An inconvenient attraction...

To her convenient fiancé!

Patsy Dryer may be a biddable heiress by day, but nothing will stop her from dancing all night in Hollywood’s speakeasies—or fulfilling her dream of becoming a reporter. She’s investigating the mystery of an escaped convict with brooding, handsome newspaper editor Lane Cox...until they must pretend to be engaged! With their scoop linked to Lane’s tragic past, dare Patsy hope for a happy ending for their own story, too?

A lover of fairy tales and history, LAURI ROBINSON can’t imagine a better profession than penning happily-ever-after stories about men and women in days gone past. Her favourite settings include World War II, the Roaring Twenties, and the Old West. Lauri and her husband raised three sons in their rural Minnesota home, and are now getting their just rewards by spoiling their grandchildren. Visit her at laurirobinson.blogspot.com, Facebook.com/lauri.robinson1 or Twitter.com/laurir.

Also by Lauri Robinson

The Cowboy’s Orphan Bride

Mail-Order Brides of Oak Grove

Winning the Mail-Order Bride

Western Christmas Brides

Married to Claim the Rancher’s Heir

In the Sheriff’s Protection

Diary of a War Bride

Brides of the Roaring Twenties miniseries

Baby on His Hollywood Doorstep

Stolen Kiss with the Hollywood Starlet

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Flapper’s Fake Fiancé

Lauri Robinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90137-0

THE FLAPPER’S FAKE FIANCÉ

© 2020 Lauri Robinson

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Dedicated to an amazing fan

who loves the Roaring Twenties.

This one is for you, Tambra!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
August 1928

An escaped convict! Imprisoned for robbing a train seven years ago. That’s the real cat’s meow!

And whiskers!

Patsy Dryer’s heart thudded as she quickly folded the newspaper article and tucked it inside the suitcase that held various other articles she’d saved over the years. This was it. The story that would get her name in the byline. She’d be the reporter. The one to get the scoop on the news overtaking Los Angeles.

Father wouldn’t be able to keep her locked up then. She’d become rich and famous on her own—without having to marry a man he handpicked. He was adamant that his daughters marry well and kept them all under lock and key until he found a suitable man for her and her sisters.

He’d already picked out a man for her oldest sister, Betty, so it was only a matter of time until he found one for her and Jane. Which meant time was running out.

Right next to the articles Patsy had snipped out of the newspapers was a stack of articles she’d written, about all sorts of things, along with a rejection slip for each one.

But this. An escaped convict. That’s exactly what she needed. Everyone would be interested in that and when her version of the story hit the editor’s desk, it would be printed for sure.

Then she’d have a real job, and wouldn’t have to worry about being forced into a marriage, or stuck in the house cleaning all day, day after day.

With that thought encouraging her, and her mind spinning with images of a man dressed in black-and-white stripes, she closed the suitcase and shoved it under her bed.

Gathering all the information she could before another reporter beat her to the scoop was a priority, and she knew just the place for that to happen.

The Rooster’s Nest. Everyone knew whiskey loosened lips. If there was news to be heard, that’s where it would be heard first. The crowd at that speakeasy was full of tough guys—mainly dockworkers who were certain to know more about an escaped convict than anyone else.

The docks were full of chin music. And criminals. At least that’s what she’d heard. Well, read. The newspapers were always full of stories about people being shanghaied.

Oh, maybe that’s what happened to the escaped convict!

She had to find out more information right away.

The morning sunlight filling the room sent a river of discouragement clear to her toes. It’d be hours before she could get to the Rooster’s Nest. Before she could sneak away. Today was wash day. So those hours would be filled with washing everything from rugs to linens, hanging it all out to dry and ironing each and every piece before putting it all away.

Patsy pushed up her sleeves and huffed out a breath while walking to the door of her bedroom, past the vanity table with its round mirror and matching bench seat, both painted bright pink to match the rest of her bedroom furnishings. Her life had been painted pink since the day she was born because she was the baby of the family. Daddy’s baby girl.

Despite graduating high school, and secretarial school, everything was still painted pink. When she had her own house, her own life, nothing would be pink. She wouldn’t be anyone’s baby girl, either. She’d be a reporter. A woman of means.

Shopkeepers already thought of her as a woman of means because she was Patsy Dryer, William Dryer’s youngest daughter, but they didn’t know the half of it. Her family hadn’t always been rich. Father hadn’t started making money until ten years ago, and most of his wealth had been acquired in the past few years, since the houses he’d had built started selling. Those houses didn’t sell on their own, either. They had to be cleaned from top to bottom once they were built, and that was what she and her sisters had been doing, besides keeping their own home in tip-top shape all the time.

She and her sisters had decided some time ago that they weren’t going to do this forever. They weren’t going to be like Mother, either. Being told when to get up, when to go to bed, when to eat and what to do all the time.

“I’ll wash today,” Betty said as Patsy stepped into the hallway. “Jane will run the wringer.”

Betty, being the oldest, kept track of rotating everyone’s household duties. Everything from washing day to shopping day, Betty was in charge, per Mother’s orders, of course.

Mother, of course, was following Father’s orders.

That was the golden rule of the Dryer household.

Father’s orders.

The Dryer household was a prune pit. So old-fashioned it felt as if she was being smothered every day, living in the last century, long before women were given the right to vote. Father threatened he’d send them to a convent if they didn’t follow his orders. Well, living here was nearly as bad.

It was not that she wasn’t grateful. She was thankful that she always had plenty to eat and new clothes to wear, but what was the fun in having new clothes if you were never allowed to go anywhere? Not allowed to do anything? Father’s strict rules kept them practically imprisoned in their own house.

She wasn’t the only one to feel the way she did. Her sisters were as starved for freedom as she was.

“And I’ll rinse,” Patsy replied to Betty as Jane stepped out of her bedroom and joined them in the long hallway that would take them downstairs of their big Hollywoodland home.

Theirs had been the first home built in the hills that now hosted several dozen large and elaborate homes. When Father had inherited the land that was too hilly for farming years ago, he’d decided to plot it off and build houses to sell. Like everything else, he had very specific building requirements and very specific requirements as to who could purchase any of the homes—only the rich and famous. Because that was what he wanted to be. He wanted the Dryer name to ring with recognition.

His words, not hers.

“So I’m on the wringer?” Jane asked.

They all three had inherited their mother’s blond hair and their father’s blue eyes, and as if Father had control over their size, too, they were like stair steps. Betty the tallest, then Jane and then her, the baby of the family. The shortest.

Betty nodded at Jane. “Yes. It’s your turn.”

Jane nodded in agreement, accepting things were as they were, because that’s what they were required to do.

Or did.

Until the day Father had made them visit a convent. That night, six months ago, Jane had snuck out and visited a speakeasy.

Patsy had been floored to learn what Jane had done, but upon hearing about the fun and adventure her sister had experienced, Patsy had joined her the next night, and had the absolute time of her life!

Betty joined the two of them the night after that.

That night, they’d all agreed if they were going to have to live in a convent the rest of their lives, they’d better have fun now, while they could.

So they’d become flappers. Real, live flappers.

They wore short skirts, fancy hats and feathered headbands and makeup, listened to the new fast-paced music, danced with any man they chose and didn’t care if others thought their behavior was acceptable or not.

And it was so much fun!

Excitement filled Patsy from head to toe. She loved their secretive flapper life. “We’re going to the Rooster’s Nest tonight,” she whispered, even though Father was already at work and Mother was down in the kitchen.

A short time ago, after breakfast, she and her sisters had returned to their rooms for half an hour of “digesting time.” What was that? Digesting time? To her, it was nothing more than another one of Father’s rules. However, it was one that she didn’t mind because it gave her time to sneak articles out of the newspaper her father had finished reading up to her room.

“Haven’t been to the Rooster’s Nest in a while,” Jane said. “I heard they have a new piano player that is really the bee’s knees.”

“Hush,” Betty hissed as they started down the long, curved staircase. “Wait until we are on the back porch.”

“Read something interesting this morning?” Jane whispered.

Betty shot them both a glare, but there was a hint of an enthusiastic gleam in her eyes.

Patsy pinched her lips together and nodded at Jane.

The excitement in her sister’s eyes nearly matched hers, and with new enthusiasm to get their chores completed, they all increased their speed down the wide steps.

Hours later, after the beds had been stripped and remade, they were finally in the back porch, where the hum of the washing machine motor, the sloshing of water and the constant high-pitched squeak of the rollers on the wringer gave them the opportunity to talk without the fear of being overheard.

“Why the Rooster’s Nest?” Jane asked, feeding a white sheet between the rollers on the washing machine, filling the air with the smell of bleach.

Patsy waited until enough material rolled out of the wringer for her to grab and guide the sheet into the rinse tub before answering, “There’s an escaped convict on the lam.”

“Really?” Jane flipped the arm of the wringer around so it was in position to squeeze the rinse water out of the sheet.

“Yes,” Patsy answered while swooshing the sheet about in the water. Her sisters knew about her desire to be a reporter. Jane wanted to be in showbiz, and Betty... Betty just wanted out of Father’s house, to move to Seattle, where she’d once visited their grandmother before she’d died. “I read about it in the Gazette this morning. It appears the convict robbed a train seven years ago, and escaped from prison just last week. The article warned people to keep their doors locked.”

“The Rooster’s Nest will be the place to go, then,” Jane said, feeding the rinsed sheet into the wringer so it could drop in the basket to be hung on the line. “If there are any goods to be had, that’s where you’ll hear it.”

Patsy nodded. “That’s what I figured, too.”

“The Rooster’s Nest means we’ll have to take a streetcar.” Betty pulled a sheet out of the washer and waited for Jane to flip the arm of the wringer back over the washing machine tub. “The red line.”

Patsy bit her bottom lip, waiting for Jane’s reply. Both she and Jane knew that if Father ever learned about their nighttime excursions, they all would be in trouble, but Betty would be in the most trouble. He forever pointed out that she was the oldest and the one responsible. For everything.

“We’ve done that before,” Jane said.

“I know.” Betty looked at both of them with a serious gaze. “We just have to be more careful when taking the streetcar.”

Patsy nodded. The Rooster’s Nest wasn’t that much farther away than some of the other joints they visited. It was just located on a busier street, which meant they had to be more cautious about not being spotted by someone who might know them, or their father.

Jane nodded. “You don’t have to tell us twice. If we ever got caught, we’d be locked upstairs like Rapunzel for the rest of our lives.”

That was the real malarkey. They all knew it. “With our hair cut off,” Pasty added. “So we couldn’t throw it out the window to be rescued by a knight in shining armor.” That was the one step none of them had dared take. Cutting off their long hair. Father thought all women should have long hair.

Jane laughed, but Betty didn’t. Her blue eyes grew sad. Patsy knew why. Their father had announced last month that Betty would marry James Bauer, a man whom none of them liked. He was the owner of one of the companies building houses for their father, and most certainly was not a knight in shining armor. But James was what Father looked for in a man. Rich. That was all he cared about.

“We’ll leave at eight thirty,” Betty said as she pulled out another sheet.

“Eight thirty it is,” Jane said, feeding the sheet through the wringer.

Patsy grinned at both of them and nodded while swooshing around the sheet in the rinse tub. Eight thirty was hours away, but excitement filled her nonetheless. Despite the fact that she was nineteen, Jane was twenty-one and Betty twenty-two, they were sent to bed at seven thirty every night just like they had been when they were small children. She’d hated that for years. Right up until Jane had showed them what could happen after their parents were sound asleep. Now she was glad that Father lived by such a strict schedule. One that included his own bedtime, as well. And that their big house meant their parents had a large bedroom downstairs, while the three of them had the upstairs rooms all to themselves.

By 8:31 that evening, Patsy had climbed down the ivy-covered trellis that extended to the second floor, right outside the upstairs bathroom window. Jane climbed down next, and then Betty. They all had their blond hair tucked up beneath floppy brimmed hats, bright lipstick shimmering on their lips and thick layers of mascara on their eyelashes. The shin-length, long-sleeved, paisley-print dresses they’d worn all day had been changed into fashionable A-line sleeveless dresses with hems that stopped above their knees.

Her dress was dark blue with two layers of fringe on the hem, Jane’s was red-and-white-striped and Betty’s was deep purple with silver lace on the hem and neckline. Sewing was another household skill they were well versed in, and one they each put to good use regularly. Their parents only ever saw the simple paisley-and-gingham-print dresses each of them sewed. These ones, their flapper dresses, were made of silk, satin and other enticing materials that had been secretly slipped in the house and sewn in secret for this. Their late-night excursions.

Once on the ground, Betty gave both Patsy and Jane a thorough once-over, then, upon her satisfied nod, they were all three off, running across the backyard like the house had just been raided.

They darted through the line of trees that separated the backyard from a dirt road that led up the hill, where houses would someday be built, and then followed the road downhill, all the way to an abandoned house on the edge of the development. It was a fairly new house that had once been owned by the mob, but the government had confiscated it. Their father had tried to buy it, because it butted up to property he already owned, but it wasn’t for sale. That suited them fine because they could walk through the yard without the fear of being seen, and then onto the street where the red line of the streetcars rolled by.

“Perfect timing!” Jane exclaimed as they all hurried to the edge of the street where they could climb aboard the city trolley ringing its bell. “I can’t wait to hear that new piano player.”

Patsy agreed, mainly to be nice. She enjoyed music, but Jane loved it. Jane even dared sneak into the living room and listen to the radio. Of course, that was only when Father wasn’t home, but Mother was home. So far, she hadn’t gotten caught, and Patsy hoped things stayed that way.

“We have to leave before midnight,” Betty whispered once they were aboard the streetcar. “No later than eleven forty-five or we’ll miss the last car home.”

Patsy and Jane agreed with nods. Other than that, they didn’t speak to each other, or do anything to draw attention to themselves or each other. There were hundreds of thousands of people in LA and the chance of their running into someone who knew them was unlikely, considering other than shopping and church on Sunday mornings, they rarely left the house, but they’d agreed long ago to be extra cautious on their excursions.

They leaped off the streetcar as it stopped a block away from the Rooster’s Nest, which was located beneath a laundromat. Others were going that way, too, and the sisters walked along with the others as if they didn’t even know each other.

The entrance was in the front of the building, except that once they were in the entranceway, everyone took an unmarked brown door on the left that led down a lighted flight of stairs. Jane was several steps ahead and Patsy grinned at how her sister’s head bobbed to the music emitted into the stairway.

At the bottom of the stairs, the first person in line knocked on another door. The small sliding peephole opened, and upon hearing the password, the door was opened for all of them to enter. The password was simply the speakeasy’s name, but it was still a security measure. If the person who opened the slide saw a police officer’s uniform, he would signal the bar, and all of the alcohol would be dumped or hidden so the place couldn’t get busted for selling it.

Patsy’s grin increased as she stepped through the door at the bottom of the stairs and rounded the corner. The large room was full of bright sparkling lights, music and people. All sorts of people.

She loved the thrill that filled her every time she entered a room like this. It was as if she was instantly transformed into an entirely different person.

Tonight that thrill was even bigger. This was it. Her chance to write an article that would get printed and launch her into the world she read about every day. She wanted to see all the things written about in the newspaper, from the ostrich rides at Lincoln Park, to the jazz bands playing music along the beach boardwalk and a gazillion things in between. Being a reporter would allow her to do all that, and there wasn’t a thing her father could say about it.

She rubbed her hands together, ready to learn all she could about the escaped convict. Rex Gaynor was his name. The newspaper had said as much. Her attention zoned in on a trio of men sitting at the end of the bar. No fancy jackets covered their work shirts or the wide suspenders holding up their britches. Hot dawg! Those were the type of men who talked, a lot, once they drank enough, especially to a flapper.

Happiness bubbled inside her. She loved this. Being someone other than dull, boring Patsy Dryer. Here, she was anyone she wanted to be.

That had been scary at first, to break out of the quiet, shy girl she’d been her entire life, but once she had, an entire new world had opened up for her.

Tonight, she was going to be Libby, short for Liberty. That was her favorite, the name she used the most, because that’s what she was, liberated.

Libby wasn’t shy, or quiet, she was bold and vivacious, and knew how to get what she wanted.

She glided up to the bar, planted one foot on the rail near the floor and an elbow on the bar. Cupping her chin, she winked at the men. “Hello, fellas. What’s the news on the dock today?”

All three laughed, and the one closest to her, an older man with thinning gray hair, asked, “Don’t know, bearcat, you got any chin music?”

She giggled, loving everything about being a flapper, about being Libby, and laid a coin on the counter to order a fruit drink without alcohol. Betty had warned them all, numerous times, about how dangerous some homemade alcohol could be, and how they shouldn’t drink it. The Volstead Act prohibited the manufacturing and sale of alcohol, not the consumption, which meant people who wanted to drink, drank anything. And people wanting to sell alcohol made it out of anything at hand.

She had tasted several types of cocktails over the months, but ultimately, agreed with Betty. Most of it tasted awful and burned her throat. So did cigarettes, which she had also tried, and decided she didn’t need either whiskey or cigarettes in order to have a good time.

Once her drink arrived, she took a little sip and set the glass back down. “Well, the only chin music I’ve heard is from the newspaper, something about an escaped convict.”

The man farthest away from her, wearing a squat leather hat and boasting a big, black mustache, shook his head. “Ain’t read any papers lately, doll, but that guy over there is who I’d talk to if I wanted to beat gums over what’s printed in them.”

Patsy glanced across the room, toward a table where a man with brown wavy hair, parted on the side, sat alone.

“Why?” she asked.

“That’s Lane Cox,” the mustached man added. “He owns the LA Gazette.”

The air locked in Patsy’s lungs. Lane Cox. The very one who had sent back every article she’d submitted to his newspaper. He not only owned the Gazette, he was the best reporter in LA. She tilted her head to see past people mingling about, to get a better look at him. Odd. She’d expected him to be old, and gruff looking. Not young and dapper. However, seeing him meant she was at the right place. He must be investigating the Rex Gaynor story, too.

“If you want the news on the dock, ask that man.”

Patsy turned back toward the three men. It was the middle one who’d spoken this time. A younger man, with short-cut black hair. He was looking across the bar, at a man wearing a red shirt and black suspenders and puffing on a cigar. That man had a mustache, too, and therefore instantly earned the nickname Charlie. After Charlie Chaplin, a very popular actor with a black mustache. “Who is that Charlie?” she asked, loving being able to use popular lingo.

“Don’t know his name, but if something is going on at the docks, he knows about it,” the middle man answered.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

The man shrugged and took a long draw on his drink. “He’s been cruising the docks for weeks.”

That cigar-puffing Charlie wasn’t dressed like a dockworker, which meant something, that was for certain.

Letting things settle for a moment, Patsy picked up her drink, and while sipping on it, glanced across the room, toward Lane Cox, wondering if he knew who that Charlie was. But Lane was no longer at the table. A scan of the room said he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

She pinched her lips together to keep her smile secretive. If that Charlie knew anything, she’d find out before Lane Cox even. She could almost see the little drawing that would be printed along with her article, that of a man in a striped suit being hauled back to jail. She’d be a hero and a reporter.

Bee’s knees, this was so exciting!

She set her glass on the bar and sashayed along the length of it, to the other end where the man was talking to the bartender. Without waiting for the conversation to end, she laid a hand on Charlie’s arm. “Hey, big-timer, care to cut a rug?”

The man turned and looked at her with a cool eye.

He wasn’t very handsome. In fact, the long scar next to his left eye was rather frightening.

Patsy would have run from this man, but being Libby from head to toe, she brightened her grin and batted the lashes she’d carefully coated with black mascara. “One dance to please a gal?” She patted his arm. “Please, a handsome man like you?”

The man grinned. “Who can say no to a little billboard like you?”

Her heart thudded at how well she could play the part, and she whirled about, looking at the man over her shoulder, knowing he’d follow her to the dance floor.

The man at the piano was pounding on the keys, filling the room with the fast tempo of the ragtime song.

Charlie followed her, all right, and took a hold of her hands to pull her to his side as he started to move along the dance floor.

Being Libby and not Patsy, she controlled the icy shiver that rippled her spine at being so close to the man, and told herself that the Peabody was one of her favorite dances. It truly was and she was good at the fast one-step, as well as the long gliding strides that went along with quick steps. It was also a dance that kept enough space between partners.

As they circled the dance floor, he asked, “You come here often, doll?”

“Every so often.” She pulled up her best frown. “But I guess I’ll have to stop.”

“Why?”

“Because of the escaped convict.” She looked across her shoulder at the man, hoping her expression made her look scared. “The chin music is that folks should stay home and keep their doors locked. That’s frightening. He could be anywhere.”

The man let out a barrel of a belly laugh. “Don’t you worry that pretty little head over Rex Gaynor. He’s only after the stash of cash he stole.”

Her heart skipped a beat. So did her feet. “Stash of cash? From where?”

Charlie got her back in rhythm with the music and led her all the way across the end of the dance floor, and then back the other way before he answered, “The train robbery. He hid it before getting caught, and broke out to go get it.”

She kept her feet moving when they wanted to stop again. “The paper didn’t say that.”

He laughed. “Papers don’t know everything, doll.”

Patsy had grown breathless, but dancing had nothing to do with it. Her heart was racing, stealing her ability to breathe, because of the information she’d just gained. “I wonder where he hid it.”

The man laughed again. “Only Rex knew that.”

The music ended and so did their dancing. She was about to ask him for another one, in order to learn more information, but he nodded at someone behind her.

“Sorry, doll, but I gotta blow this joint.” He winked. “Don’t be a squirrel.”

Libby was never a squirrel. She didn’t hide from anything. Didn’t have to. Spinning about, she looked to see whom he’d nodded at. The only person over that way was walking out the door located beside the end of the bar. All she saw was the back of a brown shirt. A moment later, Charlie walked out that same door.

Patsy considered following him, but she and her sisters had a rule. None of them could leave, not even step outside, without the other two—until it was time to go home. Then they left one at a time, but right behind each other.

She twisted left, then right. Jane was leaning on the piano, talking with the piano player, who was taking a break, and Betty was sitting at the far end of the bar, near where the three men she’d spoken to earlier still sat. Betty glanced at her, and then at the drink Patsy had left on the bar. Which meant she most certainly could not follow Charlie out that door.

She walked over, drank the drink and then set the glass on the bar again. “Is the powder room that way?” she asked as if Betty was a stranger.

Betty gave a slight nod. One that said I’ll be watching you come out.

Patsy knew the rules, and wasn’t going to jeopardize their double lives. But it was hard at times, having to follow so many rules that got in the way of her truly becoming a reporter. That was never going to happen if she could write only about mundane things.

She used the powder room and applied another layer of bright red lipstick before returning to the bar and ordering another drink.

Her mind was still spinning, but now, besides an escaped convict dressed in white and black stripes, there were images of bags of stolen money floating around in her thoughts. She scanned the room. There had to be someone else she could talk to. Someone who might know more about Rex Gaynor.

The room was full of people, those sitting at tables, laughing, drinking and smoking, and those on the dance floor. The piano man was pounding on the keys again, and the dance floor was full of men and women kicking up their heels. That’s what she usually did, too. There was nothing like the fun of that. Dancing beneath the bright lights, completely free of all the restrictions she normally lived by. It was hard to sit on the sideline.

As the idea of hitting the dance floor filled her, the music stopped and a man next to the piano announced they were starting a dance-off.

She loved dance-offs more than anything.

“Five dances. The foxtrot, the Charleston, the Lindy Hop, the shimmy and the tango!” the man yelled. “The best pair of dancers to finish all five dances will win these here trophies!”

The crowd cheered as he held up two glass mugs.

“Full, of course!”

The crowd cheered louder.

“Berries!” Patsy shouted along with others. She couldn’t care less about the mug; it was the dance-off itself that excited her. Tugging her hat down to make sure it was good and tight so her long hair wouldn’t fall out while dancing, she glanced around the room, looking for a man who might be able to really cut a rug. An Oliver Twist.

To her surprise, Lane Cox rounded the corner near the door right then.

“Copacetic!” Learning a bit more while dancing would be absolutely perfect!

She didn’t waste a step in getting across the room to grab a hold of his arm. “Come on, you’re my partner.”

He tried to pull his arm away from her, but she held on and stepped closer to his side.

“Don’t be a killjoy,” she said, batting her lashes. He was not only far younger than she’d imagined, but also very handsome up close.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I’m not here to dance,” he said.

She laughed. “I am.”

He gave a slight nod that caused a section of his slicked-back wavy hair to fall over his forehead. “You’ll have to find someone else.”

This was a first. Men never refused dancing with Libby. He was the person who would know more about Rex Gaynor than anyone else. She hooked her arm fully around his. “I don’t want to dance with someone else.” Giving him a solid tug and a big smile, she took his profession into consideration as she added, “You can tell me more about Rex Gaynor and the stash of cash he’s looking for while we dance.”

Chapter Two

Lane Cox prided himself on rarely being surprised. He’d seen too much, heard too much, knew too much to let that happen, but right now, his breath was locked in his chest. It could be because the little blue-eyed flapper, batting her eyelashes at him, was about the cutest doll he’d ever seen.

But it wasn’t.

He knew that.

Women. Any woman didn’t affect him. One had at one time, but that would never happen again.

It hadn’t this time, either.

Her looks weren’t what stalled his breathing. It was her words. Stash of cash.

Very few people knew Rex Gaynor had broken out of prison to locate the money he’d stolen off the train he’d robbed seven years ago.

The train robbery that had changed Lane’s life. His wife had been on that train. And their baby daughter. Both had perished.

“Come on, Oliver,” she said. “It’ll be fun.”

He almost took a step, but stopped himself before that happened. “Oliver?”

Her giggle literally floated on the air. “Yes, as in Oliver Twist. You do know how to dance, don’t you?”

He’d heard the term before, but hadn’t gotten over her “stash of cash” comment, and wondered if she’d thought he was someone else. How could she know that about Gaynor? It wasn’t public information. He gave her a solid once-over gaze from head to toe. Starting at the floppy blue hat that hid her hair, blond from the few stray hairs popping out near her neckline, to her slim neck and dainty chin, the blue fringe dress, the lanky legs, and ending at the tips of her toes inside the black-heeled shoes. She certainly didn’t look like the type to be mixed up with an ex-con, but looks could be deceiving. “Yes, I know how to dance,” he said, lifting his gaze back to her blue eyes partially hidden by the brim of her floppy hat.

She tilted her chin up and looked him square in the eyes. “Then prove it.”

A challenge? From a flapper who should be home being tucked in bed by her mother? She was young. Now that he could see her face, he’d guess she was not twenty yet. Maybe younger even. A family member of Gaynor’s? Sent here to get him off the scent of the story he’d been following? That was his life. Had been for years. Sniffing out the next story, and he was good at it. Very good. It had been said he never left a stone unturned, and this little flapper was definitely a stone he needed to look beneath. Find out how she knew about the cash, and anything else in that pretty little head of hers about Rex Gaynor.

Nothing excited him more than getting the scoop, and this story meant more to him than all the others had put together. He’d been there when Rex Gaynor had been put behind bars and was willing to do whatever it took to make sure the man was put back there again. “All right, doll, let’s cut a rug.”

She let out another lifting giggle as they headed for the dance floor.

Although the Rooster’s Nest was located downtown, the clientele was made up of dockworkers and construction workers, with a few shady characters thrown in here and there. Which made her stand out like a blue jay flying with a flock of pigeons. This wasn’t the kind of joint where a choice piece of calico was going to find herself a sugar daddy. Add that to the fact she knew more than she should about an escaped convict and he was in 100 percent.

A dance-off was a small price to pay in order to put an end to this story.

Pieces of paper with the number twelve were pinned to the backs of their clothes. A total of twenty couples got numbered pieces of paper pinned to their backs while judges were being chosen from the hundred or more bystanders. As they waited, he asked the flapper, “What’s your name?”

Her eyes lit up like flames on candlesticks freshly struck with a match. “Liberty, but you can call me Libby.”

That wasn’t her real name. He’d bet every wooden nickel in LA on that. Still, he gave a slight nod. “All right, Libby. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You, too, Mr. Co—” She laughed. “I don’t know your name. What is it?”

Yes, she did, but had caught herself before saying it. Which was only one of the questions he needed answered. “Lathan,” he answered, and watched her expression. No one knew his real name, his legal name, except his lawyer.

She lifted a brow and then gave him the tiniest of nods. “It’s nice to meet you, Lathan. Which of the dances is your favorite?”

He didn’t have a favorite. Hadn’t danced a whole lot the past seven years, and not much before then, either. Hadn’t had time back then, still didn’t. However, he wasn’t inept, and knew he’d be able to keep up with her. Instead of answering, he asked, “Which is your favorite?”

Her smile grew even brighter. “The Lindy—no, the shimmy. Definitely the shimmy.”

The dance that was banned in some of the high-class establishments for being too provocative. Why didn’t that surprise him? He’d be lying if he didn’t admit a piece of him wanted to see her shoulders twist and shake like she was trying to shimmy out of her chemise. That’s what made it too provocative for other joints—because that’s exactly what looked like was about to happen when women danced the shimmy. Or it could have been banned because others complained that watching flappers dance to the shimmy caused too many men to get more robust than usual.

“They are all cherries,” she said. “Have you ever won a dance-off?”

“Can’t say as I have,” he answered.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the center of the dance floor. “Until tonight!”

The words had no sooner left her mouth when the piano player struck the first chord. The atmosphere in the room instantly spiked. Something spiked inside Lane, too. Recognizing the common tune, he curved one arm around her waist and settled his hand on the small of her back while grasping her palm with his other hand. The foxtrot was similar to the waltz, just a four-four rhythm instead of a three-four, and to his favor, didn’t require any body contact.

He started out slowly, gliding her around the floor and through the several dance sequences. She was graceful, light on her feet and quick to catch on to each twist and turn.

“Attaboy, Oliver!” she shouted.

Her excitement had him picking up the pace, leading her faster around the floor. People on the sidelines cheered, shouting out the number of their favorite couple.

“Do you hear that, Oliver?” she asked. “They are cheering for us. Number twelve.”

“I hear,” he answered. “And the name is Lathan, not Oliver.” It didn’t bother him, but, for some reason, he wanted to get credit where credit was due.

Tossing her head back, she laughed, and then squealed slightly when she had to let go of his shoulder long enough to push her hat back down on her head.

“You should take that off,” he suggested as they rounded the corner of the dance floor.

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t wash my hair today!” She laughed. “Or yesterday!”

Her answer was as unexpected as the enjoyment filling him. He didn’t know a woman who would have admitted that, in public, to a virtual stranger. Most were far too vain to share such information.

Information. That’s what he needed.

“So, what do you know about that escaped convict? Rick Gaylord, was it?”

Her smile never faded, nor did her steps falter as she shook her head. “You know his name is Rex Gaynor, don’t pretend you don’t.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” he answered, gliding them around another corner. The bright overhead lights shined down on her like a spotlight, and it seemed fitting. She was lovely enough to be under a spotlight. With her looks, she could be on the silver screen. Maybe that was what she was hoping, why she was here.

No, if that was the case, she’d have chosen a classier joint than the Rooster’s Nest.

“Then why did you call him Rick Gaylord?”

“To see if you really knew his name,” Lane answered. It was an old trick, but one that rarely failed to work.

Her chin lifted in a prideful way. “I do know his name. It’s Rex Gaynor. Seven years ago, he robbed a train running between LA and San Diego. He was sentenced to prison for the rest of his life, but escaped last week.”

All that had been in today’s paper. He knew because it had not only been printed in his newspaper, he’d written the article. Seven years ago, he’d owned the Gazette for only a year, and had been working day and night to get it into every newsstand, into the hands of every person living in Los Angeles.

His hard work had paid off. It was now the number one, most trusted source of news, not only in LA, but in the surrounding area that stretched over a hundred miles in all directions. Copies were also mailed across the nation every day. The president himself received the Gazette.

That was more than he’d dreamed at one time, but, as he’d told himself many times, he’d sacrificed a lot to make it happen. Naomi and Sarah were casualties of his work, of his dedication. At times, he wondered why he continued because of that, losing them, then he’d remember. It was because of them that he continued to work so hard. After they’d died, the paper had been all he had. Still was.

This time around, he was not too busy getting things off the ground to put his full attention on his family, on making sure the man who was responsible for their deaths paid the full price. Sarah had been only four months old when Naomi had contracted the flu. Naomi had recovered, but had still been exhausted, and taking care of Sarah wasn’t allowing her to get the rest she needed. The rest, and help, that he couldn’t give her because he was at the paper day and night. So he’d sent her to visit her parents, down in San Diego. They’d been gone for over a month, and her final letter to him had said that she was fully rested and ready to come home.

They’d been on their way home when Gaynor had robbed the train. With dynamite. The explosion caught the passenger car on fire, and Naomi and Sarah had died. Just five miles south of Los Angeles.

“Lathan? Lathan! We have to keep dancing or we’ll be eliminated!”

He shook his head, dispelling the cobwebs that could grow so thick, so quickly, that there wasn’t room for anything else, and increased the speed of his footsteps. She was leading now, this flapper who called herself Liberty. Libby for short.

He had no idea how long she had been leading, and quickly took over again, making a full round of the dance floor before the music stopped.

There was barely time to catch a breath when it started up again. This time it was a quicker, snappier tune that filled the room with a roar from the crowd of bystanders.

“It’s the shimmy!” she shouted. A moment later, she was in a crouched position, shaking her shoulders while holding her hands at her sides as she slowly rose upward, then leaped into the air, spun around and crouched down again.

Not only were her shoulders shimmying, her entire torso was, and her waist and hips. The fringes of her dress were flipping and flopping in all directions.

He joined her in the moves, but unlike her, this was not a favorite of his. It may be fun to watch, but not fun to do. Not for him.

Until she grabbed his hands and leaped forward, pressing against him. Her shimmying body lit a fire in his. Before he knew it, he was shimmying along with her, up against her.

“You really are an Oliver Twist, Lathan!” she shouted. “A real hoofer!”

She’d make any man a hoofer. The girl had moves like no other. “Who taught you how to dance?” he asked.

She released his hands and did a shimmy show for him, crouching and then slowly rising while shaking her torso so hard he was sure she would shimmy right out of that blue fringed dress. She leaped into the air and spun around, shaking her backside at him, before leaping back around.

“No one taught me!” She grabbed his hands again. “I learned it all on my own!”

She certainly had learned it, and he wondered what else she’d learned. Thankfully, that thought brought him back to the business at hand. “What else do you know about Rex Gaynor?”

Pressing herself against him, she said, “Your turn. I already answered a question. What else do you know about Rex Gaynor? Something that wasn’t in today’s newspaper.”

He knew plenty that wasn’t in the article he’d written, and that’s why it hadn’t been in the paper, he didn’t want to share any of it. He had a very good relationship with law enforcement because they trusted him to not share any information that might hinder an investigation. They also knew he’d share anything pertinent with them before printing it, and that he couldn’t be bought off, not even by the mobs. That alone had helped him grow the newspaper as much as everything else. Knowing she wouldn’t wait long for a response, he answered, “Gaynor wasn’t from California.”

She leaned back enough to look at him. Eagerness, more than before, shone in her eyes. “Where’s he from?”

“Out east.”

“Everything is east of California.”

“Hawaii isn’t.”

Her laughter made him chuckle.

“You are quite a bird, Lathan, quite a bird.”

Very few people considered him funny. Then again, very few people who knew him personally would believe he was dancing the shimmy with a flapper like this. He was normally too reserved to dance more than an obligatory dance with a hostess now and again.

“Where is he really from?” she asked. “More specifically than east.”

“I believe it was Missouri,” he answered, waiting to see how she reacted. Gaynor was from Missouri, and if she was family, she might be surprised he knew that.

“Missouri?” She nodded and then let go of him to crouch down.

Lane almost groaned aloud at having to watch her do her shimmying all over again. He could look away, but there would be no fun in that, and despite all, he was having fun.

More than he should be having.

When her display ended and they were close together again, she said, “Lots of Old West outlaws came from Missouri.”

“How do you know that?” he asked, truly wanting to know. Then, his mind clicked. Liberty, Missouri. The town where the James-Younger gang was from, and others. She really could be a relative of Gaynor’s. Some claim there was a connection between Gaynor and the James-Younger gang of yesteryear.

“I read,” she said. “A lot.”

The dance ended. Lane let her go and took a step back. This time he truly needed to catch his breath. He wasn’t given much time to do so. Within a cat’s heartbeat, the next song started.

The tango. Which meant full-body contact.

Lane drew in a deep breath, hooked her around the waist, grasped her other hand, and they were off, chest to chest, gliding across the floor with large, lavish steps. At the edge of the dance floor, he dipped her, then simultaneously, they spun and started back in the other direction.

“Your turn,” he said. “What else do you know about Gaynor?”

“That he stashed the cash he’d stolen, and is now looking for it.”

“Where?”

She laughed.

It was time to dip her again, so he did, and while holding her a mere few inches off the floor asked, “Do you know?”

“Do you?” she countered.

She was as good at questioning as she was dancing, and in all honesty, he admired her for that. “No,” he answered truthfully, lifted her up and started back across the floor in the other direction. He truly didn’t care about the cash. He just wanted Gaynor behind bars again. Where he belonged.

“Me, neither,” she said, to his surprise. “But I intend to find out.”

“Why?”

The music stopped. She took a step back and shook her head while planting her hands on her thighs and bending over, as if to completely catch her breath. “Hear that?” she asked, looking up at him under the brim of her floppy hat. “They are still shouting number twelve.”

He gulped in air. Thoroughly needing it. He hadn’t danced three dances in a row in a very long time, but had to admit that keeping up a conversation with her while dancing chest to chest was taxing his reserves more than the fast steps.

The piano player struck a chord and she snapped upright. “The Lindy Hop! I love the Lindy Hop!”

“I think you love dancing, no matter what the dance is,” he said, holding out his hands for her to grasp.

She grabbed his hands and, despite gasping for air a moment ago, she was instantly kicking up her heels. The swift twists, turns and numerous pirouettes made talking through this dance rather impossible.

Lane was certain he’d never seen someone enjoy dancing so much. The fast tempo proved to be too much for several couples. They bowed out, stumbling to the sidelines, or danced right off the floor and onto chairs. One couple collapsed right in the middle of the other dancers.

Right beside them.

Seeing the couple go down, he spun Libby in the other direction just in time. Two other couples weren’t as lucky and tripped over the couple sprawled on the floor. Bystanders acted quickly, coming to the rescue of the fallen dancers, helping them off the floor before anyone else tripped.

The competition was down to six couples when the Lindy Hop dance ended, and no one had even a moment to catch their breath before the next song started.

“They saved the best for last!” she shouted. “The Charleston!”

She was already kicking up her heels and crisscrossing her feet at the ankles. He joined in and soon the final six couples were in two lines, facing their partners and attempting to outdance one another to the fast tempo of the music by every means possible.

The crowd was cheering and shouting out numbers.

He was competitive by nature, but the excitement in her eyes increased his competitive streak tenfold. Suddenly, he wanted them to win this dance-off.

She followed his every move like she knew exactly what he’d do next, from arms swinging to knees knocking, up and down the floor, around and back. The crowd was roaring, shouting their number, when suddenly, the woman on Libby’s left lost her balance and stumbled into Libby.

Lane leaped forward, catching her before she fell, but the man beside him had the same idea with his partner, and the four of them ended up on the floor, arms and legs tangled amid each other.

His heart locked in his chest at the feel of Libby’s supple body lying atop his, granting him full-body awareness like he may never have known.

The crowd erupted, and bystanders were instantly there, separating them. He shoved aside the hands attempting to help him, leaped to his feet and pushed the men away who had hoisted Libby off him.

“Are you all right?” he asked, guiding her away from the others.

“Yes, I’m fine.” Her blue eyes were still shining as bright as when they’d been dancing. So was her smile. “Are you?”

“I’m fine.” He guided her into a vacated chair. Amazed at her stamina and cheerfulness. Kneeling down in front of her. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as she eyed him closely. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He was fine, but disappointed. More for her than for him. He wanted them to win for her. “I’m afraid we lost,” he said somberly.

“Oh, Oliver.” She giggled and patted his cheek with one hand. “It wasn’t about winning, it was about dancing, and neither of us lost at that!”

Something warm and unusual flooded his chest. She had to be the most remarkable woman alive. He didn’t even mind the way she called him Oliver again. “I suspect you’re right.” Another unusual sensation filled him and he shot upright. He hadn’t wanted to kiss someone in years. A lump formed in his throat. He didn’t want that now. Couldn’t. It was just the atmosphere. The dancing. The fun. He hadn’t done anything like this for a long time. Stepping back, he said, “I’ll get us something to drink.”

She grabbed his arm. “You can’t go now. The dance is almost over. We have to see who wins.” She stood and wrapped both hands around his forearm. “I do hope it’s number three.”

He had no idea which couple was number three, and couldn’t look. His eyes wouldn’t leave her face. The enthusiasm still glowing on her face held him captive.

The music ended while he was still staring at her, and he was still hypnotized when she flung her arms around his neck.

“They won! Number three won!”

The sweet floral scent of her perfume, the same that he’d been smelling the entire time they’d danced, filled his nostrils as she hugged him. Everything about her seemed to be a weapon. A dangerous one.

“They won!” she squealed again and released him to clap her hands. “Cherries! Cherries!”

“You sure are happy for them.” People had rushed onto the dance floor to congratulate the winners, but she hadn’t. Just stood there beside him clapping.

“Of course I am,” she said. “They won. I’m sure they would have been just as happy for us had we won.”

She did have a downfall. Innocence. That wouldn’t last long. Never did. Someday she would discover just how selfish the world was. Everyone wanted to know what was in it for them. A hint of guilt struck him because that described him, too. What’s in it for him was the very reason he’d danced with her. “How about that drink now?” he asked.

With a nod, she hooked her arm through his. “I am parched after all that dancing. It sure was fun, though, wasn’t it?”

He couldn’t admit that, not even to himself. Fun wasn’t in his life, hadn’t been for a long time. Work was all he’d known. All he’d lived for, and it was time to get back to it. “Let’s sit over here.” He gestured toward a table somewhat separated from the others.

A cigarette girl arrived as soon as they sat down. They each selected a drink off her tray. He paid her and downed his drink in nearly one gulp. The cheap whiskey burned all the way down, which was exactly what he needed. It cleared his sinuses and gave his body something else to react to. He needed the respectable distance the table put between them, too.

Setting his glass down, he asked Libby, “How do you know that Gaynor hid the money he’d stolen off the train?”

She’d selected a sugary cocktail that didn’t contain any alcohol. He’d made a note of that when she’d made her selection. She took another sip from her glass before setting it down.

“Someone told me,” she said.

“Who?”

The smile she flashed him was as coy as the one the cigarette girl had given him while noticing the tip he’d included in his payment.

Shaking her head, she leaned across the table. “A good reporter never reveals her sources.”

“Reporter?” He knew every reporter in the city, and many of the want-to-be ones who sent in articles on a daily basis, hoping to get them printed and their name in the byline. He swore there was as many want-to-be reporters as there were want-to-be actors in Hollywood right now. Some of the articles he received showed promise, but not many. Even those showing promise would need work, and that took time that he didn’t have. Writing a good article took more than just facts and perfect spelling. There was an art to making facts compelling enough that people read it all the way to the end. “You aren’t a reporter.”

“How do you know?”

A shiver of recognition struck him. She was still smiling, but he’d seen the look in her eyes before. From nearly every person who had personally handed him an article they wanted printed in his paper. It was a form of being starstruck. He completed a quick search in his mind, trying to recall if she’d ever been in at the newspaper office, trying to sell an article she’d written. He’d had a slew of articles written for women about sewing curtains and cleaning ovens, things that just wouldn’t sell newspapers.

He couldn’t find a hint of memory, and she was too unique to forget. Running a finger around the rim of his empty glass, he said, “I know every reporter in this city.”

She lifted her glass to her lips, and tipping her chin down, looked at him from under her lashes. “Not every single one.” She took a drink and set the glass down. “I know that for a fact.”

No, she didn’t, but that wasn’t a point he was going to argue right now. “What facts do you know about Gaynor?”

Her gaze left him. He glanced behind him, to where her eyes had briefly gone. The crowd had dispersed off the dance floor and the piano player was taking a break. He scanned farther around the room, wondering what had stolen her attention. There was nothing out of the ordinary. No one looking at them.

He turned back to her.

She’d lifted her glass again, and emptied it. As she set it down, she stood. “Thanks for the dancing, and the drink, but I have to mooch.”

He stood. “Leave? Why? It’s not that late.”

Walking away from the table, she flashed him a grin over one shoulder. “Don’t take any wooden nickels, Oliver.”

He rounded the table. “Wait!”

Weaving through the people and tables, she grinned again, right before she slipped around the corner that led to the front door.

His shout had drawn attention, but he truly didn’t care. Making his way across the room, he shot out the door, ran up the stairs and out onto the street, which was empty.

Completely.

In all directions.

Chapter Three

Patsy held her breath, watching Lane spin about, scanning the street in all directions. Her heart was thudding almost as fast as it had been while dancing. She felt as if she was playing a game of hide-and-seek. It was as exciting as dancing with him had been. Almost. She’d never enjoyed dancing with someone as much as she had with him tonight. Ever.

“Who is that?” Jane whispered in her ear from behind.

Patsy bit her lip to keep from speaking. Voices carried in the dark. There were other noises, cars driving on the streets and horns honking, but she couldn’t take the chance he might hear because she was only a short distance up the street from the laundromat. It was where they always met up. Betty had been the first to leave, then Jane, who had given Patsy the signal right before she’d slipped around the corner leading to the outside door.

Patsy was never excited about leaving, and tonight was no different. However, if they hadn’t had to catch the streetcar that would be coming along any moment, she might have considered staying just a bit longer inside, talking with Lane.

He started walking.

Toward them.

Betty grabbed her arm, and Jane’s, to lead them down the narrow space between the buildings.

Patsy shot a final look around the corner of the building, at Lane, who was looking into the breezeway of the building, as if he expected her to be hiding, before she spun around and hurried along with her sisters.

“This leads into the alley,” Betty whispered. “We’ll catch the streetcar at the corner on the next block.”

It was very dark between the buildings, but once they were in the alley, the moon lit their way and they ran toward the street. This, escaping, was more fun than it should be, too, and Patsy couldn’t help but feel alive with the thrill of it all.

“That was the man you were dancing with,” Jane whispered. “He was looking for you.”

Patsy attempted to quell the smile that grew on her lips.

“Why?” Jane asked.

“Because we weren’t done talking, but you signaled it was time to leave,” Patsy explained.

“Talking about what?” Jane asked.

“The escaped convict,” Patsy answered. She hadn’t found out nearly as much as she was hoping to about Rex Gaynor, but that didn’t deter her enthusiasm. In fact, it made it grow. Sleuthing, gaining bits and pieces of information here and there, was even more fun than she’d imagined. She was going to love being a reporter. A real reporter. The fact she’d danced with Lane Cox, the best reporter ever, was thrilling in itself.

The bells of the streetcar jingled in the night air.

“Hurry,” Betty said.

“We’ll have to jump on at the end of the alley,” Patsy said. The constant clang and bang of the car on its rail indicated it had rolled past the corner since no one had been standing there waiting, and would roll right past them, too. They’d jumped on while it had been rolling past before. The trolley didn’t move fast, so it was a relatively easy feat. People did it all the time. Getting to the end of the alley was their first issue. “Run!”

“We are already running,” Jane said. “And these shoes aren’t made for running. I’m going to have blisters.”

“It won’t be the first time,” Patsy said. They’d all had blisters from their nighttime excursions, and had never complained about something so minor. “Dancing in them is no different than running!”

They shot out from the alley just as the streetcar rolled near, and still running, Patsy grabbed a hold of the rail near the front step. Jane grabbed a hold right next to her, and Betty caught the rail by the steps on the back of the car.

Patsy hurried between the rows of seats to peer out the back of the car. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of Lane standing on the corner of the street that led to the Rooster’s Nest. He may not have seen her leap aboard, but she had a keen sense that he had.

She plopped down on the seat and drew in a deep breath, hoping that would slow her racing heart. What a night! What an amazing night!

As usual, she and her sisters didn’t speak to each other, or anyone else, until they were off the trolley and walking through the abandoned house’s yard. Her heart rate had returned to normal, somewhat, but the thrill of the night was still living inside her.

“Where are you going to hide that?” Jane asked Betty as they walked through grass of the abandoned property so tall it tickled their ankles.

“I’m not going to hide it,” Betty said, looking at the glass beer mug she’d won.

“I was so excited when you won!” Patsy said. “I swear, tonight was the most fun we’ve ever had! It was beyond bee’s knees!”

“It was,” Jane said before turning to Betty. “If Mother or Father sees that mug—”

“I’ll say I bought it to hold my hairpins.” Betty wrapped both hands around the mug and held it to her chest.

Patsy frowned. The mug was too large for a hairpin holder, but that wasn’t the confusing part. Betty was their alarm clock—their chaperone—the first one to say they could never keep anything from their nights on the town. If she or Jane had won, the mug would have been left at the Rooster’s Nest, or already tossed into a bush along the way home. They all sewed pockets in their dresses, and never carried anything that couldn’t fit in a pocket, due to climbing up and down the trellis. “That could still get you in trouble,” she said.

“Serious trouble,” Jane agreed.

Betty shrugged. “It’s mine, and I’m keeping it.”

Patsy caught Jane’s eye, which held as much disbelief as she felt. That certainly didn’t sound like the Betty they knew. “Who was the man you danced with?” Patsy asked.

Betty let out a long sigh. “Just a man.”

Just like the look in Jane’s eye, Patsy felt the longing in Betty’s sigh. That’s how she felt about dancing with Lane. She wasn’t sure why. She’d danced with plenty of men the past few months, but dancing with any of them hadn’t been nearly as thrilling as dancing with Lane. She wasn’t sure why he’d told her his name was Lathan, either, but figured it had to be because he didn’t want her to know who he was, which was silly because everyone knew who he was.

Well, maybe not. She had known that Lane Cox owned the Gazette, but she had never seen him before. She had tried to call him Lathan, but it just didn’t fit, and knowing she couldn’t call him Lane, she’d stuck to Oliver. That fit him better because he really was a good dancer. She’d felt as if she was floating during some of their dances, when he was sashaying her around, and twirling her about beneath his arm. Right now, just thinking about it, made her feet become lighter.

“Who was that guy that you danced with?” Jane asked.

Patsy grinned. “Lane Cox.”

Jane’s mouth fell open. “The owner of the Gazette?”

Betty made a hissing sound. “Patsy! What if he recognizes us?” Betty clutched the mug to her chest tighter. “We can’t get caught. Not now!”

Patsy shook her head. “We won’t get caught and Lane won’t recognize us.” Still too happy and lighthearted to let her sister’s worry bother her, she added, “No one knows us. Besides, I told him my name was Liberty. No last name. Just Liberty.”

“But he’s a reporter. The best reporter,” Betty said. “It’s said he leaves no stone unturned while researching a story.”

“We aren’t a story he’s researching,” Patsy said. “He’s far more interested in finding out where Rex Gaynor hid the money he’d stolen off the train he’d robbed seven years ago.”

“Who’s Rex Gaynor?” Jane asked.

“The escaped convict.” Patsy huffed out a breath, exasperated. “How many times do I have to repeat myself?”

They were now walking up the road that led to their backyard, and Jane flipped around to walk backward, looking at her sisters. “You aren’t repeating yourself. You never told us the convict’s name.” Jane frowned. “Isn’t Lane Cox one of the editors you sent articles to, and he rejected them?”

A nerve snapped in Patsy’s spine. It had been more than one article that Lane Cox had refused to publish. She had several rejection notes from him. Notes, not letters. He just mailed the articles back to her with a note scrawled, in red ink, across the top of her typewritten article that said Not suitable for the Gazette at this time. Followed by his initials: L.C.

Those little notes had hurt at first, then they’d started to irritate her, and made her try harder. She’d sent him articles about everything from sewing curtains to ruts in the roads caused by a bad thunderstorm, only to get the same note every time.

Not suitable for the Gazette at this time.

Finally she’d figured out that the articles she’d written weren’t suitable because the Gazette printed real news. Which was where her troubles lay, as she wasn’t able to get out and investigate any real news. Not until she’d read about Rex Gaynor.

That was the story Lane would print of hers. It would be so good that it would be a headline story. It would be so good he’d probably give her a full-time job rather than just buy that one story.

And that would be the beginning of the rest of her life.

Both of her sisters were looking at her, Jane still walking backward and Betty walking beside her.

“That was him, wasn’t it?” Jane asked.

“Yes,” Patsy answered. “That was him, and that’s why I danced with him, to get as much information about Rex Gaynor as I could.” The fact she’d enjoyed dancing with him didn’t change anything. Unlike that first Charlie who’d made her skin crawl. More information about Gaynor had been the reason she’d asked Lane to dance. It was the reason they’d gone to the Rooster’s Nest.

“Patsy.” Betty had one hand on her chest. “Lane Cox knows Father.”

Something in her stomach dropped. Just the other day Father was complaining about how expensive it was to put advertisements in the Gazette. Really complaining. Still, she couldn’t let that stop her. This truly could be her only chance to write a story that had a chance to get printed. “That doesn’t mean he knows us. No one knows us.” Reading the look her sisters shared and not wanting to hear anything they might have to say, she changed the subject. “Why didn’t you dance in the dance-off, Jane?”

Jane shrugged. “Because I didn’t want to.”

“Or because you couldn’t find a partner?” Patsy teased, not wanting the subject to switch back to Lane. She truly was only teasing, because just like Betty was the oldest, and the smartest, Jane was the prettiest and the most personable. She didn’t even have to pretend to be a flapper. She was naturally outgoing—when able.

Jane spun around as they left the road and entered their backyard. “There wasn’t anyone I wanted to dance with. I enjoyed just listening to the music. That new piano player is the real McCoy.”

Patsy hadn’t paid that much attention to the music, and was sure that Lane was what had made dancing fun, but it was only fair to admit that the dancing wouldn’t have happened if not for the piano player. “He sure did a fine job of playing the songs for the dance-off. It was the best one ever.” She looked at Betty. “You have to agree. You won.”

“I agree,” Betty said, then she put a finger to her lips as they entered the tree line.

The fun for the night was over. Now they had to be extra quiet and careful while crossing their backyard and climbing up the trellis into the bathroom.

Half an hour later, they were all three in their bedrooms, and Patsy was pretty sure that just like her, Jane and Betty were probably still holding their breath. She did until she had her blue fringed dress, hat and shoes tucked in the trunk in her closet, had her nightgown on and was lying between the sheets she’d washed, dried and ironed earlier today.

The sigh she let out was a mixture of relief and enjoyment of the absolutely most wonderful night. All of their night-out excursions were fun, but tonight, the enjoyment was greater than any other night.

She closed her eyes, remembering how delightful it felt being led around the dance floor by Lane. The smile that formed was so big, she had to lick her lips at how hard it pulled on them. The only thing that would have made it better was if she’d learned more about Rex Gaynor. Other than he might be from Missouri. That wasn’t much help at all.

She’d learned more from that other guy, the one with the black mustache, who’d given her the heebie-jeebies.

Lane had made those go away. That other guy hadn’t been half the dancer that Lane had been.

A giggle bubbled in her throat.

Oliver.

She’d loved calling him that. This truly had been the best night of her life.

And tomorrow night was going to be just as wonderful. They were going back to the Rooster’s Nest. She’d find a way to convince her sisters they had to go again tomorrow night.

She glanced at the clock ticking away beside her bed and stifled another giggle. It was after midnight so she didn’t even have to wait until tomorrow. It had already arrived. Therefore, tonight, they would be going back.

Still smiling, she closed her eyes and pressed the covers to her lips to cover yet another giggle she could no longer hold in.

Half an hour later, she was still too full of excitement to sleep, so she clicked on the light beside her bed and pulled a pad of paper and pencil out of her nightstand, then, sitting cross-legged on the bed, she wrote an article about the latest craze hitting speakeasies. Dance-offs! That would be perfect as a headline, and while writing, she closed her eyes every so often in order to remember minute details that would engage readers.

Lane’s eyes went from his watch to the door and back again so many times he had to lift his wrist to his ear. His watch was ticking. Was working. He ran the tip of one finger in a figure eight in the condensation his cold drink left on the table, wondering if he was wrong. Libby may not show up again tonight.

He was sure that had been her, along with two other flappers, who’d run out of the alley and jumped onto the street trolley. It had taken only a few minutes for him to run to his car, round the corner and follow the route of the red line, but it must have taken longer than he’d realized, because he hadn’t seen them get off. He’d followed the streetcar past several street corners. She must have jumped off at one before he’d started following the line. All three of them must have.

They must have come to the Rooster’s Nest together, and left together.

Even though he’d watched her walk out alone, and hadn’t seen her talk to anyone.

Then again, until she’d dragged him onto the dance floor, he hadn’t noticed her at all. He’d come to the Rooster’s Nest last night to talk with Harley Maus about a possible story concerning some activity down at the dock. Missing dockworkers. A woman was hounding him to find out what had happened to her brother, saying he’d never come home from work one night. That, people coming to him, looking for assistance, happened as often as want-to-be reporters mailing in articles they wanted printed in his newspaper. Folks who didn’t get the answers they wanted from the police came to him, expecting him to uncover the truth. Trouble was, just like those sending in articles, they often didn’t like the answers he provided, either.

Lane was half placating the woman because young men not coming home wasn’t that unusual, especially dockworkers. Many went to work on the docks merely for the chance to get a job on an ocean liner and leave on the next tide. However, men had been shanghaied from the docks for centuries, and that’s why he’d asked Maus to meet him.

Maus had arrived, and they’d stepped outside to discuss things, but the lead had not really gone anywhere. Maus hadn’t heard anything about a young man missing, or being shanghaied. He had mentioned that someone had started up a distillery in the roughest of sections. That wasn’t unusual, either, and Lane figured he’d check that out later. He felt bad for the woman, but the Rex Gaynor story was where he needed to focus his time.

He had just walked back inside the Rooster’s Nest, planning on having a nightcap before going home to bed, when Libby had appeared last night. The events that had occurred after that had kept him awake half the night.

She’d been right there, in his thoughts, keeping him awake, and she’d been in his dreams when he’d finally dozed off. She’d been in his thoughts all day, too. Wondering how she knew about the stolen money. That information had never been released to the general public. Not years ago, or recently.

Which was why he was here, waiting to see if she walked through the door again tonight, and find out exactly what she knew, and how she’d acquired that information. His sleepless night had left him with many other questions, too. Who was she? What was her real name? Where did she live? Would she be here again tonight or not?

He glanced at his watch again. It was getting late. Almost nine.

The wave of disappointment that washed over him was surprising. She was nothing more than a source. Just like any other. However, this story meant more to him than others. Not the story in itself, but the outcome. He wanted Gaynor back behind bars, paying for his crimes. His family hadn’t been the only ones killed on that train, and they deserved to have Rex Gaynor pay for his deeds as much as him.

Could that be it? Could a member of her family have been on that train?

Lane picked up his glass and emptied the contents in one swallow. The table he was sitting at wobbled slightly, and he shifted his gaze from the door to the chair opposite him.

Raymond Klein had pulled out the chair. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Lane,” Raymond said while sitting down.

Lane set his glass on the table. “Just having a nightcap before heading home.” The Rooster’s Nest wasn’t the sort of place he and Raymond ran into each other. Klein was known as one of the best screenwriters in Hollywood. All the big names, studios and actors, wanted him writing their scripts—work for only them—yet, his success had allowed him to remain independent—he wrote for those he wanted to, and when he wanted to. Lane respected Raymond for that. Having covered Hollywood news for years, Lane knew the good and the bad, and walked a fine line in what he reported. He let the gossip magazines print the chin music and rumors that the mongers wanted to read about like love lives and pocketbooks. He focused on the real news, and let the studios pay him well to print ads in the Gazette about their latest and greatest movies. His hard-earned readership gave the studios a good return on their money.

Raymond slapped the table. “This saves me a trip, or a phone call, which is how I would have invited you.”

“Invited me to what?” Lane asked.

“I’m throwing a party tomorrow night.” Klein took the flat hat off his head of unruly blond hair. “A real shindig.”

“What’s the occasion?” Lane asked, even though most people didn’t need a reason to host a party or to invite him. There was a party, several of them, every night in the city, and he had an open-door invitation to almost every one of them. People, famous or not, wanted their names in the Gazette.

Raymond grinned, nodded and glanced around as if contemplating his answer. The full-fledged smile that appeared when he ended his scan of the room had Lane wondering if this time there truly was a reason for a party. One that had Raymond happier than Lane had ever seen him.

Raymond, his face aglow, leaned across the table. “I asked Ruby Lancaster to marry me yesterday.” He slapped the table again. “And she said yes.”

Ruby Lancaster was an actress who had been billed as “America’s Sweetheart” by all of the Hollywood magazines. She was a black-haired beauty, and as friendly as she was lovely, leastwise, she had been on the few occasions Lane had met her. “Well, then, congratulations are in order.” He picked up his empty glass. “I’d toast you, but...”

Raymond laughed. “You can do that tomorrow night. We’re heading to New York the next day. That’s where we’ll get married.”

“Are you moving there?” That would surprise Lane, considering both Ruby and Raymond had built their reputations here, not out east.

“No. Just the wedding will take place there. It’s where Ruby is from. Her family still lives there. Then we’ll be back. She just finished shooting a movie, so we have to act now, before production starts on the next one.” Raymond gestured toward the bar with his head. “Needed to stop in here to order the whiskey. The Rooster’s Nest is the only place to get Minnesota Thirteen anymore. Those prohibition boys are hitting the makers and those transporting it, hard.”

Lane had heard that about that, how federal agents were burning barns, sheds, homes and even churches, across central Minnesota, and infiltrating communities with informers, which was making an impact on the bootlegging capital. However, like here in Los Angeles, overall, police forces and sheriff departments didn’t side with the federal agents. With the support and, at times, help from local authorities, the makers of the highly popular Minnesota Thirteen found ways to keep on brewing, and had started sending their shipments up through Canada by rail and down the coast by ship.

The Rooster’s Nest had a close connection with the docks, and was known as the best distributor of Minnesota Thirteen. None of this information would ever be printed in the Gazette. It may be newsworthy, but he didn’t need prohibition agents hounding him. Furthermore, like the majority of the population, the readership of the Gazette was heavily against prohibition, but there were some who were for it, and they were also influential. Therefore he was careful to tread lightly on all aspects of the subject. Politics, leaning one way or the other, could kill a newspaper like a bullet to the head.

“No one will ever say they drank coffin varnish at one of my parties,” Raymond said. “Especially this party.”

Coffin varnish was a very appropriate name. Bootlegged liquor was made out of anything folks could get their hands on, and more oftentimes than that, it proved poisonous, especially when bootleggers took to using car radiators to distill it in.

Minnesota Thirteen was known as a premium, twice-distilled and properly aged corn whiskey that many claimed was better than what they used to get prior to prohibition. It was not only served at all the elite parties in Hollywood, its distribution was well guarded by the mob. “A party of this magnitude calls for only the best,” Lane said.

“Yes, it does,” Raymond agreed. Once again, he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Gotta be honest with you, Lane, I’ve never been so happy. I was scared out of my wits to ask Ruby to marry me. More afraid than I’ve ever been before.”

Lane’s mind shot off track for a moment, back in time, to when he’d asked Naomi to marry him. He couldn’t remember being afraid, but he could remember being happy. Very happy. That had been so long ago. They’d met while he’d been researching a story down there, and he traveled down to San Diego several times after finishing that story, to see her. She’d been the one to say they should consider getting married, before he went broke traveling down to see her. The next trip down, he’d asked her, she’d said yes, and they were married and she’d moved to LA with him within weeks.

Raymond laughed. “That’s why the party is tomorrow night and we are leaving the day after. I don’t want her to change her mind.”

Drawn back to the present, Lane nodded. He had a finger on most things happening, but hadn’t been aware of a budding romance between Ruby and Raymond. “Have you been dating long?”

Raymond shook his head. “That’s just it. I didn’t know her, not until a few weeks ago, when I had to make some script changes for the big brothers.”

The Wagner Brothers, who owned one of the largest and well-established studios, were two of the biggest cheeses in Hollywood. They played the parts well, and played others just as well. There had been a lot of flak floating around about how their business dealings had been pushing the little studios out of the business by forcing movie theaters to show only their films. It had been happening for some time, but the smaller studios were gaining ground on the brothers. Some claimed it was due to mob involvement, which was completely believable. The mob was involved in nearly every business, and show business was too big of an asset right now for them not to be in it. Furthermore, he had on good authority the mob was who had built the latest and grandest theater downtown, and that theater had shown one of Jack McCarney’s movies at their premiere opening night. Jack’s Star’s Studio was one of the smaller guys, and certainly gaining ground since that premiere.

“We’d spent a couple of evenings going over the script and the changes she had suggested, and I was not only impressed by her insight, I was, well, smitten by her. Things went from there, and now we are getting married.” Raymond laughed again, slapped the table and stood all at the same time. “I have a lot to do before tomorrow.” He plopped his hat on his head. “My place. Tomorrow night. I’d appreciate if you’re able to make it.”

Raymond lived in a newly built apartment complex in the middle of LA. He’d been one of the first to buy into the idea of buying an entire floor of the building and turning it into a luxurious apartment. What had sounded like a shady deal, a fad, had become a reality. Celebrity and starlets were buying up shares in buildings and creating lavish living spaces all over downtown.

Their apartments now paralleled many of the homes being built up in Hollywoodland. That was also causing William Dryer, the developer of Hollywoodland, a good case of indigestion. He’d thought he’d had the market on luxurious living cornered, and had been raking in some good money. Dryer was a contentious man, set in his ways, and as ornery as a cornered bull, who, like many others, thought Lane should be giving him free advertising on a regular basis. Dryer was just bolder than most, had been in the newspaper office last week, demanding either an article or free advertising. He’d left without getting either. A hint of disgust rose inside Lane recalling how the man had even suggested that Lane should consider marrying one of his daughters.

He wasn’t interested in ever getting married again. Especially to one of William Dryer’s daughters. He didn’t know the daughters, but he knew Dryer, and that was enough to turn him off.

“I’ll be there,” Lane said, standing up to shake Raymond’s hand.

Raymond pumped his hand. “Thanks, Lane, I do appreciate it.” He walked around the table, but then stopped long enough to say, “Bring a date, why don’t you.”

Lane didn’t answer. It wasn’t really a question, more of a friendly gesture. Although few knew he’d been married at one time, because it had been long ago, before he’d built up his reputation of fair and honest reporting, most knew he didn’t date. On purpose. He was married to the Gazette now. There was no need for dates, or anything that dating led to.

He turned to watch Raymond leave, and his heart damn near stopped at the sight of who stood near the corner leading to the door.

She was wearing an orange dress with a scooped neckline and what looked like flecks of gold in the material by the way the light caught it, and a matching hat complete with gold feather, but it was the impish smile on her face that kicked his heart back into beating. How had he forgotten about those two little dimples that appeared in her cheeks when she smiled? They were adorable, and made him grin in return.

Nibbling on her bottom lip, while still smiling, she walked toward him.

He kept his eyes on her, and raised a brow as each step brought her closer. She didn’t seem quite as confident as she had last night.

Until she stepped closer. Then she twisted her head slightly, shooting him a playful wink as she rounded the table next to his.

His mouth was strangely dry by the time she stopped next to him. He spoke to people from all walks of life, but suddenly couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“Hello, Oliver.”

Her voice sounded like music.

“I was hoping you’d be here tonight.”

He drew in a breath, and nodded at her honesty. “Hello, Libby, I was hoping you’d be here tonight, too.”

“Is that why you are here?” She tilted her head back to look him in the eye. “To see me?”

Honesty was one thing, but there were times when it needed to go only so far. “Could be. Is that why you are here?”

She giggled slightly. “Oh, Oliver, I don’t know why you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Answer my question with a question.”

“Did I do that?”

She giggled again. “Yes, and you know it.”

She was right. He nodded at his table. “Care for a drink?”

Her nod may have been subtle, but there was nothing subtle about the shine in her eyes. “Would you?”

He laughed. “Sit down, Libby. We’ll each have a drink.”

She sat, planted both elbows on the table and propped her chin on her clasped hands. “Why isn’t there any music tonight?”

Lane glanced at the empty piano bench. He couldn’t say if anyone had been playing earlier or not. “I don’t know.”

“I thought they always had music here.” Eyeing him, she asked, “Is the piano player taking a break?”

He waved over a cigarette girl. “I don’t know that, either.” Taking a cocktail without alcohol off the tray, he set it in front of Libby and then chose a glass of watered-down beer for himself. A dozen questions raced around in his head faster than his new printing press rolled out perfect copies of the Gazette.

“Thank you, Oliver.” She picked up her glass and took a tiny sip.

He should insist that she called him by his name, but she seemed to enjoy calling him Oliver so much that he didn’t want to stop her. She was enchanting. So enchanting that his next thought was to stand up and walk out of the Rooster’s Nest. Forget he ever met her.

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