real and the increasingly volatile powder keg of North Idaho’s mining country makes his return there even more dangerous. But what scares him most is the rising passion he feels for Angelina and the danger of losing his heart to her.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  About the Author

  Books by Gina

  The Last Honest Seamstress

  The Union

  Prologue

  New York 1898

  The Barge Office was choked with people. Immigrants seeking entry into the United States nervously waited their turn in ragged columns, shuffling, looking longingly out through grimy windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of Manhattan's Battery and Castle Garden. The United States waited just beyond the tired, overworked officials at the end of the line.

  Angelina Allessandro glanced frantically back toward the men's examination room where Paolo, her brother-in-law and escort, had disappeared hours ago.

  Where is he? Why hasn't he come out yet? Without him, she would be deported. If you didn't have a man with you, or one waiting in the building to claim you, they sent you back. A woman alone was no good in the United States.

  The line pushed her relentlessly toward the officials. She pushed back, trying to delay her fate as people shoved past her. Despite her efforts, her turn came up. Paolo was nowhere in sight. Her heart raced. She forced a smile as she approached the interviewer, wondering whether he could possibly be as corrupt as the Italian officials were. Or was America truly a place of honor and freedom? Would he press for intimate favors, force himself on her, demand a quick tumble in his office perhaps? She shuddered. What if she needed to bribe him? She had no money.

  The blue uniformed immigration translator looked genuinely sympathetic as he asked her something in English.

  "Non parlo inglese." I don't speak English.

  That wasn't exactly true. She spoke a little.

  He switched to a slow, careful southern Italian dialect. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I must detain you. Do you have a male escort or sponsor?"

  "My brother-in-law, Paolo Allessandro, came with me from Naples on board La Brezza Marina. But he has not come out of the men's medical examination room." Though she tried to sound calm, her voice pitched in near panic.

  The official said something in English to another blue-clad worker, who disappeared into the men's room and returned a few minutes later shaking his head in the negative. He called back a single English word, one that she recognized and filled her with dread. Trachoma, an eye disease certain to get Paolo deported.

  "He has been sent back?" Her fear gave her words a gentle, unintentionally sensual rasp. Horrified, she cleared her throat. Don't show fear. Don't encourage the man's attention.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am. Your paperwork says that you are married. Where is your husband? Is he in the city? Can he be contacted?"

  She fought down her panic. "He is in Idaho."

  The official shook his head. "He's not here? In the city waiting for you?"

  "No." She saw the look of pity and skepticism in his eyes and raised her chin to cover her shame. Her husband had never intended to come to the city to claim her. Paolo, his brother, was supposed to bring her to him. "He is very busy, an important man in the mines there."

  The official perused her paperwork again, then gently picked up one of her hands, and turning it palm up in his, ran his free hand over it. She flinched and tried to pull it back. His grip held her firm.

  "Don't be afraid. I'm only looking for calluses." His tone was kindly but his hand trembled as it held hers.

  She didn't believe him. She knew when a man was attracted to her.

  "What sort of work did you do in Italy?"

  "I was a cook in the household of a nobleman." There, her voice was steadier now.

  He shook his head. "No good. Look at you. Wide-eyed. Pretty. Innocent." He released her hand and sighed. "I'm sorry. I am. But I cannot admit you without a male protector. It's the law. You wouldn't last a day alone in the city before some pimp would have you under his protection. I have to send you back." He sounded resigned. He pointed away. "If you would please step aside."

  "No. Please!" She grabbed his arm. Images of the cramped ship, hours of confinement and illness haunted her. Being sent back was almost certainly a death sentence. The ill treatment of returns was notorious among the immigrants.

  "My papa's cousin Mario is here in the city." Angelina pulled a scrap of paper from her pocket. "He didn't come to meet us. We were supposed to hire a ride to his apartment. I have his address."

  "Can he be summoned? Can he meet you here?"

  "Yes." Angelina nodded, not at all certain that Papa's cousin would come for her. He had a precious commodity—a job. She had no faith he would risk his livelihood to leave in the middle of the day to rescue a young woman he'd never met. "He will come."

  She said a silent prayer to her dear, departed grandmother, who was most certainly a saint, for help. Please make Mario come for me.

  "Good." The official smiled, looking relieved by the discovery of her cousin. He hustled her toward another desk. "You can wait here until he comes for you. I shouldn't. It's against policy, but I'll send someone for him. What is the address?"

  Chapter 1

  New York City

  April 1899

  Little Italy awoke with vigor as Angelina di Maria Allessandro cruised Mulberry Street on her way toward salvation and escape. Street vendors took up residence on the sidewalk and opened their carts for the day of business ahead. Shopkeepers unlocked their doors and drew up their shades to let the morning light stream in. Early customers milled about outside, waiting to be summoned in to do the day's shopping. The air was warm with the rich scent of baking bread from numerous panetteria scattered among the stores. The low-slung eastern sun cast long, thin shadows and lit the corner window of Perelli's Farmacia like a sparkling jewel. Single-minded of purpose, Angelina noticed none of it.

  Almost by rote, she weaved her way around the growing number of pedestrians filling the street. Under the shade of store awnings, displays of every Italian delicacy imaginable beckoned. But she paid little attention to the now familiar sights. Above her, five and six-story brick buildings blocked the blue of the sky with their girth. Dishtowels hung out to dry on wrought iron balconies above street level where rows of apartments looked like so many prison cells of th
is great, confining place. What was it to her? Where was the beauty? She was a country girl. The smell of fresh grass in the field. The sounds of birds chirping. That was beauty. Not pigeons clucking in eaves.

  Men perched on the backsides of wagons parked against the curb and swapped stories, hailed buddies, and eyed women. They whistled and hooted as Angelina walked by. She should have ignored them, as Mama had taught her. But she couldn't resist casting them a sidelong smile and adding a bit more sway to her walk as she hurried past.

  Angelina was not a classic beauty. Not that she cared. She had a dark, exotic, Mediterranean look—full lips, a large mouth, and snapping, lively eyes that men told her distracted them from all rational thought. If her straight Roman nose was too long, they didn't seem to object. Here in New York, even a look meant to upbraid couldn't turn the men away.

  As Angelina came to the next intersection, she scanned the street for Nonna Gia and the aging tables where she sold her homemade pasta. Nonna Gia should be in her usual space outside Villari's Fish Market, with her husband Papa Joe at her side. Nonna Gia's pasta was unarguably the best to be found on Mulberry Street, and she always undercut the prices of her competitors. Angelina never bought her pasta anywhere else, but today she sought the old woman out for another reason.

  A gentle breeze kicked up from the direction of the waterfront, threatening to blow off the white scarf Mario had insisted Angelina wear for modesty's sake when she went out. She reached up and secured it as she looked quickly in each direction and crossed. On the other side, a short, heavy woman peddled her wares.

  "Finocchio! Fresh finocchio!"

  Angelina stepped around two heavy metal washtubs perched on wooden stools and filled with fennel bulbs. She had barely cleared the tubs when Nonna caught sight of her and called out.

  "Angelina!" Nonna Gia hurried around to the front of the pasta table to greet her. Angelina set her shopping basket down and bent forward to let the tiny woman kiss both of her cheeks, catching the licorice scent of anise oil, Nonna's version of perfume.

  "How is business this morning?" Angelina hid her excitement behind the mundane question. It was a game she and the old woman played, each putting on a poker face for the other's benefit.

  "We've just opened, but it looks to be a good day. The weather is nice. It brings the people out." Nonna turned to her husband. "Papa Joe, tend to the table while I have a word with Angelina."

  "Listen to this old woman!" Papa Joe threw up his hands. "She never has just a word with anyone. Don't keep her long. Look! The neighborhood women are already descending on us like pigeons. Here comes Signora Rubino." He gestured again to emphasize his point. "Nothing ever satisfies that one."

  "We won't be long, Papa Joe. I promise," Angelina said.

  He urged them off with a wave of his arm.

  "Come. This way, Angelina. Perhaps we can have a word in private." Nonna Gia pulled her into an unused doorway a short distance from Papa Joe and the table. "So tell me, how's Mario doing these days?" The small talk was deliberate, part of their game. No good Italian conversation was complete without first inquiring about the family.

  "Mario! He treats me as if I'm some small, defenseless child, one whose virtue could be snatched away by the mere glance of a strange man. Look at this scarf he makes me wear!"

  Nonna Gia chuckled. "You would like to flirt with the young men perhaps?" She wagged her finger. "It's not for you. No word from your new groom, Signor Allessandro?"

  "Nothing. Not one word." Angelina sighed, frustrated. Nonna Gia knew of her worries. What if something had happened to Signor Allessandro? The mines were dangerous places. What if he was angry that Paolo had been sent back? What if he blamed her? What if he no longer wanted her?

  "The winter has been hard," Angelina said, covering her fears with the story she had concocted to comfort herself. "The trains have not been running and the telegraph lines have been out of service. I am sure he's been busy in the mines. Still, I worry. I must go to him as soon as possible. I would have gone already, but Mario insists that I need an escort." She threw up her hands. "I cannot live on the charity of Papa's relatives forever."

  "Your man should have come for you himself, no matter what was going on in that place called Idaho. He should not have trusted his bride to his brother." Nonna Gia wagged her finger as she talked.

  Angelina sighed. They'd been over this subject before.

  "Why don't you stay in New York? Catch a man here. You owe that man nothing!"

  "Nonna! How can you suggest such a thing? I owe him my passage. I have made a vow of honor. And we are married!"

  "Married? Bah! That is nothing! It can be annulled. You have not even met the man." Nonna turned and looked out at the crowds filling the marketplace, a tiny smile toying with her lips. "But if you insist on going, I may be able to help." Nonna spoke casually, almost noncommittally, shrugging her shoulders ever so slightly. Angelina recognized the ploy to draw emphasis away from her own excitement.

  "You have found someone!" Angelina hugged the older woman before she had a chance to reply.

  "Yes. But before you get too excited—" Nonna spoke as one who was hugged too tightly and enjoying the attention.

  Angelina released the older woman and clutched her arm. "Who? Do I know them?"

  "His name is Antonio Domani. I call him Tonio. Please, Angelina. You hurt the arm with your grip."

  Angelina released her hold. "What about his wife? What is her name?"

  Nonna Gia looked sheepish. "There is no wife, just him. Will Mario approve of you going West with a single man?"

  Angelina's hopes fell. "I don't know." She feared not.

  "We will find out." Nonna Gia chuckled softly and gestured with her hands. "My Tonio can convince anyone of anything. You turn him loose on Mario, there will be no problem with the convincing. Let us think on the good news—Tonio is from Idaho. The Silver Valley, he calls it. He plans to return at the end of the week. The railroads are running again."

  Angelina's heart raced. She forgot the rules of their game of composure and blurted out her next question. "Which town is he going to?"

  "Wallace. Tonio tells me it's not far from Harrison. The bigger question is—can you convince Mario to let you go?"

  "This Tonio won't take advantage of me, will he?" Angelina put a tease in her voice. She liked baiting Nonna.

  Nonna laughed. "I will personally vouch for Tonio. He has been a regular customer of ours off and on for years."

  Angelina shook her head. "I'll bet you have a few scoundrels among your regulars."

  "Tonio is a good man, Angelina." There was an undeniable note of pride in Nonna's suddenly solemn voice.

  "Then I won't have any trouble convincing Mario to let me go with him, will I? Is Signor Domani willing to let me travel with him? You have asked him?"

  Nonna's chuckle returned. "He wants to meet you first. He prefers to travel alone. He said something about not wanting to face a week-long train ride with a frivolous woman."

  Angelina frowned. She didn't like this Tonio's attitude. "He sounds like a crotchety old man."

  Nonna shrugged again, concealing a grin.

  "As desperate as I am, I suppose I can put up with just about anyone. Did you tell him that I only need him to escort me onto the train? Once we're onboard, he's free to do whatever he pleases. Mario will never know the difference. I can take care of myself."

  "If Tonio agrees to take you, he won't desert you. I have his word." Nonna handed her a scrap of paper with an address written in a bold masculine hand. "Here is his address. Go see him."

  Angelina was breathing deeply as she reached the third-floor landing of Tonio Domani's apartment building, more from excitement than exertion. She reached into her apron pocket and retrieved the crumpled address she'd hastily stuffed there before leaving Nonna. Studying it, she walked down the hall, scanning doors for the correct address.

  Number 325 looked like all the other doors lining the hall. But its innocuous appeara
nce did nothing to quiet her nerves as she stood before it. He must take me with him. She willed the butterflies winging wildly in her stomach to quiet, drew in a deep breath, whispered a prayer, raised her arm, and knocked.

  Silence.

  She waited a decent length of time. Nothing.

  This was a fine mess. When would she have time to come this way next? When could she escape from Mario's protective eye again? She quickly crossed herself, amended her prayer to add that Signor Domani be home, and knocked again.

  Still, no answer.

  Frustrated, she searched for something to scribble a note on. She could tear off a piece of the address, but she had no pencil—

  Either her ears deceived her or she heard something. She stopped her frantic searching and stepped closer to the door. A deep, masculine voice hummed a tune, she was certain of it. But in this apartment or the next one over? She leaned with her ear cupped against the door, straining to hear.

  Without warning the door swung open, throwing her off balance, headlong into the warm, bare arms of a stranger. She stared into a naked, well-muscled chest covered with curly black hair, held close by a man who smelled pleasantly of fresh soap and shaving cream. She pulled away slowly, afraid she'd topple over again, steadying herself on the doorjamb, shaken by more than her tumble. Much more.

  "I'm so sorry." She mumbled, stumbling over her words and peering cautiously up at him.

  The man before her was easily over six feet tall and handsome in a way that took her breath away. Quite possibly, no, certainly, the most handsome Italian man she'd ever seen. And she'd seen many. The sight of him made her warm all over, almost overheated. She clenched her hand, resisting the urge to cross herself again. Surely such feelings in a married woman were a sin of the most mortal kind.