BOOKER

“Goodness, gracious, Agnes. What are you doing here?”

I set aside the folder full of paperwork I’ve been trying to work my way through while perched on this uncomfortable as hell, fussy little chair. A snooty Frederick and Nelson saleslady installed me in it maybe ten minutes ago, then left me to it when I requested privacy to work.

Does it compare with my office? No, not by a long shot. But the well-designed alcove outside the ladies’ dressing rooms is workable for the short haul. It’s fairly roomy and almost private. At this moment that equates to me, a table almost too small to qualify for the title, another ornate little chair and a large triptych of full-length cheval mirrors. And while the lighting is designed to flatter women, and consequently is not as bright as it could be, it’s getting the job done.

Watching Lena approach, I’m sidetracked for a moment by that lush body in motion. Tearing my gaze away sooner than I like from the jiggle of her breasts and swivel of her hips, I check out her expression.

She doesn’t look real happy to see me.

Well, too bad. I rise to my feet. Answer her question. “Exactly what it looks like. Approving the gowns you selected and overseeing their tailoring.”

“I don’t need supervision to buy a few gowns!”

“And yet it’s my money paying for them. My club we’re outfitting you for. Haven’t you figured out by now I have my fingers in every damn aspect of The Twilight Room?”

Lena makes a face at me, but quicker than I would have given her credit for, she smooths the irritation from her expression. In a voice lacking the slightest hint of preaching, she merely says mildly, “You swear too much.”

“One ‘damn’ is hardly excessive.”

I swear I can hear the sigh she doesn’t sigh. But once more her tone is even when she says, “I’m talking about the overall collection I’ve heard since my employment began.” She raises delicate eyebrows at me. “Don’t forget in order to get almost anywhere from my dressing room, I have to pass your office.”

I scrub a hand over my face and nod. “In that case, you may have a point. The US Army is proficient at teaching a guy an impressive range of swear words.”

She blows out a pffft that is amazingly skeptical for such a brief, breathy non-word. “Please. Don’t you go blaming Uncle Sam for your unfortunate vocabulary. You forget I was there when you and Will swore your way from one end of Walla Walla to the other. And that, Mister, was long before you joined the Army.”

Her pithy observation startles a big belly laugh out of me. I give her a nod once I regain control. “Okay, you’ve got me there.”

Before I can take the step in Lena’s direction my impulses are urging, a different woman from the one who brought me back here trundles a rack into the alcove. More than five dresses hang from its top bar, I notice. In addition, stacks of boxes in various shapes and sizes cover the bottom shelf. She drapes a cloth measuring tape around her neck and turns to us.

“Good day, Mr. Jameson,” she says, looking at me before turning to Lena. “And you must be Miss Baker. Thank you for choosing Frederick and Nelson for your wardrobe needs. My name is Alice. I will be your floor lady and seamstress this afternoon.” She gestures toward the chairs. “Please. Make yourselves comfortable.”

I motion for Lena to sit, then pick up the folder from my own seat and settle in with it balanced on my lap.

Alice unclips pince-nez glasses from a brooch designed to hold the armless spectacles when they aren’t being worn and pinches them in place. “Allow me to first show you the gowns Miss Baker has chosen.” Meeting my gaze, she waves a languid hand at the rack. “As you can see, I brought a few extras in case her choices aren’t precisely what you had in mind. I understand Miss Baker is a singer in your lounge?”

“She is. You should drop by the Twilight Room some night to hear her. She’s amazing.”

Lena gives me a pleased smile, but for all the attention the saleswoman pays my invitation as she rattles through the padded hangers, I may as well not have spoken. She selects a navy gown scattered with gold and silver stars of various sizes that appear to be sewn on, then beaded. The theme carries out in additional clusters of tiny beads that show like constellations against a midnight sky.

Alice opens the closest dressing room door and hangs the gown on a hook inside. She returns to the rack and rummages through the stacks until she locates the box she seeks. She hands it to Lena. “Here you go, Miss Baker. This bandeau binder will make the gown hang correctly—and is more comfortable than binding yourself with bandages.”

“Oh, hell no.” I jerk upright in my stupid little chair, knocking the already forgotten folder on my lap onto the floor. Papers spill out and strew in a dozen different directions. When Alice starts to stoop to pick up the ones at her feet, I wave her off. “I will not see Lena strapped down until she looks like a boy. She has breasts. Work with them.”

Blinking, the tailor turns to Lena. “I thought your name was Lola.”

“Lola is my stage name.” Lena gives Alice a little smile and an even smaller shrug. “I used it to hold the dresses, since they’re for work. My real name is Lena.”

“I like it. It’s even prettier than Lola,” Alice says, for the first time sounding halfway human. I had forgotten that about Lena, how proficient she was at charming uptight people into loosening their grip on the stick up their rears. “Did you wear a binder to try this on?”

Lena nods. “The saleswoman insisted.”

Alice turns back to me. “Then I am not at all certain this size will work.”

I manage to say calmly, “If it doesn’t, find her one that will and tailor what’s necessary to make it fit.” It takes effort to swallow my impatience, but Jesus. It’s not like I’m asking the woman to figure out how radio waves cause voices to emerge from her Atwater Kent.

Alice does that sigh thing women have perfected over the years to let a fellow know he’s an idiot. But she gives Lena a deferential smile, which also looks genuinely friendly. “This way, Miss. I have you set up in Room One.”

When they disappear into the room, I pick up the scattered papers, restore them in their proper order to my folder and go back to work. I sign a contract with the new glassware vendor Sarge found down on Rainier Avenue. Kusak’s Cut Glass Works has been supplying stemware to Frederick and Nelson for twelve years.

“And, hey, if it’s good enough for Frederick’s,” I murmur, then chuckle. Because, talk about stating the obvious.

Seeing as how I’m sitting in the middle of the damn store, prepared to drop a bundle on gowns for my singer.

The real reason, however, is that we’ve already bought an order from Kusak’s on a trial basis and both Sarge and I were very impressed.

I’ve dashed off a quick check from my personal checkbook to my favorite charity and am in the midst of pouring over recipes for some of the recent cocktails gaining in popularity when Lena comes out of the room again.

Glancing up, I freeze. Then, without looking, I set my folder on the tiny table, and don’t even blink when it promptly falls on floor, once again scattering my papers. “Now, that is what I’m talking about,” I murmur.

The dress is cut straight across the tops of her breasts, and would have had nothing to display if I had allowed Alice to bind them. As it is, the fit, while flattening Lena’s natural curves somewhat, has more than made up for it by the resultant mouthwatering cleavage shoved above the neckline.

The rest of the ankle length dress hangs straight. The center, however, is cut up to just below the knees in a slightly M-shaped hemline that is partially filled with fringe to give it additional flare. The straps keeping the dress up are formed by sheer panels of inverted V-shaped fabric. And a series of little eighth-inch ribbons wrap the entire length of her left arm, connecting another sheer, spider-web type contraption sewn into the side seam of the gown.

“Raise your arm,” I instruct.

Lena sweeps it up and to the side with a theatrical flourish, displaying an abbreviated one-sided butterfly effect.

“Ho-ly shit,” I whisper and bend for the folder to set it back on my lap. “You look absolutely—” Good enough to eat. Downright juicy “—gorgeous.”

She beams at me. “Isn’t it the prettiest?”

“The dress is stunning,” I agree. “You did a grand job selecting it. But Lena, it’s you. You are the one who makes the dress. Not visa versa.”

“I heartily concur,” Alice says. “And Mr. Jameson, you were correct in not binding her. Lena’s natural curves in the straight lines of this dress are a refreshing change from the boyish silhouette so prevalent today. She looks very womanly without appearing the least bit trashy.”

“Yes. Well stated, Alice—that is exactly the look I was going for.” I smile at the tailor and sit back. “So, what’s next?”