The Devil's Due by Monique Martin

from the room service tray. While Elizabeth slept in, which she excelled at and after last night no doubt needed, Simon was, as usual, up early. He'd walked the grounds before coming back to the bungalow and ordering breakfast. The Ambassador's service was first class. The waiter had laid the table on the south patio with care. White linens, silver and fine china waited on the polished glass table just out of the morning sun.
    Simon sipped his tea and considered what lay ahead. They'd learned precious little last night during their frolic with Alan Grant. He was clearly in some sort of trouble and either or both Roth brothers were involved. Where the other man or the girl, Ruby, fit in, Simon wasn't sure, but her desperation was troubling.
    Simon pushed out a long, frustrated breath and lifted the cover to his plate. No use in letting it go cold.
    “Not gonna wait for me?” Elizabeth said from the doorway behind him.
    “I was wondering if you were ever—” The rest of the sentence and the thought melted away as he turned and saw her.
    Elizabeth leaned against the doorway, wearing nothing but one of his oxford shirts. The hem fell just about mid-thigh and his eyes lingered there before working their way back up to her face, eyes still drowsy with sleep. The shirt was absurdly large for her and she'd done a poor job of rolling the sleeves up. So poor, in fact, that one sleeve was already unrolling itself. The hand she perched delicately on her hip in mock annoyance was swallowed by the fabric.
    Simon felt the familiar rush of desire. Elizabeth always made him feel that way, but at her most unassuming the effect was stunning. It was, however, more than passion that coursed through his body at the sight of her. It was hope and faith and promise. It was everything good in the world infused in a single moment. It was having her as his wife.
    Elizabeth offered him a sleepy smile, and pushed off from the doorway. “Good morning.”
    She leaned down to kiss him. Simon cupped her cheek, still warm from sleep. “Good morning, yourself.”
    Elizabeth took a seat at the table and rubbed her hands together in greedy anticipation. “Is this what I think it is?”
    She took off the cloche and her smile answered her own question. “Eggs Benedict.” She took in a deep, satisfied breath, enjoying the rich, delicate aroma of a perfect Hollandaise sauce, poured herself a cup of coffee and settled in to breakfast.
    Simon shook open his linen napkin and laid it in his lap.
    He filled her in on his conversation with Wells, emphasizing as Wells had, the potential for danger regarding Benny Roth and his mob connections.
    Elizabeth washed down a bite of eggs with a sip of coffee. “Bootlegging isn't exactly a booming business anymore. I mean it won't be for long anyway. Prohibition's almost over. Beer's legal in a few days and the rest of it will be legal in a few months.”
    Even though Simon had spent nearly two months living through Prohibition when they'd traveled back in time to New York, he'd never given much thought to what it meant when the Amendment was repealed. Organized and not-so-organized crime had built an enormous and profitable industry that was going to cease to be in a few months. “That's a great deal of income that's not easily replaced. Might make a man desperate.”
    “You think he might be blackmailing the others for money? Alan or his brother?”
    “That's possible,” Simon conceded. “Wells wanted to look into it.”
    Elizabeth eagerly started to say something, probably along the lines of singing Wells' praises, but quickly schooled her expression.
    Simon popped a piece of toast into his mouth. “Despite his sometimes,” Simon said searching for the right words, “excessive charm, he is a good man and good at what he does. I fear that before this is over, we will need all the help we can get.”
    Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. “Alan's definitely in trouble. I hope we can get him to trust us.”
    “I have