BOOKER

I’ve come home to a cold house in the dead hours of the morning more times than I can shake a stick at, and never have I given it a second thought. Depending on how my night has gone, I’ll turn on the radiators and build myself a fire or just roll into bed.

Coming home without Lena this morning feels every shade of wrong. Which is kind of crazy, when I think about how she’s only stayed in the house with me five days. Slept in bed beside me a mere four.

I toss my keys into the dish on the entryway table, then head for the dining room to pour myself a drink. I knock it back without even stepping away from the bar setup on the sideboard. Without missing a beat, I splash an additional finger into the glass to take with me upstairs.

What the hell made her decide to stay with the Brasher girls tonight? Lena and I have made love every night since last Sunday—some nights more than once. Hell, every night except Sunday more than once. I don’t think I’m fooling myself to say she’s been with me every step of the way.

I am so damn tempted to call Will to see if he has any insights into Lena he can share with me. Face it, he’s been with her more than I have over the last eight years, so probably understands the way her mind works better. But it’s three effing o’clock in the morning. How likely am I to get a straight answer—or, hell, any answer at all—if I wake him up for this?

I snort. Will thinks of Lena as a sister. If I tell him how my relationship with her has changed, I’m pretty damn sure he won’t talk to me at all.

But I sure don’t like this feeling I’m getting. Not when, at best, it feels too damn much as though Lena’s pulling away from me. And at worst?

I heard her mention to Clara she needs a bigger suitcase. What if she’s getting ready to hightail it out of town?

* * *

“Hey, Mistah Jaaame-es-son!”

It’s been a long day. I’ve had to concentrate like hell to get anything done, and I sigh as I look over to see Sally bearing down on me. She’s in full locomotion, her cigarette tray a stationary oasis between jiggling breasts and swinging hips as she weaves through the tables. It’s pretty damn clear mine at the edge of the dance floor is her current destination.

Leo wasn’t in the office when I arrived a short while ago. But he’d spread his usual shit all across the desk, so I just grabbed the high priority matters I want to make sure are taken care of and brought them out here. Thinking, of course, I’d get all kinds of privacy before the lounge opened for the night.

I swallow a sigh. Guess I was wrong.

Sally arrives at the table and I see that, while she’s picked up her tray, she has yet to load its merchandise. “Leo had to run out for something,” she says. “But he asked me to tell you that Ray Orland, the president of—I can’t remember which bank he said—made reservations for this evening. Leo said Orland said he’s bringing someone special you’re sure to get a kick out of.”

My first thought is he’s bringing a girlfriend rather than his wife. But why would Orland believe I’d give a great big damn about his personal life one way or the other, let alone get a kick out of it? I ask Sally to put a reserved sign for the banker’s party on one of our best stage-view tables. Then I get back to work. I have far too much to do to waste what little spare time I might scrape together wondering who the banker considers a special guest. Let alone one he thinks I might actually give two simoleans about.

After making a mental note to make an appearance at Orland’s table, I put the matter aside and concentrate on finishing up the paperwork I’ve let slide a little too long. By the time the sound of arriving employees pulls me out of the roll I’m on, I’ve made serious inroads into my work backlog. Gathering up my papers, I put them back in the folder, then head to the office. I set it atop the file cabinet when I see that although Sarge has whittled down the mess on the desk, he still has a way to go before it’s cleared. I head to the washroom to freshen up and change into my tux.

Not long after I’ve gotten myself ready, I hear Lena and the Brasher girls chatting and laughing as they sashay past my office. And damned if my heartbeat doesn’t start thundering against the wall of my chest like so many winter storm waves crashing on the shore.

God, I’ve got it bad for this woman. Shoving my hand into my slacks pocket, I scoop up the small circlet of chain within, rubbing my thumb over its sturdy, yet dainty, links.

I give Lena a little time to settle in and prepare for her sets. Then I make my way to her dressing room. Outside her door, I smile at her bejeweled star, but hesitate to knock. Do I want to risk her telling me to go away? Or do I ambush her when she comes out? I’m usually not one to hold back when I have my eye on the prize. There is something to be said, however, about a guaranteed face to face meeting.

Resting my shoulders against the wall across from her door, I plant the sole of my right dress shoe flat against it as well, cross my arms over my chest and settle in to wait. I’m not letting her go, by God. Every feeling I ever had for Lena has rushed back these past several days—hell has been rushing back since the first night she performed here. And that’s if my damn need for her completely went away in the first place.

I am going to get myself more time with her if it’s the last thing I do.

Fortunately for my rapidly dwindling supply of patience, I don’t have long to wait. The door across from me opens and I drop my foot to the floor.

Lena jolts when she sees me and I straighten away from the wall, thrusting my hands into my pants pockets. “Sorry,” I say quietly. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I missed you last night and just wanted to see you before things get busy.”

I can’t quite read Lena’s expression. Part of her looks really happy to see me. At the same time, there’s a reserve in her expression and a slight stiffness in her posture. “Did you have a good time with the girls last night?”

“Mostly.”

Shit. What does that mean? I stroke the chain again, then pull it from my pocket. “I got you something.” Shaking the little chain link bracelet down from my palm, I spread the clasped circlet open with my thumb and forefinger for her to see. “It’s a charm bracelet. Or the beginning of one, anyhow.” I turn it so she can see its only charm: a platinum treble clef.

“Oh, my gosh!” Lena’s entire face lights up and she leans in to look at it more closely. “That is so nifty! But...is that a diamond in the bottom swoop?” Straightening, she takes a step back. “I can’t accept something so expensive!”

“Yes. You can. It’s a diamond chip. It would probably take two dozen of these to make the lowest fraction of a carat.” And aren’t I glad I resisted the one caret diamond I first considered? “C’mon, just try it on.”

“I shouldn’t,” she says, but her body leans toward mine. And when I reach authoritatively for her wrist, she allows me to lift it so I can fasten the little open-link bracelet over it.

I arrange it until the single charm dangles, well, charmingly. “Yes,” I say. Seeing her wearing it gives me a massive surge of satisfaction. “It’s you.”

She turns her wrist this way and that, before looking up at me. “Thank you,” she says with quiet sincerity. “Aside from the gowns and accessories you—that is to say, the lounge—bought me, I have never owned anything so beautiful in my life.” Her fingers keep stroking the charm.

Even though I know I should let everything simply coast in the wake of this upbeat moment, I hear myself ask in a low voice, “Are you coming home tonight?”

“Oh.” She loses some of her shine. “I, um, don’t know. That is, I’m not sure.”

I manage to resist issuing any ultimatums. But I can’t stop myself from stepping forward, crowding her.

She takes a step back.

I step forward again and we repeat this little do-si-do across the hall until Lena’s back hits the wall beside her dressing room door. Encircling her forearms with my fingers, I press them against the wall on either side of her head. The accelerated pulse in the fragile hollow of her throat catches my eye.

At least she’s not unaffected. A slight smile tips up the corners of my mouth and I squat slightly to kiss the faint blue veins of her inner wrist just above the bracelet. After a moment spent lingering over the spot, I move to the fast pulse of her heartbeat in her throat and kiss her there as well. Not until I feel every bit of her tension flow from her muscles do I raise my head again. Reluctantly, I step back and release my loose hold on her forearms. I study her slightly unfocused expression, then trace the tip of my finger along the marcel wave curving from her temple to her jaw.

“Come home,” I say gruffly.

Then I turn and walk away. I hate having no idea if she’ll do as I bid. But I’m determined to hope for the best.

* * *

“Hey, Mistah J.” Sally rushes up. “You told me to let you know when the Orland party arrived. They just took their seats. And it’s the funniest thing. The man with Mr. Orland looks a lot li—”

“Miss? Miss!” an impatient voice interrupts. “Can we get a pack of fags over here?”

I look over, surprised someone would butt in while she’s in a discussion with the club’s owner. People just generally seem to assume if you own a speakeasy, you must be connected. The question is answered when I see the person hailing her is one of the many new customers we’ve been pulling in lately. He clearly has no idea I’m the owner.

I give Sally a nod and she bounces off to sell some cigarettes.

I rise to go pay my respects to Ray Orland and his mystery guest, fully intending to keep it brief. But when I walk up to the table and see who’s sitting with him, I understand what Sally started to say before the impatient smoker interrupted her. “Father?”

What the hell is he doing here? I feel every muscle in my body tense. The old man has never made any bones about his opinion of the low-brow industry in which I elected to set up business.

“Hello, son.” Clyde Jameson climbs to feet and thrusts out his hand. But to my utter surprise, when I reach out for a businesslike shake, he hauls me it for what would be a chest to chest bump if our right arms weren’t bisecting our torsos. With a slap to my shoulder with his free hand, he turns me loose.

“Sit down, sit down,” he insists, and leans into me the moment I comply. “This is a beautiful place you’ve got here!” His enthusiasm is unmistakable.

“I told you it was the best place in town,” Ray interjects, making my dad grin.

“You did. And yet it’s even more sophisticated than anything I could have envisioned.” His wave of a hand seems to encompass the club’s elegance in its entirety. He takes a sip of his drink and smiles appreciatively. “And did I mention you carry great booze? This is sure as hell no bathtub gin.”

“We import the real deal from Canada.” Import might be stretching the truth in the legal sense, but close enough.

“It isn’t merely decent liquor, though,” Father says and takes another appreciative sip. “This is top shelf gin. And I saw the label on the magnum of champagne delivered to the table next to us.”

He goes on to praise the very things I’d insisted upon when putting my club together, and the way he talks to me, as if I’m every bit the great businessman he is, warms a cold part of me I never even realized I’d been carrying around. For the first time since I cannot remember when, he is the father I adored—right up until I reached puberty and got weighed down by his crushing load of expectations for the Jameson heir.

All the same, I brace myself when Lena strolls over after her final set. It’s rare she even comes into the lounge, never mind putting herself in my father’s path after the way he treated her the one and only time they met. He hadn’t been kind to her and even my mother had made a snide comment about her knowing her place. Yet on a trajectory to our table she appears to be, and after half a dozen people stop her, she seems to remember the tip of focusing on her goal I gave her a while back.

Almost instantly, her admirers back off. It might be the do your worst gleam in her eyes. I can’t help but think she’s come out here specifically to make a point about the differences in our social status. I thought we’d long ago gotten past that, but maybe she feels the need to show my father that no one talks down to Lena Bjornstad these days.

It amazes me the girl has never figured out she’s actually better than me. And if the old man utters one rude word to her, I will send him packing.

When I reintroduce her, however, Dad greets her cordially and speaks enthusiastically about her talent. He shares how Ray raved about her, telling Dad what a huge draw she has become to the Twilight Room.

I have long known that’s true. The Twilight Room was popular before Lena started here and has always drawn a crowd. But since word of her talent got around, the place has literally been bursting at the seams.

Watching my father with Lena is like the cherry on top of this entire damn-near perfect sundae of an evening. So much so, it makes me question my long-held perception of him.

“We need a photo of this night!” Dad suddenly suggests and, catching Elsie’s eye, I wave her over.

After she takes a photo of the four of us at Father’s insistence, Dad grins at me across the table. “Thanks for asking your photographer to develop it right away, son. I can’t wait to show it to your mother. Maybe then she’ll see the Twilight Room is every bit as brag worthy as the restaurant she’s been telling everyone you own.”

“What?” I freeze. That can’t be right. My mom has always been the supportive one.

“You know your mother.” His father shrugs. “She’s always very concerned about the way things may appear to others.”

And just like that, everything I thought I knew about my parents flips upside down.