A Lasting Impression by Tamera Alexander Page B

interview with Mrs. Acklen—all before this afternoon. Which meant, she needed a miracle. Or several.
    Her gaze traveled toward the front of the sanctuary, where the two women had knelt just moments earlier. She stared, contemplating going up there and formally asking God for His help. But a niggling discomfort rose to the surface. It felt awkward, and unfair to think of asking Him for so large a favor when she hadn’t done anything even remotely worthy of such generosity.
    Feeling daunted and ill-equipped, yet already framing the petition in her mind, she turned to retrieve her boots from the floor, when she saw a man—and not just any man—leaning on the pillar at the end of the pew. Watching her!
    And judging by the wry smile tipping one side of his mouth, he’d been doing just that for quite some time.

6
     
    I n the space of a blink, Claire silently recounted every womanly alteration she’d just made—and her face went hot. Wishing she could turn and run, she saw the amusement in Mr. Monroe’s expression and grew warmer still. Why, of all men, did this one have to walk in on her just now? Michelangelo’s David, in the flesh, albeit fully clothed. He was taller than he’d seemed at the train station yesterday, and far more observant.
    He advanced a step. “My apologies, ma’am, if I startled you.” In the custom of Southern gentlemen, he bowed at the waist, his gaze never leaving hers. “Typically the sanctuary is unoccupied at this early hour.” The same heritage that instructed his gentility also velveted the deep timbre of his voice.
    Humor shadowed his expression, which only deepened Claire’s discomfort. Yet it wasn’t the same discomfort she’d experienced under Samuel Broderick’s leer. She wouldn’t mind this man’s attention in the least, just not when she was . . . arranging herself.
    Needing to say something— anything, in her defense—she grasped what shreds of decorum remained. “A proper gentleman would have made his presence known, sir. At the very outset.” The reprimand didn’t come out nearly as convincingly as she would have liked.
    “Indeed, he would have.” His smile remained undeterred. “As I did. Twice. ”
    She narrowed her eyes.
    He held up a hand as though requesting her patience, then proceeded to clear his throat. Loudly—not once, but twice. Until he choked in the process. Or at least pretended he did. Rather convincingly too, going so far as to clutch his chest and reach for the back of the pew for support.
    Despite her embarrassment, Claire fought back a giggle—the response he’d hoped to elicit, she felt sure, considering the watchful glint in his eyes. He’d caught her in a most embarrassing moment, but just how embarrassing, she wasn’t sure. Had he actually seen her crawl out from beneath the pew where she’d hidden? Certainly she would have noticed him standing there, if so.
    Regardless, she recognized what he was offering her now—the opportunity to make light of the situation and save face. And she grabbed it with both hands, hoping she would be halfway convincing, and that he wouldn’t notice her stocking feet.
    “While that was a fairly convincing demonstration, sir”—her unease lessening, she still held her smile in check—“I fail to see how I could have possibly turned a deaf ear to so flagrant a display.”
    His dark brows inched higher. And the swift manner in which he masked his reaction told her he knew how to play this game, probably better than she. “Which accounts for my surprise, dear lady. And frankly, my keen disappointment when you failed to come to my aid. I could have choked to death. Right here, on this very floor.”
    “And what a loss that would have been for us all.”
    He frowned, feigning hurt and disbelief. Feigned, she knew, by the barely perceptible upturn of his mouth.
    Under normal circumstances, she would never have entered into such casual repartee with a stranger, but this man didn’t feel like a