Annabel disengaged herself as the thief drove beneath the elevated tracks, chasing young boys in knickers playing stick ball into the shadows of the surrounding five-and six-story tenement buildings. Briefly, his gaze met hers. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked.

Annabel settled down in her seat. "Actually, you are quite a good driver." She smiled at him. She was enjoying herself-now that they had eluded the police and a fatal cable-car crash.

He glanced at her again while turning so sharply up another cross street that a man pulling a two-wheeled fruit cart was almost run over. As they sprayed a muddy puddle in their wake, Annabel glanced back and saw the vendor, perhaps a Jewish immigrant, shaking his fist at

after the first introductions were made, because she could outride, outshoot, outtalk, and outthink them all, she was fairly certain that she was beautiful-she had been told so a thousand times. She was, in fact, considered the most beautiful of the Boothe sisters, and Melissa and Lizzie were both gorgeous. Of course, she was also considered the odd one, the mannish one, the bluestocking-the one who couldn't catch a husband even if her father gave away most of his fortune on her behalf. Annabel had never cared about her beauty before, it had never seemed important or even useful.

But now she cared. She needed this man's help. Very self-conscious, she leaned toward him, her gaze on his, at once earnest and intent, praying that this once she could manage a man the way her sister Melissa could. "Please."

For one more moment they stared at one another. The clanging of trolleys, the roaring of the elevated trains, the clopping of horses' hooves, even pigeons cooing on the nearby roof, all faded and disappeared. Annabel crossed her fingers. Instinct told her not to move, not to speak-not even to breathe.

"Do not bat your lashes at me, it makes you look like a simpering fool."

Annabel winced, afraid she had lost, not just that round, but everything she valued in her life.

He grimaced. And then he shifted hard into gear and drove back into the heavy traffic of milk wagons and freight lorries, horse cars and trolleys. He turned his hard blue gaze to the road, as if concentrating on driving. His strong, clean jaw was set. Annabel was faint with relief. But she thought she could feel his thoughts-• and they were directed, not quite charitably, toward herself. She had won, but it was only the first round, and she did not fool herself. He intended to get rid of her, and eventually he would.

But she could manage with eventually. As long as it them, his coarse wool jacket soaking wet. Pedestrians on the sidewalks, working women in ready-mades and young male clerks, were all turning to gape at them as they sped by.

"Thank you," he said, and he flashed his spectacular smile at her. "I have had a lot of practice."

Annabel found herself smiling back. This thief had nerve-lots of it. "I imagine you have. Who are you?"

He turned onto Seventh Avenue, still driving at a mad-cap pace. "You may call me Braxton." Two mounted gentlemen jerked their mounts out of their way, riding up onto the sidewalk.

She eyed him, aware of them racing past another motorcar. "Is that your real name?"

His smile reappeared, but briefly. "You are a clever girl." Suddenly he veered around an omnibus and pulled up at the curb in front of a store advertising suits for sale. A furrier's sign was hanging outside the second-floor window. "Now get out."

Annabel did not move.

He appeared relaxed as he sat there in the front seat, both hands lightly on the wheel. "I am not Louie," he warned. "And I do not need a hostage."

She wet her lips. "Yes you do. They will let you get away if you threaten to hurt me. I am certain of it."

He leaned toward her. "Aren't you frightened, Miss Boothe? Hasn't it crossed your mind that I might hurt you-or at the least get you killed accidentally?"

His gaze was mesmerizing. She could not look away, i "I can't. I can't go back there. I cannot."

He was staring. His eyes were opaque, impossible to read. "So it is the groom who terrifies you-far more than myself."

He did not frighten her at all. Not really-even \ though he did make her heart race. And Annabel had never been at all seductive before. But she was desperate. And even though men always lost interest in her soon wasn't just then. For she had not lied when she had said she could not go back.

If she went back now, they would try to marry her off to Harold Talbot. A fate far worse than death-or a tarnished reputation.

Annabel smiled to herself, shaking a little, the newly hatched plan having taken a firm hold on her. And then a thought occurred to her. She quickly pulled the veil from her head and stuffed it beneath the dashboard at her and Louie's feet. She winced, feeling guilty as she regarded him. "Why is he still unconscious?"

"That was some right hook," Braxton remarked. They were now on Ninth Avenue, driving directly beneath the EL

She smiled. "Thank you."

He eyed her briefly. "You should be ashamed of such prowess."

"Yes, I should-but I am not like my sisters or other women." She reached behind her and began to undo the many small pearl buttons on the back of her dress. It was excessively difficult without a maid. "I did not mean to hurt him, though. I guess I do not know my own strength. When I was twelve I got into a fight with Tommy Bratweiller. I gave him two black eyes." She noticed they were heading uptown at a good clip now, and were already at Seventy-fifth Street. She had never been this far uptown on the West Side. It was hardly like being in New York City -at least not the New York City she knew. Huge lots of land stood vacant amidst smaller buildings and warehouses. Through the gaps in the buildings, she could see the Hudson River to the west, and the cliffs of New Jersey soaring above it on the river's other side. She even glimpsed two goats in someone's backyard.

He looked at her. "Two black eyes, not one? Tsk, tsk." And then he obviously realized what she was doing.

She flushed but ignored him, pulling the bodice of her wedding dress off her shoulders and down to her hips. She was wearing a corset, chemise, petticoats, and drawers, everything lacy and trimmed with satin ribbons for the occasion of the marriage, so she was far from naked. Still, he continued to glance at her. She shimmied out of the dress. Her cheeks were hot. She ordered herself not to think about the fact that she was undressing in front of this man. Hadn't she swum naked in the lake up in the hills around Bar Harbor? In spite of her sisters' hysteria?

"What are you doing?" he asked in that oh-so-calm British way of his.

"I am too conspicuous in the dress," she said, feeling herself continue to blush. "I am sure the telegraph lines must be humming by now. As a bride, I am a red flag to the police."

"You are as conspicuous in your underwear," he returned evenly. Suddenly he turned off the avenue, into an alley between two barns. And he halted the motorcar, jumping out.

Annabel shivered, also climbing out over the still form of Louie. She eyed the small man. "Do you think he is all right?" She was worried.

He was opening the barn door. "I am sure he will revive in a moment or so," he said, returning to the driver's seat. "He used to box. Lightweight, of course. He never quite recovered. I think you may have gotten an old injury."

"Oh, dear." Annabel realized that he planned to hide the car in the barn. She said admiringly, "This is brilliant."

He slowly drove the automobile forward as if he did not hear her. Annabel walked into the barn behind him. She smiled at the sight that greeted her-a horse and carriage, the horse already in the traces. "Truly brilliant," she said, more to herself than him.

He stepped out of the car, slamming the door. This time, briefly, his glance met hers.

She watched him pull Louie from the vehicle, leaving him on the ground. He then took a medium-sized satchel from the carriage and slipped off his tailcoat. Annabel watched him removing the jewelry he had stolen from one small compartment sewn into the jacket's lining, transferring it to the satchel. "You have thought of everything," she said.

"I hope so. You might want to turn around," he remarked, removing his bow tie.

Annabel blinked as he reached for the buttons on his snowy white shirt. He smiled at her. She realized that he was undressing, and watched as his shirt parted, revealing a broad slab of chest dusted with midnight-black hair.

Immediately she turned her back on him. Of course he would change clothes. She berated herself for not realizing earlier that he would do so. But what had possessed her to stare? And she was certain that he had known that she had been staring.

She could feel herself flushing, and as she heard his clothes rustling-he was stepping out of his trousers, she presumed-she walked around the Packard to give herself something to do. He was tall and lean and handsome. He was bold and exceedingly cool. His accent was the coup de grace. If Harold had been at all like this man, she wondered if she would have objected so strenuously to the match.

Not that her family would ever allow her to marry a thief. It was a ludicrous thought.

Besides, she did not want to marry. All women turned into fools when they married, endlessly redoing decor, shopping until dropping, planning teas and babies. That was not for Annabel.

"Done," he said cheerfully a moment later.

She turned and found him clad in a sack jacket and

paler trousers. His evening clothes had been stuffed in the front seat of the Packard. A huge oilskin tarp was folded up on the floor, nestled among bales of moldy hay. "If you truly want to help, take up that end," he said with a nod at the tarp.